Ever dream of creating paintings like those by Picasso or Van Gogh? These days you just need some artificial intelligence, which can be delivered through your smartphone.

Two of this summer's much buzzed-about apps are Prisma, which turns your photos into what look like paintings, and Artisto, which does the same for videos. Both are available for iOS and Android.

Whether the results are true works of art can be debated, but millions of the apps' users are having fun trying to imitate the masters.

Prisma uses neural networks and deep learning algorithms to process photos and make them look like art, applying styles such as that of The Scream by Edvard Munch or the pop art of a Roy Lichtenstein.

As Prisma Labs co-founder Aram Airapetyan explains, there are several neural networks on a server and each performs different tasks. The goal is to extract the style from the artwork and apply it to the photo.

"Prisma's art filters are not actually filters. The result is being created from a blank canvas using the two data inputs — the style and the original photo — to generate a final image," Airapetyan says.

Prisma stormed up the app charts and, as of last month, had been downloaded 52 million times, with 4 million active users per day.

Here's how Airapetyan explains the success: "We all want to be part of something big, cool and interesting. We all would like to know how we would look like through van Gogh's prism."

Airapetyan's lab is working on a video version, due for release in the next few weeks.

Artisto, by the Russian company Mail.ru, has done that already. The app processes and transforms video sequences into something reminiscent of A Scanner Darkly, the 2006 science fiction movie by Richard Linklater that used a technique called interpolated rotoscoping.

Professionals had to do it frame by frame in postproduction, a process that took 18 months to complete. But Artisto needs only seconds, though it's currently limited to 10-second video clips. Celebrities use it on Instagram, including British pianist and singer Stephen Ridley and the Russian Eurovision winner Dima Bilan.

Artisto's developers used, among others, findings from Russian researcher Dmitry Ulyanov to improve the code and to speed up the video processing. This involves training an additional neural network that allows stylized images to be generated very quickly.

Art experts say the results aren't art in the purest sense, but such apps may help more people connect to art.

David Nolta, a professor at the Massachusetts College of Art and Design, says apps like Prisma are tools for "artistic play with a fairly limited number of outcomes." It's not art in itself, he says, since all works of art begin with infinite possibilities and decisions.

Nolta says Prisma reminds him of a player piano: "While the person controlling the piano is not an artist, and while the music that comes out is at best the reproduction of sounds determined by another, the instrument still does undeniably represent a point of connection between one or more people and a work of art." So, for him, being introduced to a great artist through an app on a smartphone is the start of something good.

Katherine Thomson-Jones, who teaches philosophy of art at Oberlin College in Ohio, takes a similar stance. "The more people with access to artistic tools, the better, since this increases the chances of there being more good art in the world. Of course, it also increases the chances of there being more bad art in the world," she says.

Thomson-Jones says that editing with Prisma involves making many creative choices about subject matter, angle, framing and style. "But the resulting Prisma work is unlikely to be something we want to display in a gallery or spend hours contemplating," she says.

Mail.ru Vice President Anna Artamonova, whose company developed Artisto, says that "neural networks are rocketing right now in the field of computer vision."

She says apps such as Artisto will make future communication more lively and expressive and in no way "old-fashioned," as it may seem when looking at an artificial impressionist or expressionist painting or a pencil sketch. "It depends on the style of the source that can be anything — from classic painting to ultramodern imagery," she says.

Mail.Ru plans to "dramatically improve the quality of the videos" and create 360-degree versions, she says.

Copyright 2016 NPR. To see more, visit http://www.npr.org/.

In this archival edition of Fishko Files: insights into photographing jazz musicians from two late, great jazz photographers, Herman Leonard and Roy DeCarava, both interviewed by WNYC’s Sara Fishko toward the end of their lives. (Produced in 2008)

Opening Friday, September 23 at Metrograph Cinema is a new documentary directed by Sara Fishko, The Jazz Loft According to W. Eugene Smith. A film about jazz, photography, New York...and the struggle to lead a creative life. 

For more information, visit wnyc.org/jazzloftthemovie/.

WNYC Production Credits

Executive Producer: Sara Fishko
Assistant Producer: Olivia Briley
Mix Engineer: Wayne Shulmister
Managing Editor, WNYC News: Karen Frillmann

Watch Video | Listen to the Audio

In our NewsHour Shares series, we show you things that caught our eye recently on the web. What about you? Leave your suggestions in the comments below, or tweet to @NewsHour using #NewsHourShares. We might share it on air.
JUDY WOODRUFF:  Finally to our “NewsHour” Shares, something that caught our eye that might be of interest to you, too.

Arizona photographer Mike Olbinski is a storm chaser whose time-lapse videos have been used in commercials, documentaries and even feature films.

MIKE OLBINSKI, Photographer:  My name is Mike Olbinski.  And I am a professional storm and wedding photographer based out of Phoenix, Arizona.

It’s kind of kind of a crazy profession.  And I got into it mainly because I have loved the weather ever since I was a kid.  And it wasn’t until, you know, early 30s that I started seeing photos of lightning, and I just started getting interested in it.

My time-lapses are still frames.  So my camera is taking a picture every second, every two seconds, every three seconds, whatever I’m out there trying to do, and then those get kind of put together into a video.

It kind of goes back to the old days of animation, where people used to draw cartoons on a piece of paper on like a hundred pages, and then flip through it, and you would get this motion happening.

I kind of have two chase seasons in a way.  I chase out on the Plains in the spring, and then I live in Phoenix, so then I just chase the monsoon all summer.

And, obviously, it’s a lot easier here.  And this is kind of where I started, because all I have to do is just drive 40 miles to get somewhere to shoot a dust storm, instead of driving 16 hours to Oklahoma to shoot a storm that might not happen.

I think the dust storms are something that are kind of unique to us.  Other people get them every now and then, but we get them all the time.

The lightning out here is just — is probably better than most places, just because our storms are really what they call high-based, where the bottom of the storms are really up high, so you see a lot more of the lightning hitting the ground.

Out on the Plains, these storms just take on otherworldly appearances because they are rotating as they go upwards.  And a lot of times, that rotation ends up turning the storm into looking like a flying saucer or the mother ship, as everybody likes to say.

I have seen some pretty amazing storms over the course of the last seven or eight years.  The first one was the big dust storm that hit Phoenix on July 5, 2011.  I have lived here my whole life, and I have never — I have seen dust storms all the time, but I have never seen one like this.  It just looked like the end of the world.

A couple years later, in 2013, we were in Texas, and we were shooting this storm in front of a cornfield that had been chopped down.  And then the sun was setting, and so the whole sky was orange.  And this supercell was spinning.  It was just sucking up dirt off the ground.

I just love this, like, solitude of being out there, being with nature, seeing these amazing storms, and trying to get the best footage and photos that I possibly can.

JUDY WOODRUFF:  All I can say is wow.

GWEN IFILL:  Those pictures, the dust storm picture of Phoenix, amazing.

JUDY WOODRUFF:  Just — I have never seen anything like it.

GWEN IFILL:  I wouldn’t want to be behind the camera.  OK.

The post For this photographer, following the storm produces awe-inspiring results appeared first on PBS NewsHour.

In the 1950s, Edward Steichen of the Museum of Modern Art wanted to say something about the world. He said it, as Sara Fishko tells us, with a photo exhibit that made history. In this edition of Fishko Files, a look back at "Family of Man." (Produced in 2004)

A celebrated Life Magazine photographer's massive archive is the subject of WNYC Studios' The Jazz Loft According to W. Eugene Smith, directed by Sara Fishko and released by FilmBuff.

Opens Friday, September 23 at Metrograph Cinema in New York
For tickets and more information, visit metrograph.com or wnyc.org/jazzloftthemovie/

WNYC Production Credits

Executive Producer: Sara Fishko
Assistant Producer: Olivia Briley
Mix Engineer: Wayne Shulmister
Managing Editor, WNYC News: Karen Frillmann

We all know the photo: It captures the rage, division and the racial tension from 40 years ago, that is still so present now in our country.

Titled "The Soiling of Old Glory," the photo won a Pulitzer Prize for breaking news photography. Stanley Forman took the picture on April 5, 1976, by for what was then the Boston Herald American.

"For the time (it) has everything you want in the picture," says Forman. If you've seen the picture, it's hard to forget. A young, white man lunges at a black man with the sharp point of a flagpole, with the American flag attached.

Forman remembers the day clearly.

"It was a Monday. And I reported to the office, and I spoke to the city editor, who was Alvin Saley. Asked what he was doing. He told me there was a busing — every day was a busing demonstration — it was a busing demonstration down at city hall. I asked if I could go, he said, 'Sure' so I went down there."

There were a lot of these protests happening in Boston at the time. The city had been busing kids outside of their neighborhoods in an effort to desegregate the schools.

Stanley Foreman grabbed his cameras and went down to city hall. He came upon a group of white student protesters walking through the main plaza.

"I looked over my shoulder as most of the group kept going and I saw a black man taking the turn. He was coming up State Street, in the background is the original state house, and I just, it just clicked in my mind, they're gonna get him."

The black man who was attacked, Ted Landsmark, is now 70 years old.

In 1976, Landsmark was a 29-year-old Yale-educated lawyer He was a New York transplant working in Boston as an attorney. He had a background in civil rights work and, at the time, was trying to get more minority contractors into construction. But he hadn't been paying much attention to the busing protests, and he had no idea he was about to run directly into one.

"I had difficulty finding a parking space in downtown Boston, and I was running a few minutes late for the meeting in city hall. So I was in a hurry and perhaps not paying as much attention as I might have as I approached a corner, where the young demonstrators were coming in the other direction. I did not see them until both they and I were at that corner."

Before he knew it, a group of students surrounded him.

"The first person to attack me hit me from behind, which knocked off my glasses and ended up breaking my nose. The flag being swung at me came at me just moments after that and missed my face by inches," Landsmark recalls.

"The entire incident took about seven seconds."

All the while, Stanley Foreman was watching through his camera lens. He captured the attack and left the plaza to follow the protesters. Ted Landsmark went to the hospital.

"As luck would have it, there was an African-American doctor who was on duty. And, when he bandaged me, he pointed out that there were a number of reporters waiting to talk to me outside of the emergency room and that we had a choice as to how to deal with my broken nose: We could either put a small bandage on it or he could basically wrap my face in a way that would indicate that I'd been a victim of major violence. And he asked what my preference was, and I told him that I would rather have the major wrap if I was going to be facing the media."

