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Multimillion-dollar baby photos published

Multimillion-dollar baby photos published

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On August 3, 2008, the first published photos of former couple Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie’s newborn twins, Vivienne Marcheline and Knox Leon, go up on People magazine’s website. A 19-page photo spread followed in the magazine’s August 18, 2008, issue.

People won the rights to the photos after a bidding war that, according to some reports, reached as high as $14 million, the most ever paid for celebrity baby pictures. The Jolie-Pitt twins, who were born July 12, 2008, at Fondation Lenval hospital in Nice, France, were a huge source of media fascination from the moment their mother announced their impending arrival.

People magazine, which launched its first issue in 1974, has featured photos of celebrities and their offspring since its early days. The singer and actress Cher and the rock musician Gregg Allman appeared on the September 27, 1976 cover of People with their newborn son, Elijah and Cher’s daughter (with Sonny Bono), Chastity. However, three decades later, celebrity magazines dramatically intensified their focus on Hollywood babies and began paying millions for exclusive images of stars and their newborns. Magazine bidding wars for celebrity baby photos reached a fever pitch with the May 2006 birth of Pitt and Jolie’s daughter Shiloh. Rather than enabling the paparazzi to make money off the first photos of their child, the two actors, who co-starred in Mr. & Mrs. Smith (2005) and first appeared publicly as a couple in 2005, decided to sell the photos themselves and have the proceeds go to charity. According to some reports, People paid more than $4 million for the North American photo rights.

After Jolie and Pitt appeared with Shiloh on the June 19, 2006 cover of People, the magazine sold an extra 800,000 copies and the price for images of star babies continued to rise. The actress and singer Jennifer Lopez and her husband, Marc Anthony, sold images of themselves and their newborn twins to People for a reported $5 million. Lopez appeared with the twins on People’s cover in March 2008. Several months later, the images of the Jolie-Pitt twins set a new record price for Hollywood baby pics.

Bon Secours Mother and Baby Home

The Bon Secours Mother and Baby Home (also known as St Mary's Mother and Baby Home or simply The Home) [1] that operated between 1925 and 1961 in the town of Tuam, County Galway, Ireland, was a maternity home for unmarried mothers and their children. The Home was run by the Bon Secours Sisters, a religious order of Roman Catholic nuns, that also operated the Grove Hospital in the town. Unwed pregnant women were sent to the Home to give birth.

In 2012, the Health Service Executive raised concerns that up to 1,000 children had been sent from the Home, for the purpose of illegal adoptions in the United States, without their mothers' consent. [2]

Separately in 2012, a local historian, Catherine Corless, published an article documenting the history of the home before she uncovered the names of the children who died in the home the following year. In 2014, Anna Corrigan uncovered the inspection reports of the home, which noted that the most commonly recorded causes of death among the infants were congenital debilities, infectious diseases and malnutrition (including marasmus-related malnutrition). [3] Corless' research led her to conclude that almost all had been buried in an unmarked and unregistered site at the Home, and the article claimed that there was a high death rate of residents. [4] [5] Corless estimated that nearly 800 children had died at the home.

The Home was investigated by a statutory commission of investigation under Judge Yvonne Murphy – the "Mother and Baby Homes Commission of Investigation". Excavations carried out between November 2016 and February 2017, that had been ordered by the Commission, found a significant quantity of human remains, aged from 35 foetal weeks to two to three years, interred in "a vault with twenty chambers". Carbon dating confirmed that the remains date from the timeframe relevant to the operation of the home by the Bon Secours order. The Commission stated that it was shocked by the discovery, and that it would continue its investigation into who was responsible for the disposal of human remains in this way. [6]

Corless's original research noted that the site was also the location of a septic tank when overlaid with maps of the period of use as a workhouse. [7] [8] [9] [10] The 2017 report by an Expert Technical Group, commissioned by the Department of Children and Youth Affairs, confirmed that the vault was a sewage tank after reviewing historical records and conducting a magnetometer survey it concluded, "The combination of an institutional boarding home and commingled interments of juvenile remains in a sewage treatment system is a unique situation, with no directly comparable domestic or international cases." [11]

In October 2018, the Irish government announced that it would introduce legislation to facilitate a full excavation of the mass grave and site, and for forensic DNA testing to be carried out on the remains, at a cost estimated to be between €6 and €13 million. The Mother and Baby Home Commission finalised its report in 2020, and it was published in January 2021. The Bon Secours Sisters issued an apology in the wake of the report's publication, stating "We did not live up to our Christianity when running the Home."

A multi-million-dollar apartment complex broke ground in Parker Tuesday

PARKER, Fla. (WJHG/WECP) - What developers consider a new standard of excellence, broke ground Tuesday in Parker. East Bay Flats apartments are located on 18-acres on the coast of East Bay, at the base of the Tyndall Parkway bridge.

Parker Mayor Rich Musgrave said he considers this one of the most prime pieces of property in all of Bay County. He adds this $52,000,000 project is the largest project in the city’s history.

“It’s going to be a fabulous spot for people to live and to have a lifestyle, not just a place to stay,” Windcrest Partners managing partner John Bennett said.

A lifestyle that Bennett said will be in huge demand. East Bay Flats will include 270 apartments and feature a private beach and a waterfront pool.

“That’s going to make a big dent in that housing need,” said Musgrave.

Housing needs Tyndall Airmen will surely require. Musgrave said more than 2,000 active service members will eventually wind up at the base.

“We’re here to help support what they’re doing and what the men and women of our military are here doing for us,” said Bennett.

Bennett said affordability was key.

“It’s going to have a catalyst effect. It’s going to spur further development as we go up the Tyndall quarter,” said Musgrave.

Musgrave said as more is developed, more contractors coming in will need housing.

“Not only a rebuilding of this community but a look forward as to what this can be, what it will be, and what Tyndall and what East Bay Flats is going to help represent in this area in the future,” said Bennett.

While Tyndall is the base of the future, East Bay Flats is the future in Parker. Bennett said East Bay Flats is expected to start leasing in early 2022. Musgrave said the city is currently in talks concerning three or four other parcels for housing.

So how did the success come

Hard-work and a desire for more and all good things in life, comes the quick reply.

“Back home in Surendranagar, my life was static. There was no progress in my life and everything around was getting too mundane. So I decided to get out of my comfort zone and look for greener pastures in Mumbai.”

Ramesh Vora struggled in the initial years of his life, but he had a dream and a vision to make it big one day Image Credit: Clint Egbert / Gulf News

It was the year 1971 and Vora had just finished his graduation. “I was rearing for more and so Mumbai it was.”


Independence Hall on a spring day. Photograph by Matt Zugale

That’s the first strange thing you’ll hear when you take a tour of Independence Hall, the birthplace of American liberty. I’ve just handed my ticket to a National Park Service ranger, who promptly ordered me into the pen. I obliged.

The pen is a fenced-off gathering area in the green square behind Independence Hall, which butts up against Walnut, 6th and 5th streets. I look up at the blue sky, thankful there’s no rain in the forecast. A pack of tourists streams in, and we stand shoulder-to-shoulder. Here we are, on this warm spring afternoon, preparing to worship at the altar of American freedom, and we’re enclosed like livestock.

The second strange thing that happens when you take a tour of Independence Hall comes immediately after you leave the pen. Our group is led to a musty side room with yellow-tinted wood paneling that’s lined with rows of white plastic chairs. Everyone sits down. At other significant sites or in other museums, this would be the part of the tour where you enter a dark theater to watch a well-produced, drama-packed video that sets the scene for the piece of history you’re about to experience in real time. At Independence Hall, there is no video. Instead, a park ranger or a volunteer — in green Park Service garb — begins a 10-minute spiel about the bravery of the American patriots who dared to throw off the yoke of the British Empire. It’s as if I’ve been transported back in time — to my fifth-grade civics class.

