Plutonic Rainbows

In 1983 a seventeen-year-old competitive horse rider from Skanör entered an Elite model contest in Stockholm and came third. The prize was a trip to Paris and a contract with a short shelf life. Then nothing happened. Vogue, writing about her five years later, put it without decoration: a star was not quickly born, and Tatjana found no work for a year.

She had been born in Hamburg to an Estonian dancer and a German travel writer, raised on the Swedish coast, riding since she was seven, and she had trained as an actor rather than as a mannequin. For a year Paris had no use for any of it.

Almost nothing is happening in this photograph and it is still difficult to look away from. No styling to speak of, hair parted in the middle and left alone, a plain wall behind her. The face does all of it: the long oval, the set of the eyes, a mouth that isn't quite smiling and isn't withholding either. She told Vogue in 1988 that people had always said she looked special, that she didn't look like anyone else, and that she was going to make it because of that. Read cold it sounds like bravado. Look at the picture and it reads as a technical assessment. What separates her isn't a feature you could list, though. She isn't doing anything for the camera, and that turns out to be the whole career.

Peter Lindbergh worked it out first. In 1988 he took six models to a beach at Malibu, put them in white shirts, and let them behave like people rather than mannequins. Patitz stood out in a frame designed to level everyone. Her obituary in the Guardian named the mechanism: among all those wind-mussed, sun-smudged women having a good time, she seemed to be inhabiting happiness rather than performing it. The others are doing delight at the lens; she is in a good mood and the lens happens to be there, which no photographer can direct. Lindbergh went on shooting her, on and off, for close to thirty years, and he liked her best when she wasn't smiling. I've written before about the day those shirts were shot, and Patitz is the reason that image keeps working.

Then January 1990, the British Vogue cover, five women in a row, and George Michael seeing it and deciding those were the faces he wanted lip-syncing "Freedom! '90." Jil Sander then kept her for years as the face of a house built on removing things while Chanel had her on the runway doing the opposite, a range most of that generation never got asked for. Anna Wintour called her the European symbol of chic, Romy Schneider meets Monica Vitti, and added the part that stings slightly: far less visible than her peers, more grown-up, more unattainable.

Which brings me to the problem with this post. Six American Vogue covers alone, two of them in consecutive months, which was a rare thing then, plus three decades of editorial and a run of photographers, Ritts, Penn, Demarchelier, Meisel, Elgort, who each found a different woman in the same face. Five images is not a selection from that, it's a rounding error, and I spent longer discarding than choosing. One I didn't have to agonise over, because an Escada page from 1991 already has a post of its own. Of the rest, I picked the gold and the sand because the jewellery is absurd and she carries it as though it weighs nothing, and the Vogue Paris cover with Elaine Irwin because two blondes at that wattage should cancel each other out and instead the page seems to run hotter. Both were straight swaps for something else an hour earlier.

The polka-dot silk on the velvet chaise is the one I'd defend hardest, and the least to do with her face. She isn't posing so much as occupying, one hand laid over the other, the whole thing arranged and slightly bored, and it works because she looks like a woman who has somewhere else to be. That wasn't only a look. At the height of it she was flying forty times in a month, and she responded by moving to California to be near horses and open country rather than staying where the work was. Decades later she was still turning the word supermodel over, sounding it out syllable by syllable, saying she'd never really understood it, and I don't think that was modesty. She was describing a category she'd been filed into by other people.

Tatjana Patitz died in January 2023, at fifty-six. A couple of years before that she said she had never sold her soul, and it's a claim almost nobody in that industry gets to make without an argument following it.

Which leaves the pictures, and this one is the whole argument in a grey dress: cropped hair, pearls, a blank studio, and nothing offered to the lens at all.

The forecasts stopped converging some time last year. Dario Amodei said at Davos in January that AGI was probably a couple of years out, maybe 2027, on the argument that coding and AI research now accelerate each other. Demis Hassabis, at the same event, put it at roughly 50% by 2030 and named scientific discovery as the unsolved part. Two thousand Metaculus forecasters landed in February on 25% by 2029, 50% by 2033. None of that would be strange if they were estimating the same event. The Atlantic's reporting the same month is the giveaway: two years ago these people broadly agreed on the late 2020s, and what has come apart since is not just the date but the thing being dated.

