The Story of the Ovitz Family, the Dwarfs Who Survived Auschwitz

The Ovitz family was a Jewish family of performers from Transylvania, Romania, who became famous as the Liliput Troupe. Comprising ten siblings, seven of whom had pseudoachondroplasia, they toured Europe performing music and comedy before World War II. When the Nazis invaded, their unique physical characteristics saved them from immediate extermination at Auschwitz, but subjected them to pseudo-scientific abuse.

In May 1944, the Ovitz family was deported to Auschwitz-Birkenau. Upon arrival on the selection ramp, their appearance caught the immediate attention of camp officers, who alerted Dr. Josef Mengele. Mengele was fascinated by genetics, particularly hereditary anomalies and twins. He spared all 12 family members (including average-height relatives and pseudo-relatives they claimed as kin) from the gas chambers to research them.

Unlike typical inmates, the Ovitzes were allowed to keep their civilian clothes, grew out their hair, and lived in special quarters with slightly better sanitation and extra rations to preserve their health for experiments. They endured torturous medical procedures, including frequent blood extractions, bone marrow draws, tooth extractions, and invasive tests without anesthesia. Mengele routinely put them on display before high-ranking SS officers as medical curiosities.

Despite the severe physical and psychological trauma, all 12 members of the family survived Auschwitz, making them the largest family group to enter the camp and survive intact. Soviet troops liberated Auschwitz on January 27, 1945. The family spent months in displaced persons camps before walking back to their hometown in Romania.

Finding their home looted, they emigrated to Israel in 1949, where they resumed performing before retiring in 1955. Perla Ovitz, the youngest and last surviving sibling, passed away in 2001.

See more»

Exclusive Interview: Freddie Mercury’s Mother on Her ‘Dear Boy’

8 September 2012 – An exclusive interview by Angela Levin with Jer Bulsara on her “Dear Boy” is published in The Telegraph.

Twenty years after the death of rock’s most famous singer, and with a lavish book of rare photographs about to be published, his mother, Jer Bulsara, talks to Angela Levin about how she coped with his transformation from Farrokh Bulsara to Freddie Mercury.

Freddie Mercury’s mother was watching the Olympic closing ceremony when her adored son’s image suddenly appeared on a vast screen. “I cried out: 'Oh my dear boy, where are you?’” she tells me. “I miss him so much.” A cheeky smile then spreads across her face. “They showed John Lennon too, but there was much more applause for my Freddie.”

Freddie, born Farrokh Bulsara, the frontman of rock band Queen and charismatic solo performer, died in 1991 of Aids-related pneumonia. He was 45. Jer Bulsara, who is 90 next month, has found immense consolation in his continuing popularity, yet when talking about him her voice still cracks with emotion.

“His passing doesn’t seem more than 20 years ago,” she says. “I still feel he is around because his music is played so often. It reassures me that he is still loved by people all over the world, but of course, none of them love him as much as his mother.”

Mrs Bulsara, who lives in a purpose-built three-bedroom bungalow in Nottingham, is tiny, immaculate and rather stooped, but her brain is sharp and her kind eyes sparkle when she talks about “my boy”. She is a practising Parsee, a religion that follows the prophet Zoroaster which arrived in India from Persia in the 7th century. She is also deeply private and this is the first in-depth interview she has given. The reason is a lavish new book: Freddie Mercury, The Great Pretender, A Life in Pictures that is full of wonderful photographs, including several never-before seen images, that span the rock star’s life.

One can only imagine how hard it must have been for Freddie’s devoutly religious parents to come to terms with their firebrand son. Fortunately, the love flowed both ways and Freddie seems to have tried to protect them from his excesses.

Indeed, Mrs Bulsara reveals a very different Freddie to the exotic, bisexual, wild-living, supremely talented performer the public knew. “Freddie kept a strict division between his work and his home all his life,” she says.

“If I ever asked he would say, 'Mum that is business, and this is family.’ He was kind and very respectful both to myself and his father.” Her husband, Bomi, a former cashier in the British Colonial Office, died nine years ago aged 95.

