Azizaa Mystic has opened for artists such as Rick Ross, Fabulous, Beenie Man and Ghanian “Highlife” legend, Ebo Taylor. Photo by Ire Zireja

When Ghanian artist Azizaa Mystic started taking her music career seriously, she began to incorporate West African deities into her lyrics. “If I’m going to sing, I’m going to sing about what I’m passionate about,” Mystic said.

In her new music video “Black Magic Woman,” she contrasts spiritual practices from West Africa, including Vodun (which is sometimes called Voodoo), and Christianity. To her, Christianity marks a departure from Ghana’s spiritual traditions, and now that she has the mic, she’s reclaiming Ghana from Christianity through music one song at a time.

Ghana is one of the most religious countries in the world. Ninety-six percent of people call themselves religious, according to a recent International Gallup Poll. And most of them — 71.2 percent — follow Christianity, which was introduced as early as the 15th century through the early modern Atlantic slave trade. The number of people practicing traditional religions is only 5.2 percent of the population.

Mystic was raised Christian in Ghana, but left the country and moved to the U.S. at the age of ten. Now, having left the church, her music is influenced by indigenous spiritual practices from West Africa, including Vodun. “What I needed to do was go back to where I came from, or sankofa — return to my roots,” she said.

We spoke with Mystic about how her music marks a return to the traditions that she says are vital to understanding Ghana.

How has Ghana, your native country, influenced your music?

With the “Black Magic Woman” song — it has a lot to do with your traditional music. It’s derived from traditional music — like Ewe music or Agbadza. A lot of the sounds in the instruments and in the beat — it’s all Agbadza sound blended with Trap [music] and 808 [drums]. It has a little bit of Adowa, which is from the Ashanti tribe in Ghana. Everything is really inspired from the traditional sound.

I come from a family of musicians. They mostly perform traditional music — gospel. My mom sings, my dad sings. I use to wake up when I was a kid to my mom and dad singing. My dad training his voice. I tried to do what I can — listen and memorize. And then we would go to church and sing. I came from music.

Can you describe your relationship to Vodun?

Vodun is the African way of how Westerners would call God. It’s the spiritual system of the African people. The real term is not Voodoo — it’s Vodun. It’s been Westernized as Voodoo. It’s a spiritual connection to the universe, to our God.

For me Vodun is not a religion, it’s a way of life. It’s our core of everyday life. That reflects in the music because it is part of me. The ground you walk on is Vodun — there’s Vodun in it. The very air we breathe is Vodun.

In Mystic’s song “Black Magic Woman,” she portrays the practice of juju, or agbala, and confronts Christian missionaries. Photo by Kwabena Danso

How have religion or spirituality influenced the way you create music?

I can’t really pinpoint how Christianity influenced me. It doesn’t pertain to me because I don’t believe in Christianity. For Vodun, I would say everything. For example, one instrument I play, the gong — it’s the talking drum. In Vodun, drums are known for calling spirits because of the vibrations. That was the reason why [slave masters] stopped African slaves from playing drums.

Why did you decide to make music about your separation from Christianity?

Colonialism has led Africans to think that this religion is for us, but really it is not. Since the days of colonization, we’ve been separated from our spiritual foundation.They basically came with the Bible, gave us the Bible, we closed our eyes to pray, and then they took our land for themselves and we were left in chains.

In the opening scene of your new music video for your song “Black Magic Woman,” two missionaries pressure a woman to convert to Christianity. How much of this is based on our own experience?

Missionaries always direct angry messages towards me. In Ghana, the normal look — the accepted look — is a weave or permed hair. You know, to have a straight face [is] the perfect image. I have piercings and my hair is colored. And when I walk down the street in Ghana, I get all kinds of names.

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Photo by Micha Paulateer and courtesy of Scholastic Art & Writing Awards

Micha Paulateer, a photographer and freshman at the University of Antelope Valley, in in Lancaster, California, won the 2015 Gold Medal for Photography from the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards for this photo of her brother. In this week’s edition of Parallax, she tells us how a photo can change our perspective on who has power in our society.

Every time I ask my 11-year old brother Malachai what he wants to be when he grows up, he replies, “A police officer.”

But in the eyes of the world, he is a child. He has no control over anything, not even himself. Everyone else tells him what to do, and he just goes along doing what he’s told, sometimes. All he wants in the world is to be in charge, to be the boss.

In this picture, he is the boss. When I saw it for the first time, I thought, “I want you to be a police officer, too.” With this picture, I see him as a kid who has all doors open to him. He can walk through whichever one he chooses.

The word “parallax” describes the camera error that occurs when an image looks different through a viewfinder than how it is recorded by a sensor; when one camera gives two perspectives. Parallax is a blog where photographers offer the unexpected sides and stories of their work. Tell us yours or share on Instagram at #PBSParallax.

The post This photo changed my perspective on an 11-year-old’s power appeared first on PBS NewsHour.

Video produced by Stacey Jenkins and Laila Kazmi for KCTS.

When artists in Seattle, Havana and Tehran get together, there are “no politics [and] no prejudices.” That’s the premise for a new traveling exhibit displaying the work of graphic designers in all three cities, co-curated by artists from each city.

The idea began with a collaboration between Seattle-based designer Daniel Smith and Cuban designer Pepe Menéndez, who met when Smith was in Havana 10 years ago to participate in an exhibition there. Smith said the trip made him consider the similarities between artists in Seattle and Havana.

“I got to meet curators and designers and saw the work that was happening there,” Smith said. “It was very personal, very raw, and it sort of felt [similar to] what was happening in Seattle.”

Menéndez and Smith decided to co-curate a poster show featuring designers based in both cities. “I felt like it was important as a citizen to do something, to be engaged with people from other countries and to travel, and especially to places like Cuba,” Smith said. The Seattle-Havana show debuted at the 2007 Bumbershoot festival at Seattle Center.

At the time, the U.S. and Cuba did not have a diplomatic relationship, but Smith said collaboration across borders was still possible. “No one along the way ever said, ‘Why are you working with the Cubans?’” Smith said.

After Seattle, the duo displayed the poster show in Havana and donated the work to a museum. But Smith wanted to expand the project and began researching graphic designers working in Iran’s capital. He traveled to Tehran, where he met designer and eventual co-curator Iman Raad. They collaborated to produce a Seattle-Tehran poster show in 2008.

