Utterly interesting

Café Lehmitz was never destined for guidebooks or glamorous postcards. Nestled on Hamburg’s infamous Reeperbahn, it thrived as a haven for the working-class men and women of the city’s bustling red-light district. In the late 1960s, its smoky interior became the unlikely stage for one of photography’s most intimate and raw studies of human life, courtesy of Anders Petersen. Petersen’s journey to Café Lehmitz began years before, in 1962, when he first visited Hamburg as an 18-year-old Swede. The city’s vibrant, unpolished energy left a lasting impression. By 1967, Petersen was back, not as a tourist, but with a camera in hand. “I went back there to find my friends and take pictures of their lives,” he later recalled. But the passage of time had taken its toll: “People told me they were almost all dead.” It was a chance encounter that steered Petersen to Café Lehmitz. In a bar, he bumped into Gertrude, an old friend, and shared his plans to document the area’s colourful life. Gertrude suggested they meet the next night at Café Lehmitz, a spot she assured him was teeming with characters worth capturing. True to her word, Petersen arrived promptly at 1 a.m. and found a seat at a corner table, camera in tow. What followed was an unexpectedly collaborative start to his project. Patrons picked up the camera, snapped pictures of one another, and tossed it back to him. “I kept it and started to shoot,” Petersen recounted. Hours later, Gertrude arrived. Her reaction was immediate and enthusiastic: “Look! It’s working! So stay here and take some more pictures.” Petersen did exactly that, remaining at Café Lehmitz for a month. Over the next two and a half years, he returned regularly, creating a body of work that encapsulates the raw humanity of the café’s clientele. The images are a study in contrasts: moments of tenderness juxtaposed with scenes of brutality, camaraderie alongside isolation. One subject, Uschi, left a deep impression on Petersen. “She was a very nice woman, very kind, very generous,” he said. But her life bore the scars of trauma. Raped at 14 by her cousin, she was blamed for the incident and ostracised. “So she went out and started to earn money in the way, you know, that is very common,” Petersen said, hinting at her work as a sex worker. “In another there is a woman – I don’t remember her name – together with a man in a big hat. He was being very hard and rude to her. It was a horrible and upsetting situation. I was asking myself, should I really publish this? But I also have to show this side of life at the cafe. Not only the romantic things… Indeed, Petersen’s work at Café Lehmitz has often been compared to Ed van der Elsken’s Love on the Left Bank , another seminal photographic series that documents an urban underworld. While Petersen acknowledged the influence, he later reflected on the evolution of his style: “I don’t have the same taste today. Then I was very much concerned about the atmosphere, the milieu. But now I’m more into what I think I’m connected to, what I can identify with. I’m more direct.” What Petersen captured at Café Lehmitz was a world on the margins, populated by sex workers, drifters, and labourers. Yet his lens never reduced them to stereotypes. His photographs, black-and-white and brimming with unvarnished intimacy, convey their resilience, humour, and humanity. They depict lives lived outside the boundaries of conventional respectability, but never without dignity. The legacy of Café Lehmitz endures not just as a visual record of a bygone era, but as a testament to Petersen’s deep connection with his subjects. His work reminds us that even in society’s forgotten corners, there are stories worth telling – raw, complicated, and profoundly human. Sources Magnum Photos – Anders Petersen on Café Lehmitz  – https://www.magnumphotos.com/theory-and-practice/anders-petersen-cafe-lehmitz-interview/ Anders Petersen – Official Website – https://www.anderspetersen.se/ Tate Modern – Anders Petersen Artist Profile – https://www.tate.org.uk/art/artists/anders-petersen-26802 The Guardian – Anders Petersen: Café Lehmitz  Review  – https://www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/2014/oct/15/anders-petersen-cafe-lehmitz-review British Journal of Photography – The Raw Intimacy of Anders Petersen  – https://www.bjp-online.com/2019/10/anders-petersen-cafe-lehmitz/ LensCulture – Café Lehmitz  by Anders Petersen – https://www.lensculture.com/articles/anders-petersen-cafe-lehmitz International Center of Photography – Anders Petersen Archive – https://www.icp.org/browse/archive/constituents/anders-petersen Hamburg Museum – History of St. Pauli District – https://www.hamburgmuseum.de/en/ Der Spiegel – Das Ende des Café Lehmitz  – https://www.spiegel.de/geschichte/anders-petersen-und-cafe-lehmitz-a-948000.html Martin Parr Foundation – European Documentary Tradition – https://www.martinparrfoundation.org/

It began like any ordinary suburban friendship in 1970s America. Two families lived side by side in small-town Idaho, bound by faith, church gatherings, and neighbourly warmth. But beneath the friendly smiles and Sunday socials lurked a darkness that would one day horrify the world. When Robert Berchtold, a charismatic family man and trusted friend, entered the lives of the Brobergs, no one could have imagined the nightmare that would follow. What unfolded was not just a story of abduction, but a chilling lesson in manipulation, betrayal, and control. As Jan Broberg later said, “He was like a second father to me.” Robert Berchtold was not a typical criminal. He was what some have called a master manipulator, the kind of man who could charm an entire family while secretly plotting against them. His crimes would inspire shock decades later when Netflix released Abducted in Plain Sight , but the events themselves, rooted in the sleepy streets of Pocatello, Idaho, remain some of the most disturbing in modern true crime history. Berchtold in the early 1970s A Friendly Face in a Faithful Community It all started in the early 1970s. The Brobergs were a Mormon family, active in their local congregation of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. Bob and Mary Ann Broberg had three daughters, Karen, Susan, and Jan. When they met Robert “B” Berchtold and his wife Gail at church, it felt like divine coincidence. Both families had children around the same age, and they quickly became inseparable. “The kids played together, the parents enjoyed each other’s company,” Jan later recalled in Abducted in Plain Sight . “Everyone had a best friend.” The Broberg children affectionately called him “B”. To the family, he was warm, funny, and generous. He would show up with gifts, take them on outings, and seemed genuinely interested in their lives. But behind the charm, Berchtold was already calculating. He wanted Jan. And to get to her, he would first win over her parents. The Grooming of an Entire Family Unlike most predators, Berchtold did not act in secret. He made himself part of the family. He spent hours with them, joined family dinners, and inserted himself into every aspect of their lives. “He was like a second father to me,” Jan said, looking back years later. He began flirting with Mary Ann, complimenting her looks, confiding in her, and eventually inviting her on a church retreat to Logan, Utah. “We got a little too cosy,” Mary Ann later admitted, “and the first seeds of what would eventually grow into an affair were planted.” The Broberg's in the 1980s. Jan is second from left At the same time, Berchtold turned his attention to Jan’s father, Bob. During one of their car rides, Berchtold spoke about his failing sex life and claimed that his wife no longer satisfied him. What happened next would later shock even the most jaded investigators. Bob said that Berchtold became sexually aroused and asked him to provide “relief”. Bob complied. “I entered into a homosexual relationship with her father in order to have access to Jan,” Berchtold later admitted. “I had a fixation for Jan. I don’t know why, but I did.” It was the perfect trap. Both parents now carried secrets that Berchtold could use to control them, and he did, mercilessly. Therapy, Lies, and the Bedtime “Treatment” When the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints reprimanded Berchtold in 1974 for inappropriate behaviour with another young girl, he claimed he wanted to seek help. He told Bob and Mary Ann that his therapist recommended a very specific treatment, one that required him to sleep in the same bed as their daughter, Jan. “Neither one of us were comfortable with him doing it,” Mary Ann recalled, “but it was part of his therapy.” It is hard to imagine now, but in that time and culture, people often deferred to authority, to church leaders, to therapists, to so-called experts. The Brobergs wanted to believe that Berchtold was trying to overcome his problem. What they did not know was that the psychologist he mentioned had already lost his licence and that the tapes he was supposedly listening to were filled with bizarre, sexually charged messages. For six months, Berchtold shared Jan’s bed up to four nights a week. It was a calculated and deliberate act of grooming, hidden behind the language of healing. Jan Broberg with Robert Berchtold The First Abduction: A Manufactured Alien Mission On October 17, 1974, Berchtold picked Jan up from her piano lessons, saying he would take her horseback riding. It sounded innocent enough. But along the way, he gave her what he said was allergy medication. She soon passed out. When Jan woke up, she was in Berchtold’s motorhome, bound by her wrists and ankles, lying in a small bunk. A strange voice filled the room, a mechanical recording claiming to be from two aliens named Zeta and Zethra. They told her she was half-alien, chosen to complete a mission to save their species. The task was to have a child with Robert Berchtold before her sixteenth birthday. If she did not, her sister Susan would be chosen instead, and her family would die. “It was a terrifying thought,” Jan later said. “It was the thing that kept me obedient.” Berchtold raped Jan repeatedly during the journey to Mexico. Once there, he married her in Mazatlán, where the minimum legal marriage age was just 12. After five weeks, he called his brother Joe and asked him to contact Jan’s parents to seek their blessing for a legal U.S. wedding. Joe contacted the FBI instead, leading to Berchtold’s arrest and Jan’s rescue. But the trauma was far from over. Blackmail, Shame, and the Return Home When Jan was examined by a doctor, the report said there were “no signs of sexual trauma.” For the Brobergs, this was a relief. They had no idea how careful Berchtold had been. Jan said later, “I would just look at the leaves… if you just look at the leaves, it’ll be okay.” Meanwhile, Berchtold’s manipulation continued from afar. His wife Gail visited the Brobergs, pleading with them to drop the charges. She warned that if they did not, Berchtold would expose Bob’s sexual encounter. Under pressure and humiliation, they signed affidavits that effectively cleared him. With no witnesses and no case, Berchtold avoided prison and moved to Utah. Berchtold with Jan The Second Abduction In 1976, Jan vanished again. She had just turned 14. Berchtold, ever the manipulator, had convinced her to escape out of her bedroom window one night. He gave her more pills and drove her to Pasadena, California. There, using the alias “Janis Tobler,” he enrolled her in a Catholic girls’ school, telling the nuns that he was a CIA agent who needed to keep his daughter safe. For 102 days, Jan was missing. When the FBI finally located her, she was withdrawn and frightened, still under the influence of Berchtold’s “alien mission”. Even after her return, she remained terrified that her family would be killed if she disobeyed the instructions. Her fear ran so deep that as her 16th birthday approached, she began to consider suicide. She later admitted that she had planned to kill her sister Susan and herself if she failed to become pregnant. But when her birthday came and went, and nothing happened, Jan realised the truth. The aliens were not real. She had been living in a carefully constructed nightmare. Life After the Nightmare The years that followed were filled with therapy, silence, and guilt. The Brobergs, burdened by shame and community judgment, withdrew from public life. Jan, traumatised but resilient, eventually built a new life for herself. She became an actress, appearing in shows such as Everwood  and Criminal Minds . In 2003, Mary Ann Broberg published Stolen Innocence: The Jan Broberg Story , a book detailing the horrifying events that had shaped their family. It brought the story back into the public eye and out of Berchtold’s shadow. “I wasn’t able to talk definitively or explicitly about the sexual abuse. It was really hard for me to do,” Jan told the BBC. But through writing, public speaking, and the Netflix documentary, she found her voice. The Final Confrontation The book’s release had an unexpected consequence. It lured Robert Berchtold out of hiding. In March 2004, he showed up at a women’s conference in St. George, Utah, where Jan and her mother were speaking. Members of Bikers Against Child Abuse were present, protecting Jan at the event. When one of the bikers confronted Berchtold, the situation turned violent. He allegedly ran over the biker with his minivan. Berchtold was arrested on charges of assault, trespassing, and disorderly conduct. During the legal proceedings, six other women came forward with similar stories of his manipulation and abuse. When Jan finally faced him in court, she looked him in the eye and said, “My goal, Mr. Berchtold, is to educate the public about predators like you. That is my goal.” He was found guilty. But before sentencing, Berchtold told his brother Joe that prison would kill him. That night, he mixed his heart medication with Kahlúa and milk and took his own life. “Bob had gone to court that day and been found guilty,” his brother later said. “He says, ‘If it’s one day in prison, it’s going to kill me. I’m not going there.’ He had taken all his heart medicine and drank Kahlúa and milk. He drank that and died.” Legacy of a Survivor It is easy, in retrospect, to ask how the Brobergs could have allowed this to happen. How could two intelligent, loving parents have let a predator so deeply into their lives? The answer lies not in stupidity but in trust, a trust that Berchtold exploited in a time when discussions of grooming and child sexual abuse were still taboo. “He was like a second father to me,” Jan has said repeatedly. “They were duped in a terrible, terrible way.” Her story now serves as a warning about the insidious nature of grooming and coercion. In her adult life, Jan has become an advocate for survivors, using her experience to raise awareness of how easily predators can hide in plain sight, not as strangers, but as neighbours, friends, or even family. Today, Jan Broberg speaks openly about resilience and recovery. In interviews, she has said, “I want people to know that no matter how dark your story, you can get to the other side of it.” Her courage in confronting her abuser publicly and surviving the unimaginable has helped countless others come forward with their own stories. The Predator Next Door The tragedy of Jan Broberg and Robert Berchtold reminds us that evil does not always arrive with a warning sign. It can live next door, attend your church, sit at your dinner table, and smile while planning your destruction. In the end, Berchtold’s web of lies collapsed under its own weight, but the scars he left behind endure. As Jan’s story continues to inspire awareness and understanding, the case remains a haunting study in manipulation and misplaced trust. As Jan once reflected, “You never think it can happen to you, until it does.” Sources Abducted in Plain Sight  (Netflix Documentary, 2017) BBC News interview with Jan Broberg, 2019 – “Jan Broberg on surviving the unimaginable” Oxygen True Crime, “What Happened to Robert Berchtold After Abducted in Plain Sight?”  (2020) ABC News, “Man who abducted Jan Broberg appears at her women’s conference”  (2004) Mary Ann Broberg, Stolen Innocence: The Jan Broberg Story  (2003)

