post-mortem photography

I've started collecting post-mortem photographs, like this one from the 1910s, it's hand tinted, you can see the brush strokes on the photo, I purchased it yesterday, it's really big too! kind of eerie, I know, but none the less extremely fascinating... she looks so pretty and at ease...

There was a time, in the not too distant past, that death was something closer to home. Post-mortem photos were often the only photos of the deceased in that time when a photograph could be a real luxury. The deceased would be laid out in the home or funeral parlor and the photographer would visit to pay his last respects and take that final photograph. They were kept to remember and sent to relatives that could not make the long hard trip to attend the funeral. As home photography became practical and affordable post-mortem photographs lost favor and went out of style.

Emma the dog

Through out my whole life I have always been surrounded by animals, dogs, cats, puppies and kittens; our neighbors were farmers so I would go see the baby rabbits, calves, baby pigs and chickens, ducks, goats and what not. I saw them being birthed, and in some cases I saw them die.

One pet stood out, she was above all the rest, above average in intelligence and in heart, her name was Emma, she was a little white mutt my brother chose out of many pathetic little pups at the pound shortly before I was born. I came to this world and she was there waiting for me, I played with her puppies, and her puppies puppies. She would be at the front gate waiting for me when I would come home from school, throughout kindergarten, elementary school, middle school and part of my high school, she was there. Arthur (my brother) and I would frequently fight and argue in the evening before bedtime to see whom Emma would sleep with. She was part of the family, but as I grew older so did she, to the point where she was blind and deaf. Once my mother re-arranged the kitchen, which Emma wasn't very found of, since she couldn't see, and was constantly running into the newly arranged furniture. It came to the point where she couldn’t walk by herself, wouldn't eat or drink, every night we thought would be her last. Yet she would be awake the next day.

In the summer of 1996, when I was 16 years old, my brother and I went to the USA to visit our relatives, leaving a very old and weak Emma in our mother's loving and caring hands. Our mother warned us "Emma may not be alive when you return". It was a hot and dry day of August when Arthur and I returned back home to Vicenza after having been gone for 2 months. Once again in the car on our way home from the airport, Mom told us "Emma hasn't eaten or drunken anything in 3 days, she may be dead when we get home, brace yourselves". We got home, she was in the kitchen, she looked more dead then alive, my brother ran to her and picked her up, her little heart was still beating, she was alive! I went by his side and we both petted and caressed her, she wagged her tail and took her last breath, she died in Arthur's arms, as if she waited for us to come home, for one last goodbye.

Here I am sobbing while I write this. This is closest I've been to having lost a loved one, for Emma was much loved, and will forever be missed.

understanding death, dying and bereavement

That was today's class. It’s a sort of psychology of death; I haven't the words to begin to describe how fascinating it is. Today was particularly intense, being it's only my third week of school, and so I actually haven't seen anything yet! Anyway, today my fellow class mates were sharing their own personal experiences of grieving and coping with having lost a loved one, from nursing a sick mother till she passed away in her bed, to having to make the decision of pulling the plug from their sister's life support, to suddenly losing a husband or embalming and burying ones own father or losing a newborn baby. It was extremely touching, I could barely hold back the tears, in fact one lonely and silent one rolled down my cheek, it made a little splash on my note book, I was deeply moved and impressed by these stories. It came to me, and I had nothing to share, my mother and father are well, so are all my aunts, uncles and many cousins, my grandma is over 90 and still gardening and swimming her laps in the pool, my brothers are in their prime, and all my friends lead healthy and good lives, I'm very fortunate that way... very blessed indeed. In all my life I've only lost loved and adored pets, and that's the only way I could relate to them, but I couldn't very well describe losing my dog, right after the person next to me explained how here sister out of nowhere collapsed in her arms, and moments later was declared brain dead, now could I?

I thank my classmates for sharing their very deep and personal experiences today, and it makes me recognize and be even more grateful of how blessed I am, and how important it is to live life to it's fullest, every moment of it, because you just don't know when it will end, it may sound like a cliche', but it's so true!

not quite dead

One thinks of morticians as people who are unsociable and that live as recluses, since their main interest, one presumes, would be in Death and all that follows. That's not precisely true, well, of course I speak for myself, and I do have a keen interest in all that surrounds the mystery of death (among other things). But if one thinks that this would be an easy way to NEVER have to deal with the living, well it couldn't be farther from the truth! After all the proper disposition of a body is only done for the sake of those who still live and care and want to remember the one who passed away. It's a fine line between giving the best possible imaginable service in such a time of extreme grief, and still keeping it "together" and not letting anyone else's emotions get to you. It will be difficult not to show too much emotion, but at the same time you don't want to seem like a stiff and heartless person wearing the black suit and taking the measurements of someones deceased husband for the casket.

