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In the bustling streets of Edo (present-day Tokyo) during the 18th and 19th centuries, entertainment took many forms, from kabuki theatre to sumo wrestling. Among the more unusual attractions were the misemono , or sideshow carnivals, which catered to the city’s ever-curious residents. These temporary exhibitions featured a wide array of spectacles, blending education with entertainment in a way that was both engaging and, at times, deeply bizarre. Among the many attractions designed to evoke wonder and curiosity, one of the most intriguing was the Pregnancy Dolls—a mechanical or anatomical model that revealed the stages of foetal development inside the human womb. The Appeal of Misemono Exhibitions Misemono were a distinctive feature of Edo-period urban culture. They were transient affairs, setting up in bustling areas like Asakusa and Nihonbashi, and showcased everything from exotic animals and performing artists to oddities of nature and mechanical automata. While many exhibits catered to the public’s love for the strange and grotesque, others had an educational purpose, demonstrating new discoveries in science, medicine, and natural history. One of the most fascinating attractions within these exhibitions was the pregnant doll. Records from 1864 describe a particularly popular show in Asakusa that focused on educating audiences about the human body. A pregnant doll was displayed whose abdomen could be opened, revealing a series of meticulously crafted foetal models representing various stages of prenatal development. This feature captivated audiences, offering them a rare glimpse into the hidden world of human gestation. The Role of Foetal Models in 19th-Century Japan While it is commonly believed that these dolls were primarily created as training tools for midwives, the reality is more complex. The Edo period saw significant developments in obstetric knowledge, much of it influenced by Dutch medicine (Rangaku), which introduced anatomical studies previously unavailable in Japan. Medical practitioners sought ways to improve midwifery education, and anatomical models provided an invaluable teaching aid. However, the presence of these foetal models in sideshow carnivals suggests that they also held a strong entertainment value. The spectacle of a mechanical doll that could "give birth" was not just a medical teaching tool but a marvel in its own right, blending curiosity, performance, and emerging scientific knowledge. The fine craftsmanship and anatomical precision of these models were impressive, and they undoubtedly fueled public fascination with the mysteries of life and reproduction. Japan’s First National Industrial Exhibition and the Work of Motoyoshi Hasegawa By the late 19th century, Japan was undergoing rapid modernisation under the Meiji government. The 1877 First National Industrial Exhibition, held in Ueno, Tokyo, was a major event designed to showcase the nation’s industrial, artistic, and scientific advancements. Among the exhibitors was a physician from Yamagata Prefecture named Motoyoshi Hasegawa, who presented an elaborate set of foetal models demonstrating seven different stages of human gestation, from embryo to full-term infant. The models displayed at this exhibition were a refined version of what had previously been seen in misemono carnivals, but they continued to captivate audiences. The attention they received suggests that, despite the increasing focus on scientific progress, the public’s fascination with the human body and its hidden processes remained as strong as ever. Today, these early foetal models are preserved at the Edo-Tokyo Museum , offering insight into the intersection of entertainment, education, and science in 19th-century Japan. They serve as a reminder of a time when learning about the human body was not confined to medical schools but was part of a broader cultural curiosity that extended into public entertainment. While the pregnant dolls were initially displayed in lively street fairs alongside acrobats and exotic creatures, they also played a role in shaping Japan’s medical education. Their presence in both settings highlights the blurred lines between spectacle and instruction in Edo and Meiji-period Japan. Whether in a carnival tent or an exhibition hall, these models captured the imaginations of those who encountered them, leaving a legacy that continues to intrigue historians and scholars today.

If you’ve ever come across the tension between scientists and philosophers , you might be forgiven for assuming the two fields have always been at odds. This couldn’t be further from the truth. In fact, during the early modern period, science and philosophy were deeply intertwined. Scientists were known as “natural philosophers,” adept in everything from logic to theology. They were also often talented artists, honing their drawing skills to illustrate their findings long before photography or computer imaging existed. Among these multi-talented individuals stands Ernst Heinrich Haeckel, a German biologist, naturalist, philosopher, and artist whose work continues to astound. Haeckel’s contributions to science are vast. He named and described thousands of species, devised genealogical trees, and introduced terms still in use today, such as "ecology," "phylum," and "stem cell." But his legacy extends far beyond scientific nomenclature. Haeckel was also a masterful artist, blending scientific accuracy with artistic elegance to produce some of the most visually striking depictions of life ever created. The Art Forms in Nature: A Masterpiece of Natural Beauty Haeckel’s most celebrated artistic work is Kunstformen der Natur  ( Art Forms in Nature ), a collection of 100 prints first published in 1889. This series, later compiled into two volumes in 1904, is a mesmerising display of intricately detailed, vibrantly coloured illustrations of the natural world. “Each organism Haeckel drew has an almost abstract form,” notes Katherine Schwab at Fast Co. Design , “as if it’s a whimsical fantasy he dreamed up rather than a real creature he examined under a microscope.” The subjects of Haeckel’s drawings range from delicate sponges and microscopic organisms to far-flung flora and fauna. His renderings reveal the stunning geometries and symmetries inherent in nature, often resembling architectural feats or intricate designs. These works didn’t just serve scientific purposes; they also captivated the public and influenced the burgeoning Art Nouveau movement with their stylised elegance and surreal beauty. Science Meets Philosophy and Aesthetics Haeckel’s holistic approach to his work was unique. For him, art, science, and philosophy were not separate disciplines but complementary ways of understanding the world. As professor Rainer Willmann writes in Taschen’s The Art and Science of Ernst Haeckel , Haeckel aimed “to secure the attention of those with an interest in the beauties of nature” and to highlight “the proximity of these two realms” through the interplay of science and aesthetics. This marriage of art and science is particularly evident in his methodical yet imaginative representations of natural life. Olaf Breidbach, in his 2006 book Visions of Nature , describes Kunstformen der Natur  as “not just a book of illustrations but also the summation of his view of the world,” which fully embraced Darwinian evolution. Haeckel’s works were not merely decorative; they were deeply philosophical, underscoring the interconnectedness of all living things. Ernst Haeckel’s Legacy: Art and Science in Harmony Despite his scientific achievements, Haeckel’s legacy today is more closely associated with his art than his biology. This shift is bittersweet. As a Dover publication reprinting Art Forms in Nature  notes, his illustrations played a significant role in “causing the acceptance of Darwinism in Europe.” Yet, as time passed, interest in Haeckel the biologist-philosopher waned. His art, however, continues to captivate and inspire. It’s hard to overstate the importance of Haeckel’s art in communicating the wonders of nature. In an age when evolutionary biology was still new and controversial, his images brought the intricacies of the natural world to life for both scientists and the general public. Today, they remind us of the inherent beauty in nature’s designs and the value of a multidisciplinary approach to understanding life. Exploring Haeckel’s Work Today For those eager to explore Haeckel’s artistry, Taschen’s The Art and Science of Ernst Haeckel   offers a comprehensive collection of 450 of his drawings, watercolours, and sketches across a stunning 704 pages. While it’s a pricey tome, there are more accessible options. High-resolution scans of all 100 original prints from Kunstformen der Natur  are available online for free, offering a zoomable view of Haeckel’s extraordinary work. Alternatively, Dover Publications offers a one-volume reprint of Art Forms in Nature , making this treasure trove of natural beauty available to a wider audience. Why Haeckel’s Work Matters Though Haeckel himself may have considered his art secondary to his scientific pursuits, the reverse is true for many today. His art endures as a testament to the interplay of science and aesthetics, showing how the two can enrich each other. As we face a world increasingly disconnected from nature, Haeckel’s vibrant depictions of life remain a vital reminder of its complexity, fragility, and interconnectedness. Whether viewed through the lens of art, science, or philosophy, Haeckel’s work continues to inspire awe and admiration, bridging the gap between disciplines and inviting us to see the natural world anew. #fauna #haeckel #flora #artnouveau