Landsmark knew what had happened to him was not just a personal attack — it was a new flash point in the ongoing civil rights struggle.

Right after he left the scene, Stanley Foreman called his editors, who had told him the story was already getting out.

"'It's on the wires,' Foreman recalls them saying, " 'A guy got attacked.'"

"I said, 'I got the pictures,' he goes 'What, what?! Get in the office right away. So I went back to city hall plaza ... developed the film. And it was scary. [My editors] were very frightened by it."

"It was an 'Oh, wow' moment, how big do we play it?" Foreman says. They were hesitant to put it above the fold.

"And they sort of got lucky because Howard Hughes died. They had an out ... But who knows. Top of the page was Howard Hughes, bottom of the page a little bit above the crease was the flag image."

The next day the photograph appeared in newspapers across the country. Ted Landsmark's phone began to ring.

"People began to call me and to send me. I had had no idea that it would get the kind of dramatic distribution that it did. And I received hundreds of letters and communications from around the world expressing support for me, asking what I had done to provoke the crowd which, of course, was nothing."

What he did do was to use the attack as an opportunity to draw attention to racial injustice. Landsmark realized he had a choice.

"I could either focus on my anger at being attacked or we could try to mobilize other people who had not been involved with any of the busing and the violence in a way that would bring more people of conscience into the conversation around the subject of what was going on in Boston at that time," Landsmark says.

He would spend the next weeks and months speaking out in local churches and schools, talking with community groups and elected officials.

Landsmark says he never saw his attacker again — Joseph Rakes, the white student who came at him that day with the flag. NPR did not hear back after reaching out to Rakes for comment.

In a Smithsonian Magazine account of Joseph Rakes and his motivations, Rakes said that, essentially, he was a kid and the busing proposal meant that he was going to lose half his friends. We were going to be forced to go to a different school, and that made him upset. That's where he was emotionally on that day in those protests.

Landsmark says he didn't spend much time thinking about him and his motivations on that day, but that "in all of the comments that I made, I did focus on the motivations of the adults who had encouraged these young people to be out of school and to participate in the kinds demonstrations that led to high levels of racial violence. And I felt that that was grossly inappropriate."

The flag is back in the public discourse relating to racial inequality in this country, in large part because of Colin Kaepernick, the quarterback for the 49ers, who's conducting an ongoing protest.

In regards to the current debate over these kinds of demonstrations, Ted Landsmark says the flag "is a symbol of what we aspire to be as a democracy," albeit a complicated one, given its diverse audience.

"I view myself as an American who has benefited tremendously from the best America can provide. And I also recognize that in the name of the flag some very heinous things have been done to people in this country and elsewhere," he says. "When there's a demonstration that involves the flag that speaks to how we express our values of democracy and fairness, that it is really an appropriate icon for all of us to look to as to what we want to be as opposed to what we sometimes have been."

"The demonstrations that are going on at this moment speak I think to what it is we aspire to be as a democracy that provides fairness and equal opportunity and equality to all of the people that believe in the best values of the flag."

Copyright 2016 NPR. To see more, visit http://www.npr.org/.

It's a puzzling image — with a crime story behind it.

Women in colorful saris — hot pink, highlighter yellow, teal and royal blue — snake up a dusty gray quarry, carrying baskets of coal over their heads. It's early in the morning; they're stealing from the mine before officials come in for the day.

It's certainly not your typical Instagram photo — selfies, #TBTs or food porn. But it won Ronny Sen, a photographer from India, one of the top spots in Getty Images second annual Instagram Grant.

Yesterday, the photo agency awarded $10,000 each to Sen and two others, Christian Rodriguez of Uruguay and Girma Berta of Ethiopia, for using Instagram, the photo-sharing app, to highlight stories of underrepresented people around the world, including the poor, the elderly and children. In addition to cellphone photos, this year's grant was expanded to include videographers and visual artists.

The winners are established photojournalists and artists in their own right. Rodriguez's work has been published in National Geographic and The New York Times and he's the founder of an international film festival in Uruguay. Sen's photography has been featured in exhibitions in the Netherlands, India and Poland. And Berta, a graphic artist and painter, is the art director of GBOX Creative Studios, an ad agency in Addis Ababa.

For the winners, posting photos on Instagram feels more personal and allows them to let loose."Working with my cellphone makes me feel freer," wrote Rodriguez in an email to Goats and Soda. "I don't feel any pressure at the time I'm taking a picture because I almost do it for fun."

Still, their images touch on serious topics. Rodriguez's photos highlight the resilience of teen mothers across Latin America. Sen focuses on the plight of coal miners in India. And Berta captures vibrant street life in Ethiopia's capital through a series of mixed-media images.

There were hundreds of entrants from over 90 countries. Submissions were judged by a panel including Adriana Zehbrauskas, one of last year's winners, plus photo experts like Nicolas Jimenez, director of photography for Le Monde, and Azu Nwagbogu, director of the Lagos Photo Festival. On top of the cash prize, the photographers will have their work exhibited at Photoville, a festival in New York, from September 21 to 25.

We asked each photographer to tell us about their winning images.

Christian Rodriguezis a documentary photographer from Uruguay. He covered the Israeli-Hezbollah conflict in Lebanon in 2006 and has worked for news agencies like AFP, AP and Reuters. His winning work comes from a series called Teen Mom, depicting teen pregnancy in Latin America. "It can be very difficult for girls," he says. "But I want to portray them with the dignity and courage they have."

His advice for people who want to up their game on Instagram? "Don't do it for the 'likes,' " he says. "Do it because you really believe in it."

Ronny Sen is a documentary photographer based in Calcutta who's working on a book, an exhibit for a festival in the Netherlands and a solo show in Bombay. He used both photography and video to capture the stories of the mine workers and their familiesin the mineral-rich town of Jharia.

The inspiration behind his photos? "Doomsday," he says. "I wanted them to look like a post-apocalyptic world on the edge, like the last day of the world's existence."

Girma Berta is an Addis Ababa-based artist who often infuses street photography with a mix of artistic approaches to draw attention to his subjects. His project, Moving Shadows, won him this year's Getty Grant for its street scenes superimposed against a bold backdrop of color.

A member of @everydayafrica, an Instagram account that showcases images of life across the continent, Berta is an advocate of phone photos. "Instagram is a peephole to the stories I create," he says. "It enables the world to look into what I have created and take something from it."

Copyright 2016 NPR. To see more, visit http://www.npr.org/.

Between 1957 and 1965 in New York, dozens of jazz musicians jammed night after night in a dilapidated Sixth Avenue loft, not realizing that much of what they played and said was being captured on tape and on photographs by former LIFE Magazine photographer W. Eugene Smith, who lived in the loft space next door. The result is a collection of rehearsals by jazz legends including Thelonious Monk, Ron Free and Hall Overton. Director and producer Sara Fishko, host of WNYC's Fishko Files, joins us to discuss her new documentary, “The Jazz Loft According to W. Eugene Smith.” 

Opens in New York Friday, September 25 Metrograph Cinema (7 Ludlow Street, Between Canal & Hester Streets]. Intro and Q&A with Director Sara Fishko on opening night, September 23. Available to rent (VOD) Friday, October 7 on iTunes, Amazon, Google Play and Vudu.

W. Eugene Smith, [Self-portrait at loft window].

( © 2009, 2015 The Heirs of W. Eugene Smith)

Between 1957 and 1965 in New York, dozens of jazz musicians jammed night after night in a dilapidated Sixth Avenue loft, not realizing that much of what they played and said was being captured on tape and on photographs by former LIFE Magazine photographer W. Eugene Smith, who lived in the loft space next door. The result is a collection of rehearsals by jazz legends including Thelonious Monk, Ron Free and Hall Overton. Director and producer Sara Fishko, host of WNYC's Fishko Files, joins us to discuss her new documentary, “The Jazz Loft According to W. Eugene Smith.” 

Opens in New York Friday, September 23 at Metrograph Cinema (7 Ludlow Street, Between Canal & Hester Streets]. Intro and Q&A with Director Sara Fishko on opening night, September 23. Available to rent (VOD) Friday, October 7 on iTunes, Amazon, Google Play and Vudu.

W. Eugene Smith, [Self-portrait at loft window].

( © 2009, 2015 The Heirs of W. Eugene Smith)

Det første dødsfald skete om natten den 9. januar.

Det var en lørdag. Pele Kristiansen brugte formiddagen på at sidde hjemme og drikke øl med sin ældre bror, hvilket ikke var så udsædvanligt. Der var ikke meget arbejde i byen. Mange folk drak. Om eftermiddagen hørte de nogen, som bankede på døren og råbte.

"Isbjørn! Der er en isbjørn!"

På den frosne fjord nogle kilometer væk kunne de se isbjørnen. I Arktis er jagt — på bjørne, rensdyr, sæler og fugle — en vigtig del af inuitternes liv, også i dag.

Isbjørnen kom i retning af byen.

Pele og hans venner var lidt fulde og ret ophidsede. De tændte motoren på deres fiskerbåd og maste sig gennem grødisen i havnen i deres landsby, Tiniteqilaaq på Østgrønland, indtil de var så tæt på, som de kunne komme. De gik ud af båden, stod på isen og pegede deres rifler mod det enorme dyr.

Blandt inuitterne er det en virkelig stor ting at jage isbjørne. Bjørnene har kæmpestore territorier — det var meget sjældent rent faktisk at se en omkring Tiniteqilaaq. Og på grund af deres størrelse og vildskab er de ikke nemme at rå ram på. Man skal som regel være flere om det, så ifølge traditionen, er det de første fire personer, som skyder, der kan dele kødet og æren.

Den dag var det Pele, som skød isbjørnen.

Og han var så glad.

Den aften fejrede Pele det ved at gå ud og drikke.

Næste morgen var han død. Han havde begået selvmord. Han var 22.

Tretten dage senere i nabolandsbyen begik en 15-årig dreng ved navn Peter Pilanat selvmord i sine bedsteforældres hjem. Peter og Pele kendte ikke hinanden, ikke hvert tilfælde ikke godt, men de havde fælles venner. I et område med kun 3000 mennesker, er det næsten sikkert, at Peter kendte til Peles død.