His sexuality was not a subject Freddie ever discussed at home. Nor did he tell her that he was HIV positive or dying of Aids. “He protected us by never discussing these matters,” Mrs Bulsara reveals. “It is quite different now, but back then it would have been very hard for him to tell us and we respected his feelings.” Did she visit him when he was dying? “Of course,” she whispers. “He didn’t have to say anything. I knew he was very ill.”

Freddie was born in Zanzibar in 1946 and went to an English-style boarding school in India when he was eight. “We tried to instil good values into him, like respecting the family and giving 100 per cent to whatever he did and although he wasn’t religious, he respected our ways.” The Parsee faith believes in one invisible God and is founded on the three tenets of good thoughts, good words and good deeds.

“Freddie always loved to sing and set up a school band when he was 12. In 1964, as a result of the Zanzibar Revolution, the family, including Freddie’s younger sister Kashmira, now 60, fled to the UK and settled in a four-bedroomed terraced house in Feltham, Middlesex. Mrs Bulsara and her husband found it hard, not least because of the weather, but Freddie thrived.

Like most parents they wanted their only son to have a safe job. “Most of our family are lawyers or accountants, but Freddie insisted he wasn’t clever enough and wanted to play music and sing,” she laughs. “My husband and I thought it was a phase he would grow out of and expected he would soon come back to his senses and return to proper studies. It didn’t happen.” It was an excuse, of course, and instead Freddie went to Ealing Art College where he studied for a diploma in art and graphic design. “I felt particularly sad when Freddie decided to leave home and move to a flat in west London,” his mother continues. “He was always playing music and an elderly neighbour complained about the noise so he said it was time to go. I told him I understood.

“He first had a flat and then a big house, also in Kensington, but when he wasn’t away on tour, he would come home regularly. He always liked my cooking, especially my dahls, sweet and sour mince and cheese biscuits. When he was famous and had people to dinner he’d sometimes ask me to make them for him.

“He was so generous, too. One day he bought me a complete set of antique silver cutlery to apologise for not turning up for a meal. I didn’t like to use it as it was so posh, so only put it out when he came. He also invited us for meals prepared by his cook and made a big fuss of me. When I went into the kitchen out of habit to help, he’d insist I sat down and relax.”

Freddie had countless male lovers in his life, but the individual he called the love of his life was a woman. Freddie met 19-year-old Mary Austin, who was a PR for the Biba boutique, in the early Seventies. They were together for seven years and he later described her as his common-law wife. He said she was the only person he truly loved and left his mansion, most of his wealth and recording royalties to her. He even took her home to meet his parents.

“She was lovely and used to come to us for meals,” Mrs Bulsara recalls. “I used to wish they had got married and had a normal life with children. But even when they broke up, I knew she still loved my boy and they stayed friends right to the end. I haven’t seen her since he died.”

See more»

La Muerte Niña: Post-Mortem Portraits of Infants and Young Children in Mexico From the Late 19th and Early 20th Centuries

“La muerte niña” (the death of the child) refers to the Mexican tradition of post-mortem photography for deceased infants and children, a deeply rooted custom that peaked during the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Stemming from colonial art traditions, these photographs served as a final, permanent keepsake for families enduring high infant mortality rates. Unlike modern perspectives that view memento mori images with unease, Mexican families celebrated these children as “angelitos” (little angels) who died without sin and were believed to ascend straight to heaven to act as divine intercessors for the family.

Deceased children were rarely photographed in plain clothes or coffins. Instead, they were heavily stylized to reflect their transformation into angels. Children were often dressed in elaborate white gowns or costumed as specific saints, the Virgin Mary, or Christ figures. Crowns made of fresh flowers (coronas) and palm leaves were placed on their heads to symbolize purity, spiritual victory, and absolute innocence. Photographers placed small crosses, rosaries, or lilies in the child's hands to denote their unblemished souls.

The staging aimed to mimic sleep, life, or divine coronation rather than cold mortality. Infants were frequently nestled into beds or cushions surrounded by dense, towering floral arrangements. Propped up in chairs or held by their godparents and mothers, children were sometimes photographed with eyes chemically painted open or gently arranged to look awake. Parents and siblings often stood stoically beside the deceased child, displaying solemn dignity rather than open weeping, as outward grief was thought to hinder the angelito’s journey to heaven.

