About Stanley Kubrick, the Photographer

August 10, 2006

Most of us know Stan Kubrick as a great film director. He made films such as Dr. Strangelove, A Clockwork Orange and 2001: A Space Odyssey. Less well known is his brief and early career as a photographer. From his official Warner Brothers bio: “When he was just 16 and in high school, Kubrick shot a photograph of a news vendor the day after President Franklin D. Roosevelt died and submitted it to Look magazine. Look printed the photo and soon hired him as a freelance photographer.” (Source: here )

I managed to lay my hands on (downloaded) a few of his images and they are absolutely fantastic. Perhaps I’m biased – his style is close to what I call “Camera Noir” which is one of the center cores of my work. The full set of eight images are available from here. They are all shot in Chicago where apparently he operated at the time. “In the summer of 1949, Look sent him to Chicago to shoot the pictures for a story by Irv Kupcinet. He brought back 40 rolls of film and a rare record of his own education as a filmmaker” (source: here ).

Another statement: “Like any good photographer, Kubrick had great reflexes. He knew just when to hit the shutter. Kubrick also had an uncanny ability to connect with his subjects, regardless of race, age or occupation. Through his photographs, we eavesdrop on the college kids flirting in the jazz club shadows, we share the suspense on the trading floor with a young trader, we watch the South Side kids watching out for each other.” Source: here ). I say… but his stuff goes beyond simply “connecting with his subjects”.

There is a book of his photos on Amazon. I don’t know how good it is – it seems to be covering more issues than his actual photography. Such as his fame. Such as his family.

I find it amazing how many artists have major talents beyond their principal fame. To name a few: Cartier-Bresson and his paintings, Film maker Gordon Parks and his photography. Tony Bennett and his paintings. Stan Kubrick and his photography. The list is long.

Here are a few of Stan Kubrick’s photos:

.Stanley Kubrick Photography - Chicago

Stanley Kubrick Photography - Chicago.

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.Stanley Kubtick Photography - Chicago

.Stanley Kubrick Photography - Chicago

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21 Responses to “About Stanley Kubrick, the Photographer”

  1. Jennifer said

    First, my take on the picture of the woman standing in her underwear smoking a cigarette in a room she filled with smoke positioned with her body language as the boss and looking cool. Maybe even large and in charge. Maybe no one will notice she is standing there so predispositioned… in her (quite constricting) UNDERWEAR. Isn’t it an election year?

  2. Jennifer said

    Second, my take on the picture of the woman (who looks highly intelligent) patronizing the man who’s smoking the cigarette with her body language. Just sitting there patiently letting him talk about how important he is (Napoleon) while she soaks up all the information. Notice that she’s not drinking her drink?

  3. Jennifer said

    Third, my take on the picture of the rows of consumers… oops, I mean the general public driving their cars up and down the strip back when cars became the thing to have. Did you notice that they were surrounded by the bright lights of movie theatres? Who was it that ran this country again… was it the politicians… or was it the entertainment industry? I’m only 29 and didn’t go to college… just a simple girl from Kansas. What do I know?

  4. Jennifer said

    I forgot the part where most people will first look at the horn player because he “appears” to be at the center of the picture or the focus. However, if you really step back and look at the picture, the woman is the target. She is the story and she’s barely in the picture.

  5. Jennifer said

    I was born under the same zodiac signs as Stanley Kubrick, both Western (Leo) and Chinese (Dragon). The first book I ever read was Helter Skelter. I thought that Charles Manson was a scary “psyco” but it turns out that he was highly intelligent. He tried to start a race war. What’s happening in today’s society is a religious war that is shifting focus away from race and directing the divisions to financial status rather than traditional heritage. Angelina Jolie is another of my favorites, because she is sending a message to the entire world… the Brad Pitt thing is great. Everything that american boys should want to be and now he is becoming a complete humanitarian under Angie’s influence. Wasn’t she the “bad girl” with issues… but hey, it turns out that she is this truly wonderful (highly HIGHLY intelligent) woman that has the power to steer people’s ideas by her positive example of how she overcame her personal obstacles as a daughter, a famous actress, a psychosexual wife, a mother, a humanitarian and the wife of something completely American. When is the election again? I wonder what Oprah is doing that day? If Oprah can never be president, I’m pretty sure someone would absolutely have to have her support to become it. What was that earlier question about the difference between politics and the entertainment industry? Where is Brittney Spears these days?

