READER
FIELD NOTES
Cimetière de Saint-
Pierre-Église
Auvillar
France
6.5.2012
Pierre-Église
Auvillar
France
6.5.2012
I am looking down, making aerial view pencil drawings of my feet pressing into the ground, surrounded by grey gravel and dry brush. I bring these drawings back to the house at the bottom of the hill. It has been converted into studios where I work alongside 12 other students. During our group critique, I receive feedback that these drawings are avoiding something. I am told to swim upstream. I need to look up from the ground. I return to the area where I was before, which is just outside the gate that leads to an old churchyard cemetery. Death has recently plagued my family and I am doing my best to avoid confronting its face again. I had purposely not ventured inside. Now, with hesitation, I pass the threshold. Inside, rows of raised granite tombs curve along the exterior of the church. Each grave is covered in small plaques propped up like framed photos in between a collection of potted flowers. Squinting my eyes, the monuments could be mistaken for twin beds with decorative headboards and piled with pillows. This sea of sleeping bodies overwhelms me as I search through this site for images to capture. I see secrets embedded in each of these stones that I will never know as they decay in real time. In the studio, I draw this palimpsest of stories as abstracted monuments. I make 500 drawings of the churchyard ranging from the size of a matchbox to twice the size of my body. Slowly this investigation evolves. In the end, my drawings are no longer in France but a new landscape of my invention. Inside I place the memories of people who came before me and people who I recently lost. Later I recall my first drawings from this time, and I realize I never really stopped looking at the ground, thinking about what lies beneath, and questioning what it is exactly that our feet are touching when we walk through the earth. Witnessing this ending for others is a start for me.
This was the beginning.
This was the beginning.
Hřbitov Černý Důl
Černý Důl
Czech Republic
4.22.2013
Černý Důl
Czech Republic
4.22.2013
My hosts, Petr and Klara, direct me to a cemetery in the Sudetenland, the German name for an area of the Czech Republic that was traditionally inhabited by the Sudeten Germans. Following the Second World War, many of these German-speaking Czechs fled as the iron curtain fell, leaving their family’s graves behind. I walk through the cemetery, witnessing some of the last evidence of this history in the piles of broken graves with German text. Some of the old headstones were repurposed as plaques and attached to the surrounding church wall. It is as if the walls have become magnets, attracting this debris, and melting the old stones into its structure. I hear a story about a woman who takes care of some of these graves, adopting them as her own. I try to find out if any of the families returned to see their dead after the wall fell. I get mixed answers. Most of them had moved on and their children had started completely new lives.
Kostel sv. Vojtěcha
Vlčice
Czech Republic
4.22.2013
Vlčice
Czech Republic
4.22.2013
Petr and Klara then take me to visit one of the few German cemeteries that have been preserved. This is possible due to gifts of funding sent by the relocated descendants of the deceased, who are now German citizens. Everything has been put back in its original place as much as possible. Gravel is placed on top of the graves, marking their location, and the rubble from old markers is then assembled neatly in piles on top. One of Klara and Petr's friends was hired to create walking paths through the site so that nobody mistakenly steps on a burial plot. A slate black stone is broken into hundreds of pieces and sits on the ledge of the border wall. Someone had tried to reassemble it like a puzzle, but some pieces will be forever missing. Klara calls it "artificial." I feel like the entire site is a broken ceramic vase that has been glued back together again but there are missing pieces. The old becomes new again, but also entirely different, with this act of preservation.
Bývalý Evangelický Kostel
Rudník
Czech Republic 4.22.2013
Rudník
Czech Republic 4.22.2013
We next travel to the old Bolkov cemetery. It is located directly next to a house, from which I hear children playing and a lawn mower running. The home has started to merge with the cemetery, dissolving any clear border between the two. A shed, trailer, and blue car are decaying among the monuments. We explore the church belonging to the cemetery, which is crumbling in ruins. The roof has collapsed in, and when we look up we directly see the sky. Although most of the stones no longer have any text, I spot the word “ruhe” which translates to “quiet” in German.
Cmentarz Komunalny
Cmentarz Żydowski
Kościół pw. św. Michała Archanioła
Mieroszów
Poland
4.31.2013
Cmentarz Żydowski
Kościół pw. św. Michała Archanioła
Mieroszów
Poland
4.31.2013
The brown hiking boots that I purchased at a mall in Prague have become most trusted companions. I use them to walk for miles and they carry me to each cemetery. While staying with a host family in Broumov, Czech Republic, I walk across the border to Poland and visit the town of Mieroszów. In this town there are three separate cemeteries next to each other: a Jewish cemetery, a Catholic cemetery, and a graveyard connected to a Protestant church. The relationship between these three sites tells the history of this village in an unspoken way. At the Catholic cemetery, I watch visitors of all ages scrub monuments with sponges and large buckets of water until they intensely sparkle in the sunlight. At the back of this very site is an abandoned Jewish cemetery separated by an iron fence. There are barely a dozen stones left and all of them are broken, covered in brush. Only three had any legible Hebrew text. Across the street, there is a Protestant church with old monuments bearing some German text. Most have been pushed to the sides of the churchyard, but there are a few recent monuments too.
Brompton Cemetery
London
England
5.27.2014
London
England
5.27.2014
I receive a grant to visit cemeteries in England during the summer break. I bring my sister with me for company. It is the first time we have traveled alone together, and I am fully equipped with a tight itinerary and pre-ordered admission tickets. London has seven magnificent private cemeteries that circle around the city in a ring. These cemeteries were established in the 19th century as a solution for the overcrowding that was occurring in the small parish cemeteries within the city, moving the decay and any disease of death to the outskirts. The care and preservation of each of these sites now mirrors the economic status and development of its surrounding community. These places have become jungles, teeming with thick growth. Vines crawl up from the earth to cover statues and drown them in webs of leaves. Text crumbles and slides off each stone. Chemicals carried in raindrops stain their surfaces and leave them discolored. Memories evaporate. I observe the beauty in these last breaths.