Eventually, class is dismissed, and we finally enter the main attraction. The Assembly Room is dutifully reconstructed, with rows of tables draped in green cloth, quills and manuscripts and wooden Windsor chairs. It looks just as it might have on those days in the 1700s when Washington and Adams and Jefferson and Franklin were imprinting their politics onto the still-wet clay that was America. Most of those in my group are wide-eyed schoolchildren from New York City. As the tour ends, our guide tells them with booming sincerity, “When you guys get back home, tell your friends and family you stood in the room where the United States began.”

The Assembly Room in Independence Hall. Photograph by Matt Zugale

Visiting Independence Hall can be a profoundly optimistic experience — the closest thing we have to a national church, if the religion in question is American exceptionalism. But though the building has retained its humble majesty, the buildup to the climax is so poor, and the production values are so low by 2019 standards, that it’s hard not to feel deflated. My personal moment of heresy came as I walked through a hallway past a discarded white plastic bucket labeled ICE MELT. It was April.

The state of affairs worsens. I head for a room on the west side of the building that holds the “Great Essentials” exhibit, named for the priceless documents — 18th-century copies of the Declaration and the Constitution — on display. I enter through a door from which multiple layers of paint have been scratched off like snakeskin, leaving the naked wood foundation exposed. For a second, I think I took a wrong turn — am I walking into a storage room by accident? But a plain white EXHIBIT ENTRANCE sign assures me otherwise.

Visiting Independence Hall can be a profoundly optimistic experience, but the buildup to the climax is so poor, and the production values are so low by 2019 standards, that it’s hard not to feel deflated.

The Great Essentials exhibit does in fact retain certain storage-room characteristics: The carpet is unvacuumed the lights are too dim for me to clearly see anything. Next door at Congress Hall, where the United States government once convened, start times for tours are presented via a paper clock that a park ranger dutifully adjusts every 20 minutes. If you’re a foreign visitor and don’t speak English, don’t bother waiting. There are no foreign-language audio guides.

This is the tourist’s experience at Independence National Historical Park, the fourth-most-visited national park in the country. It welcomed 4.6 million pilgrims last year alone — ahead of Yellowstone, Yosemite or Zion (and the Statue of Liberty, too). Independence Hall is one of only 11 UNESCO World Cultural Heritage sites in the United States. It’s Philadelphia’s (democratic) Versailles. Yet the curation is more on par with a half-abandoned cathedral in a random village in the South of France.

How did we get here? There’s plenty of blame to go around. The U.S. government’s National Park Service is in charge of all of the park’s land — a set of green spaces and sites running from 2nd to 7th Street between Walnut and Arch — yet hasn’t provided a budget increase in more than a decade. The result is that at “America’s Most Historic Square Mile,” critical maintenance is left unperformed, and on the majority of days, as many as 10 of the park’s 35 sites are closed to the public because there isn’t enough staffing. The City of Philadelphia, which technically owns Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell (more on that later) and profits immensely from the park’s tourism, is guilty of neglect, too. Over the past decade, it’s given a total of $76,000 to the park — less than the annual salary of a single police officer.

But perhaps most damning of all is the widespread apathy toward the park, which seems to be shared by just about every Philadelphian. Is there something missing in our genetic code? People in Boston and Washington, D.C., have a certain historical pride baked into their DNA — even though neither of those cities has the place where Thomas Jefferson wrote the Declaration of Independence, the building where the Constitution was debated, or Alexander Hamilton’s central bank. We care more about sports, food and Rocky than our historical significance. Perhaps a Freudian psychologist would trace this apathy back to when our young city lost its status as America’s capital in 1800.

In 2026, the United States will turn 250. It seems self-evident that the entire country’s attention will shift to Philadelphia, as it has for every significant anniversary in American history: the Centennial in 1876, the Bicentennial in 1976. Will our city’s crown jewel be polished in time?

When you take a tour of Independence Hall, you’re meant to absorb the following bit of American gospel above all else: that the United States is a grand experiment, its brand of federalism a shining beacon for all other governments to follow. What they don’t tell you on the tour: The federalism celebrated in American lore is also the precise reason why Independence Park is foundering.

One Wednesday afternoon in March, I take a walking tour of the would-be greatest hits in Independence Park with two of the people who know it best: park superintendent Cynthia MacLeod and Joyce Walker, deputy director of the Independence Historical Trust, the nonprofit that fund-raises on behalf of the park.

Walker is a triple espresso shot of a person, with brown hair, sharp cheekbones, and a tendency to speak until she runs out of breath. “People call me Leslie Knope,” says the 54-year-old. MacLeod is her foil, the consummate bureaucrat: calmer, measured, and occasionally the one to let Walker know that her latest big idea isn’t feasible. MacLeod’s usually in the standard-issue Park Service uniform of gray button-up shirt and flat-brimmed tan Stetson, but today she’s dressed like any other office manager.

We arrive at the First Bank of the United States, a three-story marble edifice at 3rd and Chestnut that resembles the Athenian Parthenon. It’s the oldest structure built for the U.S. federal government still standing today. I would have no way of knowing this if I weren’t being lectured by the park superintendent, because the minuscule sidewalk sign denoting the bank mentions no such thing.

Inside the First Bank of the United States, on 3rd Street. Photograph by Matt Zugale

Poor branding is the least of the bank’s problems. Buildings age just as humans do, and the First Bank, nearing its 225th birthday, is in need of medical care. It’s been closed to the public for more than three decades, and though it retains much of its exterior majesty — the hand-carved frieze above the entryway depicts an American eagle, believed to be the first use of the bird as a symbol on a government building (again, not mentioned on the sign) — the bank’s a mess on the inside. The room smells like a musky wine cellar. There’s worn-down red carpeting. Chipped paint has left Rorschach splotches across the walls. It’s mostly being used as a gigantic storage closet for artifacts unearthed during construction of the National Constitution Center a few blocks away. “We’re kind of hoarders,” says MacLeod. “We can’t quite throw things out.”

MacLeod, who’s worked at the Park Service for 38 years, begins casually rattling off other ailments afflicting the bank’s internal organs: “It needs HVAC, it needs a new electrical system, it needs a second means of egress from the upper floors. It needs to have the painting redone — there’s probably some lead paint here.” And then she drops the real bombshell: The First Bank of the United States doesn’t have a fire suppression system.

The First Bank is possibly the most egregious example of Park Service failure, but it’s hardly the only property in need of a face-lift. MacLeod, Walker and I head over to the Declaration House at 7th and Market. It’s a reconstruction of the site where Jefferson wrote the Declaration of Independence, built for the 1976 Bicentennial.

As at First Bank, the exterior retains its stately character, a mix of red brick and beige shutters. Inside, I notice the fist-size chunks of paint that have fallen off the walls. MacLeod points out the off-putting popcorn ceiling, while Walker looks down: “This carpeting reminds me of a motel.” “A seedy motel!” says MacLeod. Much like the Great Essentials exhibit, the Declaration House reads more vacant rowhome than federally funded museum.

In fact, it is vacant. The HVAC system recently tanked, but, more critically, there isn’t enough staff to man the museum, air-conditioning or not. It’s hardly a unique problem in the park. Among other properties that are closed or have limited hours due to manpower shortages: the Second Bank portrait gallery, the Free Quaker Meeting House, the Thaddeus Kosciuszko National Memorial, the Bishop White House. Many of the buildings have little signage, so you can’t tell whether a site is open or closed until you pull on the door to see if it budges. There’s an app you can download — one bit of tech-forwardness on the part of the park — that tells you which sites are open on a given day, but the interface is a relic of the late 2000s.

Trust deputy director Joyce Walker (left) and park superintendent Cynthia MacLeod. Photograph by Matt Zugale

At the Declaration House, it becomes apparent that MacLeod and Walker planned this tour to showcase the absolute worst of the park, presumably to gin up an outraged call to arms. MacLeod is willing to take the break-from-protocol risk because she knows the state of the park’s upkeep isn’t really her fault she has little recourse when it comes to the federal government not providing sufficient funds.