Helen Toner has the framing that explains it. AGI was never a threshold, it's a fuzzy cloud of adjacent concepts, and for twenty years the fuzziness cost nothing because everything we could build was far outside it. We're inside it now. Serious people have declared AGI achieved three separate times since April 2025, while equally serious people put it a decade out, and they can all be looking at the same models.

I can show you what that looks like without a benchmark. A model reads a screenshot of a stack trace, finds the bug in a codebase it has never seen, writes the patch and runs the tests. In 2015 I'd have called that general intelligence and not thought hard about it. The same model, an hour later, loses track of a five-step plan it wrote itself. Both facts are true of one system, so which one you weight decides your answer, and there's no principled way to choose.

The part that should bother people more than it does is where the working definitions now come from. OpenAI's operational bar, systems that outperform humans at most economically valuable work, is contract language carried over from its Microsoft agreement, and leaked criteria reportedly attached a number to it: $100 billion in profits. That's a commercial trigger, not a claim about cognition, and it wandered into the scientific conversation anyway. So when Sam Altman told Forbes the company had basically built AGI and Satya Nadella said the industry was nowhere near, neither had to be wrong. Gary Marcus and two colleagues spent February arguing in Nature that the arrival claim mistakes benchmark scores for real-world flexibility, against opponents whose definition excluded understanding and agency by construction. That fight can't be settled by better evals, particularly when the labs keep grading their own homework.

Toner's suggestion is the only useful one I've seen: say what you actually mean. Fully automated AI research. Systems that learn as efficiently as a child. Enough labour displacement to break the employment model. Each of those can be argued about with evidence. None of them needs the word.

She is holding it against her chest with both arms, the way you hold something you have just been handed and have not decided about yet. A grey ribbed turtleneck, Linda Evangelista inside it, the 1994 bob falling exactly where it was cut to fall, mouth slightly open, eyes level with the lens. The lighting is doing portrait work. The bag is doing very little, a soft dark envelope of scuffed leather with a buckle at the top, and it takes up a third of the frame because somebody decided it had to.

Capezio began as a shoe shop. Salvatore Capezio was seventeen and newly off the boat from Italy when he set up near the old Metropolitan Opera House in 1887, mending and making shoes for the people performing inside, and for the next century the name meant pointe shoes and rosin. That is a specific kind of authority. It has nothing whatever to do with handbags.

By the autumn of 1994 the name on this bag was a licence. The bags were the business of Holiday Fair, whose president, Steven Hedaya, explained the campaign to Women's Wear Daily in terms that are hard to improve on. What they were trying to convey was "affordable chic." Evangelista had been signed because she "epitomizes fashionable chic." The bag gets affordable, the woman gets fashionable, and the two phrases sit one word apart in the same interview. Before her the ads had used Cindy Crawford posing with the bags in what Hedaya called an all-American, girl-next-door campaign with a casual, weekend feeling. Trading her for the woman who had told the press she didn't wake up for less than ten thousand dollars a day is not an adjustment to the styling. It is a decision about what the reader is being invited to stand next to.

Hedaya laid out the mechanism too. The larger photograph would concentrate on the product; the smaller ones would tell a story, in what he called a spirited soft-sell. So the two halves of the spread are not an accident of layout, they are the brief. The portrait is the story. The other page is the product, and you can watch it work: a bistro table on a pavement, rattan chairs stacked away behind her, coffee and a plate of something at her elbow, a pale ribbed suit with jewelled buttons that is asking to be read as Chanel. The bag sits on the table at exactly her eye height, lit harder than she is.

Underneath, the wordmark in lower case. At the foot of the page, RICH'S and THE BON MARCHE, the department stores where you could actually buy the thing. Running vertically up the left margin, in type small enough to miss, a toll-free number, sitting there against the café chairs and the jewelled buttons.

Up the same margin, in the same small type, the credit: Laspata/DeCaro Studio. Rocco Laspata and Charles DeCaro had picked up Capezio Bags as one of their early accounts, and that same year they were photographing Evangelista on a field in California with a liger and a ringmaster's whip, for a Kenar campaign built around a circus they assembled daily. Two years before that they had sat her among seven black-clad Sicilian women outside a church in Savoca, and Kenar had bought her outright and nearly buried itself doing it.

DeCaro put the arithmetic plainly years later, talking about Kenar rather than Capezio, though the structure is the same one: when Linda did Kenar, she was doing Chanel and every major designer runway, and Kenar sold triacetate suits.

