• You don't need to live by a data center to hear the noise they emit.
• There's a plushie that emits the hum of a real-life data center in Virginia when it's hugged.
• The doll is part of a satirical art project called "Adopt a Data Center."

Plushies are getting weirder every day.

Bezzy is a gray handmade plushie with round eyes, a disarming smile, and a server-rack abdomen that plays the grating, mind-numbing hum of a data center when you squeeze it.

The sound is actually a recording made outside a real-life data center in Virginia.

"We actually got quite a few different recordings. It's a weird process to have to go through," Rajeev Basu, the artist behind the toy, told Business Insider. "I had to sit there listening to various screeching sounds on my computer, and we picked the one that would be most well-suited for the toy."

"It's terrifying. I wouldn't wish it upon anyone," he added.

Basu is the founder of New York-based creative studio, Basura. The studio worked alongside Big Data, a musical project by Alan Wilkis, to create a satirical art project called "Adopt a Data Center." The project highlights the realities of living near one.

"We're both inspired by this relationship between humans and machines," Basu said.

After OpenAI launched ChatGPT in 2022, major players and new startups in the tech industry entered a global race to develop advanced AI systems. Companies like Microsoft, Meta, Google, and Anthropic need massive new data centers to power their ambitious products.

As they began to sprout all over the country, Americans living near them began to bristle.

Critics say the benefits — like the potential for economic growth and new jobs — don't outweigh the risks. They worry data centers can worsen the environment, strain electrical grids, deplete water resources, and disrupt daily life. It's led to nationwide protests against them and to some towns and cities banning them altogether.

Americans living near data centers have also complained that the facilities can emit a constant hum akin to a loud drone or an airplane engine. Basu said data centers have become a regular topic in the news, but reading reports about the facilities is much different from having one in your backyard.

"You might not have a data center in your backyard right now, but with what some of these maps show with proposed plans, one could be in your backyard sooner than you think," Basu said.

Basura interviewed dozens of people across the US who live near data centers for the project, which took about six months to complete.

"Although our project is satirical, we wanted to make sure that everything was rooted in true research," Basu said.

In addition to the Bezzy dolls, the artists made stickers featuring phrases such as "Open your heart and your power grid" and "Please adopt me, I love GPU." A series of bumper stickers features tongue-in-cheek messages such as "Honk if you love computational infrastructure."

Basu said they wanted "Adopt a Data Center" to have an educational aspect, so the campaign's website has hyperlinks to research and reporting about AI and data centers.

"With a lot of my work over the years, it often uses human irreverence as a hook to invite people who might not necessarily be paying attention or have given it a second look to try and learn a bit more," Basu said.

Launched in September, the 20 limited-edition Bezzy dolls are already sold out.

Although the toy industry has struggled in recent years, millennials and zoomers have been softening the blow by driving up plushie sales. Market research company Circana said that people 18 and older accounted for over $1.5 billion in toy sales during the last three months of 2024.

"It's something that is so timely," Basu said. "It's quite a heavy and serious subject, so we're trying to find a way to help more folks learn about it."

The king of ghosts lives in a haunted $4.3 million dollar mansion in the heart of New Orleans' French quarter. The dozens of paranormal tour guides who lead tourists through the neighborhood are sure to know of him and have an opinion of him. Lance Zaal is the most controversial man in America's booming ghost business, CEO of what competitors have dubbed "The Walmart of Ghost Tours."

Over the past half-decade, Zaal, 42, and his company, US Ghost Adventures, have opened ghost tours in more than 250 cities and towns, employing more than 1,000 guides, according to his company's website. He's also been buying up the country's haunted landmarks like it's the first trip around the Monopoly board — the Lizzie Borden House in Massachusetts, the Villisca Axe Murder House in Iowa, the McInteer Villa in Kansas, and two historic houses in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. "Lance has said he wants to build an empire, and that's what he's doing," says Diane Student, who hosts the industry podcast History Goes Bump.

USGA also sells ghost detection gear through the brand Ghost Daddy — products with names like the Sinister Speaker, Medusa's Net, and Devil's Marble MK2. An Ultimate Ghost Hunt Kit For Two sells for $629.99. The whole operation has made Zaal wealthy enough to buy the Lalaurie Mansion, his primary residence, which stands on the site of an infamous slaveowner's torture chamber. Previous guests have reported unexplained moaning and groaning inside, along with the sudden, putrid smell of burning flesh, and, according to New Orleans tour guide Catie Santos, passing guides stand on the opposite side of the street because of the house's dark energy. On tours, Santos, who was briefly employed by Zaal as a content creator, also warns her guests "about the real life Marvel supervillain living in that house," she says.

In assembling his dominion of the undead, Zaal has made a host of enemies among the living. I spoke with more than a dozen competitors and insiders in the industry who described him as "vindictive," "predatory," a "bully," and a "hemorrhoid." He has been accused of borrowing content from local tours, ripping off merchandise designs, redirecting negative reviews to competitors, misclassifying workers as contractors, and using names similar to local companies to confuse tourists. The allegations have resulted in a mounting pile of lawsuits against USGA. Zaal, who did not respond to repeated inquiries for this story, has consistently denied any predatory behavior and emphasizes his commitment to historic preservation.

When passing Zaal's mansion, Catie Santos warns tourists of "the real life Marvel supervillain living in that house," she says.

He has gone after his rivals, filing copyright and defamation suits and frequently threatening legal action. "This gang of competitors are the bullies. So desperate to restore their monopolies or do whatever they can to eliminate their competition," USGA wrote in the comments section of "Exposing US Ghost Adventures Corrupt and Unethical Business Practices Part 1," a recent video from the YouTube channel The Paranormal Engineer.

When Walmart surged through the country in the 1980s, it sparked fierce resistance from the mom and pop stores threatened by their expansion. Today, the rise of the Walmart of Ghost Tours has ignited a war in the ghost industry.

In the biography published on his website — which has a slapdash, early-2000s blog design — Zaal describes a hardscrabble childhood in Southern California. After his parents divorced when he was 6, he was often homeless, sometimes sleeping in the family van. He was bullied in school, he writes, and threw himself into little entrepreneurship projects like a lemonade stand, where he bumped his margins by charging extra for a "Lemon Special," which involved adding a Lemonhead candy to the drink. He says his youth was also marked by eerie experiences — mysterious footsteps, doors opening and closing without explanation — that inspired a lifelong fascination with the supernatural. "I've experienced odd things I can't explain," he said in a recent interview with Business Insider.

After 9/11, Zaal enlisted in the Marine Corps at age 17. He completed three tours, including two in Iraq, where he was stationed for a time at President Saddam Hussein's palace. Then he got an MBA at William and Mary, and worked briefly at Booz Allen Hamilton and Mythics Inc., until he was laid off in 2012. He set out on his own, developing a GPS-guided audio ghost tour app called ItourMobile. It was good timing. America was in the midst of a ghost renaissance.

In a 1978 Gallup poll, 11% of Americans said they believed in ghosts. By 2025, that number soared to 39%. Some attribute the trend to a decline in traditional religion, with non-religious people becoming more inclined to seek other supernatural answers to life's big questions. And as paranormal beliefs have risen, there has been an influx of people trying to profit from them. Reality TV shows "Ghost Hunters" and "Ghost Adventures" took off in the 2000s. By 2023, "dark tourism" — which ranges from the sites of atrocities to haunted houses — was valued at $32 billion and projected to reach $39 billion by the decade's end, according to Grand View Research.

Years after US Ghost Adventures took off, an interviewer at Authority Magazine asked Zaal what advice he wished he could give his younger self. "You're on your own," Zaal said, in a quote displayed under a photo of him in a vest, arms crossed, blue-steeling the camera. "You have no friends. The market is God."

Ting Rappa, an EMT and firefighter who runs an Orlando-based ghost tour called American Ghost Adventures met Zaal in 2015, when he was managing a tour called Colonial Ghosts in Williamsburg, Virginia. Zaal approached Rappa after she attended one of his tours with a proposal to team up. "He was a little off," Rappa says. Something about his energy made her apprehensive. "But he was a very intelligent person. I could tell he had a drive." Zaal said he would help finance her company in exchange for a share of the operation. But the deal didn't seem like an even partnership, so she turned him down.

You're on your own. You have no friends. The market is God.Lance Zaal

Three years later, she discovered that Zaal had a new name for his company that resembled hers: US Ghost Adventures. When she tried to trademark American Ghost Adventures years later, the application was denied because Zaal had registered his first. In 2024, she filed a suit asking for the USGA trademark to be cancelled, still working its way through the courts. "There's just no ethics to it," she says of Zaal's expansion. "Competition is good, but play nice. Right now, you're just being a big bully."

In the Authority Magazine story, Zaal was asked how he researches whether someone else has already had one of his ideas, a question that would become more significant as his business continued to grow.

"It's not relevant," Zaal said. "Who cares who else thought of an idea? This is fear at first thinking. What matters is creating a sustainable, strong business. Just because there are others in your market, doesn't mean you can't succeed in it, or even redefine it. What is important is ensuring you don't break the law, whether that be a trademark, patent, or whatever."

A ghost tour is a pretty simple business to set up. Most are walking tours through public spaces that require little overhead. At USGA, guides are generally contractors paid a flat rate of $40 to $50 per tour, plus tips, per its website. With a tour drawing dozens of customers paying $20 to $40 for a ticket, the money can quickly pile up.

USGA wasn't the only company to pursue ghost tours on a national scale — the rival Ghost City Tours operates 60 tours — but it was the most aggressive. During the pandemic in 2020, as other tour companies were shuttering, Zaal expanded to dozens of cities and towns, ready to put guides on the pavement once restrictions were lifted. That year, he unsuccessfully sued to reverse a COVID ban on walking tours in Massachusetts. By 2021, USGA had operations in 33 cities, each under a local name.

One of the first cities targeted was Baltimore, where Melissa Rowell had operated Baltimore Ghost Tours since 2001. Zaal came on her radar when she began receiving phone calls from irate customers. "We are trying to find out where this ghost tour is," one man complained in a voicemail shared with Business Insider. "Nobody's answering the goddamn phone … after we spent almost $100."

The man was looking for Zaal's new local affiliate of USGA, which had begun operating under the name Baltimore Ghosts. Rowell sent Zaal a letter asking him to change the name to something more distinct. Soon after, Rowell says, USGA started using the name Baltimore Ghost Tour in some materials. "Instead of trying to cause less confusion, they seemed to be trying to cause more," she says.

Rowell and Zaal have since been in a cold war, volleying terse emails and cease-and-desist letters. "I understand you actively collaborate with a confederation of other companies to disparage and damage both the company and my personal reputation," Zaal wrote Rowell in 2024. "Let us honor the spirit of Halloween this season and cease this animosity. There's enough customers for all of us."

Rowell denies that she is part of a confederation, but local tour guides have collaborated in dealing with their ascendant rival. There's a private Facebook group where guides across the country share information about USGA. Mike Carter, a tour guide from Annapolis, Maryland, bought the domain name USAghostadventures.com to build a site that urged customers to choose local ghost tours instead of Zaal's outfit. (Zaal got the site taken down and sued Carter for defamation.) Some paranormal companies, like Central New York Ghost Hunters, have rejected partnerships with USGA out of solidarity with local guides.

In Austin, Texas, USGA was sued by the owners of a local Booze and Boos Tour after Zaal opened a Boos And Booze tour. In Savannah, Georgia, the national company Ghost City Tours, which operated a Dead of Night Tour, sued USGA for opening the Savannah Terrors Ultimate Dead of Night Haunted Ghost Tour. In Charlotte, North Carolina, the local Queen City Tours sued Zaal's Queen City Ghosts. USGA generally argues in court papers and public statements that the names are too generic to own. The Austin suit was settled in 2024; the latter two lawsuits are currently making their way through the courts.

USGA was sued by the owners of the Booze and Boos Tour after it opened a Boos And Booze tour; the Dead of Night Tour for opening the Savannah Terrors Ultimate Dead of Night Haunted Ghost Tour; and Queen City Tours for opening Queen City Ghosts.

In one instance, a guide alleges that Zaal uses these similar names to trick tourists into leaving negative reviews on his competitors' tours. Angela Taverniti, who runs Colonial Ghosts of Williamsburg, said a USGA customer, Samantha Butler, accidentally left a negative review on Taverniti's tour. When she pointed out the mixup, Butler pulled up the link she got from USGA asking her to review the tour and tested it. A screen recording Butler shared with Business Insider shows that when she submitted a four-star ranking, she was directed to the Google review page of the USGA tour she took. But when she submitted a two-star rating, she was directed to the Google page for Taverniti's tour. Spooky. Reviews are a big deal for tour operators. "98 percent of our business comes from Google," Taverniti tells me. "It's a game that you have to play constantly. And he knows how to play it."

Other paranormal guides say Zaal borrows the content of the tours along with the names. Laine Johnson, a former park ranger, spent the last decade developing a tour of the supernatural happenings in Durango, Colorado, drawing from firsthand accounts of locals, newspaper archives, and out-of-print books. When a new tour called Durango Ghosts set up shop there in early 2023, Johnson took it to check out the competition. She says she was startled that they followed her exact route and told the same stories, sometimes with the same phrasing.

When she got home and did some research, she formulated a theory of what had happened. During the pandemic, she had uploaded her materials to a site called Junket, which allowed her to host virtual tours. Junket and Durango Ghosts were owned by Lance Zaal. Her content, she's convinced, had been snatched from the Junket website and co-opted by her new competitor.

USGA has meaningfully eaten into her bottom line, she says. "This is a really small town. It's ridiculous that there's now three ghost tours going here," she says.

By 2021, USGA purchased the crown jewel in its collection of haunted property, a three-story Greek Revival House in Fall River, Massachusetts, where Lizzie Borden was accused of axe-murdering her parents in 1892. It's famous for paranormal activity, and Zaal mentioned in an interview shortly after the purchase that he felt as if "someone, or something, was in the room with him," when he spent the night there alone.