“I wanted to build an imaginary bridge to the East… to show that people, even across the Iron Curtain, could connect.” – Mathias Rust On a quiet afternoon in May 1987, an 18-year-old German pilot named Mathias Rust made history in one of the most astonishing acts of civil disobedience of the Cold War . Flying a small rented Cessna, Rust took off from Helsinki, Finland, and landed near Moscow ’s Red Square—right in the symbolic heart of the Soviet Union. It wasn’t a stunt done for fame or money. Rust said he wanted to do something that would “build a bridge” between East and West, a personal mission of peace at a time when nuclear tensions were still running high. But what he achieved went far beyond idealism: his little flight exposed shocking weaknesses in the Soviet air defence system, embarrassed the Kremlin, and even helped Mikhail Gorbachev push forward with his political reforms. The Dream Takes Shape Mathias Rust was born on 1 June 1968 in Wedel, a small town near Hamburg in what was then West Germany. He was, by all accounts, a quiet and serious young man with a fascination for flight and international affairs. After earning his pilot’s licence, Rust began planning a journey across northern Europe in a rented Cessna 172. He had around 50 hours of flying experience, barely enough to make him more than a novice, but he was determined to test himself. In May 1987, Rust set off from Uetersen Airport near Hamburg. Over the next two weeks, he flew through the Faroe Islands, Iceland, and Norway. During a stop in Reykjavík, he even visited the Hofdi House, the site of the 1986 summit between U.S. President Ronald Reagan and Soviet leader Mikhail Gorbachev. That meeting had ended without agreement, and Rust later said he wanted to do something “symbolic” to help ease tensions between the two superpowers. By the time he reached Helsinki, the idea had crystallised. He would fly directly into the Soviet Union and land in Moscow. The Flight On 28 May 1987, Rust refuelled at Helsinki-Malmi Airport and told air traffic controllers he was flying to Stockholm. He took off just after noon, and minutes later turned his plane eastward, switching off his radio. To Finnish controllers, it looked like he’d vanished. When radar contact was lost near the town of Espoo, rescue teams were dispatched, fearing a crash. They even found an oil slick at sea, but no wreckage. Rust, meanwhile, was flying steadily toward the Soviet border. Around 2:30 in the afternoon, Soviet air defence radars picked up a small, slow-moving aircraft entering their airspace. It didn’t respond to identification signals, so surface-to-air missile units were alerted, and interceptor aircraft were scrambled. But the Soviet military, famous for its rigid hierarchy, was paralysed by indecision. Local radar officers saw the blip but didn’t know whether to act. The rules required permission from higher up to fire, and none was given. On top of that, it happened to be Border Guards Day, a national holiday, and many of the officers who might have taken command were away celebrating. Two MiG-23 fighter jets spotted Rust’s little Cessna and radioed for instructions to shoot it down, but the request was denied. Confusion and bureaucracy took over. The Soviet air defence system, split into multiple regional commands, lost track of the plane several times as it crossed district boundaries. Each radar operator assumed someone else was handling it. At one point, Rust’s Cessna was mistaken for a Soviet training aircraft. Later, near the city of Torzhok, it was confused with a helicopter taking part in a search-and-rescue exercise. For all the billions of roubles poured into air defence, the world’s most militarised state failed to recognise that a West German teenager was cruising straight toward its capital. Landing in Moscow By early evening, after nearly six hours in the air, Rust saw Moscow spread out below him. His original plan was to land inside the Kremlin walls, but he quickly realised that would be too risky. The area was heavily guarded, and he didn’t want to disappear into a KGB cell without anyone knowing what he’d done. Instead, he decided to land in Red Square. It was, after all, the most recognisable symbol of Soviet power and a place where the world would see him. But the square was full of people. He circled once, then again, before spotting a long straight stretch, the Bolshoy Moskvoretsky Bridge, running beside St. Basil’s Cathedral. By pure chance, the trolleybus wires that normally ran above the bridge had been removed that morning for maintenance. Rust eased the plane down and landed safely at 6:43 p.m., rolling to a stop just metres from the square. Muscovites rushed over, astonished. Some asked for autographs. One man asked where he was from. “Germany,” Rust said. The man smiled and said, “Ah, East Germany!” Rust shook his head: “No, West Germany.” That stopped everyone in their tracks. A British doctor living in Moscow happened to film the scene as Rust’s plane circled and landed. Two hours later, Soviet police finally arrived and arrested him without resistance. The Trial and the Fallout Rust’s trial began that September. The charges were serious: violation of airspace, disregard for aviation laws, provoking an emergency situation, and “hooliganism,” a catch-all Soviet term for public mischief. He was sentenced to four years in a labour camp, though he was never sent to one. Instead, he served his time in Moscow’s Lefortovo Prison, a high-security facility used mainly for political detainees. Rust spent about 14 months there before being pardoned by Andrei Gromyko, then head of the Soviet government. His release in August 1988 was timed to coincide with improved relations between East and West. By then, Gorbachev and Reagan were preparing to sign a major arms reduction treaty, and Rust’s pardon was presented as a “gesture of goodwill.” Embarrassment in the Kremlin The impact of Rust’s flight on Soviet politics was enormous. The USSR had built its global image on the idea of military strength and internal control. The fact that a teenager had flown a small private plane all the way to Moscow without being intercepted was humiliating. The consequences were swift. Defence Minister Sergei Sokolov and Air Defence Chief Alexander Koldunov were both dismissed, along with more than 2,000 other officers. Western analysts later called it the biggest military shake-up in the Soviet Union since Stalin’s purges of the 1930s. For Gorbachev, however, it was an opportunity. Many of those removed from their posts had been opponents of his reform agenda. Rust’s flight, unintentionally, had given him the perfect excuse to clean house. It demonstrated that the old system was too rigid, too bureaucratic, and no longer fit for purpose. Former U.S. intelligence chief William Odom later remarked that the incident “irreparably damaged the reputation of the Soviet military.” It showed the world, and Gorbachev’s own people, that even the mighty Red Army could be undermined by confusion and fear of accountability. A Life of Contradictions When Mathias Rust returned to Germany in 1988, he was greeted like a celebrity. Crowds and cameras followed him everywhere. The German magazine Stern  paid his family a small fortune for exclusive rights to his story. But Rust himself seemed disoriented by fame. Over the years that followed, his life became increasingly erratic. In 1989, while performing community service in a hospital, he stabbed a female co-worker who had rejected his advances. She survived, and Rust served just over a year in prison. Later, he was fined for minor offences, including shoplifting and fraud. Rust seemed to drift between identities. He converted to Hinduism in the mid-1990s while planning to marry the daughter of an Indian tea merchant. By 2009, he described himself as a professional poker player, and a few years later he was reportedly working as a financial analyst in Switzerland while training to be a yoga instructor. When asked how he saw himself, he once said, “I’m a bit of an oddball.” Mathias Rust arrives in Germany after being released from Soviet prison. Legacy of a Lone Flight For all his later troubles, Mathias Rust remains one of the most fascinating figures of the late Cold War. His flight, risky, naive, and inspired in equal measure, was more than an act of rebellion. It was a symbol of how fragile systems of control can be. In a way, his “imaginary bridge” between East and West worked. His flight didn’t end the Cold War, but it did become a turning point. It forced the Soviet military to confront its inefficiency, strengthened Gorbachev’s hand, and became an unforgettable metaphor for openness in a closed world. His little Cessna, once impounded by Soviet authorities, eventually found its way to Japan, and later back to Germany, where it’s now displayed at the German Museum of Technology in Berlin. There’s even a small monument to Rust’s flight in Estonia, under the path he flew that day. For years after the incident, Moscow locals jokingly called Red Square “Sheremetyevo-3,” after the city’s main airport terminals. Even decades later, the story of the boy who landed in the heart of the Soviet Empire continues to capture the imagination. “Sometimes people ask me: Did you go mad? Did you get lucky? Both answers have a grain of truth.” – Mathias Rust Why the Story Still Matters Rust’s flight is one of those rare events that blend daring, absurdity, and symbolism. It showed that a single individual could expose the weakness of a superpower. It also reflected a generational shift—the desire for connection and understanding in a world defined by suspicion. Sources Smithsonian Magazine – The Notorious Flight of Mathias Rust The Guardian – What Happened Next? Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty – Twenty-Five Years After, Mathias Rust Remembers Historic Flight to Red Square Simple Flying – How A Teenage Pilot Landed A Cessna On A Moscow Bridge The Washington Post – Mathias Rust’s Audacious Flight Deutsches Technikmuseum Berlin – Aircraft archives

It should have been a gentle pause in a busy life. Sunlight over turquoise water, a reef that dazzled, a mother keen to share something she loved with her two boys. Instead, late in the afternoon on 18 December 2000, a fast boat cut across a protected dive zone off Cozumel and ended the life of Kirsty MacColl at forty one. Friends, collaborators and millions of listeners knew her as the wry, unmistakeable voice behind songs that still lift off the radio each winter and summer alike. To her family she was simply Kirsty, a devoted mum who, even at her busiest, made time to plan mince pies, Christmas decorations, and a quiet holiday. On the evening before she left for Mexico, she had supper with her mother, the choreographer and teacher Jean Newlove, and they went through the festive list like any family would. “She made out a list of groceries for me to buy. There were mince pies to make, presents to wrap, the tree to put up,” Newlove recalls. Later that night, after Kirsty dropped her home, they had the kind of parting that becomes unforgettable only in retrospect. “We hugged goodbye. I said, ‘I love you,’ as she walked away, and without looking back she called, ‘And I love you.’” Kirsty with her mother, Jean Eighteen months of almost non stop work had left Kirsty due a break, and Cozumel was already familiar. The island lies twelve miles off the Yucatán, ringed by reefs inside a National Marine Park that restricts motor vessels and sets a four knot speed limit in the dive areas. It is famous for clear water, gentle drift dives, and for being beginner friendly when conditions are right. For her third visit she wanted to introduce her sons Jamie, fifteen, and Louis, thirteen, to the experience with help from a seasoned local divemaster, Iván Díaz. They planned two dives that day at Chankanaab Reef, a popular, relatively shallow site within the protected zone. According to her younger son, the first dive was as magical as she had hoped. “We were going to do two dives,” Louis recalled. “On the first, about 2pm, we all went down together. There were wonderful things there. I came up to the surface first, Mummy was next to me. I said, ‘Wow!’ She smiled and said, ‘Great!’ Then she suddenly screamed, ‘Look out!’ and tried to push us out of the way. The boat was already over us — I could see the propellers.” He swam the way she pushed him, then saw the sea around him change. “I was swimming in Mummy’s blood. I heard Jamie shout, ‘Where’s Mummy?’ I screamed that she’d been hit, and to swim the other way and not look back.” What happened next is stitched together from witness statements and the accounts of those nearby. After slamming through the group, the 31 foot motorboat continued for several hundred feet before stopping, one of its propellers hampered by a bent metal bar that had caught in diving equipment. Díaz, the divemaster, had tried to wave and shout as the craft bore down. He later said that at first he assumed the boat would veer away, then realised the bow was riding high and the engines were too loud for anyone to hear warnings. He remembered the sensation of being pulled toward the blades, the push of the swell helping him yank himself and one of the boys out of the immediate path. What he heard next stayed with him. “Then I heard a crack and a big clang as the propellers hit Kirsty’s tank.” González Nova and the boat that killed Kirsty Back on land, the first calls Kirsty’s mother received in London gave almost no detail. The British consul had not been in touch, and early media reports used words like unavoidable and freak accident. To Jean Newlove, the fragments never added up. Her daughter was careful and experienced, the dive site was controlled, the boys were under supervision, and the park’s rules were meant to prevent precisely this kind of collision. “Kirsty was an experienced diver. She had taken courses and would not go out without a dependable guide. Most of all, she would never have done anything reckless that might endanger the boys. It was surprising that this wealthy Mexican would allow his powerful, valuable boat to be driven by an inexperienced deckhand, especially with a small grandchild on board.” The autopsy findings Two post mortem examinations were carried out. The first took place in Mexico soon after the collision. A second, more comprehensive examination was conducted in London by Dr Richard Shepherd, a senior consultant forensic pathologist. Both concluded that the injuries were catastrophic and incompatible with life. The reports described deep, extensive incised wounds consistent with high energy propeller strikes along the left side and back of the torso. In plain terms, the blades had acted like a series of rapidly repeating knives, producing multiple, overlapping cuts that together formed one devastating trauma track. In Mexico, the initial report recorded a fatal transection through the upper back that extended down toward the waist, damaging the spine and the major blood vessels. In London, Dr Shepherd confirmed that her left leg and part of her chest were virtually severed, and that a single continuous wound ran “from the back of the neck to her waist.” He noted what he called a massive amount of missing tissue and, because the chest wall had been torn away on one side, even remarked that the pattern of absence briefly raised a theoretical question over prior breast surgery. That observation was simply a pathologist’s cautious note. The mechanism of injury was not in doubt. It was violent, mechanical and immediate. Investigators collecting evidence on the beach near the dive Although drowning is a common contributory factor in many propeller incidents, here the cause of death was essentially instantaneous blood loss and destruction of vital structures. There was no meaningful survival interval. The divemaster and other rescuers saw the change in the water within seconds. Paramedics at the jetty could do nothing. Jean Newlove, who last saw her daughter in the coffin and was struck by how peaceful her face looked, did not learn the full extent of the injuries until she travelled to Mexico years later to meet witnesses. “The full details of Kirsty’s injuries are too awful for me to describe. Apparently the paramedic threw up on arriving at the scene. But two boys have to live with those last memories of their mother for the rest of their lives.” However clinical such language sounds, that is all an autopsy really tries to do. It reconstructs the moment. Which way the blades were turning, where the first impact landed, how the cuts aligned with the ribs and spine, what that means for timing. In this case those facts lined up with the eyewitness accounts that placed a fast moving hull in a place where it should not have been. Who was at the helm, and how the courts handled it The boat that struck the group was a powerful craft called Percalito. Mexican and British reporting at the time described members of the González Nova family on board. Early statements from the family and crew said the boat was well outside the park and moving slowly. Divers nearby and the captains of other boats described the opposite: a fast approach over Chankanaab, bow high, engines loud. The question of who was driving became the pivot on which everything else turned. Within hours, a deckhand, José Cen Yam, stepped forward to say he had been at the controls. He did not have the appropriate licence for a boat of that size and power. He claimed he was travelling at one knot and saw no divers or dive boats in the vicinity. Iván Díaz did not believe that account and said so immediately. “After they ran over us, I saw Cen Yam jump forwards from the back of the boat, to the controls. I couldn’t see who was at the wheel because the bow was so high out of the water.” He and other witnesses gave statements to local and port authorities in the days that followed, while the island absorbed the shock and the family tried to navigate unfamiliar procedures far from home. In a climate like that, where wealth and influence meet a small community that depends on tourism, people choose their words carefully. Many preferred to stay quiet. One of the local captains, Félipe Díaz Poot of the Nazareno, put it wryly. “We are poor people. He [González Nova] is the Don — what more is there to say?” In 2003 a local court convicted Cen Yam of culpable homicide. Mexican law allowed him to pay a fine in lieu of jail, calculated against minimum wage rates. It came to a sum reported in the UK as about sixty one pounds, with additional compensation to Kirsty’s sons assessed on a similar basis. For Jean Newlove, that number felt like the definition of insult. “I was sickened, the boys dumbfounded. Is £61 really what the authorities consider my daughter’s life to be worth?” A