To selvmord på under to uger. For folk i disse små byer føltes det som starten på noget dårligt, noget ubehageligt bekendt. Noget som var sket for mange gange i for mange byer i Grønland. En række selvmord, uforklarlige og tragiske, som hærgede den yngste generation i et land, som har den højeste selvmordsrate i verden.

Byen som forsvandt

Da Anda Poulsen var ung, følte han sig heldig. Han var født i en by med meget historie. Kangeq i Grønland var et sted, folk fortalte historier om. Det var kendt for sine stærke inuit-jægere og havde en god beliggenhed ved udmundingen af en fjord. Det var her de første skandinaviske missionærer slog sig ned, her de første grønlandske kunsterne havde malet, og her nogle af de sidste traditionelle inuitiske kajakjægere havde begivet sig ud mod det barske hav.

Kangeq var et sted, som fostrede store mænd. Anda var stolt.

Men Kangeq — som havde overlevet en tørke i middelalderen, en mindre istid efter middelalderen, vikingerne og missionærerne — stod over for en ny og ødelæggende trussel. Anda skulle ikke være jæger, som hans forfædre havde været, og det skulle vise sig at være sværere at overleve overgangen til det voksne liv, end han havde forestillet sig.

Grønland var en koloni under Danmark (det er stadig ikke helt uafhængigt). Efter 2. verdenskrig byggede Danmark videre på USA's infrastruktur fra krigen og besluttede at udvikle den lokale økonomi. Grønland var et perfekt sted til kommercielt fiskeri, og der kunne potentielt set tjenes mange penge på helleflynder og rejer. Den danske regering bragte handelskompagnier og trawlere til stedet.

På få år var det forbi med kajakker og berømte jægere, nu handlede det om motorbåde og fiskerettigheder. Tilstrømningen af penge og ny teknologi gjorde folk rigere, men det undergravede den traditionelle inuitiske økonomi i de små landsbyer, som var baseret på traditionel jagt og handel med kød og skind.

Som barn legede Anda i nærheden af de forladte kajakker langs kysten. "Træskeletter uden overtræk," husker han.

De nye motorbåde var kun begyndelsen. Det kommercielle fiskeri krævede fabrikker til behandling af fiskene. Og fabrikkerne havde brug for arbejdere. Kangeq var for lille til at have en rigtig fabrik — der boede kun omkring 150 mennesker i de gode tider. Da fiskefabrikkerne åbnede i hovedstaden, begyndte folk at forlade Kangeq for at finde arbejde og tage uddannelse.

I 1974 boede der kun 50 eller 60 mennesker i Kangeq. Og det var på det tidspunkt, at det hele begyndte at falde fra hinanden i Andas hjemby. Han var 14, da det skete. På det tidspunkt boede han i hovedstaden, Nuuk, hvor han og de andre børn fra Kangeq gik i skole.

"Jeg hørte, at Kangeq skulle lukkes," siger Anda. "Alle hørte det. Alle vidste det. Det var meget hårdt."

Kangeq var ved at blive slettet fra kortet. Den danske regering fjernede landsbyen fra listen over byer på Grønland. De lukkede butikken, slukkede for strømmen og flyttede præsten. Fra regeringens side var det en ren praktisk beslutning — det var svært at levere de basale ydelser som sundhedsklinikker og skoler til hver eneste lille landsby. Det ville være meget nemmere, hvis inuitterne flyttede til større byer, hvor infrastrukturen allerede var på plads.

Andas familie — hans mor, hans søstre, hans fætre — skulle pakke deres ting og sige farvel til deres orange-gule bræddehytte med udsigt over havet. Deres nye hjem i Nuuk ville være i en betonblok sammen med hundreder af andre familier fra masser af andre små landsbyer, som også var blevet lukket ned.

"Min mor, mine søstre og jeg boede alle sammen i en boligblok," siger Anda. Det var i et arbejderkvarter nær den voksende havn i Nuuk.

Lejlighedsblokkene var symboler på udviklingen, fortalte myndighederne dem. Luksuriøse eksempler på det moderne Grønland, med varme, strøm, kloakering og flisebelagte fortove uden for. Men Anda fortæller, at lejlighederne ikke føltes luksuriøse — de føltes fremmede og ensomme.

De asfalterede veje adskilte dem bare fra havet, var en barriere mod livet som jægere på havet, det liv de havde været afhængige af i tusinder af år.

Nogle prøvede at ignorere de nye omgivelser og leve, som de havde gjort før. Anda kan huske, mænd som jagtede sæler i Nuuks havn om eftermiddagen, ved siden af fragtskibene fra Royal Arctic Line og trak kødet tilbage til deres lejligheder på børnenes slæder.

"Det var et kultursammenstød," siger Anda. Og hvad der nok var endnu værre, så "var der fordomme mod folk fra landsbyerne. Man kunne mærke det, når de talte til én, i den måde de kiggede på én på."

Anda, som i dag er 56 år, vender sig mod vinduet på sit kontor i Nuuk. Hele sit liv har han undertrykt vreden og prøvet at fokusere på at finde løsninger. Men fortiden bringer smerte. Han knytter sin hånd og banker den i bordet.

"De mobbede os."

For Anda var der to valg. Han kunne blive ved med at være, det han var, en landsbydreng som talte grønlandsk og ikke passede ind, eller han kunne ændre sig og blive en dansktalende bydreng, ligesom de andre. Beskeden i skolen var klar: dansktalende var bedre end grønlandsktalende; det danske var smartere end det grønlandske. Landsbybørnene var mindre værd end bybørnene.

"Jeg var god til at integrere mig i min klasse." Han sukker. Han vidste, han var nødt til at lade dele af sig gamle jeg, fra Kangeq, bag sig. Eller i det mindste gemme det under et mere dansk ydre.

"Det var sådan, jeg overlevede." Han tvang sig selv til at tilpasse sig.

Men der var dem, som ikke kunne tilpasse sig.

En tabt generation

Det første dødsfald, Anda hørte om, kom kort tid efter Kangeq blev lukket ned. Det var en ung mand — kun 20 år gammel. Anda kendte hans forældre.

Kort tid efter det fandt en anden familie, som Anda kendte, deres teenagesøn død. Få år senere begik deres anden søn selvmord.

Fra dengang Anda var 14 år, til han gjorde gymnasiet færdigt, havde mindst 10 mennesker fra Kangeq begået selvmord. "Det var næsten alle de unge mænd." Han lægger en hånd på sit hjerte. "Meget få af os overlevede."

Detaljerne flyder sammen i hukommelsen til én lang sørgelig erindring om kroppe, som blev fundet, forældre som græd og stilfærdige begravelser, hvor ingen stillede det spørgsmål, som alle tænkte over.

Hvorfor?

Anda ville gerne vide, ikke bare hvorfor selvmordene skete, men hvorfor ingen talte om dem. Og hvorfor blev der ikke gjort noget for at forhindre dem? Hvem hjalp familiemedlemmerne, som stod tilbage? Den eneste hjælp for folk med selvmordstanker var en hjælpelinje til en kirke.

Anda læner sig tilbage i sin stol og vælger sine ord med omhu. "For mange mennesker var præsten ikke en person, de gerne ville tale med om deres problemer." Kirken er trods alt en forlænget arm af den danske regering.

Andas sorg ændrede sig til noget, som snarere mindede om en besættelse. Han gjorde gymnasiet færdigt, fik sit første barn. Han ville gerne hjælpe, men vidste stadig ikke hvordan. Han søgte ind på en uddannelse som familieterapeut, kom ind, og da han havde fået sin uddannelse, var han decideret vred. Det var uansvarligt, at Grønland ville lade en helt generation slå sig selv ihjel. Han var nødt til at gøre noget.

Der var et problem: Der var ikke nogle klare svar på nogle af Andas spørgsmål om, hvorfor folk slog sig selv ihjel, og hvordan man kunne forhindre det. Som alle indfødte folk rundt om i det arktiske område — og over hele verden — oplevede grønlænderne de dødelige eftervirkninger af en hurtig modernisering og en kulturel indblanding uden fortilfælde. De oprindelige folk i USA og Alaska (mange af dem har samme inuitiske rødder som grønlænderne) havde allerede set mange af deres samfund gå i opløsning under den samme slags pres.

I Grønland blev problemerne stadigt værre. Mellem 1970 og 1980 blev selvmordsraten firdoblet og blev syv gange større end i USA (den er stadig omkring seks gange større). Selvmordsraten var, og er stadig, så høj, at det ikke er nogen overdrivelse at sige, at alle i Grønland kender en, som har begået selvmord. Mange folk, jeg har talt med, har kæmpet med at forklare, hvordan det føles at bo et sted, hvor selvmord er så udbredt, og mange af dem beskrev det ubehageligt nok med det samme ord: normalt.

Jeg har hørt igen og igen, at selvmord på Grønland er normalt. Folk mener ikke, det er OK, men bare at det har været almindeligt så længe, at det næsten er uundgåeligt.

I 1985 var selvmord en mere udbredt dødsårsag end cancer. Det år tog mindst 50 mennesker livet af sig selv i Grønland. Den samlede befolkning var på kun 53.000. I USA ville det svare til at alle indbyggerne i en by som Lincoln, Nebraska — over 250.000 mennesker — tog livet af sig. Og at ingen tog sig af. Der blev ikke skrevet noget om det i aviserne.

På det tidspunkt var der næsten ingen, som studerede selvmord i Grønland. Der var nogle enkelte psykologer, men de var danske, så det var umuligt for inuitiske folk at få hjælp på deres eget sprog. I terapi betyder hvert eneste ord noget. Plus, stigmatiseringen omkring selvmord var så intens. Det var en skam. Det var så tabubelagt, at folk, som havde mistet børn, ikke engang snakkede med hinanden om det.

En ubeskrivelig handling

I foråret 1989 havde Atsa Schmidts søn været død i næsten et årti. Ujuanseeraq havde elsket at spille skuespil og at danse. Han drev en lille teatergruppe og gik på skole for at blive mekaniker. Han havde masser af venner. Men der var tegn på, at noget var galt. Han begyndte at fortælle sin mor, at han hele tiden var træt, at alt han gjorde føltes så hårdt.

Så en dag kom han ikke hjem til aftensmad. Næste dag fandt man ham død bagerst i teatret. Han var 21.