As we’re about to leave, Walker goes to turn off the lights, which can only be done by thrusting the circuit breakers to the side. There are no functioning light switches. “We’ll be cited by some code official if you publish all that,” says MacLeod. “Although it’s federal, so they can’t, really. But still. It’s embarrassing.”

Federal funds are hard to come by largely because of the National Park Service’s byzantine regulatory structure. While Independence Park gets a $24 million annual operating budget — which hasn’t increased in 12 years — 80 percent of that is allocated to fixed costs like staffing and utilities, with maintenance upkeep getting short shrift. For intensive rehab projects like First Bank or the Declaration House’s HVAC system, Independence Park has to compete with 419 other units — ranging from enormous parks like Joshua Tree to monuments like the Martin Luther King Jr. memorial in D.C. — under the NPS umbrella, creating a battle royale for funding. The end result is that parks with the most urgent needs get money before those with still-significant but non-life-threatening challenges. “It’s triage,” says MacLeod.

According to the most recent tally, Independence Park has a total of $51 million worth of “deferred maintenance,” meaning projects that should have been completed but for which funding hasn’t been provided. It’s hardly a crisis unique to Philadelphia — the total for deferred maintenance at all National Park Service properties is $11.9 billion. That figure has finally gotten the attention of Congress, which is currently considering a bill — a rare bipartisan piece of legislation with 37 different co-sponsors in the Senate and 228 in the House — that would provide up to $6.5 billion to alleviate some of that backlog.

Still, the $11.9 billion is a bit misleading, because many hundreds of millions of dollars are eaten up by projects like fixing shoddy roads in sprawling western parks like Yellowstone. That’s important, no doubt — you can’t get anywhere without roads — but seems less urgent than the situation at Independence Park, where more than 80 percent of deferred maintenance is for buildings, the single most important asset the park has.

Further complicating matters: Because Independence Park is thought of as a sort of national shrine meant to be available to everyone, there are no entrance fees. The open concept is great for egalitarianism but results in a significant blunting of the bottom line. Yellowstone, for example, has around four million annual visitors — half a million less than Independence Park — and earns a total of $9 million via entrance fees. (Twenty percent of fees collected by parks are set aside for non-fee parks, but only through a priority system.)

That’s where the Friends of Independence National Historical Park — the precursor to the present-day Trust — came in. Formed in the 1970s during the lead-up to the Bicentennial, the group was revolutionary in concept: It would be a separate but closely linked fund-raising vehicle to help the cash-strapped park work around institutionalized challenges — like the fact that park employees are forbidden to publicly solicit donations. The Friends would serve as a semi-public advocate. The model was so successful that it’s been replicated at parks across the country.

For most of its history, the Friends group targeted smaller projects, like finding volunteer guides to help staff buildings or purchasing antiques. Joyce Walker, whose left wrist bears a bracelet with the GPS coordinates of Independence Hall, has completely changed the calculation during her two years as deputy director of the Trust. Her menu of projects includes conserving the Signer statue at 5th and Chestnut ($8,625) preserving the historic library of Bishop White ($43,000) creating a pavilion at 3rd and Walnut where the Bicentennial Bell — gifted to the U.S. by Queen Elizabeth in 1976 — can be displayed ($1 million) and, for the main course, restoring the First Bank ($30 million). It’s an ambitious list that she wants to be complete by the 2026 semiquincentennial: “That’s non-negotiable.”

When an institution — a museum, a hospital, a name-the-cause 5K, a SEPTA station — needs money for a project, it follows a road map. Walker has spent most of her fund-raising efforts on the behemoth First Bank project, landing $1 million gifts from Gerry Lenfest’s estate and Wharton prof Jeremy Siegel, an $8 million grant from the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, and $5.4 million in federal funds that MacLeod snagged. That adds up to about $15 million total — half of what’s needed.

Walker’s working all the angles she can. Earlier this year, she hired an outside fund-raising consultant to search for donors at a national level, and she’s been giving tours to Philadelphia’s elite, hoping to form connections that might turn into donations. Last year, Walker managed to raise only $1.5 million in private donations.

The corporate world could provide another revenue stream, but Walker’s efforts hit a speed bump there, too. Marketing isn’t permitted in national parks. This has been a longstanding policy, to shield parks like Independence from real-life versions of the dad-joke hoax Taco Bell pulled in the 1990s, when it claimed it had bought the Liberty Bell and renamed it the “Taco Liberty Bell.” There have been whispers of change in recent years — in 2016, National Park Service director Jonathan Jarvis tried to loosen fund-raising guidelines to allow companies to display corporate logos on donor plaques and let some park superintendents play a more direct role in fund-raising. Park advocates forced him to stand down. Still, merits aside, the proposed changes are a sign someone recognizes that the current situation isn’t sustainable.

The upshot is that a huge amount of prospective corporate funding is off-limits — because companies can be recognized by, at most, a small plaque. “Corporations have many more marketing dollars than they have philanthropic dollars,” Walker says. Take Wawa as an example. The company has been touting its new flagship store in part because of its grand location: across the street from the Liberty Bell and Independence Hall. And while Wawa donated $45,000 this year for new bikes for the park’s rangers, there have been no large-scale or ongoing donations. It makes more business sense for Wawa to spend big bucks on something like the Wawa Welcome America festival and plaster its logo on as many surfaces as humanly possible.

Walker has also set her sights on corporations that make use of Independence Park iconography — like the 76ers and Phillies with their Liberty Bell logos — free of charge. You can’t blame her for wanting a cut. “I’m like, ‘No, no, no! You guys gotta give us money,’” she says. “Oh man, if I could figure out how to do that.” Walker laughs. She knows she can’t, saying of the bell, “It’s America’s icon.” But that doesn’t make the lack of corporate support any less frustrating. A block away, the Museum of the American Revolution raised $165 million over an eight-year span, including a donation in 2017 from Comcast and Brian Roberts’s foundation for $2.5 million.

Walker’s also been enlisting City Councilmember Mark Squilla, whose 1st District includes the park, to suggest potential funding avenues. She wants a consistent flow of dollars from the city, like the money Visit Philadelphia gets via a chunk of the hotel tax. “Given how much benefit we offer,” Walker says, “I think there’s a way they could put us in their budget.”

The Mayor’s Office could always pitch in — and during the Street and Nutter administrations of the 2000s, it did, helping fund a $12 million reconstruction of George Washington’s house along Independence Mall. But Kenney has taken a different tack: Blame the feds for their incompetence. “Asking the poorest big city in the country to cover federal liabilities seems unfair and unrealistic,” a spokesman for Mayor Kenney writes in a statement. “Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell aren’t just Philadelphia’s responsibility.”

The Mayor’s Office could always pitch in, but Kenney’s administration has taken a different tack: Blame the feds for their incompetence.

Squilla disagrees, arguing that all relevant governments — federal, city and state — should lift the load together, “instead of pointing fingers at each other.” But Squilla hasn’t yet taken any concrete steps to enlist city support for the park, either. So the various governments with a stake can plausibly deny responsibility, passing the buck in a merry-go-round of abdication.

Walker is left to pull from the well of private goodwill, hoping there are enough deep-pocketed donors out there who share her zeal for history and her dismay at the current state of the park. But the philanthropists she’s courting will also need a taste for dark comedy. What she’s ultimately doing is asking them to fund projects to memorialize an American government whose failings are the very reason she’s in the position of asking for money.

Like the founders of this country who promoted freedom while owning slaves, Independence Park was born of contradictions. Much of what you see today — like the verdant stretch of grass constituting Independence Mall — was created through destruction. The Mall was densely packed with homes and businesses until park planners leveled them, eliminating one history while propping up another.