mother’s campaign, and the limits of the system Jean Newlove did not leave it there. With friends and musicians who loved Kirsty’s work, she helped launch Justice for Kirsty, a sustained effort to push the matter beyond local handling and into federal review. The aim was not vengeance but basic accountability. Was the park’s protected status enforced. Did the boat break the speed limit. Were the right people questioned under oath. And perhaps most painfully, was the young deckhand simply absorbing the legal force on behalf of his betters. The campaign gathered witness statements, commissioned legal advice, pressed the British government to engage, and met with Mexican officials. A BBC documentary followed her trip to the island and helped set out the contradictions. There were small but significant acknowledgements along the way. A federal prosecutor in Cozumel, Emilio Cortez Ramírez, was later found liable for breach of authority in his handling of aspects of the matter, which validated at least some of the concerns about process. Yet the central facts as far as the courts were concerned did not move. The local conviction stood. The figure at the heart of the family’s longer questions did not face trial over the collision. In December 2009, after nine years of steady effort, the Justice for Kirsty committee announced that it would end the campaign. It said that, within the constraints of the law and the time that had passed, most of what could be achieved had been. Remaining funds were donated to charities that matched Kirsty’s interests. Later that year, Carlos González Nova died. In 2017, Jean Newlove died too, remembered both for her work as a Laban movement teacher and for the grace and resolve she showed while fighting for her daughter. The music she left, the person she was It is always tempting to let the last event in a life cast the longest shadow. Kirsty’s work pushes back. She was never the cookie cutter version of an eighties pop star. She wrote with bite and handled melody like a storyteller. She debuted as a songwriter at seventeen with They Don’t Know, which Tracey Ullman later turned into a hit. There was the gleeful There’s a Guy Works Down the Chip Shop Swears He’s Elvis and the annual migration of Fairytale of New York back onto playlists as nights draw in. Collaborators queued up to praise her. Morrissey called her “a supreme original.” Bono placed her in “a long line of great English songwriters that includes Ray Davies, Paul Weller and Morrissey. The Noelle Coward [sic] of her generation.” Johnny Marr said she had “the wit of Ray Davies and the harmonic invention of the Beach Boys, only cooler.” She married producer Steve Lillywhite in 1985 and their sons Jamie and Louis arrived soon after. After the divorce, she carved a rhythm that gave room to motherhood and to the music she wanted to make, working with artists she respected, landing sharp, humane records like Galore, and finishing Tropical Brainstorm with its Latin tilt shortly before the trip to Mexico. Two weeks before she died she had completed an eight part BBC radio series about Cuba’s music and history. She was happy. She was in love with the musician James Knight. She was planning Christmas. On the last afternoon of her life, she was doing exactly what she had set out to do. Share a reef with her boys, surface, smile, and say it was great. Where things stand in 2025 A quarter of a century on, the official record is blunt. The deckhand’s conviction remains the only criminal accountability attached to the case. The protected status of the Chankanaab dive area remains in place, the speed limit still exists on paper, and Cozumel is still one of the world’s busiest dive destinations. Divers and boat operators everywhere know that rules only keep people safe if they are seen and enforced, and the stark physics of engine, hull, propeller and human being do not change with a new calendar. Families who love the water teach each other to look, listen and signal. Good captains throttle back in dive zones and keep a bow lookout. Those are the quiet lessons that endure. What also endures is the way those who loved Kirsty talk about her. That last exchange at the car door. The boys’ memories of the first dive. The plain voices of the men on the water that day. And Jean’s remark, the one that sounds so exactly like a mother who refused to meet tragedy with hollow words. Her tears, she said, were anger more than sorrow. It is a line that cuts through the noise with the same frankness that made her daughter’s songs feel truer than they had to be. Sources Justice for Kirsty campaign overview: https://www.justiceforkirsty.org/ Justice for Kirsty campaign page on kirstymaccoll.com : https://www.kirstymaccoll.com/community/justice-for-kirsty-campaign/ The Guardian, “Kirsty MacColl’s mother ends campaign for justice after nine years,” 11 Dec 2009: https://www.theguardian.com/music/2009/dec/11/kirsty-maccoll-campaign-anniversary-death The Guardian, background reporting, 2004: https://www.theguardian.com/world/2004/aug/28/artsnews.mexico The Independent, “MacColl’s family win first battle in quest for justice,” 8 Oct 2005: https://www.the-independent.com/arts-entertainment/music/news/maccoll-s-family-win-first-battle-in-quest-for-justice-318039.html “Who Killed Kirsty MacColl,” BBC2 documentary listing: https://www.imdb.com/title/tt1223403/ Biographical overview and discography context: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kirsty_MacColl Jean Newlove obituary note, 2017: https://www.jeannewlove.com/

Imagine standing in the Colosseum sometime in the 5th century AD. The once-roaring crowd is gone, the arena lies silent, and the great wooden floor has rotted away. The marble seats are chipped, ivy creeps through the arches, and stray dogs wander where emperors once sat. For centuries, this vast amphitheatre had been the beating heart of Roman entertainment. Completed around 80 AD under Emperor Titus, the Flavian Amphitheatre, better known as the Colosseum, hosted gladiatorial battles, animal hunts, public executions, and lavish spectacles that celebrated imperial might. But when the Roman Empire began to crumble, so too did the need for blood-soaked pageantry. By the early 5th century, the gladiatorial games were banned. The Colosseum, once a symbol of Rome’s power, began its long descent into decay. Yet the story of the Colosseum did not end when the swords were sheathed. It entered a new life, one filled with unexpected roles, unlikely residents, and centuries of reinvention. The fall of the games and the rise of ruins As the empire fractured and resources dwindled, maintaining the Colosseum became impossible. Fires, earthquakes, and neglect left the structure scarred. The arena floor collapsed into its underground chambers, the hypogeum, and weeds began to take root among the stones. By the 6th century, the amphitheatre was no longer an arena of spectacle but a kind of self-contained village. Historical and archaeological evidence suggests that families, traders, and the poor began to build homes and workshops inside its arches. The spaces that once held vendors selling wine and olives during games now sheltered blacksmiths, bakers, and cobblers. The Colosseum became a living ruin, an urban shelter for those left behind in a shrinking city. A refuge for the outcasts Among the most striking chapters of the Colosseum’s later history is its use as a refuge for some of Rome’s most marginalised people, including former sex workers and impoverished women. After the fall of the Western Empire, Rome’s population plummeted. By the early medieval period, much of the city was in ruins. The Colosseum’s enormous interior offered both cover and anonymity, qualities that made it a haven for those society had pushed aside. Church records and later papal documents suggest that women who had left prostitution found shelter there. Some were placed under the supervision of religious orders, as part of broader efforts to reform or redeem them through work and prayer. By the 14th century, the idea of transforming ancient ruins into moral or charitable spaces was common. Pope Sixtus V, a reform-minded pontiff who ruled from 1585 to 1590, famously proposed turning the Colosseum into a wool factory staffed by reformed prostitutes, widows, and poor women. The plan was part of a larger vision to moralise and rebuild the decaying city, offering structure and dignity to those who had been cast out. The project never fully materialised, but the symbolic idea endured: the Colosseum as a house of repentance, a place where sin was exchanged for salvation. Life among the arches Documents from the Archivio Capitolino, Rome’s city archives, confirm that by the late Middle Ages parts of the Colosseum were leased as housing. The tenants were a mix of artisans, labourers, clergy, and women described as living “in enclosure,” a term often used for those in religious penance or under moral supervision. Imagine life there: smoke curling up from makeshift hearths, laundry lines stretching across the arches, and the sound of children echoing through ancient corridors. The amphitheatre that once saw lions roar and gladiators bleed now rang with the clatter of pots, the hum of weaving looms, and the quiet rhythm of survival. This transformation was not just practical. It was profoundly symbolic. A monument once dedicated to cruelty and lust became a shelter for compassion, labour, and redemption. Fortress of the Frangipani By the 12th century, the Colosseum’s strategic value caught the eye of Rome’s feuding noble families. The Frangipani, one of the city’s most powerful dynasties, seized control of the structure and turned it into a fortress. An artist's rendering of what the Colosseum looked like during the Frangipani family's occupation in the 1200's They walled off entrances, fortified the arches, and added towers. From their base inside the amphitheatre, they could control key routes between the Lateran and the Palatine. The Colosseum became not a ruin but a citadel, its arches transformed into battlements. Rival families, including the Annibaldi, fought over it for decades. The echoes of battle replaced the cheers of the crowd. A quarry for popes and palaces The Renaissance brought a different kind of destruction. Rome’s builders saw in the Colosseum not a monument, but a convenient stockpile of marble and travertine. From the 14th to 18th centuries, it was plundered as a quarry. Thousands of tons of stone were stripped away to build churches, palaces, and even parts of St Peter’s Basilica. In 1452, Pope Nicholas V authorised the removal of materials for his own building projects. Later, Sixtus V considered levelling the Colosseum entirely to make space for a new urban plan. Thankfully, that too was abandoned. By the 16th century, travellers described it as half-ruin, half-village, a haunting blend of grandeur and decay. A Christian symbol of martyrdom In time, the Church came to see the Colosseum not as a symbol of pagan Rome but as a site of faith and sacrifice. Although historians debate whether early Christians were actually martyred there, the legend persisted. By the 18th century, the Colosseum had been sanctified as a shrine to Christian martyrs. Pope Benedict XIV declared it sacred in 1749, dedicating it “to the Passion of Christ and the memory of the martyrs.” He installed the Stations of the Cross and banned further quarrying. The amphitheatre’s association with penitent women and moral redemption dovetailed perfectly with its new identity as a place of spiritual triumph over sin. It is poetic to think that the arena once drenched in blood became a space for prayer and forgiveness. "Interior View of the Colosseum in Rome," 1804 (François-Marius Granet) The garden that grew from blood By the 18th and 19th centuries, nature reclaimed the monument. Botanists were astonished by the diversity of plant life growing among the ruins. In 1855, English botanist Richard Deakin catalogued more than 400 species in Flora of the Colosseum of Rome , calling it “a living museum of natural history.” The combination of sunlight, humidity, and ancient stone created microclimates perfect for rare flora. The Colosseum had turned from a place of death into a cradle of life. The dawn of archaeology The 19th century marked a turning point. Archaeologists and preservationists began to treat the Colosseum as a historical treasure rather than a quarry. Pope Pius VII ordered the first major restorations in 1807, adding brick supports to stabilise the outer walls. Excavations revealed the hypogeum, the labyrinth of tunnels and cages beneath the arena floor, offering the first real glimpse into the structure’s complex design. As Italy unified in the 1870s, the Colosseum became a national symbol. It was no longer merely a ruin, but a unifying emblem of Italian heritage and endurance. Mussolini’s monument In the 20th century, the Colosseum was again politicised. Benito Mussolini saw it as a powerful symbol of fascist Italy’s link to ancient Rome. He cleared surrounding medieval buildings and built the Via dei Fori Imperiali, the grand boulevard that still runs beside it. Mass rallies, propaganda marches, and parades passed within sight of the amphitheatre, the old Roman symbol rebranded as an emblem of modern nationalism. “An Interior View of the Colosseum, Rome,” undated (John Warwick Smith) A symbol of life over death Since the year 2000, the Colosseum has taken on a new global role as a symbol against the death penalty. The initiative, organised by the Community of Sant’Egidio in partnership with the City of Rome, was launched as part of the “Cities for Life – Cities Against the Death Penalty” campaign. Whenever a death sentence is commuted, a country abolishes capital punishment, or the United Nations or other international bodies take action toward ending executions, the Colosseum is illuminated at night with soft golden light. The gesture is not nightly, but reserved for significant human rights milestones. For example, the monument has been lit to celebrate the abolition of the death penalty in Turkey (2002), to mark the UN’s call for a global moratorium (2007), and to honour the end of capital punishment in Connecticut (2012). Each year on 30 November, the Colosseum also glows in solidarity with more than 2,000 cities worldwide for Cities for Life Day , commemorating the Grand Duchy of Tuscany’s historic abolition of the death penalty in 1786, the first in modern history. The Community of Sant’Egidio calls this illumination; “a reversal of meaning – where death once entertained, today life is defended.” A living ruin Today, the Colosseum is a paradox, both ruin and resurrection. Its stones carry the marks of every era, the iron clamp holes from its quarrying days, Christian crosses from its sanctification, and traces of medieval walls from when people lived within it. Over nearly two millennia, it has been: An arena for gladiators and beasts A refuge for the poor and penitent women A fortress for noble families A quarry for popes A shrine for martyrs A garden for wildflowers A symbol for nations The historian Filippo Coarelli summed it up beautifully: “The Colosseum has never been dead. It has simply been reborn again and again in the image of those who claimed it.” Looking to the future In recent years, Italian authorities have invested heavily in restoring and reimagining the Colosseum. Plans are underway to add a retractable wooden floor that will allow visitors to experience the space as ancient spectators once did. It is a delicate balance, preserving the monument’s sacred and historical weight while allowing it to live again through performance and culture. In a way, it is just another chapter in the same long story. The Colosseum has always been a mirror of Rome itself: resilient, layered, and endlessly adaptable. From sin to sanctity The story of the Colosseum’s use by former sex workers and the poor is more than a footnote. It is a metaphor for the monument’s survival. Once a symbol of excess and bloodlust, it became a place of repentance and renewal. The same arches that echoed with cheers later rang with prayers. The same corridors that hid animals for slaughter gave shelter to women seeking redemption. In its transformation from arena to sanctuary, the Colosseum reminds us that even the most brutal spaces can become places of refuge, and that Rome’s greatest gift has always been its ability to turn ruin into rebirth. “While stands the Colosseum, Rome shall stand” In the 18th century, English historian Edward Gibbon quoted an old prophecy: “While stands the Colosseum, Rome shall stand;When falls the Colosseum, Rome shall fall;And when Rome falls, the world.” Two thousand years on, the prophecy still feels apt. The Colosseum may have lost its gladiators, but it gained something far greater, immortality through transformation. Sources Claridge, Amanda. Rome: An Oxford Archaeological Guide.  Oxford University Press, 2010. Hopkins, Keith and Beard, Mary. The Colosseum.  Harvard University Press, 2005. Dey, Hendrik. The Afterlife of the Roman City.  Cambridge University Press, 2015. Coarelli, Filippo. Rome and Environs: An Archaeological Guide.  University of California Press, 2007. Deakin, Richard. Flora of the Colosseum of Rome.  Groombridge & Sons, 1855. Vatican Archives, Bullae of Pope Sixtus V  (1588–1590). De Angelis d’Ossat, G. Il Colosseo e il suo restauro.  Rome: Quasar, 1973. Gibbon, Edward. The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.  Penguin Classics, 1994 edition.