For the current exhibit, Smith, Menéndez and Raad joined forces to showcase the work of all three cities in a poster display. “When we see what the other is doing — and recognize ourselves — we arrive at the truth; we are more alike than different,” the group said in a statement on their website.

The show is educational for designers in each of the cities, Menéndez said.

“For me, and for my colleagues and friends in Havana, this show … allows us to learn more about Tehran, because it’s very far away; it’s a different culture, different language, different tradition,” Menéndez said. “What you are doing is learning more about yourself when you look at the other reality.”

The poster show premiered in Seattle in September and will travel to Tehran in January 2016 before finishing in Havana in April.

The post Why designers in Havana, Seattle and Tehran are ‘more alike than different’ appeared first on PBS NewsHour.

“Platform-34.532298,69.153442″ (2014). Mixed media on canvas. Image courtesy of Waseem Marzouki

When I asked Syrian artist Waseem Marzouki to tell me about one of his recent projects, he immediately answered: “Getting my family out of Syria.”

Marzouki has lived in Doha, the capital of Qatar, for eight years, but he said until recently some members of his family were based in Dara’a, Syria — the city where a group of teenagers was arrested after spray-painting protests against Syrian President Bashar al-Assad in March 2011. The teens’ arrest and torture fanned the flames of anti-Assad sentiment at the beginning of the Syrian revolution.

Last week, Russia launched cruise missiles at targets in Syria, marking an escalation of its involvement in the four-year Syrian civil war. Russian President Vladimir Putin said that Russian airstrikes, which began in late September, were meant to help Syrian President Bashar al-Assad’s regime and to fight “militants and terrorists,” but its strikes have largely hit areas controlled by mainstream opposition groups including those trained by the CIA. The war appears to be “edging closer to an all-out proxy war between the United States and Russia,” The New York Times reported Monday.

These facts of war, Marzouki said, have become a disturbing routine for many Syrians. “It was very difficult, but now we [are] used to it, you know? It’s very normal for us now, for Syrians, to talk about this,” he said.

“Born 2 Die A” (2014). Mixed media on paper. Image courtesy of Waseem Marzouki

Art, politics and military images collide in Marzouki’s work as he explores the power systems at play in the war. His series “The Firm” (2014) is grounded in images of tanks and soldiers, both common sights in Syria as different forces fight for control of the land and its resources, he said.

Marzouki normally starts with a central image, then layers symbols and writing in various languages over that image. The convergence of these symbols — some of which come from Shi’a, Sunni, Christian or Jewish culture — reflects the cultural diversity of the region and the many voices present in the war, he said.

“Tank” (2014). Mixed media on paper. Image courtesy of Waseem Marzouki

For Marzouki, the paintings are a road map for understanding the chain of events in Syria.

“When I see this painting after 10 years, if I’m still alive, I can understand what was happening there, I can remember everything that was happening and I can tell everything, without forgetting details,” he said. “When you find writing on the tree, like [from] you and your loved one, this is the same.”

Marzouki was born and grew up in al-Thawrah, an hour’s drive from Raqqa, which has been called the “capital” of the Islamic State’s territory in northern Syria.

Marzouki’s father moved there to work as an engineer on the building of three dams in the region — the Tabqa Dam, Tishrin Dam and Baath Dam. As the Soviet Union had provided funding and engineers for the Tabqa Dam, Soviet influence was strong throughout the city, and this cultural overlap appeared in Marzouki’s work at an early age, he said.

“I remember when I start[ed] drawing in school, my teachers used to tell me, ‘You are drawing something that looks different. It looks like — you know when Russians speak Arabic? The accent, your drawings look like this accent,’” he said.

“Platform” (2014). Mixed media on paper. Image courtesy of Waseem Marzouki

Marzouki earned a B.A. in fine art from Damascus University in 2007, and in 2012 he studied at the Global Cinematography Institute in Hollywood. He moved to Doha eight years ago to work with a television production company, but now works as a full-time artist.

As the war escalated, he began using less color and fewer ornamental details. “Now almost all of my color is black and white, only lines, the foundation of the idea only, that’s it,” he said. “I don’t want people to be impressed by the work … I care more about the idea and the foundation of the idea and the pre-production of the painting.”

“Untitled” (2015). Image courtesy of Waseem Marzouki

At a time when Syrian art and antiquities are at risk of destruction, Syrian artists are playing a unique role in preserving their own history, he said. “When you see ‘Guernica’ from Picasso and then you read a story about it, then you understand this was the Spanish and Nazi’s war,” he said. “When you make a series of paintings, or a painting, and you link this painting to what’s happening now, this [becomes] history.”

See more of Marzouki’s work below.

“Platform 1″ (2015). Image courtesy of Waseem Marzouki

“Untitled” (2015). Image courtesy of Waseem Marzouki

“Platform 2″ (2015). Image courtesy of Waseem Marzouki

“Platform 3″ (2015). Image courtesy of Waseem Marzouki

The post The chilling, abstract blueprints of war from the mind of Syrian artist Waseem Marzouki appeared first on PBS NewsHour.

Joseph, 88, Les Espaces d’Abraxas, Noisy-le-Grand, 2014. Photo by Laurent Kronental

Editor’s Note: After World War II, a number of “grands ensembles,” or housing projects, were constructed in the suburbs surrounding Paris to meet a demand in housing needs by migrants. In this week’s edition of Parallax, Laurent Kronental describes the four years he spent photographing the elderly residents of the housing complexes, located in areas that have historically been economically and socially isolated from the rest of the Parisian metro area. This sense of isolation among residents is tangible in Kronental’s series “Souvenir d’un Futur” (“Memory of a Future”).

For four years, I have photographed the seniors living in the large estates of the Parisian suburbs with a 4×5 large format film camera. One area in particular profoundly fascinated me: the Espaces d’Abraxas, conceived by Ricardo Bofill, in Noisy-le-Grand, a suburb of Paris. I remember the first time I arrived at the foot of this concrete giant. I was captivated by its timeless architecture; this spectacular and mysterious estate, like an impregnable fortress, seemed to come from another time, at once dark and poetic, grand and rough. A future that did not come to pass has left its imprint on the landscape in the form of these towns, icons of French post-war modernism.