The animating idea of the new park, officially founded in 1948 under the Truman administration, was that it would include buildings from the Revolutionary War period. Anything younger — like the Provident Life & Trust Building, designed by Frank Furness and eventually demolished — was expendable. This vision of the park was always something of a fictitious conceit. As historian Constance Greiff wrote in a history of Independence Park published in 1987, “The National Park Service can never again destroy so much of the historic fabric of a city in order to create an artificial vision of the past.”

The federal government was to administer the park, and it purchased tracts of land for its grand experiment. When it came to the central attractions — Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell, which up until 1976 was housed in the Independence Hall bell tower — the Park Service hatched a deal with the city: Philly would retain ownership of the building and bell, and the federal government would maintain them. (The city had come to own Independence Hall — which previously served as the state capitol building — because a century and a half earlier, Pennsylvania lawmakers had proposed selling it to developers, no longer needing it when the capital finally landed in Harrisburg in 1812. The city stepped in to purchase the building for $70,000.)

In some respects, Independence Park hasn’t really faced a new challenge in decades — its problems are all old ones that recur with the reliability of seasons. Go back to 1976, on the eve of the Bicentennial. The park was short of funds then, too, until the Friends turned up with a monetary assist. But once the convenient anniversary passed and the spigot of pressure was turned off, attention waned.

Critics have been panning the park over its lack of upkeep for decades. A New York Times article from 1992 noted that “buff-colored paint on the downspout of Congress Hall is peeling,” and, more ominously, that Independence Hall was in such bad shape that “experts say a fire would level the landmark in less than 30 minutes.” Indeed, Independence Park had been listed in both that year and 1991 as one of the 11 most endangered historic sites in all of America. (Mercifully, the fire suppression was updated a few years later by the federal government.) Two years ago, the Inquirer sang a similar refrain, this time writing of the park’s “weedy patchworks” of grass, general shabbiness, and “message of unwelcome.”

Government shutdowns have been a recurring motif in the park’s story. In 1995, as park rangers were furloughed due to a federal budget impasse, then-mayor Ed Rendell threatened something radical: moving the city-owned Liberty Bell — the park’s most-visited attraction at the time — out of the federal display pavilion and into city control, arguing in a letter to government officials that the landmarks had “unnecessarily become hostages to the Park Service’s budget.”

Twenty-four years later, the park found itself in a similar situation during the longest federal government shutdown in history. In January of 2018, 160,000 people visited the park. In January 2019 (shutdown month), the park saw 60,000 visitors. The impact was acute: Old City District executive director Job Itzkowitz says some businesses in the area reported revenue decreases of 40 percent. According to the Park Service’s own tabulations, when Independence Park is open, it’s an economic boon for the city, generating some $270 million in revenue in 2018 for the surrounding area, including $86 million for hotels and $62 million for restaurants.

There was one difference with this most recent shutdown: Where was the civic outrage? Where was our mayor, railing against the federal government for shutting off this economic engine? The city’s priorities have shifted away from its history, which is less a point of pride and more like a vestigial structure — something part of us, yes, but now foreign and obsolete.

Everyone has a theory about why Philly is so lukewarm toward its own past. “Maybe the abundance of our riches has diluted our appreciation for what we have,” speculates WHYY CEO Bill Marrazzo, who’s also the board chair of the Independence Historical Trust. Or as Preservation Alliance executive director Paul Steinke opines, “Philadelphians probably assume that Independence Park is in good hands with the federal government and that we don’t have to worry about it.” Or maybe it comes down to our limited chronology, as former Visit Philly head Meryl Levitz says: “We’re a baby country.”

Hardly anyone disputes that Philadelphians don’t seem to care — or even know — that Independence Park is in dire financial straits. Little public angst produces little government urgency the same goes for attracting funds. “The philanthropic wells are not as deep as they were before,” says Levitz. “Everybody needs money.” And what fund-raising is really about is convincing people that your crisis is more acute than everyone else’s. Public strife goes a long way toward crystallizing that argument.

Walker admits she hasn’t done a good enough job soliciting donations from rich Philadelphians like Brian Roberts and Ronald Perelman. (Worth noting: The Independence Trust has some board members who chip in on a volunteer basis, but Walker’s still a full-time money-raising staff of one.) “I just haven’t had a chance to reach out and drag everybody” — she catches herself — “invite everybody to the park.”

If the 1976 Bicentennial and 1876 Centennial are any indication, the 2026 semiquincentennial celebration could be Walker’s best chance to tap into a coursing stream of civic patriotism. Groups have already cropped up to promote the anniversary. In 2016, Congress unanimously passed legislation establishing the United States Semiquincentennial Commission, tasked with planning a nationwide birthday party. Given the cast of characters named to the national commission, it appears Philly will (unsurprisingly) feature prominently in the festivities. Among those involved: Philly POPS CEO Frank Giordano as interim executive director, plus senators Pat Toomey and Bob Casey, Congressman Dwight Evans, civic lion David L. Cohen, and Penn president Amy Gutmann.

Pennsylvania has its own offshoot, called the Pennsylvania Semiquincentennial Commission, established by Governor Tom Wolf and the state legislature last June. Philly grocery-store magnate Pat Burns heads up that commission, but it hadn’t held its first meeting as of mid-April, nearly a year after its creation.

Though 2026 is still seven years away, the lack of urgency isn’t exactly a reassuring sign. The state commission has the imprimatur of government support but no budget allocation yet. “A lot of this will be done through generous donations from businesses and people,” says Burns. “The government can’t always do everything. You can’t always put tax dollars to everything.”

Relying on corporations for funding may prove successful for the commission, but for the Independence Trust and the National Park Service, any sponsorship with naming rights attached will be a non-starter. It’s not hard to envision a scenario in which the various semiquincentennial groups put on lavish events but end up doing little to invest in the park’s long-term security.

Those critical, decidedly unsexy repair efforts may well remain the domain of the Independence Trust in the end. But despite the laundry list of improvements the park needs, Walker remains optimistic. “Philadelphia has, literally, the best stuff in the nation,” she says. “I just can’t imagine that everyone shouldn’t be sending all their dollars to fix it and make it even better.”

It could happen. The world got a glimpse of widespread civic-mindedness in April, when the Nôtre Dame cathedral burned in Paris. Residents streamed into the streets as flames burst from the spire. One onlooker told the New York Times in a moment of despair, when the building’s fate still hung in the balance, “Paris is beheaded.”

Parisians arguably have every excuse to be more apathetic about their history than Philadelphians are, considering France’s wealth of historical sites. Yet $1 billion was raised for Nôtre Dame in the two days after it burned. To the French, the cathedral wasn’t merely another famous building — it was the soul of Paris, the lifeblood of the city. Would people be similarly devastated if Independence Hall caught fire?

We tend to think of historical buildings as just that: old, fixed in time. Nothing could be further from the truth. Their pasts may already have been written, but they straddle past and present in equal measure. Each dollar Walker solicits for the First Bank or Independence Hall becomes part of those buildings’ legacy each tour MacLeod leads widens their story. And we seem to have forgotten that ours is an active inheritance — it must be maintained. There are few consistent lessons across history, but this one is most apt: Just because something is here today doesn’t mean it will be here tomorrow.

Published as “Is This Place … History?” in the July 2019 issue of Philadelphia magazine.

Pitt and Jolie's multi-million dollar charity baby

Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie are to let Getty Images sell photos of their new baby Shiloh Nouvel Jolie-Pitt - and have asked the proceeds go to charity.

"While we celebrate the joy of the birth of our daughter, we recognize that 2 million babies born every year in the developing world die on the first day of their lives. These children can be saved, but only if governments around the world make it a priority," the couple said, in a joint statement.

It is thought the rights to the photographs will be bought for upwards $5 million and that the money will go to a charity for African children.