Lige efter det var sket, var hans selvmord noget. Atsa kun diskuterede med sin nærmeste familie. Det var en meget privat og meget smertelig del af hendes liv. Selv i dag har hun ikke nogen billeder af sin søn i sit hjem.

Så hans død var slet ikke noget, hun drømte om at skulle snakke om, når hun var på indkøb.

"Jeg var ude at købe mad i Brugsen i Nuuk," siger hun, som om geografien i Nuuk i 90'erne er almen viden. "Du ved, den som brændte ned." Atsa gik med sin indkøbsvogn, da denne unge fyr, hun kendte gennem sine kusiner fra Kangeq, kom hen til hende.

"Han sagde, 'Jeg vil gerne lige tale med dig et par minutter.' "

Det var Anda Poulsen. Det var midt mellem alle dåserne med mad, at Anda fortalte hende om sin plan. Han var i gang med at starte en støttegruppe for forældre, som havde haft børn, der begik selvmord. Han ønskede, at hun skulle komme til det første møde.

"Jeg sagde, at det var for meget, at jeg ikke kunne gøre det."

Men Anda, der var ung og optimistisk, svarede, "Selvfølgelig kan du! Selvfølgelig kan du det. Det vil hjælpe dig. Du skal få at se, at det vil hjælpe dig. Kom til mødet sammen med din mand."

"Så," husker Atsa, "Jeg ville egentlig ikke, men jeg gik til mødet."

Til det første møde mødte hun en håndfuld andre forældre, hvis sønner også havde begået selvmord.

Og jeg fandt ud af, at det var en lettelse at tale med dem.

Gruppen mødtes igen, og igen. "Det var meget tydeligt, at folk havde brug for hjælp," siger Anda. "Og ikke kun forældrene. Også folk som tænkte på selvmord." Atsa startede med at hjælpe Anda. Sammen var de værter for møder om, hvordan man kunne forhindre selvmord, møder som var åbne for alle.

Mindre end et år efter deres samtale i Brugsen havde Atsa Schmidt og Anda Poulsen besluttet at udvide idéen endnu mere. De åbnede Grønlands første nationale hotline for folk med selvmordstanker.

Det var en usædvanlig idé. De havde ikke ressourcer til at hyre professionelle rådgivere. I stedet for brugte de ressourcerne, som de havde — en midaldrende kvinde som var god til at lytte. Atsa havde slet ikke nogen uddannelse, endsige nogen eksamen i socialt arbejde eller rådgivning, men hun meldte sig til natholdet. Hun vidste, at hun kunne ende med at få flest opkald — folk ringer som regel ikke til en hotline for folk med selvmordstanker om dagen. Hun anede ikke, om hun kunne klare det.

"Jeg vidste ikke, hvad der ville ske," siger hun. "Vi anede ikke, hvad der ventede os."

Og alligevel følte hun sig sikker på, at det var bedre at gøre noget, end slet ikke at gøre noget. Atsa fortæller, at når hun tænker tilbage, så var der mange mennesker, som følte sig alene. Hun håbede, at bare det at lytte og at anerkende deres smerte ville hjælpe.

Hotlinen blev startet op på ren viljestyrke. Hver aften havde Atsa mobiltelefonen til hotlinen ved siden af sin seng. I 18 år er hun blevet vækket midt om natten og har snakket med folk med selvmordstanker. "Der var mange folk, som havde brug for hjælp. Det var tydeligt."

Mange af dem, som ringede ind, var unge mænd, som følte, at de ikke havde nogen at tale med. Mange af dem havde folk i familien eller forældre, som havde begået selvmord. Hun startede altid med at fortælle, at hun ikke var ekspert, og at hun ikke kunne give dem lægelige råd.

Men hun fortalte dem, at hun havde været igennem nogle af de ting, som de, der ringede ind, også havde gået igennem, og at hun var der for at lytte. Nogle gange læste hun en bøn i telefonen.

Stressen ved samtalerne var næsten ikke til at bære. Hendes hænder rystede; hun besvimede uden varsel. Hendes søn beklagede sig over, at hun brugte for meget energi på fremmede. Hendes mand var bekymret over, at hun ikke sov nok, over at hun arbejdede hele dagen i en børnehave og besvarede opkald derhjemme om aftenen. Efter at et alvorligt tilfælde af udslet sendte hende på hospitalet, fortalte hendes læge hende, at hun ikke måtte arbejde på hotlinen i tre måneder. Hun fulgte rådet, men efter tre måneder var hun tilbage og tog imod opkald.

"Jeg har talt med tusinder af mennesker," fortæller hun. "Selv i dag får jeg tak fra folk, jeg ikke kender." Det er personer, som har ringet anonymt til hotlinen og kender hende, selvom hun ikke kender dem.

Atsa har taget imod tusinder af opkald igennem sin tid på hotlinen, og for hende var der et klart mønster bag selvmordene på Grønland. Kærlighed, fortæller hun. Eller, tabet af den.

Vi er i hendes stue i Nuuk, omgivet af billeder af hendes børn og børnebørn. I dag er hun 72 og ved at miste synet. "Nogle mennesker vokser op med masser af kærlighed," forklarer hun, "men andre gør ikke. Og disse mennesker, som ikke fik kærlighed i deres barndom, når de så møder en partner, prøver at de at holde på ham, som om de ejer ham. De tror, at de kun kan elske denne ene person, og at han er den eneste, som nogensinde vil elske dem. Og når de går fra hinanden, føler denne person så, at livet er forbi." Atsa tænker et øjeblik. "Måske giver jeg dem lidt kærlighed."

Hendes observationer er på linje med noget, som psykologer og sociologer mener, er fundamentalt for årsagen til selvmord på Grønland. Når nogle samfund ødelægges, som Kangeq blev det, begynder familierne at bryde sammen. Der var en stigning i tilfældene af alkoholmisbrug, forsømmelse af børn og fysisk vold, som alt sammen er risikofaktorer for selvmord. Senere havde folk, som ikke fik den kærlighed og støtte, de havde brug for som børn, svært ved at klare problemerne i kærlighedslivet, og en skilsmisse eller et forhold, som ophører, kan give problemer for livet.

"Der er masser af negative konsekvenser ved en hurtig modernisering," siger den grønlandske sociolog Steven Arnfjord. "Vi står stadig med problemerne og eftervirkningerne af politikken fra '70'erne og '80'erne."

Der er også et bredere perspektiv — det tab af identitet som sker, når en kultur, i dette tilfælde inuitternes kultur, bliver dæmoniseret og nedbrydes. Når en kultur stort set elimineres på mindre end en generation, som det var tilfældet i Grønland, føler mange af de unge, at de afskæres fra de ældre generationer, men at de samtidigt ikke rigtigt er en del at den nyere. Det er især svært for yngre mænd, hvis fædre og bedstefædre var jægere, og som kæmper for at forstå, hvad det vil sige at være en urban inuitisk mand. Når de ikke har stærke familier og samfund til at hjælpe dem, så føler nogle af dem sig så overvældede og fortabte, at de tager deres eget liv.

Halvtreds år efter at selvmordsraten begyndte at stige i Grønlands hovedstad, synes den at have stagneret, selvom den stadig er fem gange højere end i Danmark. For de unge i Nuuk eksisterer smerten ved assimilationen og moderniseringen stadig, men den er mindre akut. Og der er større mentale ressourcer end før tiden, selvom de langt fra er tilstrækkelige.

Men i de mindre byer og afsides samfund, er situationen stadig dårlig.

Den værste søndag

Julius Nielsen stod lige ved siden af Pele Kristiansen den 9. januar, da Pele skød isbjørnen.

"Der var så meget adrenalin," fortæller Julius. "Jeg havde ikke nogen riffel, og jeg blev ved med at sige, giv mig din riffel!" Julius var ældre end Pele og mente, han var bedre til at skyde.

Men Pele beholdt riflen og skød bjørnen.

Julius tager sig til hovedet. "Pele var så glad." De to mænd kom fra den samme lillebitte bosættelse Tiniteqilaaq. Deres landsby var ikke fulgt med den hurtige urbanisering og havde stadig hverdagen og traditionerne fra tidligere tider, hvor jægere var helte. Det var så sjældent, at isbjørne blev skudt, at alle i byen fejrede det til ud på natten om lørdagen.

Julius vågnede søndag omkring kl. 5 om morgenen og følte sig godt tilpas. Vejret var klart nok til at tage på sæljagt. Han gav sine slædehunde mad i morgenlyset og gik ind igen for at få en kop kaffe.

Men kl. 8 ringede Peles bror.

"Dumme, dumme Pele," sagde han. "Han har taget livet af sig."

"Du laver sjov," sagde Julius.

"Kig ud af vinduet," sagde broren. Da Julius kiggede ud, kunne han se Peles ældre bror stå ved siden af sin fiskerbåd, der var indhyllet i is og lå for anker i den lille bebyggelses frosne havn.

"Han kiggede bare på mig." Julius tog sin jakke på og løb ned til isen.

"Vi havde den bedste lørdag og den værste søndag."

Julius dækkede sin vens døde krop med et tæppe og ringede til politiet. Tiniteqilaaq ligger knap 40 km fra den største by i Østgrønland, Tasiilaq. Selvom familier og jægere tager frem og tilbage mellem dem hele tiden, så er ruten mellem de to byer alligevel øde og går blandt andet over en gletsjer og kan være farlig.

Lige den weekend lå der allerede en meter sne på jorden. Det tog politibetjenten, en ung dansk mand som stadig var ny i området, hele dagen at komme fra Tasiilaq med snescooter. Da han kom frem, var det aften, allerede mørkt, og det sneede igen. Han fandt ud af, at han ikke kunne tale med den døde mands familie, som kun talte grønlandsk. Julius var nødt til at oversætte.

Politibetjenten fortalte familien, at en læge var nødt til at undersøge liget, før det kunne blive begravet. Der var ingen læger i Tiniteqilaaq, så de var nødt til at hente én fra Tasiilaq.

På det tidspunkt var sneen for dyb. Så de måtte vente på en helikopter.

De flyttede Peles døde krop til lægeklinikken, der også fungerer som byens forsamlingshus, hotel, postkontor og kirke. Sygeplejersken der var Peles tante. Hun kunne ikke få sig selv til at gøre Peles døde krop ren, så Julius gjorde det selv. Han skar Peles yndlingstrøje op langs ryggen og fik den viklet om sin vens døde legeme for at gøre ham så fin, som han kunne.