Picture this: it’s 3 a.m. in a dimly lit dance hall in Wigan. The floorboards thud under the weight of dozens of dancers, their moves a blur of spins, shuffles, and backflips. A rare 45 is blasting through the speakers, its pounding beat and soaring vocals impossible to resist. No one’s slowing down, not yet—this is what they’ve waited all week for. This is Northern Soul. In the late 1960s, while much of Britain was drifting into the psychedelia and progressive rock championed by London’s music scene, a different movement was taking hold in the working-class towns of the North. It was underground, intense, and deeply rooted in a love of rare American soul music. Northern Soul wasn’t just a genre; it was a lifestyle, a rebellion, and for many, an obsession. The Twisted Beginnings The story starts with the mods—those sharply dressed teenagers who made soul music a central part of their identity in the early 1960s. As mod culture began to splinter later in the decade, some moved towards skinhead and suedehead subcultures, while others embraced hippie ideals. But in places like Manchester, Stoke-on-Trent, and Blackpool, soul music never went away. Enter the Twisted Wheel, a Manchester club that opened in 1963. Initially a hotspot for mods, the Wheel soon became a temple for American soul. DJs like Roger Eagle curated rare records, seeking out the tracks no one else had heard. These weren’t the hits dominating the charts—they were obscure, uptempo soul singles, often from lesser-known artists and tiny US labels. Edwin Starr, Major Lance, and Ike and Tina Turner became heroes to a scene that valued the music for its raw energy and emotional pull. Dancing was central to the Twisted Wheel’s appeal. The crowd developed a distinctive style of high-energy moves designed to match the music’s tempo. It was athletic, expressive, and unlike anything else in Britain at the time. But the club also had a darker side. Amphetamines, or “speed,” were widely used to sustain the all-night dancing sessions, and by the late 1960s, the Twisted Wheel had gained the attention of Manchester’s Chief of Police, James Anderton. Under pressure from the authorities, the club closed its doors in 1971—but not before laying the foundation for the Northern Soul phenomenon. From the Wheel to the World: The Expansion of Northern Soul The closure of the Twisted Wheel didn’t stop the music. If anything, it pushed the movement to expand. New clubs sprang up across the North and the Midlands, each with its own crowd of devoted fans. The Torch in Stoke-on-Trent became a key venue, hosting all-night events that drew hundreds of dancers. Blackpool’s Mecca brought a touch of glamour to the scene, while seaside resorts like Cleethorpes and Morecambe offered summer escapes for soul lovers. The jewel in the crown, however, was the Wigan Casino. Opened in 1973, the Casino quickly became the epicentre of Northern Soul. It wasn’t much to look at—a converted ballroom in an unassuming town—but it became legendary. All-nighters at the Casino attracted fans from across the UK, many of whom travelled by train, coach, or carpool just to be part of the action. The venue was so iconic that in 1978, Billboard  magazine named it the “Best Disco in the World”, beating out even the famed clubs of New York. A Scene Built on Rare Vinyl Northern Soul wasn’t just about dancing—it was about the music, and the music had to be rare. DJs and collectors scoured record shops, thrift stores, and warehouses in the United States, hunting for forgotten gems. Many of these tracks came from small labels like Okeh, Ric-Tic, and Cameo Parkway, which had produced vibrant soul music in the 1960s but failed to make a mark on the mainstream. The obsession with rarity created a competitive culture. DJs prided themselves on unearthing the next big floor-filler, and certain records became the stuff of legend. One such track, Frank Wilson’s “Do I Love You (Indeed I Do)” , was so rare that only a handful of copies existed. When it was played at Wigan Casino, the crowd treated it like a sacred relic. Record collecting also became big business. By the mid-1970s, some records were selling for hundreds—or even thousands—of pounds. Stories abound of collectors travelling thousands of miles or spending small fortunes to acquire a single elusive track. The Fashion and Culture of Northern Soul Northern Soul wasn’t just about music—it had its own distinct style. The typical outfit for a Northern Soul dancer was designed for movement and endurance. Baggy trousers, often flared, allowed for high kicks and splits, while polo shirts and vests kept things practical in the heat of the dance floor. Badges, patches, and sew-on logos adorned jackets and bags, signalling allegiance to a particular club or the movement as a whole. The culture also came with its own set of rituals. Clubbers often carried talcum powder to sprinkle on the dance floor, reducing friction for smoother moves. Dance moves themselves became increasingly elaborate, with acrobatics, spins, and even handstands becoming common. Slogans like “Keep the Faith”  encapsulated the scene’s ethos. It was about devotion—devotion to the music, to the culture, and to the community. Fuel for the Floor: The Role of Drugs in Northern Soul It’s impossible to talk about Northern Soul without mentioning the role of drugs, particularly amphetamines, or “speed.” The all-night dance marathons at clubs like the Wigan Casino and Blackpool Mecca demanded incredible stamina. While the music and atmosphere provided much of the energy, many dancers relied on amphetamines to keep going until dawn. Known by various nicknames—“black bombers,” “dexys,” “blues,” and “greens”—these pills were easily accessible in the scene. Clubbers often took them before arriving at venues to avoid being caught by the police, who were well aware of the drug culture surrounding Northern Soul. Regular police raids on clubs were common, and undercover officers were a frequent presence. Despite this, the use of amphetamines became almost synonymous with the movement, fuelling the high-energy dancing and contributing to the collective euphoria on the floor. Beyond the physical endurance they provided, drugs also played a social role within the scene. Sharing or selling amphetamines helped foster a sense of community and mutual trust among clubbers, reinforcing the underground, almost rebellious nature of Northern Soul. However, the reliance on drugs wasn’t without its consequences. The intense highs of all-night sessions were often followed by brutal comedowns, and the addictive nature of amphetamines left a lasting impact on many participants. Local newspapers were quick to sensationalise the connection between Northern Soul and drugs, portraying the scene as a hotbed of illegal activity. Club owners often downplayed the prevalence of drug use, but estimates suggested that a significant majority of attendees were using amphetamines during any given all-nighter. For the dancers themselves, the drugs weren’t about escape—they were about endurance. Amphetamines allowed them to push their bodies to the limit, matching the relentless pace of the music and transforming the dance floor into a space of pure, unbridled energy. The Fall and Legacy By the late 1970s, cracks began to show in the Northern Soul scene. Rivalries between clubs and DJs became more pronounced, fuelled by commercialisation and disagreements over musical direction. Some venues, like the Wigan Casino, stuck to the original uptempo stompers, while others, like the Blackpool Mecca, began incorporating newer soul tracks and even early disco. In 1981, the Wigan Casino closed its doors for the last time. Its final song? Frank Wilson’s “Do I Love You (Indeed I Do)” , a fitting farewell to an era that had revolved around rare records and relentless energy. Even so, Northern Soul never truly disappeared. Its influence can be felt in modern DJ culture, the rave scene of the 1990s, and even contemporary fashion. Today, events and festivals celebrate the movement, drawing both original fans and a new generation discovering its unique appeal, you'll also find the TikTok generation getting in on the act. Keeping the Faith Northern Soul wasn’t just a music scene—it was a movement that brought people together, gave them a sense of identity, and created unforgettable nights on the dance floor. Decades later, the echoes of those nights still resonate, proving that great music—and the passion it inspires—never really fades. So, next time you hear an obscure 45 with a driving beat and soaring vocals, think of the dancers at the Wigan Casino, spinning under the lights, fuelled by nothing but soul and sheer determination. Somewhere, someone’s still keeping the faith.