At the center of Brompton Cemetery is a great circle surrounded by a colonnade. It was designed to mimic a great Roman plaza where people would stroll to see and be seen. In the Victorian era this empty space of the cemetery was a site for picnicking when cemeteries were equivalent to public parks. Slowly it filled up with prestigious monuments as wealthy families shoved money under the administration’s door and available space in the cemetery decreased. Many well-known movie scenes have been filmed here. I visit during a torrential downpour of rain and I am alone as I walk through the promenade up towards the rotunda. A brown fox steps out onto the paved path wet with rain. He takes a few steps towards me, and we lock eyes before he skirts away.
At the center of Brompton Cemetery is a great circle surrounded by a colonnade. It was designed to mimic a great Roman plaza where people would stroll to see and be seen. In the Victorian era this empty space of the cemetery was a site for picnicking when cemeteries were equivalent to public parks. Slowly it filled up with prestigious monuments as wealthy families shoved money under the administration’s door and available space in the cemetery decreased. Many well-known movie scenes have been filmed here. I visit during a torrential downpour of rain and I am alone as I walk through the promenade up towards the rotunda. A brown fox steps out onto the paved path wet with rain. He takes a few steps towards me, and we lock eyes before he skirts away.
West Norwood Cemetery and Crematorium
London
England
6.1.2014
London
England
6.1.2014
My sister and I make a trip up north by train and stay with a man named Brian who runs a dialysis company for cruise ships. We try to visit the possible burial site of a distant ancestor. I search through weeds for a few hours and finally give up. I talk to the parish priest, and he tells me many people look for this same grave. It is a line of ancestry that appears on many genealogical databases. I still feel connected to this trace of a person who I share some bit of DNA with. Brian, a true entrepreneur, contacts the local paper about our “homecoming” and we suddenly find ourselves meeting the mayor at the cathedral. She is a woman in her seventies wearing an ornate golden necklace - civic regalia. We smile and have our photo taken together.
Glenwood Cemetery
Houston, Texas
United States
2.28.2015
Houston, Texas
United States
2.28.2015
I interview the director of Glenwood Cemetery in Houston who tells me that managing the cemetery is a maintenance nightmare. He hires a full-time crew to prune the landscape in a continuous never-ending cycle. New growth is constantly pushing out and up from beneath the ground. The cemetery is home to one of the largest live oak trees in the city. The tree’s branches stretch out and become twisted arms grazing the tops of the tombstones. Often it is the trees that grow in cemeteries that become the oldest and wildest. They are protectors and anchors, marking the location when monuments crumble. Trees outlast the stones. When families don't have enough money to buy a monument, they still know where their kin are buried by the location of a tree. I imagine their large root systems spreading out below the earth's surface, wrapping their tendrils around the bodies buried to comfort them as they dissolve back into the soil. I read that it is taking longer and longer for our bodies to naturally decompose when buried because of all the preservatives that are within our food. They act as a preemptive formaldehyde. A few years later I watch the news as Houston floods. I recognize Glenwood in video footage taken from a helicopter. The announcers tell me that the excessive amount of water gathered in the cemetery is starting to disturb the graves. Bodies have float up from below the ground and their caskets have turned into small boats. I think about the cycles of maintenance once again. The ritual balance of preservation can be so easily disturbed by a sudden ecological disaster.
Sankta Birgittas Kapell
Skövde
Sweden
8.8.2015
Skövde
Sweden
8.8.2015
I stay with an artist, Ludmila, and her family during my first week in Sweden. I become good friends with her daughter Silvia, who drives me to every small churchyard in the vicinity of their home in Skövde. One day we visit nine different sites in a row and listen to a song called "Ta Mig Tillbaka" or "Take Me Back" endlessly on the radio. On my birthday Silvia brings me to their family friends’ home and they serve me a special Swedish cake covered in bright green fondant. Their apartment has a balcony that overlooks a cemetery, and we observe the layout of the space. We see a small robot lawnmower that continually roams around the grassy lawn of a memorial ground, keeping every blade of grass just at the right height.
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Skogskyrkogården
Stockholm
Sweden
8.12.2015
Stockholm
Sweden
8.12.2015
In Swedish, there is a word, lagom, which roughly translates to “moderate” or “just the right amount.” When I visit Skogskyrkogården, or the woodland cemetery, I understand the meaning of this word is more than this. It is a feeling and a way of being. Approximately 10,000 pine trees are dispersed across the grounds of Skogskyrkogården, providing a tall canopy of shade. The architecture of the crematorium, chapels, and visitor center, designed by architects Gunnar Asplund and Sigurd Lewerentz, all have a sense of harmony with the rest of the landscape. Additionally, every grave is roughly the same size and equally distanced, except for one belonging to the actress Greta Garbo which has a private platform. I am told that nobody uses their site of entombment to display their wealth or fame because it would be seen as a sign of arrogance or excessive self-importance. There is a special section of the site called the minneslund, or memorial grove, where there are no makers at all. Here people can choose to have their ashes scattered on a wooded hill. The crematorium workers do this early in the morning before anyone visits and the exact spot where the ashes land is unrecorded. The names of people who are interred in the Minneslund are listed in the cemetery office’s records, but otherwise, there is no marker indicating this is even a burial site. Visitors are forbidden to walk through this space, but a pathway surrounds the hillside and I circumambulate it multiple times. I find that there are a few flowers and candles that have been placed in one area as an offering to these unmarked individuals. Skogskyrkogården is functional and modern. There is a sense of irreligion and agnostic practicality in Sweden that has moved burial in this direction. However, I find the Minneslund to be a space of deep-seated spirituality where bodies anonymously reconnect with nature.