  6. Jennifer said

    What are the best selling, most popular books these days? Science vs. Religion being pushed through the entertainment industry? Who’s Dan Brown? Why is he so insightful in his fiction? How much is truth? Did I mention that I was writing a book about finding your own personal truth by breaking free from the bondage of ignorance by using someone else’s experience to enhance your own and create your own destiny? Isn’t History only a story told and jerked into fact down the line. Why didn’t Stanley Kubrick direct any of his own works? Did he not use other people’s works and add his own touches, making a book into movie GOLD in the few works that he is recognized for? I’m finishing the book she wanted to write and I will need someone to make the movie.

  7. Jennifer said

    Did you even notice that the person at the edge of the picture was a woman at first?

  8. Jennifer said

    What is insanity? I believe that insanity is the state of mind that happens when you lack the ability to see the truth through the various details of any experience and are unable to differentiate it from the false. This can happen on many different levels with various experiences. I managed a high-rise apartment building on W. Armour Blvd & Broadway in Kansas City, MO for about a year and gathered the personal stories of many of the residents there. There was a fatal fire in the 1960’s (which lead to stricter fire codes in Kansas City as it related to high-rises and escape routes), suicides, murders, friends, enemies, affairs… the stories continue, ad infinitum. Ask me about “Crazy” Nancy sometime. She taught me to laugh at my own personal “moments of insanity”.

    I am writing a book in memory of one of the strongest (even if somewhat disturbed) women I have ever known. Her personal strength came from recounting history and coupling it with depression and anger. I saw how she died, I heard her yells from outside, ran outside with my cell phone, called 911 and held her there on the stairs (her body contorted on top of her can with her back of groceries spilled around her on the stairs above and below) until the ambulance got there. She had been falling a lot and had a black eye already. I attended her funeral. I have never been a party to a sadder event. At the graveside service, I stood away from the family who had not seen her in years and released a balloon with a final note to her that described my promise that I would find my own strength and never feel the utter loneliness as she lived it at the end of her life. She was estranged from her entire family, yet kept journals of every disturbing thing that ever happened around her. She filed and won the first lawsuit in Missouri for work related stress against UMKC. She had much experience with various forms of mental treatment over the years. She wrote a manuscript (from what she referred to as her “flat” in Midtown Kansas City) about a woman traveling the world that has since been lost. Knowing Nina (albeit briefly) and reading her journals, before and after her death, has enabled me to see the truth in my own personal situation and rise above it. When I met Nina, I was engrossed in a highly dysfunctional, extremely abusive marriage. He nearly killed me. After she died and I was given the opportunity to finally begin reading her journals, I was overpowered by a sudden sense of urgency to overcome my situation and get out of that fatal rut that I had fallen into. I read, year after year, her New Year’s Resolutions as she became more and more bitter with the hand that life had dealt her. She constantly described other people’s shortcomings and eventually thought that everyone was out to get her. She was a victim of her experiences and negative perceptions, yet she was a total romantic. She was so sentimental that it was amounted to a weakness in her mind. I refuse to live in that “truth”. I want to do everything that she talked about in her moments of optimism (the real truth that lacked an adequate amount of action). She loved to write, loved to watch movies, kept up on current events and took on tragedies around the world as if they were her own. Thank you, Nina. Your life in print has been the epiphany to my own life. Nina was born August 16, 1932 and passed away recently. I was born August 20, 1976 and have just but begun to live my life as a single mother with three children and my own negative history. Our lives and stories merged briefly when I managed the apartments she lived in at the time of her death. We became very close in a very short amount of time (she came down to my office every morning and visited with me, brought food and gifts, and sat down to talk and visit about the other residents and I was engrossed in the tales she told and the stories she weaved), but I would have never guessed that when she called me from the hospital and told me she was dying that her request that day would change my life forever. She asked me to go into her apartment and get her journals because Christine (her daughter) now had a key and was coming to get some things from her apartment to bring to the hospital and she begged me not to let her daughter (whom Nina was estranged from until the fall on the steps of the apartment building that led the doctor to find the brain tumor that eventually killed her) get her hands on them. She told me that she wanted me to put them to “good use”. She asked me to, “read them… all of them.”