Ah, cigarette dispensers—those ingenious little gadgets that somehow made the act of inhaling smoke a touch more refined, or at least a lot more fun. In the days when smoking was considered the height of sophistication (and doctors were allegedly saying it was good for your nerves), these contraptions were the centrepieces of many a living room, bar, or high-stakes poker game. They weren’t just functional; they were conversation starters, party tricks, and sometimes outright comedic props. Let’s dive into the history of these peculiar objects and explore the curious designs that made them so memorable. From Plain Box to Mechanical Marvel Cigarette dispensers began humbly enough—a box with a lid to keep your precious smokes from drying out. But humans, being humans, couldn’t leave well enough alone. Why just store  cigarettes when you could make them pop out, spin, dance, or emerge from a tiny knight’s helmet? This kind of over-engineering was the lifeblood of the cigarette dispenser, a niche art form that elevated something mundane into a spectacle. By the late 19th century, these dispensers had started to appear in well-to-do parlours. While their early designs were more functional (read: boring), the Industrial Revolution and the rise of mass production changed everything. Suddenly, manufacturers were competing to see who could make the most absurd, complicated, and delightful cigarette dispensers. And oh, did they deliver. Vintage French Cigarette Dispenser: 1930s Who Made These Things? A cast of characters ranging from high-end jewellers to quirky novelty makers entered the cigarette dispenser game. Some of the big names you might recognise include: Ronson The mid-century darling of smoking accessories, Ronson specialised in dispensers with gadgets galore. Think mechanical arms that presented a cigarette like a waiter offering a canapé. If James Bond still smoked (fans of the Ian Flemming books will know he used to be a chain smoker), Ronson would’ve been his brand. Ronson Art Deco Magic Monkey cigarette dispenser and strike lighter, featuring a monkey design on a vintage base. Ronson ‘Art Deco Bartender’ Cigarette Dispenser from 1936, featuring a novelty figure design with a mix of chrome and wood accents characteristic of the Art Deco style. Ronson cigarette dispenser circa 1930 Jennings Brothers For those who liked a bit of drama with their smokes, Jennings Brothers offered heavy metal dispensers with intricate designs. These were perfect for your Victorian drawing room—or for intimidating guests into staying for a second cup of tea. The Wild World of Designs Cigarette dispensers came in every shape and size imaginable, with designers seemingly competing to make smokers look as ridiculous as possible while retrieving a cigarette. 1. Animals Galore Love elephants? There’s a dispenser for that. Want your cigarette delivered from the beak of a penguin? Sure thing. How about a cat that meows as it offers you a smoke? Yes, it existed, and yes, it was terrifying. 2. People and Figures Some dispensers featured figurines of bartenders or dancers that moved when activated. One particularly cheeky model involved a woman whose skirt lifted to reveal the cigarettes underneath. Because nothing says “classy evening” like a mechanical peep show. Antique Fatima mechanical cigarette dispenser, patented by Kindel & Graham in 1929, featuring an intricately designed face adorned with a jeweled turban. 3. Buildings and Structures From pagodas to castles, these designs turned cigarette dispensing into a miniature architectural tour. Imagine pulling a lever and watching a cigarette emerge from the drawbridge of a tiny medieval fortress. Who wouldn’t want that? Vintage automation musical cigarette holder adorned with colorful floral designs, featuring an intricate mechanism for storing and dispensing cigarettes elegantly. 4. Art Deco Elegance For those who preferred sophistication over silliness, Art Deco dispensers offered sleek lines and geometric patterns. These often came with clever mechanisms—push a button, and a cigarette would roll out with the precision of a Swiss watch. Elegant German craftsmanship: a 1930s lotus flower cigarette dispenser showcasing vintage charm and functionality. 5. Automata The pièce de résistance of cigarette dispensers: mechanical wonders that performed tiny dramas every time you wanted a smoke. Picture this: a man in a top hat tips his hat, a tiny drawer opens, and voilà—a cigarette. Ridiculous? Yes. But also marvellous. Cultural Significance: More Than a Party Trick Cigarette dispensers were more than just novelty items. They reflected the times in which they were made. Victorian dispensers were ornate and heavy, symbolising wealth and taste. Art Deco designs embodied the optimism and modernity of the Roaring Twenties. Mid-century models, with their clean lines and gadgetry, captured the atomic age’s fascination with innovation. They were also integral to smoking culture. Offering someone a cigarette from a dispenser was seen as a small act of hospitality, a way to break the ice or impress a guest. Of course, it also ensured you didn’t have to get up from your chair—a win for laziness everywhere. Vintage cigarette dispensers remind us of an era when even the simplest acts—like lighting a cigarette—were imbued with flair. They’re relics of a time when gadgets were whimsical, art and function went hand in hand, and nobody thought twice about a smoking cat automaton. Whether you’re a collector, a historian, or just someone who appreciates the absurdity of human ingenuity, these dispensers are a charming slice of history worth celebrating. So next time you’re at an antique shop and see a penguin holding a cigarette, tip your hat to the quirky minds that made smoking as entertaining as it was unhealthy.

One night in the summer of 1909, somewhere between Oklahoma and Santa Fe, a nine-year-old boy lay awake in the dark firing a shotgun repeatedly into the surrounding blackness. A wolf pack had circled their camp. His five-year-old brother was asleep beside him. Their father was hundreds of miles away. Bud Abernathy kept firing until the wolves moved off, and in the morning the two boys packed up and kept riding. This was only the first of four major unsupervised journeys that Louis "Bud" and Temple Abernathy made across America between 1909 and 1913. By the time they were done, they had crossed the continent on horseback, driven a car from New York to Oklahoma on roads that barely existed, and ridden an Indian motorcycle from Oklahoma to New York and back again. Bud was 13 on the last trip. Temple was 9. Nobody stopped them. Almost everyone who heard about them thought they were extraordinary. Jack Abernathy proudly poses with his sons, Louis “Bud” on the left and Temple on the right,. Their Father The Abernathy boys didn't arrive at this kind of confidence from nowhere. Their father, Jack "Catch-'em-Alive" Abernathy, was one of the more singular figures of the American frontier. He had earned his nickname through a genuine and improbable skill: he could catch wolves alive with his bare hands, forcing a fist into a wolf's open mouth to prevent it biting down, then wiring its muzzle shut. He had driven cattle 500 miles to market at the age of 11. Theodore Roosevelt, who met Jack on a wolf hunting trip in Oklahoma, was so taken with him that he personally appointed him as the youngest US Marshal in history for the Western District of Oklahoma. Jack's wife died in 1907, leaving him with six children. His response was to raise them on a principle of self-reliance thorough enough that when his two eldest boys told him they wanted to ride horses to Santa Fe by themselves, he thought it over carefully, gave them each a $100 checking account, laid down some basic guidelines about route and contact, and told them to go. Bud was nine. Temple was five. Oklahoma to Santa Fe and Back, 1909 The first trip covered roughly 1,000 miles round trip from their home in Oklahoma down to Santa Fe, New Mexico, and back. The boys had asked to go because they wanted to see the new mansion of the governor. Their father, having taught them to ride and to handle themselves in the open country of the Oklahoma territory, decided their horsemanship was up to it. The journey was harder than anything they'd done before. They ran out of food and water between stops more than once and were kept going by the kindness of strangers along the route. At one point, a note arrived at the Abernathy home scrawled on brown paper with a lead-tipped bullet, addressed to "The Marshal of Oklahoma" and delivered by parties unknown. It was, in tone, a warning rather than a threat. Whatever its precise contents, Jack kept riding out the anxiety. The wolf pack episode came near the end of the outward journey. Bud spent the night lying awake with a shotgun, firing into the darkness at eyes he could see reflecting the firelight, while his five-year-old brother slept through it. He didn't mention it in the telegram he sent his father the next morning. By the time they arrived in Santa Fe they had been on the road for weeks, had managed every problem that came at them, and had done it without adult help. The New York Times covered the journey. By the time the boys rode home they were minor celebrities, and their father had a clearer sense of what kind of children he'd raised. When they told him what they wanted to do next, he listened. Oklahoma to Manhattan on Horseback, 1910 In 1910, Bud and Temple decided they wanted to see Theodore Roosevelt in a parade celebrating his return from a trip to Africa. Roosevelt was no longer president but was still the most famous man in America, and the boys had grown up steeped in their father's stories about him. They drew a route from Oklahoma to New York City, somewhere between 2,000 and 2,500 miles, convinced Jack to open a checking account for each of them, and set out on horseback. The journey took around 62 days and generated national press coverage almost from the start. Newspapers telegraphed updates about the "wonder boys" at each stage, reporting on river crossings, storms endured, and towns charmed along the way. Even the outlaws along the Mexican border got word. Jack received a letter from a group of cattle rustlers who had every professional reason to dislike him, pledging that the boys were as safe as if they were in his own home. They weren't wrong. Bud and Temple arrived in New York, met Roosevelt, and rode in the parade. They also appeared in a silent film produced while their fame was at its height. Abernathy Kids to the Rescue featured the brothers playing themselves and screened in theatres across the country through 1911. A newspaper listing from Oakland described it as the most lengthy and interesting bill yet presented at the city's Broadway theatre. The film sits in the same tradition of early documentary-adjacent filmmaking that captured American life and travel in ways that nothing else could at the time. For a sense of what early 20th century American adventure looked like on the road, our piece on a 1926 Death Valley road trip captured in 76 remarkable photographs covers similar territory from a slightly later era. New York to Oklahoma by Car, 1910 During the same period, the boys completed a different kind of crossing entirely. The