This is a really small town. It's ridiculous that there's now three ghost tours going here.Laine Johnson, a ghost tour owner in Durango, Colorado

In 2023, a small cafe called Miss Lizzie's opened nearby, and Zaal sued, arguing that the name and logo — a blood-stained hatchet — infringed on his trademark. "She's a historical figure," cafe owner Joe Pereira counters. "I don't think anyone can own her." It was a strange reversal of the trademark suits that had been filed against him, and local competitors followed the case closely.

The next year, a judge sided with Pereira, saying the logos were substantially different. "Miss Lizzie's hatchet has a handle and smooth axe blade that spews blood," the judge wrote in his decision. "Ghost Adventures' hatchet is bereft of either handle or blood and features a notch halfway along the blade." But the lawsuit, which dragged on for years afterwards, has taken a financial toll on Pereira. Though a judge affirmed the initial ruling this month, Pereira was also ordered to pay $31,207 in legal fees after missing various filing deadlines.

Amid the acrimony, USGA has continued to grow. From 2019 to 2023, Zaal told Entrepreneur Magazine, USGA's revenue increased by 2,600%. To service the expansion, he contracted with writers and creators to develop tours and other content about new cities in the USGA empire.

Some guides, like Sabrina Velandry, a psychic medium who conducts tours for USGA in Salem, have had broadly positive experiences with the company. It's more professionalized than some of the local tours, she says. "It is corporate, but it's just really really well-run and organized." Others have butted heads with management, and two lawsuits have alleged misclassifying workers as independent contractors and failure to pay overtime wages. USGA has denied these claims, and one suit was settled while another is still in the courts.

In 2023, Ronald Murphy, a high school teacher outside of Pittsburgh, began picking up some extra work for USGA as an independent contractor, where he would crank out a new tour for $200, or make $40 for a 300 word blurb on the USGA website. All told, he says, he wrote tours for about 18 cities.

He says he wasn't given time for deep research and didn't like the idea of using content posted by competing local tours, so for a tour about Fort Worth, Texas, he decided to get creative. "I was going to simply make up the ghosts," he says. He thought the local Cowboy Museum was the sort of place that a ghost might frequent and wrote this fiction for the website: "Of course, no cowboy can hold a candle to The Duke himself, Mr. John Wayne. Visit the Texas Cowboy Hall of Fame where it's said the apparition of the 6 foot 4 actor has been seen admiring the cowboy memorabilia on display." The work eventually dried up. Today, USGA is recruiting an AI Creative Specialist, at $42,000 a year, "to draft, edit, and refine engaging tour scripts, website copy, and compelling marketing collateral." Even ghost jobs aren't safe from the AI revolution.

Trevor Foster didn't have much interest in ghost tours until he was ripped off, he tells me. He's a ceramics artist who specializes in dark pieces like bones, pistols, and mystical eyes. This January, he received a message informing him that USGA may have stolen one of his designs to sell on its Ghost Daddy website — an intricate skull-shaped mug with a handle like a curved bone. From initial casting to final glazing, it took Foster about about 100 hours to complete.

The skull on Ghost Daddy looked like one Foster designed in a slightly different color. Foster says the fact that it had the same sutures on the top — "almost like a fingerprint" — made it clear it was a ripoff. He also found that Zaal had recently purchased the same skull mug from him. "For someone to buy it and make a direct mold just seems kinda brazen," Foster says.

Foster sent a cease-and-desist letter, and Zaal responded that he planned to remove the item within six months. "My understanding in looking at your website is that you have your initials on the bottom (ours doesn't), each one is hand crafted and unique (ours are consistent and the same which is why yours looks better), ours is of a lighter color, and our logo is on the back," Zaal added. To Foster, it seemed Zaal was implying that replacing his initials with the USGA logo was enough to make the knockoff legal.

An Instagram video Foster posted went viral in the ghost tour community, and Zaal agreed in an email shared with Business Insider to discontinue the item immediately. He attributed the similar design to a mistake made by an overseas supplier who was given multiple examples to draw inspiration from. That wasn't good enough for Foster, who sued and settled with Zaal in September.

Foster was surprised to have found something of a community as a result of the whole debacle. After he'd posted about the situation, he was inundated with dozens of messages from people with their own grievances with US Ghost Adventures, commiserating with him. "It's just kind of incredible how many people they've angered," Foster says.

And — if you fall into the 39% of the country that believes in ghosts — you might believe that it isn't just corporeal beings that have been angered. This summer, a group of part-time ghost hunters visited Zaal's newly purchased McInteer Villa and set up K-2 meters, REM pods, and a ghost box.

But the group's leaders Dawn Lorenzen and Amy Osborn found the ghosts to be surprisingly uncommunicative. When they'd visited before Zaal's purchase, the ghost hunting had been good.

They Facetimed a medium to figure out what was going on. The ghosts were irritated, she told them, and it seemed to be related to the new ownership. "They made a circus of the place," the ghosts kept repeating, she said. "And now we are a spectacle."

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Kristin Idaszak | Longreads | October 22, 2026 | 3,741 words (13 minutes)

The city of the dead is the obverse of the society of the living, or rather than the obverse, it is its image, its intemporal image. For the dead have gone through the moment of change, and their monuments are the visible sign of the permanence of their city.

—Philippe Ariès, Western Attitudes Toward Death

Shortly after I graduated from college, my best friend sent me a postcard from the Sedlec Ossuary, a Catholic chapel formally named the Cemetery Church of All Saints in Kutná Hora, a town about an hour east of Prague. The postcard depicted the chapel’s interior: a chandelier of bones flanked by two towers of skulls. On the back she wrote, “The chandelier alone contains all the bones in the human body. Thanks to the plague, we have this work of totally weird art!” 

Immediately I started planning my own trip to Kutná Hora—a place made prosperous by silver mining but famous for its bone church—and arrived with the zeal of a pilgrim. Today the town has 20,000 residents, but in its 14th-century heyday it boasted almost four times as many souls. The late Middle Ages was a tough time to be alive, between the Black Death, various crusades and holy wars, and famine—not to mention the labor conditions of silver mining. Kutná Hora was also a popular place to die, and all the villagers wanted to spend eternity at the medieval Sedlec Abbey. After one of the crusades, an abbot had brought back a handful of soil, supposedly from Golgotha, and strewn it on the abbey grounds. Burial in that soil was believed to grant quicker access to heaven, which led to an overcrowded cemetery. The solution? Build a subterranean chapel to house the remains. And then a half-blind monk, in the wake of a terrible plague, exhumed the victims and used them to redecorate. 

An ossuary is any repository for human remains, but it’s also the term for a holy site that serves this function. Another name for this kind of church is charnel house, which to me evokes the image of an abattoir. Death historian Philippe Ariès connects the term to the French idiom une vieille carne, translated as an old nag or a tough piece of meat. It’s apropos: These buildings enshrine human remains as décor in macabre, otherworldly, electrifying memento mori. 

Four months later, I found myself in the Czech Republic. A coat of arms made out of bones greeted me when I arrived at the bone church. Upon closer inspection, the heraldry included a skeletal bird, its slender beak playfully pecking out a long-disintegrated eye from an empty socket. As I descended the stygian steps from the ticket kiosk, I took in the pyramid of bones that guarded the four corners of the room. 

The chapel seemed to exist in a perpetual gloaming, the air hushed and cool. The sheer presence of so many human remains disoriented me; they surrounded me on every side. Forty-thousand bodies’ worth of bones. Probably more. My brain buckled at the magnitude. The remains took on an animated quality—not in a Halloween-y, top hat–wearing, dancing skeleton sense; nor in an eerie, horror movie sense; but in the sense that each one radiated a life force.

I loved it. I loved being surrounded by skeletons and weird art and death.

Death and the afterlife fascinated me. I devoured stories of women who visited the underworld and returned—Alcestis, Eurydice, Persephone—and philosophers and poets who broached the subject—Nietzsche, Camus, Dante. Thanatos, my favorite philosophy professor called it. The death drive. But I had no sense of the fragility of my own body. My knees did not yet make those alarming soft pops; the permanent ache had not settled into my shoulder; my heart wouldn’t sputter erratically in my chest for another decade. The allure was intellectual and emotional, certainly not embodied. Like climate change or menopause, I understood mortality conceptually, but it didn’t feel real.

I’d like to tell you that my visit to the Sedlec Ossuary changed everything, that after my trip I appreciated life’s transitory nature. Or that it gave me a premonition of what lay in store for me, my own brushes with death that were to come.

It did not.

While I was underground, I felt temporarily transported and transformed—or at least, I had a flicker of understanding: I sauntered into the chapel with the hubristic notion of a young artist that my words would become immortal. The bones confronted me with the truth. My legacy would be deposits of calcium and protein and collagen. My art wouldn’t endure, but these nameless victims of plague and famine and war—they did. It humbled me.

But I left the ossuary’s insights with the dead. In my early 20s, I didn’t need the bone church to convince me to suck the marrow out of each day. I went to grad school, became a playwright, got married, traveled to all seven continents. Somewhere in there, I relegated the bone chapel to memory.

In the summer of 2020, I got sick with a life-threatening cardiac arrhythmia called ventricular tachycardia. I had so many episodes of VT I lost count, and any one of them could have ended in cardiac arrest. These events were indescribably painful and frightening. They enervated me, sapping me of my strength, vitality—eventually my will to persevere. My life became very small.

Mortality was no longer an abstraction: I was scared of what would happen to me when I died. Of how much it hurt. Of the nothingness of bones.

In the years that followed my initial descent into illness, I rarely left home. At the time I lived in a two-bedroom apartment, a third-floor walk-up. Climbing the stairs could, unpredictably, trigger a cardiac event, and so unless I had to leave for work, I spent most of the time in my living room. I can close my eyes now and return to that place. I’d painted the walls a shade of cornflower blue I grew to loathe. The television tottered precariously on an ancient table. Cherry-stained bookcases lined the wall. The top of the bookcase displayed a golden Japanese fan with a cloud tree painted on it. Next to it stood a penguin pitcher I bought on my honeymoon in Tierra del Fuego. Three vintage-style travel posters advertised Antarctic destinations: Beagle Channel, Lemaire Channel, Paradise Harbor.

That room was the real ossuary. 

One of my favorite Greek tragedies is Euripides’ Alcestis, in which the eponymous heroine journeys to Hades in her dying husband’s stead. The god Apollo tricks the Fates so that her husband, the king, can live if he can find someone to take his place in the underworld. There’s an exchange I think about a lot: “Possible to say she is both alive and dead,” her servant reports, and the chorus leader, understandably confused, asks, “How could someone die and keep on living?” This is how I felt—alive but dead. Already in Hades. I’d escaped my fate, like the king, but my true self, the intrepid, curious, wonderstruck version of me? She was in the underworld with Alcestis.

The play takes a strange turn when Heracles arrives amid his twelve labors. During a supremely awkward evening of drunken revelry at the palace, he figures out what’s going on and hustles to the graveyard to wrestle death and bring Alcestis back. 

I didn’t have a demigod to save me. But I didn’t want to be lost and gone. 

Sitting in my apartment day after day, surrounded by artifacts from the world I used to inhabit, was slowly killing me. I was afraid of things that had caused my VT, which meant I was afraid to go to the grocery store. I was afraid of taking a yoga class. I was afraid to simply be outside if it was really hot out. Finally I reached a breaking point. I could drop dead in the peanut butter aisle, or I could drop dead seeing the world. Staying at home wouldn’t save me. The threat resided inside my own chest.

I formulated a drastic plan to return to the land of the living. I took time off teaching and planned a sabbatical to travel and write. I couldn’t hide in my house if I rented it to someone else, if I jetted to the other side of the world. Instead of crossing the River Styx I ferried myself across the Pacific Ocean, and then the Atlantic. The final stop on my sabbatical was leading a study abroad in the Czech Republic, to attend an international scenography and performance festival. The ossuary didn’t really fit into the rest of the itinerary, but I wanted to give my students the experience I’d had all those years ago. 

Though contemporary visitors can experience ossuaries as disturbing or revolting, they didn’t start out that way. In The Empire of Death: A Cultural History of Ossuaries and Charnel Houses, Paul Koudounaris traces their proliferation in Europe during the 13th century as a storage solution to the medieval Christian problem of where to keep the dead safe for their resurrection. There were more bodies than places to put them. Death preoccupied the medieval imagination. After the Bubonic plague, medieval artists began portraying its grotesque physicality: images of rotting corpses, poetic descriptions of worm fodder. You get the sense they would’ve painted the stench if they could. Is it any wonder that these decomposed cadavers eventually became the artistic medium itself? 

Dozens of bone chapels sprang up across Europe by the 17th century, in a confluence of theology and aesthetics that seems morbidly inevitable. During the Counter-Reformation, Catholicism leaned into opulent and lavish Baroque art. It also leaned into corporal mortification, the kind that now shows up in mass-market thrillers as a fetishization of pain and suffering. 

The appetite for gaudy-verging-on-gauche bone art swelled when the Romantics arrived on the scene in the 19th century. Gothic literature supplanted the medieval Ars Moriendi; a secular touchstone of this cultural moment is Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. Today, the Sedlec Ossuary has benefitted—or suffered from—the kitschification of gothic art, popping up in surprising places like The Young and the Restless and the “uninvolving and cliché-ridden” vampire B movie Blood and Chocolate.

Romanticism also marked the rise of a phenomenon now known as “dark tourism,” which refers to the practice of visiting sites associated with disaster, war, atrocity. Malcolm Foley and J. John Lennon coined the term in 1996, in reference to tourism spawned by John F. Kennedy’s assassination. Scholars often point to concentration camps and Chernobyl as the field’s quintessential sites. Yet it’s a concept as old as tourism itself, dating back to Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, in which a group of pilgrims travel to the site of Thomas Becket’s murder. During the Grand Tours of the Romantic era, visits to places like the Paris catacombs (an underground labyrinth containing the bones of some six million people) and Pompeii (mass grave by way of volcano) came into vogue as a way to cultivate the Sublime. 