Levon Hautausmaa
Lahti
Finland
9.7.2015
Lahti
Finland
9.7.2015
People always ask me about my favorite cemetery and where I might want to be buried. I don’t have a true answer to these questions, but I usually respond with a story about this site. During the ice age, glaciers moved down from the arctic, transforming all the land in their path. They left a forest of large boulders in what is now Levo, Finland. The boulders are varied in size and are covered with moss. Many people have adopted them as natural monuments and scatter their cremated ashes nearby. A plate of iron lettering is bolted into each stone to indicate it has been claimed. The boulder gains a new identity— a place to return to. Flowers and small adornments such as feathers, lanterns, or small porcelain angels are left nearby. I visit this place with my hosts Sirrka and Olli, who also hosted my father when he lived in Finland for a year at the age of 22. They treat me like their daughter, and I feel a type of love is possible even through distant connections and the absence of a shared language.
Limhamns Kyrkogård
Malmö
Sweden
9.22.2015
Malmö
Sweden
9.22.2015
At a conference in Stockholm, I listen to presentations by researchers like me who are interested in death and its heritage. One study focuses on Limhamn cemetery in Malmö which has a water feature that turned into a turtle pond. Many people started depositing their pet turtles in the cemetery with the idea that they were kindly abandoning them. Then a story got out about a young boy who decided to donate his turtle to the pond so it would be closer to his deceased mother and keep her company. The cemetery decided to maintain the pond and protect the creatures. Turtles are not native to Sweden, so the cemetery staff transports them to an indoor environment created in the garden shed during the wintertime to keep them warm. While cemeteries are often seen as spaces of death, they are filled with some of the most life in the city and are a refuge for many creatures. I travel to Malmö and I stay with a couple who make crossword puzzles and repair watches. I borrow their bicycle and go visit the turtle pond.
Assistens Cemetery
Copenhagen
Denmark
9.23.2015
Copenhagen
Denmark
9.23.2015
In Assistens Cemetery there are tents set up by students from the local college who are learning architectural preservation techniques. They are practicing their skills on old tombs and monuments. This is the same cemetery where Hans Christian Andersen, the author of The Little Mermaid, is buried. Throughout the cemetery there are various signs telling people sunbathing is forbidden. At first, this seems surprising and possibly unnecessary, but then I see a young couple kissing on a bench while a young father pushes a baby stroller down the pathway, presumably taking advantage of his parental leave. In Denmark, cemeteries are for lovers and are populated by the living.
Bispebjerg Cemetery
Copenhagen
Denmark
9.23.2015
Copenhagen
Denmark
9.23.2015
At Bispebjerg Cemetery the Danish set up a new initiative that allows people to inter their ashes beneath a grove of trees. Small plaques are placed by these young saplings as a transient memorial marker. The ecological impact of burial is still a relatively new conversation. The future of burial is a question that becomes increasingly important in the face of the global climate crisis. Bodies are also filling our earth and taking up real estate. I do not know what burial will look like in the future. Online research leads me to a TED talk about a mushroom suit, upright burial, cardboard coffins, and hyrodolosis – a method of cremation where bodies are dissolved in water.
Georgen Parochial Friedhof I
Prenzlauerberg
Germany
10.8.2015
Prenzlauerberg
Germany
10.8.2015
A flyer for an herb foraging event at St. George’s Cemetery in Berlin catches my eye. I gather at the gates with seven other women, and we follow our leader, Silke. She leads these workshops in the cemetery because it is the best space in Berlin to find natural and untouched plants. The parks have too much traffic and are too maintained to make space for enough wild growth. We stop next to a tree that has many ribbons dangling from its branches, a memorial for young children. Silke pulls a few roots from the ground and tells us which ones are edible, how they might taste, and how they will benefit our digestion. Gathered next to a towering mausoleum she presents us with a soup, strong muddy tea drink, and pesto-like spread from the child’s stroller she uses as a makeshift wheelbarrow. We all pass it around and try. They taste like the earth, or what you would expect the earth would taste like. Sometimes when I see a mushroom in the cemetery I wonder if it is edible. I imagine the nutrients retrieved from a stranger’s body carried in these foam vessels push back to the surface of the earth. I never acted on this impulse to pick one. The same fungi born from death might bring on my own. As organic matter, our bodies will slowly transform into food for other organisms.
Jüdischer Friedhof Weißensee
Berlin
Germany
10.19.2015
Berlin
Germany
10.19.2015
It is a tradition in Jewish cemeteries to lay a rock on top of a gravestone when visiting. It is a sign of respect and a memento that marks where a living body met a dead one. When I visit Weissensee Cemetery in Berlin, the tops of graves are all covered in freshly fallen leaves. I imagine this is as if the earth is saying, “I too remember….” The trees are laying leaves on top of the headstones like small pebbles. A man at the entrance tells me that during World War II people hid in the cemetery by the graves to escape the bombing and search raids. The cemetery was not bombed as often as residential spaces because death had already reached its perimeters.
Georgen Parochial Friedhof III
Berlin
Germany
10.20.2015
Berlin
Germany
10.20.2015
A large metal rack similar to one used for storing bicycles has dozens of plastic watering cans attached to it. Upon closer inspection, I realize they are each attached with a metal lock and secured to this location. The watering cans are bright orange, yellow, green, blue, and brown. They blend in perfectly with their environment because I am visiting during the height of fall as the leaves are turning. I watch as a florist drops off autumn-themed bouquets on behalf of busy families who don’t have time to do it themselves. I remember how my friend Maike told me that cemetery decoration in her hometown near Düsseldorf can get quite competitive. Some people treat their family’s grave like a community garden plot.