Brush Motor Car Company offered them a Brush Runabout, a small single-cylinder vehicle with a top speed of around 25 miles per hour on flat ground, and they drove it from New York back to Oklahoma largely unassisted. The Brush company wanted the publicity. The boys wanted another 1,500-mile trip. The roads, for most of that route, were barely roads. Early automobile travel in America involved unpaved tracks, farm lanes pressed into service, and long stretches of open country where the driver navigated by compass and local knowledge rather than any marked route. The boys had neither a map that was reliably accurate nor a mechanic on call. They managed breakdowns, navigation problems, and bad weather the same way they managed everything else: by working it out as they went. The Brush Motor Car Company went out of business in 1912, the same year the car adventures ended. Their brief moment as a sponsor of the most improbable road trip in America did nothing to save them from the competitive pressures of the early automobile market. New York to San Francisco on Horseback, 1911 A year after the Manhattan ride, aged 11 and 7, the brothers accepted a challenge that made everything they'd done before look straightforward. A promoter offered $10,000 if they could ride horses from New York to San Francisco in 60 days or less, with one additional condition: they were not permitted to sleep or eat indoors at any point during the crossing. The entire journey had to be made in the open, regardless of weather. They almost made it. The crossing took 62 days, two over the limit, which cost them the prize. What lost them those two days was an episode in the Great Salt Lake Desert where their horses wandered off and the boys spent three days searching for them in brutal heat, coming close to dying of dehydration before the horses were eventually found. They pushed on regardless. They arrived in San Francisco with a flask of Atlantic seawater that Bud tipped into the Pacific at the ocean's edge, completing a private ritual that no promoter had asked for and no newspaper had suggested. They didn't collect the $10,000, but they set an equestrian record for the crossing that was still reportedly standing decades later. They had done it without sleeping under a roof for the entire two months. They were 11 and 7. Oklahoma to New York by Motorcycle, 1913 The final recorded adventure came in 1913. The Hendee Manufacturing Company, which made Indian motorcycles, proposed giving the boys a custom-built machine to ride from Oklahoma to New York as a promotional stunt. By this point Jack had remarried, and Bud and Temple brought their new stepbrother Anton along. Bud was 13. Temple was 9. The Indian motorcycle was a more serious machine than the Brush Runabout had been, and the boys handled it on roads that were, by 1913, slightly better marked than they'd been in 1910 but still largely unpaved outside of cities. They completed the journey, turned around, and came home. It was their fourth major crossing in four years, and by any reasonable measure their most technically demanding. After the motorcycle trip, the adventures stopped. Jack moved the family to Wichita Falls, Texas, during the oil boom, school reasserted its claim on the boys' time, and the era of unsupervised transcontinental travel quietly ended. What Happened to Them Bud Abernathy studied law at the University of Oklahoma and went on to practice in Wichita Falls, eventually serving as district attorney and county judge. Temple followed his father into the oil and gas business, working as a driller in fields across Texas. Jack, who had spent his post-marshalship years as a wildcatter and, briefly, as a secret agent for Mexico, died in 1941 aged 65. Bud died in 1979. Temple died in 1986. In Frederick, Oklahoma, there is a life-size bronze statue of the brothers as they looked in 1910, standing near the entrance to the Pioneer Townsite Museum on the Tillman County Courthouse Square. Every year on the first Saturday in June, the town holds an Abernathy Day celebration. Temple, late in his life, reflected on what the journeys had meant: "We'd been royally entertained by some folks, and coldly turned away by others, and we'd always faced the question of whether it was worthwhile." He seems to have decided it was What Made It Possible The obvious question about the Abernathy boys is why it was allowed, and the answer is partly Jack's unusual parenting philosophy and partly the specific conditions of early 20th century America. In 1909, the frontier was only just closing. The Oklahoma territory had become a state two years earlier. The culture that Jack Abernathy represented, self-reliance, physical competence, the expectation that children could manage themselves in the open country, was still the dominant culture of the region. It hadn't yet been replaced by the supervised, urban childhood that was becoming the norm in the cities the boys rode through. The press coverage mattered too. Once Bud and Temple became nationally known after the 1909 trip, they rode with a kind of protective fame around them. Strangers recognised them. Newspapers followed their progress. Outlaws wrote polite letters to their father. That wouldn't have worked without the underlying culture that made ordinary people along the route willing to help two children travelling alone, but it amplified and formalised the protection that culture provided. In a different era or a different country, none of it would have worked the same way. There's something in the Abernathy story that sits alongside other accounts of ordinary Americans caught in extraordinary moments of American history. Our piece on Juan Romero, the teenage busboy who cradled Robert F. Kennedy as he lay dying in 1968, is a very different kind of story but touches on a similar quality: the way that American history keeps producing individuals whose encounters with larger events reveal something true about the country they happened in. The Abernathy boys were products of a particular American moment, the closing frontier, the opening road, the still-living memory of what it meant to be genuinely self-sufficient, and that moment passed quickly enough that their story already felt like history by the time they were adults. Sources 405 Magazine: The Astounding Adventures of the Abernathy Boys Hagerty Media: In 1910, Every Road Trip Was an Adventure America Comes Alive: Raising Free-Range Children, The Abernathys Florida Newsline: That Is Where the Future Is Wikipedia: Louis Abernathy and Temple Abernathy Wikipedia: Jack Abernathy

Imagine walking along Riverside Drive in the early 20th century and encountering a mansion so grand that it dwarfed even the gilded palaces of Fifth Avenue. This was the Charles M. Schwab House, a 75-room Beaux-Arts chateau that once stood between 73rd and 74th Streets on Manhattan’s Upper West Side. Built by steel magnate Charles M. Schwab, the mansion, nicknamed "Riverside," symbolised ambition, audacity, and extravagance—though it ultimately became an object lesson in excess. An "Elephant" Among Mansions At a time when New York’s elite clustered on the Upper East Side, Schwab chose to build his dream home on what was then considered the "wrong" side of Central Park. Riverside Drive, though scenic, was not as socially fashionable, and Schwab’s decision raised eyebrows. The mansion’s enormous scale and unconventional location earned it the moniker of a "white elephant"—a possession magnificent yet cumbersome. Designed by architect Maurice Hébert, the mansion drew inspiration from the finest French Renaissance chateaux. It borrowed elements from Chenonceau, Blois, and Azay-le-Rideau, blending them into a single, cohesive—and colossal—vision. Construction began in 1902 and took four years to complete, costing Schwab $6 million at the time, equivalent to over $200 million today. Back of the house Charles M. Schwab House: A Rival to Carnegie’s Mansion Charles M. Schwab, a self-made man who began as a labourer in a steel mill, had risen to become the president of U.S. Steel and later the founder of Bethlehem Steel Company. His meteoric rise gave him the means to dream big, and Riverside was the ultimate expression of his success. Even Andrew Carnegie, whose own Fifth Avenue mansion was considered the epitome of luxury, remarked, “Have you seen that place of Charlie's? It makes mine look like a shack.” The mansion’s grandeur was unrivalled. Constructed from pink granite and limestone, the four-storey chateau featured a 166-foot tower offering sweeping views of the Hudson River. The interiors were equally opulent: rooms were decorated in styles inspired by French royalty, from a Louis XIV dining room to a Louis XVI parlour. The library, modelled after the Château de Fontainebleau, was a masterpiece of Henri II design. Among the mansion’s extraordinary features were hand-carved mahogany panels, intricately painted ceilings, and a chapel large enough to host an orchestra. The chapel also housed a custom-built pipe organ that Schwab enlarged twice, spending $45,000 on upgrades—equivalent to around $1.5 million today. A Modern Marvel No expense was spared to ensure Riverside was a technological marvel. Schwab opened a private quarry in Peekskill, New York, to supply stone for the project, and the mansion boasted a self-contained power plant. It also included one of the first air conditioning systems, an innovation Schwab later boasted about, saying, "When I built it, it was the most modern house in the United States." The mansion’s basement housed a 20-by-30-foot swimming pool beneath a domed glass roof, a bowling alley, and a 50-foot gymnasium. Six elevators serviced the house, and a tunnel beneath the gardens allowed for discreet delivery of goods. Even the bronze doors—each weighing up to 1.5 tons—were designed to surpass anything found in the grandest Fifth Avenue mansions. A House of Decline Despite its splendour, the Schwab House reflected its owner’s restless ambition—and vulnerability. Schwab’s wife, Eurana, reportedly disliked the Upper West Side and withdrew from society after their move. Schwab himself lived a life of extremes, but like many others, he found his fortune to be wiped out by the Great Depression. By 1929, Schwab was bankrupt, and by 1939, he was nearly penniless, living in a modest Park Avenue apartment. He died that same year. Schwab had offered the mansion to New York City as a mayoral residence, but Mayor Fiorello La Guardia famously refused, asking, "What, me in that?" The house, too grand for any practical use, fell into disrepair. During World War II, its once-manicured lawns became Victory gardens. The Final Curtain By 1947, the mansion stood empty, its grandeur faded. Its interior fittings were auctioned off, drawing nostalgic visitors like S. Archer Gibson, Schwab’s former organist, who returned to see the instrument he had once played. The massive organ, too large to remove intact, was slated for destruction but was partially salvaged by Eric Sexton, who reinstalled parts of it in Maine. The Schwab House was demolished in 1948, and in its place rose a red-brick apartment complex ironically named "The Schwab House." The building, practical and unremarkable, bore no resemblance to the architectural masterpiece it replaced. In place of Schwab's French Renaissance chateau sits The Schwab House

