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In 1991, the California Highway Patrol stopped a white Jaguar in Indio for driving on the wrong side of the road. The driver's explanation was that he had stopped to offer a ride to a young woman on that side and was in the process of moving back over when he was pulled over. The police could have accepted this or issued a ticket and moved on, but two factors changed the situation: the woman was a known prostitute named Rosemary Garcia, and the driver was the well-known televangelist Jimmy Swaggart. This was not Swaggart's first time being caught with sex workers; four years earlier, he was found with a prostitute in a motel on Airline Highway in Metairie, Louisiana. The previous scandal had nearly ended his career, and the second incident significantly hindered his comeback. Before delving further into this, it is beneficial to understand a bit about Swaggart's background. Jimmy Swaggart was born in Ferriday, Louisiana on March 15, 1935, just six months before his cousin, the rock and roll legend Jerry Lee Lewis, and a year before another cousin, the country star Mickey Gilley. He tied the knot with Frances Anderson at the age of 17 and became a father at 19, despite lacking a permanent residence or income. The Swaggarts led a nomadic lifestyle as Jimmy preached in small rural Louisiana churches, earning around $30 a week and staying wherever they were welcomed. However, a flair for performance was evident in the family, and by 1957 Swaggart had gained popularity at revival meetings across the South. He enrolled in Bible college, started recording Gospel music albums in 1960, and was ordained by the Assemblies of God upon graduating in 1961. He soon launched his own radio program, which became popular throughout the Bible Belt by 1969. In that same year, he established the Family Worship Center in Baton Rouge, acquired an AM radio station, and initiated a weekly 30-minute television broadcast that was later syndicated. His television ministry rapidly expanded; in 1978, the show extended to an hour, and in 1980, it transitioned from weekly to daily. By the mid-1980s, his broadcast was airing on over 250 television stations nationwide and generating approximately $150 million annually. Jimmy had come a long way from sleeping in church basements and preaching from the backs of trucks, but instead of rejoicing in his good fortune and helping other struggling preachers as Christian morality demands, Swaggart instead grew jealous of his position and schemed to bring down rival Assemblies of God televangelist Marvin Gorman, whose television show was becoming increasingly popular. In 1986 Swaggart discovered (possibly through the use of a private detective) that Gorman had a mistress, and exposed him to the AoG Presbytery with claims of “several affairs” (though Gorman only confessed to one). Gorman was defrocked, his TV ministry collapsed and he was forced to file bankruptcy; as one might expect, he wanted revenge. So, he hired a private detective named Scott Bailey and assigned his son Randy to assist him, and the two set out to discover whatever Swaggart might have to hide. It didn’t take long; early in 1987 they discovered that Swaggart regularly employed the services of Debra Murphree, a sex worker who worked out of the Travel Inn on Airline Highway. On a day when Bailey expected Swaggart to visit Murphree, Randy Gorman rented another room and secretly took pictures of her clients coming and going; when Swaggart arrived Randy snapped his picture entering the room, then let the air out of his tires and called his father (who lived only a few minutes away). The elder Gorman confronted Swaggart when he emerged and promised he wouldn’t release the pictures if Swaggart would publicly apologise to Gorman, admit to the Assemblies of God that he had lied about the affairs and use his influence to have Gorman reinstated. But for some reason, Swaggart never made good on his end of the deal, and in January of 1988 Gorman told Swaggart his time was up. On February 15th Gorman contacted the AoG Executive Presbytery, the same officials who had defrocked him two years earlier, and exposed Swaggart’s transgression; they initially suspended him for three months, then travelled with him on his private plane to AoG headquarters in Springfield, Missouri to set the matter before the church’s national leadership. One would think Swaggart would be contrite and penitent, but this was not the case; an evangelist who was on that flight later reported that “ Swaggart was VERY contemptuous of them. At one point…he stood up and wagged his finger in their faces and said…[words to the effect that] Swaggart spoke for God, and the AofG did not .” The national leaders were so offended by Swaggart’s arrogance they increased the suspension to two years, and so it was that on February 21st, 1988 Swaggart made his now-famous “ I have sinned ” speech and temporarily stepped down from the pulpit. Murphree was interviewed repeatedly by news media and admitted to the odd fact that though Swaggart had seen her many times, he had never had sex with her; instead he had paid her to pose while he masturbated. This dovetailed with Swaggart’s admission to the AoG leaders that he “suffered from a lifelong addiction” to pornography, which certainly surprised no one who knew anything about reaction formation considering his vocal anti-porn stance. In July she got an illustrated interview in Penthouse which they paid $210,000 for her story, of which the IRS stole three-quarters . Meanwhile, Swaggart had returned to the pulpit in May, at the end of the original three-month suspension; the AoG leadership responded by defrocking him for disobeying their two-year ban, and Swaggart countered by making his Family Worship Center and TV ministry non-denominational. The defiant move came at a heavy cost; he had already lost considerable following due to the scandal and was a national laughingstock (mocked by celebrities from Saturday Night Live to Ozzy Osbourne ), and the break from AoG sent him into a downward spiral. By the end of 1988 he had lost 80% of his viewership, and in September of 1991 a New Orleans jury found that Swaggart had defamed Gorman with false allegations of adultery, and ordered him to pay $10 million in damages. Still, the fallen icon was determined and charismatic, and soon after that verdict he preached to a standing-room only crowd in San Diego. But a week later he picked up Rosemary Garcia in Indio…and that’s where we came in. She said he asked her to guide him to a hotel with in-room porn, and as she later told reporters “He’s the same guy who cries on TV for all these people to feel sorry for him…to give him all their money. For what? So he can come give it to us. That’s pretty good.” There was no tearful apology from the repeatedly disgraced televangelist this time; instead, he stood before his congregation and issued the statement which forms today’s epigram. His quick-thinking son Donnie immediately announced that his father would be temporarily stepping down as head of the ministry for “a time of healing and counselling.” One might think that would be the end of the road for Swaggart, but as the adage tells us “you can fool some of the people all of the time.” In 1995 he founded the SonLife radio network, which according to Swaggart’s website “is heard nationwide on over 78 stations and around the world via the internet.” In 2009 he launched SonLife Broadcasting Network, “a Christian Television Network which airs nationally and internationally to a potential viewing audience of over 80 million.” And though he’s not the force he once was, there’s no doubt that he’s still a multi-millionaire with millions of adoring fans.

In 1960, Ormond Gigli was a freelance photographer working out of a studio on East 58th Street in Manhattan. Right across the road, at what's now 320 East 58th Street, stood an old Beaux Arts brownstone, empty and awaiting demolition. Gigli kept catching sight of it from his window, and the more he looked at it, the more one image stuck in his head: every window filled with a glamorous woman, right before the whole building came down. That image became Girls in the Windows, and more than sixty years on it's still one of the most talked-about photographs ever taken in New York. He found out the brownstone, along with the row of townhouses next to it, was booked for demolition, and he had no budget, no sponsor and no studio backing to make the idea happen. So he worked with what he had: he talked the demolition foreman into giving him two hours during the workers' lunch break, then called a modelling agency he'd worked with before and asked for volunteers. They'd bring their own dresses, sort their own hair and make-up, and get paid a dollar each for their trouble (around eleven dollars today). None of them were professional models drawing agency rates, the kind of work Audrey Munson, America's first supermodel, had pioneered decades earlier. They were simply willing to climb into a gutted building for a dollar and the fun of it. Gigli added two more women of his own choosing: his wife, Sue Ellen, and the demolition foreman's wife, invited along as thanks for the favour. The shoot itself was more logistical headache than glamorous production. The building had already been stripped of gas and electricity, and there were holes torn into the pavement out front. Gigli still found time to arrange a Rolls-Royce parked outside for a bit of contrast against all that decay, which meant getting the city to sign off on it too. New York was tearing down blocks like this all over the Upper East Side as its post-war building boom picked up speed, the same vanishing streetscape Todd Webb had been quietly documenting a few years earlier. Forty-one women climbed the old staircases and took their places across the windows, some framed neatly inside them, others standing out on the crumbling sills. Two more posed on the pavement below, next to the car. Forty-three women, all in one frame. Gigli shot the whole thing from the fire escape of his own studio, directing everyone through a bullhorn and telling them to "pose as if they were giving someone a kiss." He said afterwards he'd been more nervous about the women balanced out on the sills than anything else. The buildings came down for good the next day. A Photographer Who'd Already Shot Everyone Gigli hadn't stumbled into this by accident. He'd been building towards a career like this since he was a teenager. Born in New York in 1925, he got his first camera from his father, graduated from the School of Modern Photography in 1942, and spent the war years as a Navy photographer. Afterwards he knocked around Paris for a while, living the broke, bohemian expat life plenty of young photographers did in those years. His real break came in 1952, when a Life magazine editor hired him to shoot a run of celebrity portraits and sent him off to cover the Paris fashion shows. One of those images landed on a centre spread, and that was that: a fashion and portrait career that ran for decades and put him in front of Sophia Loren, Gina Lollobrigida, Marlene Dietrich, Judy Garland, John F. Kennedy and Richard Burton, among plenty of others. None of it, in the end, made him as famous as one unpaid lunch hour on his own street. Ormond Gigli – Demolition begins at what is now 320 East 58th Street, New York, 1960. The logistics of the shoot were not simple. Since the building had already been gutted, leaving behind a shell devoid of gas or electricity, Gigli had to work around structural obstacles like gaping holes in the sidewalk. Determined to make the image as iconic as possible, he even arranged for a Rolls Royce to be parked on the sidewalk in front of the building, adding a sense of elegance and contrast to the urban decay. The models were placed in the windows – some standing boldly on the window frames, others posing from within – while three more models were strategically positioned on the street level. From a fire escape attached to his studio, Gigli shot the image using a wide-angle lens. The result was a photograph that brought vibrancy and energy to a building on the brink of erasure. Even today, over 60 years later, the image retains its vitality and uniqueness, capturing a fleeting moment of beauty and creativity before the building disappeared forever. A Legacy Beyond Time The photograph, later titled Girls in the Windows, sat mostly unseen for over three decades. It wasn't until 1994 that Sue Ellen Gigli offered it to a gallery, and from there it took off in a way almost nothing else in fine art photography does. By 2023, more than 160 signed prints had sold at auction for a combined total of around $12 million. New York Times reporter David Segal wrote in a 2023 feature that it might be the single highest-grossing photograph ever produced, a genuinely strange thing to say about an image nobody paid to make in the first place. Part of that comes down to Gigli's own approach. Rather than limiting reproductions to keep the image scarce, the way most fine art photographers do, he signed prints in twelve different sizes. Even with all that supply on the market, around 100 prints were reportedly still unsold as of 2023, according to his son and estate manager, Ogden Gigli. The image has kept finding new admirers among people who make photographs for a living, too. In a 2016 piece for Artforum, the photographer Laurie Simmons named it one of her favourite fashion photographs of all time, more than half a century after it was taken. It's one of a small handful of single-shot photographs from that era that still gets talked