It can’t be an accident that this coincided with the proliferation of ossuaries. I have to believe not everyone went to charnel houses for the sake of holy contemplation. Prurience is not an invention of the digital age, even if we have elevated it to new heights (or denigrated it to new social media-inflected nadirs). I imagine gentlewomen in whalebone corsets and dilettantish young men titillating their companions with stories of the macabre.

The contemporary case for dark tourism—sometimes called thanatourism—is that it refutes any attempt to forget or whitewash history. It’s one of the few ways we can meaningfully encounter death and atrocity. Before I got sick, I went to Auschwitz as well as Hiroshima. The power of these sites is undeniable. They serve as monuments to some of modern history’s darkest moments and have been carefully transformed into vehicles for education, reflection, and solemn commemoration. I went because it felt important to bear witness to the horrific crimes against humanity that occurred there. But I’ve also participated in dark tourism less consciously, and perhaps you have, too. I’ve seen an Ai Weiwei art installation at Alcatraz, toured the Colosseum where murder was a matinée, peeked into the bakeries and brothels of Pompeii, strolled through Greyfriars Kirkyard in Edinburgh. I skipped Hell’s Museum, which a friend recommended in Singapore, and wish I’d skipped a ghost tour of Savannah, Georgia—what made it haunting was the way the city’s bloody history of enslavement and oppression was repurposed as entertainment for partiers carrying to-go cups of watered-down vodka.

The counterargument is self-evident: It leaves these sensitive sites vulnerable to exploitation. The suffering of one group commodified as a cocktail party anecdote for another. The exit through the gift shop. 

It would be a neat narrative if the newest wave of dark tourism had gained traction after the pandemic, when there was a momentary reintegration of death in our day-to-day. In actuality, it flourished before COVID spread, before ambulances drove through empty city streets and bodies piled up in overcrowded mortuaries, before corpses were stashed in refrigerated trucks in New York City because the morgues were beyond capacity. And now, when those months and years have receded like a bad dream and no lessons were learned, it’s hard to attribute a newfound reverence for mortality to this renewed appetite for dark tourism. 

I never thought about what I was doing as morbid. I gravitated to many of these attractions unconsciously, often because I wanted to understand history—and history is littered with corpses. But I think back uneasily to the casual way these sites were slotted into my itineraries. I remember the okonomiyaki place I went to after the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum, the hole-in-the-wall with the cheerfully ursine line cook, but not how I possibly could’ve been hungry.

The impetus for this flavor of tourism isn’t monolithic. Some dark tourists are processing their personal or ancestral experiences, some are genuinely curious, some don’t even realize they’re doing it, and some are rubberneckers. Regardless of motivation, one effect of present-day dark tourism under global capitalism is the Disneyfication of death.

The first months of my sabbatical were rocky. Fear dogged me through the streets of Sydney, Mumbai, Athens. A few weeks before I went back to the Czech Republic to lead my study abroad, I went to another bone chapel, in a small town east of Lisbon called Évora. Visitors flock to Évora for its prehistoric megaliths and Roman temple to Diana, but I’d driven across Portugal to see the charnel house. My GPS misled me through the hot, dusty town, and I circled around the temple and its remaining Corinthian columns—which seemed dropped into the town square like an abandoned film set—until I found the Capela dos Ossos.

The 17th-century Capela has more bling than Sedlec, from azulejo tiles to ceiling frescoes, with skulls where cherubs might usually repose. (Other charnel houses put the Capela to shame in their ostentation, such as the skeletons at the German Basilica of Waldsassen wearing jewel-encrusted gold costumes, which were originally posed with chalices with dried blood at their feet.) The chapel is crammed, floor to illustrious ceiling, with​ bones stacked horizontally, so only the knobs show. Lined with osteological columns, the architecture echoes the ruined temple to the pagan goddess in the town beyond. Before you even enter there’s a Dantean inscription: Nos ossos que aqui estamos pelos vossos esperamos. 

We bones that are here await yours. 

I found the inscription strangely comforting as I entered the inner chamber. The first interpretive sign explained the function of a bone chapel as a memento mori: “It is expected to serve as a consolation to some and news to others.” 

Lucky them, I thought.

I appreciated the aesthetics of the Capela dos Ossos, but it lacked the Hadean quality that engendered my near-mystic experience at the Sedlec Ossuary. Afterward, I continued on my sabbatical still mistrustful of my body, still afraid to move through the world. 

But when I got to Prague, something shifted. It didn’t happen all at once. I didn’t walk into the bone chapel and have an epiphany. A logjam loosened in my psyche. Shepherding a group of young adults in a foreign country, I couldn’t hide in the hotel or confine myself to strictly prescribed routes and routines. For many of them it was their first trip overseas, and overwhelmed, they looked to me for guidance. 

At 7 a.m. one morning, 20 students piled onto a bus to Kutná Hora. On the drive, I strove to impart my love of bone churches: Ossuaries aren’t morbid (okay, well, they are, but they’re not only morbid); they highlight the brevity of our lives to help us live more intentionally. But in a kind of punk rock way. Carpe fucking diem. The students were curious but respectful. Some found it moving, others creepy. 

When we arrived, the bone chapel was different than I remembered. Tentatively, I descended into the brightly lit space below. In the open area of the chapel, monitors now played a video of renovators handling the bones. The video explained a restoration project to shore up the building’s structural integrity and preserve the skeletons. The foundation is unstable and has started sinking since it was built sometime in the 14th century. In the Baroque period the Czech-Italian architect Jan Blažej Santini-Aichel redesigned the ossuary as it exists today, and it wasn’t until the 1860s that a carpenter named František Rint created the bone art, including the famous chandelier and the Schwarzenberg coat of arms that reproduced the heraldry of the local aristocrats. 

That wasn’t the origin story I’d learned years ago, about the monk and the plague—was the monk even real? The crepuscular lighting and gloom were gone. Where was the ambience? How could you commune with the dead like this?

Behind me, another busload of tourists arrived, and another, and another. Tourists overran the chapel, their guides speaking into little microphones in various languages while they snapped photo after photo. At the entrance, the lone employee said in English, no photos allowed. Everybody ignored her. 

Snap. 

Desensitized, they gawked without seeing. 

Snap. 

No photos, repeated the ticket taker. 

Snap.

The scores of tour groups weren’t part of my memory. 

Through a side door I climbed the stairs into an outdoor cemetery. The videos of the restorers kept replaying in my mind. It’s one thing to envision an apocryphal monk constructing pyramids of bones, it’s another to watch footage of archaeologists cleaning them and then putting them back in the pile. One of my students was minoring in archaeology and, as we strolled through the cemetery, she told me that ethical and legal restrictions governed archaeologists’ handling of human remains. It was obvious once she said it, but I hadn’t thought about it. The videos had close-ups of hands in nitrile gloves cleaning the dirt off the bones. Afterward, the bones were soaked in lime solution, which is also how Rint first prepared them in the 1860s. His chlorinated lime solution is the reason the Sedlec Ossuary’s decorations have remained relatively white over the years, while bones in other ossuaries have browned with age. The archaeologists also have the benefit of video mapping to help them rebuild the pyramids once the bones are cleaned and restored. 

It must take incredible dedication for these archaeologists to put themselves in this proximity with death. To sustain that intimacy day after day—I know the cost. 

I resented the crowd of tourists I’d left thronging the chapel. More than that, I felt a sense of superiority. Now that I was ready for the ossuary to transform me, I’d found an atmosphere that was more carnivalesque than sacred. 

But as I meandered among the headstones in the fresh air, it occurred to me: Did I really think that none of those tourists had ever lost a parent or child or partner, ever grieved, ever had a near-death experience of their own? Did I really think my proximity to death, my awareness of its phalanges drumming on my shoulder, had given me some privileged access to the charnel house’s true meaning? To the contrary, after I got sick, I guarded my life like a dragon hoarding a treasure pile in a dark cave, and it moldered away, unspent. Those bones had more vivacity than I did. 

For the medieval peasants whose skeletons limned the walls, death was a prolonged nap until everyone woke up during the rapture. There was a fluidity between death and the afterlife. These days it seems so much more final. (Per Ariès, once it was tame and now it is wild.) Much has been made of the deathbed’s move in modern society from the home to the hospital: out of sight, out of mind. Ossuaries thrust mortality squarely in your line of vision. They ask that you regard death as a transition, not a terminus. Not something to guard against hyper-vigilantly, but a natural part of a cosmic continuum. 

It was time to live again.

Going back to the Sedlec Ossuary was not some purifying rite. It was an ordinary day. The tourists streamed past me, discussing where they were going for lunch. The ​students had moved on, browsing for trinkets at the shop across the street. I recoiled at the kitschy skull mugs and shot glasses, but when I got home, I wished I had a memento mori to put next to the penguin.  

After Heracles brings Alcestis back from the underworld, she’s silent for the remainder of the play. Still sacred to the god of the dead, she cannot speak until three days have gone by, Heracles explains. I think there might be other reasons she stays silent. Maybe she preferred it down there. Maybe she left some irretrievable part of herself behind. Maybe she found the light above a little too harsh, the music too loud, the colors too saturated; found herself attracted to dusk, to intertidal zones, lintels, liminal spaces. Or maybe she has nothing left to say.

When I got home, I went through my old photos. I couldn’t figure out if my memories of Sedlec were real until I found a photo of myself, painfully young, standing in the semi-dark underneath the chandelier, its bones glowing white—either from the camera flash or an out-of-frame light source. I look half-happy, half-haunted, like I’m about to say something, but I can’t remember what.

Kristin Idaszak is an internationally produced and award-winning playwright and essayist whose recent work explores the intersection of ecology and chronic illness. She is a 3Arts Awardee, two-time Playwrights’ Center Jerome Fellow, and the former Shank Playwriting Fellow at the Goodman Theatre. She received the Kennedy Center ACTF Paula Vogel Playwriting Award and the Jean Kennedy Smith Playwriting Award. Her essays appear in The American Scholar, Fourth Genre, HowlRound, and elsewhere.

Editor: Cheri Lucas Rowlands
Fact-checker: Julie Schwietert Collazo
Copyeditor: Krista Stevens

• Actors James Van Der Beek, Hayden Panettiere, Robert Duvall, Chuck Norris, Patrick Stewart, and Eva Marie Saint died in 2026.
• So did musicians Dolly Parton and Duncan Sheik.
• Civil rights leader Rev. Jesse Jackson, activist Gloria Steinem, and NFL Hall of Famer Mike Ditka also died this year.

Below, we look back at the celebrities we lost in 2026, listed in alphabetical order.

Scott Adams, 68

Scott Adams worked at a telephone company in the 1980s. The experience inspired his beloved comic strip, "Dilbert."

By the end of the decade, the character and his satirical office humor began appearing in comic strips.

At its peak, "Dilbert" was syndicated in over 2,000 newspapers. A cartoon series debuted in 1999, running for two seasons.

Adams gained notoriety when he began writing blog posts praising Donald Trump during his 2016 presidential run. In 2023, "Dilbert" was pulled from newspapers across the US following racist comments made by Adams.

Adams died on January 13 from metastatic prostate cancer.

Brad Arnold, 47

The lead singer of 3 Doors Down, Brad Arnold launched the group into fame with the 2000 rock anthem "Kryptonite," which peaked at No. 3 on the Billboard Hot 100 that year.

The success led to other hits like "Loser," "Here Without You," and "When I'm Gone." Arnold's vocal range and lyrics focused on love and love lost, which fueled the group to stardom.

Arnold died on February 7 from a type of kidney cancer.

Afrika Bambaataa, 68

A hip-hop pioneer during the 1970s and 1980s, Lance Taylor, known professionally as Afrika Bambaataa, first gained attention as a DJ in the Bronx.

He signed with Tommy Boy Records in 1981 and released landmark songs like "Jazzy Sensation" and "Planet Rock." He would go on to influence the likes of Queen Latifah and A Tribe Called Quest throughout his career.

Bambaataa founded the hip-hop awareness group, Universal Zulu Nation, in the 1970s to steer kids away from gang life. Bambaataa stepped down as the head of the organization in 2016 after accusations of sexual abuse.

Bambaataa denied all claims.

He died on April 9 due to prostate cancer.

Rob Bass, 59

One of the icons responsible for bringing hip-hop to the mainstream, Rob Bass crafted the iconic track "It Takes Two" alongside DJ E-Z Rock.

The track, released in 1988, reached No. 3 on the Billboard Hot Dance/Club Songs chart and later went certified platinum. In 1989, it was voted the greatest single of all time by Spin magazine.

Bass died on May 22 following cancer.

Nicholas Brendon, 54

Nicholas Brendon was a television actor, best known for playing Xander Harris in all seven seasons of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer."

He also starred in "Criminal Minds" and "Kitchen Confidential."

Brendon died in his sleep on March 20 due to natural causes, according to his family's statement.

In 2023, Brendon suffered a heart attack and was diagnosed with a congenital heart defect. He also had cauda equina syndrome, which led to several spinal surgeries.

"While it's no secret that Nicholas had struggles in the past, he was on medications and treatment to manage his diagnosis, and he was optimistic about the future at the time of his passing," the statement to The Hollywood Reporter read. "Our family asks for privacy during this time as we grieve his loss and celebrate the life of a man who lived with intensity, imagination, and heart."

Peabo Bryson, 75

Two-time Grammy winner Peabo Bryson is best known for his classic love ballads.

Bryson began releasing music in the late 1970s, but one of his first major hits was opposite Roberta Flack on the 1983 duet, "Tonight, I Celebrate My Love." He continued hit-making a year later with the smash "If Ever You're in My Arms Again," and in 1991, he topped the R&B charts with "Can You Stop the Rain."