This district, built between 1978 and 1983, was one of the anchor points of my series. I came there many times before taking this photo. It shows an a 88-year-old man named Joseph who had lived in Noisy-le-Grand for many years. In the photo, he contemplates a monumental and strangely ghostly landscape where only some quiet signs of life appear. I imagined him as one of the last survivors in a post-apocalyptic universe, where the elderly live their lives in the titanic structures that have engulfed their humanity, their fears and their hopes.

In the foreground appears a massive building whose curvature recalls a theater. Joseph gazes into the distance, facing a world which ages slowly, taking with it the memory of a utopia. His presence raises the question, for us, about the place of these urban veterans in our society.

The word “parallax” describes the camera error that occurs when an image looks different through a viewfinder than how it is recorded by a sensor; when one camera gives two perspectives. Parallax is a blog where photographers offer the unexpected sides and stories of their work. Tell us yours or share on Instagram at #PBSParallax.

The post How a single photo captures the loneliness of a post-war Paris housing project appeared first on PBS NewsHour.

Video produced by Anne Davenport.

Yo-Yo Ma began dazzling audiences when he was five. Now, his new album “Songs from the Arc of Life,” which came out just before his 60th birthday, focuses on the ups and downs of the human experience.

Chief arts and culture correspondent Jeffrey Brown recently visited Ma at a recording studio in New York. The cellist told him the album, which he recorded with his longtime collaborator pianist Kathryn Stott, follows the way a person’s relationship to music changes with age.

“What do people remember from their childhood, music from their childhood, from first dance all the way through?” he said. “We went through a selection process to think [about], what do people go through when they are teenagers, or what do they go through when they’re in, you know, adolescence, or middle age, or late age.”

“Songs From The Arc Of Life” is full of familiar favorites like “Brahms’ Lullaby,” “The Swan” by Camille Saint-Saëns and the Franz Schubert’s “Ave Maria.” Ma performed “The Swan” for the NewsHour (above).

Messiaen wrote the piece as a prisoner-of-war during World War II, Ma said. “I included that piece particularly because I think the human spirit is incredible. It has the ability to transcend the worst moments,” he said.

The piece expresses “infinite love. The glories of the universe,” he said. “And that, to me, is something that we all need as humans. That ability to manufacture, to create hope in the depths of despair, because we all go through terrible moments in our lives, and those are the moments when we have to go deep in the reservoir, and find something that comes out, and can give us comfort.”

Ma — who is known for leaning back, closing his eyes and often smiling while playing — said for him, music is its own method of communication. “The sounds can actually be the gateway … into the hearts and mind of somebody else,” he said. “It could be a language. I love that language — it’s so beautiful.”

Watch the NewsHour tonight for the full report.

The post WATCH: Yo-Yo Ma performs selection from new album for the NewsHour appeared first on PBS NewsHour.

 Video produced by Abhi Singh.

The Renegade Rockers are legendary in the Bay area, having perfected the art of hip hop dance since 1983. Now, they have two new members: Alex Flores and Marthy Galimba, also known by their dance names Prince Ali and Marthy McFlyy.

Galimba’s style focuses on break-dancing and turf dancing, a style that originated in Oakland as an alternative pastime to keep young people from joining gangs. Flores said his dancing features popping, a funk style in which dancers quickly flex their muscles in time to music.

The Renegades love to test themselves in what they call “battles,” where two dancers face off against each other and judges from the community decide who comes out on top. Galimba said the battles are a good test of a dancer’s speed and strength. “If I’m in a battle, I’m always thinking quick … you’ve got to make your next move the best move,” he said.

Both Flores and Galimba draw inspiration from Renegade Rocker legend Omar Delgado, whose dance name is Roxrite. Delgado is a local icon who has won more than 82 dance competitions and is also currently a member of Red Bull BC One All Stars, a crew of 10 internationally renowned hip hop dancers.

Local Beat is an ongoing series on Art Beat that features arts and culture stories from PBS member stations around the nation.

The post Meet the two new members of San Francisco’s legendary dance crew appeared first on PBS NewsHour.

Ramona, 54 years old, has worked on Jerome Avenue in the Bronx since 1990. She has been the owner of YC&L Auto Repair for nine years. Photo by Edwin Torres and courtesy of the Bronx Photo League/Bronx Documentary Center.

Editor’s Note: Jerome Avenue in the Bronx is a hub of working class families, but residents worry that their way of life could be at risk under a proposed idea to rezone 57 blocks along the street. In one study that surveyed Bronx residents, 80 percent of respondents said they fear the rezoning could displace them by introducing higher housing prices. In response, photographers working with the Bronx Photo League decided to document the images and stories of Jerome Avenue’s residents in the Jerome Avenue Workers Project. Below, photographer Edwin Torres discusses his role in the project and why he approached Ramona, a business owner on Jerome Avenue.

Edwin Torres, photographer (as told to Corinne Segal)

Me and another photographer were out shooting Jerome Avenue and we were walking past one of the stores, and we kept seeing this woman hanging outside of one of the shops, which is very different. The street feels dominated by men. Ramona was just there, talking to a lot of people — she looked like she was in charge.

At first she said, “I don’t know you, I don’t know what this is about, I don’t want to be photographed.” I completely thought it was never going work out from the first few tries.

I’m Puerto Rican. I was born and raised in the Bronx. I grew up always seeing that kind of scenario play out. My dad was an ad hoc mechanic, pretty much took up mechanic gigs whenever there was extra money to be made. We would always hang around those shops. So it’s something I can relate to and understand.

It’s very easy to label a set of repair shops and mechanic shops as something filthy and strictly commercial and strictly business. It’s very easy to label it as that. But it’s not so easy to see that these are people’s lives here. And the majority of these business owners are in the 50-year-old range. For them to relocate, when they have been working there for 20, 30 years — for them to relocate and try to build a new customer base is just not feasible.

Ramona, pictured (as told to Torres) 

I am the owner of the business. My ex-husband was the owner for 20 years and since 2006 I have worked here. We are Dominicans. I came here in 1981. I have been working here since 1990. First I was a manager for two different car washes. Manager at two different tire shops. He was always a mechanic, this was a parking lot. He had a booth where he did tune ups and car inspections. The he taught me and I applied for my own license. Eventually I enjoyed working with help and appreciated working independently, not answering to anyone.

