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On 2 August 1993, in the sleepy village of Savona, New York, an act of violence so shocking in its brutality would forever alter the landscape of juvenile justice debates in the United States. The victim was four-year-old Derrick Robie, a cheerful, red-headed boy with a love for nature and baseball. The perpetrator was thirteen-year-old Eric Smith, another redhead, known in the village for his quiet nature and trademark thick glasses. The murder was incomprehensible not only because of the youth of those involved, but also due to the intimate and senseless brutality of the act. What unfolded that morning left a permanent scar on the Savona community and ignited national discussions about how the justice system should deal with violent offenders who were still, legally speaking, children. Derrick Robie A Difficult Childhood Eric Smith was adopted as an infant by Ted and Tammy Smith. He struggled with a speech impediment and was held back a year at school. He was small, wore thick glasses, and was regularly bullied by classmates for his appearance. His grandparents, Red and Edie Wilson, described him as an affectionate child who "liked being a clown" during visits. His relationship with his adoptive father was more strained, and Smith later described feeling disconnected from a family he never felt fully part of. In the years before the murder, people close to Smith reported behavioural warning signs, including a documented history of cruelty to animals and an interest in setting fires, both of which criminologists have long identified as risk indicators in childhood, sometimes referred to collectively with bedwetting as the MacDonald triad, though the theory's predictive value remains debated among researchers. None of this was enough, on its own, for anyone around him to predict what he would do on the morning of 2 August 1993. The Crime: A Chance Encounter With Horror It was a sunny Monday, and like many children in the village, Derrick Robie was on his way to a local summer camp programme in a park just a few streets from his home. On most days, his mother Doreen walked him there. But that morning, with a line of storms forecasted and the air already thick and muggy, she decided he was old enough to go alone. Unbeknownst to her, Eric Smith had also decided to head to the park that day. Smith, a loner who was routinely bullied at school for his appearance, had been barred from camp due to behavioural issues, but loitered near the park nonetheless. When he saw Derrick walking alone, Smith approached the younger boy and offered to show him a shortcut through a wooded lot nearby. Derrick followed. What happened next was horrifying. Once out of sight from passers-by, Smith strangled him until he passed out, then, he dropped a large rock on his head, and sodomized him with a small stick. Smith then took Kool-Aid from Derrick's lunch box and poured it into Derrick's open wounds. The cause of death was determined to be blunt trauma to the head with contributing asphyxia. Smith then left the scene and returned home. Derrick's Parents Later that afternoon, with Derrick missing and a storm brewing, the community mobilised a search. It was a neighbour who found Derrick’s body in the woods. Emergency services were called, but it was immediately evident that the child had been brutally murdered. Investigation and Confession: A Community Turned Inward At first, suspicion fell nowhere. Savona was a quiet, rural town where crimes of this magnitude simply didn't happen. But within days, attention began to fall on Eric Smith. His odd behaviour in the aftermath raised red flags, he showed an unusual curiosity about the murder and asked probing questions about how the investigation was unfolding. What pushed the investigation forward was a family friend who noticed Smith’s behaviour and urged his mother, Tammy Smith, to take him to speak with police. He seemed to enjoy talking about the murder, and at first he denied seeing Derrick, but later confessed, saying: “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m sorry. I killed that little boy.” Smith in court He was calm, even matter-of-fact, as he relayed how and why he had killed Derrick. When asked why he did it, Smith chillingly responded: “I don’t know. I just wanted to see what it felt like to kill someone.” Trial and Sentencing: When a Child Is Tried as an Adult Eric Smith's confession made headlines across the country. A 13-year-old committing such a brutal crime raised deeply uncomfortable questions for the public and for the legal system. Under New York's Juvenile Offender Law, children as young as thirteen can be prosecuted as adults for second-degree murder, a statute passed in 1978 in the wake of several high-profile violent crimes committed by minors. It meant Smith, despite his age, faced the same charge and the same courtroom procedures as an adult defendant, something that would not have been possible in many other US states at the time. His defence argued that he suffered from intermittent explosive disorder and had been the target of constant bullying, both of which may have contributed to a psychotic break. They also noted that Smith had no prior criminal history. The prosecution's own expert countered that the diagnosis was exceptionally rare in someone Smith's age and disputed whether it explained the calculated nature of the killing. But the details of the crime were too gruesome, too deliberate. On 8 November 1994, the Steuben County jury returned a unanimous verdict: guilty of second-degree murder. He was sentenced to a minimum of nine years to life in prison, the maximum term available under New York law for a juvenile murderer at the time. Incarceration and Parole: Nearly Three Decades Behind Bars Smith spent the first years of his incarceration in juvenile facilities before being transferred to adult prisons as he aged. For years, he was described by prison staff as a model inmate, non-violent, reflective, and involved in educational programmes. While in jail, Smith read out an apology letter to Derrick's family on public television: I know my actions have caused a terrible loss in the Robie family, and for that, I am truly sorry. I've tried to think as much as possible about what Derrick will never experience: his 16th birthday, Christmas, anytime, owning his own house, graduating, going to college, getting married, his first child. If I could go back in time, I would switch places with Derrick and endure all the pain I've caused him. If it meant that he would go on living, I'd switch places, but I can't. At the end of this statement, Smith states that he cannot bear the thought of "walls, razor wire, and steel metal bars" for the rest of his life. He has also apologized to Derrick in interviews. But parole was another matter entirely. Between 2002 and 2020, Smith was denied parole ten times. Each time, Derrick Robie’s parents appeared before the board, delivering emotional testimonies about the ongoing pain of their loss. They argued that some actions were simply too heinous to ever be forgiven or released. In 2021, on his eleventh attempt, Eric Smith was finally granted parole. He was 42 years old. The decision caused a renewed wave of public debate, had he served enough time? Was he truly rehabilitated? And was it safe to let him live freely? Smith was released from prison in February 2022 and resettled in Queens, New York, under lifetime parole supervision. He now works at a law firm and has expressed a desire to counsel troubled youth, hoping to prevent others from making the same mistakes he did. Public Response and Legacy Public opinion has remained divided. While some argue that Smith's release was a reasonable recognition of his age at the time of the crime and the work he had done in prison, others believe his freedom is a grave injustice to the Robie family. Derrick's parents, Doreen and Dale Robie, have been outspoken in their dismay. In interviews, they have described the release as a re-traumatisation and a constant reminder of what was taken from them. They continue to advocate for victims' rights and greater restrictions on parole for violent juvenile offenders, including a proposal to extend the interval between parole hearings for violent offenders from two years to five. Eric Smith's case became one of the most cited examples in debates about juvenile sentencing during the 1990s and early 2000s. It played a part in shaping public and political attitudes towards trying minors as adults, especially in violent cases, in the same way that high-profile crimes against children have periodically reshaped American criminal justice policy. The Lindbergh kidnapping had done something similar six decades earlier, prompting Congress to pass federal kidnapping legislation within weeks. Robie's case did the same for how America thought about culpability in children who kill. A Case That Still Haunts More than thirty years later, the murder of Derrick Robie remains one of the most disturbing crimes committed by a juvenile in modern American history. It serves as a cautionary tale about neglect, bullying, and the capacity for violence, even in those so young. At the heart of the tragedy are two boys whose lives intersected with terrible consequences, one murdered, the other imprisoned, both forever marked by a single act of brutality. The questions it raised about culpability, rehabilitation, and justice continue to echo today. Sources: 1. Wikipedia: Eric Smith (murderer). https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eric_Smith_(murderer) 2. CBS News: Timeline of Eric Smith's Case. https://www.cbsnews.com/news/eric-smith-released-derrick-robie-murder-timeline/ 3. Oxygen: Where is Eric Smith Now? https://www.oxygen.com/crime-news/where-is-derrick-robie-murderer-eric-smith-now 4. People: Robie Family Reactions. https://people.com/boy-4-vanished-summer-camp-family-friend-alarming-questions-8756974 5. Law & Crime: Eric Smith, Who Killed 4-Year-Old Derrick Robie, Gets Parole. https://lawandcrime.com/high-profile/new-york-man-who-murdered-and-sodomized-a-4-year-old-when-he-was-a-teenager-granted-parole/ 6. Oxygen: Eric M. Smith, Who Murdered Derek Robie in 1993, Set for Release. https://www.oxygen.com/crime-news/eric-m-smith-who-murdered-derek-robie-in-1993-set-for-release A Case That Still Haunts More than thirty years later, the murder of Derrick Robie remains one of the most disturbing crimes committed by a juvenile in modern American history. It serves as a cautionary tale about neglect, bullying, and the capacity for violence, even in those so young. At the heart of the tragedy are two boys whose lives intersected with terrible consequences—one murdered, the other imprisoned, both forever marked by a single act of brutality. The questions it raised about culpability, rehabilitation, and justice, continue to echo today. Sources: Wikipedia: Eric Smith (murderer) – https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eric_Smith_(murderer) CBS News: Timeline of Eric Smith’s Case – https://www.cbsnews.com/news/eric-smith-released-derrick-robie-murder-timeline/ Oxygen: Where is Eric Smith Now? – https://www.oxygen.com/crime-news/where-is-derrick-robie-murderer-eric-smith-now People.com: Robie Family Reactions – https://people.com/boy-4-vanished-summer-camp-family-friend-alarming-questions-8756974 This article is part of our True Crime archive, exploring murder cases, criminal investigations and the trials that followed.