Bryson found global stardom with his renditions of two Disney classics. In 1991, he released the pop version of "Beauty and the Beast," alongside Céline Dion, and a year later, he duetted with Regina Belle on "A Whole New World" from the 1992 release of "Aladdin."

Bryson died on June 2. No cause was given.

James Burrows, 85

An 11-time Emmy winner and co-creator of "Cheers," director James Burrows helped shape modern TV comedy through his work on iconic sitcoms including "Will & Grace," "Friends," and "Frasier."

Known for his comedic timing and elaborate blocking, Burrows got his start directing episodes of "The Mary Tyler Moore Show." Throughout his career, he directed episodes of "Frasier" (winning an Emmy for the pilot episode), "Will & Grace," "Friends," and "The Big Bang Theory." He directed over 50 pilot episodes.

Burrows died on June 19. No cause was given.

Kyle Busch, 41

Two-time NASCAR Cup Series champion Busch was considered one of the greatest racers of all time.

Busch was hospitalized on May 21, before two upcoming races. Hours later, he was pronounced dead.

Busch died from severe pneumonia that progressed into sepsis.

Robert Carradine, 71

Robert Carradine was best known for his roles as Lizzie McGuire's dad and as the iconic geek Lewis Skolnick in the 1980s franchise "Revenge of the Nerds."

As a member of Hollywood's famed Carradine family, Robert was destined for an onscreen career.

He received one of his first screen credits starring in his brother David Carradine's popular 1970s TV series "Kung Fu" and went on to land roles in everything from Samuel Fuller's World War II classic "The Big Red One" to the "Lizzie McGuire" series.

Carradine's family shared statements with Deadline that emphasized being open about his struggles with mental illness.

"We are bereft at the loss of this beautiful soul and want to acknowledge Bobby's valiant struggle against his nearly two-decade battle with Bipolar Disorder," Carradine's family said. "We hope his journey can shine a light and encourage addressing the stigma that attaches to mental illness."

Carradine died by suicide on February 23.

If you or someone you know is experiencing depression or has had thoughts of harming themself or taking their own life, get help. In the US, call or text 988 to reach the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline. Help is also available through the Crisis Text Line — just text "HOME" to 741741. The International Association for Suicide Prevention offers resources for those outside the US.

Bud Cort, 77

Most famous for his role as Harold in the 1971 cult-classic "Harold and Maude," Bud Cort became the epitome of 1970s counterculture thanks to his baby-faced looks, wit, and sophisticated persona.

The dark comedy starred Cort as Harold, a man in his 20s who is obsessed with suicide until he meets 79-year-old eccentric Maude (Ruth Gordon).

Before that, Cort scored bit parts in Robert Altman's "M*A*S*H*" (1970) and "Brewster McCloud" (1970).

After "Harold and Maude," Cort worked steadily for the rest of his life, occasionally showing up in hit movies like Michael Mann's "Heat" (1995) and Wes Anderson's "The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou" (2004).

Cort died on February 11 following a long illness.

Tim Curry, 80

Curry is best known for playing Dr. Frank-N-Furter in the cult-classic musical "The Rocky Horror Picture Show," after originating the role in the original stage production.

Over six decades, Curry carved out a niche playing outlandish villains like Rooster Hannigan in the 1982 film "Annie" and Pennywise in the 1990 miniseries "It." Other notable roles include Wadsworth the Butler in "Clue" (1985) and Mr. Hector in "Home Alone 2: Escape from New York."

Curry suffered a major stroke in 2012, which required brain surgery. He said in 2025 that he was "still recovering."

Curry died at his Los Angeles home on August 26. No cause was given.

Eric Dane, 53

Long before becoming one of TV's most recognizable heartthrobs, Eric Dane was building his career with guest roles on series like "Saved by the Bell" and "Married… with Children."

He later gained wider attention with appearances on "Charmed" before landing his breakout role as Dr. Mark "McSteamy" Sloan on "Grey's Anatomy." He most recently starred in HBO's "Euphoria," where he played Cal Jacobs, the father of Jacob Elordi's character, Nate Jacobs.

Dane has two children with his wife, Rebecca Gayheart. In April 2025, the actor said that he was diagnosed with amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, or ALS.

Dane died on February 19 at age 53, his publicist confirmed in a statement to Business Insider.

"He spent his final days surrounded by dear friends, his devoted wife, and his two beautiful daughters, Billie and Georgia, who were the center of his world," his publicist said.

Clive Davis, 94

A legend in the music world, Davis was responsible for elevating pop music to unthinkable heights by discovering talents like Aretha Franklin, Barry Manilow, Bruce Springsteen, Billy Joel, Whitney Houston, and Alicia Keys, to name a few.

Over his 50-year career, along with being an executive behind millions of album sales, he also won five Grammys, including two for Album of the Year ("The Bodyguard" soundtrack and "Supernatural" by Santana).

Davis died on June 22. No cause was given.

Mike Ditka, 86

Mike Ditka was the first tight end ever inducted into the Pro Football Hall of Fame. As a coach for the Chicago Bears, he led the team to its only Super Bowl win to date in 1986.

Ditka's success turned him into a celebrity who showed up in commercials, TV shows, and movies in cameo roles.

One of his most famous was starring opposite Will Ferrell in the 2005 comedy "Kicking and Screaming."

His persona became the long-running "Saturday Night Live" sketch called "Bill Swerski's Superfans," in which cast members dressed up as Ditka and spoke about their love for "Da Bears."

Ditka died on October 9; no cause was given.

Robert Duvall, 95

Robert Duvall starred in a plethora of timeless classics, including "The Godfather," "The Godfather Part II," "Apocalypse Now," "THX 1138," "The Natural," "Days of Thunder," and "The Apostle."

Duvall will be best remembered for starring in three of director Francis Ford Coppola's iconic films: playing Tom Hagen in the first two "Godfather" movies and Lieutenant Colonel Bill Kilgore in "Apocalypse Now," in which he delivers one of the most memorable lines in movie history: "I love the smell of napalm in the morning."

Duvall was lauded for his acting talent, from not saying a word while playing Boo Radley in his first big screen role in the 1962 classic "To Kill a Mockingbird" to his portrayal of a country singer dealing with alcoholism in 1983's "Tender Mercies," which earned him an Oscar.

He died on his ranch in Virginia on February 15. No cause was given.

Brenda Fricker, 81

This Irish actress was a fixture on the stage and screen for six decades. But she's most known for showing up in the "Home Alone" sequel.

As The Pigeon Lady in 1992's "Home Alone 2: Lost in New York," Fricker has become a fixture for families during the holiday season for decades (and in 2020 became the subject of a popular meme).

But Fricker's acting talents go beyond playing a spooky wanderer of Central Park.

In 1990, she became the first Irish actress to win an Academy Award, as she was given the best supporting actress Oscar that year for her performance in "My Left Foot."

Fricker died on July 16; no cause was given.

Mark Fuhrman, 74

Fuhrman cemented his place in popular culture as one of the lead LAPD detectives on the 1995 murder case of O.J. Simpson's ex-wife, Nicole Brown Simpson, and her friend Ronald Goldman.

Fuhrman found the famed bloody glove on the Simpson estate, and during the trial, he gained infamy when Simpson's defense team used his past racist language to discredit him as a witness.

Fuhrman retired from the LAPD after the Simpson trial and moved to Idaho, where he wrote true crime books.

Fuhrman died on May 12 of throat cancer.

Valentino Garavani, 93

For over six decades, one name has been synonymous with women's high fashion: Valentino.

The Italian designer launched his fashion business in Rome in 1960 and never looked back. Soon, every star wanted to be seen in his creations. They've been worn by icons like Elizabeth Taylor, Joan Collins, Jackie Kennedy, Princess Diana, Sharon Stone, and more.

Though Garavani retired from designing in 2008, his label is still a red carpet staple, as is his famous shade of bright red dubbed "Valentino Red."

Garavani died on January 19. No cause was given.

Donald Gibb, 71

No one defined a bully for a generation more than Gibb's hulking fraternity character Ogre in the "Revenge of the Nerds" movies of the 1980s.

Since the original raunchy comedy was released in 1984, Gibb's intimidating size and loud yells of "NERDS!" have become as memorable as the pocket protectors worn by the movie's geeks.

Gibb went on to star opposite Jean-Claude Van Damme in his classic 1988 action movie "Bloodsport." He also landed guest star roles through his career on shows like "Quantum Leap," "Magnum P.I.," "MacGyver," "Night Court," and "Cheers."

Gibb died on May 12 following health complications.

Chad Gilbert, 45

Gilbert was the guitarist and backing vocalist for the punk band New Found Glory.

The band's hit albums include 2002's "Sticks And Stones" and 2004's "Catalyst." Both showed up in the top 10 on the Billboard 200 chart.

Gilbert died on September 20; no cause was given, but Gilbert told People in April he was battling stage 4 adrenal cancer.

Glen Hansard, 56

Irish singer-songwriter Hansard was the frontman of the rock band The Frames and one-half of the band The Swell Season. But he was perhaps best known for writing and starring in the hit 2007 indie film "Once," in which he and his Swell Season bandmate Markéta Irglová play two struggling musicians who fall in love. The duo won an Oscar for best original song for the film's standout track, "Falling Slowly."

Hansard also embarked on a solo career; his 2015 album, "Didn't He Ramble," was nominated for a Grammy for best folk album.

Hansard died on July 29 in a motorcycle crash in Dublin.

Dennis Haskins, 75

For those who grew up in the '90s, Dennis Haskins was your favorite high school principal, Mr. Belding.

Starring in the hit TV series "Saved By The Bell," Haskins' Belding character traveled the halls trying to be a step ahead of the hijinks inflicted by Zack Morris (Mark-Paul Gosselaar) and his friends. But unlike many school principals in pop culture who were mean and seemed to hate kids, Haskins played his authority role with a playful, good-natured style.

He was on the show's full four-season run from 1989 to 1993, and also starred in the spin-off, "Saved By The Bell: The New Class," from 1993 to 2000.

Haskins' other credits include "The Bold and the Beautiful," "Mad Men," "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia," and "New Girl."

Haskins died on September 27; no cause was given.

Anthony Head, 72

Rising up through the UK stage scene in the 1980s, Head found fame when he was cast as Rupert Giles, who became a father figure to Sarah Michelle Gellar's Buffy Summers in all seven seasons of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer."

Most recently, he played the bitter former owner of AFC Richmond on "Ted Lasso."

Head's death was announced by his family on June 5. They stated the cause was "complications due to pneumonia."

David Hockney, 88

British painter David Hockney was renowned for his striking portraits and figurative pop art. Many of his best-known paintings, including 1966's "The Splash" and 1972's "Portrait of an Artist (Pool with Two Figures)," were inspired by the bright colors and sun-dappled pools of Los Angeles.

Hockney moved to Los Angeles in the late '60s, and his work became synonymous with the warmth and leisure of Southern California. He was also one of the few popular artists at the time to depict openly gay scenes, and Hockney was outspoken about anti-gay censorship.

Throughout his career, Hockney split time between California, England, and France. He died at his home in London on June 12 at age 88, his publicist confirmed to The New York Times. No cause of death was given.

Jesse Jackson, 84

The Rev. Jesse Jackson was a leader of the Civil Rights Movement, a minister, and an activist icon who twice ran for president.

Born on October 8, 1941, in Greenville, South Carolina, Jackson experienced Jim Crow segregation on public buses and at school firsthand. It would shape the rest of his life.

His fight for civil rights began in the 1960s, when he helped organize protests and demonstrations across the US and worked closely alongside civil rights icon Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

His decadeslong career as a leading civil rights activist included support for modern national movements, such as the push for voting rights, the fight against racism, and a higher minimum wage.

Jackson ran for president twice, both times as a democrat. He placed third for the party's nomination in 1984 and second in 1988. This marked the most successful presidential runs of any Black candidate prior to Barack Obama.

Jackson announced in 2017 that he'd been diagnosed with Parkinson's disease. In November 2025, Jackson was treated in a Chicago hospital after complications from progressive supranuclear palsy (PSP), a rare neurodegenerative condition.

Jackson died on February 17.

Walter Koenig, 90

As the boyish Russian crewman Pavel Chekov on "Star Trek," Walter Koenig left an indelible mark in the minds of sci-fi fans for generations as one of the key crew members of Captain Kirk's ship, the USS Enterprise.

First appearing in the show's second season, Koenig played Chekov in 36 of the 50 episodes that aired in 1967-68 and 1968-69. He also starred in the first seven releases of the movie franchise, from 1979 through 1991.

Koenig died on October 25 of natural causes.

Yayoi Kusama, 97

Kusama was a famed Japanese pop artist who often used polka-dot motifs in her work, initially rising to prominence in Japan in the 1950s.

In 1959, Kusama presented her first solo exhibition in New York: a collection of abstract paintings that an ARTnews review praised as "strong, advanced in concept and realized."

Kusama later branched into sculptures, performances, and immersive installations. She continued to expand her influence and relevance into the social media era, when her mirrored "Infinity Room" installations became Instagram-friendly attractions that inspired many copycats.

Kusama died on August 14 in Tokyo. She was 97.

Bob Mackie, 87

As one of Hollywood's most renowned costume designers, Bob Mackie's eye set the style for decades.

Known as the Sultan of Sequins, the Rajah of Rhinestones, or the Guru of Glitter, a signature of Mackie's work was its use of sparkle, which made everyone from Cher to Elton John to Dolly Parton to Sabrina Carpenter shine on stage.

He also was the costume designer on "The Carol Burnett Show" for all eleven seasons through the 1970s. He won nine Emmys, a Tony Award, and was nominated for three Academy Awards for his work.

Mackie died on September 14; no cause was given.

RJ Mitte, 34

Mitte was best known for playing the son of Bryan Cranston's Walter White in the hit series "Breaking Bad."