Pele Kristiansen blev begravet fredag d. 15. januar, 2016. Der kom mange folk fra Tasiilaq til begravelsen. Hele den følgende uge gik folk rundt som i en tåge og prøvede at forklare det uforklarlige for sig selv og deres familier. Julius' 13-årige søn havde elsket at være sammen med Pele. De tog ud og køre på hundeslæde og spillede videospil sammen. Han blev ved med at spørge sin far om, hvordan nogen kunne være så ulykkelig, at de tog livet af sig selv.

"Det er simpelthen umuligt at forklare," sagde Julius. Pele havde aldrig nævnt noget om, at han gik med selvmordstanker, havde aldrig forsøgt selvmord før, i det mindste ikke hvad Julius vidste af. Og alligevel var det helt sikkert, at hans død ikke var en ulykke. Han havde helt klart taget livet af sig selv. "Jeg ved ikke hvorfor, og jeg kan ikke forklare det," fortalte Julius til sin søn. "Jeg er ked at det." Han fortalte ham, at selvom det gjorde ondt lige nu, så ville han komme til at lære at leve med, at Pele var død.

Få dage senere tog den 15 år gamle Peter Pilanat livet af sig selv. Og det skabte frygt: Var det starten på en række af selvmord?

Den afsmittende effekt

Nogle gange kan selvmord starte en kædereaktion. Psykologer kalder det den afsmittende effekt — efter et nært familiemedlem eller en ven har begået selvmord, er folk, som allerede har selvmordstanker i større risiko for at begå selvmord. Derfor er rækker eller bølger af selvmord især sandsynlige i små, isolerede samfund, hvor alle kender alle. Ifølge en undersøgelse fra Grønland begik 60 % af de unge, som tog livet af sig, selvmord inden fire måneder efter der havde været et selvmord i det samme område.

Det er selvfølgelig stadig umuligt at vide, hvorfor lige denne 15 år gamle dreng i Tasiilaq tog livet af sig. Men uanset årsagen, efter to selvmord på to uger på et sted med færre end 3000 mennesker, så følte mange, at det var som om, en ond cirkel var kommet i gang igen. Det var sket før i Grønland. En bølge af teenagere havde begået selvmord i Illulissat omkring 2004. Og en række dødsfald hærgede sovesalene på skolerne i '90'erne.

Katastrofen i Kangeq.

"Når man er forælder i sådanne tilfælde, føler man sig meget magtesløs, hjælpeløs," siger Julius. To af hans børn havde gået i skole med den døde dreng. Han begyndte at overveje for sig selv, om det var sikkert at sende sine børn i skole i Tasiilaq.

Selvom Tasiilaq har en højere selvmordsrate— over 400 pr. 100.000 — end nogen anden by i Grønland, så har byen ingen psykolog. Sygeplejersker, sociale arbejdere og terapeuter der gjorde deres bedste for at rådgive folk med selvmordstanker, det samme gjorde psykologer 800 km derfra i Nuuk, som kunne tale med patienter via en videoforbindelse. Men Grønlands Sundhedsministerium indrømmer, at de ikke har nok ressourcer, og mange mennesker i Tasiilaq siger, at når de rapporterer, at et familiemedlem eller en ven har selvmordstanker, så sker der intet.

I hovedstaden Nuuk var man i Sundhedsministeriet ikke engang opmærksom på de sidste par selvmord. Men byrådet havde hørt om dem. Kristian Rosing, koordinatoren for forebyggelse mod selvmord i regionen, begyndte at ændre sine planer, i tilfælde af at han var nødt til at tage til Tasiilaq.

Det tager en dags rejse at komme fra Nuuk til Tasiilaq, først med et lille propelfly, derefter med helikopter. Flyafgangene bliver aflyst lige så tit, som de letter, og om vinteren er der kun to flyafgange om ugen. En returbillet koster omkring 1000$. "Jeg havde planlagt at besøge Tasiilaq i efteråret," siger Rosing, "men da jeg hørte om dødsfaldene, tænkte jeg, at min chef ville sende mig af sted tidligere for at lære de unge om, hvordan man tackler selvmordene. Lære dem, hvordan man forhindrer endnu et."

De første, den regionale regering sendte af sted, var sorgkonsulenter, en social arbejder og en familieterapeut. Deres opgave var at hjælpe familierne med at komme gennem de næste uger.

Espen Christiansen, en lærer på skolen, husker den første dag tilbage i skolen, efter at den 15-årige dreng havde taget livet af sig. Han så ud på den døde drengs klassekammerater og vidste ikke, hvad han skulle sige. Deres øjne var røde af gråd. "Vi var stille det meste at tiden. De talte ikke meget. Jeg troede også, at det var det mest respektfulde at være stille."

Efter frokost skrev nogle af børnene deres følelser ned i brev adresseret til deres døde klassekammerat. Christiansen hjalp dem med at lave en slags alter på Peters skolebord, med stearinlys og bånd. "Jeg fortalte dem, at de kunne gå hjem, hvis de ville, men de ville gerne blive," sagde han. "Jeg tror ikke, at de ønskede at være alene."

På dette tidspunkt var det omkring to uger siden, at Peter havde taget livet af sig. I Nuuk fortalte Rosings chef ham, at det var på tide at tage til Tasiilaq — så hurtigt som muligt.

Rosing er en ærlig mand. Han var den første til at indrømme, at han ikke er særlig kvalificeret til sit job. Hans oprindelige uddannelse var som butiksassistent, og for få år siden tog han et tre-måneders kursus i administration. Og dengang havde han allerede i mange år været ansvarlig for forebyggelsen mod selvmord i en mindre region. Han bruger det meste af sin tid på at tage ud til forskellige skoler og undervise teenagere og folk, som arbejder med børn, i hvordan man taler om selvmord.

Han var nervøs for turen. Som regel følger han en plan, som siger, at man skal tale meget åbent om selvmord, selv over for børn. Han laver øvelser, hvor eleverne skal brainstorme årsager til, hvorfor en person måske vil tage livet af sig selv, eller beder dem om at spille en person med selvmordstanker i et rollespil. Men han havde aldrig prøvet det med børn, som lige havde mistet en ven.

"De her børn, de er meget skrøbelige," sagde han. "Jeg var bekymret for, hvordan de ville reagere."

Han besluttede at bruge det, han havde, og håbede, at det ville hjælpe frem for at bringe smerte.

Teenagere på kanten

En hel måned efter Peters var død, gik Rosing rastløst rundt kl. 8:30 om morgenen bagest i salen i forsamlingshuset i Tasiilaq. Eleverne fra 10. klasse — klassekammeraterne til drengen som havde taget livet af sig selv — kunne være der lige om lidt til deres første dag med råd til forebyggelse af selvmord.

Han havde medbragt masser af brød, ost og marmelade til morgenmad til de næsten 60 unge, som han ventede. Mens de kom ind to og to, og tre og tre, smilede han tavst til dem og pegede over mod bordet fyldt med mad.

Den 15 år gamle Paul-Ib Uitsatikitseq blev nervøs, så snart han kom ind. Han tænkte stadig på sin vens begravelse, og han vidste, at han ville blive bedt om at tale om selvmord. Han spiste sit morgenbrød, fumlede lidt med sin serviet og tog så sin mobiltelefon frem.

Rosing så telefonen, gik derover og sagde. "Vil du godt lægge den væk," Og så sagde han mere venligt, "Du ved, det er vigtigt." Han lagde sin hånd på Paul-Ibs skulder, indtil drengen kom telefonen tilbage i lommen på sine jeans.

Den første opgave gik ud på at inddele folk i grupper, hvor de skulle brainstorme på årsager til, hvorfor en person ville tage livet af sig selv. De andre drenge i Paul-Ibs gruppe legede med en fodbold af papir. Paul-Ib bøjede sig over papiret og skriblede 10 årsager ned. Den første var Ensomhed. Være ensom i lang tid. Være ensom hele livet.

Som nummer tre årsag skrev han simpelthen Kærlighed.

Det var ikke alle øvelser, der gik så godt. Midt under en video om selvmord og overgreb på børn, rejste en pige sig og forlod bygningen. En lærer løb efter hende. En anden dreng nægtede at skrive eller sige noget og sad bare bagerst i rummet og stirrede på sine hænder. Efter den første dag var der over 10 børn, som ikke kom igen.

Men mange flere kom tilbage. Og efter nogle påmindelser om, at de ikke måtte sidde med hovedtelefoner på, lyttede de fleste af dem til Rosing. Hans snak handlede mere om livet end om døden. Han snakkede om, hvor hårdt det kan være at føle sig alene og trist i en lille by. Han opfordrede dem til at tale med hinanden om deres følelser, de gode og de dårlige, og så bad han dem om at lave skuespil over disse samtaler.

Den sidste dag fik eleverne diplomer, hvor der stod Deltager i kursus om forebyggelse af selvmord.

Han tænkte, at det var gået godt. Eller, i det mindste var det ikke gået helt dårligt.

Ensomt arbejde

Få uger efter sin tur til Tasiilaq sidder Rosing i sin alt for lille skrivebordsstol. Når han taler om sin tid der, lyder han trist — selvom kurset tilsyneladende var en succes og hjalp børnene til at tale om selvmord.

"Jeg tror ikke, jeg kan forhindre endnu en ung fra Tasiilaq i at begå selvmord," siger han. "Jeg tror, det vil ske igen."

Sidste år, før selvmordene skete i Tasiilaq, var Rosing tæt på at forlade sit job. "Jeg havde fået nok," fortæller han, af at tage rundt til skole efter skole, by efter by, at høre historier om smerter og tab og desperation, og så uundgåeligt senere at høre om, at endnu en ung person var død ved et selvmord. Det var udmattende og frustrerende og isolerende.

"For mig er det et meget ensomt arbejde. Selvom jeg har kolleger, så føler jeg mig alene."

Rosing siger, at for at løse de grundlæggende problemer i Tasiilaq — alkoholmisbrug, arbejdsløshed, fattigdom og forsømmelsen af børn — vil det kræve penge og arbejdskraft. For det første har byen brug for en psykolog på fuldtid, bedre uddannede lærere, flere sociale arbejdere og et seriøst jobprogram for at igangsætte unge mennesker, som vender hjem efter at have fået deres uddannelser andre steder.