As photography studios expanded across Mexico during the Porfiriato era, the practice grew accessible to both wealthy elites and rural working classes. Prominent regional photographers, such as Romualdo García in Guanajuato and Juan de Dios Machain in Jalisco, documented hundreds of these rituals, leaving behind vast socio-historical archives. By the mid-20th century, shifts in Catholic mourning practices, the modernization of funeral industries, and improved healthcare led to the gradual decline of this unique photographic genre.

See more»

A Filipino American Family Posing for a Portrait During the U.S Occupation of the Philippines, ca. 1920

In this rare family portrait from the Philippines, circa 1920, we see William Leslie Bowler, an American, with his Filipina wife, Dolores Alcantara, and their growing family. The Bowlers embodied a unique blending of cultures during a time when such unions were less common, especially against the backdrop of U.S. colonial presence in the Philippines. Their children, held close in the photograph, symbolize both heritage and hope, their lives destined to stretch across two worlds.

Among the children pictured is Josephine “Jo” Bowler, born November 19, 1917, in Legaspe. Cradled in the arms of her older sister in the photograph, Josephine would later grow into a woman remembered for her devotion as a wife, mother, and teacher. Her life spanned continents, from her childhood in the Philippines to her later years in Montebello, California, where she passed away on October 28, 1988, at the age of 70. Her journey reflects both the resilience of her upbringing and the opportunities she embraced in her adopted country.

The Bowler family was large and close-knit, with nine children in all. The siblings included Joseph A. (1908–1991), Mary Lourdes (1909–1990), William “Bill,” Michael S. “Mickey” (1913–1969), James “Jimmy” (1915–2003), Josephine “Jo” (1917–1988), Frank (1920–2001), John Edward (1922–1999), and Dolores “Dolly.” Their parents’ lives set the foundation, William Leslie, who passed in 1930 at just 52, and Dolores Alcantara, who lived to 85, leaving behind a legacy of family resilience. Together, their story represents not only a personal family history but also a snapshot of cultural interconnection in the early 20th century.

“Born Bound” – Italian Tradition of Swaddling Newborns Abandoned

In Italian cultural history, “Born Bound” (known locally as Nati Fasciati) refers to the ancient, pervasive custom of tightly swaddling newborn infants. The centuries-old practice immobilized infants like “tiny mummies” immediately following birth. It remained a standard child-rearing practice across Italy, particularly within the isolated valleys of northern regions like Trentino-Alto Adige and Friuli Venezia Giulia, until it finally faded during the 1950s and 1960s.

Midwives or grandmothers would stretch the baby’s legs straight with precision, pin the arms to the sides, and wrap the entire body (from feet to shoulders) tightly with bandages or fabric, creating an almost rigid, mummy-like bundle. Babies could remain like this for hours, days, or even weeks.

It was believed to prevent deformities (e.g., bowed legs), promote straight growth, improve sleep, and keep the infant safe and immobile. This was practical in rural areas where mothers had other children and farm work. The tradition was ancient and unquestioned.

It faded in the mid-20th century due to modern pediatric insights on infant development and motor skills. A notable figure was Dr. Fabiani, a young doctor in a Friuli village, who worked respectfully with local mothers and midwife Norma Marcuzzi to introduce evidence-based practices without confrontation. This gradual, empathetic approach helped shift traditions.

This was a localized custom, not nationwide, and reflects broader historical European swaddling practices that emphasized shaping and restraining infants for perceived health and safety reasons.

Man Having His Hair Brushed by His Wife, Navajo Nation, Arizona, 1948

In 1948, photographer Leonard McCombe captured this quiet moment on the Navajo Nation in Arizona: a Diné woman brushing her husband’s long hair while their child sat nearby. The man in the photo is the son of Yellowsalt, a member of an extended family of sheep herders. At the time, McCombe was documenting life for a LIFE Magazine photo essay titled “A Country Within a Country.” The story aimed to show the everyday reality of the Navajo people during a period of significant transition and hardship.