Zorita was never simply a burlesque novelty, nor just a woman with a dangerous prop. She emerged at a moment when American burlesque was crowded, competitive, and increasingly under siege from moral reformers, police departments, and city councils eager to be seen cleaning up nightlife. To survive, performers needed to be distinctive, adaptable, and prepared to test the limits of what audiences and authorities would tolerate. Zorita did all three. Sequins, snakes, satire, and a refusal to behave as expected all came together in her work. She understood that burlesque was not simply about removing clothes. It was about timing, narrative, misdirection, and control. Above all, it was about holding the gaze without surrendering to it. The name still carries weight. Say “Zorita” and the mind jumps immediately to live serpents, nightclub lights, and the sense that something might go wrong at any moment. Yet behind the persona was a woman whose early life was shaped not by glamour, but by loss, discipline, and restraint. From Orphanhood to Rebellion Zorita was born Kathryn Boyd on 30th August, 1915 in Youngstown, Ohio. Some later sources list her birth name as Ada Brockette, but contemporary records and the majority of biographical research support Boyd. Orphaned as an infant, she was adopted by a strict Methodist couple in Chicago. The household reflected the moral codes of the American Midwest in the 1920s. Modesty was enforced. Obedience was expected. Performance, particularly of the sensual kind, was viewed with suspicion bordering on disgust. That tension between repression and rebellion never left Zorita. It simply found a stage. By her mid teens, Zorita was already pushing against the limits set for her. Leaving school early, she found work as a manicurist, a job that placed her in close contact with a wide range of people. Customers talked freely. They flirted. They offered advice. One man, noticing Zorita’s confidence and ease with attention, suggested she might earn more dancing at private stag parties. It was not a respectable idea, but it was a revealing one. Zorita began appearing at small private events, learning quickly how audiences reacted, where discomfort set in, and how suggestion could be more powerful than excess. The attention did not frighten her. It sharpened her sense of control. By seventeen, Chicago already felt confining. California promised something looser and more permissive. Zoro Garden and Learning Spectacle Zorita’s move to San Diego marked a turning point. There, she joined the cast of the Zoro Garden Nudist Colony at the California Pacific International Exposition of 1935 and 1936. Officially billed as educational, the exhibit claimed to promote the health benefits of nudism. In reality, it was carefully staged titillation, designed to draw crowds while skirting the edge of legality. The performers were not nudists in daily life. Offstage, they dressed conventionally. Onstage, they enacted a fantasy. For Zorita, Zoro Garden was an education in spectacle. It demonstrated how controversy attracted attention, how moral outrage could be managed, and how performance could challenge social norms without naming them directly. While working there, Zorita befriended a snake charmer. The snakes fascinated her not just as animals, but as symbols. Snakes carried Biblical associations, sexual undertones, and an unmistakable sense of danger. When the charmer gave her two boa constrictors, later named Elmer and Oscar, Zorita began experimenting with incorporating them into her routines. The response was immediate. Snakes, Risk, and the Economics of Burlesque Depression era audiences were transfixed by the sight of a poised young woman dancing with live snakes draped across her body. This was not theatrical danger alone. Touring with boas meant constant risk. The animals required warmth, careful handling, and regular feeding. On the road, that meant improvised solutions and vigilance. There was no insurance for performers injured by their own acts. Around this time, Zorita entered and won a local beauty contest. The title itself mattered less than the confirmation. She could hold a room. She could command attention. The name itself has more than one origin story. According to one account, it was given to her by a Mr. Miller, the owner of a San Francisco theatre where she was performing. Her daughter Tawny Petillo offered a different explanation to the Miami Herald years later: "She liked to sound exotic. All I know is it had a 'Z' in it, and you could make it into a snake." Whichever version is accurate, Zorita clearly enjoyed the ambiguity. She often added a drawn eye and a thin forked tongue to the letter Z when she signed autographs. Early in her career, Zorita used the name “Princess Zorita,” particularly while touring nudist carnivals. As she entered mainstream burlesque circuits, the shortened name stuck. It sounded foreign, exotic, and difficult to place, which was precisely the point. By the late 1930s and early 1940s, burlesque was a precarious profession. Performers paid their own travel, costumes, animals, and medical bills. Clubs could be shut down overnight. To stay booked, dancers needed a recognisable angle. Zorita’s snakes were not simply a gimmick, but a calculated response to an overcrowded circuit where novelty meant survival. The Snake Bride and Other Theatrical Acts Zorita rejected the idea of stripping as simple undressing. Each routine followed a narrative arc, often beginning with innocence or constraint and ending in transgression or death. Her most famous routine, “The Consummation of the Wedding of the Snake,” began with bridal imagery and ended in fatality. As Zorita later explained: “A gorgeous young maiden is going to be sold into slavery to an ugly old man. Instead, she dances with a snake, gets bitten, and dies.” Other acts featured rhinestone spiderwebs, elaborate birdcages, and slow pacing designed to heighten unease. Between performances, Zorita walked among the tables, allowing her snake to brush diners’ heads. One patron reportedly panicked and drew a gun before being restrained. On other nights, Zorita turned the moment into comedy, threatening to drop a snake unless customers donated money for the children of fellow performers. Pin Ups, Publicity, and Policing By the early 1940s, Zorita had become a popular pin up figure. Several magazines featured staged photographs, and in 1942 Pictorial Movie Fun ran a feature on her home life. The article framed women like Zorita as morale builders on the home front, reminding soldiers what they were fighting for. One wartime magazine put it more bluntly: "One look at her and we're ready for the enemy, for Zorita is certainly worth defending." She was part of the same wartime pin-up culture that made a household name of Bettie Page a decade later, though Zorita's brand of danger, live boa constrictors rather than studio lighting, set her apart from the rest of the field. Public fascination came paired with police scrutiny. Newspapers oscillated between admiration and condemnation, often framing Zorita as exotic, dangerous, or corrupting. That language sold papers while reinforcing the idea that burlesque performers existed outside respectable society. On 15th August, 1941, Zorita was arrested for indecent exposure at the Kentucky Club in Toledo, Ohio. The Toledo Blade reported that she had "stripped herself down to a costume of goose pimples." She was initially released on bond, but when police learned she planned to leave town before trial, they re-arrested her. Appearing in court in conservative clothing and green tinted glasses framed with daisy petals, Zorita reportedly described the affair as "kind of corny." Convicted on 27th August, she was sentenced to six months in jail. The Toledo arrest wasn't her only legal trouble that year. Zorita was also charged with animal cruelty over her use of the snakes, and had a habit of walking her boas on leashes through city streets, which brought its own complaints. After her final New York performance around this period, authorities confiscated her snakes entirely, forcing her to rebuild the act with new animals. Zorita (center) with her mother (left) and friend “Gus” (right), circa 1950s Sexuality, Relationships, and Private Life Although Zorita built her career around performances designed to attract male audiences, her private life did not revolve around men. Those who knew her consistently described Zorita as preferring the company of women. In modern terms, Zorita would almost certainly be described as bisexual or lesbian, though such language was rarely used publicly during her lifetime. Within burlesque circles, same sex relationships were common, particularly among women who toured together for long periods. These relationships were understood within the community but carefully managed in public. Zorita cultivated sexual ambiguity rather than declaration, emphasising femininity on stage while maintaining a private world shaped by women lovers and gay friends. At the time of her 1941 Toledo arrest, she had been touring in a trailer with a female companion the newspapers described only as her "girl friend." Zorita married three men over the course of her life, all marriages ending in divorce. These relationships appear to have been brief and largely pragmatic. Marriage offered social insulation at moments of scrutiny and helped preserve custody rights and business licences in hostile jurisdictions. In that respect her calculated use of marriage echoes Violet and Daisy Hilton, the conjoined twins who toured the same vaudeville and burlesque circuits in the same era and understood exactly the same commercial and legal logic: audiences paid to see something they couldn't see anywhere else, and performers used every legal tool available to protect themselves while giving it to them. Motherhood and a Shift in Pace Zorita gave birth to a daughter, Tawny, in the early 1940s, during the height of her touring career. The identity of the child's father has never been publicly confirmed, though the birth is understood to have come from her final marriage. Zorita herself did not discuss the details in interviews. What is clear is that motherhood prompted a gradual shift in how Zorita worked. Zorita with her daughter Following her daughter's birth, Zorita slowed her touring schedule and increasingly sought stability. Touring life was risky and exhausting. Settling allowed Zorita to balance performance with parenting and later with business ownership. Tawny Petillo later recalled that her mother "wanted to be a big fish in a smaller pond," which is part of what eventually drew Zorita away from New York and toward Miami. Gender Play and the Half and Half Act Among Zorita’s most striking performances was the “½ ‘n ½” routine. One side of Zorita’s body appeared as a man in a tuxedo, the other as a bride. The act culminated in a symbolic marriage to herself. This routine gained national notoriety, particularly in Miami, where city ordinances explicitly banned gender impersonation on stage as part of a crackdown on what politicians described as a growing “homosexual problem.” Zorita performed it anyway. Miami, Race, and Defiance After gaining prominence in New York nightlife, Zorita moved to Miami in the early 1950s. Tourism drove the city's economy, fostering a vibrant nightlife where sexual and gender non conformity flourished, even as politicians sought to suppress it. Miami was also rigidly segregated under Jim Crow. Zorita challenged that reality quietly but persistently. She hired Black and Latina performers and appears to have performed to integrated audiences. In the mid 1960s, living in the white suburb of North Bay Village, Zorita placed a sign in her yard reading: "For Sale: White or Colored," telling reporters, "I love people not for the color of their skin." Zorita owned and operated clubs, including Zorita's Show Bar, which opened in 1964. The revues blended burlesque with Caribbean themed spectacle, tapping into tourist fantasy while subverting local norms. The reality of running the club was more complicated than the sign on her lawn suggested. Women of colour working in Miami's burlesque scene navigated the industry without the protection Zorita's own white and increasingly established status afforded her. In 1969, two performers at Zorita's Show Bar, a Jamaican-billed dancer named Mora J. Clark and a colleague named Rita Solero, were arrested by the county vice squad and charged with soliciting for prostitution and soliciting drinks. The following year, police raided the club again. Several dancers and bartenders were arrested for indecent exposure or soliciting drinks, and Zorita herself, along with her co-owner and then partner Betty Ann Rielly, was charged with allowing the solicitation of drinks on the premises. Zorita's own club, in other words, was not exempt from the same policing that had targeted her for decades. It simply now fell on the women working for her. Later Years and Legacy By the late 1970s, Miami had become a flashpoint in America's culture wars. In 1977, the "Save Our Children" campaign stripped LGBTQ protections from city ordinances. Led by Anita Bryant, it represented the kind of moral crusade Zorita had spent her life resisting. Zorita dismissed Bryant bluntly, calling her a "simple bitch." Zorita retired from stripping in 1954 but continued to run burlesque clubs in New York and Miami for two more decades. In 1974, she made her only known appearance in a major Hollywood production, an uncredited cameo as a nightclub owner in Bob Fosse's Lenny, the Dustin Hoffman film about comedian Lenny Bruce and his own obscenity trials, a fitting final note given how much of Zorita's own career had been shaped by the same battles over what could and couldn't be shown on stage. In 1959, a song titled simply "Zorita," written by Sol Marcus and Bennie Benjamin, was recorded by the Fields-Madera Orchestra. By 1980, Zorita and her long term female partner left Miami for a quieter life north of the city. They bred Persian cats and lived privately. Zorita died on 12th November, 2001, at the age of 86, from heart failure. Zorita left behind no manifesto. What remains are photographs, police records, newspaper clippings, and memory. Yet her influence endures. Burlesque revivalists continue to cite Zorita as an inspiration, not simply for spectacle, but for autonomy. Her legacy remains coiled in glitter and danger, waiting for those willing to look closely. Sources: 1. "Zorita: Queen of the Striptease," Burlesque Hall of Fame Archive. 2. Nat Freedland, The Underground Guide to Burlesque Shows. 1965. 3. Leslie Zemeckis, Behind the Burly Q: The Story of Burlesque in America. 2013. 4. Interview excerpts from Exotique Magazine, 1949–1953. 5. Stephanie Buck, "This Wonderfully Wicked Burlesque Dancer's Snake Act Sizzled the Midcentury Stripper Circuit," Timeline/Medium. https://medium.com/timeline/this-wonderfully-wicked-burlesque-dancers-snake-act-sizzled-the-midcentury-stripper-circuit-2e0883fbdc0f 6. "Zorita in Miami: A Queer Southern History," Southern Cultures. https://www.southerncultures.org/article/zorita-in-miami/