If you move, you lose the customer service, you may not have anything. If we move, for us we would have to start all over again from scratch. We lose the customer base. I cannot relocate to another area. I am 54 years old. I am too tired. I am not strong enough to start again. I already have a method with my clients. I have plans on when I plan to retire and how I am going to leave. If they destroy the buildings then we have to look for where to go. It will change your entire life. It won’t be the same.

Interviews have been edited for length. The word “parallax” describes the camera error that occurs when an image looks different through a viewfinder than how it is recorded by a sensor; when one camera gives two perspectives. Parallax is a blog where photographers offer the unexpected sides and stories of their work. Tell us yours or share on Instagram at #PBSParallax.

The post Meet the woman who’s standing up to gentrification in her working class Bronx neighborhood appeared first on PBS NewsHour.

Photographer Nour Nouralla took this photo at a school in Shatila, Lebanon. “As I was taking a group picture of kids at the kindergarten, this little girl came and said: ‘Take a picture of me alone,'” Nouralla wrote on the website for Syrian Eyes of the World, a photography project that documents Syrian lives in the diaspora. Photo by Nour Nouralla

Nour Nouralla grew up in Syria, but no one she knows lives there anymore.

She rattled off the destinations of friends and family, some of whom left as a four-year war ravaged the country: “Germany, France, England, the Gulf area, Dubai, Saudi Arabia, Abu Dhabi, Lebanon — there’s many people who fled to Lebanon in the early stages of the conflict — Amman, Jordan — there are Syrians in Malaysia because they don’t need a visa.”

More than 4 million people have now left Syria in the largest mass migration since World War II. Most of them now live in Jordan, Turkey, or Lebanon, which has seen its population swell by more than a quarter, an amount that Kim Ghattas at Foreign Policy pointed out would be the equivalent of 90 million refugees arriving in the U.S. Thousands of others have traveled by boat from Turkey to Greece, where they cross over to Macedonia and Serbia. And last week, as Hungary closed its borders to refugees, the flow of people toward western Europe swelled along the path from Serbia to Croatia, with more than 5,000 people crossing into Croatia daily, The Guardian has reported.

As these numbers make headlines, Nouralla is one of a group of photographers bringing focus to the individual faces and voices that share a Syrian identity — ones that they say can get lost in media coverage of the war — with the project “Syrian Eyes of the World.”

Photographer Antoine Entabi took this photo of artist Amjad Hashem in Damascus in 2014. “All I know is that all my paintings tell my story,” Hashem told Entabi. Photo by Antoine Entabi

Youssef Shoufan, the project’s founder, moved from Damascus to Montreal with his family at the age of seven. Growing up in Montreal, he said he felt disconnected from his origins. Two years ago, he traveled to Beirut, Lebanon, and connected with the growing community of Syrians there.

He said the people he met in Beirut inspired him to start the project and capture the shared culture between Syrians everywhere. “It’s important for us to include everyone who has Syrian origins, with no geography bounds. It’s not about if you’re inside or outside Syria,” he said.

“Before, we were scared. But it was nothing compared to what we saw later,” Reem Al-Haswani told Shoufan in Shatila, Lebanon, in 2013. Photo by Youssef Shoufan

Shoufan said he hopes the project can provide a more realistic portrait of Syrians at a time when many images of Syrians are associated only with war.

“The idea is to balance what is shown about Syria and Syrians and bring that image closer to reality,” Shoufan said.

“Identity is rather a journey, a trajectory which is constantly changing. I would add that for me identity lies even more so in the sum of your life experiences,” film director Samer Najari, pictured here with his son Francesco in Montreal in 2014, told Youssef Shoufan. “As for my children, my hope is that I will be able to cultivate their curiosity about the world and that I will help them learn to be open to all differences.” Photo by Youssef Shoufan

Nouralla lived in Damascus and Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, before moving to New York City to study architecture at the Pratt Institute. She applied to join the project last year and recently spent three months in Berlin, where she met Syrians who had just arrived at the end of a long journey.

“I heard from people who literally just crossed the borders,” she said. “Some of them had no problems on the trip, [but] some of them have literally spent 25 days on the road, on feet. Just meeting somebody who finally reached their destination from the hell that they’ve been through, back wherever they came from — just seeing the smile on their face and the relief on their face has been really inspiring.”

Talking to her subjects has made her reconsider the meaning of “home” in her life and the lives of others, she said. “It always gives me a unique perspective on, what do we call home, really? That’s what I try to do in my portraits,” she said. “I always like to bring up issues like the issue of home or belonging, or places, and how people assimilate and adapt to these new places and cities.”

Ebaa Hwijeh, pictured, has lived in Berlin for years. “What is home? What is exile? These are concepts that are not easy to define with a word or two,” Hwijeh told Nouralla this year. “‘Home’ is the synthesis of your experiences, in all places with all their details, good or bad. Everyplace you live in is a piece of you, like you are a piece of it.” Photo by Nour Nouralla

Antoine Entabi, a photographer for the project, met Shoufan in Beirut in 2013, shortly after moving there from Damascus. “I had to leave Syria,” he said. “I had to move to start a new beginning.”

Now, Entabi works in Shatila, Lebanon, for Basmeh & Zeitooneh, an NGO that provides Syrian refugees with direct services and community support. “Everyday, I [see] new refugees came to the camp, and live in miserable conditions. Most of them came and hold [their] dreams on [their] shoulders,” he wrote in a Facebook message.

“I care for one thing only: how I’ll let my children reach the highest ranks, study and succeed, even at the expense of my labor,” Um Ibrahim, who works with Entabi at service organization Basmeh & Zeitooneh in Shatila, Lebanon, told photographer Antoine Entabi in 2014. “I haven’t seen a thing of my life, all my life is about work, and I try to be the father and the mother of my children.” Photo by Antoine Entabi

Entabi aims for the project to show the diversity of Syrian people and their strength under difficult circumstances, he said. “In Syria we have a lot of communities, different religion, culture, and accents,” he wrote. “We have more than 12,000 years of civilizations … I believe that the Syrian[s] will spread [their] thoughts and culture around the world.”

An exhibit featuring some of the photos will be on display in front of the town hall in Pessac, France, from Nov. 16-23 as part of the Festival International du Film d’Histoire de Pessac. Project photographers Youssef and Madonna Adib just signed on to direct a documentary with Montreal-based Parabola Films following several Syrians around the world as they grapple with the war’s impact on their lives.