Getty images will arrange a private photo shoot for the baby. "We are honored that the Jolie-Pitt family has recognized our long-term commitment to these critical issues, as well as our ability to use the power of imagery to make a difference in the lives of many," said Jonathan Klein, Getty's CEO and cofounder.

Born in a hospital in Namibia on May 27 paparazzi were immediately interested in a snapshot of the Hollywood stars' child who weighed in at 7lbs.

The baby's mother Angelina Jolie, 30, an Oscar winning actress, is a goodwill ambassador for U.N. High Commissioner for Refugees. She has two adopted children Maddox, 4, and Zahara, aged 15 months.

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Rare, Old Photos of Native American Women and Children

I looked through thousands of old photos, trying to imagine the world of the characters in my new film "Moses on the Mesa." It tells the true story of a German Jewish immigrant who becomes governor of the Native American tribe of Acoma in New Mexico during the days of the Wild West. Photographs from over a hundred years ago can open an amazing portal into the history. But photos don't tell the whole story, and so much of what happened back then is hard to stomach. But I wanted to share some rare visions of Native American women and children especially because not only is history of that time is not usually told with honesty, but it rarely tells anything about the most vulnerable. Behind the history of Chiefs and the struggles of the Native Americans to preserve their lands, their way of life and just to survive, there were women and children.

Pretty Nose, a Cheyenne woman. Photographed in 1878 at Fort Keogh, Montana by L. A. Huffman.

A Crow boy. 1907. Photo by Richard Throssel.

A young Ute woman. Photo from 1880-1900.

Isleta Pueblo women - Carlotta Chiwiwi and her daughters, María and Felicíta Toura. Early 1900s. Photo by H.S. Poley.

Cheyenne girl in a beaded dress and breastplate, early 1900s. Oklahoma.

Blackfoot woman and child. Late 1880s. Photo by Alexander J. Ross, Calgary, Alberta.

Little Bird. An Ojibwe woman. 1908. Photo by Roland W. Reed.

Flathead women. Flathead Indian Reservation in western Montana. Photo by Edward H. Boos, taken between 1905-1907.

Hopi girls looking out window, Hopi, Arizona. Photo by Carl Werntz. 1900.

Loti-kee-yah-tede. "The Chief's Daughter." Laguna Pueblo, New Mexico. 1905. Photo by Carl E. Moon.

Stella Yellow Shirt and baby. Brule Sioux. Photo by Heyn Photo. 1899.

Hopi girls, Sichomovi, First Mesa, Arizona. ca. 1900. Photo by Frederick Monsen.

Apache girl and papoose. 1903. Photo by Edward Curtis.

Madonna of the North. An Inuit woman with child. 1900. Alaska.

A girl at Taos Pueblo. New Mexico. 1895. Photo by H.S. Poley.

A Kiowa girl. 1892.

A Tewa girl. 1906. Photo by Edward Curtis.

Two Inuit children, Nome, Alaska. ca. 1900-1908. Photo by Lomen Brothers.

Ute women and children. 1894. Photo by H.S. Poley.

Marie and Juan Pierre, children on the Flathead Indian Reservation in western Montana,1905-1907. Photo by Edward H. Boos.

20 First Photos from the History of Photography

Photography has been a medium of limitless possibilities since it was originally invented in the early 1800s. The use of cameras has allowed us to capture historical moments and reshape the way we see ourselves and the world around us. To celebrate the amazing history of photography and photographic science, we have assembled twenty photographic ‘firsts’ from over the past two centuries.

#1. The First Photograph

The world’s first photograph made in a camera was taken in 1826 by Joseph Nicéphore Niépce. The photograph was taken from the upstairs windows of Niépce’s estate in the Burgundy region of France. This image was captured via a process known as heliography, which used Bitumen of Judea coated onto a piece of glass or metal the Bitumen than hardened in proportion to the amount of light that hit it.

#2. The First Color Photograph

The first color photograph was taken by the mathematical physicist, James Clerk Maxwell. The piece above is considered the first durable color photograph and was unveiled by Maxwell at a lecture in 1861. The inventor of the SLR, Thomas Sutton, was the man who pressed the shutter button, but Maxwell is credited with the scientific process that made it possible. For those having trouble identifying the image, it is a three-color bow.

#3. The First Cape Canaveral Launch Photograph

NASA photographers snapped the first photograph of a Cape Canaveral launch in July of 1950. The rocket being launched was known as the ‘Bumper 2’ it was a two-stage rocket comprising a V-2 missile based and a WAC Corporal rocket. The shot also clearly showcases other photographers lined up and ready to get their images of the event.

#4. The First Digital Photograph

The first digital photograph was taken all the way back in 1957 that is almost 20 years before Kodak’s engineer invented the first digital camera. The photo is a digital scan of a shot initially taken on film. The picture depicts Russell Kirsch’s son and has a resolution of 176𴢈 – a square photograph worthy of any Instagram profile.

#5. The First Photograph of a Person

The first photograph of a human appeared above in a snapshot captured by Louis Daguerre. The exposure lasted around seven minutes and was aimed at capturing the Boulevard du Temple, a thoroughfare in Paris, France. Due to the long exposure time, many individuals who walked the street where not in place long enough to make an impression. However, in the lower left of the photograph we can see a man standing and getting his shoes polished. Further analysis of the picture later found a few other figures – can you find them?

#6. The First Self Portrait Photograph

Before ‘selfies’ were all the rage, Robert Cornelius set up a camera and took the world’s first self-portrait in the back of a business on Chestnut Street in Center City, Philadelphia. Cornelius sat in front of the lens for a little over a minute, before leaving the seat and covering the lens. The now iconic photograph was captured 170+ years ago in 1839.

#7. The First Hoax Photograph

The first hoax photograph was taken in 1840 by Hippolyte Bayard. Both Bayard and Louis Daguerre fought to claim the title “Father of Photography.” Bayard had supposedly developed his photography process before Daguerre introduced the Daguerreotype. However, the announcement of the invention was held off, and Daguerre claimed the moment. In a rebellious move, Bayard produced this photograph of a drowned man claiming that he killed himself because of the feud.

#8. The First Aerial Photograph

The first aerial photograph was not taken by drone, but instead by hot air balloon in 1860. This aerial photograph depicts the town of Boston from 2,000 feet. The photographer, James Wallace Black, titled his work “Boston, as the Eagle and the Wild Goose See It”.

#9. The First Sun Photograph

The first photograph of our sun was taken by French Physicists Louis Fizeau and Leon Foucault on April 2nd, 1845. The snapshot was captured using the Daguerreotype process (don’t tell Bayard) and resulted after a 1/60 of a second. If you observe the photograph carefully, you can spot several sunspots.

#10. The First Space Photograph

The first photograph from space was taken by the V-2 #13 rocket, which was launched in October, 24th of 1946. The photo depicts the Earth in black-and-white from an altitude of 65 miles. The camera that captured the shot was a 35mm motion picture camera that snapped a frame every second and a half as the rocket climbed straight up into the atmosphere.

#11. The First News Photograph

While the photojournalist’s name may have slipped away, his work has not. This photograph taken in 1847 via the Daguerreotype process is thought to be the first ever photograph taken for the news it depicts a man being arrested in France.

#12. The First President Photograph

John Quincy Adams, the sixth President of the United States, was the first president to have his photograph taken. The daguerreotype was shot in 1843, a good number of years after Adams left office in 1829. The first to have his picture taken in office was James Polk, the 11th President, who was photographed in 1849.

#13. The First Lightning Photograph

Lightning can be an exciting subject to capture and the first photographer to grab a snapshot did so in 1882. Photographer, William Jennings, used his findings to showcase that lightning was much more complicated than originally thought – notice how the lightning branches out in the above piece.