In 1932, Paul Strand arrived in Mexico at a pivotal moment in the country’s modern history. He did not come as a casual tourist or detached observer, but as a guest of the Mexican government—specifically invited by Carlos Chávez, the newly appointed director of fine arts within the Secretariat of Public Education. Chávez, a composer and intellectual with strong cultural ambitions, was at the centre of efforts to shape a modern, post-revolutionary Mexican identity. He believed in the role of the arts as a tool for national expression and reform. Mexico had emerged from a decade of revolution just over a decade earlier, and the state was now attempting to unify the country through the celebration of shared heritage, indigenous culture, and contemporary progress. This period saw a flourishing of muralism, with artists such as Diego Rivera and José Clemente Orozco crafting public artworks that merged socialist ideals with native traditions. Strand, with his deep political convictions and artistic integrity, was a natural fit for this project of cultural renewal. What Strand offered was not propaganda, but clarity. With his camera, he began to explore the textures and rhythms of Mexican life—from the religious iconography embedded in church facades to the faces of rural labourers shaped by sun and soil. These were not tourist pictures nor idealised visions. They were quiet yet powerful records of people and places caught between old certainties and a rapidly shifting world. The Rise of a Modernist Photographer By the time he set foot in Mexico, Paul Strand was already regarded as a leading figure in the world of photography. Born in New York in 1890, he had studied under Lewis Hine at the Ethical Culture Fieldston School and was introduced to Alfred Stieglitz, whose journal Camera Work and gallery 291 were at the forefront of photographic modernism. Strand's early photographs, taken in the 1910s, marked a radical break with the prevailing Pictorialist style that dominated American photography at the time. Where the Pictorialists embraced soft-focus lenses, painterly compositions, and romantic subjects, Strand turned his gaze to the street and the city. His sharp, crisp images captured the geometry of modern architecture, the abstraction of shadows and light, and the strength of industrial forms. In 1916, he produced a series of portraits—most famously Blind Woman—that were notable for their directness and dignity. These images, printed with rich tonal precision, were among the first to treat photography as a serious modern art form, worthy of exhibition and intellectual attention. Strand believed that photography should be truthful but not cold, beautiful but not decorative. He saw the camera as a tool for both art and social inquiry. His work, always evolving, retained this dual commitment throughout his career. Politics, Portraits, and a Sense of Purpose Strand’s artistic choices were never divorced from his political convictions. He was a lifelong Marxist and saw photography as a way to communicate ideas about class, labour, and the human condition. His portraits of workers and rural communities, whether in the United States, Mexico, or later in Europe and Africa, were marked by a sense of respect and solidarity. He was not interested in exoticising his subjects or extracting aesthetic pleasure from their poverty. Instead, he focused on capturing the resilience and inner strength of ordinary people. His sitters often look directly into the camera, meeting the viewer with an expression that is neither submissive nor performative. There is mutual recognition, even a quiet defiance, in their gaze. This ethical approach made Mexico a deeply suitable context for Strand’s work. The country’s new cultural policy, with its emphasis on uplifting native and mestizo populations and celebrating regional traditions, mirrored many of the themes that had long animated Strand’s practice. The commission gave him an opportunity to explore how individuals and communities sustained their identity amidst a rapidly modernising society. Mexico in Transition: The 1932–1934 Journey The early 1930s were a formative time in Mexico’s national development. The revolutionary wars of the 1910s had settled into a period of reconstruction and reform, and the post-revolutionary government was actively shaping a new narrative for the country. It was a story that emphasised unity through diversity, championed rural and indigenous life, and sought to present Mexico not as backward or colonial but as a culturally rich and politically progressive nation. Strand travelled extensively throughout the country from 1932 to 1934. He photographed in cities and rural villages alike, capturing a visual dialogue between past and present. He took striking images of colonial churches—some weathered by time, others still central to village life—as well as intimate scenes of crucifixes, candles, and folk religious practices. These photos were neither devotional nor critical. They were observant, recognising the continued presence of faith in daily life. He also turned his lens to the landscapes and built environments of Mexico, paying attention to the interplay of architecture and light. And most importantly, he photographed people: men, women, and children who represented the spirit of the country. Some posed formally, others were captured in the midst of daily routines. Across all these works was a consistent tone of quiet reverence. Strand made more than 175 negatives during this period, and by the end of his journey he had produced around 60 finished platinum prints—a considerable body of work that revealed the complexity of a nation both steeped in tradition and facing an uncertain modern future. Warmth in Every Frame: Strand’s Printing Techniques The emotional tone and visual warmth of Paul Strand’s Mexican photographs owe much to his meticulous approach to printing. While many photographers of the time used silver gelatin paper for its ease and affordability, Strand favoured the platinum printing process for its superior tonal depth and archival stability. Platinum prints offer a wider range of greys, subtle mid-tones, and a matte surface that absorbs light rather than reflecting it. This gives the images a quiet richness that suits the dignity and introspective mood of Strand’s subjects. But it was with Photographs of Mexico, published in 1940, that Strand took his printing ambitions to another level. He selected 20 images from his Mexican travels for this portfolio, which was produced in a limited edition of 250. Each image was reproduced as a hand-pulled photogravure, a labour-intensive method that involves etching the photographic image onto a copper plate and then printing it using ink and a press. This technique, used since the nineteenth century, was known for its fidelity to the original photograph’s tonal values. Strand entrusted the work to The New York Photogravure and Colour Company, one of the most skilled printmakers of the period. After printing, each photogravure was coated by hand with a transparent varnish, which added a subtle sheen and protected the surface. The result was a set of prints that did not just document reality but evoked a timeless, almost sculptural presence. In 1967, recognising the enduring value of the work, Strand reissued the series under the revised title The Mexican Portfolio. This time printed in an edition of 1000, the newer volume brought the work to a broader public. Though the second edition lacked the hand-varnished finesse of the original, it retained the quiet authority of Strand’s vision and helped cement the photographs’ place in the canon of modern photographic art. Public Engagement and Enduring Legacy Paul Strand did not see photography as a pursuit for collectors or critics alone. He believed art should be accessible, meaningful, and tied to the communities it depicted. His time in Mexico reflected that ethos. During his stay, he held an exhibition of his photographs in Mexico City that was notable not only for its content but also for its democratic spirit. Admission was free, and the public responded with enthusiasm. Locals who had never set foot in an art gallery came to see the exhibition, encountering themselves and their country through Strand’s respectful and honest lens. This open approach was consistent with the post-revolutionary government’s own agenda, which aimed to bring culture to the masses through murals, public libraries, and educational programmes. Strand’s photographs, while created with artistic precision, did not shy away from the realities of rural poverty, religious devotion, or ageing infrastructure. Yet they always elevated their subjects. In doing so, they contributed to a larger visual narrative about the endurance of the Mexican people. The legacy of this work endures in more than just prints and books. It influenced generations of documentary photographers who sought to blend aesthetic quality with ethical engagement. His work in Mexico sits comfortably beside his later projects in Ghana and France, as well as earlier efforts in the United States, as part of a lifelong effort to show how ordinary lives are shaped by history and political change. A Life Beyond Borders Strand’s time in Mexico marked the beginning of a more global phase in his career. After returning to the United States, he continued to pursue projects that examined the interplay between tradition and transformation. However, by the early 1950s, the political climate in America had become inhospitable to leftist artists and intellectuals. Senator Joseph McCarthy’s anti-Communist investigations swept up many artists accused—often without evidence—of subversive activity. Strand, as a known Marxist with international connections, was not immune. Rather than wait to be blacklisted, Strand chose to leave. He relocated to France, where he spent the rest of his life. Far from diminishing his creativity, exile seemed to focus his energies. He continued to travel and work on photographic books that combined his images with essays by writers and scholars. Projects like Un Paese (1955), about an Italian village, and Ghana: An African Portrait (1964), reflected his enduring commitment to understanding communities in transition. Even in later life, Strand remained obsessed with the quality of the printed image. He supervised every stage of book production, ensuring that the printing methods did justice to the texture and spirit of the original negatives. His photographs from Mexico, printed with such care decades earlier, served as a lasting benchmark. The Mexican Portfolio: A Testament in Print Today, The Mexican Portfolio is recognised as one of Paul Strand’s defining achievements. It stands as more than a collection of photographs; it is a cultural document that captures a moment in time when Mexico stood at the crossroads of tradition and modernity. Each image reflects a deep engagement with place, a visual sensitivity to light and structure, and an unwavering respect for the people depicted. In an age when digital photography often sacrifices material quality for speed, Strand’s work reminds us of the power of the printed image. His commitment to craft, his political consciousness, and his desire to elevate the everyday make his Mexican photographs as relevant now as they were when first published. Strand saw in Mexico a mirror of the wider human condition—a place where change was both exhilarating and painful, where old ways met new pressures, and where the endurance of the human spirit could be traced in the lines of a face or the worn surface of a doorway. Through these photographs, that story continues to be told. Sources Greenough, Sarah. Paul Strand: An American Vision. National Gallery of Art / Aperture, 1990 Newhall, Beaumont. The History of Photography. Museum of Modern Art, 1982 Strand, Paul. The Mexican Portfolio. Da Capo Press reprint, 1967 Hambourg, Maria Morris. “Paul Strand and the Mexican Renaissance,” The Metropolitan Museum of Art Bulletin, Spring 1997 Aperture Foundation. Paul Strand Archive Fundación Televisa. Paul Strand en México, 2010 International Center of Photography. “Paul Strand Biography” https://www.icp.org https://www.aperture.org https://www.metmuseum.org https://www.moma.org

It’s hard to truly grasp what it must have felt like to stand on the deck of a wooden convict transport ship in May 1787, looking back at the receding English coastline for what would be the last time. For most of the over 750 men and women sentenced to transportation aboard the First Fleet, this was not just a punishment – it was a social death. They were being exiled thousands of miles away, with no realistic hope of return. Few had ever heard of New South Wales, and fewer still understood what awaited them there. Their crimes were mostly minor – stealing food, pickpocketing, forging a coin – offences that in many cases had sprung from desperation and poverty in a time of massive economic upheaval. The journey ahead was unprecedented in its ambition and terrifying in its scope. Over 15,000 miles, eight months at sea, crossing three oceans and rounding the tip of Africa. These convicts, most of whom had never travelled more than a few miles from their home parish, were now part of an imperial experiment. Britain was attempting to solve its prison crisis by building a colony on the far side of the globe. But for those on board, the ship wasn’t just transport – it was a prison, a hospital, and a world unto itself. Engraving of a prison ship bound for Australia in Portsmouth Harbour The First Fleet: An Unprecedented Expedition The First Fleet was a logistical undertaking unmatched in the history of British penal transportation. Comprising eleven ships under the overall command of Captain Arthur Phillip, the fleet set sail from Portsmouth on 13 May 1787. It included six convict transports – Alexander, Charlotte, Friendship, Lady Penrhyn, Prince of Wales, and Scarborough – supported by three store ships (Fishburn, Borrowdale, and Golden Grove) and two Royal Navy escorts (HMS Sirius and HMS Supply). In total, the fleet carried approximately 1,400 people, including 750 convicts, about 300 marines and officers, and a handful of free settlers and officials. Also onboard were livestock, seeds, tools, arms, tents, and all manner of supplies required to build a settlement from the ground up. Though it was intended as a strategic measure to extend British influence in the Pacific, for the convicts it was something far more personal – a sentence of forced migration, isolation, and reinvention. Below Deck: Cramped Quarters and Harsh Realities Once the ships left British waters, the convicts’ world