Alter St. Matthäus Kirchhof
Berlin
Germany
10.29.2015
Berlin
Germany
10.29.2015
Alter St. Matthäus Kirchhof is one of the most historically significant cemeteries in Berlin. It is the location of many well-known Germans, including the Brothers Grimm. At the front of the cemetery is Café Finovo, which is connected to a flower shop. The interior is decorated like a cozy home with tapestries, photographs of cats, mismatched chairs,and a drawing of a laughing fox. Honey is available for sale that was produced by bees living in the cemetery. There is no counter to order from and visitors seat themselves in this living room to be served. I ask for coffee and a slice of cake before speaking with the café’s owner, Bernd, an actor and longtime advocate for LGBTQ+ rights. Over time this cemetery has become a space of refuge and acceptance for the queer community of Berlin. Many memorials honor those who passed away from AIDS. Bernd tells me that starting the café was an obvious project because it filled a need: people wanted a place to relax after visiting a grave and the space was there. Funeral parties rent the cafe for a reception and the café is also connected with a theater company that offers performances or special music requests. A new program for grave adoption was started and people restore these sites, which they can then use as their own burial site later. As of the day of our conversation, over 100 graves have been adopted. When I depart, I pick up a flyer for a group that discusses their relationship to grief and dying. The cemetery might not be an obvious site for protest, but the location of this space allowed it to become a site of social change. Alter St. Matthäus Kirchhof is a place of community building, activism, and space in which difficult topics are welcomed at its café tables.
Heliopolis War Cemetery
Nasr City
Egypt
12.19.2015
Nasr City
Egypt
12.19.2015
Mohammed suggests I visit the Heliopolis War Cemetery, which commemorates British soldiers who died in Cairo. When I arrive, I am shocked to find a luscious and healthy lawn of green grass. How much water does it take to maintain this façade of moisture in the desert? White marble slabs engraved with military crests are juxtaposed next to large blocks of flats that ascend into the air behind the cemetery wall. Laundry billows like colorful flags from their balconies.
Diana Greek Orthodox Coptic Cemetery
Old Cairo
Egypt
12.20.2015
Old Cairo
Egypt
12.20.2015
Swirls of beige dust.
Sand.
Rosey red bricks.
A patchwork of earth tones.
Green paint covering the base of sycamore trees, faded from sunlight.
White crosses. Some are made of stone and others are painted wood.
Red, black, and green small square doors (large enough to slide a casket inside).
Black ribbons with silver script.
White flowers.
Angels and doves.
Tales of wailing women.
A blue van parked next to a stack of motorcylces.
Sand.
Rosey red bricks.
A patchwork of earth tones.
Green paint covering the base of sycamore trees, faded from sunlight.
White crosses. Some are made of stone and others are painted wood.
Red, black, and green small square doors (large enough to slide a casket inside).
Black ribbons with silver script.
White flowers.
Angels and doves.
Tales of wailing women.
A blue van parked next to a stack of motorcylces.
The City of the Dead al-Qarafa
Cairo
Egypt
1.28.2016
Cairo
Egypt
1.28.2016
I ask Moussa to pull over on the side of the highway in Cairo so I can get a picture. He says I am not allowed to walk through the part of the cemetery below, so I view it from above, leaning over a concrete barrier to get a good look. Cars whip by and he beckons me back to the car. I am taking too long, and I can tell he is nervous. He does not necessarily enjoy these visits to the cemetery because it is known as a taboo space of ghosts and crooks. The City of the Dead, or al Qarafa as they call it in Arabic, is a giant necropolis approximately 4 miles long. My family friend, Paul, who had lived in Cairo for years, suggested I visit. The City of the Dead is indeed a city, but it is not only for the dead. Stories of squatters in the large mausoleums due to Cairo's overpopulation and lack of housing are shared widely. But in fact, most people who live there are employed by the cemetery as guards, gravediggers, and custodians. It is a vibrant, interconnected, and supportive community. In the eastern section of the necropolis, a historic section next to the Quait Bay Mosque, many craftspeople have set up shop among the mausoleums. There is a silk spinner, a bookbinder, a furniture maker, and a man who makes plaster medallions to cover the wiring of light fixtures on ceilings. I purchase a small blue pitcher and a grey vase from a small family glass business that has been in operation for generations. They have a small showroom and blow the glass with an open kiln in the back of the shop. I am invited by an architectural preservation NGO, ARCHiNOS, to paint a mural by the mosque. I focus on all of these things that are being made in the cemetery. I draw the different objects and distribute them in the design of a grid. I paint my mural with the help of two local men named Mahmoud and Farah. They shift a makeshift scaffolding around so I can reach the different areas of the wall. I continually dip my brushes in a bucket of water to clean them off. When the water becomes too dirty, I foolishly ask for more but learn that was all. We work for three days. My Uber drivers are a bit concerned each time they drop me off alone at the cemetery, but Mahmoud or Farah meets me every time. When the mural is finished, we all take pictures in front of it. I recently received an email from ARCHiNOS who told me that the mural is still there.