Long hair has held deep cultural importance within Diné (Navajo) tradition for generations, often symbolizing identity, strength, family connection, and harmony. Hair care itself could also carry cultural and spiritual meaning, with grooming rituals passed through families and tied to respect and presentation.

By the mid-20th century, Navajo families were balancing traditional ways of life with the pressures of modernization, government assimilation policies, and economic hardship following decades of displacement and federal control over tribal lands. While this man wore his hair traditionally long, many younger Navajos at the time were beginning to wear their hair short as they integrated more with outside society.

Candid Photographs of Michael Jackson and His Sister La Toya Jackson in the New York Apartment They Shared in 1977

In 1977, Michael and La Toya Jackson shared a Manhattan apartment while Michael was in New York City filming the movie musical The Wiz, in which he played the Scarecrow. These rare candid photos, captured by photographer Araldo di Crollalanza, offer a glimpse into their daily lives during this pivotal year, showing them relaxing in their living area, sharing meals at a glass dining table, and spending time in their kitchen.

Michael moved to NYC in July 1977 to rehearse and film his first movie, alongside Diana Ross. This project led to his first collaboration with producer Quincy Jones, who arranged the film’s score. The siblings became regulars at the legendary nightclub Studio 54. Michael famously celebrated his 19th birthday there in August 1977 with La Toya and their sister Janet. Beyond clubbing, they attended high-profile events together, such as a party hosted by Woody Allen in August and a press conference for The Wiz in September.

Author Truman Capote once described Michael and La Toya as “oases of innocence” amidst the hedonistic culture of New York’s nightlife during that era.

See more»

30 Adorable Photos of Judy Garland With Her Toddler Liza Minnelli

The relationship between Judy Garland and a young Liza Minnelli is one of the most documented yet poignant mother-daughter dynamics in Old Hollywood history. Liza was born in 1946 to Judy and director Vincente Minnelli, entering the world right as Judy was filming some of her most iconic MGM features.

Liza made her very first screen appearance at only three years old in the final scene of the 1949 film In the Good Old Summertime, walking alongside her mother and Van Johnson.

During the late 1940s, Judy often brought Liza to the studio. There are famous archival photographs of a toddler-aged Liza sitting on Judy’s lap in the makeup chair or playing with costumes on the set of The Pirate.

Even as a toddler, Liza was immersed in the world of performance. Judy reportedly treated Liza more like a companion than a child, often dressing her in miniature versions of her own stage outfits.

Judy and Liza shared a complex but close bond throughout their lives, Liza often described her mother as her best friend, though their relationship was shaped by Hollywood pressures, Judy’s health struggles, and Liza’s own rising career. They even performed together on The Judy Garland Show in the 1960s.

See more»

The Baby in the Bucket, Lviv Ghetto, Ukraine, 1943

In the harrowing depths of winter 1943, within the barbed confines of the Lviv Ghetto in Nazi-occupied Ukraine, a young Jewish mother made a heart-wrenching choice. With starvation rampant, disease unchecked, and deportations to death camps accelerating, hope was vanishing. Desperate to save her infant son, she connected with a courageous group of Polish sewer workers who secretly aided Jewish families by smuggling children out through the city’s underground tunnels. On the chosen night, wrapped in despair and determination, she swaddled her baby in a thin shawl, kissed him goodbye, and placed him into a metal bucket, his lifeboat through the darkness.

Lowered into the sewers beneath the city, the baby descended into cold, filth, and silence. As the bucket disappeared into the blackness, the mother whispered, “Grow where I cannot!” She chose to stay behind, sacrificing herself so her child could live. Her name was never recorded, and her fate is unknown, likely lost in the mass exterminations that followed. Yet her act of profound love lived on in the fragile child she gave away, whose life she valued more than her own. The sewer worker carried the infant through the maze of tunnels and delivered him safely beyond the ghetto walls. Against all odds, the boy survived.

Decades later, the son returned to Lviv with the weight of memory in his heart. He found the spot where the sewer had once opened near the remnants of the ghetto and placed a single red rose on the rusted manhole cover. Whispering, “This was my beginning,” he honored the mother he never truly knew, the woman who vanished into history, nameless yet unforgettable. Her sacrifice, made in darkness and silence, became the light that guided him to a future. Her love endures as an eternal echo of resilience, faith, and a mother’s final gift.