Mitte, who was diagnosed with cerebral palsy when he was 3 years old, became a disability rights activist after finding fame with "Breaking Bad."

His other credits include the 2021 movie "Triumph," in which he played a high school student with cerebral palsy who tries out for the wrestling team. He also starred in the 2024 thriller "Love Me Dead" opposite Dove Cameron.

Mitte died by suicide on October 12.

Patrick Muldoon, 57

In the 1990s, you couldn't escape the piercing eyes of Patrick Muldoon.

He played Austin Reed on "Days of Our Lives" for most of the decade, and when he wasn't on the soap, he was over on "Melrose Place" playing the villain role of Richard Hart.

If being on two iconic shows wasn't enough, he also showed up on "Saved by the Bell" and had a role in the cult classic movie "Starship Troopers."

Muldoon died on April 19 after a heart attack.

Sam Neill, 78

With a career spanning more than five decades and including countless memorable performances in movies and television, Sam Neill was one of the most versatile actors of his generation,

The New Zealand actor starred opposite Nicole Kidman in the 1989 thriller "Dead Calm," played the loyal first officer opposite Sean Connery in 1990's "The Hunt for Red October," played the lead in John Carpenter's 1994 horror "In the Mouth of Madness," and most recently starred in the hit series "Peaky Blinders."

But Neill is best known for playing the brave and all-dinosaur-knowing Dr. Alan Grant in the "Jurassic Park" franchise.

Neill died on July 13; no cause was given. Neill was battling a rare and aggressive form of blood cancer, but was cancer-free at the time of his death, according to a post on his Instagram account announcing his passing.

Tom Noonan, 74

Standing at a towering 6' 5", Tom Noonan was born to play the bad guy. And he did just that, starring as the villain in movies like "Manhunter," "RoboCop 2," and "Last Action Hero."

But this actor had more to show off. He showcased his comedy chops as Rodney Dangerfield's degenerate gambling friend in the 1983 comedy "Easy Money," and set up the heist for Robert De Niro in Michael Mann's 1995 classic "Heat."

His knack for storytelling also translated behind the camera. Noonan wrote, directed, and starred in the drama "What Happened Was," which won the grand prize at the 1994 Sundance Film Festival.

Noonan died on February 14; no cause was given.

Chuck Norris, 86

Few action stars have Chuck Norris' credentials.

Before he ever stepped in front of a camera, he was a martial arts champion and a black belt in Karate, judo, Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, Taekwondo, and Tang Soo Do.

His talents would become known the world over in 1972, when he faced off against Bruce Lee in "The Way of the Dragon."

Through the 1980s, Norris became one of the biggest action stars in the world thanks to movies like "A Force of One," "The Octagon," and the "Delta Force" and "Missing in Action" franchises.

In the 1990s, he took over the small screen, playing the lead in the "Walker, Texas Ranger" TV show, which aired in over 100 countries during its run from 1993 to 2001.

Norris was hospitalized on March 19 in Hawaii and died the following day, according to his family. No cause was given.

Catherine O'Hara, 71

O'Hara, who was best known for her roles in "Beetlejuice" and "Home Alone," got her start in the Canadian comedy scene, appearing in the now-legendary cast of "SCTV."

It would mark the beginning of a fruitful partnership with fellow actor Eugene Levy, who became her frequent costar and collaborator in memorable appearances in Christopher Guest films like "A Mighty Wind" and "Best in Show" and television series like "Schitt's Creek," which earned her an Emmy Award for outstanding lead actress in 2020.

O'Hara's representative confirmed her death to Business Insider on January 30. The Los Angeles County Department of Public Health confirmed in a death certificate viewed by People that O'Hara died of a pulmonary embolism, with rectal cancer listed as an underlying cause.

Hayden Panettiere, 36

Panettiere began acting as a child, landing one of her earliest major roles as Sarah Roberts on the ABC soap opera "One Life to Live," on which she appeared from 1994 to 1997.

As her career progressed, she became best known for portraying Claire Bennet on "Heroes" and Juliette Barnes on "Nashville."

Over the years, Panettiere had spoken openly about her struggles with alcoholism and postpartum depression. She detailed those experiences in her memoir, "This Is Me: A Reckoning," which was released in May.

Panettiere died on August 16. A final autopsy report by the Greenville County Coroner's Office ruled her death an accident caused by the toxic effects of fentanyl and other drugs.

Dolly Parton, 80

Parton released her debut album, "Hello, I'm Dolly," in 1967 and went on to pen country hits like "I Will Always Love You" and "Jolene," both of which were released as singles in 1974.

In addition to her music, Parton was beloved for her flamboyant style and her philanthropy. She founded the Dollywood Foundation in 1988, a charitable organization focused on education and community initiatives in her home state of Tennessee. She continued to fund scholarship programs and donate to hospitals, public health initiatives, and disaster relief programs throughout her life.

Parton is known as the best-selling female country music artist of all time. She was inducted into the Country Music Hall of Fame in 1999, the Songwriters Hall of Fame in 2001, and the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame in 2022.

Parton's 49th and final solo studio album, "Rockstar," was released in 2023. The tracklist included both original material and covers of classic rock songs, featuring an array of guests like Paul McCartney, Ringo Starr, Sting, Joan Jett, and Parton's goddaughter, Miley Cyrus.

News broke on August 25 that Parton died following unspecified health issues. She was 80.

Vincent Pastore, 80

This character actor found fame appearing in a string of mob movies in the 1990s, like "Goodfellas," "Carlito's Way," and "Men of Respect." But Pastore truly became a star when he was cast in the hit HBO series "The Sopranos."

As Salvatore "Big Pussy" Bonpensiero, Pastore was part of the main cast for the first two seasons of the show, playing Tony Soprano's mob enforcer-turned-FBI informant. Bonpensiero's shocking death was one of the most famous in the show's history and proved that no one was safe from getting whacked.

Pastore died on August 1. No cause was given.

Valerie Perrine, 82

Perrine found herself cast alongside the biggest stars of the 1970s.

She played the love interest opposite Jeff Bridges in 1973's "The Last American Hero" and Robert Redford in 1979's "The Electric Horseman." She earned an Oscar nomination for starring alongside Dustin Hoffman in 1974's "Lenny."

For most, she'll be remembered best for sharing the screen with Gene Hackman as the secretary to his evil Lex Luthor in 1978's "Superman." She also starred in the sequel. As Ms. Teschmacher, her loyalty to Luthor is questioned when she rescues Superman (Christopher Reeve) after he's chained with Kryptonite.

Perrine died in her home in Beverly Hills on March 23. She was diagnosed with Parkinson's disease in 2015.

Richard Riehle, 78

A prolific character actor, Riehle has over 400 screen credits, appearing in everything from "Casino" to "Bridesmaids" over his career.

He's best known for playing the worker in "Office Space" who, after being laid off, wins a large payout from a lawsuit after a suicide attempt.

Other credits include "The Fugitive," "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas," and "Transformers: Age of Extinction."

Riehle died on October 15; no cause was given.

Sonny Rollins, 95

One of the most influential jazz musicians in history, Rollins recorded more than 60 albums over his seven-decade career.

His live album, "A Night at the Village Vanguard," is considered one of the greatest jazz albums ever made.

Rollins died on May 25; no cause was given.

Eva Marie Saint, 102

An Oscar and Emmy winner, Eva Marie Saint appeared in classic movies in Hollywood history.

She made her film debut starring opposite Marlon Brando in Elia Kazan's 1954 classic "On the Waterfront," which won her the Oscar for best supporting actress. In 1959, she heated up the screen with Cary Grant in Alfred Hitchcock's defining thriller "North by Northwest."

In 1990, she won an Emmy for her work in the miniseries "People Like Us."

Saint died on October 6 of natural causes.

Susan Saint James, 80

Saint James was a fixture in television from the late 1960s through the 1980s, starring in "The Name of the Game," "McMillan & Wife," and "Kate & Allie."

She was Emmy-nominated eight times and won an Emmy for lead actress in 1985 for "Kate & Allie."

Saint James' movie credits include "Outlaw Blues" (1977), "Love at First Bite" (1979), and "How to Beat the High Cost of Living (1980).

Saint James died on October 26 after being diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.

Neil Sedaka, 86

Sedaka is responsible for some of the biggest pop songs of the 1960s and 1970s.

The Brooklyn native wrote over 500 songs, including classic hits like "Laughter in the Rain," "Breaking Up Is Hard to Do," "Bad Blood" and the Captain & Tennille song, "Love Will Keep Us Together."

Sedaka died on February 27; no cause was given.

Gene Shalit, 100

Before there was Rotten Tomatoes or even Siskel & Ebert, movie lovers got their recommendations from Gene Shalit.

The iconic movie critic could be seen sporting his signature look of glasses, bushy hair, and big mustache as a staple on the "Today" show from 1973 to 2010. If he wasn't interviewing the biggest movie stars, he was reviewing movies with incredible puns ("'Ishtar' is Ish-terrible.")

His larger-than-life presence left a mark on pop culture: he was parodied as a Muppet and on countless episodes of "SCTV" and "Saturday Night Live."

Shalit died on June 12; no cause was given.

Duncan Sheik, 56

Sheik found success in the late 1990s with his hit song "Barely Breathing." He later pivoted from alt-rock to a career on Broadway, composing the music for the Tony-winning musical "Spring Awakening." His other stage credits include "American Psycho" (2013) and "The Secret Life of Bees" (2019).

Sheik died on September 17 after a cardiac arrest.

Kiki Shepard, 74

In her 15-year tenure as a co-host on "Showtime at the Apollo," Kiki Shepard was considered royalty at Harlem's famed Apollo Theater.

Known in the building as "Apollo Queen of Fashion" thanks to her dazzling outfits, Shepherd was a fixture on the show from 1987 to 2002.

Throughout her career, Shepard also appeared on TV shows like "Baywatch," "A Different World," "NYPD Blue," and "Grey's Anatomy."

Shepard died on March 16 after suffering a heart attack.

Tom Skerritt, 93

A beloved actor in Hollywood for over six decades, Tom Skerritt appeared in some legendary movies and television.

Robert Altman gave Skerritt his big break when he cast him as the womanizing and sarcastic surgeon Captain "Duke" Forrest in the classic 1970 movie "M*A*S*H." Skerritt followed it up with a string of hits, including Altman's "Thieves Like Us" (1974), "The Turning Point" (1977), and a hilarious cameo in Cheech & Chong's classic debut movie "Up in Smoke" (1978).

Then, Skerritt went sci-fi when Ridley Scott cast him as Captain Arthur Dallas in 1979's "Alien." Skerritt also scored a memorable role as Tom Cruise's flight instructor "Viper" in 1986's "Top Gun."

On the small screen, Skerritt earned an Emmy for playing Sheriff Jimmy Brock on the hit series "Picket Fences," which ran from 1992 to 1996.

Skerritt died on October 21 of natural causes.

Gloria Steinem, 92

An icon in the women's liberation movement of the 1970s, Steinem dedicated most of her life to fighting sexism.

Starting her career as a journalist, she became a columnist for the newly founded New York Magazine in 1968. She cofounded Ms. magazine in 1971, which focused on women's issues. She also helped launch the Women's Action Alliance, which focused on tackling sexism.

Steinem was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom in 2013.

Steinem died on September 2, according to a post on her social media. No cause was given.

Patrick Stewart, 86

In a career spanning over 60 years on stage and screen, Stewart is responsible for some of the most memorable characters in the biggest franchises.

After getting his start with the Royal Shakespeare Company in the late 1960s, he found acclaim on the stage, performing Shakespearean classics like "Antony and Cleopatra" and "Hamlet," both of which earned him Laurence Olivier Awards.

Hollywood soon came calling, leading him to star in epics like "Excalibur" (1981) and David Lynch's "Dune" (1984). But he would get his big break in 1987 when he was cast as Captain Jean-Luc Picard in "Star Trek: The Next Generation." Fans quickly gravitated to this new captain of the USS Enterprise, and the show ran until 1994. He also reprised the Picard role in four movies in the franchise: "Star Trek Generations" (1994), "Star Trek: First Contact" (1996), "Star Trek: Insurrection" (1998), and "Star Trek: Nemesis" (2002), as well as in the TV series "Star Trek: Picard" (2020-2023).

In 2000, he joined the comic-book world when he was cast as mutant Professor Charles Xavier, founder of the X-Men in the Marvel Comics. Stewart portrayed Xavier in several more "X-Men" films, and will reprise the role in the forthcoming MCU film "Avengers: Doomsday," out this December.

Stewart died on October 28 after suffering from Alzheimer's and Lewy Body Dementia.

Béla Tarr, 70

Hungarian filmmaker Béla Tarr became a legend in the arthouse world for his unflinching work featuring several-minute-long takes.

With movies like "Family Nest" (1979) and "The Turin Horse" (2011), Tarr showcased his slow cinema style while focusing on marginalized characters living bleak lives. Tarr pushed the envelope with his style when he made "Sátántangó" in 1994, which had a run time of 450 minutes.

His work influenced several arthouse filmmakers, including Jim Jarmusch and Gus Van Sant's "Death Trilogy" ("Gerry," "Elephant," and "Last Days").

Tarr died on January 6 following a battle with a "long and serious illness."

James Tolkan, 94

You might not recognize the name, but if you're a movie fan, you know the face.

Tolkan's tough-guy persona made a mark on movie history in films like "Top Gun" and the "Back to the Future" franchise.

In "Top Gun," he played Commander Tom "Stinger" Jardian, who famously gives Tom Cruise's character a tongue lashing, saying, "Your ego is writing checks your body can't cash."

In "Back to the Future" and its sequels, he played Principal Strickland, who had zero tolerance for "slackers."

Other credits include "Serpico," "WarGames," "Masters of the Universe," and "Dick Tracy."

Tolkan died on March 26; no cause was given.