Fayoum Road Cemetery
6th of October City
Egypt
1.7.2016
6th of October City
Egypt
1.7.2016
Moussa and I make a trip to the cemetery that sits on the road to Fayoum. I can see nothing past the horizon line in the desert as we drive. It is as if the sand continues for miles and miles. We eventually reach an island of mausoleums in the middle of the light brown and sky-blue world. I feel out of place but also overcome by the spectacular nature of where we are. Moussa tells someone who meets us that I am shopping for a grave site for my family, which of course is a lie, but I don't learn this until afterwards. The man guides us around and shows us empty mausoleums that were recently constructed. Each one is like a small courtyard surrounded by four brick walls and secured with an iron door at its entrance. At the center there is a trap door that is normally sealed over with cement,but we find one that is open. The opening reveals to stairs leading below into the earth. Descending into the tomb, I find two small rooms with curved ceilings. One is for men and the other is for women. Corpses are laid here for burial and covered in cloth. When they have fully dissolved into the cool sand, they are swept aside, and more space is made for future burials.
Cimetière du Père Lachaise
Paris
France
2.2.2016
Paris
France
2.2.2016
I have a two-day layover in Paris and on a rainy winter day I walk 9 blocks from the Voltaire subway station near my family friend Rose’s apartment to visit Père Lachaise. The main entrance leads me to a widely paved promenade, and I first reach the cemetery’s ossuary. Across the top reads the words, “Aux morts,” which translates “to the dead.” Beneath this phrase and flanking a dark portal to the interior of this structure are bare bodies made of sculpted stone. They hold onto a draped piece of cloth as they lean on one another. Their faces turn away from me and they are nameless, in perpetual grief. Inside this monument holds the remains of Parisians from all over the city. When remains are abandoned, they are boxed, tagged, and placed inside. Père Lachaise is one of the most famous cemeteries in the world. This is the most popular cemetery people think of when I describe my project of visiting burial sites. I read in a pamphlet that at first Catholics refused to be buried there at first because it wasn’t consecrated. In response, the cemetery administration deployed the age-old marketing tactic of celebrity endorsement. Now the cemetery is known for its notable burials: Gertrude Stein. Oscar Wilde. Frédéric Chopin. Marcel Proust. Eugene Delacroix. Today the cemetery still accepts new burials, but the waiting list is long and restricted to those who lived or died in Paris. Jim Morrison’s grave is surrounded by makeshift metal barriers to prevent masses of visitors from disturbing the site. Instead, they have attached thousands of colored rubber bands, ribbons, and bracelets to the fence and stick their bubblegum to the trunk of a nearby tree, marking their presence and pilgrimage.
Panthéon
Paris
France
2.2.2016
Paris
France
2.2.2016
Rose suggests I visit the Panthéon at the center of the city, which was originally designed as a church for Saint Genevieve and was later transformed into a secular mausoleum for distinguished French citizens. One must be nominated by the French parliament to be buried here. After emerging from the metro, I enter the Panthéon pass by a swinging pendulum hanging from the central dome that demonstrates the rotation of the earth. I find a staircase at the back of wander down the sterile halls to the crypts below the surface of the earth. I pause in front of an empty chamber and push my camera through the slats of the wrought iron door.
Fals Cementiri, Parc del Laberint d’Horta
Barcelona
Spain
2.6.2016
Barcelona
Spain
2.6.2016
I visit my sister on a brief layover in Barcelona. We decide to take a hike on the weekend though the Parc del Laberint d’Horta where there is a large labyrinth made by hedged trees bound to metal fences. When we emerge, we travel through a romantic garden. In the final section of our pathway, I see a sign that says, “Fals Cementiri.” This section of the park used to have a replica of a small graveyard, but there are no human bodies buried here. The fake cemetery was part of the park’s design to remind people of their mortality as they took a stroll. I didn’t really come to Spain to look at burial sites, but I notice now how these places seem to just find me now when I decide not to go looking - even false ones.
Cemetiri de Montjuic
Barcelona
Spain
2.4.2016
Barcelona
Spain
2.4.2016
Cemetiri de Montjuic is a tourist destination. You can choose your adventure when you enter by selecting a guided walking tour and path. The cemetery signage directing visitors focuses on the historic or artistic significance of monuments. In front of a few graves, there are plaques providing information about the deceased and the sculptor who built their monument. St. Mark sits with a lion reading a gospel as Joseph and Mary console a crying Jesus. An angel covers its face on the steps of a Romanesque colonnade. A hooded figure is draped in shadows. These walking routes are sequestered in the bottom section of the cemetery, which is populated by the wealthy and famous. I find my way to stand at the top of the site overlooking a harbor occupied by the shipping industry. Stones of orange, brown, and tan are piled up to form rows of walls climbing up the small mountain. Embedded in the walls are rows and columns of square panes of glass in front of plaques that mark niche burials. Visitors have stuffed small vases holding flowers and religious ephemera between the glass and the plaques. Tall metal step ladders on wheels float around the leveled sections for accessibility to the top row of these niche burials. I watch a truck pass through a corridor below me as maintenance workers use leaf blowers to remove any trace of debris from the ground. None of the paths reach where I am standing. There are no historical markers on these niche burials, which are designated for the common folk.
Cementerio de la Recoleta
Buenos Aires
Argentina
2.12.2016
Buenos Aires
Argentina
2.12.2016
As I walk through the famous La Recoleta in Buenos Aires, I admire the colorful buckets of tools workers use to repair and clean the mausoleums. Their accents of green, blue, and orange pop out against the files of grey stone. I look at the lattice of shadows that cross over on the cement walkways guiding me through the mausoleums. I watch a small vent twirl in the wind, letting out the fumes from a chamber of coffins below my feet. I walk past a crowd that is gathered in front of the mausoleum belonging to Eva Perón. I find a statue of a weeping woman draped over some mausoleum steps that is so convincing that I almost apologize when bumping into it. I notice how the glass is broken in many of the windows and my friend tells me that there has been an issue with grave robbery because medical students are judged in their exams based on their ability to identify parts of a real human skull. This has created a black market for bones.