One must always have heart, no matter what

And waterproof mascara

funeral director student's mug shot

with love from Andalucia

what can I say, I love skulls...

before I go to sleep

Together with my always favorite Snow White and the Seven dwarfs, and other fantastic tales I used to love as a child (and still do), my father used to read to me a great amount of "different" types of literature, among my dearest ones, the two books that I used to ask daddy to read over and over again were: the one on pirates (but not the version for children, the real thing, with the tortures and punishments and all) and his congenital pediatric malformation book (he's a pediatrician), both books had a great deal of images and pictures explaining the worse possible imaginable subjects, from deceased premature Siamese twins conjoined at the head, to Captain Kidd's lifeless corpse dipped in tar and hung by chains at the mouth of the Thames River to rot, not quite your average bedtime material, but I was obsessed!... my improbable curiosity towards everything mixed with my father's unbelievable knowledge and eccentricity seems to have had a lot to do with the quirky person I am today

suggested reading

"Stiff" and "Spook" both by Mary Roach
"The Art of Funerary Violin" by Rohan Kriwaczek
"the Dead Beat" by Marilyn Johnson
"Meditations" by Marcus Aurelius
"Encyclopeadia Anatomica", Museo La Specola, Florence
"Buried Alive" by Jan Bondeson
"the Complete Grimm's Fairy Tales"
"A Morning's Work" by Stanley B. Burns
"Death's Door" by Sandra M. Gilbert
"the Name of the Rose" by Umberto Eco
"Faust" by Goethe
"Complete Stories and Poems" by Edgar Allan Poe
"the Tibetan Book of the Dead"
"Exquisite Corpse" by Mark Nelson and Sarah Hudson Bayliss
"Dracula" by Bram Stocker
"On Death and Dying" by Elisabeth Kubler-Ross
"the Grim Reader" by Maura Spiegel
"Understanding Death, Dying & Bereavement" by Michael R. Leming
"the Undiscoverd Self" by C. G. Jung
"Shadow and Evil in Fairy Tales" by Von Franz
"Human Anatomy" by Benjamin A. Rifkin
"Perfume" by Patrick Suskind

the Raven

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visiter," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door --
Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; -- vainly I had tried to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow -- sorrow for the lost Lenore --
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore --
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me -- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
"'Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door --
Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door; --
This it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you " -- here I opened wide the door; ----
Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!" --
Merely this, and nothing more.

Then into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon I heard again a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore --
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;--
'Tis the wind and nothing more!"

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door --
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door --
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore --
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the raven "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning -- little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no sublunary being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door --
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered -- not a feather then he fluttered --
Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before --
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Quoth the raven "Nevermore."

Wondering at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster so when Hope he would adjure --
Stern Despair returned, instead of the sweet Hope he dared adjure --
That sad answer, "Never -- nevermore."

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore --
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Angels whose faint foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee -- by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite -- respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore;
Let me quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the raven "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! -- prophet still, if bird or devil! --
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted --
On this home by Horror haunted -- tell me truly, I implore --
Is there -- is there balm in Gilead? -- tell me -- tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the raven "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil -- prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us -- by that God we both adore --
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore --
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the raven "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting --
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! -- quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the raven "Nevermore."

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted -- nevermore!

Raven - The Birds of Shakespeare

The birds of the crow family are well represented in Shakespeare’s works. Chief among them comes the raven, to which frequent and effective allusion is made. The remarkably dark hue of the bird, including even his bill and his feet, has made his name proverbial as a type of the deepest blackness in Nature…

“In the old age black was not counted fair,
Or if it were, it bore not beauty’s name;
But now is black beauty’s successive heir;
…Therefore my mistress’ eyes are raven black.”
[Sonnet 127]

With pardonable exaggeration, Juliet, as she stood alone in the orchard awaiting her lover, gave vent thus to her longing:

“Come, night; come, Romeo; come, thou day in night;
For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night
Whiter than new snow on a raven’s back.” [Romeo and Juliet – III, 2]

The blackness of this bird in contrast to the pure whiteness of a dove, supplies an image to Lysander, mistakenly bewitched by the mischievous Puck:

“Not Hermia but Helena I love:
Who will not change a raven for a dove?”
[A Midsummer Night’s Dream – II, 2]