about that way. Art Kane's Great Day in Harlem, shot just two years earlier a few miles uptown, is one of the only others that comes close. Daydreams Realised For Gigli, Girls in the Windows was a fantasy made real, a decaying building turned briefly into a celebration of colour and nerve before it disappeared for good. This is how he told the story himself, in an interview with Time magazine: In 1960, while a construction crew dismantled a row of brownstones right across from my own brownstone studio on East 58th Street, I was inspired to, somehow, immortalise those buildings. I had the vision of 43 women in formal dress adorning the windows of the skeletal facade. We had to work quickly to secure City permissions, arrange for models which included celebrities, the demolition supervisor's wife (third floor, third from left), my own wife (second floor, far right), and also secure the Rolls-Royce to be parked on the sidewalk. Careful planning was a necessity as the photography had to be accomplished during the workers' lunch time! The day before the buildings were razed, the 43 women appeared in their finest attire, went into the buildings, climbed the old stairs, and took their places in the windows. I was set up on my fire escape across the street, directing the scene, with a bullhorn in hand. Of course, I was concerned for the models' safety, as some were daring enough to pose out on the crumbling sills. The photography came off as planned. What had seemed to some as too dangerous or difficult to accomplish became my fantasy fulfilled, and my most memorable self-assigned photograph. It has been an international award winner ever since. Most professional photographers dream of having one signature picture they are known for. “Girls in the Windows” is mine. Gigli kept working right up until his final years. He died in December 2019, at 94, at his home in West Stockbridge, Massachusetts, surrounded by family. More than sixty years on, though, it's still that one frame everyone remembers: a dying building on East 58th Street, briefly and deliberately brought back to life. Quick Questions About Girls in the Windows Where was Girls in the Windows taken? At what's now 320 East 58th Street on Manhattan's Upper East Side, a row of brownstones that were demolished the day after the shoot. How many women are in the photograph? Forty-three. Forty-one appear in the windows themselves, and two more pose on the pavement beside the Rolls-Royce. How much is a signed print of Girls in the Windows worth? More than 160 signed prints have sold at auction since 1994, for a combined total of around $12 million, making it one of the highest-grossing photographs ever sold. Who was Ormond Gigli? A New York-born fashion and portrait photographer who worked from the early 1950s until his death in 2019, shooting everyone from Sophia Loren to John F. Kennedy. Girls in the Windows remains his best-known image. Sources "Girls in the Windows": The Real Story Behind an Iconic New York Photo – Time magazine, 2013 Is This the World's Highest-Grossing Photograph? – The New York Times, 2023 Laurie Simmons – Artforum, 2016 Ormond Gigli, 94, of West Stockbridge, photographer of 20th-century icons – The Berkshire Edge, 2019

Barbara Daly Baekeland’s life seemed like something out of a glamorous movie in the 1940s. She had it all: stunning beauty, a prominent marriage, and a place among New York’s elite. Married to Brooks Baekeland, the grandson of Leo Baekeland (who invented Bakelite, the first fully synthetic plastic) Barbara was a socialite who graced the pages of Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar. But behind the glamorous façade, Barbara’s life was deeply troubled, marred by mental illness, dysfunctional relationships, and ultimately, tragedy. Leo Baekeland, the Belgian chemist who had emigrated to the United States in 1889, invented Bakelite in 1907. It was the world's first fully synthetic plastic, a hard, heat-resistant material that could be moulded into almost any shape and didn't conduct electricity, making it ideal for everything from electrical insulators to telephones, radios, and jewellery. By the time Barbara married into the family in 1942, the Baekeland name was synonymous with one of the defining materials of the 20th century. The fortune it generated was substantial, and the expectation of ease and entitlement that came with it was, as this story makes clear, anything but straightforward to live inside. A Promising Start Barbara was born in 1922 into a life of wealth, though it didn’t come without hardship. When she was just 10, her father, Frank Daly, committed suicide in 1932. He made it look like an accident so his family could claim the insurance money, which would keep them financially stable through the tough times of the Great Depression. This early exposure to loss and deception left a mark on Barbara. Her mother, Nini Daly, had already been through a mental breakdown years before Barbara was born, and it seemed that mental illness ran in the family. This dark history would follow Barbara throughout her life. Despite the turmoil in her family, Barbara was a star in New York society. Known for her striking beauty, she became one of the most admired socialites in the city. She found her way into the fashion world, modelling for top magazines and earning a reputation as one of New York’s most beautiful women. The Marriage to Brooks Baekeland In 1942, Barbara married Brooks Baekeland, a wealthy, handsome, and charming man from one of the most prominent families in America. His grandfather, Leo Baekeland, had made a fortune from Bakelite, revolutionising the plastics industry. Barbara, with her beauty and Brooks with his family's wealth, seemed like the perfect couple. But their marriage was built on shaky ground from the start. Barbara had tricked Brooks into marrying her by claiming she was pregnant when she wasn't. The deception worked, but it established a dynamic of manipulation and dishonesty that ran through the marriage from the beginning. Once they were married, the cracks started to show almost immediately. In 1946, they had a son, Antony "Tony" Baekeland. From the beginning, Tony was the centre of Barbara's world. She doted on him obsessively, and the Baekelands portrayed Tony as a brilliant, charming child. But Tony's relationship with his parents, particularly with his mother, would become more complicated and troubling over time. Barbara and Brooks A Family in Crisis The Baekeland family may have looked glamorous from the outside, but inside, things were far from perfect. The family lived a peripatetic jet-set life, moving between New York, Paris, Spain, and London, surrounded by artists, writers, and socialites. Tony grew up in this world of wealth and instability, increasingly struggling with his identity and mental health. When Tony came out as gay, it collided violently with what Barbara wanted for him. Her response was not acceptance but a determined, increasingly desperate attempt to change him. She hired prostitutes to sleep with him, hoping to alter his sexual orientation. When that didn't work, she reportedly went further, suggesting at various points that she could 'cure' him herself. Her psychiatrist and close friends had warned Barbara repeatedly that Tony's behaviour was becoming dangerous and that she should distance herself from him. She refused. The co-dependent dynamic between them only deepened. Meanwhile, Barbara's marriage to Brooks was disintegrating. Brooks had an affair with one of Tony's female friends, which was the final blow to an already fractured relationship. By the mid-1960s, the couple divorced, and Brooks moved on, eventually fathering another child with a new wife, Sylvie. Barbara and Tony were left to fend for themselves. Barbara's Obsession and the Move to London After the divorce, Barbara and Tony moved to London, where their already fraught relationship spiralled into something toxic and unhealthy. Barbara's fixation on her son's sexuality deepened, and her mental health continued to decline. She even went so far as to suggest that she could 'cure' Tony by sleeping with him herself, a disturbing and shocking reflection of her emotional instability. This unhealthy dynamic took a severe toll on Tony, who began to unravel under the pressure. The co-dependent relationship between mother and son became increasingly volatile, and Tony's behaviour became more erratic. In the years before the murder, he had attacked her on at least one previous occasion, threatened her with knives, and tried to push her in front of cars. Barbara's psychiatrist told her directly that Tony intended to kill her. She stayed. The Murder By 1972, things had reached a breaking point. On November 17, 1972, in their Chelsea penthouse at Cadogan Square, Tony stabbed Barbara to death with a kitchen knife. She was 50 years old. When the police arrived, Tony was found apparently calm, in the middle of ordering Chinese food, seemingly detached from the reality of what had just happened. He later told police he had killed her to save her from descending into madness. Tony was arrested and charged with murder. At the Old Bailey in June 1973, he pleaded diminished responsibility on the grounds of diagnosed schizophrenia. The jury returned a verdict of manslaughter, and Tony was committed indefinitely to Broadmoor Hospital, a high-security psychiatric facility in Berkshire. By some accounts he seemed content there, working in the handicrafts shop and welcoming visitors. His grandmother Nini Daly visited regularly. A note in his hospital file, quoted in Natalie Robins and Steven M.L. Aronson's 1985 book Savage Grace, read: "She seems less disturbed by her daughter's death than by the fact that her dear little Tony is in trouble. She seems just as mad as the rest of the family." The Release and the Attack on Nini Tony's release from Broadmoor came in July 1980, following a campaign led by a group of supporters including the Honourable Hugo Money-Coutts, whose family controlled London's exclusive Coutts Bank, and whose influence reached as far as the US Secretary of State. Brooks Baekeland opposed the release. He had received threatening letters from Tony during his time in Broadmoor, some of which threatened to murder his new wife. Tony had also used his time in the handicrafts workshop to make a series of toys for Brooks's new baby, which were described as so grotesque and macabre that Brooks had to throw them away immediately. Tony was released on condition that he be repatriated to the United States. He went to live in New York with his 87-year-old grandmother, Nini Daly. Six days later, on July 27, 1980, he attacked her with a knife, just as he had attacked his mother. She survived. Tony was sent to Rikers Island to await trial for attempted murder. He never stood trial. On July 27, 1981, the day of his scheduled court appearance, he was found dead in his prison cell. He had suffocated himself with a plastic bag. He was 36 years old. His father Brooks later wrote a bitter epitaph: "an enormous failure of intelligence." Savage Grace: The Book and the Film The definitive account of the Baekeland story came in 1985 with Savage Grace, a book by Natalie Robins and Steven M.L. Aronson. Constructed almost entirely from oral histories, letters, and interviews, it documented the family's disintegration across four decades with meticulous, sometimes harrowing detail. In 2007, it was adapted into a film directed by Tom Kalin, with Julianne Moore as Barbara and Eddie Redmayne as Tony. The film premiered at Cannes, was shown at Sundance and the London Film Festival, and received mixed reviews for its unflinching portrayal of incest, mental illness, and privilege. Karl Lagerfeld designed one of Barbara's gowns specifically for the film after hearing Julianne Moore was starring. Samuel Adams Green, one of the Baekelands' real-life friends portrayed in the film, later wrote publicly that several elements were factually inaccurate, including a key scene that the filmmakers had used to dramatise the nature of Barbara and Tony's relationship. The book, by contrast, remains the authoritative record. A Legacy of Dysfunction The story of Barbara Daly Baekeland and her son Tony is a haunting reminder of how wealth and privilege cannot protect against deep-seated mental illness and family dysfunction. Barbara, once a stunning socialite who had the world at her feet, became a figure trapped by her own obsessions. Her refusal to heed repeated warnings about Tony's violence, and her inability to create any kind of distance between herself and her son, made the outcome almost inevitable. Brooks Baekeland, who outlived both of them, never publicly expressed anything resembling guilt. He had, after all, left long before the end. Sources: 1. Robins, Natalie and Aronson, Steven M.L. Savage Grace. Morrow, 1985. 2. History.com: A Wealthy Heiress Is Murdered by Her Son. https://www.history.com/this-day-in-history/november-17/a-wealthy-heiress-is-murdered-by-her-son 3. Crime+Investigation UK: Death of a Socialite. https://www.crimeandinvestigation.co.uk/article/death-of-a-socialite-the-barbara-baekeland-case 4. Los Angeles Times: Robins: From Poems to Tale of Murder, August 18, 1985. https://www.latimes.com/archives/la-xpm-1985-08-18-vw-1739-story.html 5. Wikipedia: Savage Grace (film). https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Savage_Grace 6. The Washington Post: The Fall of the House of Baekeland, September 14, 1985. https://www.washingtonpost.com/archive/entertainment/books/1985/09/15/the-fall-of-the-house-of-baekeland/41da760f-dba9-4ac8-bf81-c2469642d657/