Cementerio de Santa Rosa
Salta
Argentina
3.18.2016
Salta
Argentina
3.18.2016
I hire someone to drive me through the region Salta where I will eventually meet my next host, Damarys, in Cafayate. My driver thinks it is absurd that I am interested in visiting burial sites. He tries to convince me to check out the wineries instead. When he realizes I am serious, he full-heartedly takes on the task. We drive down small winding roads, and he shows me graveyards that I would never be able to locate on the map. Before our last stop, we are driving through a dusty road surrounded by rock formations as the sun begins to set. I am told to close my eyes. I cover them and wait until the car stops. When I get out, I see a small burial ground surrounded by an eroding wire fence. It is populated with wooden crosses, a few white tombs, multicolored stones, and artificial flowers. I feel the tenderness that is buried in this place. It is humble. It is one of the most beautiful cemeteries I have witnessed.
Municipal Cemetery Azul
Azul
Argentina
3.26.2016
Azul
Argentina
3.26.2016
My friend Milagros and I decide to visit Azul, which is 300 km south of Buenos Aires. This is an area of fertile lowlands called la Pampas. The same weekend a motorcycle club organizes a mass gathering in the town. A few of them make their way to the cemetery to celebrate the macabre. A cubist avenging angel stares down from the cemetery portal commanding, “Rest in Peace.” The architect Francisco Salamone was commissioned to design this portal by a politician many people would wish to forget. Salamone is most famous for his cattle slaughterhouses that adopted art deco styles and industrial futurism. Later we watch 300 joyful motorcycles make laps around the town’s central plaza.
Camperdown Cemetery
Newtown
Australia
4.13.2016
Newtown
Australia
4.13.2016
The Camperdown cemetery is included as a satellite location of the Sydney 20th Biennale. Here the Swedish artist Bo Christian Larsson’s piece Fade Away, Fade Away, Fade Away takes on the task of covering every headstone in custom fitted white sheets over the course of the exhibition. In the process he covers any visible hierarchical information about each stone, attempting to render them equal. I am reminded of the white sheet that children throw over their bodies pretending to be ghosts when celebrating Halloween. When I visit this project, I find the site abandoned but at least half of the stones are covered. All the seamstresses involved in the project have left on a lunch break. They work in a temporary studio set up under two tents outfitted with electricity to power their sewing machines. I wander over to a section they have not reached and look at a monument that tells the elaborate story of a shipwreck in Sydney Harbor.
Gore Hill Cemetery
St Leonards
Australia
4.18.2016
St Leonards
Australia
4.18.2016
I climb through webs of large spiders who have built their nests among the graves. The sticky texture lingers on my body as I shake it off. In every cemetery I notice the presence of all the nonhuman beings who established these sites as their homes. I often cross paths with large bugs, stray cats, birds, dogs, and deer. Weeds grow in abundance. I wonder if they are frustrated that I am disturbing their serenity.
Macquarie Park Cemetery and Crematorium
New South Wales
Australia
4.18.2016
New South Wales
Australia
4.18.2016
I travel 30 minutes by bus from Gore Hill to Macquarie Park Cemetery. There is a small cafe, flower shop, and children’s playground at the entrance. I walk through the cemetery for about an hour. Just as I am about to leave, a boy on a motorcycle circling around the cemetery pauses to ask me to take his picture as he performs stunts. He comes here to practice because there is little traffic. He asks if I want to take a turn on his bike. Despite always being on guard as a solo female traveler, I can tell he is harmless. I hop on the back of his bike, and we circle around at top speed. I am struck a paradox: the feeling of pushing against the wind makes me feel very alive in a space supposedly designated for death.
Woden Cemetery
Phillip
Australia
4.27.2016
Phillip
Australia
4.27.2016
The cemetery is made from lines. These lines become the cemetery’s walls, aisles, gates, and borders. They are mostly straight lines, juxtaposed against one another, fashioned into a grid. Canberra’s city plan was designed by Chicago architect Walter Burley Griffin, who resisted the grid and constructed the city with circles instead. Woden cemetery in Canberra also adopted this philosophy and the land is a ring divided into curved shapes. However, inside each circular section of the city and cemetery, the grid remains. It is difficult to completely revolutionize the rectangular shape of the house and burial plot. The sign at the entrance shows a large painted map of Woden. It reminds me of a fanned pie chart. Each section of the cemetery is divided by religious affiliation and labeled on the map with a corresponding color. What results is a makeshift census of local identity. Pink is Catholic. Blue is Anglican. Red is Lutheran. Grey is Presbyterian. Most of these are Christian graves but walking around I see Jewish, Muslim, and non-religious burials as well. The cemetery reveals the identity of the community by visually representing patterns of migration, changes in religious beliefs, catastrophic events, evidence of war, and evolving values. These are the narratives that I discover while wandering.
Avonhead Memorial Cemetery
Christchurch
New Zealand
5.11.2016
Christchurch
New Zealand
5.11.2016
My Uncle Frank takes me to Avonhead Cemetery when I visit him in Christchurch. The sun is blinding, the wind is strong, and everything has a long shadow. This is the burial site for many people who died during the 2011 Christchurch earthquakes. We travel to a smallmemorial that honors all the victims of the event. My uncle also shows me the individual monuments commemorating some of his friends and neighbors. We stop at the stone that marks the woman who owned the fish shop down the street from him, Natasha. He used to work with her for fun a couple of times a week, smoking the fish. Her monument is adorned with vases filled with flowers, small paintings, a teddy bear, and other figurines.