In the early 20th century, Władysław T. Benda was a name as recognised as Norman Rockwell, N.C. Wyeth, or Maxfield Parrish in the realms of graphic art and illustration. Born in Poznań, Poland, in 1873, and later making his home in the United States, Benda carved out a reputation as a master illustrator. His distinctive style graced the covers of Collier’s, McCall’s, Ladies’ Home Journal, and Good Housekeeping, among many other prominent publications. Benda’s illustrations told stories with vivid imagination and a keen eye for detail, making him a household name during the golden age of American illustration. But Benda’s artistic legacy does not rest solely on the pages of books and magazines. Beginning in 1914, he embarked on a creative journey that would redefine his career: the art of mask-making. His sculpted papier-mâché masks, intricate and expressive, became sought-after creations in the world of theatre and dance. These masks were not merely props; they were transformative works of art that bridged the worlds of visual and performing arts, showcasing Benda’s ability to imbue inanimate objects with profound emotion and character. From Canvas to Stage: The Evolution of Benda’s Masks Benda’s masks first gained recognition for their use in theatrical productions, notably plays by renowned writers such as Eugene O’Neill and Noël Coward. His meticulous craftsmanship and artistic sensibilities ensured that these masks were more than functional; they were deeply evocative, enhancing the performances they accompanied. Benda’s creations ranged from realistic depictions of human faces to more whimsical and exaggerated forms, a category he referred to as “grotesque” masks. These fantastic designs, often rooted in caricature, brought a touch of the surreal to the stage. One of Benda’s most celebrated contributions to mask design was his original creation for the 1932 film The Mask of Fu Manchu, a strikingly imaginative piece that demonstrated his ability to blend theatricality with cultural motifs. This design exemplified Benda’s talent for using masks to convey complex narratives and vivid personalities. Władysław T. Benda Masks in Print and Illustration Benda’s masks were not confined to the stage. They frequently appeared in his paintings and illustrations, bridging his two great artistic passions. These masks often functioned as symbols, adding layers of meaning to his visual storytelling. His dual career as an illustrator and mask maker allowed for an interplay of influences: the dynamism of his illustrations informed the expressiveness of his masks, while the sculptural qualities of his masks added a tactile depth to his two-dimensional work. Władysław T. Benda's masks also became a subject of fascination in the media. Articles by and about him and his creations appeared in many of the same magazines that carried his illustrations. This dual coverage underscored his versatility and the cultural impact of his artistry. His masks captivated readers as much as his illustrations, and their widespread appeal cemented his reputation as a true Renaissance man of the arts. A Legacy of Innovation In the 1930s, as Benda’s focus shifted increasingly toward mask-making, he took on the role of educator and documentarian of his craft. He authored the Encyclopædia Britannica entry on masks, offering readers a scholarly exploration of the art form’s history and significance. Later, he published a detailed study of his own designs and the unique techniques he had developed over decades of experimentation. This work not only celebrated his achievements but also provided valuable insights for future generations of artists and mask makers. Benda’s masks were renowned for their lifelike quality and durability, achieved through his innovative use of papier-mâché. Unlike traditional masks, which were often fragile, Benda’s creations were both lightweight and robust, making them ideal for the demands of performance. His meticulous attention to detail ensured that each mask was a work of art, whether it depicted a delicate human visage or a wildly exaggerated grotesque figure. The Enduring Appeal of Benda’s Masks Today, Władysław T. Benda is remembered not only for his stunning illustrations but also for his contributions to the art of mask-making. His work represents a unique convergence of fine art, design, and performance, and his masks continue to inspire artists and performers alike. Whether adorning a magazine cover or gracing a theatrical stage, Benda’s creations reflect an unparalleled ability to capture the essence of the human experience in all its complexity and wonder. In many ways, Benda’s masks are a metaphor for his own artistic journey. They conceal and reveal, bridging worlds and transcending boundaries. Just as his masks transformed actors into characters, Benda’s artistry transformed the everyday into the extraordinary, leaving a legacy as multifaceted as the masks themselves.

On January 14, 1967, the polo fields of San Francisco's Golden Gate Park transformed into an ephemeral utopia of peace, music, and psychedelia. Dubbed the "Human Be-In", this gathering would come to symbolise the ethos of the 1960s counterculture and ignite the famed "Summer of Love." What began as a grassroots response to the California State Legislature's 1966 ban on LSD grew into a monumental event, attended by over 20,000 people. For one extraordinary day, the disparate "tribes" of the Bay Area’s counterculture converged, blending anti-war activists, beat poets, psychedelic explorers, and free-spirited youth in a vivid celebration of unity and defiance. The Human Be-In Origins: "A Gathering of Tribes" The brainchild of artist and activist Michael Bowen, the Human Be-In was envisioned as a unifying event. Bowen promoted it through the underground newspaper, the San Francisco Oracle , describing it as "A Gathering of Tribes for the Human Be-In." His goal was ambitious: to bridge the gap between the often insular worlds of the Haight-Ashbury hippies, steeped in the psychedelic revolution, and the politically active Berkeley radicals, who were focused on civil rights and opposing the Vietnam War. The event also had an immediate provocation. The banning of LSD—a drug central to the counterculture's experimentation and spiritual exploration—angered many in the community. The Human Be-In was a statement of resistance, embodying the era's hallmark elements: psychedelic drug use, peace and love, rock music, anti-war protests, and the free-spirited creativity of experimental art. Dr. Timothy Leary and Phil Lesh from the Grateful Dead on stage at the Human Be-In. The Grateful Dead, Jefferson Airplane and Quicksilver Messenger Service all played that day The Event: A Carnival of Counterculture Between 20,000 and 30,000 people flocked to the park that day. Attendees sprawled across the grassy expanse in a kaleidoscopic scene of tie-dye, beads, and flowers. The event had minimal infrastructure—just a flatbed truck and an amplifier served as a makeshift stage. Yet the simplicity of the setup underscored the spontaneity and openness that defined the gathering. Musical performances by iconic bands such as Jefferson Airplane, Big Brother and the Holding Company, and the Grateful Dead electrified the crowd. The haze of marijuana and the effects of LSD were pervasive, amplifying the dreamlike atmosphere. The event's speakers provided a mix of inspiration and provocation. Timothy Leary, the controversial psychologist turned LSD evangelist, delivered his now-famous mantra: "Turn on, tune in, drop out." Poet Allen Ginsberg led meditative chants, while Ram Dass offered spiritual musings. Their words reflected the diverse philosophies underpinning the counterculture, blending mysticism, politics, and social rebellion. In a sly act of subversion, the organisers had secured a permit by claiming the event was a birthday party for a local attorney. With no police presence, the Hell's Angels provided "security,"... Gary Duncan of Quicksilver Messenger Service gets ready to play at the Human Be-In. Cultural Ripples: The Birth of the "Summer of Love" The Human Be-In proved transformative. It attracted national attention and marked San Francisco as the heart of American counterculture. Its success inspired a wave of similar events, from "Love-Ins" in public parks to the televised zaniness of Laugh-In . The confluence of music, protest, and countercultural ideals at the Be-In also laid the groundwork for the rock festival era. Just months later, the Bay Area hosted two pivotal festivals. The Fantasy Fair and Magic Mountain Music Festival in June 1967 featured performances by The Doors, Jefferson Airplane, and The Byrds. A week later, the legendary Monterey Pop Festival showcased an even larger roster of talent, including Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, and Otis Redding. By the time of Woodstock in 1969, the countercultural rock festival had become a defining feature of the era. The Be-In also set the tone for the "Summer of Love," which saw young people from across the United States descend on San Francisco's Haight-Ashbury district. Drawn by tales of flower power and free love, they arrived to experience the counterculture firsthand. Investigative reporter  Steve Silberman  describes the above video. He writes: This seems to have just surfaced: the most complete recording of the Human Be-In in Golden Gate Park in 1967 that I have ever seen, by far. It opens with Allen Ginsberg and Gary Snyder chanting, Michael McClure  follows, and the Grateful Dead (with adorable footage of Allen dancing) pop up at about 14:00. At 18:00, Dizzy Gillespie is smiling in the audience. So much mythical noumenon has piled up around these events over the decades it’s almost inevitable that the real thing seems a little banal compared to one’s imagination, but it’s still cool. A Movement's Highs and Lows Despite its exuberance, the Human Be-In foreshadowed the counterculture’s eventual disillusionment. By October 1967, just months after the "Summer of Love," local hippies staged a symbolic "Death of the Hippie" funeral, protesting the commodification of their movement. Media sensationalism had painted an often reductive picture of their ideals, and the influx of outsiders strained the community. Meanwhile, Michael Bowen continued his activism. Later that year, he distributed 200 pounds of daisies to Vietnam War protesters at the Pentagon. These flowers, held aloft against the bayonets of National Guardsmen, produced some of the era’s most iconic images. Beat poet Allen Ginsberg dances wildly to the Grateful Dead playing “Viola Lee Blues" at the Human Be-In. The Dead only played three songs that day. Legacy: The Spirit of the Be-In The Human Be-In was more than just a gathering; it was a cultural touchstone that encapsulated the spirit of the 1960s. By bringing together art, music, and activism, it challenged traditional norms and inspired new forms of expression. Its influence reverberated through the counterculture movement, from the rise of experimental rock to the enduring ethos of peace, love, and individuality. Though the utopian ideals of the Be-In were fleeting, its legacy endures as a reminder of a moment when thousands dared to dream of a better, freer world—together.

