How Do You Build the World's Tallest Water Slide?

From conceptualization to the first plunge, building the world's tallest water slide takes more
trial-and-error than you might believe


From the moment that Jeff Henry, owner of Schlitterbahn Waterparks in Kansas City, Kansas,
looked at his partner John Schooley and told him that he wanted to build the world's tallest
water slide, the two men knew that they were venturing into uncharted territory.
"Water slides, like boats, are an evolutionary technology, in which you do one thing and then
you learn something, and then you take another step and learn another thing. In this particular
ride we jumped a few steps," Schooley explains. The ride, dubbed Verrückt (which translates to
"insane" in German) measures 168-feet tall, approximately 17 stories high—taller than Niagara
Falls—and was officially verifed by Guinness World Records as the tallest water slide in the
world.

"We pretty much built the ride in house, from start to finish, with some outside consulting from
safety experts and engineers," Schooley says of the Kansas City, Kansas attraction. "A project
like this is really a group effort."
So how does one go about building the world's tallest water slide—and more importantly,
ensuring it's safe? Amazingly, it's little more than trial and error.

Henry has over a dozen waterpark-related patents to his name, like the Master Blaster, an
uphill water coaster technology that uses water canons to propel riders up slopes. Schooley is a
designer with a degree in biology and a background building yachts, and when Henry asked him
for help designing the Master Blaster, Schooley found moving from yachts to water slides an
easy transition. But when Henry decided to build the world's tallest water slide, the pair
realized their ride might have more in common with roller coasters than with the traditional
water park slide.

"The Verrückt water slide was to be a crossover fusion design between water slides and roller
coasters. In some ways it was evolutionary in that we already had experience with steep speed
slide geometry, rafts and uphill water coaster technology. In others it was revolutionary in that
we had to invent and develop several new systems to operate this very large jump from existing
technology," Schooley explains. To begin, they started by calculating the height, dictated by
the requirement that the slide snatch the title of "World's Tallest Water slide" away from the
134-foot tall Insano Water slide in Brazil. Then they plotted the steepness—at what angle
would riders plummet down the slide's first drop? Schooley and Henry settled on 60 degrees, a
fairly steep angle that would send riders zipping down the first drop at nearly 65 miles per hour
(the typical water slide has a more gentle slope closer to 45 degrees). For the Verrückt, 60
degrees was deemed steep enough to achieve a sense of weightlessness in the rider, but
gradual enough that a raft could still maintain good contact with the slide.

"The second bump is what makes it much more than just a high speed drop slide. Roller
coasters have valleys and hills and we wanted this element," Schooley explains. "We invented
uphill water coasters and felt we could ramp up that technology to make a truly spectacular
ride experience. As it turned out this decision made the ride vastly more difficult to develop."
After the height and slope were decided upon, the design team went to work building models.
They built two initially, both near Schlitterbahn's corporate headquarters in New Braunfels,
Texas. The first model was only 1/20th the size of the eventual slide—the team sent a tiny
model car down the slide as a tester. They then scaled up to a half-size model, built from
fiberglass, which still stood at an impressive 90-feet.

Friction and gravity are the two principle forces that dictate how thrilling a ride down a water
slide can be (but they're not the only forces—a rider's weight, air resistance and the material of
the slide, among other things, all come into play). Riders at the top of a water slide begin the
ride at rest; once they begin to plummet down the water slide, gravity pulls them downward,
increasing their speed. The rider, or in the case of Verrückt, the rider atop a raft, encounters
friction with the slide, slowing them down. The key is to balance a rider's momentum and
friction so that they are able to race down the slide at an exhilirating speed without risking their
lives.

Schooley's models could predict some of the friction and G-forces that would act on a rider
plummeting down the Verrückt, but drawing precise conclusions from these calculations is
tricky because of the as-of-yet unmentioned major component: water.
"What’s really difficult on these slides is that we can know something about friction with the
size of the raft and how much weight will be in it, but when you start adding water into the
equation, there’s actually no way to really know what’s going to happen in terms of hydraulic
friction forces on it other than testing it," he explains.

So they tested it—first the 90-foot model, with sandbags and accelerometers and, eventually,
Schooley and Henry themselves. When they made it down the half-scale slide with no
problems, they scaled the model to full-size. The process took months, mainly because the
designers spent much of their time testing raft models, trying to discern the best raft for the
ride. But early tests of the full-scale slide sent sandbags catapulting off the slide's second
bump—the sandbags had gained too much momentum on the way down the first drop that
they weren't slowing down the way they should have been when they made it to the second
hump. After watching sandbag after sandbag approach the second bump with far too much
speed, and land almost 150 feet away from the water slide, Schooley knew they needed to
make some serious changes in their design.