    Rather than get my book published and be sued by her family members who neglected to have contact with her for several years, I need to seek council and offer the family some form of … “something”… prior to going public – although some of the stories may actually be fiction based on partial truths. This is a story of the way my life is changing based on the memoirs of her life. I can not afford an attorney and don’t know how to get my book published. Can you help?

    Her father’s name was Everett William Weatherman and she had 5 siblings. Cecil Weatherman was her youngest brother. I am now in touch with a descendant of Cecil’s who has serious questions about murders that may or may not be explained in Nina’s words. Her journals recount memories of her childhood, but also follow her into her 60’s on a daily basis. The following is an email that I received from Cecil’s descendant today:

    “Well let me give you a little background, My great aunt was Cecil’s first
    wife Grace, she, a sister age 9 and her mother (my Great Grandmother) and
    her two year old son Cecil Jr. were killed, I have some newspaper clippings
    but all of my belongings are packed up (I am trying to sell my house). At the
    time they thought is was poison but there are many theories as to who did it.
    Apparently after their deaths, Cecil’s sisters took in Bobby (Cecil’s
    youngest son) and raised him. Do you know if there is any thing in the
    journals about this event?”

    Excerpts from “See the Truth – My Personal Journey”…

    From Nina’s journals (specifically, the one titled “Bits and Pieces from a Life”):

    “It is known that human beings are possessed by an unfathomable number of dormant memory traces – of which some can be activated under special conditions including excitation by stimulating points in the cortex. Such traces are indelibly imprinted in the nervous systems and are commonly activated my mnemonic stimuli – words, sights, sounds, but especially smells. My nose is like a bloodhound’s – the phenomenon of deja vu is closely related to these experiences, in which a doubling of consciousness occurs, with the conviction that one has lived the experience before. Much of the human memory however includes subsequent revision, selection, and fantasizing…”

    My Papa worked at a place called Patton’s Creamery. They had all kinds of ice cream and sometimes he brought popsicles. We didn’t have an ice box and always had to eat the ice cream right away…One night he came home late and got us out of bed to sit at the kitchen table and eat ice cream with him. Afterward, he mixed some powdered milk. Mama was in a bad mood and didn’t eat any ice cream and she said the milk was old and rotten and that’s why he got it free. He made us line up and drink. We all threw up all over the floor. He shouted curses, knocked the pitcher to the floor and left the pantry…

    Papa’s Temper:

    (The story of Cecil’s birth)

    I had a terrible earache. It had hurt for so long. I felt sick to my stomach from pain. I had cried so much my head ached fiercely. Mama sometimes blew smoke in my ear or put warm oil inside to make it feel better but Papa would not let me leave the bedroom to tell her my ear hurt. He had cursed and shouted for all of us to get into bed and be quiet.

    Our bedroom had two beds with a table between them. Billy and Johnny slept in the bed next to the door. We three girls slept in the bed by the window. Everyone was in bed but Billy who kept walking around with his hands in his pockets saying something was wrong with Mama.

    She had been crying loudly for a long time, sometimes moaned, then she would go quiet and we couldn’t hear anything. Once in a while, she would scream, such terrible screams they made me shiver and Billy and Betty and me would cry.

    Billy said the doctor was supposed to come and bring a new baby but I didn’t understand why that would make Mama cry. I thought it would be nice to have a baby I could hold and play with. I sat on the bed and hugged my arms close thinking about rocking a new baby and singing to it like I did Natalie. I got off the bed but fell because my legs were too short and Billy hissed at me to be quiet or we would all get into trouble. Papa had said he didn’t want to hear a sound. For a while, I watched out the window for the doctor, but my ear began to hurt even more fiercely and I cried from the pain.

    We had been in the bedroom a long time and had not eaten anything. I wondered if my ear hurt because I was so hungry. It was cold in the room. I had not been warm since Mama got sick. I was sleepy too but everytime I went to sleep, my earache would wake me. The was one of the bad times Mama always talked about.