So the page is an assembly. The bags were another company's business, made and sold under licence. The pictures belong to a studio working for hire, borrowing the visual grammar of couture advertising, the black and white, the pavement café, the tweed. The selling belongs to Rich's and The Bon Marché. Capezio licensed out the name, and the name is the part of this page it actually owns. A company that wants to own more than that has to make something, the way Versace patented a metal fabric and took a prize for the textile rather than the silhouette.

The spread was booked to run again in December, which is how a page like this earns out, not by being looked at once but by being there again when you next turn to it. She stays where they put her, chin on her hand at the little round table, looking off at nothing, the bag in the seat where a companion would be.

Mark Jenkin's camera has to be wound by hand every twenty-seven seconds. He shoots on a 16mm Bolex, records no live sound at all, and brings the actors back months afterwards to lay their dialogue over pictures already cut. On Rose of Nevada he wrote it, shot it, edited it and scored it, sharing the sound design with Ian Wilson. The sprocket holes and the blown-out frames stay in. That is not a quirk of budget, it's the position the film argues from.

I haven't seen it, so what follows is assembled out of other people's accounts and out of a method that is public record. The premise would sit comfortably in a Twilight Zone episode. A fishing boat that vanished with all hands thirty years ago drifts back into a Cornish harbour, empty. Its owner crews it up again: Nick (George MacKay), a father first seen leaving a food bank, with a roof he can't afford to stop leaking into the kitchen, and Liam (Callum Turner), a drifter with a past he won't discuss, under a skipper (Francis Magee) who seems to have mislaid his own name. They fish, they come home, and the harbour is 1993. The village takes them for Luke and Alan, the men who were lost.

Jenkin never explains the mechanism, and the interesting part is what each man does with the accident. Nick spends the film trying to get back to a wife and daughter not yet born. Liam sinks in, takes the dead man's wife and the dead man's daughter, and gets the settled life that was never on offer ashore. The BFI poster puts them side by side in matching yellow oilskins, looking in different directions.

Underneath the ghost story is a harder film about work, and that's the part worth the ticket. The 1993 they land in isn't a lost paradise, it's the moment the bill was run up. When a net tears in a storm, a dozen dock workers turn out to stitch it, and when Nick asks why everyone is so eager, he's told "we're a community" in a register closer to threat than comfort. The skipper offers his own version: for every man at sea, five at home are relying on him. Both lines sound like solidarity and function like a rota. An industry in collapse recruits on the promise of belonging and then treats the men as interchangeable, which is the same trap Jenkin built out of routine and repetition in Enys Men, only with an economy attached to it this time.

If you want the time slip explained, or even gestured at, HeadStuff's reviewer is right that you'll wait two hours for a hint that never lands. That objection assumes the film owes you a mechanism. What it's actually built to do is close a circuit, and reviewers describe a final shot that does it: the two men set out again, arranged in the same pose as the last known photograph of the crew they replaced. Nobody in the village had to lie to them. The work simply needed doing, and there were bodies available.

Gail Elliott and Helena Barquilla stand against a set of railings in matching tartan and carriage-print silk, one in red plaid, one in blackwatch, both in velvet caps and leather gloves. The blouses are printed with gilded state coaches, mounted guardsmen and sentry boxes. Gold medallion buttons on the belts, gold chains across the shoulder, gold hearts at the ears. This is page 62 of Escada's autumn/winter book for 1993, and it is not being subtle about anything.

The modern eye files most of it as costume, starting with the red military coat and black velvet cuffs that Elliott wears down a gravel path, and getting worse at the scarlet tunic with eight gold buttons running off-centre up the chest like something issued to a regiment. A drummer boy. A hotel doorman. Something you'd hire rather than buy.

That judgement belongs to 2026. Nothing on these pages was trying to be quiet, because quiet was not the product. You were not buying a coat, you were buying the fact that everyone in the restaurant could see it was an expensive coat, and Escada had been proving the point since the colour-saturated knitwear of the late eighties. The whole proposition rested on legibility at forty feet, which is why the name ended up doing so much of the work on the shopfront as well.