"We were sailing rafts out into space, basically," Schooley explains. So he and Henry went back
to the drawing board—literally—tearing down two-thirds of the slide and rebuilding it from a
new model, based on tests from the trials that measured the ride's speed and g-force at every
point on the ride. Understanding how these forces work on the raft, with water, was crucial to
the team's understanding of the ride as a whole: once they knew how water impacted the raft's
speed and acceleration (due to weight), they had a better sense of how to design the slide's
second bump.

Using this information, Schooley rebuilt the slide's second hump higher, but longer with a
shallower descent, decreasing the angle from almost 45 degrees to 22.5 degrees.
Rebuilding the slide forced Schlitterbahn to push the water slide's opening by almost a month—
and set the media ablaze with concern that the insane slide was unsafe. Water park safety
regulations vary from state to state, and rarely concern themselves with water slide
geometry—instead they're more guidelines for the swimming areas, requiring clean water and
ample warning signs. In the absence of concrete safety regulations, Schlitterbahn worked under
Texas' waterpark standards, with Schooley says are some of the most stringent in the country,
and third-party consultants, to ensure the ride's safety. But Schooley can also personally
advocate for his ride, having been the very first human—after hundreds of sandbag tests—to
take the plunge. "If you’re designing something like this that is very scary and potentially
dangerous, we feel like it’s right to ride it ourselves first," he explains, adding that without
riding through the ride, "you can’t really tell what’s happening for a human going through it,
the G-forces and the experience."

Building the slide was only part of the project, however. The slide also required custom-built
rafts, and the use of Master Blaster technology, which Schlitterbahn pioneered in the 1990s—
think of it as the water slide version of the motorized chain that helps pull rollercoaster cars up
hill. In order to help the raft accelerate over Verrückt's second hump, air-pumps blast water out
of nozzles, which force the raft toward the second hump's crest. For Verrückt, Schooley and
Henry took their tried-and-true Master Blaster technology a step further, using specially
pressurized air pumps to emit blasts of air and water only when the rafts need to be pushed up
the second bump (about seven seconds of the two-minute ride). This helps the ride save
energy, since nozzles don't need to be emitting air continuously, and gives operators better
control of the ride. "It’s really a very different type of experience," says Schooley of the feeling
of a second acceleration from the Master Blaster technology. "You can’t get that type of thing
happening on a roller coaster."

The water slide finally opened to the public on July 10—since then, Schooley says, thousands of
thrill seekers have climbed Verrückt's 264 stairs, including the mayor of Kansas City.
---
Schlitterbahn Waterparks and Resorts in Kansas City, Kansas. Day tickets start at $34.50; season
passes available. Open through September 1, 2014.



















The Posters That Sold World War I to the American Public
A vehemently isolationist nation needed enticement to join the European war effort. These
advertisements were part of the campaign to do just that


On July 28, 1914, World War I officially began when Austria-Hungary declared war on Serbia. In
Europe and beyond, country after country was drawn into the war by a web of alliances. It took
three years, but on April 2, 1917, the U.S. entered the fray when Congress declared war on
Germany.
The government didn’t have time to waste while its citizens made up their minds about joining
the fight. How could ordinary Americans be convinced to participate in the war “Over There,”
as one of the most popular songs of the era described it?

Posters—which were so well designed and illustrated that people collected and displayed them
in fine art galleries—possessed both visual appeal and ease of reproduction. They could be
pasted on the sides of buildings, put in the windows of homes, tacked up in workplaces, and
resized to appear above cable car windows and in magazines. And they could easily be
reprinted in a variety of languages.

To merge this popular form of advertising with key messages about the war, the U.S.
government’s public information committee formed a Division of Pictorial Publicity in 1917. The
chairman, George Creel, asked Charles Dana Gibson, one of most famous American illustrators
of the period, to be his partner in the effort. Gibson, who was president of the Society of
Illustrators, reached out to the country’s best illustrators and encouraged them to volunteer
their creativity to the war effort.