Det samme gælder alle andre byer i Grønland. Alle omkring 100 af dem som ligger spredt rundt langs kysten på klodens største ø.

"Tyve år," tænker han. "Hvis vi gør alt, hvad vi kan, vil det tage 20 år." Så lang tid vil det tage at få problemet med selvmord under kontrol i Grønland. Tyve år, før det som skete i Kangeq for længe siden, ikke mere vil ske i Grønland.

Det er noget, Anda prøver på ikke at tænke på til hverdag. Han har altid travlt, enten med sit arbejde som familieterapeut, eller når han er sammen med sine tre børn. "Der er altid familier, som har brug for hjælp," fortæller han. "Plus, jeg har min egen familie. Mine egne børn at tage mig af. Det er stressende."

For nogle få år siden fandt Anda Poulsen en overraskende måde, hvorpå han kunne få afløb for sin stress. Mere end to årtier efter at han tvang sig selv til assimilere, genfandt Anda de traditionelle, inuitiske trommedanse, som handler om det at jage, at være tæt på havet, og han startede en gruppe kaldet Nuuk Trommedansere. I dag danser og synger han mindst en gang om ugen med sin sælskindstromme. "Når jeg føler mig trist eller vred, danser jeg trommedans," fortæller han.

I sin søgen på vej fremad har Anda Poulsen genfundet en forbindelse til fortiden.

Og han håber, at hans børn vil få mulighed for at udtrykke deres inuitiske identitet på en måde, som han ikke fik lov til.

"Jeg tror, at fremtiden vil blive bedre og bedre for dem."

Om sommeren tager Anda sine børn med tilbage til Kangeq, hvor anløbsbroen fra kolonitiden er ved at falde sammen, og den gamle butik står tom. Nogle gange, når de fisker og leger rundt mellem de forladte huse, tager han sin tromme med op på en bakke, lukker sine øjne og danser.

Yderligere noter

Rebecca Hersher har tilbragt 10 uger i Grønland udsendt af NPR (National Public Radio, en amerikansk nonprofit medieorganisation). Tekst og lydklip til denne artikel er redigeret af Alison MacAdam, Marc Silver og Vikki Valentine. Billedmaterialet er redigeret af Ben de la Cruz, Malaka Gharib og John Poole. Yderligere bidrag og oversættelser af Nina-Vivi Andersen, Sara Jakobsen og Angutimmarik Josefsen. Denne artikel er blevet til med hjælp fra The John Alexander Project, som støtter udenlandske studier af oversete dele af verden.

Copyright 2016 NPR. To see more, visit http://www.npr.org/.

Watch Video | Listen to the Audio

HARI SREENIVASAN: Now to another in our Brief But Spectacular series, where ask interesting people to describe their passions.

Tonight, we hear from artist iO Tillett Wright, whose photography projects have sparked a dialogue on gender identification and sexuality.

iO’s memoir, “Darling Days,” was released this week by Ecco.

IO TILLETT WRIGHT, Author, “Darling Days”: My earliest memory of wanting to be a boy was when I was — had my fifth birthday party, and I had this lacy blue dress.

The second I got home, I was just like, get this thing off of me. And I ripped it off. And I, like, put on warrior paint and I went up to the roof, and I, like, took a piss standing up. That was my, like, ownership of it.

These kids were like, are you a boy or a girl? And I was like, why does that matter? I can play better than you. And they didn’t let me play.

And I went to my dad and I was like, hey, I’m a boy now. And he was like, OK. My mom’s attitude was, yes, as long as you can get acting roles as a boy, I don’t care.

My mom put me into child acting. I only played boys until I was 17. And then I played a couple girls. And that’s was when people started to tell me that I was too unique. And it was like, if one more person tells me I’m too unique, out of here. And I did. I quit.

I miss acting. But do you cast me as a boy? Do you cast me as a girl? Do you cast me as the gay girl? Do you cast me as the trans kid? Oh.

QUESTION: You have got incredible range.

IO TILLETT WRIGHT: I have got incredible range.

For the last six years, I have done this project where I have been photographing 10,000 people who identify as anywhere on the LGBT spectrum in all 50 states. And if you look into the eyes of a person that you discriminate against or you think is so different than you that they deserve less rights than you, it becomes almost impossible to deny their humanity.

The complicated part of that is, I’m not trying to say we are all the same. What I’m trying to say is, we are all completely different, and that’s the beauty of it.

I had set out to photograph gay people and trans people. And what I had found was that people from older generations identified super strongly with labels because they’d had to fight for them. But younger people were more like, well, yes, like I loved a guy, and now I love a girl, and maybe I’m more boyish tomorrow.

They’re more fluid on a spectrum of things. I think that the most dignified gift you can give them as a human, as part of their family or their family of friends, is the right to change.

I’m iO Tillett Wright. And this is my Brief But Spectacular take on expanding one’s circle of normalcy.

HARI SREENIVASAN: You can watch additional Brief But Spectacular episodes at PBS.org/NewsHour/Brief.

The post Photographer documents the beauty of difference across the LGBT spectrum appeared first on PBS NewsHour.

A friend of photographer Phillip Toledano once said "He is the most self-absorbed person I've ever met — but he wears it well."

The Many Sad Fates of Mr. Toledano is a new short film in which the photographer, with the assistance of makeup artists, fortune tellers, and psychics, disguises himself as the various fates life might one day hold for him: Ending up a homeless alcoholic, a white-collar criminal cuffed and taken away by police, or a lonely senior, feeding a small dog from his plate — and more.

It's an art project Toledano began after the dementia and death of his father. "Life is so full of right angles," he says in the film. "There are so many possibilities of what's ahead of you. And you have no sense of what they're like."

The film was an official selection of the Tribeca film festival, and is one of the New York Times' Op-Docs.

Interview Highlights

On his frame of mind as he worked on the film

When I work on projects, they have sort of a gravitational pull. I'm compelled to do them. And often I'm not sure why I'm compelled to do them until I've finished them. But everyone who was important to me had died in my family — my mother, my father, my aunt, my uncle in the last three years. And then my daughter was born. So my life felt entirely different and I felt entirely alone.

And I had always been a very lucky person. I've had wonderful parents and they've given me everything. And when you are lucky, you always assume you'll continue to be lucky. And when your life takes a sharp turn, it's shocking and it's surprising. And that was the impetus behind this project ... and I know it sounds so entirely self-absorbed, but I loved my parents dearly, and the idea that they were going to suddenly die — it's a concept we all understand, but the reality seems unreal ... and that got me obsessed about what other dark turns might life have in store for me.

On the process of creating and filming his fates

It's not the end result — what's interesting about it and what was extraordinary for me is ... the way in which the world sees you differently. As you age, over a period of 30 or 40 or 50 years, you age incrementally, and you don't see how the world sees you differently. But when you go from 45 to say 95, and you're a man in a wheelchair being pushed by a nurse, then you realize how radically differently the world sees you. You are refuse, you are nothing ... I'm not claiming I know what it feels like exactly, but I have a tiny sense of what it's like to feel how the world sees you differently.

On the photo of himself in a cubicle farm

People ask me what's the most frightening picture for me, and for me it's the man in an office — because what does that mean if I'm in an office? It means I've failed as an artist.

Copyright 2016 NPR. To see more, visit http://www.npr.org/.

She wants to take pictures of happiness.

That's one of the goals that Fati Abubakar set when she started her Instagram feed bitsofborno last year.

Borno is a state in the troubled northeast of Nigeria, where theextremist group Boko Haram began operating. The capital city, Maiduguri, birthplace of the insurgency, is where this 30-year-old nurse lives and works as a project manager for a malnutrition project as well as a documentary photographer.

Abubakar had been feeling frustrated that her home region is best known for its ties to Boko Haram. So in 2015, she decided to do something about it. She started taking pictures of the daily life that she says local and international media neglect as they focus on bomb blasts, suicide attacks, death and destruction — and the fallout from Boko Haram's violence.

She photographs and profiles random regular folk of all ages, from all walks of life, then pulls out her notebook to record their views, posting pictures and text online.

With her camera slung over her shoulder, she heads onto the streets of Maiduguri and beyond, her colorful long dress trailing in the dust. She'll squat and lean perilously close to railings to take a picture, with a three-foot drop into a trash dump just behind her. I interviewed Abubakar at work on the hoof, in a bustling roadside Maiduguri market. The interview has been edited for length and clarity.

Tell us about bitsofborno. Why that name?

I decided bitsofborno, because I'm showing bits and pieces of Borno state. I wanted [to] document everyday life — individuals living in the community and still thriving and having businesses.

I felt mainstream media hadn't focused on the rest of the population. It was just the internally displaced — and it was just mostly bomb blasts, death and destruction. And Boko Haram.

They have failed to see that there's life, even in adversity. And that is what my page tries to capture.

Which came first? Photography or bitsofborno?

I always had a fascination with cameras. I took classes, and I take photographs wherever I go. But after coming back to Borno in May 2015 from school, I wanted to use photography to highlight the issues in my community.

Who do you choose to take pictures of? I just saw you pursuing a gorgeously-dressed older man.

I really love cultural attire. I like when I see people who don't really conform with Western dressing. I like very traditional Borno state dressing — the babarigas as they call it. That's the flowing robe. And then the traditional Kanuri caps, the Borno caps that are well known now — embroidered, handmade, very intricate designs. They're very beautiful. When I see very traditional things, I try to stop people and I document them.

I try to persuade them sometimes. So that's why I was following [the older gentleman] around, but he seemed very unresponsive, so I move onto the next one.

You take a lot of photos of children.

I love children. They are very happy. Whatever is going on in town [they are] sometimes unaware of it.

Meaning?

In terms of the bomb blasts and devastation. Children might see it happening and, in the next one hour or two, they're fine, they're back to play.

So I like to see that transition. I like to document happiness, so I gravitate toward children. I look for a lot of happy stories because our image is very bad, so we would like to show that life still goes on.

And what about some of the sadder moments?

Positive is what I'm currently focusing on but I started with the good, the bad and the ugly. Constantly you get those stories of trauma and death. I still document those as well, because the stories have to be told.

What makes you happy? You're smiling.

Children make me happy. And I like markets. They are very vibrant and a sign that the city is still alive.

Tell us about the Borno you grew up in and the Borno you came back to in 2015 after studying for a master's degree in public health in Britain.