Bass Reeves was a man whose life reads like a chapter from a Wild West novel—yet every bit of it is true. Born into slavery in Arkansas, Reeves would rise to become one of the first African American Deputy U.S. Marshals west of the Mississippi. Over a 32-year career, he apprehended over 4,000 criminals, navigated deadly shootouts, and maintained an unflinching dedication to the rule of law, even when it meant arresting his own son. His story, while extraordinary, is also a lens through which to understand the broader history of America during one of its most tumultuous periods. Early Life: Born into Slavery Bass Reeves was born in July 1838 in Crawford County, Arkansas. Enslaved by Arkansas legislator William Steele Reeves, Bass spent his early years on the Reeves plantation. In 1846, the family moved to Grayson County, Texas, taking Bass with them. It is believed that Bass worked closely under the supervision of William’s son, George Reeves, a future sheriff, Confederate colonel, and Speaker of the Texas House of Representatives. During the Civil War, George enlisted in the Confederate Army and took Bass with him to the battlefield. According to family lore, Bass and George clashed during a card game, leading to a physical fight. Realising that he could never return to his enslaver, Bass fled into Indian Territory, a land then outside the immediate reach of federal or Confederate forces. Life Among Native Americans Indian Territory (modern-day Oklahoma) became a sanctuary for Reeves. Living among the Cherokee, Choctaw, Chickasaw, Seminole, and Creek tribes, Reeves not only learned their languages but also adapted to their customs and survival techniques. This period of refuge was transformative. He developed exceptional skills in tracking, hunting, and marksmanship—all of which would later serve him in his career as a lawman. By the war’s end and the enforcement of the Emancipation Proclamation, Reeves was a free man. Returning to Arkansas, Reeves settled near Van Buren. He married Jennie, with whom he had 10 children, and worked as a farmer and rancher. His reputation as a skilled tracker and a man of unshakeable integrity began to grow. Becoming a Deputy U.S. Marshal In 1875, Isaac C. Parker, the newly appointed federal judge for the Western District of Arkansas, set out to bring law and order to the chaos of Indian Territory. This region was rife with crime: horse thieves, cattle rustlers, bootleggers, bandits, and murderers roamed freely. Parker tasked U.S. Marshal James F. Fagan with recruiting 200 deputies. Reeves, then 37, was an obvious choice. Fluent in several Native American languages and intimately familiar with the region, Reeves joined as one of the first Black deputy marshals west of the Mississippi. Reeves’ jurisdiction was vast, covering over 75,000 square miles of rugged terrain. For 32 years, he operated out of Fort Smith, Arkansas, pursuing criminals across the unforgiving landscape of Indian Territory. Bass Reeves stands in the door of a boxcar on the MK&T Railroad. On the left with a Winchester is Bud Ledbetter and lawmen guarding the shipment near Muskogee, Indian Territory, ca. 1900. Bass Reeves' Legendary Feats of Law Enforcement Reeves’ career was marked by his resourcefulness, fearlessness, and unyielding commitment to justice. Known for his cunning, he often used disguises to capture fugitives. He would pose as a beggar, a preacher, or a cowboy, infiltrating outlaw camps before revealing his true identity. In one particularly famous episode, Reeves disguised himself as a destitute drifter, gained the trust of two outlaws, and arrested them after dining with them at their camp. Armed with a pair of Colt .45 revolvers and a Winchester rifle, Reeves was an exceptional marksman. Though he engaged in numerous gunfights, he was never seriously wounded. His hat and belt were shot off on separate occasions, but Reeves always emerged unscathed. Reeves (left) with a group of Marshals in 1907 Among the outlaws Reeves apprehended were some of the most notorious criminals of the time. He pursued Jim Webb, a murderer with over 11 victims to his name, killing him in a dramatic shootout. He also tracked and captured Wiley Bear, a horse thief whose gang had terrorised the region. Reeves dismantled entire criminal networks, often singlehandedly. Personal Tragedies and Moral Resolve Despite his professional success, Reeves’ life was not without hardship. His first wife, Jennie, died in 1896 after over three decades of marriage. In 1900, Reeves remarried Winnie Sumter. Yet one of his most heart-wrenching trials came in 1902, when his son Benjamin “Bennie” Reeves was accused of murdering his wife, Castella Brown. Bass Reeves insisted on arresting Bennie himself, embodying his belief that no one was above the law. Bennie was tried and convicted, receiving a life sentence at Fort Leavenworth prison. After 11 years, he was released for good behaviour and reportedly lived the rest of his life as a model citizen. Bass Reeves’s son, Bennie, was arrested by Bass for domestic murder in Muskogee in 1902. Reeves also faced legal troubles of his own. In one instance, he was charged with the murder of his cook, William Leach, after allegedly discharging his weapon while cleaning it. Reeves stood trial before Judge Parker and was acquitted, thanks in part to his impeccable record and character. Retirement and Death When Oklahoma became a state in 1907, federal law enforcement in Indian Territory was dissolved. At 68, Reeves joined the Muskogee Police Department, serving as an officer for two years before retiring due to ill health. He passed away on January 12, 1910, from Bright’s disease (nephritis). This is the best known photograph of Deputy U.S. Marshal Bass Reeves, possibly the greatest lawman of the Old West. Legacy of a Legend Bass Reeves’ contributions to law enforcement are unparalleled. By the end of his career, he had made over 4,000 arrests, killed 14 men in self-defence, and navigated one of the most dangerous regions in America with unparalleled skill and integrity. His life inspired countless stories, and his legacy has been immortalised in books, films, and public memorials. In Fort Smith, Arkansas, a bronze statue commemorates Reeves’ service, and the Bass Reeves Memorial Bridge in Oklahoma honours his name. He has also been inducted into the Texas Trail of Fame, ensuring his story remains part of the narrative of the American West.