narrowed to the space below deck – a low-ceilinged, dimly lit hold below the waterline. There was little headroom; most had to crouch or sit hunched. Hammocks or planks served as beds, often shared or rotated. The air was thick with the odour of bilge water, sweat, and sewage. Chamber pots were the only latrines, and in heavy seas they spilled freely. Washing facilities were almost non-existent; some convicts were allowed on deck to scrub themselves with seawater, but many were simply left to fester. Rats, lice and cockroaches were ever-present. Lice burrowed into clothing seams and hair. The sweltering heat of the tropics turned the holds into ovens, while in southern latitudes the cold was biting and unrelenting. Rain and seawater leaked in, soaking bedding and provisions alike. Though convicts were shackled at the beginning of the voyage, most were unchained as discipline improved and the risk of mutiny decreased. Officers and marines lived in relative comfort by comparison, often in partitioned cabins with access to the open air. Their presence maintained order – and reminded the prisoners of their status. Illness and Mortality at Sea In such close and unsanitary quarters, disease was inevitable. Typhus, dysentery, and scurvy were constant threats. Scurvy, caused by vitamin C deficiency, brought swollen limbs, rotting gums, and ultimately death. Dysentery, known as “flux,” ravaged the bowels, and typhus, spread by lice, could take down dozens in a matter of days. A sectional view of the prison hulk, Defence, showing how decks were partitioned by bars Yet compared to earlier transport voyages, mortality rates aboard the First Fleet were surprisingly low – around 48 convict deaths en route, a result of Arthur Phillip’s insistence on cleanliness, fresh air, and medical care. Each ship had a naval surgeon, and Phillip enforced a regime of airing bedding, scrubbing decks, and exercising prisoners on deck when weather allowed. Even so, the suffering was intense. Some convicts had been in gaol for years awaiting transportation and were already ill when they embarked. Others weakened steadily over the voyage. Medical logs detail cases of convulsions, fevers, and failing eyesight. Those who died were buried at sea, often wrapped in a piece of sailcloth and slid overboard in solemn, pragmatic ceremonies. Rations, Routine and Discipline Daily life followed a strict if monotonous rhythm. Convicts rose with the call of the boatswain, often to muster on deck, where they were counted, inspected, and occasionally drilled. They were fed twice daily, often from communal messes, with rations including salted pork or beef, hard biscuits (hardtack), pease pudding, rice, and oatmeal. Fresh produce was rare, though port stops in Tenerife, Rio de Janeiro, and Cape Town allowed for some replenishment. Water was carefully measured – often stored in wooden casks that spoiled easily in the heat. Occasionally, a convict might receive a small ration of beer, rum or wine, more as a medicinal or morale-boosting measure than a treat. Punishments for infractions were swift. Flogging with the cat-o’-nine-tails was administered on deck in front of the assembled crew and prisoners. Crimes such as theft, insolence, or fighting might also result in withdrawal of rations or solitary confinement in a makeshift brig. Yet within the rigid structure, a kind of makeshift community formed. Convicts with special skills – shoemakers, carpenters, cooks – were often given additional duties. Some women formed relationships with sailors or marines, offering a degree of protection in return for companionship, though not always by choice. Women Convicts: Danger and Exploitation Of the 191 female convicts aboard the fleet, many had been convicted of theft, prostitution, or fraud, and their experience was markedly different – and in many ways more dangerous – than that of their male counterparts. Women were generally housed in separate sections of the transport ships, but these offered little in the way of safety or privacy. Sexual harassment and exploitation were rife, with both crew members and marines frequently engaging in coercive relationships. While some arrangements were consensual or pragmatic, others involved abuse and manipulation. Captain Phillip, recognising the risks, issued orders to limit interaction between male convicts and women, and tried to ensure separate rations and living quarters for female prisoners. But these rules were inconsistently applied and often ignored when out of sight. Several children were born during the voyage, to convict mothers or through relationships with crewmen. Midwives were not available, and childbirth in the cramped and filthy conditions of a ship’s hold was perilous. Newborns and their mothers were vulnerable to infection and malnourishment, though some managed to survive the crossing and begin life anew in Australia. The Arrival and Aftermath: From Ship to Settlement After more than eight harrowing months at sea, the First Fleet dropped anchor in Botany Bay between 18 and 20 January 1788. For the officers and crew, there was a sense of accomplishment. For the convicts, there was likely a mix of dread, uncertainty, and faint hope. Whatever emotions they felt, any momentary relief was short-lived. Botany Bay, though praised by earlier explorers, proved unsuitable for a permanent colony. The soil was sandy and infertile, offering little promise for agriculture. The freshwater supply was meagre and unreliable. Worse still, the bay was too exposed, offering scant protection for ships and making landings hazardous in rough weather. ‘The Founding of Australia 1788’, an oil painting by Algernon Talmage. Captain Arthur Phillip, charged with establishing a viable settlement, made a swift and critical decision. Just days after arrival, he led a reconnaissance party northwards and discovered a more promising site – a sheltered inlet with deep water, a reliable stream, and more workable land. He named this natural harbour Sydney Cove, in honour of Viscount Sydney, the then Home Secretary responsible for colonial affairs. On 26 January 1788, the fleet was relocated to the cove, and Phillip formally claimed the territory for Britain by raising the Union Jack on shore. This act, carried out without consent or treaty, entirely disregarded the sovereignty of the Aboriginal people whose land this had been for tens of thousands of years. Though barely noted by Europeans at the time, this moment would echo across centuries and become a focal point of national memory, eventually marked each year as Australia Day – a date increasingly contested and mourned by Indigenous communities. An Alien Land and Endless Toil Stepping ashore was not the end of the ordeal for the convicts – it was merely a new beginning. For most, this was their first experience of the southern hemisphere. The heat was intense, the light brighter and more unforgiving than anything known in Britain, and the unfamiliar sounds of birds, insects and wildlife added to the sense of dislocation. The landscape was rugged, the trees unlike anything they had seen before – tall eucalypts with peeling bark and a scent of resin in the air. Even the stars above were strange. Many of the convicts were sick, emaciated, or psychologically broken from the journey. They had survived poor rations, disease, and confinement, only to be thrust into an environment that demanded immediate physical labour. There were no established buildings, no roads, no infrastructure of any kind. The settlement would have to be built from scratch – with convicts as the workforce. ‘A Direct North General View of Sydney Cove’ by Thomas Watling, 1794 Tools and materials were limited. Axes dulled quickly against the tough native hardwoods. The soil, though better than Botany Bay’s, was still difficult to cultivate. Food shortages began to bite within weeks. The crops they planted – largely European in origin – struggled in the new climate and poor soils. Livestock was scarce and vulnerable. Rations had to be strictly controlled, and hunger became a fact of life. Theft was common, and punishment remained harsh. Tensions and Survival Phillip faced numerous challenges: not just managing convicts and overseeing construction, but also maintaining morale, preventing mutiny, and navigating early relations with the local Eora people. The latter proved delicate. The arrival of the British, and the establishment of a permanent colony, was a traumatic rupture for Indigenous Australians. Initial contacts varied – some were peaceful, others tense, and there were occasional outbreaks of violence and retaliation as the colonists expanded. Phillip took a notably restrained approach for the time, issuing orders to treat the Aboriginal population with respect and even attempting to foster dialogue through intermediaries like Bennelong, who would later travel to England. But the underlying colonial occupation, with its land clearance, spread of disease, and assumption of superiority, set the tone for future dispossession and conflict. Meanwhile, within the colony, the social structure began to take shape. Convicts with useful trades – carpenters, blacksmiths, brickmakers – were in high demand and often received better treatment. Some were even granted early pardons or conditional liberty in return for their skills. Others, especially unskilled labourers, bore the brunt of hard physical work and often fell afoul of strict discipline. The Roots of a Colony Despite every hardship – illness, hunger, heat, and hardship – the colony endured. The first buildings were crude, often little more than tents or huts made from wattle and daub. The early years were marked by crisis after crisis – failed crops, floods, disease outbreaks, and the ever-present threat of starvation. Supplies from England were slow and uncertain. Yet against the odds, the population grew, and the foundations of modern Sydney were laid. Some convicts went on to become free settlers, farmers, or tradespeople. Over time, the British government sent more fleets, more prisoners, and more administrators, turning the penal colony into a fully-fledged outpost of empire. It would take decades before self-governance and economic self-sufficiency were achieved, but the events of 1788 set it all in motion. From the moment the First Fleet stepped onto Australian soil, history was reshaped. For the convicts, it was the beginning of an uncertain fate. For Britain, it was the expansion of empire. For Aboriginal Australians, it marked the beginning of invasion, resistance, and dispossession. And for the world, it was the start of one of the most remarkable and complex colonial histories of the modern era.

This series reunites vintage album covers with the locations where their original photos were taken. Photographed by Alex Bartsch , the series aligns everything perfectly to create a seamless blend of past and present. Many of these album covers were created for reggae music projects from 1967 to 1987. The covers, photographed around London, offer a brief glimpse into the city during that era. Bartsch says of the project. "The image on a record cover usually remains within defined borders, instantly recognisable as a record cover, but not so much as a location, approaching the scene from a wider angle and revealing the cover’s surroundings brought me, and will hopefully bring others, closer to the time and place of the original photo shoot." "Some [of the locations] were easy to find while others took months of detective work. I cycled all over the city, from Penge in southeast London to Harlesden in the northwest. There were wild goose chases, and some unexpected finds. It's been a great adventure, and has painted an interesting map of London's reggae music heritage." Alex Bartsch isn’t just a record collector. He’s a visual historian of London’s rich musical past. His ongoing project, London Record Covers , sees him track down the exact locations where iconic reggae, ska, soul and jazz album covers were originally photographed, sometimes decades ago. Once he finds the right spot, he returns with the original vinyl sleeve and aligns it precisely within the modern-day scene, capturing it all in a new photograph that beautifully juxtaposes past and present. These aren’t just aesthetic compositions. Bartsch’s photographs provide a visual narrative of how London has evolved through the lens of music. From Brixton to Camden, Ladbroke Grove to Hackney, each image documents urban change, cultural memory, and the enduring power of music to define a place. The Project’s Origins: A Personal and Urban Quest The idea was sparked by Bartsch’s discovery that the cover for Smiley Culture’s  1984 album Cockney Translation  was photographed just minutes from his flat. Intrigued, he began looking through his own record collection to see how many more he could identify and locate. He set strict criteria: only sleeves that featured street scenes in recognisable London locations, and only albums from his personal collection. With time and determination, the project grew. Bartsch eventually photographed over 40 sleeves, including covers from artists like Bob Marley and the Wailers , Dennis Bovell , Roots Manuva , Aswad , and Linton Kwesi Johnson . His book Covers , published in 2017, became a cult favourite among music fans and photographers alike. Photography with Vinyl in Hand: The Technical Challenge Bartsch’s process is meticulous. First, he identifies the likely location from clues in the original image, signs, buildings, lampposts, or architectural quirks. He then visits the site with the original record in hand, holding it up in front of the scene to match the cover’s composition as closely as possible. He often balances the record with one hand while operating the camera with the other, carefully ensuring the angles align and the scale remains accurate. What makes these photographs stand out is the seamless blending of the original artwork with the real environment. The records are not Photoshopped in, they are physically present, held in front of the lens, creating a tangible connection between the record and the real world it once captured. Not Just Reggae: A Broader Musical Mapping of London These photographs celebrate the contributions of Caribbean communities to British music and visual culture. Many of the original covers were shot cheaply and quickly, sometimes using locations close to record shops, studios, or homes. Bartsch’s rediscovery of them decades later gives these spaces a renewed cultural significance. Bartsch’s work has received considerable attention from music and photography communities. His exhibitions have been hosted across the UK, and his work has been featured in publications like The Guardian , BBC , and Time Out . Beyond aesthetics, his photographs provoke reflection on how quickly urban spaces change and how music history is embedded in everyday streets and forgotten corners.