Ted Turner, 87

Ted Turner changed the television landscape thanks to his maverick maneuvers to harness the 24-hour news cycle.

After taking over his father's advertising company in the 1960s at the age of 24, Turner embarked on a path to change the media landscape by buying up radio and TV stations around the South. He even bought sports teams including the Atlanta Braves MLB team and the Atlanta Hawks NBA team.

All of that programming would eventually become part of TBS, a "super station" that showed old movies, reruns, and Braves and Hawks games.

Turner then set his sights on the news. He founded CNN, the first 24-hour news channel, in June of 1980.

Over the decades, Turner gained celebrity status, particularly after marrying Jane Fonda, a union that lasted from 1991 to 2001. In 1991, he was named Time's "Man of the Year." He sold his networks to Time Warner for $7.5 billion in 1996.

Turner died on May 6; no cause was given.

Bonnie Tyler, 75

Welsh singer Bonnie Tyler became one of the biggest artists of the 1980s thanks to her legendary power ballads.

Tyler was behind hits like "Total Eclipse of the Heart" and "Holding Out for a Hero," which was also featured on the 1984 "Footloose" soundtrack. Both songs were chart-toppers that have since become two of the best-selling singles of all time.

Over her career, Tyler was nominated for three Grammys and was appointed a Member of the Order of the British Empire (MBE) by Queen Elizabeth II in 2022.

Tyler died on July 8 in Portugal, where she was being treated for an illness, according to a statement posted on her social media.

James Van Der Beek, 48

Van Der Beek was beloved all over the world for his role as the titular teen Dawson Leery on the WB series "Dawson's Creek."

The series, which ran from 1998 to 2002, turned Van Der Beek into a star and a teen heartthrob. While "Dawson's Creek" was still airing, he'd cement his stardom playing the lead role of high school quarterback "Mox" Moxon in the 1999 coming-of-age drama "Varsity Blues."

Van Der Beek found steady work the rest of his career in movies like "Texas Rangers" and "The Rules of Attraction, and memorably played a fictional version of himself on the TV series "Don't Trust the B---- in Apartment 23," and performed on "Dancing with the Stars" in 2019.

Van Der Beek learned he had stage 3 colon cancer in 2023, and publicly announced his diagnosis in late 2024.

Van Der Beek previously told Business Insider that the news came as a shock, given the subtleness of his symptoms and his efforts to stay as healthy as possible.

"I was doing everything," he said. "I was doing sauna, cold plunge, weightlifting, Pilates. I would dance and also do football training."

Van Der Beek died on February 11.

Bob Weir, 78

Weir was one of the founding members of the Grateful Dead.

The singer-songwriter wrote and/or sang on songs like "Sugar Magnolia," "Playing in the Band," "Truckin,'" "I Need a Miracle," and "The Other One."

After the Grateful Dead disbanded in 1995, Weir went on to form several other bands, including Kingfish, Bobby and the Midnites, RatDog, The Other Ones, and, alongside John Mayer, Dead & Company.

In the summer of 2025, Weir was diagnosed with cancer.

Weir died on January 10.

Victor Willis, 74

Willis was the lead singer of the iconic disco band the Village People.

Along with being the lead vocalist and dressing as the police officer (and sometimes naval officer), Willis was also the cowriter on many of the band's hits, including "In the Navy," "Macho Man," and the song that will keep the Village People in pop culture lore until the end of time, "Y.M.C.A."

Willis left the band to embark on a solo career in 1979, then re-formed the Village People in 2017.

Willis died on June 30 following a "short but aggressive illness," according to the Village People Facebook page.

Frederick Wiseman, 96

For over five decades, Wiseman's brand of non-fiction storytelling put a spotlight on everyday people.

From high schoolers to hospital workers to Air Force cadets training for nuclear war, Wiseman's close to 50-film catalogue is an unvarnished reflection of America over the last half century.

Wiseman died on February 16. No cause was given.

John Berger spent a meaningful portion of his life thinking, with precision and care, about how to look at the world—an effort he detailed in numerous essays and books, among them Ways of Seeing and About Looking. “Reading them, you often feel you’re standing next to him in the museum or even looking through his eyes at a painting or a sculpture,” writes A.O. Scott. “You pay attention to his attention.” Scott, an attentive reader himself, brings Berger’s lifelong project into our famously distractable era; his consideration of Berger is a primer for observation and study, a gentle nudge to focus, lest we lose sight of something essential.

Right now, we’re in the midst of an attention crisis, individually and collectively snared in an infinite scroll of disruption and distraction. Berger saw this crisis coming and foresaw its consequences. In 1978, writing about photography and its impact on the modern world, he argued that the dominance of images “creates an eternal present of immediate expectation: Memory ceases to be necessary or desirable. With the loss of memory, the continuities of meaning and judgment are also lost to us.” That diagnosis seems even truer today, as the functions of remembering, judging and interpreting are increasingly offloaded from human minds and communities into the ether of social media feeds and artificial intelligence. We’re in danger of forgetting how to look.

Little-known photographer John Baer captured everyday life before putting down his camera in 1954. His son discovered the images decades later after his death, and John Baer: The Extraordinary Ordinary / A Memoir in Photographs, 1945–1954 marks their first public release

A 500-year-old religious triptych by Andrea Previtali has been brought together for the first time in almost two centuries. The reunion forms the centrepiece of a new exhibition examining the painter’s place in the Venetian Renaissance.

Three panels of a Renaissance altarpiece, separated for almost 200 years, have been reunited in Italy for an exhibition opening on Saturday, 17th October, offering visitors a rare opportunity to see a work by Andrea Previtali in its original arrangement.

The painting, created around 1515 for the Church of the Annunciation in Serina, near Bergamo, has been reconstructed through cooperation between the Diocese of Bergamo and the Museo Villa Bassi Rathgeb in Abano Terme, close to Padua. One panel, depicting a bishop saint, belongs to the museum’s permanent collection, while the remaining two have been brought together for the exhibition.

The reunion was confirmed on 16 October by Italy’s Ministry of Culture heritage authority. It forms the central attraction of Andrea Previtali: Disciple of Giovanni Bellini, which runs until 7th February 2027 and examines the career of a painter who worked between two important artistic centres of Renaissance Italy.

Reconstructing a Renaissance Altarpiece

The three panels originally formed a triptych, a type of religious painting consisting of a central image flanked by two wings. Such works were commissioned for churches and private chapels, where they served as devotional objects and demonstrations of the artistic ambitions of their patrons.

Over succeeding centuries, many Renaissance altarpieces were dismantled, removed from their original settings or dispersed among private collections and museums. Their individual panels could subsequently be displayed as independent works, losing much of the relationship between the images originally intended by the artist.

The Previtali triptych provides an example of how those connections can be recovered.

The Museo Villa Bassi Rathgeb holds the panel depicting a bishop saint as part of the collection assembled by Roberto Bassi Rathgeb, an art historian and collector who contributed to renewed scholarly interest in Previtali.

His collection, donated to the municipality of Abano Terme between 1972 and 1980, contains important examples of painting from the Bergamo and Brescia schools.

The collaboration with the Diocese of Bergamo has now made it possible to display the bishop saint alongside the two surviving companion panels from the original altarpiece. Their reunion allows the work to be studied as a complete composition rather than as three separate paintings.

It also offers an opportunity to reassess Previtali’s decisions concerning the relationship between figures, religious symbolism and the architectural arrangement of devotional paintings.

A Pupil of Giovanni Bellini

Andrea Previtali was born around 1480 in Valle Imagna, in the territory of Bergamo, before moving to Venice, where he entered the workshop of Giovanni Bellini.

Bellini was among the most influential painters of the Venetian Renaissance, known for his treatment of colour, light and religious subjects. His workshop trained artists who would help establish the distinctive visual language of sixteenth-century Venetian painting.

Previtali’s connection to his master is documented in an inscription on his 1502 painting Madonna and Child with Donor, now held by the Musei Civici di Padova.

The artist described himself as a pupil of Giovanni Bellini, a declaration that has become an important piece of evidence for reconstructing his early career.

The new exhibition explores that relationship by displaying works by Previtali alongside paintings associated with the artistic environment in which he trained.

Among the loans is Bellini’s Saint Justina, from the Museo Bagatti Valsecchi in Milan. Although painted before Previtali’s mature career, it demonstrates the treatment of sacred figures, colour and composition that influenced succeeding generations.

The exhibition also includes works connected with Francesco Bissolo, Girolamo da Santacroce, Palma il Vecchio and Giovanni Busi, known as Cariani.

Together, they illustrate the movement of artistic ideas between Venice, Bergamo and Brescia during a period in which painters increasingly travelled between workshops, cities and patrons.

Venice, Bergamo and the Changing Renaissance

Previtali’s career developed at a time when the artistic traditions of northern Italy were undergoing considerable change.

The Venetian school placed particular emphasis on colour and atmosphere, while painters working in Lombardy drew on different approaches to portraiture, religious narrative and landscape.

Previtali’s paintings reflect both traditions. His subjects included Madonnas, religious gatherings, portraits and landscapes, often combining carefully observed human figures with detailed natural backgrounds.

After returning to Bergamo, he encountered the work of Lorenzo Lotto, whose approach to portraiture and religious painting introduced further stylistic developments.

The exhibition therefore examines Previtali not simply as a follower of Bellini, but as an artist whose work developed through exchanges between different regional schools.

It also includes Renaissance portraits, among them a painting on loan from the Accademia dei Concordi in Rovigo.

A separate section examines the practical techniques employed in Renaissance workshops, using physical and digital displays to explain how artists prepared, constructed and completed their paintings.

Such research has become increasingly important in the study and preservation of Europe’s Old Master paintings, allowing historians to reconstruct relationships between works that have survived in different institutions.

The restoration and presentation of historic collections also forms part of the wider debate about protecting Europe’s cultural heritage.

The Previtali exhibition has been organised by the municipality of Abano Terme in cooperation with the University of Padua and the Italian heritage authorities. It is curated by Raffaele Campion and Barbara Maria Savy.

Visitors will be able to see the reunited triptych at the Museo Villa Bassi Rathgeb from 17th October until 7th February 2027. The exhibition provides a rare chance to examine the three panels together and to understand how a religious commission created more than five centuries ago fitted into the artistic culture of Renaissance northern Italy.

Debris from a Russian drone damaged Cosmogony, a painting that set a national record in Ukraine, the Korsaks Museum of Contemporary Ukrainian Art in Lutsk, where the artwork was exhibited, reported on 14 October. A fire destroyed part of the painting’s final section, titled The Future, according to the statement.

Russian drones continue to attack Ukraine. Overnight into 15 October alone, Ukrainian air defense forces downed or suppressed 536 Russian unmanned aerial vehicles (UAVs). In recent days, Lutsk, a city in northwestern Ukraine, has been among the cities damaged by Russian attacks. Russian UAV attacks set fire to an oil depot, a wholesale warehouse, and a shopping center. At the museum, located on the shopping center’s premises, the fire damaged Ukraine’s largest painting, which covers a canvas of more than 2,000 square meters.

Russian attack damages museum in Lutsk

A fire broke out at the Adrenalin City shopping and entertainment complex, where the museum is located, Suspilne Lutsk reported. The blaze damaged the last of the painting’s six sections, according to the report.

“By destroying art and culture, they are also trying to destroy Ukrainians,” Tetiana Repnytska, director of the Museum of Contemporary Ukrainian Art in Lutsk, told Suspilne Lutsk.

Museum staff also had to evacuate more than 300 works by Ukrainian artist Emma Andiievska, which were exhibited alongside Cosmogony, Oles Tomakh, the museum’s chief curator, told Suspilne Lutsk. Some works could not be removed in time, resulting in shattered glass. However, the museum’s other exhibition halls were unaffected, the chief curator said.

The museum is weighing whether to fully restore the damaged fragment or keep the fire’s traces as a reminder of the war, and will decide after consulting the artist, Petro Antyp, and restoration specialists, it said. Repnytska told Suspilne Lutsk that the painting’s authors could also create a new section.

“Despite the shelling, we will continue to develop contemporary Ukrainian art and preserve it,” the museum director said.

Cosmogony—Ukraine’s largest painting

Artist Petro Antyp began working on the painting in November 2022, Suspilne Lutsk reported, and it took almost two years to complete, according to the museum’s website. The painting covers an area of 2,086 square meters.

In September 2024, the project set a national record as Ukraine’s largest painting.

The artwork explores the evolution of the universe, Earth, nature, humanity, society, culture, and science. Its six sections combine myths, legends, scientific theories, and symbols from different cultures, according to the museum’s website.

The project extends beyond the canvas, as the museum presents a multimedia performance that combines light, sound, and art.

Civilians killed and injured in Russia’s latest attack on Lutsk

Around noon on 14 October, a Russian jet-powered Shahed drone attacked Lutsk. Drone debris damaged a wholesale goods warehouse and a residential building, Roman Romaniuk, acting head of the Volyn Regional Military Administration, told Suspilne.

Falling drone debris sparked a large fire at the Yevrohurt wholesale warehouse. A nine-story residential building on Sobornosti Avenue was also damaged, Romaniuk later reported on social media.

Six people were killed in the strike on the warehouse: five were found at the scene, and another person died in the hospital. Eleven more people were injured, Romaniuk said.

Two other people, including a child, were injured in the residential building. Twelve people remained hospitalized, one of whom was in serious condition, according to the report.

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I got off Interstate 81 to give my soul a break. The back roads of southwest Virginia wind, crest, and plunge through lush valleys of oak, poplar, birch, and maple trees. It’s easy to lose track of time and distance there. People drive slower. Cows graze in pastures. And there are no placards festooned with Motel 6 and Starbucks logos, flattening the American landscape into a homogeneous blur. Any signs you might see are low to the ground and handmade, protesting a data center, for instance, or thanking Jesus.