#14. The First Fatal Airplane Crash Photograph

Disaster photograph may not be the most pleasant of subjects, but we can learn from our past mistakes. This photo from 1908 showcases the death of Aviator Thomas Selfridge. The plane was an experimental design by the Aerial Experimental Association, which was part of the US Army. The plane was also carrying Orville Wright when it crashed however, he survived.

#15. The First Moon Photograph

The first photograph of the moon was taken by John W. Draper on March 26, 1840. The photograph was a Daguerreotype that Draper took from his rooftop observatory at New York University. The image has, since then, appeared to acquire a significant amount of physical damage.

#16. The First Colored Landscape Photograph

The first colored landscape to showcase the world in color was taken in 1877. Photographer, Louis Arthur Ducos du Hauron, was a pioneer in color photography and was the mastermind behind the process that created this photo. The shot depicts southern France and is appropriately titled “Landscape of Southern France”.

#17. The First Photograph of Earth from Moon

The Earth was photographed from the Moon in all its glory on August 23rd, 1966. A Lunar Orbiter traveling in the vicinity of the Moon snapped the shot and was then received at Robledo De Chervil in Spain. This was the Lunar spacecraft’s 16th orbit around the Moon.

#18. The First Tornado Photograph

Nature can be a destructive force, and this image of a Tornado was taken in 1884. The photographer was captured by a local fruit farmer living in Anderson County, Kansas. The amateur photographer, A.A. Adams, assembled his box camera and took the photograph 14 miles from the cyclone.

#19. The First Photograph from Mars

The first image of the planet Mars was taken by Viking 1 shortly after it touched down on the red planet. The photograph was taken on July 20th, 1976, as NASA fulfilled its mission to obtain high-resolution images of the planet’s surface. The images were used to study the Martian landscape and its structure.

#20. The First 3D American President Portrait Photograph

Computer experts from the Smithsonian and the USC Institute for Creative Technologies teamed up to take the first 3D Presidential Portrait. The shot of Barack Obama utilized a custom-built 50 LED light array, eight ‘sports’ cameras, and six wide angle cameras. The photograph was than 3D printed and is available for viewing at the Smithsonian.

Dollhouses Weren't Invented for Play

Before they were toys, “cabinet houses” and other miniature homes were used to show off wealth and teach domestic roles. An Object Lesson.

In 1974, my mother built me a dollhouse, a classic Victorian with six large rooms. She painted it pink and blue, my favorite colors, made a cobblestone, contact-paper path to encircle it, and fashioned a garden of plastic plants. She crocheted tiny rugs and tiled the kitchen floor. She sewed curtains for the windows: red velvet for the parlor, lace for the master bedroom, with tiny thread tiebacks. On walls were paintings she made of old postcards. The house was strung with real electric lights.

The dollhouse was the best toy I would ever own. And it was much more than a toy. As a character in my dollhouse—my mother had sewn a doll with long hair and glasses that resembled me—I could be an orphan sleeping in a cot built from a ring box. Or a teenager lying with a boyfriend on a tiny bearskin rug, drinking wine from a mini bottle and devouring a polymer chocolate cake the size of a dime. When I arranged tiny brass beds or slid a plastic roast chicken in the oven, I entered another universe.

And yet, at the same time, I also ventured more deeply inside myself.

The social history of dollhouses is at odds with the idea that dollhouses are spaces of emotion, freedom, and imagination.

In the beginning, dollhouses had only two purposes: display and pedagogy. First built in the 17th century in northern Europe, primarily in Germany, Holland, and England, dollhouses were designed for adults. They were closely associated with wealth and served as markers of social class and status. As Faith Eaton explains in The Ultimate Dolls House Book, the German word dockenhaus meant not dollhouse but “miniature house.” And a miniature house was not a house to play with. In Holland, these exhibits of wealth were called “cabinet houses.” The front of the house opens like a china cabinet on hinges that can be closed and locked. Inside cabinet houses, people could both show off and conceal their collections of expensive miniature objects.

Beginning in the 17th century, “Nuremberg kitchens” might contain a hearth, cooking pots, a straw broom. These all-metal houses were designed without ornament, for purely utilitarian purposes. Used as teaching tools for girls, Nuremberg kitchens allowed mothers to show daughters how to set up and control a house. All about learning rules, a Nuremberg kitchen was the opposite of a dollhouse as a dream world of fantasy. It was a place where girls learned to manage not only the objects of the house but also its servants, where girls would learn to become the lady of the house.

By 18th-century England, the “Baby House” emerged. The Baby House was an exact copy of the owner’s home, a replica designed to showcase the owner’s wealth—a small, “baby” version of a real-life house. Unlike the Dutch Cabinet House, which might have miniature furniture but tended to be full of expensive or rare objects, the Baby House was full of furniture in tiny versions of the owner’s rooms.

Changing definitions of childhood in the beginning of the 19th century shifted ideas about play. But it took the industrial revolution and the increase in mass-produced objects to make dollhouses and miniatures begin to be construed as toys. And it took until after World War II, when the U.S. stopped importing goods from Europe, for dollhouses to become mass-produced and affordable. Miniatures began to take on a second, different life.

In the last few years, for the first time since the 1970s, interest in dollhouses and miniatures has been on the rise.

#rethinkdollhouse is the hashtag owner Darren Thomas Scala invented for his store D. Thomas Fine Miniatures, a new miniature shop in Westchester County, New York. In the shop are dollhouses arranged on pedestals, shelves of furniture behind glass, a gallery space with rotating miniature exhibits, and a room where miniature-making workshops are held. Darren tells me that he hopes to upset the perception that miniatures are just cute toys for young children. “I needed people to see, feel, and touch these objects,” he explains, “to see their fine craftsmanship, the delicacies and intricacies of how they are made and importantly how they make you feel. . I wanted to make them feel like it’s okay to play.”

Indeed, many adults who loved tiny things as children are returning to miniature play and reclaiming dollhouses. In the past year, articles in Lenny Letter, BUST, Elle, and The New York Times tell stories of miniature artisans and collectors. Lena Dunham’s film Tiny Furniture explores her mother Laurie Simmon’s miniature art. The age of Dollhouse 2.0 is upon us.

Dollhouses are enthralling a new and younger generation, and social media is the mode of engagement. Thousands of mini-blogs and vlogs showcase dollhouses, mini-furniture, and miniature food. Etsy, Pinterest, and Tumblr are replete with miniatures for display and sale. Other blogs showcase dollhouse furniture being made and dollhouses being renovated, with text and photos.

A notable example is Kate Ünver’s popular site, The Daily Mini. It was first launched on Instagram, where it currently has more than 62,000 followers Ünver estimates that more than half of them are under 25. The site offers daily photographs of miniatures plus a Q&A section featuring miniature artisans. People from all over the world submit their miniatures to Kate’s site for display—along with “a coin or a finger for scale.” The photographs showcase a range of objects: slices of tiny toast, a television playing I Love Lucy, a small chainsaw.

In 2015, on her miniature blog, anthropologist and artist Louise Krasniewicz wrote her “miniature manifesto,” urging that miniatures be understood in relation to current cultural movements and trends. Linking those who build miniatures to the recent “Maker Culture,” she suggests that “what miniaturists are doing is making worlds, not just scaled objects.” For Krasniewicz, miniatures are “not an escape from the real world but a way to engage, confront, question, critique, or consider it.”

Dollhouses are both private and public. A dollhouse may live in our house or in a museum or online. People might sit down in front of a dollhouse, swing open its walls, remove its roof, and disappear alone inside. Or they might gather with a group of visitors at a museum and admire a dollhouse behind glass. The motto of the National Association of Miniature Enthusiasts is: “Only through sharing can we really enjoy our treasures.”

For so long, dollhouses and miniatures were hidden in people’s homes or in a select few museum collections. In the 17th and 18th centuries, the first miniatures were deeply private, kept in the family home and designed to show off a family’s wealth to a limited number of visitors. Or in the case of Nuremberg Kitchens, kept at home to teach daughters in a family how to run a household.