The Borno I grew up in — this city Maiduguri — was a quiet, peaceful town, a lovely, close-knit community, known for its diversity. We had people from all over Nigeria. It was the center of commerce, I would say, in the northeast. We [border] Cameroon and Chad and Niger. Maiduguri was known for its hospitality. We were famous for our hand-embroidered Borno caps, flamboyant weddings and our pride in our colorful tradition.

People were happy. We trusted our neighbors and it was very peaceful. Borno was called "home of peace."

But the Borno I came back to, I would say the whole community is devastated. The whole community looks traumatized. There were strangers everywhere, new faces from the villages. All the friends I had from my childhood had moved on. A lot has changed. Everyone told harrowing stories of loss. Despite all that, I sensed resilience. People were picking up the pieces of their lives and moving on, which is what I felt wasn't being showcased. The response to my pictures on Instagram, the fact that people were shocked there was still life here, was what made me decide to create a page specifically for Borno.

Why did you go abroad in 2013?

I had become depressed. I really wanted to change my environment and I really wanted to leave and learn more and educate myself, so that I could come back and give back to the community.

I felt that I needed to get away for a while and learn, get the knowledge that I felt would help me when I came back. I told my mother that I really want to go and try a master's. I really wanted to go into community health. So she said, why don't you go abroad, maybe it will do well for you?

How are you viewed here? Here you are, this slender young woman, Fati Abubakar, in a long orange and white print dress, with your head covered in a beautiful orange scarf – and carrying a camera. It's not an everyday sight, is it, in Borno?

No, it's a very unconventional, I would even say rebellious way of life, because that's not the traditional Kanuri [majority tribe of Borno state] woman everybody expects. Everybody wants you to be married, with children, living a very obedient wife lifestyle.

And if that is not what you are, I think this society kind of frowns upon you and they constantly remind you of the need to get married and have children and just follow the template that is laid out for you.

And may I ask: are you married and are you a mother?

I'm 30, single and have no children.

So would it be correct to say you're not conforming to your society's expectations?

You get the occasional look of disapproval. But as time goes on, people are seeing what the page is doing, the impact and how the images years from now will be invaluable to this state, they are becoming well aware that photography is an essential art form that we need to incorporate into our society.

And they no longer see gender — which I'm happy about. I would say [bitsofborno] is not only changing the narrative of our state, but it's also having this traditional town question the role of the woman.

You are daily documenting the life of Borno state.

Yes, I'm chronicling every bit and piece of Borno state as I can at the moment. Fifty years from now, people will wonder what happened during Boko Haram. I think it's imperative that we have those images to show those generations that this is what happened to your grandparents.

Copyright 2016 NPR. To see more, visit http://www.npr.org/.

For 15 years, Stephanie Sinclair has taken photos of child brides around the world — from Tahani in Yemen, married at age 6, to 14-year-old Niruta in Nepal, and many more. In 2012, she started the nonprofit Too Young To Wed to raise awareness of their plight.

Now she's given some young women a chance to take their own pictures — a kind of art therapy that she hopes will "help girls deal with their trauma."

In January, Sinclair and her team decided to turn the cameras over to agroup of 10 girls in Kenya. They partnered with the Samburu Girls Foundation, which rescues girls from child marriage and female genital mutilation, to organize a weeklong photography workshop. Most of the 11- to 14-year-olds who participated had never held a camera before.

Sinclair and three volunteer photographers taught the girls basic digital photography skills so they could take portraits of each other. They also provided leadership training to help the girls "harness their inner strength and raise their voices confidently," says Sinclair.

"Today I learned a girl can do anything," says Eunice, a 14-year-old participant. "I learned how to take someone's photo by using the light from the window. I learned I am creative and can learn fast."

We spoke to Sinclair about the workshop and its impact on the girls. The interview has been edited for length and clarity.

What's the hardest thing about taking a portrait?

[You need] to get them to be real in front of the camera. It's not just about composition and light, it's about the soul. If you can see it, if you can capture that and share it.

That seems like a tall order for first-time photographers.

You can't take a great portrait unless you know the person you are photographing. So we would pair the girls up in teams, and they would learn about each other, what they've been through.

We told them they didn't have to share the traumatic parts of their background. But all of them chose to share their experience with child marriage and FGM.

Within the first hour that they had the cameras, they created these really beautiful, vulnerable portraits. I think they just got it. They understood the power of their story and of their voice.

Can you tell us about a portrait that stuck with you?

One girl, Modestar, took a photograph of Maria. It's a tight portrait and she's kind of looking to the side. She's got these beautiful [traditional Samburu] beads on. Just 15 minutes before she took that picture, Modestar was crying. Maria was sharing her story for the first time in detail. Modestar had been rescued [from child marriage] just a few weeks before, so she was still very raw about the experience.

What do you think the girls got out of the workshop?

The workshop ended up being a form of art therapy, a way to help the girls feel confident that their voice matters.

We didn't realize the amount of tears that would be shed during the workshop, and cathartic moments that would happen as they took these intimate portraits of each other.

What did you end up doing with the photos?

We had an exhibition at the end of the workshop. We brought 70 members of the community, police, some of the chiefs of the villages, some of their parents.

We let the girls pick which pictures they wanted to share. Of course the girls had some goofy pictures that they did of each other and more uplifting pictures. But none of them chose to use those pictures for the exhibition. They felt strongly that the exhibit should be an opportunity to let people know that they were not okay with what had happened to them.

I remember there was a really pretty picture of Modestar and she was smiling. She said, "No I don't want to use that one."

What did she select?

A more serious, contemplative picture. "I want people to know what I've been through, that this is how I feel," she said.

How did you think the workshop changed the girls?

At the beginning of the workshop, when you asked them their name, they were very quiet. At the exhibition, we had a microphone. I [told them], make sure you speak up — the event was outdoors and I was worried that the audience wouldn't be able to hear them that well.

They really roared into that microphone! They were passionately expressing what they had been through and asking the community to protect girls.

Any more workshops planned?

We hope to do a couple a year. This was our pilot program and it exceeded our expectations.

The idea of using photography to help child marriage survivors harness their inner strength and raise their voices confidently — it blossomed into this beautiful flower in the end.

Copyright 2016 NPR. To see more, visit http://www.npr.org/.

Raheem Grant, 39, poses for a portrait with his daughter, Nature Grant. “When I was growing up I didn’t have a father. My little one, she gets scared of the dark: ‘You don’t have to be scared because Daddy is here.’ Just knowing that I am there for them makes me feel like I accomplished a lot.” Photo by Phyllis Dooney

As thousands of people in cities across the U.S. took to the streets in recent years to protest the police killings of black men — most recently for Keith Scott and Terence Crutcher— photographer Phyllis Dooney noticed something missing.

In all the media coverage of these killings, “there’s so little mention that these guys are fathers,” she said. “I see this gaping hole in terms of representing people of color, especially the black man, as a family member, as a father, as somebody who loves.”

Dooney said that omission is the result of a racially-charged stereotype of black fathers as neglectful. But that stereotype does not account for the complex social effects of mass incarceration, the War on Drugs and other events that have disproportionately affected black families. She decided to document their stories in East New York, a Brooklyn neighborhood that lies between the southernmost reaches of Queens and the shallow marshes of Jamaica Bay, where approximately one-third of residents live below the poverty line. “What I found was a lot of strength, resolve, character and self reflection,” she said.

Dooney, who currently is earning a Masters of Fine Arts in Experimental and Documentary Arts from Duke University, first saw the neighborhood in 2012 while photographing a marching band for The New York Times. She talked to us about the process of taking the portraits and what they add to our national conversation on race.

What’s your relationship to East New York?

The first time I was introduced to East New York was probably 2011. … It was this very interesting version of New York. Right away, I was just in love with the sort of rhythms of the place and the people. It felt really warm and people were creative and friendly and then aesthetically, there’s just so many housing projects packed into one area that it’s really visually sort of astounding. You have these row houses interrupted by a giant public housing complex. So visual and just the energy of it, I felt like that was a different version of New York.

David “Prince” Pierce, 22, poses for a portrait with his son, Prince David Pierce, in East New York, NY on March 29, 2015. “I think about this all the time: who am I doin’ this for? Can I really make this work with his mother or am I just running away from it ’cause I still want to live my life? I don’t want to be tied down. I know a lot of cats that didn’t see 21, didn’t see 25, didn’t see 30.” Photo by Phyllis Dooney

Why was fatherhood your main focus?

I spent a lot of time thinking about the way race is projected in the media, the way it’s talked about, the way it’s visually represented. Especially as there’s more and more attention being brought to it over police shootings and things like that in the last couple of years. I see this gaping hole in terms of representing people of color, especially the black man, as a family member, as a father, as somebody who loves. And I just wanted to see what it felt like to have that discussion.

What’s missing from that conversation?

I was watching the news with the Charlotte protests that were going on recently. A lot of the newscasters were saying, “Mothers are concerned.” There’s this emphasis on sons and mothers but there’s never, “Parents are concerned,” “Fathers are concerned.” These men are fathers, these men are sons. Somehow this figure is being cut out of the family and I think that’s probably the result of many years’ worth of discussing the black man as criminal, the “other.”

Now it’s coming more full-circle. You have Black Lives Matter activists that are pointing this out finally, and what implicit bias means, and how pervasive it is, and how we’re responsible as image-makers to not feed into that identification of, “Boy with hoodie is probably carrying drugs.”

Jason “Law” Woods, 42, poses for a portrait with his daughter, Nevoeh West-Woods, in East New York, NY on July 28, 2015. “The courts do work for men but a lot of men won’t pursue that. ‘Cause it’s been throughout time that you go to court for your child and nine times out of ten, they gonna give it back to the woman. It’s like: why fight?” Photo by Phyllis Dooney

In the photos, camera obscuras project images of the streets into the families’ homes. How did you choose this method?

I had been wrestling with how to do this project for awhile. There were other ideas and ways of attacking it that had been discarded, and when I landed on this it seemed like the right fit, and one of the obvious reasons was that the streets coming into somebody’s domestic space is such a good visual metaphor. What does the outside world do to your private life? How does it shape it? What are the counter-influences that take place? So it was actually visually happening, and that actually enriched the audio conversations, I feel. We were able to see that effect. What are these streets, that are now on your walls, how do you think they’ve shaped your private life as a partner and as a father?

How did you choose your subjects?