Between 1978 and 1981, photographer Jill Freedman immersed herself in the daily operations of the New York Police Department (NYPD), capturing an intimate and unvarnished view of law enforcement in one of the city’s most turbulent periods. Freedman’s work during this time resulted in a striking collection of images, offering a rare window into the lives of officers and their interactions with the city’s streets, from routine patrols to moments of intense crisis. Her project wasn’t just an objective recording of law enforcement activity but a deeply human portrayal of the tension, camaraderie, and complexity that characterised policing in New York during the late 1970s and early 1980s. A City in Turmoil The New York City of this era was a place of extremes. It had faced a series of financial crises, urban decay, and rising crime rates. The infamous blackout of 1977 had just passed, leaving the city in a state of recovery, but crime and corruption were pervasive. The streets were far from safe, with violent crime, drugs, and organised crime reaching their peak during this time. The NYPD, already grappling with its own internal challenges, including accusations of corruption, was tasked with maintaining order in a city that seemed to be unravelling at its seams. This chaotic environment was fertile ground for a photographer like Freedman, who sought to document human experiences in their rawest form. Before turning her lens on the NYPD, Freedman had gained recognition for her work covering the lives of circus performers and documenting the aftermath of Martin Luther King Jr.‘s assassination. Her unflinching approach to capturing gritty, unvarnished realities made her well-suited to a project that required getting close to the NYPD’s inner workings. Gaining Access Freedman’s approach was notable for the access she was able to secure. She was allowed to ride along with NYPD officers, which gave her an up-close view of their work and personal interactions. Unlike many photojournalists, she wasn’t just a detached observer; she became embedded with the officers, spending long hours with them on patrol, responding to emergency calls, and witnessing arrests, crime scenes, and moments of vulnerability. Freedman was interested in portraying the human side of policing, capturing the mundane alongside the dramatic. The officers came to trust her, allowing her access to moments that few outsiders ever see. Her presence was reportedly welcomed by many within the force, although she always maintained her independent perspective, offering a portrayal that was neither an indictment nor a celebration of police work. Instead, her images straddled the line between gritty realism and empathetic observation. Capturing the Gritty Reality Freedman’s photographs are stark and often confrontational, but they are also intimate. She captured moments of tension and confrontation as officers dealt with crime, but she also depicted quieter, more personal moments — officers resting between shifts, sharing a laugh, or reflecting after a particularly tough day. Her work highlighted the immense stress and challenges faced by the police, but also the camaraderie that formed among them, often in the face of danger. Her images document an NYPD that was, at the time, still struggling to rebuild its reputation after years of scandal and corruption. These were years when officers walked a fine line between being perceived as heroes maintaining order in a difficult environment and agents of a system that, for many New Yorkers, was part of the city’s problems. Freedman’s photographs offer a glimpse into this duality, portraying the officers as individuals who were deeply aware of their place in a city that both needed and, at times, resented them. Her ability to capture raw emotion is one of the defining features of the project. In some images, we see officers confronting suspects or overseeing a crime scene with stoic detachment, while in others, there is a clear sense of fatigue or frustration on their faces. Freedman also captured moments of human connection between officers and civilians — moments that weren’t often highlighted in the media. Her work was as much a study of human resilience as it was a record of the work done by the police force. The Result: Street Cops and Firehouse The culmination of Freedman’s work with the NYPD was published in 1981 under the title Street Cops . This collection of photographs, accompanied by Freedman’s narrative, provides a visceral account of what it meant to be a police officer in New York during one of the city’s most dangerous periods. The book is often noted for its authenticity — there is nothing glamorised about the work she portrays. Instead, readers are faced with the gritty reality of what it means to serve on the front lines of law enforcement in a large, chaotic city. Freedman’s work with the NYPD is frequently compared to her earlier project, Firehouse  (1977), where she followed the firefighters of New York, documenting their lives in a similar fashion. Both bodies of work share common themes of camaraderie, danger, and the emotional toll of working in high-stress, high-stakes environments. However, Street Cops  stands apart for its direct engagement with the issue of policing in a period when public trust in law enforcement was at a low. Lasting Impact Freedman’s time with the NYPD remains a significant contribution to the world of documentary photography. Her photographs offer a candid, often brutal portrayal of law enforcement in a time when the city was in crisis. They provide insight into the human cost of both crime and policing — not only on the citizens but on the officers themselves. Her work remains relevant today, not only as a historical record but as part of the ongoing conversation about the role of police in society. Freedman’s images challenge viewers to see beyond the uniform, offering a nuanced view of the individuals tasked with enforcing the law in an incredibly challenging environment. They ask important questions about the nature of policing and the impact it has on both those who serve and those they are meant to protect. In the years following her work with the NYPD, Freedman continued to be celebrated for her fearless approach to photojournalism, always focusing on the gritty, often overlooked aspects of human life. Her work during this period is a testament to her skill as a photographer and her commitment to documenting the world without flinching from its harsh realities. Street Cops is available now via Setanta All images ©  Jill Freedman

In the small, quiet town of Central Point, Virginia, no one could have guessed that a humble couple would spark one of the most significant legal battles in American history. But that’s exactly what happened when Mildred Delores Jeter and Richard Loving defied Virginia’s ban on interracial marriage in the 1950s, setting the stage for the landmark U.S. Supreme Court case of Loving v. Virginia . Their story, continues to resonate today, and it all began in the most unassuming way. Mildred was born on July 22, 1939, in a community where people of different ethnic backgrounds lived alongside each other. Her heritage was a mix of African American, European, and Native American ancestry. With her tall, slender frame, she earned the nickname ‘String Bean’ from her classmates, though she was a shy and gentle soul. Attending an all-Black school, she wasn’t expecting to fall in love with someone like Richard Loving, a white high school student from the same town. Initially, Mildred found Richard to be somewhat arrogant — a bit of a “know-it-all,” she’d later recall with a smile. Yet, as fate would have it, they became inseparable. Their relationship blossomed, and when Mildred found out she was pregnant at 18, the couple decided it was time to make their union official. There was only one problem: Virginia’s Racial Integrity Act prohibited interracial marriages. Undeterred, they drove to Washington, D.C., where such laws didn’t exist. After saying their vows, they returned home to Virginia, eager to start their life as husband and wife. But their happiness was short-lived. In the early hours of July 11, 1958, sheriff's deputies burst into their home, acting on an anonymous tip. The officers found the couple asleep in their bed and arrested them, despite the Lovings pointing to their marriage certificate hanging proudly on the wall. It didn’t matter — the state of Virginia saw their marriage as illegal, and they were charged with "cohabiting as man and wife, against the peace and dignity of the Commonwealth." They were sentenced to one year in prison, suspended for 25 years on the condition that they leave the state and never return. Reluctantly, the Lovings moved to Washington, D.C., but it was never home for them. Their family, friends, and entire lives were back in Virginia, and the separation from their roots weighed heavily on them. Despite the risks, the couple made secret visits to Virginia and, after several years, even moved back. They lived in fear of being discovered, but by 1963, they had had enough. The Civil Rights Movement was gaining momentum, and Mildred, inspired by the hope of change, wrote a letter to Attorney General Robert Kennedy, asking for help. Kennedy, in turn, advised her to reach out to the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU), and so began their legal fight. The case of Loving v. Virginia  moved slowly through the courts, with each defeat only strengthening the Lovings' resolve. Lawyers Bernard S. Cohen and Philip J. Hirschkop eventually took their case to the U.S. Supreme Court, where it was argued on April 10, 1967. Virginia’s defence, rooted in the belief that interracial marriage would lead to societal problems, was starkly contrasted by the Lovings' simple plea. The case boiled down to one fundamental issue: the right to love freely and equally, regardless of race. Richard Loving, never one for legal jargon or lengthy speeches, told his lawyers to "Tell the court I love my wife, and it is just unfair that I can’t live with her in Virginia.” That heartfelt statement, along with the legal argument that Virginia’s ban violated the Equal Protection Clause of the Fourteenth Amendment, won the day. On June 12, 1967, the Supreme Court struck down Virginia’s law in a unanimous decision. Chief Justice Earl Warren wrote that the law was “directly subversive of the principle of equality at the heart of the Fourteenth Amendment” and deprived citizens of their liberty “without due process of law.” For the Lovings, it meant they could finally live openly, without fear, in their home state. While the world celebrated the ruling, Mildred and Richard returned to the life they had always wanted — a simple, quiet life together. Mildred was never one for the spotlight, preferring to keep her privacy intact, but she continued to support marriage equality in the years that followed. She later reflected on the case, saying, “What happened, we really didn’t intend for it to happen. What we wanted, we wanted to come home.” The Lovings' story ended in tragedy when Richard was killed in a car accident on June 29, 1975, when his car was hit by a drunk driver who ran a stop sign. Mildred, who was also in the car, lost sight in her right eye. An unofficial holiday honouring the Lovings’ triumph and multiculturalism, called Loving Day, is celebrated on June 12th, when the prohibition against mixed-race marriages was lifted from every state constitution. Although Mildred rarely gave interviews following the conclusion of her historic case, she told a reporter in 1992 that she never expected to become such a notable public figure. “What happened,” she said, “we really didn’t intend for it to happen. What we wanted, we wanted to come home.” Still, she went on to become a staunch supporter of marriage equality in all forms and her case eventually even helped to pave the way for the legalisation of marriage equality for LGBTQ individuals. On June 12, 2007, Mildred issued a statement on the 40th anniversary of the Loving v. Virginia Supreme Court decision She concluded: My generation was bitterly divided over something that should have been so clear and right. The majority believed that what the judge said, that it was God's plan to keep people apart, and that government should discriminate against people in love. But I have lived long enough now to see big changes. The older generation's fears and prejudices have given way, and today's young people realize that if someone loves someone they have a right to marry. Surrounded as I am now by wonderful children and grandchildren, not a day goes by that I don't think of Richard and our love, our right to marry, and how much it meant to me to have that freedom to marry the person precious to me, even if others thought he was the "wrong kind of person" for me to marry. I believe all Americans, no matter their race, no matter their sex, no matter their sexual orientation, should have that same freedom to marry. Government has no business imposing some people's religious beliefs over others. Especially if it denies people's civil rights. I am still not a political person, but I am proud that Richard's and my name is on a court case that can help reinforce the love, the commitment, the fairness, and the family that so many people, black or white, young or old, gay or straight seek in life. I support the freedom to marry for all. That's what Loving , and loving, are all about. Mildred died of pneumonia on May 2, 2008, in Milford, Virginia, at age 68. Her daughter, Peggy Loving Fortune, said, "I want [people] to remember her as being strong and brave, yet humble—and believ[ing] in love."