I’d gone to this rural pocket of the country for the 90th annual Old Fiddler’s Convention in Galax, an independent city of just under 7,000 near the North Carolina border whose population, for six days in early August, balloons to around four times that. They arrive in RVs and Casitas, camper vans and cars to stake out 20-by-35-foot plots in Felts Park, a 28-acre fairground in the heart of Galax, transforming it into a massive, muddy parking lot sprinkled with portable toilets and a cluster of food trucks, offering loaded potatoes, funnel cake, and blooming onions.

The Old Fiddler’s Convention—or just Galax, as the diehards call it—is the oldest and largest fiddlers’ convention in the world, a place where banjo pickers, guitar players, and other maestros of old-time strings gather to see how they stack up. Founded in 1935, Galax has been canceled only twice since then: once during World War II, due to travel restrictions, and again in 2020, due to the COVID-19 pandemic. Many Galaxers have been going every year for decades, some for as long as they’ve been alive.

There are scads of rules: If you play clawhammer-style banjo in the bluegrass band competition, you will get disqualified. Same if you play bluegrass-style banjo in the old-time competition. If you break a string while performing, you must stop immediately. Playing time during competition is limited to two minutes and 30 seconds. And, crucially, no electric instruments of any kind are allowed, either on stage or in the tightly packed fairgrounds, where self-described hillbillies, accountants, firefighters, and session musicians pick day and night in blistering, impromptu jams amid the RVs. 

One does not merely attend Galax. It’s not a music festival. There are no headliners, and no full-set performances. There is a single stage, and over the course of six days, contestants take it one after another to play one song for a panel of judges and a smattering of spectators. There are more than a dozen categories, little changed in the past century: old-time fiddle, guitar, dulcimer, folk song. Cash prizes for individual players range from $35 to $285; a campsite and contestant pass together cost $175. “The prestige of being judged a ‘winner at Galax,’ and the respect for one’s musical talent that goes along with it, far outweighs any monetary award,” wrote Fred Burton in the March 1984 issue of Bluegrass Unlimited. 

In the 1980s and ’90s, cars lined up days before the gates to Felts Park opened. The fairgrounds got so full back then that people slept in the horse stables that used to line one end of them. Once, Elizabeth Taylor made a surprise appearance with her then-husband, Virginia Senator John Warner. Rumor has it that members of Old Crow Medicine Show and Leftover Salmon have shown up at Galax, under the radar, just to jam. 

And yet, despite appearing well attended to my virgin eyes, the Old Fiddler’s Convention’s numbers are down from the pre-pandemic years, and way down from peak Galax. Folks say it’s not like it was. Maybe, as one long-time attendee speculated, it’s that more kids are choosing devices and passive consumption over face-to-face activity with other humans, or that more and more young adults are fleeing southwest Virginia due to the gutted coal, tobacco, and manufacturing industries. Or maybe it’s just that people around there are dying faster than they’re being born. Glen Alexander, a 55-year-old fiddler who’s been going to Galax since he was a child, put it bluntly: “We’re all scared to death this is gonna go away.” 

Tara Linhardt, a professional mandolin player from Leesburg, Virginia, with thick, curly hair and a determined gaze, has been going to Galax since she was in high school, and was happy to advise me on how to survive my first time. Buy what you need locally, she told me; it was cheaper than New York. It will probably rain, so bring mud boots. Find a high patch of ground, because rainwater pools in the low spots. Afternoon jams were open to anyone, but unless I was dead good, I should just observe the nighttime ones, where the “thoroughbreds” play so fast that a newbie like me would only drag it down. 

Tara and her husband, Ian, pulled into Galax late Saturday afternoon, just in time to get a bite before parking their Four Winds RV by the dumpsters behind the Applebee’s at the edge of town. She told me to sleep in my car there, since the church parking lot was already full, and Applebee’s, unlike Hardee’s, doesn’t mind. We’d need to queue up by the gates to Felts Park before seven o’clock Sunday morning to ensure we’d get decent campsites. First-come, first-served. 

I’d arrived earlier that afternoon, hours later than Google Maps had predicted, because I forsook the interstate. The day before, I’d left my home in Brooklyn only to spend two hours driving five miles to reach the Holland Tunnel to New Jersey. I was spat out onto I-78, which at some point blended into I-81, hauling me across Pennsylvania to Staunton, Virginia, where I slept in a former sanatorium. I had recently been laid off from a job I’d held for 13 years, editing reports for a geopolitical risk advisory firm, and needed reprieve. I sought my escape on Route 11. 

In the trunk were a guitar and two banjos, instruments I was determined to spend the week playing in the Blue Ridge Mountains in lieu of applying for jobs and fretting about AI in my Brooklyn apartment. It was the first long road trip I’d taken alone in a quarter-century, and I’d hoped for a reset. Call it a midlife crisis if you want, but I drove cross-country a lot before I moved to New York, always on back roads. America is best seen up close.

After chatting awhile with Tara, Ian, and a luthier named John Hamlett, who’d also parked his RV behind the Applebee’s, I folded myself into the backseat of my Chevy Trax rental and more or less slept. I awoke at 6 a.m. to a downpour, rain pelting the roof of my car like fingertips on a conga drum. 

The four of us caravaned into town, where we waited until almost 9 a.m. to enter the park. We figured it was due to the rain. In fact, it was because of an issue with the gate itself. My source for this intel was none other than the Galax chief of police, DeWitt Cooper, who was directing traffic into Felts Park that day and hails from the Bronx. I’d see Chief Cooper again a couple days later, at Willie’s Food Truck inside the fairgrounds, where we chatted over catfish and collard greens about his philosophy of policing. “Don’t judge based on appearances and treat people with love,” he told me. 

I chose a plot on the far side of the fairgrounds, near a fence and a row of portable toilets, with Tara, Ian, and John all nearby. Our little commune wouldn’t last; the next day, Four Winds got stuck in the mud and Tara had to summon a Moose—one of the men of Moose Lodge No. 733, a fraternal organization that’s managed the Old Fiddler’s Convention since the beginning—to drag it out with a tractor. They found higher ground by the tennis courts and I stayed put. That night it rained again, and I awoke at 5 a.m. in a half-inch of water that had pooled in my tent overnight, soaking my sleeping bag, pillow, and clothes.

It’s no fun to wake up in a puddle, but when it rains in your tent, or the fairgrounds get so muddy that you watch a young woman lose a Birkenstock forever to the muck, or you start to stink because there’s only one public shower in Felts Park, it all feels incidental to what matters more: There’s pickin’ to do. You hear it all around, all the time. A lone fiddle at dawn, guitars easing into the afternoon, jams that grow in size and volume throughout the day, until night falls and Felts Park erupts in a surround-sound jamboree of syncopated banjos, arpeggiated fiddles, and bass notes so low and driving that they cut through it all at ground level. When it’s not raining, those jam sessions continue through the night, practically until the early morning’s still air is broken anew by someone’s fiddle.

My first jam came on Day 0, after the rain abated and I’d set up camp. The Old Fiddler’s Convention wouldn’t officially start until Monday night, with the astoundingly good kids’ competitions—the reigning bluegrass fiddle champion herself, Hollace Oakes, was 14 when she won the adult contest last year—but everyone in Felts Park was eager to pick.

Tara wanted to introduce me to Bill and Nancy Sluys, a couple in their early 70s who’ve been going to Galax every summer for some 50 years. We walked to their site, where Bill, a towering figure with a steady voice and a long, white, braided ponytail, emerged from their Airstream to invite anyone who might “wish to partake” to join Nancy and a few others inside. I told Bill I’d thought of bringing edibles to Galax, but the convention website said state laws concerning drugs and alcohol are “strictly enforced,” and Google’s AI bot, Gemini, warned that law enforcement would be crawling Felts Park with K-9 units, even though recreational cannabis is legal in Virginia for adults over 21.

Bill laughed and said that hasn’t been true in more than 40 years, though it used to be, on account of a music festival that happened once, half a century ago, about 15 miles up the road. Stompin 76 featured Bonnie Raitt, John Prine, and other big names from the time. The festival attracted a huge crowd, including a motorcycle gang that allegedly wanted to keep the party going after the festival wrapped, so they rolled into Galax on their hogs, stocked with methamphetamine, moonshine, and guns. Mayhem ensued. The authorities cracked down after that, ostensibly to maintain law and order in fiddleland. By the mid-’80s, they realized that the Old Fiddler’s Convention really was a family affair and let the fiddlers be. 

A group of six or seven people had gathered outside the Airstream by this point, all brandishing instruments. Bill, who grew up on Long Island, assumed his position behind an aluminum upright bass from the 1930s, while Nancy, a fiddler and banjo player roughly half Bill’s height who grew up in Connecticut, emerged from the Airstream with her fiddle. She sat down on a folding chair, called “Soldier’s Joy” in the key of D, and kicked it off at breakneck speed. This was an old-time jam, and “soldier’s joy” was a Civil War-era euphemism for morphine. Galax had begun.

An old-time jam goes something like this: Anywhere from two to umpteen musicians gather in a circle, knee-to-knee, and someone—usually the fiddler—calls a tune. Before you know it, you’re carried away by a cyclone of fiddles, mandolins, banjos, and guitars, all locked into a swirling rhythm that can, when it’s good, take you to church. 

The tradition dates to the mid-1700s, when Scots-Irish immigrants first settled in Appalachia. Even then, coastal property was for the elite, forcing poorer immigrants inland and south, through the Shenandoah Valley to southwest Virginia, where land was plentiful and cheap. Their music quickly took root. “The Scots brought fiddles and liquor,” Ted McAllister, one of my neighbors in Felts Park, told me. “The Germans brought church music and beer.” 

Over time, Scottish fiddle tunes evolved, as oral traditions do, and began to mix with the musical traditions of enslaved Africans, who had brought with them gourd instruments that would evolve into the American banjo, along with rhythms the Scots had never heard before. Old-time music, in other words, is the music of diasporas, fed into a blender and then worked into a froth. A lot of traditional folk songs came out of this period, too. One that I learned at Galax, “Going to the West,” tells the story of a young man who leaves the mountains of his birth, “where labor is in vain,” to seek the fertile plains out west. It’s the story of my own Scottish forebears, who settled in South Dakota before moving to what is now suburban Chicago, and later, Florida. 

Bluegrass, by contrast, was born in the 1940s, when Bill Monroe and The Blue Grass Boys took those mountain sounds, combined them with Southern church music and blues, and tightened it all into something you might call an uncle of rock ’n’ roll. There’s a reason that Billy Strings plays to sold-out arenas and pickers from around the world can play classics like “Blue Ridge Cabin Home” at the drop of a one-chord. 

Where bluegrass is punchy and clean, designed for the stage, old-time is ecstatic, designed for participation. Bluegrass jams attract spectators who marvel at the players’ pyrotechnics; old-time jams get people on their feet. At Galax, some folks drag big pieces of plywood around the fairgrounds looking for old-time jams, where they’ll lay the board down at the edge of the circle and dance. Flatfooters they’re called: the percussion section. 

The New York bluegrass community has a Signal thread, and through it I met Harrison Corthell, a banjo player from Queens who was camping in what he called the “gayborhood” of Felts Park: two tents and a rainbow flag. Corthell offered to introduce me to Tyler Hughes, who was also camping in the gayborhood. Hughes serves as the executive director of the Crooked Road Heritage Music Trail, a nonprofit founded by the Virginia Assembly in 2004 to boost tourism through music. Alsace has the Route des Vins, and Kentucky the Bourbon Trail. Southwest Virginia has the Crooked Road.

I found Hughes Thursday afternoon as he was setting up the Crooked Road’s information booth. Musicians were streaming by for the clawhammer banjo competition, which was set to begin any minute. As we sat on a park bench, I told Hughes that I’d begun to think of its music as the region’s chief international export of the past 100 years. “I think that’s a fair assessment,” he said, but stressed that he resists thinking of Appalachia’s musical traditions like a natural resource such as iron or coal. “We really try to stray away from an over-commodified, over-commercialized vision of southwest Virginia,” Hughes said. 

Musical traditions can be packaged and sold, after all. Last winter, an Appalachian folk musician named Murphy Campbell discovered that her videos on YouTube had been used to create AI clones of her voice and banjo playing. Someone then used Vydia, a music distribution platform, to share those clones via streaming services and to make copyright claims on Campbell’s own videos. Campbell described her ordeal on Instagram, including trying to address the matter with “agents” at those streaming services: “I’m telling robots to take down music robots made,” she said. Her posts went viral, causing Vydia to ultimately withdraw the copyright claims and ban the user responsible, according to reports. “It’s the wild west,” Campbell said in one of her posts. “And it can happen to anyone.”

I asked Hughes what percentage of the people in southern Appalachia play an instrument of some kind. He guessed around 70 percent. I’d heard the same number from Daniel, a 32-year-old banjo player I’d met earlier in the week, who works at a sawmill in Grayson County. “It’s kinda the only thing goin’ on around here,” Daniel said. He explained that when the cotton mill in Grayson County closed in the late 1980s, “everyone” started using meth. Then opioids. Within the next 20 years, drug overdoses had become a leading cause of death in southwest Virginia. Getting together to pick, Daniel said, “helps you through real hard stuff.”

The guitar I took to Galax is a 1989 Takamine I’ve had since I was 14, when my parents indulged my desire to learn Pink Floyd and Jimi Hendrix songs on the condition that I take classical guitar lessons. I spent my first day or two in Felts Park carrying it around like a security blanket, but I was there to play the banjo. Upon arrival, I realized that I might have been the worst banjo player in Galax. 

I picked up the instrument in 2024, at age 48, in part because my maternal grandfather played one and I was always curious about it. More than that, I wanted to build a mountain banjo, the rustic kind people in Appalachia made from whatever wood they had nearby, animal skins for heads, and guts for strings. I liked their warm, thuddy sound, totally unlike the piercing banjos of bluegrass with their steel strings and resonator backs. So I learned everything I could about how to build one and called my dad to ask if he’d help. I knew the banjo; he knew wood. 