These illustrators produced some indelible images, including one of the most iconic American
images ever made: James Montgomery Flagg’s stern image of Uncle Sam pointing to the viewer
above the words, “I Want You for U.S. Army.” (Flagg’s inspiration came from an image of the
British Secretary of State for War, Lord Kitchener, designed by Alfred Leete.) The illustrators
used advertising strategies and graphic design to engage the casual passerby and elicit
emotional responses. How could you avoid the pointing finger of Uncle Sam or Lady Liberty?
How could you stand by and do nothing when you saw starving children and a (fictional) attack
on New York City?

“Posters sold the war,” said David H. Mihaly, the curator of graphic arts and social history at the
Huntington Library, Art Collections, and Botanical Gardens in San Marino, California, where 55
of these posters will go on view August 2. “These posters inspired you to enlist, to pick up the
flag and support your country. They made you in some cases fear an enemy or created a fear
you didn’t know you had. Nations needed to convince their citizens that this war was just, and
we needed to participate and not sit and watch.” There were certainly propaganda posters
before 1917, but the organization and mass distribution of World War I posters distinguished
them from previous printings, Mihaly said.

Despite the passage of 100 years—as well as many wars and disillusionment about them—
these posters retain their power to make you stare. Good and evil are clearly delineated. The
suffering is hard to ignore. The posters tell you how to help, and the look in the eyes of Uncle
Sam makes sure you do.
“Your Country Calls!: Posters of the First World War” will be on view at the Huntington from
August 2 to November 3, 2014. Jia-Rui Cook wrote this for Zocalo Public Square.


This Hiker Is Trying to Make It from Mexico to Canada in Just 59 Days
Hikers and runners are trying to cover the country's longest, most iconic trails, faster than
anyone ever has before

At the end of June, outside the tiny California town of Warner Springs, Joe McConaughy took
his first shower in days. The state might be suffering from a severe drought, but on the baseball
diamond, the sprinklers were going. He wanted to jump in. He had been on the storied Pacific
Crest Trail for just three days, but he had already covered more than 100 miles in the desert
heat. He watched the sprinklers. Then he went for it.
At the beginning, at least, that was his best moment on the trail, he told his support crew. But it
was still early. He had some 2,500 more miles to cover in order to reach Canada—and only 56
more days in which to do it.

This summer, at least six different people set out from the southern terminus of the Pacific
Crest Trail, all with the same ambitious goal—to set a new record for tracing the trail's 2,650 or
so miles from one U.S. border to the other. As of 2013, the overall record—the fastest known
time in which a human being has completed the trail—is 59 days, 8 hours and 14 minutes.
To break that record means hiking or running an average of 45 miles per day, every day, for
almost two months.

At the end, there's no trophy. There's not even an official record book, or a set of hard-and-fast
rules that govern these hikes. There's the just the knowledge that you've accomplished what
you've set out to do and the recognition of a small community of people who know and care
about these incredible athletic achievements.

But that community is growing, as more hikers and ultra-runners learn about the records and
decide to try to set their own. It's only in the past decade or so that these records have been
regularly tested, to begin with, and even then, a new record often stood for a good few years.
Now, almost as soon as a hiker breaks a record, someone else is on the trail trying to beat the
new one.

Moving that many miles, though, is incredibly hard, and even people who can accomplish feats
that seem super-human—hiking 40, 50 miles in one day—can be defeated by the challenge of
doing it day after day. Of the six hikers who aimed to set PCT records this summer, only two are
still on the trail. After his first, 42-mile day on the trail, one hiker had to acknowledge the
danger of an old IT band complaint; two went 100 miles in two to three days before dropping
out; and a fourth went 400 miles in just nine days before deciding the heat and the mental toll
were too much.

But McConaughy—who is hiking to raise money for medical research in memory of a cousin
who died of cancer at age 2—is about six weeks in and still on track to break the supported
record. He’s already crossed all of California, in just 35 days, 21 hours and 21 minutes, and is on
his way through Oregon. If he can keep up his pace, he could beat the current record by mid-
August.

So far, on his highest mileage day, he covered 61 miles. On his lowest, he covered 38—almost a
marathon-and-a-half's worth of distance.

"This kid is amazing," says Jack Murphy, one of the members of his support crew, made up of
college friends and friends-of-friends. "I don't know how he does what he does. We'll do a five-
mile hike to meet him, and we'll be tired and complaining. He'll come in from a 15-mile run and
tell us all the songs he made up on the trail. Every time he rolls into camp, I expect him to be
quiet and exhausted, but he's still cracking jokes."