Café Lehmitz was never going to end up in a guidebook. It sat on Hamburg's Reeperbahn, in the middle of the city's red light district, and served the sex workers, drifters and dockworkers who made up the neighbourhood's late night crowd. In the late 1960s, a young Swedish photographer named Anders Petersen started drinking there, camera in hand, and ended up producing one of the most intimate and influential bodies of documentary photography ever made. Learning to See From Christer Strömholm Petersen's route to Café Lehmitz started years earlier, and it started with someone else's photograph. As a teenager he saw an image of a Montmartre graveyard taken by the Swedish photographer Christer Strömholm, and something about it stuck with him. In 1966 he enrolled at Strömholm's Fotoskolan in Stockholm, the school that would go on to train more than a thousand photographers over its run. Petersen later described how he actually met Strömholm for the first time. During a school trip, someone banged on his door at three in the morning. Petersen didn't answer at first, officially he wasn't even supposed to be there, but the knocking kept up until he finally opened it. Standing outside was a bald man with a gold ring in his ear, who looked around at the mess in the room, asked to see Petersen's photographs, and told him to come to his office the next morning. Petersen assumed he was about to be thrown out. Instead, Strömholm invited him to join the school. The two remained close for the next four decades, teacher and student turned lifelong friends. Strömholm's own most famous work, an intimate series photographing transgender women around Paris's Place Blanche in the 1950s, set the tone for the kind of documentary photography he pushed his students toward: personal, unguarded, made from inside a community rather than looking in at it from a distance. That approach shaped everything Petersen did next. A Camera Gets Passed Around a Bar Petersen had actually spent time in Hamburg once before, back in 1961, when he stayed in the city as an eighteen year old to learn German and try his hand at writing and painting. He didn't take a single photograph that trip. When he went back in 1967, fresh out of Strömholm's school, he intended to track down old friends from that earlier visit and photograph their lives. Most of them, he was told, were already dead. What he found instead was Café Lehmitz, and the way he found it has become part of the work's own mythology. Accounts differ slightly on the exact details, but the gist holds: Petersen was sitting in a bar with his camera on the table when a stranger picked it up, snapped a photo of him, and handed it back. Rather than take offence, Petersen kept shooting, turning the camera over to whoever wanted a go and photographing them right back. An old friend named Gertrude, who he ran into around the same time, pointed him toward Café Lehmitz specifically, promising it was full of characters worth photographing. He turned up at 1am the following night and never really left. He stayed at the café for a solid month at the outset, then kept returning over the next two and a half years, eventually building a body of work exhaustive enough to fill a book. In 1970, before that book existed in any form, Petersen held his first solo show of the material right there at the café, nailing 350 prints directly to the walls for the regulars to see themselves. The People Behind the Photographs What set Petersen's photographs apart from a lot of documentary work of the era was how unguarded his subjects were with him. These weren't candid shots stolen from a distance. The regulars at Lehmitz knew him, argued with him, posed for him and occasionally grabbed the camera themselves. One woman, Uschi, became one of his most striking subjects. Petersen described her as kind and generous, but her life had been shaped by trauma from a young age: raped by a cousin at fourteen, then blamed for it by those around her rather than supported. She turned to sex work not long after. Petersen's photographs of her carry none of the judgement that framing might suggest elsewhere; they sit alongside images of tenderness, drunkenness, boredom and, in at least one case Petersen later spoke about, real cruelty between a couple that he debated whether to publish at all. He decided the book needed to show that side of the café too, not just the romantic version. Petersen's work at Lehmitz is often set alongside Ed van der Elsken's Love on the Left Bank, another photobook that turned an urban demimonde into something close to a novel told in pictures. Petersen has acknowledged the comparison while noting his own style has shifted since: where Lehmitz was about capturing atmosphere and milieu, he's said his later work became more direct, more about people he personally identifies with. It's a similar instinct to what E.J. Bellocq brought to his portraits of Storyville's sex workers decades earlier in New Orleans, a documentary eye trained on a red light district that refused to flatten its subjects into types. From Bar Walls to One of Photography's Great Books Café Lehmitz the book finally came out in Germany in 1978, and it's since become regarded as one of the most important photobooks ever published. Its reputation has only grown with time. Musician Tom Waits used one of Petersen's Lehmitz images for the cover of his 1985 album Rain Dogs, a record steeped in exactly the kind of bruised, late night atmosphere Petersen had spent years photographing. When Prestel reissued the book in 2023, it was Waits himself who wrote the new foreword, tying the two works together properly for a new generation of readers. The Reeperbahn itself has changed enormously since Petersen's era there, cleaned up, gentrified and turned into as much a tourist attraction as a working red light district. Café Lehmitz itself is long gone. What Petersen left behind is one of the few honest visual records of who actually populated that world before it changed, photographed by someone the regulars trusted enough to hand their own camera back to. It's a similar kind of trust that runs through Billy Monk's photographs of The Catacombs, a Cape Town nightclub Monk worked as a bouncer at around the same period, snapping the sailors, sex workers and misfits who drank there. Both men were insiders first and photographers second, and it shows in the work. Sources Magnum Photos: Anders Petersen on Café Lehmitz Anders Petersen: Official Website Tate: Anders Petersen Artist Profile The Guardian: Anders Petersen: Café Lehmitz Review British Journal of Photography: The Raw Intimacy of Anders Petersen LensCulture: Anders Petersen International Center of Photography: Anders Petersen Archive Der Spiegel: Das Ende des Café Lehmitz Moderna Museet: Featured Photographers, A Way of Life Black & White Magazine: Anders Petersen, Opening Doors Prestel Publishing: Café Lehmitz (2023 reissue)

Sarla Thukral’s life is a testament to determination, adaptability, and resourcefulness. Born in 1914 in Delhi, she became one of the first Indian women to earn a pilot’s licence, an achievement that reflected her commitment to breaking barriers in a male-dominated field. Her journey spanned multiple disciplines, including aviation, art, and business, and showcased her ability to navigate significant personal and historical challenges. This blog explores her multifaceted life and contributions, celebrating the legacy of a woman who left a lasting impact on Indian society. Early Life and Marriage Sarla was born into a progressive Punjabi family in 1914, an era when societal norms confined women to traditional roles. Despite these constraints, she was instilled with the value of education and ambition. At the age of 16, she married P. D. Sharma, who came from a family deeply involved in aviation. His family boasted nine pilots, and Sharma himself was a pioneering figure, being the first Indian to secure an airmail pilot’s licence. Her husband’s encouragement was instrumental in her aviation aspirations. Recognising her enthusiasm and potential, P. D. Sharma motivated Sarla to pursue flying—a bold endeavour for an Indian woman at the time. Breaking Barriers in Aviation In 1936, at just 21 years old, Sarla earned her “A” pilot’s licence, becoming one of the first Indian women to achieve this feat. Her training was conducted at the Lahore Flying Club, where she logged over 1,000 hours of flying on a Gypsy Moth, a light aircraft known for its agility and ease of use. Sarla’s accomplishment was revolutionary in pre-Independence India, a period when women were rarely seen in professional roles, let alone in aviation. सरला ठकराल aged 21. It is important to place her achievement in the broader context of Indian aviation history. While Sarla was among the earliest Indian women pilots, she was preceded by a few notable figures. Urmila Parikh was the first woman of Indian nationality to earn a licence in 1932. Sylla Petit née Tata, of the Tata industrial family, had technically been the first woman in British India to secure a licence in 1929, though she was of British nationality. Sarla’s success, however, was groundbreaking as she pursued her passion in a predominantly male field despite societal pressures. A Sudden Shift: Tragedy and World War II Sarla’s career took an abrupt turn in 1939 when her husband tragically died in an aviation accident. Determined to continue her journey, she applied to train for a commercial pilot’s licence. However, the outbreak of World War II halted civil aviation training, forcing Sarla to reconsider her career. Widowed at 25 and with a young child to support, Sarla adapted to the changing circumstances. She returned to Lahore and enrolled at the Mayo School of Art, one of the most prestigious art institutions in India, known for its emphasis on the Bengal School of painting. Here, she honed her artistic skills, earning a diploma in fine arts. This period marked a significant transition in her life as she shifted from aviation to creative pursuits. Sarla Thukra, a New Beginning After Partition Her artistic journey blossomed further after the Partition of India in 1947, which forced her to relocate to Delhi with her two daughters. In 1948, Sarla remarried, tying the knot with R. P. Thakral, and embraced a new phase of her life. Her spiritual affiliation with the Arya Samaj, a reformist Hindu movement, supported her decision to remarry, a practice that was not widely accepted in traditional circles. In Delhi, Sarla reinvented herself as a businesswoman and artist. She began designing clothes and costume jewellery, which became highly sought after. Her designs reflected a blend of traditional aesthetics and modern sensibilities, capturing the changing tastes of post-Independence India. Alongside her business ventures, she continued to paint, drawing from her training in the Bengal School and her life experiences. Sarla’s work in art and design not only supported her family but also allowed her to contribute to India’s burgeoning cultural landscape. Her resilience and adaptability became a source of inspiration for countless women navigating the challenges of balancing professional aspirations with personal responsibilities. Sarla Thukral passed away in 2008, but her legacy endures. She is celebrated as a pioneer who paved the way for women in Indian aviation. Today, India boasts the highest percentage of female pilots in the world, with 15% of its pilots being women—a testament to the foundations laid by trailblazers like Sarla.