It was expensive on purpose, too. Most of the top Escada Margaretha Ley line was still being cut in high-cost Germany rather than shipped out to cheaper factories, because Wolfgang Ley feared moving it would compromise the quality. "Credibility is the most important thing," he said later. "It's hard to build, but easy to lose." Saks' Rose Marie Bravo noted that in some seasons Escada was the only thing at designer price offering colour or print at all. New merchandise reached the shops every fortnight. So a woman choosing the red coat was paying a German premium specifically in order to look like this, in a market where the alternative at that price was black.

And it worked. Escada ranked among the top three best-selling designer-level resources in stores like Neiman Marcus and Saks, which is not a cult position, it's a mass one. "Are they making fashion breakthroughs on the runway? Probably not," Neiman's Burt Tansky said. "But for thousands of women, Escada is fashion." That sentence is the part hardest to hold in your head while looking at the gold buttons. These were not clothes for an eccentric minority. They were what a large number of well-off women actively wanted, and were prepared to pay German manufacturing costs to get.

What makes Catalogue 29 strange is that the house behind all this confidence was in real trouble. Margaretha Ley had died in June 1992, leaving Michael Stolzenburg to run a design operation she had built around 1,200 styles a season, and the group lost 29 million marks in the year ending October 1993 as the recession bit. None of it reaches the page. The gold is exactly as loud as it was while she was alive, which is what you would expect: turning the volume down would have meant conceding that the formula had an author, and that she was gone.

Some of it survives better than the costume reflex allows. The green blazer over a long pleated black skirt would pass now with almost nothing changed, and so would the loden coat carried over one shoulder if you lost the fur. What dates the rest isn't the tailoring, it's the density: the enormous black bow at the throat, the tartan waistcoat under a navy velvet-collared jacket, the velvet bomber crusted with jewelled badges. Every element is good. There are four too many of them in one frame.

The faces have dated harder than the clothes, and they are the best thing in the book. Barquilla photographs like architecture: a very high, round cheekbone, a jaw that comes to a clean point, brows arched hard enough to read across a room, and a deep carmine mouth doing most of the work in every frame she is in. In the velvet bomber shot she is barely doing anything, glove raised, eyes gone sideways, and the picture still holds. In the carriage-print blouse against navy wool, the lids are heavy, the lips just parted, and the gaze comes slightly down the lens entirely unbothered by you. It is an extraordinary face and the camera clearly knows it. Elliott is the warmer of the two, a wider mouth and a softer set to the eyes, which is presumably why she got the frames where somebody has to carry scarlet down a garden path without looking like a threat.

Both were sold as what the trade then called exotic, a word doing a great deal of quiet work. Elliott is English, born in Balham, of mixed Anglo-Indian, Scottish and other European ancestry; Barquilla is Spanish. The styling pushes them toward the same deliberate unplaceability, tanned to one amber, hair lacquered flat, eyes lined to a hardness that belongs to the job rather than the person. She had to be from nowhere in particular, because she had to be foreign to wherever you happened to be standing. The beauty is genuinely otherworldly, and it is engineered to be: remote enough that you could want the coat without ever imagining you'd get the face.

Nobody sells to a customer that way now. The face that works is approachable, tagged, reachable through a comment box, and a woman you might plausibly become moves more stock than a woman you will never meet. Both are sales positions and only one of them admits it. But a catalogue is an optimistic object, printed months in advance and posted to people who have not yet decided, and this one runs to 258 pages of a company insisting that nothing whatsoever had happened.

Page 186 of the August 1992 German Vogue carries a line of white capitals across its lower right corner: "Echte Liebesaffären brauchen nicht nur rote Rosen. Kleine Streitereien und Notlügen sind genauso wichtig." Real love affairs need more than red roses; small quarrels and white lies matter just as much. Along the right edge, in type you need decent light to read, the magazine says where it came from: a Sophia Loren quote, lifted from Doug McClelland's StarSpeak: Hollywood on Everything. The page spells him Dough.

McClelland's book had come out in 1987, three hundred-odd pages of film people talking about everything except, mostly, films. It's a reference shelf item, the sort of thing a features desk keeps for exactly this purpose. Five years on, someone at Vogue went looking in it for a sentence to hang over a photograph of a woman in a printed tunic, and came back with Loren on the upkeep of love affairs. The line has nothing to do with the clothes, which is more or less the point. The caption isn't describing the picture. It's supplying a mood the picture is meant to have already, and borrowing an Italian film star's authority to do it, in a story titled La dolce vita.