Lyttelton Catholic and Public Cemetery
Lyttelton
New Zealand
5.14.2016
Lyttelton
New Zealand
5.14.2016
A young girl with blond hair wearing a pink shirt chases her silky black dog between the headstones. An extension of their backyard, the cemetery becomes a playground where they run freely. It is positioned on the slope of mountainous valley and they can see the whole world ahead of them. The sun is blinding but I reach for my camera and take a photo. Just as soon as I have captured a few images they have disappeared and are onto their next adventure.
Mount Taupiri
Taupiri
New Zealand
5.26.2016
Taupiri
New Zealand
5.26.2016
The only photos I take of Mount Taupiri are at a distance. This Māori urupā is tapu, or sacred, to the Waikato tribe. The cemetery is embedded on a mountain where there was once a pa, or village. However, one of the leaders, Te Putu, was killed and then buried at the site. This deemed it tapu and therefore it could no longer be used for the living. Other kings and queens are now buried at the top of the mountain. To reach the site, I cross a river where there is only a small bridge on the curve of a highway. I continue along the highway, and then again cross some rail tracks. Most Māori urupā are private, belonging to the tribe, outside of government control, and not easy to find. This inaccessibility protects this place. When I reach the entrance, I find many water taps all around. It is a Māori custom to wash your hands was you leave the cemetery to wash away any lingering spirits that may have followed. There is also a sign forbidding the consumption of food, tourists, and use of cameras or video. I know when I need to turn away.
Toowong Cemetery
Brisbane
Australia
5.30.2016
Brisbane
Australia
5.30.2016
While in Brisbane I connect with Dr. Pete Macfarlane, a stone mason and architect who founded a business creating custom memorials. Many cemeteries in Australia are endless blocks of black granite, imported, and laser cut by computers. The skill of stone masonry is on the verge of being lost due to the developments of machinery that enables mass production. Pete drives me around the city, and we look at various monuments he created, and he tells me the story behind each one. When designing these memorials, he treated them as artworks. He considered the rituals belonging to family, the environmental context, and the identity of the individual being honored. Each memorial required many meetings with the family so that the final piece ends up as a collaboration rather than only a sculptural project. He thinks about the memorial as a site to engage with, as a place to physically rest, and something that will change over many years as time passes. There are many secret details to the work that is only meaningful to the family or friends of the buried. We visit a memorial for a young child that Pete designed as a hollow ellipse that can fit a body inside. He drilled a small hole through the concrete at the top of the monument. The sun reaches through this opening once a year on the child’s birthday to illuminate an inscription and a cast imprint of their feet. We also visit the grave of a young mother who died from cancer. Pete sculpted her sleeping figure on top of the grave plot and covered it with a mosaic made of mirrored tile. Her children sometimes come to visit and lay on top of the memorial, spooning her cast body. Finally, we visit two memorials made for a father and daughter. Pete created a replica of photographs that were posted on their refrigerator and attached them to a metal panel warped around the edges of each monument.
Postscript: When reviewing these notes I searched for Pete’s website but instead found an obituary and discovered that he died in 2020. In my research, I discovered an interview where he said, “Because I design spaces to help people remember a loved one, I’m often asked what my wishes are for a death memorial. I’m not sure. Maybe when I know I’m going to die, it will be my ultimate piece.”
Postscript: When reviewing these notes I searched for Pete’s website but instead found an obituary and discovered that he died in 2020. In my research, I discovered an interview where he said, “Because I design spaces to help people remember a loved one, I’m often asked what my wishes are for a death memorial. I’m not sure. Maybe when I know I’m going to die, it will be my ultimate piece.”
Kyoto
Japan
6.19.2016
Japan
6.19.2016
Yoshiko-san invites me to participate in a special ritual she performs when visiting her family’s graves in Japan. We drive to the site, and I lose my sense of where we are on the map. We rinse our mouths with water before entering the cemetery, symbolizing an act of purification. We then pick up a dipper and fill a bucket with water near the cemetery entrance. Yoshiko leads me to her family’s monument, and she sprinkles water on the surface, cleaning off any dirt. She also removes the dead stems of flowers that sit in twin metal holders flanking the tomb. We replace them with fresh ones. We finally light incense, and she teaches me a prayer that we chant together and we finish with a bow. We leave our tools at the entrance for someone else to use. I don’t take any photographs of this experience as a sign of respect.
Okunoin Cemetery
Koyasan
Japan
7.4-9.2016
Koyasan
Japan
7.4-9.2016
Kōbō Daishi was a Japanese Buddhist monk who founded the Shingon school, bringing Buddhism to Japan. He established Mount Kōya as his headquarters and many temples were built on the site. Legends say that he did not die but is resting in eternal meditation within a temple at the center of Koyasan’s cemetery. A group of monks walk in a long procession to bring him breakfast and lunch every day, offering it outside of his chambers. The cemetery, named Okunoin, is an UNESCO World Heritage Site that draws hundreds of tourists and pilgrims every day. I email with a sociologist, Keiji, who generously supports my work by connecting me with people in Koyasan. When I visit, I discover that underneath the layers of spiritual and historical meaning, Koyasan is also a site of business for the nearby temples and residents. They host visitors, provide ceremonial rituals for the dead, and are involved in the burial aspects of the cemetery. It is now very prestigious to be buried in Okunoin. Throughout the cemetery there are monuments that were purchased by companies, such as Panasonic, to honor their employees. Some of these monuments are sculpted to represent the mission of the company. I find a rocket commissioned by an astronautical firm and a mug for a coffee company. On a tour I am told that an extermination company commissioned a special monument to honor and pay tribute to all the pests they kill. Throughout the cemetery there are many small figurative sculptures of Jizo Bosatu, who is the guardian of children and travelers. People make offerings to these figures to ensure safe passageway. Parents specifically visit them to ask that their children will be protected in the afterlife. The Jizo statues are dressed in red bibs and wool hats to keep them warm at night. Some also have makeup or other clothing. I find piles of coins and other offerings such as candles, incense, and coffee cans nearby. In one section of the cemetery there is a large, weathered pyramid of these statues whose bibs are all are faded and tattered. As I spend more time in Koyasan it transforms from a confusing maze into site with secret passageways and hidden histories. I am invited by Noriko-san to participate in a weekend of festivities in Koyasan celebrating Kōbō Daishi’s birthday. She introduces me to Teruko-san who teaches me how to do a special matsuri dance. We walk through the streets with other women moving our arms with careful choreography. At night I walk through Okunoin with other tourists. The grounds are illuminated by many lanterns, but this does not prevent me from almost stepping on a small croaking frog. I spend the evening at a temple and sleep on tatami mats laid on the floor.