The raven has long had the evil reputation of not only killing the smaller wild animals but, in common with the crows and kites, of watching for and attacking those of larger size that look enfeebled by disease or accident. Thus we read that

“Vast confusion waits,
As doth a raven on a sick-fallen beast,
The imminent decay of wrested pomp.” [King John – IV, 3]

With less justice, the bird has also been credited with savageness of disposition – a character which Shakespeare has sometimes attributed to persons who may outwardly seem to be gentle and kindly. These are said to have “a raven’s heart within a dove.” [Twelfth Night – V, 1]

Juliet expands the simile –

“Beautiful tyrant! fiend angelical!
Dove-feather’d raven! wolvish-ravening lamb!
Just opposite to what thou justly seem’st.” [Romeo and Juliet – III, 2]

Yet there was a belief that the Raven can show a wholly different nature:

“Some say that ravens foster forlorn children,
The whilst their own birds famish in their nests.” [Titus Andronicus – II, 3]

The raven comes into one of the Scriptural allusions in the plays where the faithful old Adam, pressing upon Orlando the thrifty savings of his lifetime, consoles himself with the prayer

“He that doth the ravens feed,
Yea, providently caters for the sparrow,
Be comfort to my age!” [As You Like It – II, 3]

But the most frequent reference made by Shakespeare to this bird has regard to its supposed boding power. It is called the “fatal raven”
[Titus Andronicus – II, 3]. A messenger of ill news is said to “sing a raven’s note” [2nd Henry VI – III, 2].

When Othello has the first suspicions craftily suggested to him by Iago, he exclaims

“O, it comes o’er my memory,
As doth the raven o’er the infected house,
Boding to all.” [Othello – IV, 1]

When the king is approaching the Castle at Inverness, we hear from Lady Macbeth the ominous words:

“The raven himself is hoarse
That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan
Under my battlements.” [Macbeth – I, 5]

12 years old

When my mother was 12 years old, she lost her father, he passed away after a long illness; he left behind him a widow and 7 children, the youngest was 3 and the oldest was 19. At a very young age I intuitively knew what dying meant, for for most of my childhood, up until my twelfth birthday, I was terrified of losing my father, just like it happened to my mother, I was afraid that somehow I would share her same destiny. Nothing happened to my father, but now that I look back on this particular feeling I had, I find it quite remarkable how a child could be so aware of losing a loved one.

On another note, I feel I have a strong connection with my deceased maternal grandfather, often he comes and visits me in dreams, and many times just thinking of him is as soothing as a tender and warm hug; when I'm afraid or particularly troubled, I like to imagine him coming to me and giving me a big hug, and telling me "don't worry, Daniela, everything is gonna be all right, I love you".

And in fact everything IS all right. Nothing can be that upsetting, not even in death

mourning

Mourning is in the simplest sense synonymous with grief over the death of someone. The word is also used to describe a cultural complex of behaviours in which the bereaved participate or are expected to participate. Customs vary between different cultures and evolve over time, though many core behaviors remain constant.
Wearing dark, sombre clothes is one practice followed in many countries, though other forms of dress are also seen. Those most affected by the loss of a loved one often observe a period of grieving, marked by withdrawal from social events and quiet, respectful behavior. People may also follow certain religious traditions for such occasions.

I mourn all the time

Turo

another huge infulence, on pretty much anything I've done, am doing and will do, has been that of my older brother, Arthur. Let's just say that I've always looked up to him, and always will... here are a few examples of his work that are among my favorites. Of the two, I'm probably the less strange one; and I want to be a haute couture mortician when I grow up... ;)

Saturn

many childhood memories have shaped the person I am today, like everyone else, some things have had a stronger influence then others.. one of these objects embedded in my memory like engraving on stone, is the painting of "Saturn" eating his children by Francisco Goya, that is part of "the Black Paintings" series at the Prado Museum, in Madrid... if you want your child to turn out a mortician as a grown-up, take it to see the Black Paintings at an early age instead of going to Disney Land... guaranteed she or he will have odd interests growing up...