In 1949, the O’Hare Family From Liverpool Had 15 of Their 16 Children Between the Ages of 0 and 17

The O’Hare family of Liverpool gained national attention in 1949–1950 as one of Britain’s largest families in the immediate postwar years. Henry O’Hare (born 1911) and his wife Marjorie (née Clare, born around 1910) lived in a large four-storey house on Radnor Place, off West Derby Road, in the Anfield area. Henry worked as an upholsterer (including on car interiors and even early televisions), while Marjorie managed the household.

They married in 1932 after meeting on a double date. Over the next two decades, they had 17 children in total, though one (Maureen, twin to Frank) died in infancy, leaving 16 surviving children at the time of their fame. The family included five sets of twins, a remarkable occurrence with no noted history of multiples in either parent’s background. In June 1949, 15 of the 16 children ranged in age from newborn/infant to about 17, creating an extraordinarily tight age span (roughly one birth every 13 months on average). This made headlines and earned them descriptions like “superfamily” in contemporary media.

Life in the O’Hare household was a masterclass in organization amid Britain’s postwar austerity. Rationing was still in effect, yet the family managed impressive consumption: weekly, they went through 9 pounds of sugar, 6 pounds of butter, 10 pints of milk, eight 2lb loaves of bread (often described as “eight loaves a day”), and 15 pounds of potatoes. Henry earned £7 10s a week, supplemented by 5s family allowance per child—reportedly the largest such allowance in Britain at the time.

Meals were communal events around a large table Henry built himself. Breakfast featured a big pot of tea and stacks of toast; dinner was ladled out by Henry, with children expected to stay seated until everyone finished. Chores were shared: older girls washed up, children made beds, and everyone pitched in. Henry was handy, he cut the boys’ hair, made clothes and shoes (especially for bank holidays), and handled practical tasks around the house. Bedrooms were shared (sometimes 3–4 per bed in the early years), and nappies even doubled as towels due to shortages.

Despite the challenges of food rationing, housing in a recovering city, and tight finances, the family emphasized that they “never went hungry.” Nina (fifth eldest, about 10 during the filming) later recalled warm memories like new wellies and socks provided during snowy weather, large Sunday roasts that could feed 30 when extended family visited, and the constant smell of food cooking. There were hardships too—one wartime Christmas in Loughborough involved eating pet rabbits (unbeknownst to the children at first), leading to tears.

In early 1950, British Pathé filmed a short newsreel titled Big Family at their Anfield home. The 90-second black and white clip (issued February 6, 1950) showed everyday scenes. The plummy narrator highlighted the scale: 16 children “complete with four sets of twins” (noting the fifth set had lost one). The family attended a screening at the Carlton cinema in Tuebrook as honored guests.

The O’Hares symbolized resilience and vitality in a Britain still rebuilding after WWII—food shortages, bombed-out neighborhoods, and economic strain contrasted with their bustling, life-filled home. Later family members (like Nina, interviewed in 2014) spoke emotionally about the footage, noting it wasn’t always easy but fostered strong bonds, resourcefulness, and a sense of abundance through love and routine. Henry died in 1971 and Marjorie in 1978; both are buried in Anfield Cemetery.

Today, the story lives on through the digitized Pathé film, old photos from June 1949 showing the large group, and local Liverpool recollections. It offers a vivid snapshot of working-class family life in 1940s–1950s Britain: crowded but close-knit, rationed but resourceful, and full of everyday heroism.

John Lennon and Yoko Ono’s Trip to Japan, 1979

In 1979, John Lennon and Yoko Ono spent what would be their final summer together in Japan. This trip was a cornerstone of John’s “house husband” era, a period defined by domesticity, child-rearing, and a deliberate retreat from the music industry.

The family arrived in Japan in late July and stayed for approximately one month. While they spent time in the bustling capital of Tokyo, the heart of the trip was their retreat to the mountains. In the city, the family famously stayed at the Hotel Okura, a landmark of modernist Japanese design. John was known to appreciate the hotel’s quiet elegance and often used the suite to relax and sketch.