Picture this: you’re curled up on the sofa after a long day, nursing a bar of chocolate like it’s the last form of pleasure available to humanity. Somewhere, deep in your lizard brain, a quiet thought bubbles up: “Who invented this heavenly substance?” Well, dear reader, prepare to unwrap the surprisingly rich—and occasionally ridiculous—history of chocolate, complete with warriors, wigs, and a suspicious amount of Quakers. The First to Go Loco for Cacao: The Olmecs Let us begin around 1500 BCE in the steamy rainforests of southern Mexico, where the Olmec civilisation were the first to domesticate the Theobroma cacao tree. That name literally means “food of the gods,” which, to be honest, is the least pretentious name a tree bearing chocolate beans could possibly have. They didn’t eat it like we do today—no truffles or fondants for them. Instead, they ground the fermented beans into a paste and drank it, often with spices and water. There was nothing sweet about it. Think less “gourmet hot chocolate” and more “spiced cacao smoothie for spiritually inclined warriors.” While the Olmecs mysteriously vanished from history, their love of cacao didn’t. Their neighbours picked up the pod and ran with it. The Maya: Chocolate as Ceremony and Currency If the Olmecs introduced cacao, the Maya turned it into an institution. Around 250–900 CE, the Maya were grinding cacao into drinks, offering it to their gods, and serving it at weddings and rituals. If you were Maya and you wanted to throw a respectable do, you’d better have the cacao on tap. Maya artwork shows gods sprouting from cacao pods, and many noble burials contained cacao vessels to accompany the dead into the afterlife—possibly to negotiate with the gods for a better seating arrangement. Interestingly, they didn’t add sugar either. The drink was still bitter, often spiced with chilli, annatto, or cornmeal. It gave strength, stimulated the senses, and functioned as a kind of divine energy drink. Red Bull, eat your heart out. The Aztecs: Chocolate Gets Serious (and a Bit Weird) Then came the Aztecs, who went full throttle. They valued cacao beans so highly that they used them as currency—your monthly rent could easily be 100 beans, and a good turkey was 200. Their emperor, Montezuma II, allegedly drank fifty cups of spiced chocolate a day from a golden chalice. If that sounds excessive, bear in mind he also believed he was part god. You try telling him to cut back. Moctezuma Xocoyotzin The Aztecs also believed chocolate had aphrodisiac properties. (They were not the last to make this hopeful assumption.) For them, chocolate was consumed cold, unsweetened, and frothy—achieved by pouring the liquid from one cup to another at height. Imagine a barista with a flair for the dramatic and a very high ceiling. Cortés and Montezuma: A Chocolate-Flavoured Culture Clash One of the biggest episodes in chocolate’s history occurred in 1519 when Hernán Cortés met Emperor Montezuma II in the heart of the Aztec empire. According to some Spanish accounts, Montezuma believed Cortés might be the returning god Quetzalcoatl. Whether or not Cortés exploited that belief, he certainly developed a taste for Aztec wealth—including their prized cacao. Hernán Cortés (left) meeting Montezuma II The Spanish didn’t care much for the Aztec chocolate drink at first—it was cold, bitter, and frankly not what one might expect from something so revered. But the moment sugar entered the picture, everything changed. Cacao made the voyage across the Atlantic, and by the early 17th century, Spanish monks were adding honey and cinnamon, effectively transforming a sacred ritual drink into a fashionable European hot chocolate. By the time chocolate hit Italy and France, it was already being touted as a health tonic. “Good for the digestion,” they claimed. “Stimulating to the passions,” whispered others. Let’s just say 17th-century people didn’t need much convincing to drink warm, sugary beverages while gossiping in silk breeches. Chocolate Houses: The First Caffeinated Social Media In the 17th and 18th centuries, chocolate houses began springing up across Europe. These establishments weren’t exactly egalitarian. You wouldn’t find the working classes in them; they were the haunts of upper-class gossips, poets, gamblers, and philosophers. One such establishment, White’s Chocolate House in London, became so synonymous with scandal and high-stakes betting that by 1736 it was hosting a book where gentlemen could bet on “which of two men will live longest,” or another that read: “£3,000 that a certain man dies by such a day.” Morbid, yes, but perfectly on-brand for the era, all discussed, presumably over a cup of particularly frothy chocolate. Chocolate arrived in London in the mid-1600s, and soon after, chocolate houses opened their doors. These establishments were the Georgian equivalent of today’s coffee shops—but with significantly more powdered wigs, cane-fencing, and political scheming. Inside, men debated the finer points of Whiggism, played cards, and indulged in scandalous pamphlets, all while sipping frothy hot chocolate in porcelain cups. From Craft to Confection: The Industrial Revolution By the 19th century, chocolate was no longer the reserve of royalty. Innovations in processing and production made it more affordable and more versatile. The Dutch, being nothing if not efficient, streamlined chocolate into its modern form, and the British and Swiss built empires out of it. In 1847, Fry’s of Bristol produced the first solid chocolate bar. This invention was a game-changer. Finally, chocolate could be carried in your pocket, eaten on the go, and hoarded secretly in desk drawers. Meanwhile, over in Switzerland, Daniel Peter and Henri Nestlé created milk chocolate in 1875. This creamy, smooth concoction won the hearts (and teeth) of the public. Rodolphe Lindt added conching—a slow stirring process that made chocolate extra silky. People didn’t just eat chocolate—they swooned over it. Enter the Quakers: Sweetness and Social Conscience The 19th century saw the rise of several chocolate dynasties. Interestingly, many of the big names—Cadbury, Fry, and Rowntree—were run by Quakers. Their religion prohibited alcohol, gambling, and dancing (so, naturally, they turned to chocolate). John Cadbury opened his business in Birmingham in 1824 and began producing cocoa and drinking chocolate. By the 1860s, the Cadburys were marketing “pure cocoa essence” as a wholesome alternative to alcohol. One suspects that many Victorian mothers handed it out with a side of moral instruction. In 1875, a Swiss entrepreneur named Daniel Peter added condensed milk (developed by Henri Nestlé) to create the first milk chocolate bar. A few years later, Rodolphe Lindt invented the conching machine, which smoothed chocolate to heavenly levels. John Cadbury Chocolate Goes Global By the 20th century, chocolate had gone from Aztec ritual to industrialised delight. Milton S. Hershey, an American with a dream and a moustache, brought affordable milk chocolate to the masses in the US. He even built a company town—Hershey, Pennsylvania—where workers lived in chocolate-scented harmony. Sort of. From there, it was a whirlwind of branding, mass production, war-time ration bars, Easter eggs, novelty shapes, and a galaxy of filled confections from caramel to peanut butter and beyond. A Note on Ethics: Bittersweet Realities Of course, not all is sweet in the world of chocolate. The history of cacao includes colonial exploitation, slavery, and ongoing concerns about child labour in parts of West Africa today. Thankfully, movements for fair trade and ethical sourcing are growing, and companies are under pressure to clean up their cocoa supply chains. It’s something to chew on while enjoying your next ethically sourced truffle. In Conclusion: Thank You, Cacao So who do we thank? In no particular order: The Olmecs, for first saying “hey, maybe we drink this.” The Maya, for ceremonial flair. The Aztecs, for their militarised enthusiasm. Spanish colonists, for mixing in sugar and making it palatable to Europe. Coenraad van Houten, for the science bit. Fry, Cadbury, Nestlé, Lindt, and Hershey, for industrialising our cravings. And you, dear reader, for carrying on the noble tradition of justifying chocolate consumption through historical research. Bravo.

They tore through the streets of Mayfair in gleaming motorcars, flung pearls around their necks like confetti, and threw parties so lavish they made the Georgian aristocracy look restrained. But the Bright Young Things weren’t merely the flapper generation gone wild—they were the children of war, grief, and seismic cultural change. A century later, their shimmer hasn’t dulled. Who Were the Bright Young Things? The Bright Young Things —sometimes known as the Bright Young People —emerged in Britain in the aftermath of the First World War and the Spanish Flu pandemic. They were predominantly upper-class and aristocratic youth who, in their twenties throughout the 1920s, found themselves navigating a new and uncertain world. Their parents, moulded by Victorian and Edwardian values, represented a world they no longer recognised. The old class hierarchies were beginning to crumble. An entire generation of men had been lost on the battlefields of the Somme and Passchendaele, and those too young to have fought often grew up in the long shadows of loss and disillusionment. In response, many of these young people sought refuge in art, fashion, performance, and hedonism. Life was short and unstable, so they lived fast and flamboyantly. For the Bright Young Things, a party wasn’t just a celebration—it was a gesture against death, tradition, and boredom. A New Kind of Rebellion Yes, they drank cocktails in teacups at breakfast and smoked clove cigarettes in the gardens of London townhouses, but their rebellion was more than simple excess. It was creative, theatrical, and at times politically charged. Members of this clique—such as playwright Noël Coward, aristocrat Elizabeth Ponsonby, aesthete Stephen Tennant, and artistically inclined socialites like Nancy Mitford—challenged the mores of their day through fashion, gender expression, and lifestyle. Women bobbed their hair, wore trousers, and abandoned corsets for loose silks and diaphanous chiffons. Men, meanwhile, often favoured powdered faces, brocade jackets, and velvet trousers. Cross-dressing, androgyny, and gender role subversion were all common at their many costume parties and themed events. In an age when homosexuality was still a criminal offence in Britain, the Bright Young Things offered rare sanctuary. Gay men and women moved freely in their circles—flirted with, photographed, celebrated. The Great Treasure Hunts Their infamous treasure hunts, held across London’s West End, were legendary affairs. Not quaint parlour games, these were sprawling, drink-fuelled urban scavenger hunts that saw bejewelled aristocrats and budding artists dashing through the streets in full costume. Clues were hidden in boutiques, nightclubs, even police stations. Often these events began at cocktail hour and concluded at dawn, having wound through a half-dozen exclusive addresses and left a trail of emptied champagne bottles and press scandal in their wake. Tabloid journalists, particularly from The Tatler , Daily Express , and The Times , quickly caught on to the public’s appetite for stories about the glamorous, reckless elite. It was not unusual for Bright Young Things to wake up with a hangover, a misplaced monocle, and a full column devoted to their antics in that morning’s paper. Their Places of Worship: The Clubs of London The beating heart of BYT nightlife pulsed within a few key establishments. There was the Embassy Club  on Old Bond Street, the opulent Café de Paris , and the Cavendish Hotel . But none were quite so emblematic of the movement as the Gargoyle Club , founded by David Tennant (not to be confused with the modern actor of the same name), a socialite whose older brother, the poet Edward Tennant, had died in the war. Located in a Georgian townhouse in Soho, the Gargoyle was an exclusive, eccentric space of high culture and low inhibition. It was decorated with help from Henri Matisse himself, and boasted a drawing room, ballroom, Tudor chamber, and a rooftop garden. Guests could dance beneath surrealist murals, sip absinthe on gilded sofas, and gossip over oysters until the early morning. Among its frequent visitors were Virginia Woolf, Adèle Astaire, Nancy Cunard, and members of the Guinness, Sitwell, and Mountbatten families. The Cult of the Camera No figure documented the Bright Young Things quite as obsessively as Cecil Beaton. The society photographer—himself one of their number—captured the spirit of the era in his theatrical and highly stylised portraits. His sisters, Nancy and Baba Beaton, were popular muses, and many of his photographs were self-consciously extravagant: all plumes, feathers, chandeliers, and dreamy lighting. Beaton’s photography didn’t just reflect the movement—it shaped it. His subjects understood their lives as a form of performance, and he gave them the stage. His lens helped elevate the Bright Young Things into the earliest form of the celebrity influencer—part aristocrat, part performance artist. Scandal and the Birth of Celebrity Culture The press adored them. The public devoured every detail of their soirées, trysts, and fashion faux pas. But for all the glamour, there was no shortage of criticism. They were accused of being narcissistic, wasteful, and insensitive to the broader postwar hardships facing the country. Some newspapers took a different approach and began to co-opt the movement by employing members of the BYT to write for them. These columns, often dripping with irony and insider gossip, turned self-awareness into another form of spectacle. If society was going to gawk at them, the Bright Young Things would gawk right back—on their own terms. From Fancy Dress to Fiction Writers such as Nancy Mitford and Evelyn Waugh turned their experiences within this glittering subculture into biting social satire. Mitford’s The Pursuit of Love  and Love in a Cold Climate , and Waugh’s Vile Bodies  and Decline and Fall , are peppered with thinly disguised portraits of their friends. These “party novels” were both tribute and takedown: full of laughter, fashion, heartbreak, and barely concealed commentary on the fragility and foolishness of the upper classes. Stephen Tennant—described by Waugh as “the most dazzling of them all”—is widely believed to be the inspiration behind Waugh’s tragic dandy character Sebastian Flyte in Brideshead Revisited . The Fall of the Bright Young Things By the end of the 1920s, the party was beginning to sour. Britain was hit hard by the global economic crash of 1929, and the Great Depression rendered public sympathy for privileged antics threadbare. Many of the BYT faded into obscurity, married into respectable society, or turned their talents to quieter artistic pursuits. The Second World War, when it came, brought a final curtain down on their antics. The theatres were shuttered. The lights in the ballrooms went out. Gas masks replaced feather boas. The world moved on, sobered by a new and even more devastating conflict. Sources: D. J. Taylor, Bright Young People: The Rise and Fall of a Generation 1918-1940 , Chatto & Windus, 2007. Cecil Beaton, The Glass of Fashion , Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1954. Nancy Mitford, Love in a Cold Climate , Penguin Classics. Evelyn Waugh, Vile Bodies , Penguin Classics. “The Gargoyle Club,” Soho Life Archives , www.soholifehistory.co.uk National Portrait Gallery, London, “Cecil Beaton Collection” Victoria and Albert Museum: 1920s Fashion and Youth Subculture

While the grim history of capital punishment is filled with clinical efficiency and tragic inevitability there are also rare and strange occasions when the apparatus of death simply refused to do its job. Two men John Babbacombe Lee of Devon England and Joseph Samuel a transported convict in colonial Australia were sentenced to death led to the gallows and strung up before a watching crowd. Yet both survived not just once but three times. Whether by mechanical fault divine intervention or sheer blind luck these men walked away from the scaffold with their lives altering the course of criminal justice in their wake. John Babbacombe Lee The Man They Could Not Hang Born on 15 August 1864 in Abbotskerswell Devon John Henry George Lee seemed an unremarkable figure a former Royal Navy seaman with a history of theft and petty crime. But in 1885 his life would take a turn into the history books. Lee was convicted of murdering his employer Miss Emma Keyse at her home in Babbacombe Bay near Torquay in November 1884. She had been killed with a knife and her house set alight. The evidence against Lee was thin he was the only male present in the household he had a previous criminal record and he bore an unexplained cut on his arm. Nonetheless a jury found him guilty and sentenced him to death by hanging. But fate or something very much like it intervened. On 23 February 1885 at Exeter Prison the executioner James Berry prepared to do his grim duty. The trapdoor beneath Lee’s feet was tested in advance and found to be in working order. Yet when the lever was pulled the door refused to budge. The mechanism was inspected and modified. Again the trapdoor failed. A third time it was attempted with a saw and axe used to adjust the frame and once more the apparatus did not function. With the medical officer refusing to participate any further the execution was halted. An inquiry later discovered that when the gallows had been moved from the prison infirmary to a coach house the alignment of the drawbar had been slightly altered. This caused the hinges to jam. Some have suggested sabotage Ernest Bowen Rowlands in his legal analysis In the Light of the Law speculated that a wedge had been deliberately inserted by a prisoner and removed during testing. However Berry widely respected for his professionalism made no mention of such interference in his memoirs or official correspondence. Lee’s sentence was commuted to life imprisonment by Home Secretary Sir William Harcourt. After petitioning various Home Secretaries for years he was finally released in 1907. Lee later toured the country lecturing on his experiences even becoming the subject of a silent film. He reportedly died under the name James Lee in Milwaukee Wisconsin in 1945 though for decades his final fate remained a mystery. Joseph Samuel The Miracle at Parramatta Over 80 years earlier on the other side of the globe another man survived the hangman’s noose not once but three times long before the drop method of hanging was introduced to ensure a swift death Joseph Samuel born circa 1780 in Germany had been convicted of robbery in 1795 and sentenced to transportation to Australia in 1801 aboard the convict fleet. Like many early arrivals to Sydney Cove he sought escape. Eventually he joined a gang that robbed the home of a wealthy woman in Parramatta. During the crime a constable Joseph Luker was murdered. Although the gang leader and others were acquitted for lack of evidence the woman identified Samuel as one of the culprits. He confessed to the robbery but denied the killing. Nonetheless he alone was sentenced to hang. On 26 September 1803, Samuel and another criminal, convicted of another crime and not a member of the same gang, were driven in a cart to Parramatta, where hundreds of people had gathered to watch the execution. Nooses were fastened securely around their necks from the gallows and after they were allowed to pray with a priest, the cart was driven away. This was the common method of hanging of the day, and caused death by slow strangulation. Not until the latter half of the 19th century did the British employ the drop method, which breaks the neck. The ropes used were made of five cords of hemp, which enabled one to hold 1,000 lb (450 kg), for up to five minutes without breaking, more than sufficient for human executions. The other criminal ultimately died by strangulation, but Samuel's rope snapped and he dropped to his feet, sprained an ankle and collapsed. The executioner hastily readied another rope, also five-hemp, and placed it around Samuel's neck, forced him onto the same cart, and drove the cart away again. The other criminal was still kicking weakly at this point. When the cart drove out from under him, Samuel fell again, and the noose slipped off his neck, whereupon his boots touched the ground. The executioner was sure to have fastened the noose securely around his neck, and as he stood Samuel up to try again, the crowd had become boisterous, calling for Samuel to be freed. The executioner very quickly readied another five-hemp rope, ordered the cart driven back, forced Samuel onto it, fastened the noose around his neck, secured it very carefully and tightly, and then ordered the cart driven away. The rope snapped, and Samuel dropped to the ground and stumbled over, trying to avoid landing on his sprained ankle. Now the crowd stood around in an uproar, and another policeman, watching on horseback, ordered the execution delayed momentarily, while he rode away to find the governor. The governor was summoned to the scene and upon inspection of the ropes, which showed no evidence of having been cut, and the other criminal, who had been executed with an identical rope, the governor and the entire crowd agreed that it was a sign from God that Joseph Samuel had not committed any crime deserving of execution and his sentence was commuted to life imprisonment instead. Parramatta's town doctor tended to his sprained ankle. Joseph Samuel’s sentence was commuted to life imprisonment and the crowd cheered the man who had cheated death three times in a single day. Though separated by oceans and decades the stories of John Lee and Joseph Samuel remain united in their defiance of the noose. Neither man was exonerated but both were granted a second chance at life when the machinery of execution failed them. Their survival provoked debate religious awe and legal reform. In Lee’s case it exposed flaws in capital punishment infrastructure. In Samuel’s it became a literal act of divine mercy in the eyes of colonial authorities. In a time when death sentences were final and swift these two men became living contradictions to the system itself. They were quite literally the men who could not be hanged.