See more photos from “Syrian Eyes of the World” below.

“Younger, we studied the literature of the diaspora that didn’t interest me so much at the time / Twenty years spent away from the country, I now understand why a stranger becomes a poet,” Hala Al Romhein, pictured in Montreal this year, wrote to Shoufan. Photo by Youssef Shoufan

“It’s very hard to make a significant difference in the world, but I think that if I can make at least one person ‘feel’ again, then I can be one step closer to making that difference. So I dance,” Yara Arwad, pictured above, told Nouralla in New York in 2014. Photo by Nour Nouralla

“I would like to post a tent in the ‘No man’s land’ which is the land between [Lebanon and Syria]. This is my dream,” Caroline Kinj, pictured, told Entabi in Shatila, Lebanon, in 2014. “I’m not able to be here and there. At heart I am Syrian, with the appearances I am Lebanese. This is my confusion, but my greatest belonging is for Syria.” Photo by Antoine Entabi

Three women sew at Basmeh & Zeitooneh in Shatila, Lebanon, in 2014. Photo by Youssef Shoufan

The post Photos: These are the faces of Syria, from around the world appeared first on PBS NewsHour.

This crucifix comes from the city of Modena and was smashed into 12 pieces during an earthquake in 2012 in the Emilia Romagna region of northern Italy. Restorers at the Opificio delle Pietre Dure have reconstructed it but decided to leave signs of the damage to help tell its history. Photo by Frank Carlson

In the 14th century, Florence was the center of the Italian Renaissance, but after a devastating flood in the 1960s, it became something else: one of the world’s foremost centers of art preservation and restoration.

The PBS NewsHour traveled to Florence in late September to visit the Opificio delle Pietre Dure (OPD), the Workshop of Semi-Precious Stones, where restorers are working on Giorgio Vasari’s “Last Supper,” a 21-foot wood panel painting completed in 1546.

During the 1960s that painting and many others hung in Florence’s Santa Croce Church and museum, which sits just a few blocks from the Arno River. But in November 1966, one of Florence’s worst-ever floods sent water, debris and oil into the city, damaging and destroying thousands of artworks and manuscripts. Water in the church reached nearly 20 feet high, submerging the Vasari for more than 48 hours.

For more than four decades it sat in storage as conservators and restorers debated how to save the work. And now, as the 50th anniversary of the flood approaches, restorers hope to finish their work on the painting and return it to the Santa Croce museum.

Photos below at the OPD and the Santa Croce Church show the lasting impact of the flood as well as the work that happens at the OPD. Watch the NewsHour tonight for a report on the OPD.

A conservator at the OPD works on restoring a panel of Vasari’s “Last Supper” nearly 50 years after it was damaged by a flood. The OPD began as a project of the Medici family to create the finest mosaic works, but following the flood, it made a turn towards conservation of works using the best available technology. Photo by Frank Carlson

Another restorer works on the central panel of Vasari’s “Last Supper.” The painting sat in storage for more than 40 years after the 1966 flood while experts developed the skills and confidence to restore it in one piece. Photo by Frank Carlson

“Crucifix” by Cimabue hangs in the Santa Croce Church museum in Florence, Italy, just a few blocks from the Arno River. During the 1966 flood it was badly damaged, becoming a symbol of the flood. Another painting that hung in the Santa Croce was Vasari’s “Last Supper,” now undergoing restoration. Photo by Frank Carlson

A sign on the second floor of the Santa Croce museum shows how high the water rose during the 1966 flood. Signposts like these can be found around Florence today. Photo by Frank Carlson

This sign in the Santa Croce Church shows the relative heights of three major floods in Florence. Photo by Frank Carlson

Caterina Toso cleans the “San Marco Altarpiece,” also known as “Madonna and the Saints,” a painting on wood usually found in the Museum of San Marco in Florence. Commissioned by Cosimo di Medici, it was completed by Fra Angelico in the mid-15th century. Photo by Frank Carlson

Cecilia Frosinini, deputy director of the OPD, explains the restoration work that’s been done on Leonardo da Vinci’s “Adoration of the Magi,” which arrived in Nov. 2011 from the Uffizi Gallery in Florence and is now being cleaned. Photo by Frank Carlson

Ciro Castelli was a young carpenter when the 1966 flood hit, and through the emergency response he became involved in wood restoration. He’s now a master woodworker who came out of retirement to work on Vasari’s “Last Supper,” as well as to teach a new generation of wood restorers his techniques. Photo by Frank Carlson

A restorer works on Alessandro Allori’s “Crucifixion,” painted in the 16th century. It arrived at the OPD in 2011, suffering from cracks in its wood supports. Photo by Frank Carlson

A large X-ray shows one panel of Vasari’s “Last Supper,” including places where its wood planks split and where paint was lost. Photo by Frank Carlson

At the OPD’s museum workshop, stoneworkers still gather naturally-occurring color samples from nearby ore deposits. Photo by Frank Carlson

A sculpture awaits restoration in the OPD’s museum workshop. Photo by Frank Carlson

The post Photos: Inside the Florence lab saving priceless works of art appeared first on PBS NewsHour.

Video produced by Maria Bartholdi.

Emily Lynch goes through life looking for patterns.

During the day, Lynch works for a math publishing company in Minneapolis, training teachers to use materials that are created for visually-oriented students. She also works as an artist, creating paintings based on number systems and her own calculations.

Her paintings are striking visual representations of math, drawing on mathematical concepts to create complex systems of patterns in her work. For one piece, Lynch painted a system of squares that represented the base-3 numeral system. She said she was struck by the beautiful pattern it created. “It looks very calming and peaceful and meditative,” she said.  She went even further, assigning each square a note on the piano to form a musical composition.

Lynch said she sees herself as more of a “problem-solver” than an artist. “It’s mainly about the math, and then the art is how I do that math,” she said.

Local Beat is an ongoing series on Art Beat that features arts and culture stories from PBS member stations around the nation.

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Sunrise over Civita di Bagnoregio, a hilltop town with somewhere around seven year-round residents. Photo by Frank Carlson

There is something oddly attractive about a place slated to disappear, and at first glance, Civita di Bagnoregio is just that: a charming medieval town in central Italy that, thanks to its geology, has been slowly crumbling for thousands of years.