For more than thirty years, Vera Coking lived quietly in a three-storey clapboard house just off the Atlantic City Boardwalk. Her home, at 127 South Columbia Place, wasn’t much to look at: white paint peeling, lace curtains faded by sea air, but it was hers. She and her husband had bought it back in 1961 for $20,000 as a seaside retreat. To Vera, it was more than property; it was memory, family, and the simple satisfaction of owning something she loved. That feeling would one day put her squarely against one of the most ruthless businessmen in America: Donald J. Trump . The House That Refused to Budge In the late 1970s, Atlantic City was booming. Casinos were rising like glittering towers, promising fortune and spectacle. Vera’s modest house happened to sit in a prime location, just a short walk from the Boardwalk. Developers came knocking, but Vera wasn’t interested. Her first test came from Penthouse magazine publisher Bob Guccione, who was building the Penthouse Boardwalk Hotel and Casino. He offered Vera $1 million for her house, about $5 million in today’s money. She turned him down flat. Bob Guccione When she refused, Guccione didn’t back down. Instead, he literally built around her house, erecting steel framework that loomed over Vera’s roof like a giant cage. The sight of her small home surrounded by beams and girders became a local curiosity, an early “holdout house” story long before that phrase became internet-famous. But Guccione’s empire ran out of money in 1980, and the half-finished casino was left to rust. The skeleton stayed for over a decade until it was finally torn down in 1993. Through it all, Vera remained. “I loved my home,” she would later say. And she meant it. Enter Donald Trump By the early 1990s, Donald Trump had become Atlantic City’s golden boy, or at least, he liked to think so. His name was plastered on hotels and casinos, and his Trump Plaza towered just next door to Vera’s little house. Trump wanted to build a parking lot for limousines next to his casino to serve his high-rolling guests. Several property owners nearby agreed to sell. But Vera, along with a couple of other holdouts, refused. She had lived there for over three decades by then. She wasn’t going anywhere. Trump, of course, wasn’t used to hearing the word no. As Ivanka Trump once put it, introducing her father at a campaign rally years later: “Donald Trump doesn’t take no for an answer.” Trump personally visited Vera’s home to persuade her to sell. He tried charm, small talk, even gifts, once offering her tickets to a Neil Diamond concert. Vera famously told reporters later, “I didn’t even know who Neil Diamond was.” When the soft approach failed, Trump took another route: legal pressure. The house that Donald Trump couldn’t buy. circa 1991. The time Donald Trump’s empire took on a stubborn widow and lost Eminent Domain and the CRDA Trump turned to a powerful ally, the Casino Reinvestment Development Authority (CRDA), a state agency created to channel casino profits into public and private projects that supposedly benefited New Jersey. By law, 1.25% of all casino gross revenue went to the CRDA, funding everything from housing to road projects. But the agency also wielded a controversial tool: eminent domain. Eminent domain, rooted in the Fifth Amendment to the U.S. Constitution, allows the government to take private property for public use, provided the owner is given “just compensation.” Over time, the definition of “public use” had broadened, sometimes including private developments deemed to serve the public good. In Trump’s case, the CRDA offered Vera $250,000 for her home, just a quarter of what Guccione had offered her ten years earlier. When she refused, the CRDA filed to seize her property in court. The plan was simple: bulldoze Vera’s house and turn it into a parking lot for Trump Plaza limos. Trump defended his actions by painting Vera as a greedy obstacle. “This is a tough, cunning, crafty person who has purposely allowed this property to go to hell, right at the foot of the entrance to Atlantic City so that she can get a higher price,” he said at the time. Vera’s response was sharper. She called Trump “a maggot, cockroach, and crumb.” Vera in the building site outside her home “They Could Do This in Russia, But Not Here” Vera wasn’t alone in her fight. Nearby, Peter Banin and his brother had bought a building for a pawn shop for $500,000. The CRDA soon offered them $174,000 and told them to clear out. Banin, a Russian immigrant, was stunned. “I knew they could do this in Russia , but not here,” he said. “I would understand if they needed it for an airport runway, but for a casino?” The homeowners banded together, determined to fight the seizure. With the help of attorney Glenn Zeitz and the Institute for Justice, a libertarian public interest law firm, they launched a court battle that dragged on for years. “TRUMPED!” On July 20, 1998, Vera Coking and her neighbours finally won. Superior Court Judge Richard Williams ruled against the CRDA, saying that because there were “no limits” on what Trump could do with the property, the plan didn’t meet the legal test for eminent domain. There was no guarantee that Trump would actually use the land for the stated public purpose. Essentially, the court said the CRDA couldn’t just hand private land to a private developer for a parking lot. The New York Post celebrated the decision with the headline: “TRUMPED!” Attorney Glenn Zeitz quipped to Trump afterward that there would be three women he’d never forget: “Ivana, Marla, and Vera.” Fighting Fire (Literally) Vera’s battle wasn’t just in the courts. During the construction and demolition around her property, workers allegedly damaged her home. At one point, they even started a fire in her attic. Vera sued Trump and the demolition company for the damage and settled for $90,000. Trump, characteristically, didn’t back down in the press. “She wasn’t an innocent little darling I was dealing with,” he sneered, later calling her “a very litigious person.” After the Victory Despite her victory, life in Atlantic City grew tougher for Vera. The casino boom began to fade, and Trump’s empire wasn’t immune. His properties went bankrupt multiple times, and by the late 1990s, his flashy reputation had dimmed in the city that once embraced him. Meanwhile, Vera simply stayed put. Her house became something of a local landmark, a stubborn reminder of resistance amid the city’s garish sprawl. Tourists would stop and point, marvelling at the tiny home that defied the billionaire next door. But time eventually caught up with her. In 2010, Vera moved to California to be closer to her daughter and grandchildren as her health declined. She transferred ownership of the house to her daughter, who listed it for sale in 2011. The asking price was an optimistic $5 million. By 2013, it had dropped to $1 million. Finally, in 2014, after more than fifty years of ownership, the property sold at auction for $583,000 to billionaire Carl Icahn, the man who, ironically, held the debt on Trump Entertainment, which owned Trump Plaza. Icahn had the house demolished that November. The End of Trump’s Atlantic City Era The story came full circle seven years later. Trump Plaza, the casino that started it all, closed in September 2014 and sat vacant for years. In February 2021, it was finally demolished. Crowds gathered to watch the implosion, many cheering as the structure crumbled to dust, a symbol of Trump’s long and troubled relationship with Atlantic City. For the city, his four-decade legacy had ended in rubble. “It Was Never About the Money” In the end, Vera Coking didn’t make a fortune from her defiance. She never wanted to. “It was never about the money,” she said. “I loved my home.” Her fight became a symbol of ordinary people standing up against the misuse of power, especially the kind that disguises private gain as public good. Eminent domain battles have continued across the United States, and the law remains controversial. In 2005, the Supreme Court’s decision in Kelo v. City of New London upheld the government’s right to seize private property for private development, provided it served a broader “public purpose.” The backlash to Kelo led many states to pass tighter restrictions. But Vera Coking’s story, decades earlier, had already shown what one person could do with courage, persistence, and a deep attachment to home. She passed away quietly in California a few years later, far from the Boardwalk she once fought to protect. A Legacy of Defiance Looking back, it’s easy to see why Vera’s story still resonates. Against powerful forces, developers, government agencies, and a future president, she stood her ground. She wasn’t a lawyer, a politician, or a celebrity. She was a widow in a modest wooden house who simply refused to be bullied. And in the process, she became a folk hero for property rights, a thorn in Trump’s side, and a reminder that sometimes the smallest house can cast the longest shadow. Sources Cato Institute / David Boaz, “Donald Trump and Eminent Domain Abuse.” Philadelphia Inquirer, “The Widow Who Beat Trump.” Wikipedia, “Vera Coking.” Institute for Justice, Case Files: Coking v. Casino Reinvestment Development Authority . New York Post Archives, July 1998 headline: “TRUMPED!”