That summer, we spent a week together in his shop in Illinois, building a fretless eastern Kentucky-style mountain banjo out of walnut and ash. Most people in New York ask what it is; everyone at Galax identified it instantly. I’ve since built seven banjos and acquired three more, all different styles. This spring, I carved a neck from a piece of walnut entirely by hand, no power tools, for a 19th-century-style tackhead, the kind played by enslaved Africans on plantations and by Civil War soldiers around the campfire. It’s not just that I’m fascinated by the instrument. As my actual trades—crafting sentences and teaching others to do the same—are increasingly devalued by technology and a society that no longer reads, building banjos gives me one thing that I can hold onto. 

Shortly after my banjo obsession began, I started going to old-time jams in New York City, and later, bluegrass jams. I didn’t—and still don’t—actually listen to old-time or bluegrass music; my tastes trend melancholic. But I missed playing music with other people, something I hadn’t done since college and had begun to crave during the endless, isolated days of the pandemic. In early 2025, I started going to a regular jam session at a bar in Brooklyn called Sunny’s, whose owner has turned it into an institution of roots, bluegrass, and folk music. Some of the best pickers in the tri-state area turn up there each week, along with people like me, there to learn. It took me months to lead a song without blacking out. They call it “jamnesia,” and it’s humiliating. 

After one week among the pickers of southern Appalachia, I got tighter, faster, as if the place itself does some of the teaching. A fiddler friend from New York, who’d been to Galax in the 2010s, was more succinct: “It seeps from the earth.”

Galax is hardly the first fiddlers’ convention; it’s just the oldest one still left. In the days before the railroad and automobile, let alone the World Wide Web, fiddlers’ conventions brought the people of Appalachia together, allowing songs and picking styles to spread like gossip over those hills. They could get pretty wild, and early-days Galax was no exception. Women and children did not go to Galax back then. It was a place where men gathered to let loose—“outside of the eyes of their preacher and their wives,” Rex McGee, a multi-instrumentalist from North Carolina, told me.

I’d heard of the McGee jams already, where “things get weird,” according to a woman I met Monday morning while I waited in line for the shower. Their camp sits right inside Felts Park, steps from the food trucks, identifiable by a 1974 Ford school bus painted an ominous matte grey. They call it the Muddy Creek Bus, for the band that Glen Alexander’s dad formed in the 1970s and soon became the back-up band for Rex and his brother Ralph’s grandfather, Ralph McGee the First, aka the Old-Timer. The Muddy Creek Boys could party as hard as the Old-Timer; it didn’t hurt that they could pick too. By the 1980s, the real show came after hours. Dozens of people would gather outside the bus to watch the Old-Timer, then in his 80s, fiddle with just about anything he could find: a toothpick, a comb, a “coon dick”—literally a bone from a raccoon’s penis. And it was loud. (For any curious fiddlers out there, you can buy four of these on eBay for $39.95.)

Felts Park is a galaxy of legacy camps like the Muddy Creek Bus. Almost everyone I met told me they’d been going to Galax for 40, 50, even 60 years. Their stories are legion, and they love to tell them: The year it rained so hard that one group holed up in an RV for six days with eight people, an upright bass, and “a little bit of cocaine.” The year a couple of young women got into a fight over a guy, went to fisticuffs in the mud, and ripped each other’s shirts off in front of scores of onlookers—“no one wanted it to stop,” one man recalled with a chuckle. The year several people went mudsliding on the tire tracks, which, for reasons unclear, were composed of raw sewage. 

Jimmy Kidd, an 86-year-old Dobro player who’s been going to Galax since he was 29, regaled me with the time he won the guitar competition, in 1969, by playing the Dobro because there was no Dobro competition then. His daughter, Vicky, told me she met Elizabeth Taylor when she came through Galax, in 1977, when Vicky was 12. Taylor was in a wheelchair, Vicky said, and she wasn’t very nice.

Leo Lindblom sat on a low stool cradling a mandolin, his sister Lucy beside him. They’d taken the stage in the kids’ mandolin competition on Monday night, and Leo was focused. With flawless timing and dexterity, the 12-year-old picker dazzled the audience, Lucy accompanying him on guitar, for roughly two minutes. Then he rose from the stool, took a bow, and, with Lucy, exited the stage. 

On Thursday, I met Leo, Lucy, and the rest of the Lindbloms—Marina, Jon, and their nine kids, all but one of whose names begins with an L—at their bus in a gravel parking lot just across the road from Felts Park, where it was a little quieter than Galax Central. The Lindbloms first went to Galax in 2021, after discovering bluegrass at a gift shop in North Carolina while on a family vacation five years prior. All nine of the kids responded instantly to the “happy, upbeat” music coming out of the speakers, and mom and dad bought the CD on the spot. 

The kids, who range in age from 12 to 28 and were all homeschooled, each chose an instrument and formed their two bands, Headin’ Home and The Brothers Five. Now, when they’re not home in Bloomingdale, Georgia, they’re on the road playing festivals and gigs across the country. I asked what makes Galax special. Libby said it gives them a rare chance to slow down, to not have to be “on” all the time, and just spend time together. 

As we sat outside their bus, all 11 of them and me, I asked: Why bluegrass? After all, Marina and Jon met at the Eastman School of Music and played in the Savannah Philharmonic for 10 years. They know Tchaikovsky and Brahms just as well as Bill Monroe and the Carter Family. They could teach their kids classical music, or any other kind. “Our goal, in everything we do, is to glorify the Lord,” Marina explained. And with bluegrass, she said, they are able to give people a bit of happiness, a chance to tap their feet and forget about their troubles for a little while. It’s an act of service. 

Then I turned to Leo, the youngest, who was perched on Lucy’s lap, and asked what he likes about playing music that, surely, most kids his age don’t know anything about. “Everything,” he said, before checking my presumption: All the kids he knows play bluegrass or old-time, he said. He’s met them all through places like Galax. 

I’d registered for the clawhammer banjo competition a month before Galax opened its gates, but by the evening of the contest, I was so worn out from five semi-sleepless nights, as many days packed with conversation and playing, and a dubious diet of beer, bananas, and cheese sandwiches that I decided to sit it out and trekked up the hill to Main Street for some Chinese food. Besides, I don’t even play clawhammer banjo. I’ve developed a hybrid style: I use finger picks, like bluegrass, but keep rhythm by striking the strings with the back of my middle finger, like clawhammer. After five days of watching virtuosos of both styles create magic on their instruments, I wasn’t about to do my mishmash in front of a panel of judges.

As I sat in my air-conditioned booth, hovering over a plate of garlic chicken, I got a call from Tara. Was I going to compete? I told her I’d spent the whole day interviewing people and was exhausted. “You have to participate!” she countered. “I triple-dog dare ya.” I was just delirious enough to bend. Thirty minutes later I was backstage rehearsing my song with John Garrison, who has gone to Galax each of the past 46 years. After a few runs through an instrumental version of “White Freightliner Blues” by Townes Van Zandt, I checked in, slapped a number on my chest, and took the stage. Tara squatted right in front to take video, smiling wide. Our pickin’ was clean, but we landed way outside the money: I bastardized the form and played a copyrighted song. We still got a big round of applause. 

My style served me better in the jams, where more than once people assured me that if it sounds good, ain’t no reason to change it. Some of the best sessions I went to were inside an A-frame tent adjacent to the gayborhood and maybe 100 yards from my campsite. On Monday night, I played fiddle tunes and shared a jar of moonshine in that tent with three young guys who lived just down the road, near the town of Fries, in Grayson County. One of them built a fiddle from scratch; it took him years. I did my version of “White Freightliner Blues” with them, and when we finished, one yipped, “That’s how it’s done!”  

Thanks to the moonshine, I forgot about Tara’s advice to sit out the nighttime jams and hopped over to a bluegrass jam that was really crackin’. At least 10 musicians stood in a circle, and the tempo was hot. I asked a guitar player if I could join. “You’ll have to ask him,” he replied, motioning to the only banjo player in the group. They did not expand the circle to let me in, and I hung awkwardly on the periphery for a song or two before going back to my tent. 

It was one of only two times I felt unwelcome at Galax. The other came after the guys from Fries learned I was a journalist from New York City. I’d gone back to their tent Tuesday afternoon to jam but ended up talking with Daniel, the sawmill worker, instead. He was without his banjo, so while the other guys picked fiddle tunes, I told Daniel I was there to write about Galax and asked if I could record our conversation. He cheerfully agreed, but after that—and I could very well be wrong about this—I sensed that the other guys looked at me sideways. 

Daniel, on the other hand, remained inviting and warm. One afternoon late in the week, I was sitting by my tent when he wandered over to say hello. He wanted to give me a leaf of galax, the rubbery, low-lying evergreen from which the town takes its name. “I thought you’d like this for your story,” he said, and stayed to visit awhile.

I broke camp Saturday afternoon and packed up my car. Before I left Galax, however, I dashed over to catch the “43rd Yearly International Kazoo Championship” a few campsites down from Bill and Nancy’s Airstream, as Tara had assured me it was “not to be missed.” Reporters don’t spend much time at the Old Fiddler’s Convention, and Tara was concerned that I might focus too much on the negatives in my writing—the mud, the gastronomic limitations, the attrition. Like everyone I met in Felts Park, she wanted me to return to New York with a real sense of why they keep coming back, year after year, and of what could be lost if they stopped.

Several dozen people were gathered at the “soup kitchen,” a community tent where, two nights prior, Chief Cooper had served hundreds of Styrofoam cups filled with venison stew, made by Nancy herself, from deer she and Bill had hunted on their property. Now, the ground was muddy and more rain was imminent. The contestants were undeterred, ready to blow their hearts out on plastic kazoos. 

I soon understood Tara’s insistence. The International Kazoo Championship pokes a little fun at the rigidity of the main stage. One by one, each contestant was disqualified for breaking at least one of the competition’s 12 rules, which included “No Fun Not Allowed” and “All Participants Must Be Present In Order To Attend.” They were then each invited to perform again, and one by one, each was named the winner. Then all the contestants and judges second-lined through Felts Park in the rain, led by a trumpet and trailed by a banjo, blowing “When the Saints Go Marching In” on their kazoos.

After a quick walkabout to say my goodbyes, I drove north on Route 221, past the Applebee’s and the Walmart where, at Tara’s urging, I did most of my shopping for the week. That night I met up with a friend from New York, who’d invited me to a 40th birthday party at a 19th-century cabin deep in the woods north of Roanoke. We stayed up late, drinking bourbon and talking about music. I’d rather have been playing it. 

On Sunday morning, I got in my car and continued north on Route 11. As I wound through the mountains, catching the occasional glimpse of semis and cars streaming by on I-81, I played a recording I made of “Going to the West” through the car’s stereo. Brian Muller, who placed third in this year’s mandolin contest, led us in the jam, his plaintive baritone providing the perfect soundtrack to my drive: I leave you here, in this land that you love, ’mid scenes so bright and fair, where fragrant flowers are blooming and music fills the air. I imagined bringing the song to New York jams, and wondered if it would fly.

Passing through the town of Buchanan, a few hours from Galax, I saw a familiar face. Ted McAllister and his wife, Debbie, were getting out of their car just outside the Buchanan Baptist Church. I pulled alongside them, rolled down my window, and said, “Fancy seeing you here.” Ted, guitar case in hand, told me to come inside.

A few dozen people were gathered in the Fellowship Hall for a potluck lunch to celebrate the Buchanan Baptist Church’s 190th anniversary. A preacher named Bill Hartsfield welcomed me at the door. (“Like a field of hearts,” he said with a firm handshake.) Then he walked with me to the serving counter, where I fixed a plate of fried chicken, cheese casserole, and ambrosia salad. We sat down with the McAllisters and two other local musicians, Alan Berry and Mike Lee. “Galax is a subculture of a subculture,” Ted explained as we ate. Music is woven into everything from Sunday morning church services to holiday parties and family picnics. 

We finished our plates and went into the chapel, where, for the next 90 minutes or so, Ted, Alan, Mike, and a banjo player named Kim Wood played bluegrass versions of church hymns for around 20 people. Two little girls danced in the aisle, swept up by the music. Halfway through their set, as I sat in my pew, Ted walked to the pulpit and introduced me. He explained that we’d spent the week as neighbors in Galax, talking, telling stories, picking songs, and he was delighted to show me a little more of “how we do things ’round here.”

I hadn’t been to church in decades, and a couple hours of Southern hospitality won’t make a believer out of me. But hearing Ted and the others play, watching children dance, and meeting people who looked me in the eye and didn’t rush the conversation felt deeply familiar. I may have spent almost my entire adult life in New York City, but I grew up on the Illinois-Iowa border, on the banks of the Mississippi. Church backrooms, potlucks, and ambrosia salad were all part of my childhood. 

By 2:30, I really had to get going. For the second time in two days, I said goodbye to Ted, got in my car, and was on my way. 

A week later, I was back at Sunny’s Bar in Brooklyn, playing songs with a dozen or so people in the bar’s backroom. I called “Going to the West,” and after a quick run through the chords on my latest banjo build, a resonator back with a dragon fretboard inlay that I’d played on stage in Galax, I started singing. It was a little shaky at first, but by the second verse everyone was locked in. 

When we finished, one of the musicians remarked that it was a beautiful song. I agreed and asked if he knew it already. “No,” he said. “But I’m going to learn it now.”

David Alm is a Brooklyn-based writer and editor. His work has frequently been included in Longreads‘ Weekly Top Five and annual Best Features lists. He also teaches journalism at Hunter College-CUNY, where he focuses on feature writing and creative nonfiction.

Editor: Brendan Fitzgerald
Fact-checker: Julie Schwietert Collazo
Copyeditor: Cheri Lucas Rowlands