The Etruscans chose the site for its high ground in the 6th century B.C., but much of that ground has since fallen away. Civita di Bagnoregio is built on what’s known as “tuff,” volcanic rock over a bed of soft clay and sand. And in a region prone to earthquakes — including a massive one in 1695 that devastated the town — that combination, plus a healthy amount of rain, have accelerated the landslides that have now robbed Civita di Bagnoregio of 20 percent of its terrain since 1705. Today there are only around seven year-round residents and many of its buildings have been lost.

But in 2015 that’s an idea drawing tourists; since 2010, the number of people making the difficult hike up the footbridge has risen from 40,000 a year to 500,000. New restaurants, tourist shops and bed and breakfasts have opened, and locals have a reason to stick around, or in many cases, to return, giving them hope that the wonder and beauty of their town will be enough to sustain it many years into the future.

Coupled with some massive geo-engineering efforts, that may be true. See below for a collection of photos from what locals call “il paese che muore,” or “the dying town.”

Tourists and residents access Civita di Bagnoregio by way of a steep footbridge. But earlier this year there was a collapse near its base that now needs shoring up. Photo by Frank Carlson

No cars are allowed in Civita di Bagnoregio due to the fragile nature of the landscape, so a man on a motorcycle must suffice for a garbage truck. Photo by Frank Carlson

A pair of doors in Civita di Bagnoregio, a small town in central Italy that dates back 2,500 years. Photo by Frank Carlson

For hundreds and even thousands of years, the town of Civita di Bagnoregio has been gradually falling apart due to landslides. Here, a gate prevents tourists from descending a staircase that leads off a cliff. Photo by Frank Carlson

Some 20 percent of Civita di Bagnoregio’s land has been lost since 1705, most of it gardens and agricultural lands. But buildings have also been lost, like this one, now a mere facade. Photo by Frank Carlson

Civita di Bagnoregio, known as the “dying town,” is a small hilltop community in the Lazio province of central Italy. Photo by Frank Carlson

Civita di Bagnoregio is surrounded by agricultural lands, including olive groves, and for centuries this served as the principal means of employment. Photo by Frank Carlson

Tourism is booming in the town of Civita di Bagnoregio, rising from 40,000 a year to 500,000 a year since 2010. This year the town of Bagnoregio began charging visitors about $1.70 to enter. Photo by Frank Carlson

Tourists arrive at the main square of Civita di Bagnoregio, where the San Donato church sits. Photo by Frank Carlson

Chef Maurizio Rocchi shows off one his family recipes, featuring bacon, egg yolk and black truffle flakes. He is one of the few year-round residents here and has opened a new restaurant, the Alma Civita, to capitalize on the growth in tourism. Photo by Frank Carlson

A worker takes a cigarette break outside the Alma Civita restaurant. Photo by Frank Carlson

American architect Tony Heywood first came to Civita di Bagnoregio with his wife, Astra Zarina, in the 1960s. Zarina was also an architect and University of Washington professor who brought American students here to study, helping to popularize and restore the town. Photo by Frank Carlson

A photo of Tony Heywood and his wife, Astra Zarina, in Heywood’s home in Civita di Bagnoregio. Photo by Frank Carlson

A look at the southside of Civita di Bagnoregio from the path below reveals the encroachment of landslides on the town. Photo by Frank Carlson

A cave underneath Civita di Bagnoregio houses an old chapel and may have been used as a tomb during the Etruscan era. Photo by Frank Carlson

Sunlight fades as a woman enters Civita di Bagnorio from the footbridge as others leave for the day. Photo by Frank Carlson

In the evening Civita di Bagnoregio clears out, leaving it to a few tourists who stay at bed and breakfasts and the year-round residents. Photo by Frank Carlson

A building on the north side has fallen apart as the land below it fell away. This portion of the town has now been stabilized using massive steel shafts that hold the hilltop together. Photo by Frank Carlson

At dusk tourists leave the main square, passing the San Donato church on their way out. Photo by Frank Carlson

With tourists gone, Civita di Bagnoregio’s many cats reclaim the streets. Photo by Frank Carlson

Tourists linger in Civita di Bagnoregio as the sun goes down. Photo by Frank Carlson

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At the age of 21, Keila was raped by a childhood friend, according to her case. Two days later, she confronted him about what he had done and when he taunted her, she killed him. After the trial, Keila was convicted of murder and sentenced to 15 years to life. In prison, Keila learned how to operate heavy machinery and power tools. She worked for several years on maintenance crews and later in the prison kitchen where she learned culinary skills. In addition, she counseled teens whose mothers were in prison. Photo and caption by Sara Bennett

People are more than their worst act. That’s the founding principle for an ongoing photography project by Sara Bennett, a former attorney documenting the stories of four convicted murderers working to rebuild their lives.

Bennett worked as a criminal defense attorney from 1986 to 2004 and continued to take on pro-bono cases after she left the practice. Seven years ago, she began defending Judith Clark, who was sentenced to a minimum of 75 years in prison after serving as a getaway driver for a group that killed three people, including two police officers, in 1981.

When they were released and why varies, often for what Bennett called “arbitrary” reasons. “There’s not that much difference between the people who get let out and the people who don’t,” she said. “There’s no rhyme or reason to our criminal justice system.”

Keila, three and a half weeks after her release, on the New York City subway for the first time in more than 20 years. Photo and caption by Sara Bennett

With 2.2 million people currently incarcerated, a number that has increased by 500 percent in the past three decades, the U.S. has more people in prison than any other country in the world. And recently, those numbers have come under increased scrutiny.

In April, the U.S. Sentencing Commission reduced federal punishments for future drug offenders, and in July, the commission voted to make that change retroactive, giving inmates the option to be re-sentenced. As a result, 6,000 inmates will be released from federal prison at the end of this month, the largest-ever one-time release from federal prisons, and thousands more could also be affected. These changes came as President Barack Obama commuted the sentences of 46 people incarcerated for drug offenses in mid-July and visited the El Reno Federal Correctional Institution in Oklahom, where he met with six inmates.

But violent offenders, and what happens to them after they leave prison, are missing from this conversation, Bennett said.