If you were lucky enough to be invited to Ivan Aivazovsky’s 70th birthday party in 1887, you didn’t leave with just a slice of cake and a handshake, you walked away with a painting. And not just any painting. Each of the 150 guests received an original, hand-painted seascape, created by the great marine artist himself, delicately painted on a tiny photographic portrait of Aivazovsky at work, brush in hand. For a man known for canvases that could swallow a wall whole, this was a striking departure. But it was also pure Aivazovsky: a mix of generosity, showmanship, and artistry that made him one of the most fascinating painters of the 19th century. Ivan Aivazovsky A Storm on Canvas Born in 1817 in the Crimean port of Feodosia to Armenian parents, Ivan Konstantinovich Aivazovsky grew up surrounded by the sea. The sound of waves, the changing light over the water, and the bustle of ships in the harbour shaped both his childhood and his creative spirit. He once said, “The movement of the sea and the glare of the sun are things that mesmerise me.” By his early twenties, he was a sensation in the Russian Empire’s art scene. His immense oil paintings of turbulent seas, glowing with moonlight or fire-red sunsets, seemed to capture something more profound than realism. They were emotional, romantic, and almost cinematic in scale. The Ninth Wave Take his 1850 masterpiece The Ninth Wave : a colossal painting measuring nearly 11 feet across, showing survivors of a shipwreck clinging to debris as a blazing dawn breaks over monstrous waves. The light, a hallmark of Aivazovsky’s work, is almost supernatural, bathing the sea in a red-gold hue that suggests both destruction and hope. Critics at the time compared him to Turner for his treatment of atmosphere and to Byron for his passion. But Aivazovsky didn’t just paint the sea, he celebrated  it. And in doing so, he became the Russian Empire’s most famous marine painter, his name revered from St. Petersburg to Constantinople. The 1887 Birthday Gift: A Thousandth the Size, Twice the Charm By 1887, Aivazovsky was a national treasure. He had painted for tsars, built his own gallery in Feodosia, and received countless honours. But to mark his 70th birthday, he decided to do something completely different, something playful and personal. At a grand dinner attended by 150 guests, Aivazovsky presented each person with a gift: a unique miniature seascape painted directly onto a photograph of himself. Each photo shows him at an easel, poised mid-brushstroke. In one variation, he’s looking at the canvas; in another, he’s looking directly at the viewer. The paintings themselves are astonishingly small, just 10.6 by 7.3 centimetres (around 4 by 3 inches), nearly a thousand times smaller than The Ninth Wave.  Yet, within that tiny space, Aivazovsky managed to capture the same drama of light and movement that defined his full-sized canvases: waves crashing, skies glowing, sails billowing in the distance. Some of these little treasures were signed and dated, while others appear to have been made later, suggesting that he continued giving them as gifts beyond his birthday. In a way, they were the 19th-century equivalent of limited-edition artist prints, except each was unique and hand-painted by the master himself. The size of his paintings A Prolific Genius and His Critics Aivazovsky’s productivity was legendary. By the time of his death in 1900, he had produced around 6,000 paintings, an astonishing number for any artist. His brush seemed tireless, his imagination endless. But not everyone was impressed by his speed. The influential Russian art critic Vladimir Stasov didn’t mince words: “One who takes two hours to finish a painting should keep this unfortunate secret to himself! One should not go disclosing things like this, especially in front of young students! They should not be taught such carelessness and machine-like habits.” To Stasov, Aivazovsky’s rapid execution risked turning art into routine, robbing it of depth and reflection. Yet others saw his swiftness as a kind of genius, an instinctive mastery that allowed him to capture the sea’s fleeting moods before they vanished. Indeed, Aivazovsky often painted from memory, not direct observation. He claimed to remember the sea “in all its moods” and could conjure up storms or sunsets with almost photographic accuracy. His brushstrokes were fluid, his confidence absolute. In one story, he was reportedly challenged by students to paint a storm without any reference material. He accepted and within hours produced a vast, swirling seascape that left them speechless. Fame, Self-Promotion, and Gilded Furniture By the late 19th century, Aivazovsky wasn’t just famous, he was fabulously wealthy. He built a lavish mansion in Feodosia complete with marble halls, gilded furniture, and his own private art gallery, which he opened to the public in 1880. Visitors were stunned. The writer Alexander Vladimirovich , who visited in 1890, left a less-than-flattering account: “If you did not know that in front of you was the creator of The Ninth Wave , you would probably take him for a painter who had sunk into smug self-contemplation of his own bureaucratic position, proud of finally having worked his way up to a certain salary that allowed him to acquire gilded furniture and hang a full-length portrait of himself in full regalia in the living room to impress visitors.” It’s easy to see how his extravagant tastes and those self-portrait gifts might have rubbed some people the wrong way. Aivazovsky loved recognition. He often signed his name in grand, sweeping script, and he wasn’t shy about reminding others of his achievements. But perhaps that confidence was part of what made him such a force. He understood the importance of image, of branding, long before the term existed. In the world of 19th-century art, where most painters relied on royal patronage or the mercy of critics, Aivazovsky carved out something closer to modern celebrity. The Sea as Memory and Metaphor Despite his critics, Aivazovsky’s work endured because of its emotional power. His seas are not just depictions of water and sky; they’re metaphors for life itself, unpredictable, luminous, and vast. He once said, “The sky and the sea are boundless, and in them lies the mystery of the soul.” Many of his later paintings, particularly those made after the loss of his wife, showcase a more melancholy tone. The waves are softer, the skies paler. Yet even in sadness, there’s light. His ability to transform grief into beauty is perhaps what makes his art timeless. His miniature seascapes, painted on his own photograph, can be read as a symbolic gesture, the artist placing himself quite literally inside his work, a man and his sea merged into one. A Pioneer of Mixed Media What makes those tiny birthday paintings even more remarkable is their innovation. By embedding painted seascapes into photographs, Aivazovsky effectively became an early pioneer of mixed media, decades before avant-garde artists would experiment with collage and photomontage. Artists like Hannah Höch and John Heartfield in the 1920s, or Robert Rauschenberg in the 1950s, are often credited with blurring the boundaries between painting and photography. But Aivazovsky did it first, albeit in a more romantic and less subversive way. His work sits at an intriguing crossroads: part fine art, part self-portrait, part souvenir. It shows that even at 70, he was still willing to experiment, still eager to surprise his audience. A Lasting Legacy Ivan Aivazovsky died in 1900, reportedly at his easel, brush still in hand. His final painting, The Explosion of a Turkish Ship,  was left unfinished. Today, his legacy endures not just in museums like the Hermitage and the Tretyakov Gallery , but also in Feodosia, where his home and studio have been preserved as the Aivazovsky National Art Gallery. His seascapes continue to command staggering prices at auction, some selling for millions. But perhaps his most charming legacy lies in those small photographic gifts. These tiny hybrids of painting and portraiture tell us so much about who Aivazovsky was: confident, sentimental, endlessly inventive, and perhaps just a little vain. As art historian Gianni Caffiero once remarked, “Aivazovsky did not simply paint the sea, he was the sea. His moods, his brilliance, his storms, all of them lived through him.” So whether you stand before the monumental sweep of The Ninth Wave  or hold one of his palm-sized miniatures, you’re witnessing the same boundless imagination, a man forever chasing the light across the horizon. Sources State Russian Museum archives Gianni Caffiero & Ivan Samarine, Ivan Aivazovsky: Catalogue Raisonné of Paintings  (2000) “Ivan Aivazovsky and the Sea,” Tretyakov Gallery Magazine, Issue 3, 2017 Vladimir Stasov, Selected Critical Essays on Russian Art  (1894) Alexander Vladimirovich, travel notes (1890), Feodosia Archives Hermitage Museum online collection: www.hermitagemuseum.org Aivazovsky National Art Gallery, Feodosia: www.feogallery.ru

Imagine living in a time when curiosity meant entertainment and difference meant spectacle. That was the world Grace McDaniels was born into in 1888, a world that looked at people who didn’t “fit the mould” with a mix of fascination and cruelty. Grace, often billed as the “Mule-Faced Woman,” became one of the most recognisable sideshow performers of her era, yet behind the banners and headlines was a deeply kind woman who lived her life with quiet dignity and grace. Born in the small farming community of Valeska, near Numa, Iowa, Grace entered the world to “perfectly normal” parents, with no family history of deformity. Her facial appearance was the result of a rare condition known today as Sturge–Weber syndrome, a congenital disorder affecting the skin, neurological system, and sometimes facial features. It gave Grace a distinctive appearance that the entertainment world of the early 20th century would cruelly capitalise on. But Grace wasn’t just a “curiosity” on a circus poster. She was a mother, a businesswoman, and a woman who managed to transform what society saw as a tragedy into a career that allowed her to travel, earn a living, and care for her child. Early Life in Iowa Grace’s early years were spent on the family farm. Accounts from locals later described her as shy but determined. Despite struggling to speak as a young child, she gradually gained fluency and confidence. Her speech difficulties may have been tied to her condition, but she never let them stop her from communicating or connecting with others. The late 19th and early 20th centuries were not kind to those with physical differences. Many people with visible deformities were shunned, institutionalised, or hidden from public life. Grace’s entry into the world of sideshows was, for her, a way to reclaim her life and her independence. From “Ugliest Woman” to Circus Star In 1935, Grace’s life took a dramatic turn when she entered and won a contest billed as “The Ugliest Woman” competition. What might sound cruel today was, at the time, a form of public spectacle that drew huge crowds. It was this win that caught the attention of Harry Lewiston, a well-known showman and owner of Harry Lewiston’s Traveling Circus . Lewiston’s show was part of a long American tradition of “freak shows” that displayed people with rare physical traits or medical conditions. While modern audiences would find the idea exploitative, these shows often offered financial stability and even a degree of fame for people who had few other options in a deeply prejudiced society. Grace with her son, Elmer Grace joined the circus and quickly became one of its highest-paid performers, earning $175 per week, a considerable sum during the 1930s, especially in the midst of the Great Depression. She travelled extensively across the United States and Canada, performing for fascinated crowds who came to see the “Mule-Faced Woman.” Despite her professional success, Grace remained humble and private. She disliked being photographed and felt that over-publicising her image would show a lack of self-respect. This sense of dignity set her apart from some other performers of the era who leaned into the sensationalism of sideshow life. Behind the Tent: Grace as a Mother and Woman Offstage, Grace McDaniels lived an entirely different life. She was known by those around her as gentle, kind, and remarkably nurturing. She married briefly in the 1930s and later gave birth to her son, Elmer. He was, by all accounts, her greatest joy. Grace with her son Elmer and her husband “Her greatest treasure,” Grace once called Elmer, and it showed. Elmer would eventually travel with his mother, helping to manage her bookings and finances as she toured with Lewiston’s show. The duo formed a close-knit family, living much of their lives on the road together. Friends and colleagues recalled how protective Grace was of her son and how hard she worked to provide him with stability in a world that was often unpredictable. Despite the harshness of the sideshow circuit, she carved out a home wherever she went, even if that home was a caravan or a tent pitched in a muddy fairground. The Duality of Sideshow Life To understand Grace McDaniels’ life, one must also understand the sideshow world she inhabited. The 1930s and 1940s were the golden age of American circus and sideshow entertainment. Names like P.T. Barnum had already paved the way for performers such as Schlitzie the Pinhead, Johnny Eck, and Daisy and Violet Hilton, all of whom lived their lives under the big top spotlight. For performers like Grace, the sideshow was both a livelihood and a form of acceptance. While audiences often gawked in shock or pity, within the circus community itself, performers were treated with respect and affection. The circus, for all its exploitative undertones, provided a place where difference wasn’t hidden away but rather became part of a shared, if unconventional, family. Rose Lewiston (far left), Eli Lewiston (child on left), Harry Lewiston (far right), and several of their performing "freaks." Identified performers include Grace McDaniels the "Mule-Faced Woman" (just left of center in the back row; most of her face is hidden) and Tony Marino the sword swallower (in suit and tie). Grace, who reportedly avoided alcohol and never swore, became something of a “mother figure” among the performers. Her humility and sense of dignity earned her the admiration of her peers. Harry Lewiston himself, in his memoir 'In Spite of Everything: The Story of My Life' (1950), referred to her with great respect, noting that she was “as fine a lady as ever graced a sideshow stage.” A Quiet End to an Extraordinary Life Grace continued performing for more than two decades. By the 1950s, the era of the sideshow was beginning to wane. Television and changing cultural attitudes made live exhibitions of human difference less popular and less acceptable. Grace in later years In her later years, Grace’s health began to fail, though she continued touring as long as she could. She passed away in 1958 in Chicago, between tour stops, just three days shy of her 70th birthday. Her death was attributed to natural causes. She was buried near her family, far from the carnival lights and crowds that had defined much of her life. Those who knew her said she faced the world’s cruelty with an unbreakable calm and a refusal to be pitied. Legacy Grace McDaniels’ life is more than a story of a sideshow performer. It’s a reflection of how society once viewed difference and how individuals like Grace managed to carve out dignity in a world that often denied them that right. While the posters and circus flyers of the time may have sold her as a curiosity, those who met her remembered a woman of warmth, intelligence, and resilience. Today, the circus world has evolved. The idea of displaying people for entertainment is largely gone, replaced by performance artistry that celebrates talent rather than deformity. Yet, figures like Grace McDaniels remain an important part of that history, not as spectacles, but as pioneers who lived courageously in the face of judgment. As disability historian Robert Bogdan noted in Freak Show: Presenting Human Oddities for Amusement and Profit , many performers of the era “did not see themselves as victims but as working professionals.” Grace embodied that spirit fully, a woman who refused shame, embraced her humanity, and provided for her family on her own terms. Conclusion Grace McDaniels lived in a world that wanted to turn her into a spectacle, but she reclaimed that narrative, building a life filled with love, respect, and resilience. Her condition may have drawn attention, but her heart, dignity, and devotion to her children are what made her unforgettable. In a society that still struggles with how it views physical difference, her story remains relevant, a testament to the power of self-respect even when the world stares. Sources Bogdan, Robert. Freak Show: Presenting Human Oddities for Amusement and Profit.  University of Chicago Press, 1988. Lewiston, Harry and Francis Gasque. See Here, Private Hargrove!  Chicago: Wilcox and Follett, 1949. Freaks and Human Oddities Archive. "Grace McDaniels: The Mule-Faced Woman." Accessed via circus historical society databases. Sturge-Weber Foundation. “Understanding Sturge-Weber Syndrome.” https://sturge-weber.org Iowa Historical Review. “The Life of Grace McDaniels.” Local archive publication, 1995. Show History. “The Circus Women Who Rewrote the Rules.” https://circushistory.org