    Johnny and Shirley were asleep and after a while Billy went back to sleep. Betty Lou was fussing like Mama did with one hand on her hip and shaking a finger at me. “Just you wait, I’ll get us somethin’ to eat, just you wait… But, I’m so hungry my stomach hurts… Stop that bawlin! Yer ears ain’t hurtin, you just pretend! Iffen you keep makin noise, Papa will come in here and whup both of us. If he whups me, I’ll slap you silly! Will you HUSH UP! He’s gettin madder en madder…”

    Papa was mad. He beat on the door and shouted for us to be quiet, then we could hear him yelling at Mama. We both ran to stand near the door.

    “Shuddup you God-Damned Bitch! Did I tell you to have another damned brat? If you weren’t so God-Damned Dumb, you’d have done something to stop it. Shut Up! Always bawling, you and your goddamned kids. All I hear is (illegible, but looks like “Caterwanking”). Shut up!”

    Papa’s voice got louder and louder and Mama’s cries changed to shrill screams. Betty Lou opened the door and we both stared at Papa who stood over Mama with a pillow in his hands shouting down at her.

    “I’ll shut your mouth, you God-Damned Whore!”

    He put the pillow over Mama’s face to press down with both hands. Mama was fighting him trying to get free. I couldn’t breathe good but Betty made funny noises and Papa turned to see us standing in the doorway. he threw the pillow in our direction and yelled.

    “Shut the God-Damned Door and get back into bed you Sonsabitches!”

    Betty Lou ran for the bed but I couldn’t let go of the door knob. My heart was leaping and the look on Papa’s chest scared me something fierce. I started to cry again as he charged toward me.

    “Papa please, my ear hurts bad…”

    I felt my breaths stop when he squatted down in front of me to whisper between his teeth.

    “If you lay down, like I said, it will go away.” His eyes looked big and round and spittle was running from the corner of his mouth from when he raised his voice. “If you don’t lay down, RIGHT NOW, I will beat YOUR … ASS!!!”

    He stood up and jerked the door to slam it hard. He jerked me with it because my hand seemed to be stuck to the door knob. My nose smashed against the door and I felt something warm running down into my mouth. My nose was hurt bad but I stood on my tiptoes and made no sound. I knew if I turned the door knob loose it would make a clicking noise and Papa would get really REALLY mad.

    I listened for sounds from the next room but it seemed like a long while before I heard Mama moaning again. I didn’t hear Papa and wondered where he had gone. I opened the door a tiny bit. My heart was racing like I had been running as I tried to peek through the crack in the door.

    Suddenly, Betty Lou hissed at me, “Shut that door or I’ll slap you silly!”

    I knew she would, but I was worried about Mama. Earlier, she had looked strange with her face all red and swollen. She was never sick and I knew she was crying for a reason. I couldn’t see her face because her back was to the door, but I saw Papa.

    Now, he was standing by the pot-bellied stove with a stick in his hand staring at Mama in the bed. It was RIGHT THEN that things began to happen so fast that I could only watch in shock. Papa left the stove door open and the fire inside was orangey red leaping and dancing. Papa ran to the side of the bed and lifted the piece of firewood to bring it crashing down on Mama’s head. Mama must have heard him coming because she turned to look up at him. She screamed so loud it shot shivers up and down my back. She flung an arm up but the stick hit her and blood ran down her face and onto the pillow. It splattered on the wall and I tried to cry out but my voice wouldn’t work. My tongue felt too big and there was a thing in my throat that made my breaths stop.

    I had flung the door open and stood frozen to the floor watching the scene now before me. Mama had stopped screaming and wasn’t moving. Papa just stood there looking down at her. Blood was all over and looked redder and redder. Papa grabbed up another pillow and put it over Mama’s face.

    Shrill screams rang out, piercing screams that made me shiver. I clapped my hands over my mouth but it was Betty Lou screaming. Billy shoved Betty Lou as he rushed through the door and across the room toward Papa yelling.

    “I hate you! I hate you! You kilt my Mama! She’s dead and you kilt her!”

    He was beating on Papa’s legs and blubbering through his tears. Papa shoved at Billy and then hit him so hard he went flying across the room. Billy landed on the floor, face-down, and never moved.