Speakers' Corner, nestled in the northeast corner of London's Hyde Park, is one of the most iconic sites for free speech in the world. This small section of the park has been the stage for countless orators—professional and amateur—who have voiced their opinions on every conceivable subject. From political activism to social reform, religious debates to personal grievances, Speakers' Corner has seen it all. But its history is as layered and complex as the speeches that have echoed through it for centuries. The Origins: A Grim Beginning Speakers' Corner's history can be traced back to its association with the infamous Tyburn Gallows, which stood near this location until the late 18th century. As early as 1108, Tyburn was the site of public executions, where criminals were hanged in front of enormous crowds. Hanging days became a public spectacle, often regarded as a holiday by the masses. These grim events were attended by enthusiastic onlookers who saw the executions as a form of entertainment. The most notorious of these was the execution of Jack Sheppard, a 22-year-old highwayman, in 1724. Born into a poor family, he was apprenticed as a carpenter but began committing theft and burglary in 1723, with little more than a year of his training to complete. He was arrested and imprisoned five times in 1724 but escaped four times from prison, making him notorious, though popular with the poorer classes. Sheppard was as renowned for his attempts to escape from prison as he was for his crimes. An autobiographical "Narrative", thought to have been ghostwritten by Daniel Defoe, was sold at his execution, quickly followed by popular plays. The hanging reportedly attracted a staggering crowd of 200,000 people, demonstrating the public's appetite for such macabre events. Before their execution, condemned individuals were often allowed to address the crowd, and many used the opportunity to speak out against the state, the church, or plead their innocence. In a strange way, this practice planted the seeds for what would later become a space for public oration and protest. To accommodate the increasing demand for public hangings, a triangular gallows—known as the "Tyburn Tree"—was erected in 1571. This large structure could hang 24 people at once, making the executions even more of a spectacle. These public events, with their opportunities for final speeches, established Hyde Park as a place where voices could be heard, albeit under dire circumstances. The Birth of Public Oration By the mid-19th century, Speakers' Corner began to take on a new form, one more closely resembling the tradition we know today. On October 14, 1855, a carpenter mounted his soapbox to complain about the soaring food prices, making him the first recorded amateur orator at what would become Speakers' Corner. This marked the start of an era where individuals could express their views freely and openly in public. The right to assemble and speak in public, however, was not always granted so easily. In the early 19th century, Hyde Park became a battleground for political rights. The Chartists, who campaigned for the rights of working people, including the right to vote, frequently held mass protests in the park. Simultaneously, the Reform League, which fought for the right to vote for all adult males, also used Hyde Park as a meeting place. Their efforts culminated in the 1866 Hyde Park riots, which pressured the government to grant formal rights to public assembly and speech. In 1872, the Parks Regulation Act was passed, which officially recognised the right of people to gather and speak freely in designated areas of Hyde Park, thus giving birth to the modern Speakers' Corner. This legal recognition made the space a bastion of free speech, where anyone could voice their thoughts, no matter how radical or controversial. The Suffragettes and the Fight for Women's Rights One of the most significant moments in Speakers' Corner’s history came with the rise of the suffragette movement. From 1906 to 1914, the suffragettes, led by the Women’s Social and Political Union (WSPU), used Hyde Park as a platform to campaign for women's right to vote. Weekly meetings near the Reformers' Tree attracted large crowds, culminating in a massive demonstration on 21 June 1908, when 250,000 women marched to the park to hear speeches from 20 different platforms. Despite being banned by the police in 1913, the suffragettes continued their defiant gatherings, reinforcing the importance of Speakers' Corner as a symbol of resistance and activism. Their persistence paid off when, after years of struggle, women in Britain gained the right to vote in 1918. Orwell’s “Minor Wonder” By the 1930s, Speakers' Corner had become a hub of political debate, attracting all manner of orators, from dedicated reformers to eccentric figures. In his essay on the subject, George Orwell called Speakers' Corner “one of the minor wonders of the world,” marvelling at the diversity of voices to be heard there. He recalled listening to "Indian nationalists, temperance reformers, Communists, Trotskyists, the Socialist Party of Great Britain, the Catholic Evidence Society, freethinkers, vegetarians, Mormons, the Salvation Army, the Church Army, and a large variety of plain lunatics." Orwell’s observations highlight the sheer breadth of topics and ideologies that have found a home at Speakers' Corner. Lenin was also a fan of spending time there, In Memories of Lenin – written by his wife Nadya Krupskaya – she relates how the Lenin was fascinated by London. “We started going to all kinds of meetings,” she relates. “We stood in the front row and carefully studied the orator’s mouth. “We went fairly often to Hyde Park, where speakers harangued the passing crowds on diverse themes. An atheist, standing among a group of curious listeners, proved there was no God.” She adds: “We were particularly keen on listening to one speaker of this kind. He spoke with an Irish accent, which was easier for us to understand. Nearby a Salvation Army officer uttered hysterical shouts in appeal to God Almighty, while a little farther on a shop-assistant was holding forth on the hours of servitude of assistants in the big stores…We learnt a great deal by listening to spoken English.” Speakers' Corner in Modern Times Speakers' Corner continued to be a focal point for public discourse throughout the 20th and 21st centuries. One of the largest gatherings occurred in February 2003, when between 750,000 and two million people rallied at Speakers' Corner to protest against the UK’s involvement in the Iraq War. Notable figures such as actress Vanessa Redgrave, human rights campaigner Bianca Jagger, and playwright Harold Pinter addressed the crowds, marking the event as one of the largest demonstrations in British history. This wasn’t the first time Speakers' Corner had been used to protest war. In 1859, there were demonstrations about the Franco-Austrian War, and since the 1872 Parks Regulation Act, the space has been used to voice opposition to conflicts ranging from the First World War to the Vietnam War. The Last of Its Kind By the mid-20th century, "soapbox" oratory had spread to street corners, marketplaces, and parks across Britain. At its height, there were over 100 speaking spots in London alone, but by the 1930s, Speakers' Corner in Hyde Park remained the last survivor. Today, it stands as a testament to the enduring power of free speech and public assembly. Though it has seen some rough moments—hecklers, harsh criticisms, and the occasional bout of violence—Speakers' Corner remains a vibrant symbol of the democratic right to speak and be heard. It is a place where anyone, regardless of background or status, can take to their soapbox and share their views, continuing a tradition that began centuries ago, amidst the gallows of Tyburn and the cries of the condemned.