On the morning of February 1, 1979, after completing a detoxification program, Sid Vicious was released from Rikers Island. He arrived in Manhattan, and by chance, met his friend Peter Gravelle. Vicious asked Gravelle to find him some heroin. Gravelle brought $200 worth of the drug to the apartment of Michele Robison at 63 Bank Street, where he joined Vicious, Robison, and Vicious' mother, Anne Beverley, Jerry Only of the band Misfits, Eileen Polk, Jerry Nolan, Ester Herskovits, and Howie Pyro. Gravelle said that they sat around doing drugs, and he left at 3:00 a.m. Only said that he and Anne Beverley made dinner, and that he, Polk, and Pyro left early, when the drug use began. He noted that Vicious was already nodding off, but Gravelle said that Robison gave Vicious four quaaludes to help him sleep. Vicious died in the night of a drug overdose. Robison and his mother discovered his body the next morning. Anne Beverley claimed that Vicious and Spungen had made a suicide pact and that Vicious's death was not accidental. She produced a handwritten note, which she said she found in the pocket of Vicious's leather jacket, reading "We had a death pact, and I have to keep my half of the bargain. Please bury me next to my baby. Bury me in my leather jacket, jeans and motorcycle boots. Goodbye." The note found in Vicious' pocket According to Deborah Spungen, Vicious wrote a letter to her when he was last hospitalised, saying approximately the same thing. "We always knew that we would go to the same place when we died", he wrote. "We so much wanted to die together in each other's arms. I cry every time I think about that. I promised my baby that I would kill myself if anything ever happened to her, and she promised me the same. This is my final commitment to my love." Spungen was Jewish, and is buried in a Jewish cemetery in Pennsylvania. As an inter-faith burial was not permitted, Vicious's body was cremated Vicious with his mum, Anne Beverley Less than four months after the death of Spungen, Vicious stood accused of murdering her in the bathroom of their suite at the Chelsea Hotel. But four decades on, what really happened in Room 100 still remains unclear. Born John Simon Ritchie in Lewisham was only 21 when he died. Vicious had been held for assaulting Patti Smith’s brother Todd with a broken bottle while out on bail following his arrest on suspicion of murdering Spungen. She had died of a stab wound to the abdomen on 12 October 1978. Vicious’s fatal relapse at his release party meant he would never be convicted of her killing, although the certainty he was responsible has long lingered. Sid and Nancy in happier times And Vicious did initially confess to the crime, declaring “I did it … Because I’m a dirty dog”, before retracting his statement, saying he had been asleep when it happened. The quantity of barbiturates he is known to have consumed that night – 30 Tuinal tablets, a powerful sedative, would certainly support the argument he was “out cold” at the time. The morning had began as always. The residents tended to sleep late, but a few lumbered across the street for a swim at the Y or went for coffee at the corner diner. At about eleven o’clock, the clerk at the front desk received a call from outside the hotel. A man who did not identify himself told the clerk, “There’s trouble in Room 100.” Chelsea Hotel on West 23rd The clerk sent a bellman to check out the situation, but before he returned, another call came in from room 100. “Someone is sick,” a different male voice said. “Need help.” The bellman entered the room and saw, to his horror, Nancy’s blood-smeared body in only a black bra and panties lying face-up on the floor, her head under the sink and a knife wound in her lower abdomen. A trail of blood led from the bathroom to the bloodstained, empty bed. The bellman ran downstairs and told the desk clerk, and he called for an ambulance. The paramedics confirmed that Nancy was dead, and the police who accompanied them soon found a bloodstained hunting knife with the couple’s drugs and drug paraphernalia. They found Sid, too, wandering the hallways, crying and agitated, obviously high. When his next-door neighbour came out of her room to see what was going on, Sid reportedly said, “I killed her . . . I can’t live without her,” but he also seemed to mutter through his tears, “She must have fallen on the knife.” Nancy Spungen lying deceased in her bathroom in The Chelsea Hotel Once the news broke in the press, the Chelsea Hotel was besieged by reporters, its residents cornered and questioned. One obliging friend of the couple claimed that Sid was known to beat Nancy with his guitar occasionally and had once held a hunting knife to her throat. Inside the hotel, the rumour mill churned. Many have speculated the whole tragic episode was the result of a botched suicide pact, the couple romanticised as punk’s very own Romeo and Juliet. Sex Pistols manager Malcolm McLaren, admittedly never an entirely trustworthy source, remained unwavering in his defence of Vicious, criticising the police investigation into the incident and telling The Daily Beast in 2009: “She was the first and only love of his life ... I am positive about Sid’s innocence.” Sex Pistols bassist Sid Vicious being escorted out of the Chelsea Hotel by police officers. An alternative case has been made by Phil Strongman in Pretty Vacant: A History of UK Punk (2007), arguing that one Rockets Redglare – a bodyguard, drug dealer and hanger-on who died in 2001 – could be the true culprit, stabbing Spungen with a bowie knife after she confronted him about his stealing from Vicious. Redglare, Strongman says, was heard boasting openly about committing the murder to fellow revellers at CBGB’s, New York’s punk mecca . And it’s true that cash was certainly lifted from Vicious’s room that night. He was in the money: he had recently capitalised on his notoriety by releasing a cover of “My Way”, vandalising Frank Sinatra’ s signature song and bankrolling his appetite for narcotics with the proceeds. Nancy leaves the Chelsea for the last time. But at the same time, there were questions about the mysterious Michael, now checked out of the hotel, who some said was later seen with a wad of cash secured with Nancy’s purple hair tie. It was hard to settle on a theory, some darkly joked, since just about everyone would have relished killing Nancy. A few even believed she killed herself, part of a suicide pact that Sid had been too stoned to complete. The only people uninterested in pursuing these questions, it seemed, were the police, who remained convinced that Sid was their murderer even after he retracted his confession, claiming he couldn’t remember anything. Contemptuous of Nancy and satisfied with the story of a punk gone mad, they closed their eyes to the obvious holes in their case. In the meantime, Vicious, released on bail with the fifty-thousand-dollar bond provided by Richard Branson of Virgin Records, descended into a deep depression as the reality of his lover’s death sank in. Dazed and shaking, his eyes glazed over, Sid wanted only to attend Nancy’s funeral. Every day without her was agonizing, he wrote to her mother, and each day was worse than the one before. When Barry Miles spotted him upstairs at Max’s Kansas City in late October, it was obvious that Sid was back on smack. It was a horrible sight, Miles later wrote: “fawning punks, all trying to buy Vicious drinks or hand him drugs while he staggered about, puffy-faced, one eye almost closed, barely able to mumble.” Finally, ten days after the murder, Vicious tried to slash his wrists with a broken light bulb and was carted off to Bellevue screaming, “I want to die!” A yearbook photo of Nancy Deborah Spungen, Nancy’s mother, arrived in New York from Philadelphia stunned by the news and grieving, though, as the mother of a heroin addict, not really surprised. Still, she was appalled by the detectives’ obvious assumption that a girl like Nancy was just another piece of female refuse in a city that had seen more than its share, that she’d deserved what had happened to her, and that she should now be swept off the streets and forgotten. It was a sentiment echoed in the British tabloid headline “Nancy Was a Witch!,” in the cruel jokes at her expense on "The Tonight Show" and "Saturday Night Live," and in the unending stream of hate calls the Spungens received at home. It was a strange world in which the victim of violence could inspire such loathing, Deborah reflected. Something about an unprotected young woman out in the world, refusing to obey the strictures placed on others, always had and apparently always would provoke society’s rage. Whatever the truth, Vicious and Spungen have become as inseparable in death as Cathy and Heathcliff – not least as a result of Alex Cox’s 1986 biopic Sid & Nancy , starring Gary Oldman and Chloe Webb. That film speculated that Vicious did stab her, albeit while keeping it ambiguous as to whether it was intentional or accidental. Vicious after a court appearence Vicious on Nancy's death Their outlaw image has been reproduced ever since, almost to the point of meaninglessness. Today, their importance as icons far outstrips Vicious’s minimal accomplishments as a musician. McLaren called Vicious “the ultimate DIY punk idol: someone easy to assemble and therefore become”. John Lydon, the Pistols’ snarling frontman, expressed his regret at ever having drafted his childhood friend into the band, remarking in 2014: “He didn’t stand a chance. His mother was a heroin addict. I feel bad that I brought him into the band, he couldn’t cope at all. I feel a bit responsible for his death.” Rumour has it that it was Vicious’s mother, Anne Beverley, who had supplied the heroin that killed him and it was her who found his body the next morning, lying on the floor next to a needle and a charred spoon. Described by Lydon as “an oddball hippie” in Rotten: No Irish, No Blacks, No Dogs (1993), Beverley had separated from Vicious’s father and moved around a lot during his childhood, including a spell in Ibiza where she reportedly sold cannabis to make a living. She finally settled in Hackney. A vain but unpredictable adolescent in thrall to Eddie Cochran and glam rock, Sid Vicious was given his name by Lydon in honour of the latter’s pet hamster; both were prone to bite. In punk’s earliest days, Vicious was a regular at Oxford Street’s 100 Club, known for clearing the dance floor by swinging a bike chain, throwing drinks, and apparently inventing pogo dancing by leaping up and down on the spot to get a clearer look at the stage. He was the original drummer for Siouxsie and the Banshees at their first gig at the venue and was one of the many members of the aborted Flowers of Romance, a band that might have amounted to a super-group had it ever got off the ground; its members included Viv Albertine and Palmolive of The Slits, Keith Levene who was later in Lydon’s Public Image Limited, and Marco Pirroni, guitarist to Adam Ant. Joining the Pistols in 1977 gave Vicious an outlet for his anger. The band’s meteoric rise, and fall, from the Manchester Lesser Free Trade Hall to their final show at San Francisco’s Winterland Ballroom, was as brilliant as it was brief. Vicious' death certificate The Sex Pistols, a runaway train of engineered chaos and anti-establishment provocation steered by the extremely canny McLaren, allowed Vicious to indulge his every primal instinct for an audience of enraptured teens drawn to his sneering persona. The drug-taking wasn’t the half of it; his self-destructive, attention-seeking behaviour even stretched to self-harming with the serrated lid of a Heinz Baked Beans tin, while he and Spungen would burn each other’s arms with cigarettes. Accounts of what Vicious was really like vary depending on who you ask. Stories of his physically abusing Spungen, vomiting on groupies, strangling cats, and brawling with rednecks on the Pistols’ disastrous US tour certainly abound. But others who knew him tell a different story. Steve Severin of the Banshees has commented that “he had a brilliant sense of humour, goofy, sweet, and very cute”. Spungen’s middle-class mother, Deborah, recalls him as being endearingly shy, childlike and inarticulate when he visited her at home in Philadelphia. And he was certainly desperately in love with her daughter. In her own book about Sid and Nancy, And I Don’t Want to Live This Life (1983), its title one of Vicious’s own lines, Deborah records him telling her tearfully over the phone from prison: “I don’t know why I’m alive anymore, now that Nancy is gone.” And what of Nancy? The 20-year-old is usually written off as a destructive junkie, a low-life chancer and a bad influence on everyone she met. Spungen was to the Pistols what Yoko Ono had been to The Beatles and Courtney Love would be to Nirvana, the argument goes. Worse, she was a contaminant, importing heroin chic from New York to London when she followed another punk band, Johnny Thunders and the Heartbreakers, across the Atlantic. But there is more than a hint of misogyny in such dismissals. Sid Vicious, Nancy Spungen & Lemmy from Motorhead She is also now believed to have had an undiagnosed psychiatric condition. Her mother’s memoir describes Spungen’s disturbing behaviour as a child, from threatening her siblings during temper tantrums to attacking a babysitter with scissors. Ultimately, Sid and Nancy’s grotty demise stands as a cautionary tale, warning that the ruinous nihilism they came to represent amounted to little more than a dead-end. Their defiance led them only to a darkened room at the Chelsea Hotel, and a spiral of mutually-assured destruction. The post-punk and new wave movements that Lydon and his peers went on to embrace were far more optimistic, joyous and experimental, entertaining grander visions of a better world – something that Vicious and Spungen seemingly couldn’t imagine, and tragically never saw. The “no future” refrain from “God Save the Queen” proved to be a self-fulfilling prophecy for the young lovers. Sources Sex Pistols’ Sid Vicious on Trial for the Murder of Girlfriend (Dengrove Collection) https://archives.law.virginia.edu/dengrove/writeup/sex-pistols-sid-vicious-trial-murder-girlfriend   Flashback: Nancy Spungen Found Dead at Chelsea Hotel (Rolling Stone) https://www.rollingstone.com/culture/culture-news/flashback-nancy-spungen-found-dead-at-chelsea-hotel-118648/   Room 100: Sid, Nancy, and the Night Punk Rock Died (Library Journal review) https://www.libraryjournal.com/review/room-100-sid-nancy-and-the-night-punk-rock-died-2254162   Who Killed Nancy? — British Council / film project page https://filmsandfestivals.britishcouncil.org/projects/who-killed-nancy   Sid Vicious / Anne Beverley (lot / auction description referencing note and pact) https://www.christies.com/en/lot/lot-4562747   “Inside Sid Vicious’s drug-fuelled last party” (The Independent) https://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/music/features/sid-vicious-death-anniversary-nancy-b2486804.html   How Did Sid Vicious Die and Did He Kill Nancy Spungen? (Newsweek) https://www.newsweek.com/how-sid-vicious-died-did-he-kill-nancy-spungen-sex-pistols-pistol-fx-hulu-1711609   “Bury me in my leather jacket, blue jeans and motorcycle boots” (analysis of the note) https://a-desk.org/en/magazine/enterradme-con-mi-chaqueta-de-cuero-mis-vaqueros-y-mis-botas-de-motorista/   The Tragic Suicide Note Sid Vicious Left Behind (Scribd document) https://www.scribd.com/document/638288713/The-tragic-suicide-note-Sid-Vicious-left-behind   “After 30 years, a new take on Sid, Nancy and a punk rock mystery” (The Guardian) https://www.theguardian.com/music/2009/jan/20/sid-vicious-film   Inside The True Story Of Sex Pistols Bassist Sid Vicious (AllThat’s Interesting) https://allthatsinteresting.com/sid-vicious   Not So Lonesome Death of Nancy Spungen — BardachReports https://www.bardachreports.com/not-so-lonesome-death-of-nancy-spunge