“When somebody’s been convicted of murder and they spend 20 years in prison and get out, those are the people who have the lowest recidivism rate of anybody. But nobody’s talking to them. So I wanted to bring a face to people who have been convicted of murder, who have really lengthy sentences, and who have come out of prison and are rebuilding their lives,” she said.

After 20 years and two parole denials, Keila was released and went home to live with her cousin and her cousin’s family in Long Island. Five months later, she moved to transitional housing provided by Hour Children, an organization that provides services to formerly incarcerated women, where she also received job training in office skills. She currently lives in an apartment with her girlfriend Tiffany, right, and her girlfriend’s daughter in Long Island City, New York. Photo and caption by Sara Bennett

Once they leave prison, they face a number of barriers to re-entering society, Bennett said. Many ex-felons have trouble finding employment, although the U.S. Equal Employment Opportunity Commission states it is illegal to discriminate against a job applicant on the basis of criminal history. Others also face limited access to housing. In New York City, where Bennett photographed the four women, being arrested at all can limit a person’s chances of being accepted into public housing, even if their families are living there when they leave prison.

The women who Bennett photographed were no exception to this pattern, she said. One night last November, she received a call from Tracy, who served 24 years in prison and was released in February at the age of 49. Tracy had lost her job with the Salvation Army after the group ran a background check on her, she said. But after she went back and asked them for another chance, she got the job back.

“My dad bought me this softball glove when I joined the prison team. He died while I was in there. Two officers transported me to the funeral home. They wanted me to go in without my family. I couldn’t. I didn’t care about their rules and regulations. It was my father. He was my everything. I was in cuffs for twenty hours. He was the man I loved the most in this whole world. It just went all wrong. They made it worse.” Photo and caption by Sara Bennett

Bennett said the work raises questions about the purpose of incarceration and who is considered worthy of rehabilitation.

“It’s actually a philosophical question that our society has to grapple with. Let’s just say somebody’s convicted of murder … do you believe, then, as a society, that we take that person, lock them up and throw away the key?” she said. “People are way more than the worst act they ever did. People are complicated, and deep and rich and have a lot to offer.”

Many of the people she has met are trying to survive while minimizing the harm they do to others, she said. “That doesn’t diminish either what they did or the harm they caused to the victims or their victim’s family. And they would be the first to express remorse or sorrow or wish that there was some way that they hadn’t done that,” she said. “But the most you can do is figure out how to live your life in a good, honorable way.”

Below, see more of Bennett’s work, and read the stories of Carol, Tracy and Evelyn.

At the age of 29, Carol was convicted of being complicit in her ex-husband’s murder and sentenced to 25 years to life. Incarcerated in 1978, she received a GED, an Associates Degree and a Bachelors of Science. She worked in facility maintenance doing carpentry, plumbing and masonry. In 1982, Carol was among the first inmates allowed to live in a two-family house on prison grounds, set up for the 26 most honored and trusted prisoners. After her second heart attack, she was sent to a prison hospital ward, where she lived for the next three years. Photo and caption by Sara Bennett

Carol, one year after her release, with her “honorary” grandchild Cecil, right, and Darjay, middle, both almost three years old, in Long Island City, New York. “I’ve always loved kids. They’re so innocent and full of joy. In prison, I wasn’t allowed to work on the nursery because I had a violent crime. Now it’s my chance. For 35 years I’ve been away from my own children. You can’t blame them for being angry and disappointed and hurt. I hope one day they’ll forgive me.” Photo and caption by Sara Bennett

Carol on her way to her cardiologist’s office in Long Island City, New York. “I don’t go out much. I work across the street from where I live. I go to the doctor or do a little shopping. Sometimes I go out with a friend. It might not sound like much, but I’m free.” Photo and caption by Sara Bennett

Carol with her friends Kelly, left, and Tina, right, after being admitted for treatment for heart disease at Mount Sinai Hospital, Long Island City, New York. “My last three years in prison I spent on the RMU [Regional Medical Unit]. It’s like a mini hospital, but it’s really isolating. It’s worse than solitary. No one can visit you because everyone’s in their programs during scheduled visiting hours and you can’t get permission to leave your program. I could see my friends from the screened-in porch but I couldn’t talk to them because you’re not allowed to holler.” Photo and caption by Sara Bennett

At the age of 19, Tracy became addicted to alcohol and cocaine and joined a group that robbed and killed drug dealers. At the age of 24, she was convicted of three counts of murder and sentenced to 22 years to life. Two years into her prison term, Tracy received a cosmetology certificate from the New York State Department of Labor, and then worked as a barber, hairstylist, nail technician and supervisor. She also started a utility crew and, for seven years, she tiled floors and spackled and painted walls. Photo and caption by Sara Bennett

Tracy six months after her release in East Harlem, New York. “This is my third home in six months. I was at Providence House [a halfway house in Brooklyn] for four months. That felt like a home. … But my time was up after four months and after I got scammed out of a down payment on an apartment, I ended up at a three-quarter house. It was horrible, unsafe, and a drug-violation environment. I was able to leave after 24 hours. Then the uncle of my grandchildren, not related to me, took me in. I have lots of things that I got back from my teenage home.” Photo and caption by Sara Bennett

Tracy with her grandson Jo-shia in Bergenfield, New Jersey. Photo and caption by Sara Bennett

Tracy working as a bell ringer for the Salvation Army in New York City. “First, Salvation Army told me I could have this job. Then they called me and told me they did a background check and said I couldn’t have it after all. So I asked them when will I get my second chance. I did my time. Parole granted me my freedom. If they won’t give me a job, who will? So then they said I could have the job.” Photo and caption by Sara Bennett

As a 16-year-old high-school student, Evelyn came to New York City from Puerto Rico on summer vacation with her girlfriend and her girlfriend’s brother. They didn’t return home and ended up working for a drug dealer, counting money. Two years later, the three were charged with murder for the shooting death of a man in the apartment where they worked. Evelyn pleaded guilty and went to prison at the age of 19. There she received her GED, took several college courses and gained culinary skills, working as a cook and ultimately a supervisor. She was denied parole once. Photo and caption by Sara Bennett

Evelyn with the son of her domestic partner in Long Island City, New York. “I met my partner when I’d only been home for a few days. She has three kids and me not having kids, I became close to the kids and that was an extra.” Photo and caption by Sara Bennett