They spent a significant portion of the trip in Karuizawa, a historic summer resort town in Nagano Prefecture. This was Yoko’s ancestral summer home, and it provided the privacy John craved. They stayed at the Mampei Hotel, a classic “Showa-era” establishment where John’s favorite spot was the terrace, often ordering “Royal Milk Tea.” One of the most iconic images from this era is of John pedaling a bicycle through the cedar-lined paths of Karuizawa, often with a loaf of French bread from a local bakery in his basket.

The couple frequented the Mikado Coffee Shop in the Kyu-Karuizawa Ginza district. John was particularly fond of their “Moka Soft” (coffee-flavored soft serve ice cream). In a poignant memoir, Yoko later recalled visiting a small coffee house in a pine forest near Karuizawa. During their 1979 visit, John left his lighter there. They intended to go back for it “tomorrow,” but the rainy season started, and they eventually left for New York without it. When Yoko returned years later, the owner still had it waiting for her.

During these Japanese summers, John studied the Japanese language and became deeply fascinated by Zen and Haiku. He filled sketchbooks with drawings and Japanese characters, exploring concepts like Wabi-sabi (the beauty of imperfection). This 1979 visit was the last of four consecutive summers (1977–1979) the family spent in Japan. By this time, John had fully embraced his role as a father to young Sean. The anonymity he found in Japan allowed him to live as a “regular person,” a freedom that directly influenced the peaceful, domestic themes found in his comeback album, Double Fantasy, which he would begin recording the following year.

See more»

Tsar Nicholas II’s Daughters Proudly Showing Their Bald Heads in 1917

During World War I, the four daughters of Tsar Nicholas II — Olga, Tatiana, Maria, and Anastasia — contracted measles in early 1917, which caused them to lose their hair. They shaved their heads as a practical response to the hair loss caused by the illness.

This happened during an already tumultuous time: the family was under enormous strain as the war dragged on and revolutionary pressure mounted in Russia. The girls were photographed bald, and these images became some of the more striking personal records of the Romanov family in their final years.

It was a fairly common practice at the time to shave the head when recovering from illnesses like measles or typhus, as it made caring for the patient easier and avoided the patchy, uneven hair loss that the fever caused. The photographs, taken by their French tutor Pierre Gilliard, show the princesses looking quite cheerful despite everything. In his diary, Gilliard noted that the sisters typically wore scarves to hide their heads, but on this day, they playfully whipped them off at a signal from Olga to surprise him and their parents.

By the time the family was executed in July 1918, their hair had grown back to roughly shoulder length.

30 Candid Photos of Jackie Kennedy Onassis With Her Younger Sister Lee Radziwill From Between the 1950s and Early 1970s

The relationship between Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis and her sister, Lee Radziwill, was a complex tapestry of fierce loyalty and sharp sibling rivalry. During the mid-20th century, they were the world’s most watched sisters—icons of style who navigated the heights of political and social power while privately wrestling for their mother’s approval and their own identities.

The sisters were raised in the upper classes of New York society. Jacqueline was three and a half years older than Lee, and they affectionately called each other “Jacks” and “Pekes” as children. In the 1950s, the sisters were young socialites establishing their lives. While they were close, the seeds of competition were planted early by their mother, Janet Auchincloss, who often pitted them against one another.

Jackie married the rising political star John F. Kennedy in 1953. Lee, perhaps feeling the pressure to keep pace, married Michael Canfield the same year. In 1959, Lee married Prince Stanislaw Albrecht Radziwill, gaining a title. For a brief moment, Lee was a “Princess” while Jackie was merely a Senator’s wife, a dynamic that shifted dramatically with the 1960 election.

The 1960s defined their public image. As Jackie became First Lady, Lee became her unofficial lady-in-waiting and most trusted confidante. Lee accompanied Jackie on the famous 1962 trip to India and Pakistan. They were a formidable duo, though Lee often struggled with being “the sister of the First Lady.” Ironically, it was Lee who first became close with Greek shipping tycoon Aristotle Onassis. She was widely rumored to have romantic designs on him, but she ultimately stepped aside to let Jackie cruise on his yacht, the Christina, following the death of Jackie’s infant son, Patrick, in 1963.