In the remote Blenio Valley of Ticino, on the southern side of the Swiss Alps, a man once roamed its rugged paths armed with a camera, capturing the vivid tapestry of village life. That man, Roberto Donetta, was not a celebrated artist in his time but rather a destitute seed pedlar with a knack for photography. Between 1900 and 1930, he produced over 5,000 glass plate negatives, documenting a world that was as isolated as it was rich in character. His images, rediscovered decades after his death in 1932, reveal the life work of a man that clearly had an abundance of natural talent for visual storytelling. A Life of Struggles Roberto Donetta was born in the Blenio Valley, a region that epitomised rural poverty in late 19th-century Switzerland. Life in this Italian-speaking enclave was harsh, with limited opportunities forcing many to emigrate. Donetta was no exception. Like his neighbours, he left the valley in search of work. Initially, he travelled to Northern Italy, where he sold chestnuts on the streets to make ends meet. Later, he found himself in London, peddling seeds. These experiences not only exposed him to different worlds but likely shaped his understanding of people and their daily struggles, a theme that would later dominate his photography. At 21, Donetta married and went on to have seven children. Yet, despite his best efforts, he struggled to provide for his family. Somewhere along the way, he met Dionigi Sorgesa, a sculptor who became a pivotal figure in Donetta’s life. Sorgesa taught him the basics of photography and gifted him his first camera, igniting a passion that would give Donetta’s life a new direction. The Wandering Photographer Returning to Switzerland, Donetta merged his trade as a seed pedlar with his newfound love of photography. With a heavy plate camera and portable backdrops in tow, he travelled from village to village, offering his services as a photographer. He captured the people of the Blenio Valley in their most authentic moments: blacksmiths hammering at their forges, butchers laughing together, children playing in sun-dappled woods, and families mourning at funerals. His photographs were far more than simple documentation. The compositions were carefully considered, the lighting meticulously balanced, and the subjects imbued with a striking presence. It was clear that Donetta saw himself as an artist, even if he lacked formal recognition or financial success. His images possess a timeless quality, their clarity and depth pulling the viewer into the lives of his subjects. But despite his artistry, Donetta’s financial situation remained precarious. He barely scraped by, producing postcards for sale and relying on the goodwill of locals who, though sympathetic to his plight, were also his creditors. Isolation and Loss Donetta’s personal life unravelled as his economic hardships deepened. His wife and children left him, moving to France in search of better opportunities. Alone in the valley, Donetta became a figure of both pity and respect. While his community valued his contributions as a chronicler of their lives, he was largely overlooked as an artist. He lived out his final years in a circular stone house, a former school that had been closed due to a lack of students. There, he continued his photography, undeterred by his circumstances. When he died in 1932, he owed money to many locals who had supported him during his most difficult times. The Rediscovery of a Legacy Upon Donetta’s death, his possessions were auctioned to settle his debts. Ironically, the most valuable of these possessions—his archive of over 5,000 glass plate negatives and prints—was deemed worthless. Left in the attic of the local parish, the collection was forgotten for over 30 years, preserved only by chance. In the late 1970s, this treasure trove was rediscovered, sparking a reappraisal of Donetta’s life and work. The Commune of Corzoneso, which had inherited the archive by default, began to recognise the significance of his photographs. Slowly, Donetta’s work gained attention, and his reputation as one of Switzerland’s great outsider photographers began to take shape. Today, his former home serves as the headquarters of the Roberto Donetta Foundation . This small 18th-century stone building houses his archive and serves as a centre for preserving and promoting his legacy. The foundation’s work ensures that Donetta’s remarkable contributions to photography are not only remembered but celebrated. A Legacy Preserved The rediscovery of Roberto Donetta’s work has ensured that his vision lives on, inspiring new generations of photographers and historians alike. His images are now recognised as invaluable not only for their artistic merit but also for their historical significance. They offer an intimate glimpse into a world that, without Donetta’s efforts, might have been lost to time. Self portraits of Roberto Donetta Sources Museo di Val Blenio – Roberto Donetta photographic archive https://www.museovallediblenio.ch/en/roberto-donetta Roberto Donetta Foundation – Photographic collections and biography https://www.fondazionerobertodonetta.ch Swissinfo.ch – “Roberto Donetta, the travelling photographer who captured Swiss rural life” https://www.swissinfo.ch/eng/culture/roberto-donetta-the-photographer-who-documented-a-vanishing-way-of-life/42944486 The Guardian – “The Swiss farmer who photographed a vanishing world” https://www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/gallery/2017/mar/30/roberto-donetta-swiss-photographer-of-rural-life-in-pictures Fondation suisse pour la photographie (Fotostiftung Schweiz) – Roberto Donetta archive and exhibitions https://www.fotostiftung.ch/en/collection/artists/roberto-donetta/ LensCulture – “Roberto Donetta: Forgotten Swiss Visionary” https://www.lensculture.com/articles/roberto-donetta-forgotten-swiss-visionary Atlas Obscura – “The Glass Plate Photographer of Blenio Valley” https://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/roberto-donetta-swiss-photographer Fotomuseum Winterthur – Collection: Roberto Donetta glass negatives https://www.fotomuseum.ch/en/collection-research/collection/roberto-donetta/ World Press Photo Foundation – Historical essay on Swiss vernacular photography https://www.worldpressphoto.org/collection/photo-contest/archive/roberto-donetta ArtBlart – “Roberto Donetta: Photography and Life in the Blenio Valley” https://artblart.com/2017/03/28/roberto-donetta-photography-and-life-in-the-blenio-valley/

Spitalfields at the junction of Commercial Street and Brushfield Street. The building at the right is Spitalfields Market. To the left is a branch of the Pearce & Plenty cafe chain, with a sign for the General Gordon Temperance Hotel. In the early 20th century, London stood as a mighty symbol of the British Empire’s power and wealth, its skyline punctuated by architectural marvels and the rhythmic hum of industry. Yet beneath this facade of prosperity lay a much grimmer reality—a reality of extreme poverty, squalor, and homelessness, largely hidden from the public eye. Jack London, better known for his tales of adventure like The Call of the Wild  and White Fang , peeled back this veil in a way few others had done. Through his foray into photography, London captured a side of the British capital that many had ignored, revealing the true conditions of the city’s destitute masses. His journey into London’s East End in 1902 was a significant departure from his literary reputation. Armed with a camera and a journalist’s notebook, Jack London documented the lives of the city’s impoverished, humanising them in a way few journalists had dared to do. Men sleeping in Green Park. In a book that became to be known as The People of the Abyss he described the time when he lived in the Whitechapel district sleeping in workhouses, so-called doss-houses and even on the streets. It was said that about half a million people were living in these awful and terrible conditions in Britain’s capital city. London took the photographs that illustrated his extraordinary book (between 1900 and 1916 the American writer took more than 12 thousand photographs). Men working in casual ward of workhouse picking oakum – teasing out of fibres from old ropes and was very hard on the fingers London was most disturbed by the number of “old men, young men, all manner of men, and boys to boot, and all manner of boys” who had no other choice other than to sleep on the streets. “Some were drowsing standing up; half a score of them were stretched out on the stone steps in most painful postures…the skin of their bodies showing red through the holes, and rents in their rags.” London had trouble finding anyone to show him the East End: “But you can’t do it, you know,” friends said, to whom I applied for assistance in the matter of sinking myself down into the East End of London. “You had better see the police for a guide,” they added, on second thought, painfully endeavouring to adjust themselves to the psychological processes of a madman who had come to them with better credentials than brains. “But I don’t want to see the police,” I protested. “What I wish to do is to go down into the East End and see things for myself. I wish to know how those people are living there, and why they are living there, and what they are living for. In short, I am going to live there myself.” “You don’t want to live down there!” everybody said, with disapprobation writ large upon their faces. “Why, it is said there are places where a man’s life isn’t worth tu’pence.” “The very places I wish to see,” I broke in. “But you can’t, you know,” was the unfailing rejoinder.” According to Michael Shelden, George Orwell ‘s biographer, the English writer had read London’s book while in his teens and greatly inspired as can be seen in Down and Out in Paris and London and the Road to Wigan Pier . Inside the courtyard of Salvation Army barracks Sunday Morning. The People of the Abyss was published in 1903 the same year as his novel Call of the Wild was serialised – bringing London international fame. London later said: “Of all my books, the one I love most is The People of the Abyss . No other work of mine contains as much of my heart.” Jack London: Adventurer, Novelist, Photographer Born John Griffith Chaney in 1876 in San Francisco, California, Jack London was no stranger to poverty. Raised by a struggling single mother, London experienced homelessness and hardship from an early age. His youth was spent working odd jobs and travelling the world as a sailor, eventually leading him to the Klondike Gold Rush. It was here that his literary talents began to blossom, drawing from the harsh realities of life in the wilderness to create vivid tales of survival. An East End Slavey (a maidservant, especially a hard-worked one.) While London is primarily remembered as an author, his keen eye for detail and empathy for the downtrodden made him a powerful documentary photographer. His work in London was driven not only by a fascination with the urban underclass but also by his socialist leanings, which propelled him to expose the injustices suffered by the poor. His experience living among the homeless and impoverished in America had already given him the insight that poverty was a universal condition, not confined by borders. Bank Holiday, Whitechapel In 1902, at the height of his literary fame, London travelled to London, England. There, he embarked on a radical project—living among the poor and documenting their conditions both in writing and photography. His observations would form the basis for The People of the Abyss  (1903), a searing indictment of the social and economic inequality that plagued London at the time. While the book focused primarily on written descriptions, his photography complemented these words, capturing the faces and living conditions of those he met. A street in Wapping The East End: London’s Underbelly To truly understand Jack London’s photography, it’s essential to place it within the context of the area he chose to document: the East End of London. At the turn of the century, the East End was a sprawling, overcrowded district where the poorest of the poor resided. The area had long been associated with destitution and vice, home to the city's largest concentration of slums, sweatshops, and workhouses. “Gigantic dosshouse” Rowton House, Fieldgate Street, Whitechapel By the late 19th and early 20th centuries, London was a global hub, attracting migrants from across the British Empire and Europe, many of whom settled in the East End. The population density was staggering, with thousands crammed into decaying tenement buildings. According to reports, the East End population grew by 50% between 1801 and 1901, resulting in around 600,000 people living in appalling conditions by the turn of the century. Many were unable to find regular work, and those who could often laboured in exploitative conditions for minimal wages. Homeless Women Spitalfields Garden (church yard of Christ Church) Sanitation was virtually non-existent in many parts of the East End. Raw sewage would often flow through the streets, contributing to outbreaks of diseases like cholera, typhoid, and tuberculosis. The life expectancy in these areas was abysmally low; for men in the East End, it was as little as 29 years, compared to 55 for those in wealthier districts. Homeless men and women Spitalfields Gardens (Christ Church churchyard) Jack London’s Photographic Exploration What set Jack London apart from other journalists and social commentators of his time was his willingness to immerse himself in the world he wished to document. Rather than merely observing from a distance, London lived among the poor in the East End, often disguising himself to avoid suspicion. This hands-on approach allowed him to gain the trust of the locals and capture their lives with unflinching honesty. Frying Pan Alley,(Situated close to Middlesex Street and Petticoat Lane market) Spitalfields His photography was raw and direct, a reflection of the grim realities he encountered. One of his most famous photographs shows a group of homeless men sleeping outside on the Embankment, their faces weathered and gaunt, their clothing ragged. Another stark image features a mother and her children huddled together in a squalid alleyway, their expressions a haunting blend of despair and resignation. “Two relay system lodging, lodgers who have been on night work waiting till the beds of a doss house are vacated by men employed during the way.” – original caption London’s subjects were not posed or idealised; they were captured as they were—exhausted, malnourished, and downtrodden. In doing so, London succeeded in humanising the poor in a way that few others had. His photography stood in contrast to the sensationalised depictions of poverty often found in newspapers of the time, which tended to blame the poor for their plight. London’s Techniques and Impact Jack London’s approach to photography was highly innovative for its time. While he was not a trained photographer, his keen observational skills and sense of narrative allowed him to create powerful images that told a story. He used a simple box camera, relying on natural light and candid moments to create his compositions. This gave his work a sense of immediacy and authenticity, as if the viewer were walking alongside him through the streets of the East End. Under the arches of the bridges that span the Thames In many ways, London’s work can be seen as a precursor to modern documentary photography. His focus on the human condition, his use of candid photography, and his desire to expose social injustice would influence generations of photojournalists to come. His photographs were not only a record of the physical environment but also a commentary on the systemic issues that kept people trapped in poverty. Part of a room to let. A typical East End home where the people live, sleep, eat all in one room. London’s work had a profound impact on public perceptions of poverty in Britain. The People of the Abyss , along with his photographs, shocked middle and upper-class readers who were largely unaware of the extent of the suffering taking place within their own city. The book sold well and helped to spark debates about social reform, particularly regarding housing and labour conditions. Mile End Road showing the People’s Palace To fully appreciate the magnitude of what Jack London captured in his work, it’s essential to understand the broader social and economic context of the time. The late Victorian and Edwardian periods were marked by severe inequality, with wealth concentrated in the hands of a few while vast numbers of people lived in abject poverty. Poverty Rates : By 1900, over 30% of London’s population was living in poverty, according to social reformer Charles Booth’s survey. This meant that nearly 1.2 million people in the city were unable to afford basic necessities like food, shelter, and clothing. Homelessness : Homelessness was rampant, particularly in the East End. A 1904 report by the Salvation Army estimated that there were as many as 100,000 homeless people in London, with many of them sleeping rough in parks, alleyways, and under bridges. Workhouses : For those unable to find work, the workhouse was often the last resort. These institutions, meant to house the poor and unemployed, were notorious for their harsh conditions. Inmates were required to perform grueling labour, such as breaking stones or picking oakum, in exchange for basic food and shelter. The conditions were intentionally made miserable to deter people from seeking assistance. Child Mortality : One of the most heartbreaking aspects of poverty in London was the high rate of child mortality. In some parts of the East End, as many as one in three children died before reaching the age of five, often due to preventable diseases like diarrhoea, measles, and whooping cough. Malnutrition and lack of access to clean water were major contributors to these deaths. Life Expectancy : As mentioned earlier, life expectancy in the poorest districts of London was shockingly low. In some areas, men and women could expect to live only into their late 20s or early 30s, compared to their wealthier counterparts in the West End, who often lived into their 50s and 60s. Labour Conditions : Many of those who did find work were employed in dangerous and exploitative conditions. Factories, sweatshops, and docks employed thousands of workers, often paying them less than a living wage. Women and children were particularly vulnerable, often working long hours for pitifully low pay. Jack London’s work in the East End was a pioneering effort in both photography and social journalism. His ability to blend writing with visual storytelling created a powerful narrative that brought attention to the plight of the poor in ways that had not been done before. While his time in London was relatively brief, the impact of his work reverberated for decades, influencing not only photojournalism but also social policy. A shop where old clothes are sold – A group of children and a handful of adults, stand around a table that is covered with clothing. Jackets and coats are hung on an outside wall behind them, and shoes, hats, and other items sit on the ground around the table.