The most celebrated pictures of Goya's last years are the series of 14 so-called "Black Paintings" done for a suite of rooms in the coutry house just outside Madrid that he purchased in 1819. Aged 74 when he began this group, he had already been dangerously ill in 1819, as the Self-Portrait with Doctor Arreita, a gift of gratitude to his doctor, records. Old age and infirmity have been suggested as a linking theme for this series. But the overall meaning has never been satisfactorily explained. All the pictures were painted directly onto the wall and they are all, to a greater or lesser degree, damaged. In 1878 they were transferred to canvas supports. Goya painted these works very rapidly, using broad strokes applied with large brush, palette knife and possibly sponges. He may have regarded them primarily as a technical experiment. Attempts to tease out connections with the earlier Caprichos or Disastros have proved difficult. They are perhaps best considered as hermetic self-contained fantasies, despite several elements being based upon, or strongly evocative of, earlier images. Suggestions that they contain an essentially nihilistic message are not convincing. If any connection can be made to earlier work it is with the "Proverbios," or "Disparates," a short series of 22 prints made by Goya between 1816 and 1823 but unpublished until 1864

embalming

Embalming, in most modern cultures, is the art and science of temporarily preserving human remains to forestall decomposition and make it suitable for display at a funeral. The three goals of embalming are thus preservation, sanitization and presentation (or restoration) of a dead body to achieve this effect. Embalming has a very long and cross-cultural history, with many cultures giving the embalming processes a greater religious meaning.

In my third semester of school, in order to pass the embalming class, I will have to embalm 10 bodies... and the bodies come from the Bellevue hospital, from the "unclaimed" bodies section of the city morgue... I never really pondered on how many people must die in a big city like NY, and how many of them don't have any friends or family to come claim them; frozen for at least 3 weeks, and with no one to come bid them farewell, they end up on the anatomy table of medical students or prepared to be embalmed by us, mortuary school students... kind of sad if you think of it.

funeral

1437, from M.Fr. funérailles (pl.) "funeral rites," from M.L. funeralia "funeral rites," originally neut. pl. of L.L. funeralis "having to do with a funeral," from L. funus (gen. funeris) "funeral, death, corpse," origin unknown, perhaps ult. from PIE base *dheu- "to die." Singular and plural used interchangeably in Eng. until c.1700. The adj. funereal is first attested 1725, by influence of M.Fr. funerail, from L. funereus, from funus.

thanatology: 1842, "scientific study of death," from Gk. thanatos "death" (from PIE *dhwene- "to disappear, die," perhaps from root meaning "dark, cloudy") + -logia "treating of." Thanatism (1900) is the belief that at death the soul ceases to exist. Hence also Thanatos (1935), the "death instinct" in Freudian psychology. In 1970s, some undertakers made a bid to be called thanatologists.

"Cowards die many times before their deaths,
The valiant never taste death but once.
Of all wonders that I have yet heard,
It seems to me most strange that men should fear,
Seeing that death, a necessary end,
Will come when it come."

William Shakespeare, "Julius Caesar", Act II, Scene II

the beginning

last Tuesday my whole life took a strange turn... something that has been kept in the darkest corner of my heart, mind and soul for too long, and now finally made it's way to the surface.

last Tuesday I had my first day of school, a different type of school, that type of educational institution that you didn't even believe existed! I myself didn't even acknowledge it's existence till not too long ago, and finally worked up the courage to "undertake" this kind of field. Alas I'm going to the American Academy McAllister Institute of Funeral Service here in NY, to become a funeral home director/mortician/undertaker... you may ask "why?", that's pretty much the first question anyone has asked me in total disbelief every time I attempt to mention my new calling.

well, why not? people die all the time, it's something you can count on.

And at the age of 25, fortunately, I can't say that I've had to deal directly with the notion of "Death", with the exception of the loss of an adored pet or of a family friend. I have on the other hand nurtured a certain curiosity and awareness towards it, so like most of the major poets, novelists, philosophers, I have also delved into the meaning of death and have explored such a sense of death nearing and opening. Death is an inevitable event that in one way or another, will take place in all our lives. It humbles us because it is the ultimate certainty in our otherwise confused and unsure existence.
I also can't say that I've experienced grieving the loss of a loved one. But I can say that grief in its first stages is a kind of madness: for what can cause more pain and despair then losing someone close and important to you? FOREVER no less?

A corpse, in its grave stillness, is actually extremely dynamic, since it incarnates the events of passage taking place right before our very eyes. In its silence it incorporates the passage from a living, thinking, feeling being, to a stone cold body that resembles who it once was from the experience of life to the end of it; from all those people who were accustomed and reassured by its presence, to all of a sudden having to deal with its absence. Dealing with death is a learning process, and a humbling one to say the least; so in order to help one handle such deep sorrow, empathy and compassion, among other virtues, are vital to this passage.

this is the beginning, of what I hope will be a fascinating experience...