Evelyn at work in the World Financial Center several months before her promotion to sous chef in New York City. “When I came home, I got a grant and went to a culinary program. Here I’m in charge of the salad station. I prep all the vegetables for lunch after prepping everything for breakfast. My dream job is to work for a nice restaurant. ‘Evelyn, Sous Chef.’ Or to have my own food truck — Spanish food. I cook like my grandma. That’s the best instructor you can have. Everything she cooked was natural.” Photo and caption by Sara Bennett

Evelyn moving to her second home in four months after she and her domestic partner broke up, in Astoria, New York. Photo and caption by Sara Bennett

Evelyn with Sister Elaine Roulet, a nun who worked in Bedford Hills Correctional Facility in Brooklyn, New York. “I met Sister Elaine in Bedford. I was in facility maintenance and if she needed something done, I was there. I was always happy to do it. She was always encouraging me. She’d say, ‘you’re so beautiful, such a happy angel.’ She always had a joke. She was like a mother figure to a lot of us in prison.” Photo and caption by Sara Bennett

The post Photos: Four women convicted of murder begin to move on after prison appeared first on PBS NewsHour.

People gather at the Potsdamer Platz in Berlin, Germany, to call for more acceptance of Syrian refugees. Photo by Nour Nouralla

Editor’s Note: Thousands of people fleeing war in Syria have made their way across the Mediterranean Sea and Europe in the hopes of landing in Germany, which has promised to accept refugees. This fall, Syrian photographer Nour Nouralla was visiting Berlin when she heard about a rally to support incoming refugees. In this week’s edition of Parallax, she discusses the significance of that rally and why she chose to photograph it.

I was born in the oldest inhabited capital in the world, Damascus. For almost five years, I have watched my country being torn apart. What started as a peaceful revolution has turned into a violent civil war that has led to people fleeing the country and making their way to Europe — a dangerous trip, one that has resulted in the death of thousands of refugees in the last few years as they have tried to cross the Mediterranean.

For a long time, the world turned their head the other way when it came to Syrian refugees. But one day in early September, a photograph of toddler Aylan Kurdi’s lifeless body, washed ashore on a beach in Turkey, sparked international outrage. He was not the first child to die in the desperate escape of his family from the war, but he was definitely the wake-up call for the world.

On Sept. 12, tens of thousands of people all over Europe and Australia took part in pro-refugees demonstrations to rally their governments to accept more refugees, and Berlin was no exception. I had been in the German capital for the summer and was able to attend the rally, which was titled “Berlin Sees Syria.” Hundreds of people gathered in the historic Potsdamer Platz and held up “Refugees Welcome” signs. They stood in support of Syrian refugees and to put pressure on politicians to take action. They wanted to show that the German people will not stand by while people die trying to reach Europe. People from all walks of life demonstrated and held candles in solidarity with all those who passed away during their attempt to flee their homes.

Aylan Kurdi, this one goes out to you.

The word “parallax” describes the camera error that occurs when an image looks different through a viewfinder than how it is recorded by a sensor; when one camera gives two perspectives. Parallax is a blog where photographers offer the unexpected sides and stories of their work. Tell us yours or share on Instagram at #PBSParallax.

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The Lowline, a project to create an underground park in New York City, uses solar collection technology to grow plants in spaces that would otherwise be inhospitable. Photo by Christopher Annas-Lee

NEW YORK — In a forgotten corner of the New York City underground, Dan Barasch and James Ramsey are growing pineapples.

“It’s ripe,” Ramsey said, examining a fist-size pineapple nestled between thyme, sage and dozens of other plants. “One bite of pineapple.”

These plants are the first step toward New York City’s first underground park — the Lowline, a project that has been in development for seven years.

The park, which is planned to open in 2020, will be housed beneath Delancey St. in New York City in a 60,000 square foot trolley station that was built in 1903, according to Barasch, the Lowline’s co-founder and executive director. The station served as a turn-around point for trolley cars running between Manhattan from Brooklyn over the Williamsburg Bridge, but stopped operating in 1948.

The outside of the Lowline Lab on Essex St. on New York City’s Lower East Side. Photo by Christopher Annas-Lee

The Lowline Lab, a prototype and test drive for the project, is housed at 140 Essex St. in New York City, an abandoned space that formerly served as the Essex St. Market. The building’s age and layout is similar to the Delancey St. trolley station, Ramsey said.

Ramsey, designer and co-founder, had an idea for the project back in 2008 and teamed up with an engineer in South Korea to create new solar collection technology. They built a system that uses heliostats — or mirrors that track the sun — to collect sunlight from the exterior, drive it into a concentrating mechanism and then redistribute it to plants underground.

“We had to build this stuff — it’s never been done. So we had to learn from it, and learn how to deploy light in a way that keeps stuff alive,” he said. “The math all works. Now we have to couple that to horticulture.”

The Lowline will use space that was formerly abandoned, Barasch said. “We … found an acre of land that we simply want to take back and reclaim and reuse,” he said. Photo by Christopher Annas-Lee

The team consulted with botanists and the Brooklyn Botanical Garden about what types of plants to grow in the underground space. Ramsey called the plants, which range from herbs to fruits and tropical plants, “a 3-D graph of light intensity.” They are also working with botany and landscape teams to track the plants’ growth and learn more about their reactions to the space.

In the early stages of the project, the team consulted with community leaders in the neighborhood. Their reaction: “Yes, unequivocally, unambiguously, we need more public space,” Barasch said. “People started hopping on board with the idea and saying, let’s really advocate for it.” It has additionally received support from local politicians, including U.S. Sens. Charles Schumer and Kristin Gillibrand.

The team is collecting data on how the plants grow underground to inform later stages of the project. Photo by Christopher Annas-Lee

They also plan to host community events, including a lecture series titled “Bright Eyes” for people in science, technology and design to share expertise. They have partnered with CityScience, a Brooklyn-based STEM education organization, to create science curricula using the space for the high school Young Designers program. That program began this month with 25 New York City public school students.

Their next goal is to raise $70 million to build the technology into the full space, Barasch said. So far, the team has collected several million dollars in pledges.

You can visit the Lowline Lab at 140 Essex St., New York City. You can access it Saturday and Sunday from 10 a.m.-4 p.m. For more information, visit www.thelowline.org.

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