As a child, my dollhouse play was solitary. Still, I craved community I read all of the books designed for miniature collectors, written by older women I would never meet. My mother took me to the occasional doll and museums that housed miniatures.

But in the new world of miniatures, seeing other people’s dollhouses and miniatures only requires the swipe of a screen. Now, in an hour, I can watch a tutorial on how to make mini sushi study Steampunk miniatures on Pinterest read an interview with Christian Mackie, an artist who makes miniature mountain paintings at The Daily Mini browse the blog of the International Guild of Miniature Artisans subscribe to the listserv “Small Stuff” for new miniature projects. The rich emotional complexity of dollhouses and miniatures is now available, to all, for free, at any time.

I no longer own my Victorian dollhouse, but my mother has saved all of its furniture and the miniatures that accompanied it. I’ve given them to my daughters. Every day, I walk past my girls’ dollhouses set up in our dining room and see beloved pieces from my own childhood—a claw-foot bathtub, a yellow knitting bowl with tiny yarn balls, a dressing table trimmed with pink lace. Sometimes, when they are at school, I choose a dollhouse, sit down in front of it, and play. I spread a quilt on a small bed. I stack miniature logs in a fireplace. I am transported out of myself. Yet I am more myself than ever.

How 20-Year-Old Kylie Jenner Built A $900 Million Fortune In Less Than 3 Years

K ylie Jenner sits at a dark-wood dining table at her mother's home in Calabasas, California, flicking through display options for a forthcoming pop-up shop. The youngest member of the Kardashian-Jenner industrial complex needs to decide how to showcase products by her Kylie Cosmetics makeup company. She taps her black iPhone X with a silver glittery nail and turns the screen around to show a coterie of employees a vending machine.

"You guys, imagine this, but all in lip kits," says Jenner, dressed in a black blazer and matching black patent Louboutins with bright red soles. "I think it needs to be a clear vending machine where you see all the colors."

What her half-sister Kim Kardashian West did for booty, Jenner has done for full lips. Like Kardashian West, she has leveraged her assets to gain both fame and money. But while her sister is best-known for the former, Jenner has proved adept at the latter. In historic fashion.

Jenner on the August 31, 2018 issue of Forbes

Just 20 when this story publishes (she'll turn 21 in August) and an extremely young mother (she had baby daughter Stormi in February), Jenner runs one of the hottest makeup companies ever. Kylie Cosmetics launched two years ago with a $29 "lip kit" consisting of a matching set of lipstick and lip liner, and has sold more than $630 million worth of makeup since, including an estimated $330 million in 2017. Even using a conservative multiple, and applying our standard 20% discount, Forbes values her company, which has since added other cosmetics like eye shadow and concealer, at nearly $800 million. Jenner owns 100% of it.

Add to that the millions she's earned from TV programs and endorsing products like Puma shoes and PacSun clothing, and $60 million in estimated after-tax dividends she's taken from her company, and she's conservatively worth $900 million, which along with her age makes her the youngest person on the fourth annual ranking of America's Richest Self-Made Women. (We estimate that 37-year-old Kardashian West, for comparison, is worth $350 million.) But she's not just making history as a woman. Another year of growth will make her the youngest self-made billionaire ever, male or female, trumping Mark Zuckerberg, who became a billionaire at age 23. (Snapchat's Evan Spiegel also became a billionaire in his early 20s, though it's less clear when he passed that threshold.)

Ultimately their fortunes all derive from the same place. "Social media is an amazing platform," Jenner says. "I have such easy access to my fans and my customers."

That and a large dose of tastemaking are pretty much her entire business, an invention of the Instagram age. Hewlett and Packard immortalized the garage–Jenner has her (or her mom's) kitchen table. Her near-billion-dollar empire consists of just seven full-time and five part-time employees. Manufacturing and packaging? Outsourced to Seed Beauty, a private-label producer in nearby Oxnard, California. Sales and fulfillment? Outsourced to the online outlet Shopify. Finance and PR? Her shrewd mother, Kris, handles the actual business stuff, in exchange for the 10% management cut she takes from all her children. As ultralight startups go, Jenner's operation is essentially air. And because of those minuscule overhead and marketing costs, the profits are outsize and go right into Jenner's pocket.

Basically, all Jenner does to make all that money is leverage her social media following. Almost hourly, she takes to Instagram and Snapchat, pouting for selfies with captions about which Kylie Cosmetics shades she's wearing, takes videos of forthcoming products and announces new launches. It sounds inane until you realize that she has over 110 million followers on Instagram and millions more on Snapchat, and many of them are young women and girls–an audience at once massive and targeted, at least if you're selling lip products. And that's before the 16.4 million who follow her company directly, or the 25.6 million who follow her on Twitter, or the occasional social media assists from her siblings and friends.

It's not that much different from the early days of Donald Trump's presidential campaign, when his strategy basically consisted of calling in to television shows, tweeting provocatively and holding an occasional rally. Products of reality television, both Trump and Jenner understood how fame can be leveraged–that they are as much brands as people and that fame is just another word for free marketing. While this has always been somewhat true–it's the very nature of a celebrity endorsement–social media has weaponized fame to the point that a real estate mogul can be president and a 20-year-old from a family "famous for being famous" can approach billionaire status by monetizing that to the extreme.

iven its perpetually young consumer base, the $532 billion beauty industry has always been inordinately driven by influencers and role models. As with fast fashion in clothing, Generation Z consumers have been eschewing lethargic makeup brands like L'Oréal, Estée Lauder and Coty in favor of quick-to-market products that they learn about via social media.

A former aesthetician for women like Cindy Crawford and Naomi Campbell, Anastasia Soare started selling eyebrow pigments and pencils through her Anastasia Beverly Hills in 2000. The line exploded when it reportedly joined Instagram in 2013 and began sending influencers free makeup to publicize the brand. Now with 17 million followers and products sold in 3,000-plus stores, Soare, 60, debuts on the self-made women's list with an estimated $1 billion.

Kylie Jenner at her mother Kris' house in Calabasas, Calif.

Instagram also helped Huda Kattan, 34, make our list for the first time this year, with an estimated net worth of $550 million. A makeup artist turned digital influencer, with 26 million Instagram followers, she started Huda Beauty in 2013 after three years of blogging about cosmetics. In December the company sold a minority stake to private equity firm TSG Consumer Partners its recent $1 billion valuation translates into five times wholesale sales.

Jenner's massive and massively loyal following, however, puts her in a class of her own. The youngest daughter of Kris and Caitlyn Jenner (formerly Olympic gold medal decathlete Bruce Jenner), sibling of supermodel Kendall Jenner and half-sister of Kim, Kourtney, Khloe and Rob Kardashian, Kylie Jenner grew up under a microscope. The family's Keeping Up With the Kardashians first aired when she was just 10 years old, beaming her onto television screens in more than 160 countries. Steered by their mother, Kris, each scion had a moneymaking scheme, from mobile gaming (Kim) to modeling (Kendall) and even socks (Rob), but the teenage Jenner felt adrift.

"I struggled for a minute with finding something to do on my own," Jenner says. With her mother's guidance, she started making seven figures as a model, notching endorsement deals with British retailer Topshop and Sinful Colors nail polish, among others.

Unsurprisingly for a child who grew up on camera, Jenner has always been precocious–especially in her appearance. "Ever since I was in sixth grade, I would wear purple eye shadow," Jenner says. "I turned to makeup to help me feel more confident." She learned about makeup by watching YouTube videos and scrutinizing the professionals painting her face for TV appearances and photo shoots. Jenner, who claims she was insecure about her lips, developed the habit of applying liner beyond her lips' natural perimeter to create the illusion of bigger lips. In August 2014, at age 17, she presciently trademarked the phrase "Kylie Lip Kits . for the perfect pout," two years before going out on her own.