    Johnny tugged at my nightgown crying. I could hear Shirley crying and I started crying. Everything was all wrong. Everyone was crying. Betty Lou had run to Billy and was trying to wake him up. My legs still wouldn’t move. Papa suddenly ran from the room and down the hall toward the kitchen. I heard the back door slam and my legs suddenly felt weak and didn’t want to hold me up anymore. I went slowly into the bedroom and crawled under the bed and covered up my ears. I didn’t have an earache anymore.

    Mama was killed. Mama was dead like the robin in the butter box. I wondered what kind of box they would put her in. She was awful big and would never fit in the cucumber patch. Billy would probably say where the corn grew. But, who would fix supper with Mama dead? How would I get dressed for Sunday School? I had not learned how to do my back buttons yet and Betty Lou fussed if Mama told her to do them. I couldn’t do my shoes either, the hook never went the right way. I liked to brush Mama’s hair and I couldn’t do that anymore. Mama always smelled good, like baby powder. I couldn’t let them put her in a box. They would have to make Mama not dead.

    Texas Street:

    (The story of Papa and the Freight Train)

    … Five of us slept in a bedroom with two beds, Billy and Johnny and we three girls. Cecil slept in a crib in the front bedroom. A window by our bed looked out onto the front porch and I always woke when anyone came onto the porch. There were two front doors – one opened onto the front bedroom which was really a living room and the other opened onto the front hallway. Billy didn’t sleep well either and he and I were usually the first ones awake when anything happened.

    Billy used to hear someone walking around overhead but the attic door was always closed and locked. He would hiss at me to be quiet. He would go to tell our mother but she was never there. I heard a lot of noise and walking one night and wakened Billy. Mother wasn’t home and he went to the attic door to jerk on the knob and yell, asking who was up there. We didn’t hear anymore noises.

    The next morning, Mama left in Uncle Homer’s car with Cecil. Billy found the attic door ajar but he was afraid to go up until Betty Lou called him a “scardeycat.” I was told to stay below but I went up behind them anyhow.

    There were two unfinished rooms and a narrow window high up that faced Texas Street. Bill climbed onto a chair to look out. Betty Lou wondered about looking. There was a cot, a pillow, and a blanket – men’s clothes and a pair of shoes. I sat down on the floor near a large book that lay open – a book of wallpaper samples. Bill yelled at me not to turn the page and rushed to slap my hand. We could hear Johnny crying below for “Sissy.” Bill shoved me and told me to get downstairs but I stopped at the head of the steps when he told Betty Lou the red spots on the book were blood. I ran back to look and Betty Lou told me to get back and shoved me – Bill and her got into a fight – he felt as the oldest, he was the only one who could chastise me. I scrambled to my feet and put a finger on one of the large spots – it was dry but it flaked off and I wiped my finger hard on my dress. Both Bill and Betty had seen spots on the wood floor that led to an overcoat and hat hanging on a peg. Bill climbed onto his stool and said the coat had big dark splotches on it. He also found a gun he said wasn’t loaded but swiftly put it back in the pocket.

    I heard a car door slam and hurried below, slipped into the bedroom just as my mama and Uncle John entered the house. Mama caught Bill and Betty in the attic and ordered them downstairs. Uncle John went upstairs and we heard him ask Mama who had been up there. Uncle Paley had been there after robbing someone and had been wounded slightly, not serious. He had given Papa and Mama money and Papa had helped him hop a freight train out of town. Later, the story was told that him and three men had robbed a bank in Chicago. Police had caught the others but Uncle Arclo had jumped on a streetcar. A policeman jumped on with him and Uncle Arclo leaped off again and hurt his leg – he always had a limp. Shortly after he left, Papa also hopped a freight. My mother always denied what happened but we three knew the truth. – njk


    We went to live at an orphanage not too long after this. Cecil was still a baby and Mama was still alive