Dylan and his entougrage across the street from the Delmonico Hotel, on Park Ave. and 59th Street, where the Beatles were staying when they came to New York City in 1964. From left to right the people are: Victor Maymudes (obscured, Dylan's personal assistant), Neil Aspinall (close, front; the Beatle's road manager), Al Aronowitz (a New York CIty journalist and friend of Dylan's) and Bob Dylan, with cigarette in hand. (photo by Henry Grossman / Daily Mirror via Getty Images) On Friday 28 August 1964, in a plush hotel room high above Park Avenue and 59th Street in New York City, four lads from Liverpool finally met America’s scruffy poet laureate. The place was the Delmonico Hotel, the man pulling the strings behind the scenes was journalist and professional self-promoter Al Aronowitz, and the story that would spill out of that room has been retold so many times it has become part of rock’s founding folklore. By late summer 1964, the Beatles were everywhere: in the charts, on TV, in the screaming dreams of teenagers across continents. Bob Dylan, meanwhile, was doing something rather different. While John, Paul, George and Ringo were singing about holding hands and wanting to be loved, Dylan was penning sharp, literate songs about injustice and heartache, delivered through a haze of cigarette smoke and cryptic mutterings. The Beatles admired Dylan’s words; Dylan was fascinated by the sheer hysteria they caused wherever they went. They were bound to collide eventually. Lighting Up: Ringo’s Big Puff So they all squeezed into that hotel room one Friday evening. There was wine, laughter, guitars resting in corners—and then Dylan, very casually, produced some marijuana. It is one of those lovely little ironies of pop history that while the Beatles had the image of wild young men, they were actually rather green about weed. Dylan had assumed they were already seasoned stoners because he thought he’d heard them singing “I get high” in I Want to Hold Your Hand. In fact, they were singing “I can’t hide”. Dylan rolled a joint and passed it to Ringo Starr first. Poor Ringo didn’t know the unspoken rules of the puff-puff-pass. Instead, he smoked the whole thing himself, like a docker demolishing his first fag after a long shift. Within minutes, he was reportedly sprawled out on the floor, giggling uncontrollably. One by one, the others followed suit. Brian Epstein, their polished and usually unflappable manager, got so stoned he squeaked, “I’m so high I’m up on the ceiling!” Paul McCartney, ever the romantic philosopher, believed he’d stumbled upon the deepest truths of existence and made their loyal road manager Mal Evans follow him around, scribbling down every revelation. What did Paul say that night? Nobody knows for sure, Mal’s notebook was never found. Dylan himself seemed delighted and faintly amused by how quickly the Beatles were undone by the smoke. He picked up the hotel phone at one point and, instead of politely answering, barked down the line, “This is Beatlemania here!” It was, by all accounts, chaos of the happiest sort. More Than Just a Laugh Looking back, people like to say that everything changed that night: pop got deeper, lyrics got cleverer, and rock grew up. It is true that after that evening, the Beatles began writing songs that poked around inside their own heads rather than just begging for love. You can draw a straight-ish line from that room at the Delmonico to Rubber Soul, Revolver and the mind-bending adventures of Sgt. Pepper. Dylan too was shifting gears. Within months he plugged in his guitar and turned folk on its ear with a loud electric band. Some folk purists booed and hissed, but the rest of the world followed him. By the time he got to Bringing It All Back Home and Highway 61 Revisited, he was a rock star in all but name. Legends Grow in the Telling Of course, it is tempting to make more of this night than it really was. Pop historians love a neat story, and this one is irresistible: the moment America’s wordsmith and Britain’s Fab Four swapped secrets, got baked and pointed music down a new road. But as Mark Ellen, co-founder of Mojo and Q magazines, once pointed out, they were already halfway there. The Beatles were getting bored of being a boy band; Dylan was already inching towards the big, brash rock world. They just happened to pass each other at the perfect moment—each a bit envious of what the other had. What no one can deny is that for one night in New York, rock’s biggest players locked themselves away from screaming fans and press cameras, opened a bottle (or three), passed a joint and laughed themselves silly. And afterwards, they didn’t just get up the next day and do the same old thing. They went away and changed music forever—though maybe not quite as instantly or dramatically as baby boomers like to claim. Even so, it is a fine story to tell: a room in the Delmonico, a haze of smoke, four wide-eyed Beatles, a sly Dylan, and the birth (give or take a few poetic exaggerations) of pop’s age of enlightenment. Sources Al Aronowitz, Bob Dylan and the Beatles: The Unfinished Story Mark Ellen, Mojo and Q interviews The Beatles Anthology Clinton Heylin, Bob Dylan: Behind the Shades Revisited

Between 1870 and 1910, a rather curious and creative tradition emerged at the University of Tartu in what is now Estonia. Known as “pledge theatres”, these performances were put on in the late autumn months by all-male student organisations, often tied to fraternities or Baltic-German student corporations (Studentenverbindungen). Far from being amateur dramatics done in haste, these productions served a serious purpose: they were rites of passage for new pledges—aspiring members of the society. To be initiated, pledges had to stage full theatrical performances, acting out entire plays. These weren’t small sketches or short improvisations; they were fully realised productions. The cast, composed solely of male students, would often rehearse for weeks. But one feature set these plays apart: the enthusiastic and deliberate portrayal of female characters by male actors. More Than a Gag: Cross-Dressing with Conviction The pledge theatres were steeped in theatrical tradition but also in aesthetic precision. When a male student took on a female role, it was not merely for comedy—though humour was often part of it—it was an opportunity to demonstrate both dedication and flair. The participants took their transformation seriously. Makeup was applied with care. Wigs were styled. Clothing was selected and sometimes tailored to evoke a convincing feminine appearance. In an age when photography was becoming an increasingly common way to record and commemorate events, these student thespians also visited local photography studios to have formal portraits taken in costume. These weren’t informal snaps—these were staged studio photographs that captured the artistry and spectacle of the performance. The resulting cartes de visite—small photo cards mounted on heavy paper—were then exchanged among students, used as mementos, or sold as souvenirs to audience members. In effect, drag performances at Tartu were documented, cherished, and commercialised. Why All-Male Performances? A Broader Theatrical Legacy The practice of men playing women on stage wasn’t unique to Estonia, of course. In fact, it had deep historical precedent. In many cultures, theatre had long been a male-dominated space, either due to social norms, religious prohibitions, or formal rules banning women from public performance. In Ancient Greek theatre, for example, all actors were men, including those playing female characters. These actors wore elaborate masks and costumes to embody women and performed in outdoor amphitheatres to large audiences. This male-only rule wasn’t challenged until centuries later. English Renaissance theatre, which flourished in the late 16th and early 17th centuries, continued the tradition. William Shakespeare’s plays were originally performed by all-male companies. Young boys, whose voices hadn’t yet broken, were typically cast as women. A famous example is the original portrayal of Juliet in Romeo and Juliet—a part now strongly associated with femininity, but first brought to life by a teenage boy in tights. In Japan, the classical art form of kabuki also maintained gendered theatrical roles. Although it began with female performers in the early 1600s, women were banned by 1629 due to concerns about morality and public behaviour. This gave rise to the onnagata—male actors who specialised in playing female roles, often spending years perfecting their voice, walk, posture, and gestures to become stylised feminine figures. Even today, onnagata remain a respected discipline within kabuki. Similarly, in traditional Chinese opera, particularly in the Peking and Cantonese styles, male actors historically played all roles. This created a niche for dan (female role) specialists. However, by the late 19th century, cultural shifts saw the emergence of women’s troupes, particularly in the yue or Shaoxing opera styles in southern China. These troupes were often entirely female, with women playing both male and female characters in response to changing social expectations and audience demand. Gender Reversal Takes the Western Stage Back in Europe and the United States, the 19th century saw a shift in the representation of gender on stage, particularly with the rise of the “breeches role”—a woman performing as a man. In Victorian England, performers like Vesta Tilley became household names by dressing in military uniforms and masculine suits, singing patriotic songs and wittily mocking male behaviour. Across the Atlantic, Anne Hindle took things a step further. Performing primarily in American vaudeville, Hindle regularly shaved to encourage facial hair and affected a deep voice to pass convincingly as a man. Her performances unsettled as much as they entertained, blurring the line between illusion and identity. Critics of the time often couldn’t decide whether to admire her skill or condemn her act as socially dangerous. Yet her popularity revealed an audience curiosity about gender fluidity and theatrical transformation—an interest that mirrored the appeal of student drag shows in Tartu. From Music Halls to Moving Pictures: A Comic Legacy As theatre evolved, so too did its connection with gender play. In the early 20th century, many of the English music hall traditions migrated to the burgeoning American film industry. Comedians Charlie Chaplin and Stan Laurel, both of whom began in British music halls, occasionally performed in drag—often in parody but with strong echoes of earlier stage traditions. In 1910, they travelled to the US with Fred Karno’s comedy troupe, bringing with them an entire toolbox of gendered physical comedy. Even Wallace Beery, later known for his gruff roles in talkies, appeared in silent films portraying a Swedish woman in exaggerated costume. This was a time when dressing as the opposite gender was mostly deployed for laughs, and that comic tradition carried through to acts like The Three Stooges, with Curly Howard donning drag in several short films. These performances weren’t refined or realistic, but they reinforced the enduring appeal of transformation and theatrical gender play. Censorship and the Serious Side of Drag However, as cinema grew more influential, it also came under tighter control. In the United States, the Hays Code (enforced from 1934 to 1968) imposed strict moral guidelines on Hollywood productions, severely limiting how sexuality and gender non-conformity could be depicted. Cross-dressing, if shown, had to be clearly comedic and morally neutral. Only after the decline of the Hays Code did more complex representations begin to emerge. Films like Some Like It Hot (1959) and Tootsie (1982) continued the comedic tradition, but the late 20th century also saw more dramatic portrayals, such as The Crying Game (1992) or Boys Don’t Cry (1999), which engaged with transgender identity and societal prejudice. Tartu’s Theatrical Legacy in a Global Context Seen in this light, the drag performances at Tartu University were neither peripheral nor insignificant. They represented a fusion of cultural practice, theatrical tradition, and youthful experimentation. These student productions, though informal by professional standards, were deeply rooted in a history of gender performance that spans continents and centuries. Importantly, these weren’t acts of rebellion so much as rites of belonging. To don a dress and a wig was to take one’s place in a ritualised tradition—one that tested creativity, theatrical skill, and willingness to participate fully in student life. The surviving photographs—men in corsets and curls, posing earnestly for the camera—speak volumes about how seriously they took the spectacle. Today, drag is often framed within the language of identity politics and performance art. But its older forms, such as those practised in the pledge theatres of Tartu, offer a different narrative—one rooted in fraternity, initiation, and the joy of inhabiting another character, if only for an evening. Sources: Tartu University student theatre archives Lisa Sigel, International Exposure: Perspectives on Modern European Pornography, 1800–2000 Laurence Senelick, The Changing Room: Sex, Drag and Theatre Alexander C. Cook (ed.), Mao’s Little Red Book: A Global History (for Yue opera context) Michael R. Gorman, The Amazing Transformations of Anne Hindle Kabuki and Chinese opera performance studies (various academic journal articles) The Hays Code and film censorship history resources (Library of Congress)