As with sister Kim's sex-tape fame, Kylie Cosmetics got started by capitalizing on a scandal. By 2014, Jenner's appearance became tabloid fodder as the size of her lips ballooned. On social media, teenagers popularized the "Kylie Jenner Lip Challenge," a viral fad in which they inserted their lips into a shot glass and then sucked out the air. In May 2015, she admitted to having temporary lip fillers–and with Kris Jenner dusting off her Kim Kardashian playbook, she almost immediately cashed in on it. "I said, 'I'm ready to put up my own money. I don't want to do it with anyone else,' " Jenner recalls. She used some $250,000 of her earnings from modeling gigs to pay an outside company to produce the first 15,000 lip kits. An intuitive marketer like most of her family, she spent months teasing the kits on Instagram, then announced the launch via social media just a day before they went on sale–November 30, 2015. The kits sold out in less than a minute. Resellers started offering the $29 product on eBay for up to $1,000. "Before I even refreshed the page, everything was sold out," Jenner says.

This is where Mom comes in again. As with all the Kardashian-Jenners' ventures, Kris Jenner tends to drive the big moves. Sensing that this could be an ongoing business, not just a one-time stunt, she brought in e-commerce platform Shopify, run by billionaire Canadian entrepreneur Tobi Lutke, that December.

Kylie Lip Kits relaunched as Kylie Cosmetics on Shopify in February 2016, this time stocked with 500,000 lip kits in six shades. "You could watch the buildup happen on the store as [the launch time] approached," says Loren Padelford, who runs the high-volume Shopify Plus. "To watch the internet focus down on one website was crazy."

The numbers kept getting bigger. In November 2016 her holiday collection snagged nearly $19 million worth of orders in the 24 hours after it launched. By the end of 2016 Jenner's company was selling 50-odd products, with revenue of $307 million–for a company less than a year old.

"No other influencer has ever gotten to the volume or had the rabid fans and consistency that Kylie has had for the last two and a half years," adds Padelford, whose Shopify Plus also powers the online stores of Drake, Justin Bieber–and Kardashian West.

Jenner began experimenting with brick-and-mortar retail, with a limited Topshop run and pop-ups in New York, Los Angeles and San Francisco that saw lines stretch for blocks (her first pop-up, in December 2016 at the Westfield Topanga mall near Los Angeles, attracted 25,000 customers in 14 days). But at the end of the day, why bother? To use Shopify's platform, Jenner pays an estimated $480,000 annually, plus 0.15% of sales–pennies compared with the cost of doing that volume at physical retail.

Kylie Jenner (center) at the Kanye West Yeezy Season 4 fashion show in New York City.

The manufacturing works similarly. Kris Jenner found siblings John and Laura Nelson, inheritors of Spatz Laboratories, which has long produced private-label cosmetics out of its 80,000-square-foot facility in Oxnard and an outpost in Nanjing, China. That's where all of Kylie's products are now formulated and made. Its parent company, Seed Beauty, also handles everything else, from packaging to shipping fulfillment. Altogether they employ more than 500 people just to work on Kylie Cosmetics.

But it's more than scale. Jenner wisely defers to the Nelsons' know-how rather than develop and test new formulas, a process that can take up to six months. That allows Jenner to introduce new products for her trend-driven fan base within weeks of conjuring them. (The partnership was so successful that L'Oréal sued Spatz Labs in May 2016, alleging it had breached its long-term contract in order to manufacture Jenner's products. Spatz Laboratories denied the claims the companies are working to reach a settlement as of publication.)

It's a huge win for Spatz, which Forbes estimates got paid $180 million in 2017 for products and services, or roughly 55% of total sales. (Kylie Cosmetics disputes the figure but refuses to disclose how much it paid.) But the deal also ultimately allows Jenner to be a mogul while sitting at home, posting pictures and pondering new looks.

ack at Kylie Cosmetics world headquarters for the day–looking out at her mom's swimming pool while sipping an iced tea–Jenner prepares to hop into her black Bentley Bentayga to pick up her 5-month-old daughter. "Maybe one day [I'll] pass this on to Stormi, if she's into it," says Jenner, who envisions working on Kylie Cosmetics "forever."

Such a worldview is more in line with a naïve 20-year-old than a near-billionaire mogul (Jenner, of course, is both). It seems far-fetched to think the brand, whose customers are mostly women ages 18 to 34, will last that long, much less independently. Especially with a business tied to the fickle world of personal fame. Stars fall out of public favor or lose interest. And others see the gravy train and jump in. Capitalizing on her front-row view, Kardashian West founded her own line, KKW Beauty, in June 2017 and has already nabbed an estimated $100 million in revenue. Rihanna followed in September with Fenty Beauty, which focuses on color-inclusive shades, in partnership with LVMH division Kendo.

"All of them could change their minds," Shannon Coyne, an equity research analyst at BMO Capital Markets, says of the influx of celebrity makeup entrepreneurs. "Kylie seems to want to create this beauty empire, but anything can happen, and she's so young."

Kylie Cosmetics' growth is already starting to taper off: After leaping to $307 million in 2016, revenue grew just 7% in 2017, despite the addition of 30 new products. Forbes estimates lip-kit revenue dipped 35% from approximately $153 million in 2016 to $99 million in 2017. Still, Kris Jenner says revenue is up "considerably" in the first six months of 2018 compared with the same period last year–a claim that Forbes couldn't verify.

While Jenner dismisses the idea of selling out, her calculating mother–who got paid an estimated $17 million by her daughter in the past year–can do the math. "It's always something that we're willing to explore," she says.

All the Jenners and Kardashians owe their careers to family matriarch Kris.

Would someone buy it? "It could easily be an instant game-changing acquisition for any company on the hunt for a winning brand with a younger customer," says Tara Simon, senior vice president of merchandising at cosmetics giant Ulta.

But celebrity lines cannot command valuations anywhere near the six times revenue that other beauty brands demand because of the volatility of relying on one name to sell a product. Kylie Cosmetics could certainly sell for half that, or three times sales, which is where Forbes places its valuation. "They're not looking to be sustainable brands," said Mintel's Sarah Jindal, referring to Kylie Cosmetics and KKW Beauty. "In a couple of years it wouldn't surprise me if she was on to something else. When you are leveraging your name, you can turn it into anything you want to sell."

When you can make such quick cash, who needs a big exit? Kylie Cosmetics has already generated an estimated $230 million in net profit. And sometime later this year, its owner will likely take a title that Bill Gates and Mark Zuckerberg once held–youngest-ever self-made billionaire, redefining in the process the very nature of "self-made." It's quite a world we live in.

Venture dollars and female entrepreneurs

Stembel’s experience raising – and not raising – outside funds is one familiar to many women entrepreneurs. Just 3% of venture capital dollars went to female-founded start-up owners globally in 2019, according to data compiled by Crunchbase. Ten percent of dollars went to male/female co-founded companies, while the balance, 87%, went to male-founded startups.

The proportion of venture dollars allocated to female-founded startups has floundered even as the number of new businesses started by women has continued to grow. Twenty percent of global startups raising their first funding round in 2019 had at least one female founder, or about double the percentage from when Stembel began her business in 2010, according to CB Insights.

To be sure, Stembel herself acknowledged a small handful of opportunities to accept outside funding for Farmgirl Flowers, but under terms she chose to decline.

“I think there’s a lot of implicit bias. People trust people that look like them, which is why all the -isms exist,” Stembel said. “I don't think it's intentional. I don't think it's malicious.”

“Until we actually actively put some things in place that says like, ‘We're only going to invest in this many companies that don't have female founders,’ … Until we actually put tangible goals in place that have to be met on the venture, and private equity, and, you know, the capital side, I don't think it's going to happen naturally,” she said.

Emily McCormick is a reporter for Yahoo Finance. Follow her on Twitter: @emily_mcck

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