    I was born at the peak of the depression, followed by Johnny, then Shirley, and Cecil. People went hungry, jobless, too many were poor, living in poverty. My mother married my stepfather and we left the orphanage. For a while we went hungry. Lawrence went to work for the WPA but a family of 8 needed a lot of food. The Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor and Lawrence took us to live in the country. We ate well, even during WWII and slept on feather mattresses most of the time – duck and chicken feathers. My mother was a good seamstress and made us pretty dresses from floursack material to bolts of printed cottons. During the war shoes were hard to come by for children and two adults and it took coupons. They traded other ration coupons for shoe coupons. We all had chores except Shirley and Cecil because they were little. Later on they also had chores. We got up early, worked hard and played hard. When I was in fifth grade, our house burned to the ground. After that our lives changed and went downhill fast. Lawrence tried to stop it, mother didn’t. She became and alcoholic, was mean, and beat on all of us. She began to stay away from home for days, then weeks. She finally broke Lawrence’s spirit. Bill ran away to join the merchant Marines and Betty went to California to live with Everett. I was left with 3 small children to care for. The state stepped in when I had to get a job shining shoes to feed the children. We were wards of the court still and they felt my life was at risk. — This was 1945. Nina would have been 13 years old.


    From 1984:
    Remember,… how I remember. Many sad memories, a lot of tears, a hurt that is rooted deep inside that I can’t get away from. It has gradually coloured my views of people, come full circle to shut me inside an orbit that only brings more hateful memories.

    SAD.

    I have countless other stories to share (for instance, one of her mother lighting Nina’s bed on fire at a mental institution and telling the nurses that Nina had done it). These are stories that belonged to Nina, before she gave them to me, and stories of my own that I gave to Nina when we talked each morning in my office. She was the first to ask me about my bruises and stare me in the eyes until I would agree to look into hers and tell her my lies about about my own personal “truth”. The lies did not matter. She could see my truth, but was unable to see past her own and use it to better the perception of her own experience… but she would be DAMNED if I was going to ruin my life. I was her project for a moment, until her death… at which time I began writing this book… and began the healing process.

    I turn 30 in less than a week and have my entire life in front of me. My journey will be one of optimism, faith, hope and courage… all of which were given to me by this woman sharing her experience with a young lady on her way down a bitter path that Nina herself had already traveled.

    Reflections-
    “from my memory bank – it often takes too long, far down, to break into your mind, so many years can pass before we really start growing, learning only the fundamentals of life. Could each life be just out of the ordinary enough so that another might learn from it?” – njk

    “I don’t pretend to be a philosopher but sometimes I do get strange thoughts I have to repeat in my mind and then write down fast – we don’t have forever – we think we do when we’re young – but the years are gone before we realize it, lost to us forever. There’s no going back to the things that were planned – no way to complete all the projects – or reach all of our goals. I had so many dreams, big dreams.” – njk

    Please help me make her dreams, and now mine come true.

  9. Witness said

    Jennifer in #8. The story you tell about Nina is so similar to the life/death of Shannon Murchison from Dallas. The Murchisons are very powerful in Dallas, also, I understand in Camirillo, CA. I don’t know if Shannon wrote. But she was divorced and her death was mysterious. She was covered in bruises with a black eye. The coroner said she had shocking liver disease and her death was probably caused by taking too much tylenol. He admitted she was bruised, but said she had fallen and that it was not related to her death. She was in her late ’40’s, divorced from a very powerful man, took psychiatric drugs and died. I just wanted to write this because your story about Nina reminded me of Shannon (whom I never knew).

  10. Susan said

    Hmmmm…. Jennifer – obsess much about women and power?

  11. Sharon Lea said

    Jennifer, I am interested in your story written about Nina ,may she rest in peace and her strange and relentless family of disfunction. I think there are so many things we need to talk about and maybe some pieces of the puzzle could come together. How is you writing going? We are very interested in being a part of the writing of this history, however horiable it proves to be. Please be in contact with me as soon as possible. I look forward to hearing from you and I believe we might have some other answers for you. sharonelea@juno.com
    Sharon
    Houston Texas

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  14. Mike Johnson said

    I am trying to contact Jennifer Knight, author of the comments above from 2006 about Nina. I am the son of Nina’s sister Shirley who is mentioned in the journals.

    • Karl said

      Jennifer, Nina, Mike – This blog has no relation or connection with your comments posted here. In fact, I have no idea what any of you talk about. Please find a better place to communicate your thoughts.

      Thanks
      Karl

  15. peggy barton said

    this story sounds like my uncle cecil weatherman he lived in kansas city.had a son name bobby he was in the navy made a career. i don,t know what happen to him he was marred the last time i saw him had a little girl that had a cast on from her wist down legs.

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    sea.

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