There's no guarantee, though. In 2012, one hiker made it through California in record time, only
to hit a dangerous amount of snow in Oregon's Cascades and leave the trail. Earlier this
summer, on the Appalachian Trail, another hiker was on track to set a new record on that path,
until he hurt his foot and decided to take a few days’ rest. And the true challenge of these
endeavors—more than the weather or risk of injury—is mental.

"A speed hike is absolutely the same as any hike, except it's intensified," says Heather
Anderson, who goes by Anish on the trail. "The mileage is intensified, the lack of sleeping is
intensified, the calorie deficit is intensified."

In the summer of 2013, before she set out to hike the 2,650 miles of the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT)
faster than anyone ever had before, Anderson announced her intentions on the Fastest Known
Time forums, the closest thing there is to an official record-keeping body for hiking. "Let me
begin by saying that I got on this adventure to challenge myself—to push beyond my perceived
limits," she wrote. She had in mind, she wrote, to meet or beat the existing men's record—64
days, to make it from one border of the United States to the other. (There was no women's
record.)

Anderson's first long hike was in 2003, on the Appalachian Trail (AT). She didn't know then
about America's other long, iconic trails—the PCT, the Continental Divide Trail. But by 2005,
when she was on the PCT, she ran into David Horton. An ultra-runner, Horton had first set an
AT record in 1991 and was now speeding down the PCT with the same goal. "That was the first
time I had heard of anyone trying to complete the trail for speed, not just to complete it,"
Anderson says. "The more you're out there, the more you become aware that other ways to
use the trail exist."

She knew she was a strong hiker and that she liked long distances. After she had hiked the PCT
and the Continental Divide Trail, completing the Triple Crown, she started running ultra-
marathons, too. In 2013, she started out from the U.S.-Mexico border. It took her 60 days, 17
hours and 12 minutes to reach Canada. A new record—the fastest hike any man or woman had
completed from one end of the trail to the other.
Just after she finished the trail, Josh Garrett, who, like Joe McConaughy, traveled with a support
crew, set a new overall record—59 days, 8 hours and 14 minutes. Anderson holds the women's
record and the "self-supported" record.
On long trails like the PCT and the AT, there are two main types of records—supported and self-
supported. Supported hikers have a dedicated team—often of friends, family or other hikers
who know the trail well—that meets them at pre-arranged points and provides food, supplies,
comfort and companionship. Sometimes these teams have sponsors, as well: Garrett was
backed by John Mackey, the CEO of Whole Foods, and had sponsorships from gear and food
companies, as well.

Self-supported hikers might have sponsors who pitch in gear or funding (although it's less
common). But once they're on the trail, they are on their own. They travel incredibly light: they
minimize the base weight of their packs—their sleeping gear, clothes, headlamp, water bottles
and other essential gear—to nine, eight, six pounds. On the PCT, before self-supported hikers
set out, they often locate post offices as close to the trail as possible and mail themselves
resupply boxes of calorie-dense food (almond butter, Nutella, tortillas, ramen, dehydrated
beans, energy bars) and gear like batteries and new shoes. (Walking so many miles, they wear
out pairs of shoes in a matter of weeks.) When they camp for the night, it's a simple affair—
often they'll set-up camp after it's dark, just off the trail, or even on it.

"I like to feel like I'm responsible for everything," Anderson says. "It's me vs. nature vs. myself. I
want to do it just for myself, and by myself to see what I personally do."
The intricacies of these distinctions, though, are subject to much debate. "It's very much an
amateur pursuit," says Jennifer Pharr Davis, who set the overall record for the Appalachian Trail
in 2011—she took 46 days, 11 hours and 10 minutes to get from the trail's northern-most point
in Maine to its southern-most point in Georgia. "The rules are undefined and confusing." For
instance, if you're attempting to break a record, do you inform the current record holder of
your attempt? If part of the trail is closed, does following the alternate route still count? If fans
who are following your hike determine your location and bring you food, does that count as
support? If you eat that food, are you disqualified from that record?

To the extent that these rules are agreed upon, it's by community consensus and by respecting
the example of earlier record-setters. When Anderson set out on her 2013 hike, for instance,
one of her goals was to establish a PCT women's record "in the same style as Scott
Williamson's." Williamson is a trail legend—one hiker described him as "the Michael Jordan of
the PCT." In 2004, he was the first person to "yo-yo" the trail, hiking it one way, then turning
around and hiking back the other way, and in 2008, 2009 and 2011, he broke trail speed
records. He still holds the men's self-supported record.