Roy Cohn is a name that has become synonymous with ruthlessness, manipulation, and ethical indifference. Over the course of his career, Cohn left an indelible mark on American political, legal, and business landscapes, often in the most controversial and malign ways. From his early dealings with Senator Joseph McCarthy during the notorious anti-communist “witch hunts” of the 1950s to his later role as a mentor to Donald Trump, Cohn’s life is a study in the relentless pursuit of power and influence, regardless of the human cost. Early Life and Ambition Born in 1927 to a wealthy Jewish family in the Bronx, New York, Roy Marcus Cohn was groomed for a career in law and politics from an early age. His father, Albert Cohn, was a respected judge, and Roy’s upbringing was one of privilege and high expectations. Brilliant and determined, he graduated from Columbia Law School at the young age of 20 and quickly made a name for himself as a formidable attorney. However, it was not intellectual brilliance that defined his career, but rather an ambition unmoored from ethical considerations. Julius and Ethel Rosenberg Cohn’s early career in the Department of Justice was marked by his involvement in the espionage trial of Julius and Ethel Rosenberg. In what became one of the most infamous trials of the Cold War, the Rosenbergs were convicted of passing atomic secrets to the Soviet Union and were executed in 1953. Cohn played a key role in securing the death penalty for both Julius and Ethel, boasting later that he had pressured the judge to deliver the harshest possible sentence. This victory, achieved at the cost of dubious legal tactics, catapulted Cohn into the national spotlight and positioned him as a trusted advisor to one of the era’s most dangerous demagogues: Senator Joseph McCarthy. The McCarthy Era: A Partnership in Paranoia The 1950s in the United States were marked by an intense fear of communism, and no figure exploited this fear more aggressively than Joseph McCarthy. The Republican senator from Wisconsin, with Roy Cohn at his side, spearheaded what came to be known as the Red Scare—a campaign of aggressive investigations and accusations aimed at rooting out alleged communists from government, entertainment, academia, and beyond. Cohn became McCarthy’s chief counsel in the Senate Permanent Subcommittee on Investigations, and together they conducted a series of high-profile hearings that destroyed countless lives. Cohn’s methods during the McCarthy hearings were notoriously underhanded. He was known for his aggressive interrogation style, often relying on innuendo and guilt by association rather than hard evidence. Accusations of communism were used to ruin careers, particularly in Hollywood and government, where individuals were blacklisted and ostracised based on nothing more than rumour or personal vendettas. Among the most infamous targets of Cohn and McCarthy’s attacks were State Department officials and military personnel, many of whom were unjustly accused of disloyalty. Roy Cohn shakes hands with infamous Sen. Joseph McCarthy One of the most controversial incidents of Cohn’s career during this time was his involvement in the Army-McCarthy hearings of 1954. Cohn, who had developed an inappropriate relationship with his aide, G. David Schine, pressured the Army to grant Schine special treatment after he was drafted. When the Army refused, McCarthy and Cohn turned their investigative efforts against the institution, accusing it of harbouring communist sympathisers. The hearings became a public spectacle and, ultimately, McCarthy’s overreach led to his political downfall. However, Cohn, though publicly disgraced, managed to avoid the worst consequences, continuing to operate within the shadows of American power. Legal Career and Corruption Following the collapse of McCarthyism, Cohn returned to private legal practice in New York City, where he cultivated a reputation as a “fixer” for the rich and powerful. He became infamous for representing organised crime figures, corporate tycoons, and anyone else willing to pay for his services, which often included unethical or illegal tactics. Cohn prided himself on his ability to manipulate the legal system to achieve his clients’ aims, no matter how dubious those aims might be. Throughout the 1960s and 1970s, Cohn amassed a fortune and wielded immense influence. His ability to operate within the murkier realms of law and business attracted the attention of powerful figures, including New York real estate developers Fred and Donald Trump. Cohn’s relationship with the Trump family would come to define the latter part of his career, shaping not only his personal fortunes but also those of the man who would later become president. The Trump Connection: Mentor to a Future President In the mid-1970s, Fred Trump, the patriarch of the Trump real estate empire, and his son Donald were embroiled in a lawsuit brought by the U.S. Department of Justice, accusing them of discriminatory practices in their housing developments. Specifically, the Trumps were accused of refusing to rent apartments to Black tenants, a violation of the Fair Housing Act. It was at this moment that Roy Cohn entered their lives. Roy with Fred Trump's son, Don. Cohn, with his history of aggressive legal tactics and disdain for traditional ethical boundaries, advised the Trumps to counter-sue the federal government for $100 million, accusing it of defamation. This audacious move, though ultimately unsuccessful, exemplified the kind of combative, take-no-prisoners approach that Cohn instilled in Donald Trump. Cohn’s legal strategy in the case was not about winning in the courtroom—it was about creating a spectacle, muddying the waters, and overwhelming the opposition with bluster and threats. This approach became a hallmark of Trump’s own business and political dealings in the decades to come. Cohn and Trump developed a close personal relationship, with Cohn becoming a mentor to the young real estate magnate. Cohn taught Trump how to use legal threats, media manipulation, and political connections to achieve his goals, regardless of legality or ethics. In return, Trump provided Cohn with access to the world of high-powered New York society. Together, they navigated a world of money, power, and influence, often at the expense of those who stood in their way. Dropped by His Own Protégé The friendship didn't survive Cohn's illness. Once word spread in 1984 that Cohn had AIDS, despite his insistence to almost everyone that he had liver cancer, Trump quietly moved his legal business to other lawyers and stopped returning Cohn's calls. According to Cohn's own secretary, Susan Bell, Trump "dropped him like a hot potato." In one of his final interviews, Cohn told a journalist that Trump "pisses ice water." Trump did attend Cohn's funeral in August 1986, but stood near the back and wasn't asked to speak. Decades later, as president, Trump would reportedly ask aides in moments of political pressure, "Where's my Roy Cohn?", the same man he'd stopped speaking to in the final year of his life. Later Life and Downfall As Cohn’s influence wained, so too did the accusations of unethical and illegal behaviour. In June 1986, he was disbarred by a New York court, and the specifics were damning even by his own standards. One of the charges involved a 1975 incident where Cohn entered the hospital room of a dying, unconscious client, Lewis Rosenstiel, forced a pen into his hand, and guided it across a document naming Cohn himself as an executor of the estate. The resulting signature was later ruled in court to be indecipherable and invalid. Cohn was disbarred five weeks before his own death. His fall from grace in the legal world was swift, though Cohn remained unrepentant, continuing to operate in business and politics until the very end. Roy partying in Studio 54 with one of its owners, Steve Rubell. Roy Cohn’s final years were marked by a tragic irony. Having been a vocal critic of homosexuals during the McCarthy era and an opponent of gay rights throughout his career, Cohn himself was a closeted homosexual. In 1986, he died of complications related to AIDS, though he denied the diagnosis publicly until his death. His refusal to acknowledge his illness, combined with his public stance against LGBTQ+ rights, underscored the contradictions and hypocrisies that had defined his life. Cohn was buried in Union Field Cemetery in Queens, New York. His tombstone describes him as a lawyer and a patriot. His AIDS Memorial Quilt panel is white with "Roy Cohn. Bully. Coward. Victim" in black letters, with "bully" in red and "coward" in yellow. The Character Who Outlived the Man Cohn's afterlife in American culture has arguably eclipsed his real one. He's a central character in Tony Kushner's Pulitzer Prize winning 1993 play Angels in America, a furious, closeted, dying version of himself who denies his own diagnosis to the end, later played by Al Pacino in the HBO adaptation. Matt Tyrnauer's 2019 documentary Where's My Roy Cohn? introduced him to another generation entirely, built around the same phrase Trump himself kept repeating in the White House. Most recently, Jeremy Strong earned an Oscar nomination playing Cohn opposite Sebastian Stan's Trump in 2024's The Apprentice, a film that dramatises exactly the mentorship described above, right down to Cohn's own three rules for winning: attack, attack, attack; admit nothing, deny everything; and never, under any circumstances, admit defeat. For a man who spent his career burying other people's secrets, Cohn's own turned out to be the hardest one to keep. Sources NPR, "President Trump Called For Roy Cohn, But Roy Cohn Was Gone" — https://www.npr.org/2018/01/07/576209428/president-trump-called-for-roy-cohn-but-roy-cohn-was-gone CNBC, "FBI Releases Files on President Trump's Late Lawyer, Roy Cohn" — https://www.cnbc.com/2019/09/27/fbi-releases-file-on-trumps-late-lawyer-roy-cohn.html Nicholas von Hoffman, Citizen Cohn: The Life and Times of Roy Cohn (Doubleday, 1988) — https://www.simonandschuster.com/books/Citizen-Cohn/Nicholas-von-Hoffman/9781648210273 TheBody.com, "'Where's My Roy Cohn?' Documentary Depicts Trump's Mentor, the Most Evil Gay Ever" — https://www.thebody.com/article/roy-cohn-documentary-shows-trumps-mentor-most-evil-gay-ever Deadline, review of The Apprentice at Cannes — https://deadline.com/2024/05/the-apprentice-review-trump-movie-sebastian-stan-jeremy-strong-1235924101/

In October 1975, a Great Dane called Rinka was shot dead on a dark stretch of road on Exmoor. Her owner, Norman Scott, survived only because the hitman's gun jammed. The man who had allegedly ordered the hit was Jeremy Thorpe, leader of the Liberal Party and one of the most charismatic politicians in Britain. It sounds like the plot of a bad thriller. It wasn't. The Thorpe affair is one of the most extraordinary political scandals in British history. It had everything: a secret homosexual relationship, letters written on House of Commons notepaper, a bungled assassination attempt, a corrupt financial trail, and a trial at the Old Bailey that the press called "the greatest show on Earth." And at the end of it, Thorpe walked free. The BBC dramatised the whole thing in 2018 as A Very English Scandal, written by Russell T. Davies and starring Hugh Grant as Thorpe and Ben Whishaw as Scott. It won three BAFTAs and introduced the story to a new generation. But the real thing was stranger, uglier, and considerably funnier than anything drama could quite capture. A Rising Star With Something to Hide Jeremy Thorpe was born in 1929 into a political family. Both his father and grandfather had been Conservative MPs, but Thorpe chose the Liberals and proved a natural. He won the North Devon seat in 1959 and was impossible to ignore: eloquent, charming, and almost unnervingly confident. In 1967, at just 37, he became the youngest leader of any major British party in a century. What very few people knew was that Thorpe had been hiding a dangerous secret for years. In the early 1960s he'd become involved with a troubled young man named Norman Josiffe, who later took the name Norman Scott. Scott had a difficult background: family breakdown, brushes with the law, a history of severe depression, and a suicide attempt before the two met. According to Scott, their relationship became sexual. Thorpe denied any such relationship, but he did take a persistent interest in Scott's welfare, arranging accommodation and employment while keeping his distance. Jan 19, 1967; 37 year old Jeremy Thorpe was yesterday elected leader of the Liberal Party The most absurd thread running through the whole affair is Scott's National Insurance card. Thorpe had apparently taken it, meaning Scott couldn't claim benefits or secure steady work. Scott never stopped demanding it back. At one point during his trial testimony, Scott insisted he wasn't trying to destroy Thorpe at all. He just wanted his National Insurance card sorted out. "National Insurance is my lifeblood!" he reportedly declared from the witness box. Keeping the Lid On For more than a decade, Thorpe managed to suppress the story. The British press of the 1960s was more compliant than it would later become, and Thorpe had allies willing to help. His close friend and fellow Liberal MP Peter Bessell was given the job of dealing with Scott directly. Bessell met with Scott, warned him that his threats could be construed as blackmail, and eventually began paying Scott a retainer of £5 a week to keep him quiet. Meanwhile Thorpe had been writing letters. One, penned on House of Commons notepaper and signed "Yours affectionately, Jeremy," contained the baffling line: "Bunnies can (and will) go to France." Scott carried these letters around in a suitcase. Thorpe's associates spent years trying to get hold of them.. Norman Scott Despite the cover-up, Scott kept making waves. He wrote to Thorpe's mother. He went to the police. He told journalists. Nothing stuck. The Liberal Party was enjoying a genuine surge in popularity in the early 1970s, winning over six million votes at the February 1974 general election. Just before that result came in, Thorpe had been in serious talks about forming a coalition with the Conservatives. He came very close to becoming Home Secretary. The man responsible for law enforcement across Britain nearly had an alleged murder plot on his hands. The Money Trail Alongside the cover-up of the affair itself, Thorpe was running a parallel financial operation that would later prove just as damaging. In the wake of the February 1974 election, he wrote to Sir Jack Hayward, a Bahamas-based millionaire businessman who had been a generous donor to the Liberal Party, asking for £50,000 to replenish party funds. Thorpe requested that £10,000 of this be sent not to the party's regular accounts but to a Channel Islands businessman named Nadir Dinshaw. Dinshaw was a blameless Parsi philanthropist with no idea what the money was really for. He passed it on to Thorpe's ally David Holmes as instructed. The same arrangement was used again after the October 1974 election. In total, £20,000 of Hayward's donations (equivalent to around £237,000 today) was secretly diverted away from the Liberal Party and towards Holmes. It was David Steel, the Liberal MP who would eventually succeed Thorpe as party leader, who found out about the Dinshaw payments through a personal connection. He confronted Thorpe and told him to resign. Thorpe refused. The money trail, combined with the Scott allegations, was what finally made his position untenable. The Plot to Kill Norman Scott By 1974, Thorpe and his inner circle had apparently had enough of Scott. According to testimony at the later trial, Thorpe had reportedly compared the situation to "shooting a sick dog" and suggested Scott needed to be "dealt with." One alleged plan involved shooting Scott in Cornwall and disposing of the body down a disused mine shaft. Poison was rejected as a method because, as Bessell later testified, "it would raise too many questions if he fell dead off a barstool." The scheme that actually moved forward involved Holmes hiring a middleman named John Deakin, who recruited a small-time criminal and airline pilot called Andrew Newton. Newton was paid to kill Scott. Andrew Newton in 1978. Police had thought he was dead - until he was found alive and well and living in a cul-de-sac in Surrey On 24 October 1975, Newton collected Scott from Combe Martin in north Devon, on the pretext of driving him to safety from a supposed assassin. Scott brought Rinka with him. Newton was afraid of dogs but couldn't say so. They drove to Porlock, where Newton left them at a hotel briefly, then collected them again after 8pm. On a deserted stretch of road on the moor above Porlock Hill, Newton stopped the car, feigning exhaustion. As Scott got out to take the wheel, Newton produced a gun and shot Rinka dead. He then pointed the weapon at Scott. It jammed. Scott ran. Newton drove off. A local AA patrolman, Ted Lethaby, found Scott weeping beside Rinka's body shortly afterwards. The story reached the West Somerset Free Press the following week under the headline: "The Great Dane Mystery: Dog-in-a-Fog Case Baffles Police." The Scandal Goes Public Scott's account of the shooting didn't get major national traction at first. But by 1976 the press was piecing things together, and Thorpe's position became untenable. In May 1976 he resigned as Liberal leader, still denying any wrongdoing. He retained his parliamentary seat and continued to deny everything. A police investigation eventually led to Thorpe and three others being charged in August 1978 with conspiracy to murder. Thorpe faced the additional charge of incitement to murder, making him the first sitting MP in British history to face a murder charge. The pre-trial committal hearing in Minehead that November was a circus, with the national media descending on the Somerset market town in force. Jeremy Thorpe and his wife leave the Old Bailey after he is found not guilty of conspiring to murder former male model Norman Scott with three other men. Thorpe, a Liberal politician, was previously involved in a scandal in which he was accused of having a homosexual relationship with Scott. The Trial of the Century The trial proper began at the Old Bailey on 8 May 1979, just five days after Thorpe had lost his North Devon seat in the general election, beaten by a Conservative by over 8,500 votes. In the build-up to election day, Private Eye's Auberon Waugh had stood as a candidate for the newly formed "Dog Lovers' Party." His campaign address ended: "Rinka is NOT forgotten. Rinka lives. Woof, woof. Vote Waugh to give all dogs the right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness." Thorpe obtained an injunction preventing distribution of Waugh's literature. Waugh received 79 votes. The prosecution depended on three main witnesses: Norman Scott, Peter Bessell, and Andrew Newton. None of them made it easy. Bessell's credibility was shredded by defence barrister George Carman, who revealed that Bessell had signed a contract with The Sunday Telegraph paying him £25,000 if Thorpe was acquitted, and £50,000 if he was convicted. The office of the Director of Public Prosecutions had, almost unbelievably, consented to this arrangement. Under cross-examination, Bessell admitted to being "a compulsive liar" with "a credibility problem." The Sunday Telegraph cancelled the contract mid-trial after watching him in the witness box. Scott's erratic courtroom manner didn't help the prosecution either. Newton, who might have provided the most damning evidence, was written off by the judge as a perjurer and a "chump, determined to milk the case as hard as he can." Thorpe did not testify. Neither did Holmes. Their defence rested on the argument that the prosecution's witnesses were simply too unreliable to convict on. Judge Cantley's Summing-Up The judge, Sir Joseph Cantley, delivered a summing-up that became notorious in its own right. He praised Thorpe's "distinguished public record" at length, then turned to the prosecution witnesses with language more suited to a pub argument than a court of law. Bessell was "a humbug." Newton was "a perjurer and a chump." As for Scott: "He is a fraud. He is a sponger. He is a whiner. He is a parasite. But of course he could still be telling the truth. It is a question of belief." Sir Joseph Cantley The bias was so naked that Peter Cook immediately recorded a spoken-word parody of the summing-up that became one of the most celebrated pieces of his career. Cantley's conclusion, that the mystery of the diverted £20,000 was irrelevant because "the fact that a man obtains money by deceit does not prove that the man was a member of a conspiracy," raised eyebrows in court. The jury was initially split 6-6. After 52 hours of deliberation, all four defendants were acquitted on 22 June 1979. Thorpe called the verdict "a complete vindication." Aftermath: Where Are They Now? Thorpe's wife Marion stood by him throughout and nursed him through a subsequent diagnosis of Parkinson's disease that effectively ended his public life. He published his memoirs in 1999, under the title In My Own Time. He did not address the Norman Scott affair. He died in 2014. Newton, the hitman, spent years assumed dead by police before being traced to a cul-de-sac in Dorking, Surrey, living under the name Hann Redwin. When Gwent Police interviewed him in 2018 after reopening the inquiry, they concluded he had no new information to offer. Norman Scott is still alive. Now in his eighties, he has continued to speak publicly about the affair over the decades, maintaining his account has never changed. When the BBC dramatisation aired in 2018, he had mixed feelings. He told The Irish News he felt he was being portrayed as "this poor, mincing, little gay person," adding: "I also come across as a weakling and I've never been a weakling." He has also said he cried watching parts of it. Whatever one makes of his account, Scott spent years being dismissed, humiliated, and legally character-assassinated by an establishment that closed ranks around one of its own. The verdict in 1979 settled the legal question. It didn't settle the historical one. Is A Very English Scandal a True Story? Yes, broadly. The 2018 BBC series written by Russell T. Davies and directed by Stephen Frears is based on John Preston's 2016 book of the same name, which draws on court records, interviews, and contemporaneous reporting. Hugh Grant plays Thorpe and Ben Whishaw plays Scott. The major events, the relationship, the murder plot, the Rinka shooting, the trial, and the acquittal, are all factually grounded. Some scenes and dialogue are necessarily dramatised for television, but the essential shape of the story is accurate. Preston's book, and the series, are probably the most complete and accessible account of the affair available. For more political scandal, corruption, and crimes of the British aristocracy, see our piece on the disappearance of Lord Lucan. And for another case of establishment power and murky legal proceedings, read about Lord Bob Boothby, his friendship with Ronnie Kray, and a lifetime of scandal. Sources 1. Thorpe affair, Wikipedia 2. Jeremy Thorpe, Wikipedia 3. Norman Josiffe, Wikipedia 4. Peter Bessell, Wikipedia 5. Nadir Dinshaw, Wikipedia 6. Preston, John. A Very English Scandal. Viking, 2016. 7. Porlock and the Scandal of Jeremy Thorpe, Dovery Manor Museum 8. Norman Scott speaks to PinkNews, 2023 9. The Unbelievable True Story Behind A Very English Scandal, Mental Floss

In the mountainous terrain of southwest China’s Guizhou Province, an ancient and curious tradition endures. Hundreds of wooden coffins, stacked high in dank, dimly lit caves, are left to decay naturally over time. The practice, long observed by families in the Anshun region, reflects a belief that the spirits of the deceased will be guided towards heaven, their earthly remains gradually breaking down in the caves while their souls ascend. This tradition, which some historians believe dates back several centuries, has left the cliffs of Anshun peppered with these “coffin caves,” particularly notable for their size and number. One such cave, nestled amidst steep cliffs and dense forest, contains over 500 coffins stacked one upon another. The coffins, belonging to residents with the surname Liu from five neighbouring villages, show varying degrees of decay, their wooden frames softened by time and moisture. Yet they remain, a haunting testament to an enduring practice of ancestor veneration and spiritual belief. The reasoning behind this practice, according to local legend, is tied to both the geographical and historical context of the region. The people of this part of Guizhou are believed to have originated in the plains of central China. Centuries ago, amid the turbulence of war, these communities fled their ancestral lands, seeking refuge in the remote mountains of the province. Here, they found a haven, but their hearts and hopes lingered with their former homeland. As a result, they refused to bury their dead in the traditional manner, instead placing their coffins in caves. This act, they believed, would allow them to one day transport the remains back to their native plains, should the opportunity to return arise. However, the decision to use caves as resting places for the dead was also practical. Guizhou Province, known for its rugged beauty, is frequently subjected to flooding, and burying coffins in the earth carried the risk of water damage. By placing the coffins in caves—often high above flood-prone areas—the families ensured that their ancestors’ remains would be safe from destruction. Beyond the physical protection afforded by the caves, the practice took on spiritual significance. In Chinese cosmology, heaven is often conceptualised as being above, while burial in the ground is associated with finality and separation from the celestial realm. Placing the coffins in caves, especially those perched on steep cliffs, brought the dead closer to the sky—closer, it was believed, to heaven itself. This idea reflects a broader cultural theme in many parts of China, where the orientation of the dead and their proximity to spiritual realms has long held importance. In modern times, the tradition continues, although fewer coffins are added to the caves each year. The sight of decaying coffins, slowly being reclaimed by the damp, cool air of the caves, is both a reminder of time’s passage and a profound connection to the past. It serves as a fascinating insight into how communities adapt their burial practices in response to environmental and spiritual needs. Though many of the coffins have decayed, the tradition persists, connecting the living with their ancestors in a place where earth and sky converge. These coffins, hidden away in the cliffs of Guizhou, are more than just wooden boxes left to rot—they are vessels of cultural memory, preserving a way of life that blends practicality with deep spiritual meaning. Each coffin tells a story, not only of the individual within but of the community’s collective identity and its enduring link to both the natural world and the cosmos beyond.