I found the subjects through various conduits. Some were people that I knew through working there and doing other stories in East New York. I asked them if they would also be a part of this because they happened to be a father. Other ones were referrals.

They were different from other portraits because it’s so invasive to install a camera in someone’s living room. You’re carrying around sheets of black plastic and taping on the walls and the whole thing is very invasive, and that’s not my normal style of working. But on the flip side, there was an experience to be had. Because when it was successful, there was a shared experience.

Michael Cathlin, 26, poses for a portrait with his step father, Michael Burke-Andrade, in East New York, NY on July 25, 2015. “Thankfully I walked in [the delivery room] right before my son started crying. So I was there for the whole thing but it was the fact that the mother didn’t want me there.” Photo by Phyllis Dooney

Is there anything else you want people to know about the project?

I think it’s important for people to understand that problems that happened in the past are inter-generational. We hand down our problems to our [descendants] if they’re not resolved in that generation. That idea that mass incarceration or the crack epidemic happened in the 1980s, what that means is, a lot of these men … a good proportion of them grew up without a parent that was victim of that. And that affects how they parent, and it lives in their psyche, and it gets handed down. It shapes how they love. And also with incarceration, if their father has been locked up for most of their childhood, a direct transmission of how to parent, what it means, has not been handed down. These problems are very much something that is manifesting now and will continue to manifest and does shape family life.

It makes me think about social issues and social justice because really what we’re all trying to do on this planet is love, live, laugh and the most important thing for me to look at is, how is our system or our policies affecting your ability to do those things? Which is why I tend to go in and check out how it’s taking shape in families.

You can see more photos from the project below.

“Boo” poses for a portrait in East New York on July 25, 2015. Photo by Phyllis Dooney

Ariel “AJ” Jones, 25, poses for a portrait with his daughter, Lexi Preston, in East New York, NY on July 12, 2015. Photo by Phyllis Dooney

Esau “Chubbs” Johnson, 23, poses for a portrait in East New York, NY on May 30, 2015. “The cops are cracking down on us. You know, they are shooting kids. That’s really what I am worried about: my daughter growing up in that environment.” Photo by Phyllis Dooney

Ramall Thomas, 24, poses for a portrait in East New York, NY on April 19, 2015. “[As a father] you can’t teach a woman to be a woman, but you can show her what it’s like to be loved by a man, what type of man would she want to look into [later on]. Hopefully it would be somebody like her dad.” Photo by Phyllis Dooney

Clifton Jerrick, 35, poses for a portrait with his son, Logan Suttor, in East New York, NY on March 12, 2016. “Being a father is just not a title, it’s a job. It’s a full time job until the day you die.” Photo by Phyllis Dooney

“Brother Kenny” Watson, 49, poses for a portrait with his step children, Sammie Lee Brown Jr. (center) and Justin Grant (right), in East New York, NY on Feb. 7, 2016. “One of the challenges I have is that I am fearful for my son that lives in Atlanta. It’s a hard adjustment. You have a family here but you also have a son who needs you there. How do you split yourself?” Photo by Phyllis Dooney

Pedro Rodriguez, 27, poses for a portrait in East New York, NY on Feb. 7, 2016. “It’ s hard work, but at the end of the day, I’ m still a happy man.” Photo by Phyllis Dooney

Willie Johnson, 33, poses for a portrait in East New York, NY on Feb. 13, 2016. Photo by Phyllis Dooney

The post An intimate portrait of black fatherhood in East New York appeared first on PBS NewsHour.

The 2016 finalists for the second annual Comedy Wildlife Photography Awards have been announced, and they are predictably delightful.

A grinning owl. A fish slapping a bear in the face. An unfortunate interaction between a buffalo and a bird. At least two eagles with very little dignity. Click through the slideshow for a selection of the finalists.

The Comedy Wildlife Photography Awards were established last year by a wildlife conservation organization. The group's website says it is "a photography competition that was light-hearted, upbeat, possibly unpretentious and mainly about wildlife doing funny things."

There are 18 rules and guidelines for entrants into the competition, which judges both the technical excellence of images and the hilarity of the accompanying caption (so make sure to read the captions in the slideshow).

Rule No. 6 for entrants begins, "You must have taken the picture yourself within the last 99 years."

Rule No. 8 limits the photos to wildlife, so no "pets, domestic, farm or captive animals."

And Rule No. 9 bans any major digital alterations, so the images haven't been Photoshopped to look funny.

The winners are expected to be announced next month. You can see all the finalists here, and last year's winners — including this blissful seal— right here.

Copyright 2016 NPR. To see more, visit http://www.npr.org/.

In anticipation of Halloween, Studio 360 is sharing some of our favorite spooky segments from our archive.

Photographer Michele Iversen captures strangers in private spaces — without their permission. At night she sits in her car and watches the glowing windows of strangers' homes, waiting for the perfect shot. Iversen’s story always elicits strong reactions from our listeners — often of horror.

(Originally aired December 17, 2010)

Imagine: the chance to live on an uninhabited tropical island for a month, off the grid, creating art.

No phone, no television, no Internet.

Instead, spectacular night skies, crystalline turquoise waters and extraordinary marine life on the coral reef just a short swim from your back door.

For one month a year, Dry Tortugas National Park is home to a pair of artists in residence. The park is made up of seven islands in the Gulf of Mexico, 70 miles from Key West, Fla., accessible only by boat or seaplane.

The artists live by themselves on Loggerhead Key. It's a narrow strip of an island, lined with coconut trees. The vegetation includes mounds of spiky sea lavender, cactus, island morning glories, and flowering buttonwood and Geiger trees.

There are just a few structures, including an imposing lighthouse built in 1858, which is no longer lit. Their home for the month is a lightkeeper's house built in the 1920s. (Other visitors to the park land at Garden Key, about three miles away. Most visit just for the day; a smaller number can camp there.)

This year the lucky artists were filmmakers Carter McCormick, 26, of Lookout Mountain, Ga., and his partner, Paula Sprenger, 24, from Santiago, Chile. They met in art school two years ago, and have been a couple ever since. Living on a tropical island has always been one of Sprenger's dreams, so this past summer when she saw an article about the residency program, she told McCormick, "This is for us!" They submitted a proposal to film the island's ecosystems, on land and underwater, and were chosen from nearly 400 applicants. Part of the deal is they agree to donate some of their workto the National Parks Collection.

I visit them on their last day on the island in September, and paddle out with them on their final excursion to the reef known as Little Africa. As McCormick dives to the bottom to shoot a last batch of images, Sprenger and I snorkel above. We gaze at schools of silvery bar jacks, bright indigo tangs, a prehistoric-looking spotted trunkfish shaped like a triangle and corals of every shape and color. It's an extraordinary playground. "The water is the most transparent I've ever seen," McCormick says. "It's a whole 'nother world out here."

After the dive, on their last walk around the island, McCormick points out the wide, curved path a sea turtle has made in the sand, ending in a large pit where she's laid her eggs. "It looks like it was drunk!" he jokes. "It was really swerving." Loggerhead Key is named for the loggerhead sea turtle, an endangered species, and the Spanish word for turtle gives the Dry Tortugas their name.

The artists chosen for this residency have to bring with them everything they need for the month. There is solar power on Loggerhead Key and drinkable water, through a desalination system. There's a radio to contact park headquarters.

As for leaving communication behind and going through what he calls "digital detox," McCormick says, "I won't say I've missed civilization one bit. I have loved every second of not being connected to the digital world." His message to the rest of us: "You need to get off Facebook, stop worrying about politics and live on a deserted island! You'll love it!"

At night, we sit outside as an electrical storm lights up the sky in all directions, with bright flashes every few seconds. "I've never seen lightning do this," Sprenger says. "A lot of being on this island is the extreme weather. You just see crazy storms, and the clouds are so big, so colorful and the weather is so hot and it rains so hard. In one month we really got a lot of everything."

McCormick says they made it a point to get out from behind the camera at times, and simply absorb the experience. "It's always such a fine line for us, [between] filming and experiencing something. Because we look at a lot of really beautiful, interesting things, but half the time it's through an eyepiece. So out here we have taken that time to just let ourselves immerse in the island."

As their final day on Loggerhead Key winds down, the two sound wistful, not quite ready to leave.

"I think one of the saddest things to think is that we don't know if we're ever coming back," Sprenger says. "In 50 years it could be completely covered with water because of global warming."

McCormick adds, laughing, "I told 'em that we'll be here chained to the dock on our last day. Like, bring the bolt cutters, because we're not leaving. You put a great Chinese restaurant out here, and a grocery store, and we'll stay for the rest of our lives!"

Copyright 2016 NPR. To see more, visit http://www.npr.org/.

Twitter shocked the Internet Thursday with a farewell to Vine: "In the coming months we'll be discontinuing the mobile app."

We could have seen it coming. The six-second looped-video site hasn't gotten much love from Twitter, which is grappling with self-reflection: another quarter of losses, layoffs of 9 percent of the staff, constant rumors of a potential sale.

Snapchat's ascent and Instagram's video and advertising power plays, courtesy of parent company Facebook, have eroded Vine's prominence since the peak in 2013.

But the logic didn't make it hurt any less for devoted Vine users. Motherboardcalled it a potentially "devastating blow to the meme economy."

Tributes and eulogies poured in on Twitter itself. Vine had brought together a unique — and diverse — slew of comedians, musicians, artists and amateur directors. Like a 2016 rebirth of America's Funniest Home Videos, fans are resurfacing their favorite Vine clips. But they're also paying tribute to the role Vine played during the 2014 protests, before the live video craze of Twitter's Periscope and Facebook.

One of Vine's co-founders, who'd sold the app to Twitter before its launch back in 2012, chimed in with what seemed like regretful advice not to follow his example.

Reaching for the most existential of takeaways, let's remember that this isn't the first time that an Internet company ripped a beloved service from its users' hands.

Like that time Google killed Google Reader. Or that other time Google turned Picasa into a different photo app. Or when Evernote got rid of Evernote Food, Microsoft shut down the Sunrise calendar app and del.icio.us kept being re-sold and changed.

Or when MySpace vanished from the face of the earth. Oh, wait.

The good news is that Vine, in a blog post, says all the immense content uploaded to the app isn't going anywhere: The website will remain online and "you'll be able to access and download your Vines."

Well, at least for now.

Copyright 2016 NPR. To see more, visit http://www.npr.org/.