For Williamson, "self-supported" means a few things. It means carrying your own food,
equipment and water. It means walking into towns to resupply and never getting into any
vehicle during the duration of the record attempt. It means following the official PCT route,
without deviations. It means not having pre-arranged support from other people.

Like Anderson, Matt Kirk, who holds the unsupported record on the Appalachian Trail (58 days,
9 hours and 40 minutes), looked to Williamson's example to set the rules for his own record
attempt. “I feel like ultimately whoever participates in this plays a really important role in
shaping the future of it," he says. The whole endeavor of setting trail records, Kirk points out,
"is very new and still taking shape."
Williamson's approach derives from these trails' thru-hiker traditions, which have a sometimes
uneasy relationship with record attempts, especially when the hiker comes from the ultra-
running world. One main criticism: How can anyone really experience and enjoy the trail when
they're moving along it so quickly?

Speed hikers (or, as Pharr Davis prefers, endurance hikers) say, though, that hiking fast is
almost exactly like slower hiking—it's just more intense. In Kirk's experience, his perception of
the landscape sharpened: Maine seemed foggier, the White Mountains gnarlier with rocks and
roots. "I definitely felt more respect for the ruggedness of the terrain," he says. Hiking such long
days also means starting early and often hiking through twilight—the times of the day when
animals are out, too. "It's a wonderful time to be out," says Kirk. "That's why the animals are
out. There's this really beautiful light, too. It does not lend itself well to photography; you have
to experience it. You feel as though—this is something really special."

And, these hikers say, standing at an overlook and looking back at the ground you've covered
never gets old. "When you do lots and lots of miles in day, you get to the top of the climb and
see where you were this morning, and if it's a really long ways away, there's something really
incredible about that," says Anderson. "You start tabulating the numbers. It's really mind
boggling, but it makes you feel pretty bad ass about yourself."

"A lot of people go out and they're really, really fast, and they're really, really strong," says
Jennifer Pharr Davis. But setting a record isn't necessarily about going fast; many of these
record-setting hikes spool out at a pace of three or four miles per hours. The hikers simply keep
moving for many more hours than most hikers do—and take only short, limited breaks. They
start hiking early in the morning, around 5 or 6 a.m., and often they continue until after dark.
"It's this modern day parable of the tortoise and the hare," says Pharr Davis. "The stronger and
faster person doesn't always win; the person who wins is smarter and more strategic, with the
better support crew."

It's rare, too, for a hiker to set one of these records without having thru-hiked the trail before.
Pharr Davis first hiked the AT as a 21-year-old and found, once she had finished and started
working “a normal job,” that all she could think about was the trail. She fell into a routine of
working and then taking time off to hike some of the longest trails in the world, both here and
abroad. Even before setting her 2011 record, she had made hiking her business: she runs a
company in Asheville, North Carolina, that organizes hikes, long and short, and has written two
books about hiking the AT.

Deciding to try to break the overall record, then, wasn't about zooming through a trail she'd
never hiked before, but challenging herself on a route she already knew and loved. "I wanted to
experience the trail in different way," she says. "I'm glad there's no trophy at the end. You have
to do it for a love of it."

But even without a trophy and without the promise of financial reward that some sports offer,
trying to set a record does bring hikers recognition. During their hikes, they might become “trail
celebrities,” the recipients of (not always welcome) attention from others on the trail, and once
they've completed their goal, they're often asked to tell their stories, in talks or in books.
And these records inspire other endurance athletes to try to break them. The endurance runner
Karl Meltzer, who has won more 100-mile races than anyone else, is now trying for the second
time to break the Appalachian Trail record. His first attempt, in 2008, was highly publicized; this
time, he'd like to head out quietly and see what happens.
"Jen's record is tough," he says. "I'm going to try to break it."

But whether they started out as hikers or runners, whether they go fast or slow, he argues,
record attempters and thru-hikers have more in common than not. "We're all in the woods for
the same reason," he says. "Because we like being in the woods."

These days, though, being out in nature doesn't necessarily mean disconnecting from the
world. (This is, after all, an age in which you might get better cell phone reception on a
mountain top than at a trailhead.) Hikers—even fast ones—keep blogs and update Facebook
pages. Fans (and critics) follow along in forums. McConaughy's crew, which is making a
documentary of his run, regularly posts videos, Facebook updates, photos and videos. If all goes
well, they'll be on the trail for another three weeks, each day a few dozen miles closer to
Canada.