In the late 1970s, American born photographer Janine Wiedel turned her lens to the industrial heartland of England, the West Midlands, a region synonymous with the birth of modern industry. Her photobook Vulcan’s Forge , based on her 1979 exhibition at London’s Photographers’ Gallery, serves as a compelling visual testament to the working lives of those employed in factories at a time when their world was on the brink of irreversible change. Wiedel’s work offers a window into a period of decline for the West Midlands, a region that had long been known as the “workshop of the world.” The area’s coal seams, heavy manufacturing, and steel production made it the driving force behind the Industrial Revolution. It was a land of soot, fire, and iron, a place still known as The Black Country. The name, rooted in its industrial past, conjures images of coal dust blackening the sky, while the fires of industry lit up the night. Elihu Burritt, an American Consul to Birmingham in the 19th century, famously described the region as “Black by day and red by night” due to the pollution and the constant glow of furnaces. By the time Wiedel arrived in 1977, the once-powerful industries that had shaped the region were struggling. British manufacturing had been hit hard by competition from overseas, and decades of underinvestment meant that the machinery and factories were outdated. Wiedel, an American photographer who had studied under the legendary Ansel Adams, was awarded a bursary by West Midlands Arts to document local life. She arrived at a pivotal moment, capturing the end times of an industrial age that had defined the region for generations. Her photographs in Vulcan’s Forge  are deeply human, focusing on the individuals whose livelihoods depended on these now-fading industries. Through her images, Wiedel gives us the faces of a working class whose future was increasingly uncertain. These workers, men and women who laboured in factories, forges, and foundries, are depicted in environments thick with the grime and heat of industrial production. Yet, beyond the mechanical and industrial surroundings, it is the people that take centre stage. They are portrayed with a quiet dignity, despite the backdrop of economic hardship and social change. The late 1970s were a period of transformation in the West Midlands, a place that had once fuelled Britain’s imperial ambitions through its industrial output. The same region, by then, was also giving birth to a cultural shift in the form of heavy metal music. The sounds of industry—the grinding, clanking, and hammering—found an echo in the raw energy of bands like Black Sabbath, who hailed from nearby Birmingham. Wiedel’s photos, though silent, seem to capture this connection between the physical and cultural landscape, revealing the link between the environment of the Black Country and the music it inspired. Wiedel was no stranger to capturing pivotal moments in history. Her early work in America had documented the Black Power movement in the late 1960s and the 1969 protests at Berkeley’s People’s Park. These formative experiences shaped her as a photographer committed to documenting social change and marginalised communities. Her move to England in 1970 marked the beginning of a series of long-term projects that focused on the everyday lives of people on the periphery of mainstream society. She spent five years documenting Irish travellers, capturing their traditions and way of life, a theme that resonates with her later work in the West Midlands. As industries in the West Midlands shuttered and communities faced an uncertain future, Wiedel’s work in Vulcan’s Forge  became a historical document, preserving a world that would soon vanish. Many of the factories and forges she photographed no longer exist, victims of economic decline and deindustrialisation. The region has since transformed into something very different, but Wiedel’s images remain as a testament to what once was, to the men and women whose labour fuelled a global industrial powerhouse. Beyond the West Midlands, Wiedel continued to explore social justice themes throughout her career. She photographed the Greenham Common Women’s Camp, a protest against nuclear weapons in the 1980s, and chronicled life in diverse communities such as the squats in St Agnes Place, London, and Brixton’s Rastafarian population. Her more recent work took her to the Calais ‘Jungle,’ where she spent six months documenting the lives of migrants living in the infamous camp, further extending her lifelong commitment to documenting marginalised communities. Wiedel’s photographs in Vulcan’s Forge  provide a powerful narrative of change—one that connects the industrial decline of the West Midlands with broader themes of cultural and economic shifts in late 20th-century Britain. As we view her images today, they stand as a reminder of the individuals whose faces tell the story of a world in flux, a world shaped by industry and transformed by its decline. “I remember one woman saying to me, ‘Couldn’t you have got him to wear a suit?’ In those days, you might be photographed at your wedding and that was about it. Women didn’t know what their men looked like at work because they’d never been inside the forge or down the pit. “It was important to record these lives. For me, it’s been great to give people back their history – that’s the best part of what I do.” – Janine Wiedel

The figure known as the "Leatherman" presents a quiet yet fascinating example of 19th-century itinerant life in rural America. While much of his life remains enigmatic, he is remembered not for any grand deeds, but for his regular and repetitive journey through parts of New York and Connecticut, and for the way he quietly became a part of the communities he passed through. The Origins of the Leatherman Most historical accounts place the birth of the Leatherman around 1839, though even this basic fact is somewhat uncertain. His appearance in American records begins in the late 1850s, specifically in 1857, when people first began to note the presence of a man dressed entirely in handmade leather garments. These heavy, rough-hewn clothes were what would come to define his physical appearance, and they would be a constant presence throughout the remaining years of his life. The entire suit — shirt, jacket, trousers, boots, scarf, and hat — weighed an estimated 60 pounds, a fact that often struck observers as remarkable given the strenuous lifestyle he led. The Leatherman was said to be fluent in French, which led to speculation about his origins. Some believed he came from the Picardy region of France, while others thought he might have been from French-speaking Canada. He was also known to carry a French prayer book among his few personal belongings, which reinforced the idea of a French-speaking background. He adhered to certain religious practices as well, such as declining meat on Fridays, leading many to conclude that he was a Roman Catholic. While these clues point to a possible background, the Leatherman never revealed anything about his past, leaving even the most basic facts of his life open to interpretation. A Nomadic Routine What sets the Leatherman apart from other itinerants of his era was the remarkably regular path he followed throughout his adult life. He walked a precise 365-mile loop through parts of New York and Connecticut, moving clockwise between the towns and villages of Westchester, southern Putnam, and western Fairfield counties. His route included stops in Purdy’s, Kensico, South Salem, Croton Falls, Yorktown, Shrub Oak, Briarcliff, and Bedford Hills, among others. Incredibly, the entire loop took him roughly 34 to 36 days to complete, and he stuck to this schedule with remarkable consistency. The Leatherman’s regularity was so reliable that people along his route could anticipate his visits nearly to the day. This pattern of movement, however, was more than just a wandering route — it was a way of life. Unlike many vagrants of the time who might seek out temporary work or charity, the Leatherman was entirely self-sufficient in terms of his basic survival needs. He made his home in caves scattered throughout the region, of which there were nearly 100 along his route. These caves, known locally as "Leatherman caves," offered him shelter during all seasons, and he developed a reputation for his ability to survive even in harsh winter conditions. Ward Pound Ridge Reservation, a nature preserve in New York, still has one of these caves, where it is known the Leatherman stayed during his journeys. He would often build fires to stay warm, and though he suffered from occasional frostbite, he generally appeared in good health throughout his years on the road. Interaction with Local Communities Though the Leatherman lived a solitary life, he did maintain limited interactions with the communities through which he travelled. He would regularly stop at farmhouses, seeking food, and over time, the people in these communities came to expect his visits. In fact, many local families prepared for his arrival by baking extra bread or preparing food in advance. His reputation for politeness and gratitude spread, and in return for the hospitality he received, he would often offer thanks in a quiet, reserved manner. Miss M. Louise Bouton, who was born in 1889 and lived in Lewisboro, recalled that the Leatherman would visit her family’s home once a year. She remembered that he would always approach from the same side of the house, knocking on the drainpipe to announce his presence. Her mother would give him food, which he would accept with a simple “Thank you so much, lady,” never looking directly at anyone. Despite his rugged appearance, the Leatherman was known to be harmless, and over time he became a fixture in the communities he visited. He communicated in broken English, rarely speaking more than a few words at a time, though he was capable of more fluid conversation in French. His stoic nature and calm demeanour reassured people, and he became something of a local celebrity. His visits were so regular and anticipated that even when Connecticut enacted an anti-vagrancy "tramp law" in 1879, ten towns along his route passed special ordinances to exempt him from the law’s provisions. These ordinances allowed him to continue his travels unimpeded, a sign of the unique place he held in the local culture. While the Leatherman’s relationship with local communities was generally positive, there were moments when authorities became involved. In 1888, the Connecticut Humane Society briefly arrested him and had him committed to a hospital, concerned for his wellbeing. However, after an examination, it was determined that he was mentally sound apart from an unspecified emotional condition. The hospital released him shortly afterward, allowing him to return to his itinerant life. There were few other incidents involving law enforcement, and the Leatherman generally remained on good terms with both the local authorities and the people he encountered. Curiously, it is not known how the Leatherman funded his resupply efforts. On several occasions, he was seen purchasing small amounts of food from local stores, such as bread, sardines, crackers, coffee, and even small amounts of alcohol. One shopkeeper in particular kept a record of these purchases, noting the simplicity of his requests. However, where he obtained the money to fund these purchases is unclear. He did not appear to engage in any form of labour, and his simple lifestyle did not suggest that he had a steady income. This has led to further speculation about his origins, but no definitive answers have emerged. The Leatherman’s travels came to an end on 24 March 1889, when his body was discovered in a cave near Mount Pleasant, New York. He was found by a local farmer named George Dell, who had noticed that the Leatherman had not moved from his usual resting spot. Despite living a hard life, the Leatherman was in relatively good physical condition at the time of his death, save for the fact that he had developed cancer in his mouth, likely as a result of his use of chewing tobacco. He was buried in nearby Ossining, at Sparta Cemetery, where a simple tombstone was placed to mark his grave. Initially, the name “Jules Bourglay” was added to his gravestone, following a report in the Waterbury Daily American  that claimed this was the Leatherman’s true identity. The story suggested that he had been a French merchant who, after suffering financial ruin, had taken to wandering the American countryside. However, this story was later retracted, and the name "Jules Bourglay" was debunked as a fabrication. Despite this, the name remained on his gravestone for many years. It was not until 2011, when construction near the cemetery required the exhumation of his remains, that the mistake was rectified. By this time, little of the Leatherman’s body remained, and no new information about his identity was uncovered. A Lasting Historical Curiosity Though his life was modest and largely devoid of material possessions, the Leatherman’s legacy endures. He is remembered as a quiet, solitary figure who navigated his world with a sense of purpose known only to him. His life offers a glimpse into the unique forms of itinerant existence that persisted in 19th-century America, and his story has become a part of local folklore in the regions through which he travelled. Each year, the Leatherman’s Loop 10k race is held in his honour, a testament to the lasting impact of this quiet, unassuming figure.