On 29 April 1863, in San Francisco, California, William Randolph Hearst was born into a world already steeped in ambition, fortune, and opportunity. His name would come to symbolise the transformation of the American press—from sober reporting to the thrilling spectacle of scandal, sensation, and war-mongering. Many consider his legacy to be the spiritual beginning of what we now call fake news. Yet Hearst's rise wasn’t entirely self-made. The story begins with his father, George Hearst, a prospector turned millionaire who built a fortune from some of the most significant mining strikes in American history. George didn’t just dabble in mining; he was part of three of the biggest gold and silver discoveries ever recorded: the Comstock Lode in Nevada, the Homestake Mine in South Dakota, and the Anaconda Mine in Montana. These ventures made him immensely wealthy and led to his election as a United States Senator. This immense financial cushion set the stage for young William to pursue ambitions far beyond ranching or digging in the dirt. A Gambling Debt and a Young Man’s Ambition In 1880, George Hearst accepted ownership of the struggling San Francisco Examiner to settle a gambling debt. At the time, the elder Hearst had little interest in newspapers. His energies remained focused on politics and mining, not publishing. But for William, it was a different story. While attending Harvard University in the mid-1880s, William wrote to his father requesting control of the Examiner. George was unconvinced, preferring that his son oversee the family’s mining and ranching interests. William was persistent, and on 7 March 1887, he took the reins of the Examiner. From the beginning, William demonstrated flair, imagination, and a strong sense of purpose. He called the Examiner "The Monarch of the Dailies", upgraded the printing equipment, hired the best writers he could find, and focused on sensationalism, scandal, and political exposés to drive readership. The newspaper quickly grew into a powerful local voice, full of stories designed to captivate, outrage, and inspire. New York Ambitions and the Rise of Yellow Journalism In the early 1890s, Hearst set his sights on New York, the heart of the American publishing industry. There, he purchased the New York Journal, positioning it against Joseph Pulitzer’s New York World in what became a circulation war that changed journalism forever. The fierce competition between Hearst and Pulitzer led to the birth of yellow journalism—a term now synonymous with sensationalist reporting. The label was coined during this period and was defined in detail by journalist and historian Frank Luther Mott, who characterised it by: Scare headlines in huge print, often used for insignificant news. Lavish use of images, real or invented. Fake interviews, misleading headlines, pseudo-science, and a parade of phony experts. Full-colour Sunday supplements, often with comic strips. Sympathy for the “underdog” in opposition to establishment power. It was a deliberate shift from hard news to high drama. Hearst himself famously said that the ideal front page should provoke three emotional reactions: “When the reader looks at Page One, he says, 'Gee-whiz.' When he turns to the second page, he says, 'Holy Moses.' And when he turns to the middle page, he says, 'God Almighty.'” This approach sold newspapers in enormous numbers. But it also blurred the lines between fact and fiction in ways that would echo through the centuries. "You Furnish the Pictures and I’ll Furnish the War" One of the most enduring stories about Hearst involves the Spanish-American War. In 1897, Hearst sent artist Frederic Remington to Cuba to document Spanish repression during the Cuban War of Independence. Remington found the situation calmer than expected and reportedly wrote: “Everything is quiet. There is no trouble. There will be no war. I wish to return.” Hearst’s alleged reply became infamous: “Please remain. You furnish the pictures and I’ll furnish the war.” Although historians still debate the authenticity of this exchange, it fits Hearst’s reputation for provocative, conflict-driven journalism. He backed the Cuban rebels, portrayed the Spanish as barbaric, and pressured the U.S. government through headlines and public sentiment to take action. His newspapers stoked outrage that helped push the United States into war with Spain in 1898. Whether he truly “furnished the war” or merely amplified the call to arms, Hearst’s influence was undeniable. Marion Davies Around this time, Hearst met Marion Davies, a talented young showgirl and aspiring actress. They first encountered one another in 1917, and she quickly became his mistress and lifelong companion. Despite the significant age difference between them, their relationship endured for decades. Hearst, through his newspapers and film ventures, worked tirelessly to promote Davies’ acting career, securing her starring roles and extensive publicity. Marion Davies was more than just a romantic partner; she became a significant presence in Hearst’s personal and professional life, attending countless lavish gatherings at San Simeon and eventually inspiring one of his most extravagant gifts. St. Donat’s In 1925, after seeing photographs in Country Life Magazine, Hearst purchased St. Donat’s Castle in the Vale of Glamorgan, Wales, for Marion. Hearst undertook extensive renovations, importing medieval and Renaissance architecture from Britain and Europe. Elements from Bradenstoke Priory in Wiltshire—including a guest house, prior’s lodging, a tithe barn, fireplaces, and a fourteenth-century roof—were painstakingly incorporated into the castle. George Bernard Shaw famously remarked of the restored St. Donat’s: “This is what God would have built if he had had the money.” At St. Donat’s, Hearst and Davies entertained a glittering array of guests, including Charlie Chaplin, Douglas Fairbanks, Winston Churchill, and a young John F. Kennedy. Charlie Chaplin, Marion Davies and George Bernard Shaw Financial Troubles: The 1930s Collapse Despite his grandeur, Hearst’s finances spiralled out of control in the 1930s. His refusal to implement cost-cutting measures, even as advertising revenues dropped during the Great Depression, worsened the situation. By 1933, Hearst had mortgaged San Simeon to Harry Chandler of the Los Angeles Times for $600,000.could not pay the interest on the loans, let alone reduce the principal. The proposed bond sale failed to attract investors, as Hearst's financial crisis became widely known. As Marion Davies's stardom waned, Hearst's movies also began to haemorrhage money. As the crisis deepened, he let go of most of his household staff, sold his exotic animals to the Los Angeles Zoo, and named a trustee to control his finances. He still refused to sell his beloved newspapers. At one point, to avoid outright bankruptcy, he had to accept a $1 million loan from Marion Davies, who sold all her jewellery, stocks and bonds to raise the cash for him. Davies also managed to raise him another million as a loan from Washington Herald owner Cissy Patterson. The trustee cut Hearst's annual salary to $500,000, and stopped the annual payment of $700,000 in dividends. He had to pay rent for living in his castle at San Simeon. Hearst Castle in San Simeon Legally Hearst avoided bankruptcy, although the public generally saw it as such as appraisers went through the tapestries, paintings, furniture, silver, pottery, buildings, autographs, jewellery, and other collectibles. Items in the thousands were gathered from a five-story warehouse in New York, warehouses near his San Simeon home containing large amounts of Greek sculpture and ceramics, and the contents of St. Donat's. His collections were sold off in a series of auctions and private sales in 1938–39. John D. Rockefeller, Junior, bought $100,000 of antique silver for his new museum at Colonial Williamsburg. The market for art and antiques had not recovered from the depression, so Hearst made an overall loss of hundreds of thousands of dollars. During this time, Hearst's friend George Loorz commented sarcastically: "He would like to start work on the outside pool [at San Simeon], start a new reservoir etc. but told me yesterday 'I want so many things but haven't got the money.' Poor fellow, let's take up a collection." He was embarrassed in early 1939 when Time magazine published a feature which revealed he was at risk of defaulting on his mortgage for San Simeon and losing it to his creditor and publishing rival, Harry Chandler. This, however, was averted, as Chandler agreed to extend the repayment. Hearst and Davies Citizen Kane: Hearst's Battle with Orson Welles The film Citizen Kane (released on May 1, 1941) is loosely based on Hearst's life. Welles and his collaborator, screenwriter Herman J. Mankiewicz, created Kane as a composite character, among them Harold Fowler McCormick, Samuel Insull and Howard Hughes. Hearst, enraged at the idea of Citizen Kane being a thinly disguised and very unflattering portrait of him, used his massive influence and resources to prevent the film from being released—all without even having seen it. Welles and the studio RKO Pictures resisted the pressure but Hearst and his Hollywood friends ultimately succeeded in pressuring theatre chains to limit showings of Citizen Kane, resulting in only moderate box-office numbers and seriously impairing Welles's career prospects. The fight over the film was documented in the Academy Award-nominated documentary, The Battle Over Citizen Kane, and nearly 60 years later, HBO offered a fictionalised version of Hearst's efforts in its original production in which James Cromwell portrays Hearst. Citizen Kane has twice been ranked No. 1 on AFI's 100 Years...100 Movies: in 1998 and 2007. In 2020, David Fincher directed Mank, starring Gary Oldman as Herman J. Mankiewicz, as he interacts with Hearst prior to the writing of Citizen Kane's screenplay. Charles Dance portrays Hearst in the film. Orson Welles' masterpiece, Citizen Kane In 1947, Hearst paid $120,000 for an H-shaped Beverly Hills mansion, (located at 1011 N. Beverly Dr.), on 3.7 acres three blocks from Sunset Boulevard. The Beverly House, as it has come to be known, has some cinematic connections. According to Hearst Over Hollywood, John and Jacqueline Kennedy stayed at the house for part of their honeymoon. The house appeared in the film The Godfather (1972) After the disastrous financial losses of the 1930s, the Hearst Company returned to profitability during the Second World War, when advertising revenues skyrocketed. Hearst, after spending much of the war at his estate of Wyntoon, returned to San Simeon full-time in 1945 and resumed building works. He also continued collecting, on a reduced scale. He threw himself into philanthropy by donating a great many works to the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. In 1947, Hearst left his San Simeon estate to seek medical care, which was unavailable in the remote location. He died in Beverly Hills on August 14, 1951, at the age of 88. He was interred in the Hearst family mausoleum at the Cypress Lawn Memorial Park in Colma, California, which his parents had established. His will established two charitable trusts, the Hearst Foundation and the William Randolph Hearst Foundation. By his amended will, Marion Davies inherited 170,000 shares in the Hearst Corporation, which, combined with a trust fund of 30,000 shares that Hearst had established for her in 1950, gave her a controlling interest in the corporation. This was short-lived, as she relinquished the 170,000 shares to the Corporation on October 30, 1951, retaining her original 30,000 shares and a role as an advisor. Like their father, none of Hearst's five sons graduated from college. They all followed their father into the media business, and Hearst's namesake, William Randolph, Jr., became a Pulitzer Prize–winning newspaper reporter. The Legacy of “The Chief” William Randolph Hearst was more than just a newspaper tycoon. He was a media pioneer, a political agitator, a cultural tastemaker, and, in some respects, a cautionary tale. His impact on journalism, entertainment, and even global politics cannot be overstated. As he famously said: “Putting out a newspaper without promotion is like winking at a girl in the dark – well-intentioned, but ineffective.” In promoting his newspapers—and himself—so effectively, Hearst changed the world of media forever. For those in need of some Citizen Kane facts - It won the 1941 Oscars for Best Writing for an Original Screenplay, but was nominated for ninth overall. Which is kind of interesting, considering it is one of the