The misspelling is the tell. A magazine that proofed its fashion copy down to the buttons, naming the manufacturer of a hair clip, let the author's name through wrong, because the author was never the part being bought. The quote had to sound like Loren and feel like the Mediterranean. Where it actually came from was administrative, and you could print that slightly wrong and lose nothing you were paying for.

The credits don't sit on this page either. They're four pages back, at the head of a ten-page run: Fotograf Michael Roberts, Moderedakteur Susanne Kölmel, with hair and make-up across the whole story by Susanna Rizzi for Aldo Coppola. Here Fabienne Terwinghe is backlit and half-smiling, chin propped on one hand, her hair blown into a corona that takes nearly all the light in the frame. Everything is tungsten and amber. The tunic reads black until the ochre shapes cut across it start behaving like a second light source.

Terwinghe is the surface all of this gets applied to. Belgian, born in 1968, she reached 180cm at fourteen and has said the height made her miserable at the time, because of the teasing. She worked steadily through the late eighties and nineties without ever being installed as one of the era's official faces. Julie Anderson was in much the same position, all over the fashion press of those years with the name rarely attached to the picture. That August issue makes the hierarchy plain enough: Linda Evangelista on the cover, shot by Mario Testino, Terwinghe ten pages deep in the middle. The cover sells a name. The interior sells a feeling, which is precisely the job the borrowed sentence turns up to do.

Michael Roberts took the photograph, which is a stranger credit than it looks. He wasn't a fashion photographer by trade so much as a writer and illustrator and stylist who did all of it at once: Tatler's art director, British Vogue's design director, later the first fashion and style director at Vanity Fair and the only one the New Yorker ever had. Someone who spent a career deciding what belonged next to what, making the picture that a secondhand sentence would then be laid across. He died in 2023, in Taormina.

Six short sentences and a bottle, which is the whole of the copy in this 1989 campaign: her laugh, her eyes, her walk, her voice, her touch, her smell. Then the sign-off, for a woman to love and a man to remember. The photograph is black and white, the border is a marbled pink that belongs entirely to the decade, and nowhere on the page does the woman get a name.

So: yes. Tatiana was named after Diane von Furstenberg's daughter, Tatiana von Furstenberg, born in 1971 and still a small child when it launched in 1975. It was von Furstenberg's first fragrance and she made it on almost nothing, using a stock bottle and clipping sample packets to the hangtags of her dresses. Department stores came after that.

James Bell composed it, and what he built was a white floral with no interest in restraint: hyacinth and African orange flower over gardenia, tuberose, jasmine, narcissus and rose, sitting on musk, sandalwood, amber and civet. It was made to carry across a crowded room, which in 1975 meant Studio 54.

The ad is late, though. The scent was fourteen years old by 1989, and Revlon had taken the licence and was relaunching it. Vanity Fair covered that February and got the better story from the girl herself, who as a child had been furious about the whole thing. "Everyone utters my name," she said. "I want it to be only you." She was turning eighteen that month, at Brown, reading comparative literature and thoroughly done with fashion.

Von Furstenberg bought the rights to Tatiana back in 1994, along with the rights to her own name. The scent is discontinued now, which puts it in the same category as most of the big florals that outlived their moment.

In the turquoise Jobis suit, Linda Evangelista carries the broad, exact lapels of expensive office clothes. JOBIS sits above her in white capitals. The styling is severe but the colour isn't, and her cropped blonde hair keeps the whole thing from settling into bank-manager respectability. This is a German tailoring company selling authority with the stale air let out of it.

The restraint of the page makes Jobis look like a small label, but it wasn't. Furrier Johannes Bisegger rebuilt his business in Bielefeld after the war; Jobis, a compression of Johannes Bisegger, entered the commercial register in 1947. By 1957 it employed about 1,000 people and ranked among the leading German clothing manufacturers. It made Lufthansa's first post-war stewardess uniforms in 1955, then kept the airline contract for decades. Seidensticker bought Jobis in 1970, so by 1991 this was an established premium label inside one of Bielefeld's major clothing groups, not a hopeful boutique spending its last cheque on a supermodel.

It wasn't chasing teen fashion. The proposition was a complete, expensive wardrobe for a woman who expected clothes to last: firm shoulders, long jackets, skirts at the knee, silk against wool. That made freshness difficult. Change the cut too much and you lost the customer; change the face and you didn't.