Rocky Dennis with his mother, Rusty. Roy Lee "Rocky" Dennis, born on 4th December 1961 in Glendora, California, lived a life defined not just by the rare condition he was born with, but by the resilience and relationships that sustained him. Though diagnosed with a medical disorder that would alter his appearance and limit his physical abilities, Rocky’s story is far more than that of a boy with a rare disease. Rocky Dennis Childhood and Family Life Rocky was born a healthy baby, the younger of two sons, his older half-brother being Joshua Mason from his mother’s previous relationship. For the first two years of his life, there were no outward signs of any abnormalities. However, a routine X-ray, performed when Rocky was just over two years old, revealed an anomaly in his skull, which led to further tests at the UCLA Medical Center. These tests confirmed that Rocky had craniodiaphyseal dysplasia, a rare and severe disorder that causes excessive calcium deposits to accumulate in the skull, thickening the bones and distorting the face. Rocky's situation wasn't entirely without precedent, there are other cases in history where families were forced to decide how much of a child's life to hide from the world, and the results were far darker, as the story of the hidden Bowes-Lyon cousins shows. The condition, sometimes referred to as lionitis, would eventually push his eyes outward and stretch his nose into an elongated shape as his skull grew to twice its normal size. His doctors delivered a grim prognosis. They predicted Rocky would progressively lose his sight and hearing, suffer mental disability, and eventually die as the weight of his skull compressed his brain. Based on the few known cases of the condition, they did not expect him to live beyond the age of seven. Yet, Rocky’s mother, Florence “Rusty” Tullis, refused to accept the doctors' predictions. A strong-willed and street-savvy woman, Rusty was determined to give Rocky the most ordinary life possible. She did not shy away from her son’s condition, nor did she allow others to define him by it. Rocky was raised with a sense of independence and purpose, attending public school, making friends, and pursuing interests just like any other child his age. Rusty Dennis: A Mother’s Unyielding Support Rusty was a central figure in Rocky's life, both as a parent and an advocate. She was deeply involved in the biker community, a lifestyle that might have seemed unconventional to outsiders, but her devotion to Rocky was unwavering. Rusty did not let the dire medical forecasts dictate how Rocky would live. She made sure he attended public school, rejecting doctors’ suggestions to keep him in special education or at home, and she fought fiercely when educators tried to transfer him to special needs classes. Rusty once remarked, “They tried to say his intelligence was impaired, but it wasn’t true. I think they wanted to keep him out of the classroom because [they thought] it would bother the other kids’ parents.” Her refusal to let the school system place limits on Rocky’s education allowed him to thrive academically. He became a top student, regularly ranking among the best in his class. Rusty also believed in natural remedies and the power of the mind. She gave Rocky vitamins and encouraged him to rest when he suffered from severe headaches, advising him to "make yourself feel better." Although these treatments could not stop the progression of his condition, Rusty’s philosophy helped Rocky develop a strong sense of self-sufficiency and control over his own wellbeing. A Typical Day in Rocky’s Life Despite the challenges posed by his condition, Rocky's daily life was surprisingly similar to that of other boys his age. His mornings were filled with schoolwork, where he excelled academically. Reading and writing were difficult due to his poor eyesight—his vision legally classified him as blind—but Rocky found ways to work around this, memorising large amounts of material. He frequently astonished his teachers with his sharp intellect and remarkable memory. Rocky was not just a dedicated student, but a socially active and humorous young man. He enjoyed playing pranks on people, especially during Halloween when he would trick his neighbours into thinking he was wearing a mask over his real face. “Rocky always got lots of candy,” Rusty fondly recalled, explaining how his pranks made everyone laugh and helped lighten the mood around his condition. He also had a deep love for baseball, particularly for collecting baseball cards, which connected him with other boys who shared his interest in the sport. Though his condition prevented him from playing, Rocky was well-versed in baseball trivia and enjoyed discussing the game with friends. His friendships extended beyond shared interests—his kindness, humour, and resilience made him a popular figure at school and in the neighbourhood. One of his close friends, Eric, was particularly inspired by Rocky’s refusal to let his condition define him. They spent time together after school, often chatting about music, sports, and everyday teenage interests. While Rocky could not physically join his friends in sports or bike riding, he participated through his sharp wit and comedic commentary, ensuring that his presence was always felt. Humour as a Coping Mechanism Humour played a significant role in Rocky’s life, not just as a way to connect with others, but as a tool for coping with the challenges posed by craniodiaphyseal dysplasia. When people, including doctors, underestimated him or questioned his abilities, Rocky used humour to disarm them and reclaim control over the situation. His Halloween pranks, where he pretended to be wearing a mask, are just one example of how he used comedy to break down barriers. One of the more striking moments in his life came when a doctor told him he would eventually go blind. Rocky’s response, delivered with his trademark wit, was, “I don’t believe in being blind.” This defiant statement reflected his larger approach to life: though the medical realities were ever-present, Rocky chose to live beyond those limitations. His humour, combined with his resilience, became a powerful force that helped him, and those around him, deal with the practical and emotional difficulties of his condition. The Struggles of Declining Health While Rocky was able to maintain a largely normal life for many years, the physical effects of craniodiaphyseal dysplasia were always a challenge. His condition caused immense pressure on his brain, leading to frequent and intense headaches. By the time he was seven, Rocky had made 42 visits to eye doctors alone, as medical professionals monitored the progression of his vision loss. Despite the constant medical attention, Rocky remained active in his education and social life. As he entered his teenage years, Rocky’s health began to deteriorate more rapidly. The intense headaches became more frequent, and his once vibrant energy levels dropped. His physique weakened, and the signs of his declining health became more apparent, even to those around him. Yet, Rocky remained as positive and engaged as ever, keeping up with his friends and continuing to excel in school, graduating junior high with honours. The Final Years Rocky's health reached a critical point in 1978, when it became clear that his body could no longer keep up with the pressures imposed by his condition. Despite his remarkable strength and resilience, he began to lose energy and suffer from increasing pain. Rusty, ever attuned to her son's state of mind, sensed that the end was near. By the final weeks of his life he was using a wheelchair, his headaches unbearable. On the night of October 3rd, Rusty and a group of biker friends threw a small party at home to try to cheer him up. Rocky went to bed with a headache. The next morning he didn't wake up. Rusty found him at around 10am on October 4th, 1978. He was 16 years old and had outlived every medical prediction by nearly a decade. His official cause of death was recorded as sudden arrhythmic death syndrome, a heart condition of unknown origin that may have been linked to CDD. Rocky's body was donated to UCLA for medical research. He was cremated afterwards, not buried with baseball cards as the 1985 film depicts. The Film: What Mask Got Right, and What It Changed Seven years after Rocky's death, his story reached a far wider audience. Screenwriter Anna Hamilton Phelan had encountered Rocky during a visit to UCLA's genetics research centre and was struck by the gap between what she'd been told to expect and the sharp, funny teenager she actually met. Her screenplay became the 1985 film Mask, directed by Peter Bogdanovich, with Eric Stoltz playing Rocky and Cher as Rusty. The film took creative liberties -- most of the scenes and dialogue were altered for dramatic effect -- but it captured the emotional truth of Rocky's life fairly well. One notable absence: Joshua, Rocky's half-brother, was never mentioned in the film at all. Rusty sold the rights to Rocky's story for $15,000, most of which went toward Joshua's medical bills. One of the odder footnotes to the film's history involves Bruce Springsteen. Rocky's favourite musician was Springsteen, and director Bogdanovich had planned to use his songs throughout the film. But a dispute between Universal Pictures and Springsteen's label Columbia Records saw the songs pulled from the theatrical release and replaced with Bob Seger tracks. Rusty Dennis was publicly unhappy about this, saying flatly that she didn't think Rocky even knew who Bob Seger was. The Springsteen songs were eventually restored for the 2004 director's cut DVD. The film won the Academy Award for Best Makeup and earned Cher a Golden Globe nomination for Best Actress. Life After Rocky: The Family’s Continuing Struggles Rocky’s passing left a deep void in the lives of those who knew him, particularly his family. Rusty, who had dedicated herself to her son’s wellbeing for so many years, faced significant struggles in the years after his death. Her life was marked by personal challenges, including battles with drugs and encounters with the legal system, though she remained a fiercely independent and resilient woman. Further tragedy struck when Joshua, Rocky's older half-brother, was diagnosed with Kaposi's sarcoma, a skin cancer resulting from AIDS, and died in 1987 at the age of 32. Rusty herself continued to live an unconventional life, eventually moving to San Francisco and taking up Buddhism. She died on 11 November 2006, aged 70, after being thrown from her three-wheel motorcycle when a tyre came off. She had been riding alone. Friends and family only found out she'd been hurt when they read a short news item about an unidentified 70-year-old woman in a motorcycle accident. She died of an infection a few weeks later at Beverly Hospital in Montebello, California. True to form, she'd wanted her body donated to science or cremated. Like Rocky, Ronald Hunkeler became famous not for who he was, but for the story that attached itself to him, a story that took on a life of its own far removed from the real person behind it Rocky Dennis’ life was, in many ways, extraordinary not because of the rare disorder he lived with, but because of the strength, humour, and resilience he displayed throughout. His mother, Rusty, was instrumental in shaping the course of his life, ensuring that he experienced the joys and struggles of childhood and adolescence like any other boy. Sources Los Angeles Times – “Roy L. ‘Rocky’ Dennis; Inspiration for Film ‘Mask’” https://www.latimes.com/archives/la-xpm-1978-10-05-me-4605-story.html People Magazine – “The Short, Remarkable Life of Rocky Dennis” https://people.com/archive/the-short-remarkable-life-of-rocky-dennis-vol-23-no-20/ The New York Times – “Rocky Dennis Dies; Deformed Youth, 16” https://www.nytimes.com/1978/10/05/archives/rocky-dennis-dies-deformed-youth-16.html Rare Diseases Clinical Research Network – “Craniodiaphyseal Dysplasia” (medical background) https://rarediseases.info.nih.gov/diseases/6022/craniodiaphyseal-dysplasia National Organization for Rare Disorders (NORD) – “Craniodiaphyseal Dysplasia” https://rarediseases.org/rare-diseases/craniodiaphyseal-dysplasia/ The Guardian – “Cher’s Mask was the film that changed Hollywood” (covers Rocky’s story through the movie) https://www.theguardian.com/film/2021/mar/19/mask-cher-film-that-changed-hollywood Smithsonian Magazine – “The True Story Behind Mask” https://www.smithsonianmag.com/arts-culture/the-true-story-behind-mask-180974425/