(original caption) His photographs remain a haunting reminder of a period in London’s history when the city’s most vulnerable citizens were ignored and neglected. These images, coupled with his unflinching prose, forced a society accustomed to averting its gaze to confront the harsh realities faced by its underclass. In this way, Jack London's work transcended the boundaries of journalism and photography, becoming a call to action for social change. View in Hoxton London’s contribution to the photographic documentation of poverty set the stage for later works by prominent photographers such as Jacob Riis, who would document similar conditions in New York, and Lewis Hine, who exposed the plight of child labourers in America. His work serves as an important historical document, providing a visual archive of a time and place that many would prefer to forget but must always remember. Sources Huntington Library – Jack London Photographs and Negatives collection https://hdl.huntington.org/digital/collection/p16003coll7 Huntington Library – The People of the Abyss (photo materials and cover) https://hdl.huntington.org/digital/collection/p16003coll7/id/3304 Flashbak – “Jack London’s Extraordinary Photos of London’s East End in 1902” https://flashbak.com/jack-londons-extraordinary-photos-of-londons-east-end-in-1902-441162/ Rare Historical Photos – “London’s East End Life Through the Lens of Jack London, 1902” https://rarehistoricalphotos.com/jack-london-photography-london-east-end/ Wikipedia – The People of the Abyss https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_People_of_the_Abyss Public Domain Review – “Jack London’s The People of the Abyss (1903)” https://publicdomainreview.org/collection/the-people-of-the-abyss-jack-london-1903/ The Guardian – “Jack London’s Photos of East End Poverty, 1902” https://www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/gallery/2016/feb/09/jack-london-the-people-of-the-abyss-in-pictures Smithsonian Magazine – “Jack London’s Photographs of London’s Poorest” https://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/jack-londons-london-180958303/ British Library – “Jack London’s The People of the Abyss” contextual essay https://www.bl.uk/collection-items/jack-london-the-people-of-the-abyss Library of Congress – Jack London Prints and Photographs Online Collection https://www.loc.gov/pictures/search/?q=jack+london+london+east+end

When Bruce Mozert first peered into the clear, blue waters of Silver Springs, Florida, in 1938, he didn’t just see fish or waving seagrass. He saw a stage. Beneath that glassy surface, Mozert imagined a world where people could sip cocktails, mow the lawn, and read the newspaper, all while floating gracefully in a dreamlike bubble of sunlight and water. It sounds whimsical, but that’s precisely what he did. Mozert’s underwater photographs weren’t scientific experiments or technical demonstrations. They were playful, human, and somehow both utterly surreal and completely ordinary. They captured mid-century America at leisure, only this time, the lawn chairs and martinis were submerged. The Spark Beneath the Surface Bruce Mozert was born in Newark, New Jersey , in 1916, but it was Florida that made him famous. In the late 1930s, Silver Springs was already attracting filmmakers and tourists alike for its crystal-clear waters. It had served as a filming location for Tarzan movies and early underwater scenes long before CGI existed. Mozert arrived with an artist’s curiosity and a knack for invention. He wasn’t a diver in the modern sense because this was long before recreational scuba gear became widely available, but he had an instinct for how to turn an idea into an image. After seeing underwater scenes filmed through glass, he thought, why not put the camera under the water itself? He designed his own waterproof camera housing out of metal and rubber, a homemade contraption that allowed him to submerge his lens safely. “If you want something done right, you sometimes have to build it yourself,” he later joked in an interview. That bit of tinkering marked the start of something remarkable. Suddenly, the underwater world wasn’t just for fish, it became a place for imagination. Life Aquatic, 1940s Style By the early 1940s, Mozert was staging elaborate photo shoots in Silver Springs. His models, usually local women, performed playful scenes that blurred the line between fantasy and advertisement. One might be shown reading a newspaper, the pages perfectly flat thanks to a clever use of weights and props. Another might lounge on an underwater sunbed, sipping a drink through a straw connected to the surface. In one famous shot, a woman appears to fry fish on an underwater grill, bubbles rising like steam. They were simple jokes, visual gags really, but technically astonishing for the time. Mozert had to think about light diffusion, air bubbles, fabric movement, and how to make an ordinary object look “normal” when submerged. And he did it all without modern scuba tanks, relying on air hoses and long breath-holds between takes. The results were uncanny. These were not the grim or mysterious underwater worlds seen in exploration documentaries. Mozert’s scenes were domestic, cheerful, and oddly futuristic, glimpses of a world where humans could live comfortably beneath the waves. Advertising Beneath the Waves Mozert’s photography wasn’t just an art experiment, it was also good business. Silver Springs was a natural tourist attraction, and local businesses quickly realised that his underwater scenes could sell the idea of the park as something magical. His images appeared on postcards, posters, and magazine spreads across America. “See Florida’s Silver Springs – Where Magic Happens Underwater!” read one popular ad campaign featuring Mozert’s photographs of smiling swimmers waving to the camera. By the 1950s, his images had become iconic representations of Florida’s “Old Florida” era, a time when roadside attractions, mermaid shows, and citrus stands captured the country’s imagination. These weren’t high-concept art photos. They were fun, practical, and deeply tied to place. Mozert helped turn Silver Springs into one of the most photographed natural sites in the United States , long before the age of Instagram filters. The Science of Play What made Mozert’s work stand out wasn’t just the novelty, it was the precision. Shooting underwater in the 1930s and 40s meant grappling with unpredictable challenges. Light bends differently underwater, colours shift, and everything moves just a little slower. To make his subjects appear relaxed, Mozert often used tricks: weighted props, anchored costumes, and hidden air hoses that allowed the models to breathe without surfacing. He even invented his own lighting systems. Since electrical equipment couldn’t safely be used underwater, he worked with natural sunlight and mirrors, redirecting beams into the depths to illuminate his subjects. Despite the technical difficulties, his photos always look effortless. They’re full of laughter, calm, and that special mid-century optimism, the belief that technology and imagination could make anything possible. The Queens of the Deep Mozert’s models were often dubbed “Queens of the Deep,” and they became minor celebrities in their own right. Many were local women, some of whom worked at Silver Springs or nearby Ocala. They wore elegant swimsuits, full makeup, and perfectly coiffed hair, creating a glamorous contrast with their watery surroundings. The resulting images are some of the most charming examples of 20th-century underwater portraiture, a blend of pin-up art, tourism, and playful surrealism. One memorable image shows a woman sitting on a coral-coloured chair reading a magazine, while another shows her posing as a waitress offering a drink to a fish. These weren’t just underwater tricks; they were lighthearted celebrations of everyday life. And unlike many staged glamour shots of the era, Mozert’s photos had a sense of humour. They winked at the viewer, inviting you to imagine yourself in the scene. From Silver Springs to the Silver Screen As Mozert’s fame grew, so did his opportunities. Hollywood came calling. He worked as a still photographer on film sets that used Silver Springs as their backdrop, including Creature from the Black Lagoon  (1954) and various Tarzan films. His practical knowledge of underwater lighting and composition made him invaluable. Even when special effects improved, filmmakers often turned to Mozert’s methods for inspiration. But he never left Silver Springs behind. He remained based there for most of his life, continuing to photograph and document the area even as the crowds thinned and the age of roadside attractions faded. A Window into Another Time Looking back now, Mozert’s photographs are more than just novelties, they’re historical artefacts. They capture a particular vision of mid-century America, a place of optimism, invention, and playful escapism. They also remind us that creativity isn’t always about the grand gesture. Sometimes it’s about seeing the familiar from a completely new perspective, literally, in this case, from below the surface. As underwater photography advanced through the decades, from Jacques Cousteau’s ocean documentaries to today’s high-definition coral reef explorations, Mozert’s early experiments remain surprisingly fresh. His photos invite a smile, and maybe even a moment of wonder at what can happen when curiosity meets water. Rediscovery and Legacy In his later years, Bruce Mozert continued to work as a photographer, capturing local life, natural beauty, and community events. He passed away in 2015 at the age of 98, leaving behind a vast archive of underwater photographs now preserved by museums and private collections. His work has since been exhibited in art galleries and retrospectives around the world. The Smithsonian Magazine  called him “the man who turned underwater photography into an everyday art form,” while The New York Times  described his work as “a delightful blend of fantasy and practicality.” Modern underwater photographers still cite him as an influence. His homemade camera housings paved the way for the waterproof technology we take for granted today. And his visual humour remains unmatched, proof that art doesn’t always have to take itself seriously to make a lasting impression. A Quiet Revolution Underwater Bruce Mozert never set out to change photography. He just wanted to explore. His images show that art can thrive anywhere, even in a spring-fed pool in rural Florida. He didn’t chase fame or fortune; he found joy in the process of creation. His models didn’t perform in grand studios or expensive sets, but in the same clear waters where visitors could swim on a sunny afternoon. And yet, what he produced was nothing short of revolutionary. By bringing the everyday world beneath the waves, he blurred the boundary between fantasy and reality. It’s hard not to smile looking at those images, ladies sipping lemonade underwater, typing on typewriters, or grilling lunch as if it were the most natural thing in the world. They’re silly, charming, and timeless. As one of his friends once said, “Bruce didn’t see limits; he saw reflections. And he always found a way to get the camera just a little deeper.” Modern Echoes Today, underwater photography is a sophisticated art form. Divers can capture intricate coral ecosystems, macro shots of tiny sea creatures, and cinematic portraits of models in floating gowns. But Mozert’s influence is still visible in the genre’s playful side. Fashion photographers often create underwater editorials inspired by his style, ethereal, light-hearted, and full of motion. Even advertising campaigns occasionally nod to his work with vintage-style underwater scenes. In a world where so much photography feels heavily filtered and edited, his natural light, clear water, and spontaneous charm feel refreshingly honest. Silver Springs Today Silver Springs itself, now part of a Florida state park, has changed since Mozert’s day. The glass-bottom boats still glide across the surface, giving visitors a glimpse of the world below. But the underwater sets and staged photoshoots are long gone, replaced by conservation efforts to preserve the fragile ecosystem. Yet if you walk along the water’s edge on a quiet morning, you can almost imagine it, the faint click of a camera shutter beneath the ripples, and a model in a one-piece swimsuit smiling through her bubbles. That’s Bruce Mozert’s gift: he made the invisible visible, and the ordinary extraordinary, all with a camera, a homemade waterproof box, and an endless sense of curiosity. Sources Florida Memory Project – State Library and Archives of Florida https://www.floridamemory.com Smithsonian Magazine – “The Life Aquatic with Bruce Mozert” https://www.smithsonianmag.com/travel/the-life-aquatic-with-bruce-mozert-38188395 Studio Hourglass Blog – “Inside the Studio of the Legendary Bruce Mozert” https://studiohourglass.blogspot.com/2020/01/inside-studio-of-legendary-bruce-mozert.html Artsy – Bruce Mozert: Silver Springs Underwater (At the Party) https://www.artsy.net/artwork/bruce-mozert-silver-springs-underwater-at-the-party Silver Springs: The Underwater Photographs of Bruce Mozert  by Gary Monroe https://upf.com/book.asp?id=MONRO001 The New York Times – Bruce Mozert obituary (2015) https://www.nytimes.com/2015/10/21/arts/bruce-mozert-underwater-photographer-dies-at-98.html Ocala StarBanner – Interview with Bruce Mozert (2007) https://www.ocala.com/story/news/2007/09/22/bruce-mozert-legendary-underwater-photographer/31124431007/ Time Magazine – “The Man Who Brought Everyday Life Underwater” https://time.com/4092014/bruce-mozert-underwater-photography/ Florida Humanities Council – “Springs Eternal: Florida’s Fragile Fountains of Youth” project https://floridahumanities.org/projects/springs-eternal Visit Florida – “Discover Silver Springs, Home of Bruce Mozert’s Underwater Photography” https://www.visitflorida.com/travel-ideas/articles/arts-history-bruce-mozert-underwater-photography-silver-springs/ University Press of Florida – Gary Monroe publications archive https://upf.com/authorbooks.asp?lname=Monroe&fname=Gary Getty Images – Bruce Mozert photo archive collection https://www.gettyimages.com/photos/bruce-mozert LIFE Magazine – archival spreads featuring Silver Springs promotions https://books.google.com/books?id=J08EAAAAMBAJ&source=gbs_all_issues_r&cad=1 Marion County Museum of History and Archaeology – Mozert photo collection https://www.marioncountyfl.org/about/history/marion-county-museum The Atlantic – “The Surreal, Submerged World of Bruce Mozert” https://www.theatlantic.com/photo/2015/10/the-surreal-submerged-world-of-bruce-mozert/411307/ Atlas Obscura – “The Man Who Made Housewives Look Glamorous Underwater” https://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/the-man-who-made-housewives-look-glamorous-underwater