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Including taking illicit drugs, living with blackouts and hallucinations, and putting herself in the hands of a mysterious doctor she has no good reason to trust. A bum is ripped to pieces near the Griffith Park Zoo. The coroner says the bite marks have traces of human and animal saliva. The cops go crazy.
The good citizens of LA lock their doors and windows and clamor for answers. Jack is determined to provide them. He hears a rumor about something called a der Katzenjunge. A European myth about men with the mutant ability to temporarily transmogrify into a savage, feline-like creature. What the hell would a crackpot story like that have to do with Thrill Girl, he wonders? Quite a lot, actually. The complex plot examines the vibe of the decade of the s - a time historians refer to as the "Age of Anxiety.
Sexual and racial roles, upended by war, rapidly evolved in ways many found difficult to fathom. For the first time, there was a widespread need for, and availability of, mood-altering prescription drugs. Scientific advances accumulated at a rate most could not fathom, and the military-industrial complex was beginning to assume a powerful influence over the government. The ramifications of these secrets drive the crimes he is investigating, and much, much more.
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What happened is that people hung on to their civic values, and indeed celebrated them, as a form of resistance against the violence of the aggression. What happened is that people were incredibly inventive, coming up with all sorts of amazing ways to survive and even to prosper in such adversity. What happened is that people kept on making art, performing plays, holding classical music recitals, filming movies and, above all, kept on identifying themselves with the city and its spirit as acenter for democratic, artistic and cultural life.
So every day, hundreds of civilians risked their lives by sprinting across this street, under sniper fire from the gunmen in the hills above.
And they risked their lives to come into the city, to be part of its life, to identify themselves as civilized humans against the barbarity of the violence being rained down upon them. May In the beginning of the break up of Yugoslavia back in the summer of , all sides were approachable—Bosnians, Croats and Serbs alike. It became hard to fathom why a group of people, who grew up as children together, with Bosnians, Croats and Serbs even marrying each other—how could they now allow politicians to drive such a nationalistic, ethnic web between them, causing a blind nationalism that swept through village after village?
Extreme hatred, led by idiots. By the time I left in , I had to run away never wanting to look back. For, I felt, I had just witnessed mankind at its worst, something that even today still affects me, how simply mankind can be led astray from moral behavior, with politicians and media that can use hate laced with patriotism to drive their wicked agendas. I expected yet another sad story of residents being forced to leave their homes because of their wrong nationality. But this time something was strange, there were nomen, only women and children. I was approached by a group of three or four young girls that told me about a woman who hung herself on the tree nearby.
They took me to some woods where I saw the surreal scene: a woman wearing a red cardigan looking more like levitating than hanging, several meters above the ground, surrounded by green leaves. On my way back I saw a U. Later on when I was editing and transmitting photos, I had to discuss the matter with my editor because there were certain rules on showing explicit pictures of the dead and wounded, but we decided to run the photo.
September Mostar was a small tourist town in western Bosnia, inhabited by a majority of Muslims and Croatians. Since the beginning of the war in the spring of , Bosnian Serbs, supported by Serbia, bombarded the town from the mountains overlooking it. A year later, in May , the Croatian militias of the separatist "Herzeg-Bosna" movement, supported by Croatia, turned against their Muslim allies, chased them out of the western part of the town and forced them into a small area of a few square kilometers.
Thus was created an enclave squeezed between the Serbian and Croatian fronts. There was nothing there, and the few exhausted doctors asked a passersby for some blood to give to someone who was losing it. Trapped, the inhabitants, no longer able to escape, dug holes in the walls to shelter from the streets exposed to sniper fire. They risked their lives to get water from the river; they cut trees from parks and gardens to keep warm, or to cook their last box of rice. The battle for Mostar was fought from house to house, room to room, neighbor against neighbor.
A bedroom, the place where people sleep and dream and share intimacy, where life itself is conceived, had become the frontline in a brutal civil war. April This one is amongst them. The residue of experience remains within the witness and can never be wholly understood by a viewer of a photograph no matter how empathetic. The anguished faces of these women say that something awful is happening. The picture was taken in Vitez, a town in central Bosnia, during a truce brokered between warring Croat and Moslem communities for the collection and burial of the dead.
I joined a group of people waiting in a square on the Eastern side of the town. It was quiet and tense.
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Soon a truck arrived and men wearing white cotton coats and gas masks got down from the cab. They walked to the back of the truck and unhitched the tailgate and we saw a heap of dead men.
I photographed the women watching. The masked men began to lift the bodies down from the truck and at once one of the women cried out, 'my husband, my husband, my husband Fierce fighting had broken out in the city and I had gone there to see if I could work on one of the sides.
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I managed to get in and spend some time with a group of Croatian soldiers during the house-to-house fighting in the city. I'd been there for two or three days, photographing the soldiers as they fought from house to house, street by street. One of the soldiers in our group had been shot by a sniper in front of us and another had been hit in the back as we were running across the street. It was a very, very intense situation.
This picture was taken of a young soldier who just looked in shock. He was absolutely still and staring into the distance and he never really noticed me. It was a quiet moment for once, but he was obviously very affected by what was going on. I made a couple of pictures of him very quickly and then we left. I took lots of pictures over those few days, but that's probably the quietest picture that I took on the day and probably the only portrait that I took in the whole series.
August Immediate comparisons to Nazi concentration camps were invoked and a demand for investigations and intervention were discussed. I was working on the Bosnian Serb side at the time trying to understand the war from their perspective as, like all wars, nothing is completely one-sided. However it was extremely difficult to work as it appeared the Bosnian Serbs didn't understand or care about journalism and the flow of information even when it was to help people understand them.
I asked a Bosnian Serb Army officer if I could go to a front line near where they had recently lost ground and show the effects on their civilian population.
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He quickly said no but said if I wanted I could go to visit the prison camps in order to see they really weren't as bad as people thought. To this day I am not sure if the Bosnian Serb leadership made a brilliant short-term public relations move or just created a long-term accusatory piece of evidence. After my trip to several camps, TIME published the images and the outcry was as to be expected.