best films of all time. Initially, Kane was a failure at the box office; the hype and publicity surrounding it made it highly anticipated. But when it was released in the 50s, it was a let-down. Its box office revenue was $1,585,634 in the U.S., and its budget was over $800,000. Orson Welles was unrecognized for his work by the Academy until 1971, when he received an honorary Oscar “for superlative artistry and versatility in the creation of motion pictures.” The film is loosely based upon the life of newspaper tycoon William Randolph Hearst. He was so angry when it came out that he accused Welles of being a communist, attempting to keep it out of the theaters. To Hearst, the most offensive thing was the fact that “Rosebud” was not the name of a childhood sled. Reportedly, Hearst used this term as the name he gave his mistress’s unmentionables. Many scenes of Kane were shot throughout the night, and the cast and crew would go to the bars at 6:30 a.m. once they called it a night. During filming, Hearst had allegedly arranged for a naked woman to jump into Welles’s arms outside of his hotel room with a cameraman waiting. This way, the photo could be used as blackmail to keep Kane from being released. Welles wound up staying elsewhere that evening, and it is still unknown if this was true. During the film’s production, Welles watched the 1939 Western film Stagecoach a rumoured 40 times. According to the Hearst biography The Chief, Hearst responded to Citizen Kane by banning every newspaper and radio he had power over from running reviews of the film. Welles invented and perfected the “deep focus shot” with the help of cinematographer Gregg Toland in Kane. The shots gave amazing clarity to both the forefront and background elements of the scene, thus giving off the illusion of depth in the two-dimensional world of the silver screen. Welles also cut holes into the floors of his sets and the studio in order to get high angle shots, where we look up at Kane. This sort of angle is also used in order to create a powerful air around Kane, as others looked up to him and he looked down on everyone with his massive rise in the world. In the scenes where Kane is making his major political speeches, the audience we see is not a real audience. It is, in fact, a still photograph. In order to create the illusion of a moving image, holes were poked into the image and light was shown through. (Take note in case you need to shoot a low-budget film and create a lot of fake people). In retrospect, Citizen Kane can be considered an autobiographical film for Welles. It embodies the American dream and explores the rise to power and fame, along with its consequences Orson Welles wrote, produced, directed and starred in it at the age of 25. People thought he peaked then; he became a has-been at such a young age, especially only after his first feature. The entire premise of the film is focused around “Rosebud,” the last words of a man. However, when he says them, no one within earshot can hear it. While filming the scene where Kane goes on his rampage breaking everything in his room, Welles cuts his left hand but continues filming the scene anyway, despite the excruciating pain. If you watch closely, you can see him cover his hand at one point and keep it hidden. The original negatives for this film were lost in a fire in the 1970’s. Applying makeup on Welles in order to portray an older Kane took several hours. The process would often start at 2:30 a.m. in order for him to be ready to go on set at 9 a.m. The Hays Office and Hays Code passed the film for release, even with Hearst’s powerful agenda-setting eye overseeing everything. During the San Francisco premiere of Kane, Welles happened to grab the same elevator as none other than William Randolph Hearst. He kindly invited the Chief to the premiere with him, who didn’t say anything. When Welles arrived at his stop, he said “Charles Foster Kane would have accepted." Welles told the bigwigs at RKO that he was “in rehearsal” in order to keep them from hovering over his work on Kane, even though they were already filming. It took them about a week to realize Kane was well under way. Due to the high angle and low angle shots Welles brought into the cinematic world, Kane was the first film to show the ceilings of rooms (as part of the set) on the silver screen. Instead of an actual ceiling, Welles stretched a cloth over the set’s skeleton in order to let light in. This was also important since he filmed in black and white, and it’s especially difficult working with lighting there. In 1982, Steven Spielberg bought the “Rosebud” prop for $60,500 at an auction, which Welles didn’t even think was still around. Taylor Swift’s music video for “Blank Space” was filmed at the same place Xanadu’s aerial shots were done: Oheka Castle in Long Island, NY. Facts compiled from IMDB

In the roaring tide of Prohibition, when the United States tried to legislate temperance and wound up inspiring a decade-long national thirst, a few bold spirits answered the call of opportunity. One of the most audacious, and arguably the most honest, was a tall, sea-weathered man named William Frederick “Bill” McCoy. His name would become a byword for quality and authenticity. In the chaotic world of illegal liquor, The Real McCoy stood out, not just as a daring smuggler, but as a man who broke the law with a peculiar sense of honour. Bill McCoy: From Wharves to the High Seas Born on 17 August 1877 in Syracuse, New York, Bill McCoy’s life seemed destined for the water. The son of a Scottish-American bricklayer who had served in the Union Navy during the American Civil War, McCoy was captivated by maritime tales from an early age. As a teenager growing up in Philadelphia, he spent his days hanging around the Delaware River docks, dreaming of a life at sea. One afternoon, he caught sight of the Saratoga, a Philadelphia Maritime School training ship. That was it. He informed his father that he would not be following in the family trade of bricklaying. After two years of rigorous training aboard the Saratoga, McCoy graduated first in his class. He quickly rose through the ranks, earning $75 a week as a mate aboard steamers running between Key West and Havana, a substantial salary at the time. Around 1900, the McCoy family relocated to Florida. Bill and his elder brother Ben set up a boatbuilding and motor service, catering to an illustrious clientele that included the Vanderbilts, John Wanamaker, Maxine Elliott, and Andrew Carnegie. They even operated an ambitious boat service from Jacksonville to Palm Beach, winding south through the Everglades to Fort Myers. By 1918, McCoy was well-established as a master yacht builder. But the looming shadow of Prohibition and post-war depression was about to change everything. Setting the Stage: Prohibition and New Beginnings In January 1920, the National Prohibition Act came into effect, banning intoxicating beverages across the United States. The post-World War I economy faltered, luxury yacht commissions dried up, and life turned bleak for the McCoy brothers. Amid these hard times, Bill suffered a double blow: the death of both his parents and the collapse of his brief marriage to a prominent Daytona surgeon’s daughter. At 42 years old, McCoy found himself at a crossroads. That was when fate intervened in the form of a dapper stranger behind the wheel of a gleaming motorcar. Over casual conversation, McCoy learned that America was practically begging for liquor — and there was an enormous fortune waiting for anyone willing to ferry it from the Bahamas to the U.S. East Coast. All they needed were schooner captains. Though initially sceptical, the idea took root. Adventure, cash, and a return to the open water? It was irresistible. The Arethusa Enter the Arethusa (Later the Tomoka) In August 1920, McCoy cobbled together $20,000 and travelled to Gloucester, Massachusetts, in search of a ship. That was where he first laid eyes on the Arethusa. She glided into the harbour like a queen, sails blazing gold in the sun. McCoy was entranced. “She seemed to ghost into the harbour’s mouth under full sail… My throat was tight and stiff as she came walking up the harbour like a great lady entering a room,” he later recalled. Unable to afford her at first, McCoy bought a sturdy 90-foot fishing schooner, the Henry L. Marshall, for $16,000. Registered under a British flag for legal protection, he quickly made his first successful run to Nassau, clearing a tidy $15,000. A few months and a $35,000 profit later, McCoy returned to Gloucester to purchase his dream vessel. Renamed Tomoka to avoid conflicts with British registry, the Arethusa was outfitted for speed and cargo. She could now carry up to 5,000 cases of whisky — a cargo worth $50,000 a trip. McCoy was officially in the game. Souped-up contact boats carried the booze from the rum runners back to shore. Rum-Running with Honour Bill McCoy’s operations quickly distinguished themselves from the sordid chaos that often marked Prohibition-era smuggling. Anchoring just outside the three-mile limit off New Jersey, McCoy turned the Tomoka into a floating liquor store, selling whisky, rum, and champagne to contact boats that darted out from the shore. And he did it his way. McCoy refused to deal with organised crime, refused to bribe politicians or law enforcement, and sold only unadulterated, high-quality liquor. His innovation, the “burlock” — six bottles bundled tightly in straw and burlap — made transporting liquor faster and safer. This label (left) is pasted on the inside cover of the book The Real McCoy. Soon, he commanded a fleet of five vessels and moved an estimated two million bottles over his career. His brother Ben ensured the Tomoka remained supplied with food, water, and newspapers, allowing her to stay offshore indefinitely. When McCoy’s ship flew no flag, it signalled to the contact boats that she was open for business; a bright light hoisted high in the rigging became a beacon for eager buyers. Old Faithful, McCoy’s Newfoundland dog, was a constant companion. Fiercely loyal, Old Faithful once swam ashore and slept under McCoy’s hotel window all night in Bermuda. On board, the dog famously guarded an unlocked drawer sometimes containing up to $100,000 in cash. Fame, Fortune — and Fallout As rum row grew into a floating city of smugglers, jazz bands, and enterprising captains, McCoy became the king of it all. His fame spread like wildfire. Newspapers painted him as a modern pirate with a heart of gold, a folk hero for an America fed up with Prohibition. However, the U.S. government saw him differently. To Washington officials, McCoy was a symbol of lawlessness that needed to be crushed. Federal funds were allocated to double the size of the Coast Guard fleet, and enforcement on the high seas intensified. In the summer of 1923, McCoy’s original ship, the Henry L. Marshall, was seized under dubious circumstances. The government argued that even being within reach of contact boats was grounds for prosecution. A nervous rum row watched as the legal loopholes began to close. McCoy helps heave up the anchor in Nassau, Bahamas. The Capture of Bill McCoy In November 1923, the Coast Guard Cutter Seneca approached the Tomoka under orders to bring McCoy in, even in international waters. After a tense standoff involving machine-gun fire and four-inch shells, McCoy surrendered. Ever pragmatic, he paid his crew their wages one by one as the captured Arethusa (to him, she would always be the Arethusa) was towed towards New Jersey. Awaiting trial in Newark, McCoy became the focus of public fascination. Pete Sullivan, a customs agent McCoy had once saved in Nassau, testified on his behalf. McCoy was even paraded around Washington, D.C., shaking hands with awe-struck congressmen and federal agents. The courthouse hearing was packed as the tall, well-dressed McCoy rose to address the Newark judge. Reporters leaned forward, pens poised. The judge cleared his throat and asked what defence McCoy intended to mount. In a soft, steady voice, McCoy replied: “I have no tale of woe to tell you. I was outside the three-mile limit, selling whisky, and good whisky, to anyone and everyone who wanted to buy.” With his March 1925 guilty plea, the grand saga of Bill McCoy, anti-Prohibitionist hero, came to a close. Life After the Rum Wars McCoy served just nine months in jail, enjoying many privileges, including attending boxing matches while incarcerated. Released on Christmas Day 1925, he returned to Florida to live modestly with his brother. Although his beloved Arethusa was eventually wrecked off Halifax, parts of her — her wheel, her lines — remain enshrined in American maritime museums. Bill McCoy continued working in boatbuilding and real estate until his death on 30 December 1948, aged 71. His legacy remains that of a man who brought dignity, professionalism, and a touch of romance to one of America’s most colourful periods of lawbreaking. Even today, when people speak of something being “The Real McCoy,” they unknowingly pay tribute to a fearless captain who defied Prohibition, and did it with style.