After JFK’s assassination, Lee was a pillar for Jackie, frequently staying at her homes in Georgetown and New York to help her navigate the suffocating grief.

The 1970s saw the relationship fracture under the weight of “The Golden Greek” and shifting ambitions. In 1968, Jackie married Aristotle Onassis. For Lee, this was a profound sting; she had loved Onassis first, and Jackie’s marriage to him felt like a public erasure of Lee's own romantic history.

While Jackie lived as “Jackie O” in the early 1970s, Lee attempted to forge her own career in interior design and even tried her hand at acting (which was panned by critics). Lee’s lifestyle often outpaced her income, leading to a reliance on Onassis (and later Jackie) for financial support. This created an imbalance of power that fueled resentment.

Despite their periods of “cold war” silence, their bond remained unique. They shared a secret language and a childhood history that no one else could touch. Lee once famously said, “I’m nobody’s sister,” yet she spent her life defined by that very connection.

See more»

Lee Radziwill and Jackie Kennedy Onassis Photographed by Cecil Beaton for Vogue at a Debutante Ball, 1951

In 1951, the photographer Cecil Beaton captured an iconic series of portraits of the Bouvier sisters, Jacqueline (the future Jackie Kennedy Onassis) and Lee (the future Princess Lee Radziwill), for Vogue. Jackie was around 22 and Lee around 18 at the time.

The photos were staged to evoke the atmosphere of a debutante ball, marking the sisters’ official “coming out” into high society. While Jackie had already been named “Debutante of the Year” in 1947, this 1951 shoot for Vogue magazine served as a high-fashion introduction of the sisters as a duo.

Jackie wore a white silk organdie gown with a red faille sash, while Lee wore yellow and white tulle with yellow roses. The dresses were originally credited to Elizabeth Arden, but contemporary fashion historians often attribute the designs to Ann Lowe, the Black couturier who later designed Jackie’s wedding dress.

Beaton used an elaborate set with “extras,” couples in formal evening wear dancing in the background, to create a sense of movement and aristocratic glamour.

See more»

106 Year-Old William Casby With His Great-Great-Granddaughter Photographed by Richard Avedon, 1963

In 1963, Richard Avedon’s camera captured a moment that collapses time. William Casby, born in 1857, holds his great-great-granddaughter Cherri Stamps-McCray. He’s 106. She’s an infant. The contrast is jarring.

Captured on March 24, 1963, in Algiers, Louisiana, this photograph serves as a “living bridge” between eras of American history.

Born into slavery in 1857 in Algiers, Louisiana (or possibly Danville, Virginia, according to some records), Casby was among the last living Americans with direct memories of enslavement. He later worked as a longshoreman in Louisiana and lived to the age of 113, passing away in 1970.

Avedon traveled to the South after reading a newspaper article about Casby’s 106th birthday. The photo was taken on March 24, 1963, just months before the March on Washington. It was part of Avedon’s collaboration with writer James Baldwin for the book Nothing Personal (1964), which explored the state of American identity.

William Casby, one of the last living Americans born into slavery, surrounded by several generations of his family, Algiers, Louisiana, March 24, 1963. “It is necessary, while in darkness, to know that there is a light somewhere,” Baldwin writes in Nothing Personal. “To know that in oneself, waiting to be found, there is a light. What the light reveals is danger, and what it demands is faith.”

Avedon utilized his signature minimalist approach to give the portrait a “forensic” intensity. By stripping away environmental context, Avedon forces the viewer to confront Casby’s physical presence, the “avalanche of age” reflected in his deep wrinkles and steady gaze.

This large-format camera captured immense detail, emphasizing the texture of Casby’s skin and the sheer size of his hands, which many viewers note look like those of a man who worked hard his entire life (he was a longshoreman for decades).

William Casby, Algiers, Louisiana, March 24, 1963.

The photograph is often cited by historians and critics (including Roland Barthes in Camera Lucida) for its ability to collapse time. When it was published, it served as a reminder that slavery was not “ancient history;” the man in the photo had personally experienced it, yet was alive to hold a child who would grow up in the space-age 20th century.