What's Up, Doc? Check Out the Work of Famed Animator Chuck Jones
As part of the Smithsonian Institution Traveling Exhibition Service, Jones' work will travel to
13 locations through 2019


You may not recognize his face, but you'd certainly recognize the face of his creations—Bugs
Bunny, Elmer Fudd, the Roadrunner, all born from the mind of Chuck Jones, the animator,
cartoonist and director of animated films.

Jones' timeless characters are center stage in "What's Up, Doc? The Animation of Chuck Jones,"
a new traveling exhibition created through a first-time collaboration between the Smithsonian
Institution Traveling Exhibition Service (SITES), The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and
Sciences (AMPAS), the Chuck Jones Center for Creativity, and the Museum of the Moving
Image. The exhibition opened at the Museum of the Moving Image in New York City on July 19,
and will run for six months before moving to its next location, the Fort Worth Museum of
Science and Technology. All told, the exhibit will travel to 13 different locations before
concluding its run in 2019.

In 2010, the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences featured an exhibit, curated by Ellen
Harrington, of 125 of Chuck Jones' original works of art that spanned his entire career. After
seeing the show, the Smithsonian's Deborah Macanic teamed up with Harrington, as well as
members of the Chuck Jones Center for Creativity and the Museum of the Moving Image, to
bring an in-depth look at Jones' prolific career to life. "His base was in drawing and paintings,
and that comes through very clearly in the way he directed animated films," says Macanic,
noting that the exhibit took care to look at Jones' career from all angles: as an animated
director, as an artist and as a writer. "All of that comes together to support the career of Chuck
Jones in a way that I don’t think I’ve seen done before," she adds.
Chuck Jones was born in Spokane, Washington, in 1912. Building upon a childhood love of
art, Jones graduated from Chouinard Art Institute in Los Angeles and immediately went to work
in Hollywood's studios, logging experience at two before becoming the youngest director at
Warner Brothers Studios in 1939, where he remained until 1962, when the animation
department was shut down. It was there that some of his most iconic characters—Bugs Bunny
to Wile E. Coyote—were developed.

"It’s hard to imagine an America without Bugs Bunny," says Barbara Miller, one of the co-
curators for the exhibition from the Museum of the Moving Image. "It’s not just a character in a
cartoon, it’s a character that’s out there in the American imagination."

But Jones was more than an animator: he drew his characters in a way that gave them
movement and life. "Chuck always said you should be able to turn the sound off of a cartoon
and have a sense of what was going on," Miller says, noting that for Jones, any animated
character would have to be able to perform in the same way as a live actor—using the same
richness of movement or twinkle in the eye. It was more than Jones' pen that brought these
characters to life in such a timeless way—his skills as an animation director were crucial to his
work's lasting appeal. "I think it’s really important that we explain what an animation director
does and doesn’t do," says Miller of the exhibit. "They don’t sit down and do all the drawings,
they orchestrate a team of talented people to do this amazing work."

"People might come expecting to see the cartoons and have a fun time sharing the memories of
the cartoons, but I think one of the things the exhibition does really well is help people
understand how much specific decision making goes into making those seven-minute
cartoons," Harrington adds. The exhibition, in addition to Jones' drawings, showcases the nuts-
and-bolts of the animation process, from pencil tests (early versions of animated scenes)
to character model sheets (drawings used to depict the movements and appearance of
characters). "People can really learn how a script is broken down and how the timing is
organized," Harrington says. Jones' famous comedic timing, for instance, was broken down to a
frame-by-frame level; he knew the exact number of frames between when Wile E. Coyote fell
and when he hit the ground to get a laugh. "It was literally a one frame difference," Harrington
explains.

Even in today's world, where box office hits sport booming CGI and 3-D versions, Jones'
comedic timing and attention to detail live on. The exhibit features a series of recorded
interviews with John Lasseter, chief creative officer at Pixar and the imagination behind
animated classics like Toy Story—in his interviews, Lasseter underscores what a profound
influence Jones had on the media world. "It was very important for us, in creating this show, to
address the subject of Chuck Jones’ legacy," Miller says. "People aren’t creating cartoons,
mostly, using pencils anymore, but what was made very clear is that his influence is still very
much being felt."

"What’s Up, Doc? The Animation Art of Chuck Jones" will be on display at the Museum of the
Moving Image, in New York City, through January, 2015, before moving on to 13 other cities
across America, including Seattle and Fort Worth.

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