I found no campaign brief, but the brown Jobis suit makes the logic unusually plain. Its skirt and peach blouse could have looked dutiful on almost anyone else. On Evangelista they look sharply new. The bottom of both ads belongs to Dienz, a Koblenz clothing shop celebrating its centenary, which suggests these were dealer pages using Jobis campaign imagery. Linda's job was to carry fashion prestige all the way to a regional sales floor.

Evangelista was still an extravagant booking. The crop that remade her career had reportedly quadrupled her rate, while the Versace runway, Chanel campaigns and Freedom! '90 made her face legible far beyond fashion readers. But she was also a superb commercial model. She could give a conservative suit a different character simply by changing her hair, posture or expression. Jobis didn't book Linda Evangelista despite selling conservative tailoring. It booked her because she could make conservative tailoring look like the future.

The company lasted another seventeen years. Seidensticker sold it in July 2008 with about 100 employees, around 400 customers and exports above 50 per cent. That was still a real international business. The buyer, Damo, ran into trouble almost immediately; production stopped, insolvency followed and 108 Bielefeld workers lost their jobs. The company was dissolved in 2009, and its legal shell lingered until the register deleted it in 2020 for lack of assets. Jobis isn't still going. The clothes now circulate second-hand, while these pages preserve the moment an old industrial label bought the most modern face it could find.

A cedar canoe is not a Russian boat. It belongs on a lake in Maine or Ontario, and here it is carrying a full imperial Russian wardrobe across flat grey water. Nobody on the shoot corrected it, and that tells you what the Ralph Lauren Russia collection actually was: not a place, but a mood you could buy on Madison Avenue using whatever props were already to hand.

It showed for autumn 1993, two years after the Soviet Union came apart. Lauren went past all of that and landed somewhere around the 1920s: velvet, dark paisley, military-cut jackets, long skirts over tall boots. Kate Moss walked it in sheer silk velvet burnout balloon trousers and a Balkan coat with a high embroidered collar, which is theatre wardrobe rather than clothing, and theatre wardrobe is the register the whole collection worked in. Six months earlier the same house had put lavender blazers over cream turtlenecks and made restraint the entire argument. Autumn threw that out and went to the dressing-up box. The opening page sets the terms: RUSSIA in red capitals across the slate roof of a stone cottage, and beneath it a figure in a rust paisley coat crossing the lawn with an armful of kindling, walking past a wing-back chair someone has carried outdoors for the picture.

The advertising is better than the premise deserves. The styling in the red frogged coat never wavers: black astrakhan at the throat and cuffs, a curled lambswool hat pulled down past the ears, leather gloves closed around the oar, and a paisley shawl heaped in the stern as though thrown there in a hurry. The water is the colour of dishwater. She's rowing away from something the picture declines to name, which is about as much story as a clothing advert can carry without collapsing under it.

The rest of the campaign works the same seam and keeps the same discipline. Kim Nye sits on straw bales in a long herringbone coat and a soft tweed cap, a waistcoat and a white shirt buttoned to the throat under it, a wine velvet skirt spilling over her knees: a farm worker costumed by somebody who has never had to kneel in one. Zofia Borucka is shot in profile under a stiff-peaked cap, a red and gold paisley shawl over tweed with a printed silk square knotted at the neck, and the layering of three patterns that should fight and don't is the best piece of work in the whole campaign.

The model in the canoe is Agnieszka Kotlarska. She was still a student at Wrocław University of Science and Technology when she won Miss Polski at the Forest Opera in Sopot in July 1991; three months later she took Miss International in Tokyo, the first Polish woman to do it. Ford signed her in New York, and both Lauren and Calvin Klein used her. So the casting on this picture is a Polish woman, four years out from the end of Soviet control over her country, hired by an American house to sell a romance of the East. I doubt anyone in the room described it to themselves that way.

I came to the image for the tailoring, which really is superb, the frogging in particular. The canoe still nags at me. Somebody freighted a boat out to a location, filled it with paisley, and decided that the Russia in Russia was the optional part.

She left New York at the end of 1993, the same season these clothes were in the magazines, and went home to Wrocław. A stalker stabbed her to death outside her home in the Maślice district of the city on 27 August 1996. She was 24.