At around 4 a.m. on July 1, 1981, several men entered a rented townhouse at 8763 Wonderland Avenue in the Laurel Canyon hills above Hollywood. They were carrying lead pipes. They went from room to room and beat five people to death, or as close to it as made no difference. Four of them didn't make it. The fifth, Susan Launius, survived with permanent brain damage and no memory of the attack. It took a furniture removal crew working next door more than twelve hours later to notice she was still moaning. When police arrived, the walls and ceiling of the Wonderland Avenue house were covered in blood. Investigators compared the scene to the Tate-LaBianca murders. The case became one of Los Angeles' most notorious, not just for the violence, but for the cast of characters involved: a drug gang operating out of a canyon hideout, one of the most powerful crime bosses in the city, and a porn star whose career was in freefall and whose cocaine habit had reduced him to something close to a servant. The Wonderland Gang The townhouse on Wonderland Avenue was home to a small but prolific crew of drug dealers and thieves. Ron Launius ran the operation. He was a Vietnam veteran with a history of violent crime and a reputation, even within the criminal world, for being genuinely cold-blooded. His second-in-command was Billy DeVerell, who handled the day-to-day alongside his girlfriend Joy Miller, the leaseholder of the property. David Lind, a member of the Aryan Brotherhood who'd met Launius in prison, had come down from Sacramento to help run their growing cocaine trade. Tracy McCourt drove for them. Barbara Richardson, Lind's girlfriend, was sleeping on the sofa the night everything went wrong. The gang dealt cocaine and heroin, but also supplemented their income by robbing other drug dealers. It was a dangerous way to operate. Their supplier relationships ran through a network of middlemen and fences, one of whom was a porn actor named John Holmes, who used the Wonderland house as somewhere to sleep when he had nowhere else to go, and who spent his days shuttling between the gang and the man who kept him in cocaine. The Wonderland house Eddie Nash Born Adel Gharib Nasrallah in Palestine, Eddie Nash had arrived in America with almost nothing and built himself into one of the most significant figures in Los Angeles' criminal underworld. He owned dozens of nightclubs by the late 1970s, including the Starwood on Santa Monica Boulevard, which hosted early shows by Van Halen, Mötley Crüe, and Quiet Riot. He sold drugs to his patrons. His sartorial trademark was a pair of brightly coloured bikini briefs, which he wore when receiving visitors at his Studio City mansion. Nash's power in the city was real enough that he usually referred to himself in the third person as "The Nash." He'd become a figure of some notoriety, the kind of man people in Los Angeles crime circles either worked with or made a point of avoiding. John Holmes was one of the most bankable performers in the history of the adult film industry, famous for his role as detective Johnny Wadd across a long series of pornographic films. By 1981, he'd appeared in over 500 productions. He'd also spent the best part of a decade destroying himself with cocaine and had reportedly spent $750,000 on the drug in a single year during his peak. With his career drying up and his money gone, he'd become financially dependent on Nash, who supplied him with drugs in exchange for services rendered. Nash called Holmes "my brother." Holmes drew Nash a map of the Wonderland house so Nash could identify the people selling him product. He also fenced stolen goods between the gang and Nash, exchanging property the Wonderland crew had stolen from other targets for drugs during lean periods. The Robbery That Started Everything In the spring of 1981, Holmes was sleeping in the Wonderland house regularly. He told the gang that Nash kept a safe embedded in the floor of his bedroom containing substantial quantities of heroin, cocaine, Quaaludes, jewellery, and cash. He offered to help them rob it. The plan was simple enough: Holmes would visit Nash under the pretence of buying drugs, leave the patio door to the kitchen unlatched on his way out, and the gang would walk in. It took Holmes three attempts to pull it off. The first time, he forgot to unlatch the door. The second time, he managed it, but the gang was too high on heroin to move. By the third visit, Holmes was nervous enough about the door being re-locked that he bought some crack cocaine to justify being there, checked the latch, and gave the all-clear. The gang entered the house pretending to be police officers, with David Lind flashing a stolen San Francisco police badge. Nash's 300-pound bodyguard, Gregory Diles, was handcuffed. Lind's gun went off during the struggle, grazing Diles in the side. Nash appeared from his bedroom in his underwear, dropped to his knees, and begged not to be killed. He opened the safe. The gang left with heroin, cocaine, Quaaludes, jewellery, antique guns, and around $185,000 in cash, totalling over $1 million in value. Shortly afterwards, one of Nash's associates spotted Holmes walking around Hollywood wearing a ring that had been stolen from the house. Diles found him, brought him back to Nash's mansion, tied him to a chair, and beat him. Scott Thorson, Liberace's former companion, was at Nash's house buying drugs that evening and later testified to what he witnessed. Nash, he said, threatened to kill Holmes and his entire family until Holmes gave up the identities of the people who'd robbed him. A victim is removed from the Wonderland house The Murders Two days after the robbery, in the early hours of July 1, a group of men entered the Wonderland Avenue townhouse. They used lead pipes. They moved through the property methodically. Ron Launius and Billy DeVerell were beaten in the bedroom. Joy Miller was killed on her bed. Barbara Richardson, asleep on the living room sofa, was killed there. Susan Launius, Ron's wife, was attacked beside her husband. She was found alive but barely. Surgeons later removed part of her skull. When she eventually regained enough consciousness to testify, all she could remember were "three shadowy figures." The murders went unnoticed for over twelve hours. The neighbours on Wonderland Avenue were used to noise from the townhouse and assumed the sounds they heard were part of another late-night party. It was only at around 4 p.m. that the furniture removal crew working next door heard moaning and called the police. Eddie Nash under arrest John Holmes, the Handprint, and the Trial Detectives Tom Lange and Robert Souza led the LAPD investigation. When they searched Nash's home days after the murders, they found over $1 million worth of cocaine and several items stolen from the Wonderland house still on the premises. The most significant piece of evidence from the crime scene itself was a bloody left palm print found on the headboard of Ron Launius' bed. It belonged to John Holmes. Holmes was arrested in March 1982 and charged with four counts of murder. His first wife Sharon, in a newspaper interview shortly after the murders, said he'd told her he'd been at the Wonderland house the night it happened and knew the people inside. After Holmes died of AIDS complications in March 1988, Sharon gave a fuller account to the Los Angeles Times: that on the morning of July 1, Holmes had arrived at her home with blood on his clothes and told her he'd led three men to the Wonderland house, let them in, and stood there while they beat the five people inside. At his trial, Holmes didn't testify. His lawyers argued successfully that he'd been forced to participate, a victim of coercion by Nash rather than a willing accomplice. The jury acquitted him of all murder charges on June 26, 1982. He spent 110 days in jail for contempt of court after refusing to cooperate with investigators. He never formally confessed and died without being prosecuted for his role. Nash's Trials and the Plea Deal Eddie Nash and Gregory Diles were charged with planning and carrying out the murders in 1990. Their trial ended in a hung jury. A second trial in 1991 ended in acquittal. Rumours of juror tampering surfaced, and they turned out to be accurate. In 2000, federal prosecutors charged Nash under RICO statutes. Facing charges of drug trafficking, money laundering, and conspiracy to commit murder, Nash took a plea deal in September 2001. He admitted to bribing the lone holdout juror in his first trial with $50,000. He also admitted to ordering his associates to retrieve the stolen property from the Wonderland house, knowing that violence might follow. He denied ordering the murders specifically. He was sentenced to four and a half years in prison and fined $250,000. He died in 2014, aged 85. Diles had already died in 1997 from liver failure. Nobody has ever been convicted of the four murders. The case remains officially unsolved. Porn star John Holmes, dressed in a prison jumpsuit the day before he was acquitted of murder What Came After The Wonderland murders embedded themselves in Los Angeles mythology alongside the Black Dahlia and the Manson killings as a benchmark of the city's capacity for extreme violence. The story has been told several times on screen: the 1997 film Boogie Nights, Paul Thomas Anderson's portrait of the porn industry, included a sequence directly inspired by the Nash robbery, with Alfred Molina portraying a character clearly based on Nash, freebasing cocaine in his underwear while Night Ranger played on the stereo. The 2003 film Wonderland, with Val Kilmer as Holmes, reconstructed the events directly, using police reports and coroner's photographs to recreate the Wonderland house. Holmes's story in particular became a symbol of what the adult film industry of the 1970s could do to the people inside it. His trajectory from one of the industry's most recognised performers to a drug-dependent man sleeping on the sofa of a drug gang's hideout, then leading killers through the front door, is as bleak an arc as any true crime story produces. Bob Crane, another Hollywood figure whose private life intersected fatally with the adult entertainment world, met his end around the same period under circumstances that also went unsolved. As of 2017, Susan Launius remained the only surviving member of the Wonderland Gang and the only witness to the murders. She has never been able to recall anything beyond those three shadowy figures. The Wonderland Avenue house has been renovated and rented out several times since 1981. The last known listing had the two-bedroom property going for $3,000 a month. The weapons were never found. No one was ever convicted. The case is closed in name only. Sources 1. Wikipedia: Wonderland murders - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wonderland_murders 2. Wikipedia: Wonderland Gang - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wonderland_Gang 3. CrimeReads: On the 1981 Wonderland Murders and the 2003 film - https://crimereads.com/wonderland-murders/ 4. Crime Library: John Holmes and the Wonderland Murders - https://crimelibrary.org/notorious_murders/celebrity/john_holmes/ 5. Vocal Media: The Wonderland Gang Murders - https://vocal.media/criminal/the-wonderland-gang-murders 6. LA Ghost Tours: The Wonderland Murders - https://laghosttour.com/the-wonderland-murders/ 7. Reel Reviews: John Holmes and the Wonderland Murders - https://www.reelreviews.com/shorttakes-56/morbidly-hollywood-no-ad/wonderland