Kitashirakawa Pet Cemetery
Kyoto
Japan
7.11.2016
Kyoto
Japan
7.11.2016
I find a crematorium in Kyoto dedicated to pets. It is very similar to a regular Japanese cemetery, except the graves are smaller and there seem to be more figurines and photos. Many of the phrases that are engraved are in English. They say things such as “Dear my family,” “I am thankful to have you in my life,” “Forever loved,” and “Thank you for enriching my life.” I even see a silhouette of a ferret that is interred in the cemetery. It shares a plaque with a Bernese Mountain dog. The main feature of the site is a shrine that is designed like an altar featuring a small Buddah statue flanked with flowers. It displays about one hundred circular plaques with photographic portraits of dogs. I imagine that their their ghosts frolicking around this small cemetery - the ultimate dog park.
Ruriden Mausoleum
Kōkoku-ji Temple
Tokyo
Japan
7.18.2016
Kōkoku-ji Temple
Tokyo
Japan
7.18.2016
I feel the presence of electronics everywhere I go in Tokyo. I walk through streets illuminated by electronic billboards and shining colored lights. I visit a small temple with a cemetery off a quiet side road near Ushigome-yanagichō Station. A white cat sits on the pavement in the soaking up the sun and guarding the entrance. I am here to visit the cemetery’s new columbarium, and to enter visitors must tap a digital “IC” card. This card in linked to the identity of a person’s ashes that are interred within. A monk that works for the temple kindly opens the columbarium for me because I am not here to see a specific individual. The room is octagon-shaped, and the walls are lined with grids of small glass sculptures representing the Buddha. Visitors re-tap their card in a small foyer before this room, walk forward to an altar, light a candle and incense, say a prayer, and ring a bell. Slowly the statues are all each illuminated by LED lights projecting a dim blue color, which slowly changes between purple, green, yellow, and red. One small square remains separate from the grid, continuously illuminated white. This small statue represents the deceased. And as the colors change, so does the mood in the room, allowing the visitors to meditate on death, remembrance of their loved ones, and the stages of life. This mausoleum is rare moment where the high-tech culture of Japan also blends with spirituality embedded in traditions of the past. Over the course of my hour visit, three separate families visited this space, and I step outside for them to pay their respects.
Rosehill Cemetery
Chicago, Illinois
United States
9.25.2018
Chicago, Illinois
United States
9.25.2018
While waiting to ask for information at the cemetery administration office, I witness an exchange between a postman and the receptionist. The subject of their conversation is a brown square package on the desk between them. The postal worker is concerned because there is no recipient listed — just the general cemetery address — the postal worker did not like the idea of just dropping it off in front of the building. Suddenly it clicks. Inside the package are remains sent by a funeral home, possibly with no identification. I remember a story where someone had their ashes divided into seven different envelopes and send them on a trip across the world. I guess it never struck me that a dead body could travel through the mail.
Shrum Mound
Columbus, Ohio
United States
9.15.2019
Columbus, Ohio
United States
9.15.2019
My friend Hannah visits me just after I move to Columbus. We take a trip to the earthwork off McKinley Ave. It is a burial mound created 2000 years ago by people living what we now call Ohio. I imagine these people gathering on this spot of earth to watch a fire engulf the remains of their deceased. How did they feel as their kin’s bodies dissolved into the air as wafts of smoke? After the flames of the fire would take their final gulp of air, archeologist suggest that baskets of dug up earth were thrown over on the freshly charred black ground. This place was marked with a blanket of dirt. Over the years they repeated this ritual, and a mound grew, becoming a monument of memory. It is not known exactly when or why, but one day this ritual ended. The final fire was extinguished, the last layer of dirt was leveled, and the people walked away. Today new structures now surround the mound: a paved road, a gated community, and a fence of “No Trespassing” signs lining a quarry. Hannah and I look up at the sky and watch a murmuration of starlings swirling in the sky in a black cloud. They dance gracefully, slowly descending back into the earth with the pace of the setting sun. We share this moment of awe with someone walking their dog. They tell us that the starlings come back every year to this very spot.
Rendville Cemetery
Rendville, Ohio
United States
3.7-14.2020
Rendville, Ohio
United States
3.7-14.2020
I am counting the graves in the cemetery belonging to the smallest town in Southeastern Ohio. The cemetery is nestled on the top of a hill above Route 13, surrounded by thick forest. I count 175 and write the information in a small black notebook. The oldest stone dates to 1880. Thousands of storms passed through this place. Layers of snow dusted the surface and later melted. The stones are weathered and covered in a combination of mold, moss, and algae. Headstone 132. I move my hands over a stone’s letters carved in relief, as one might with braille. I say each letter out loud and change my reading each time until it is finally correct. I have no faces to put to the names I am reading. To me, they are simply words. I write “Illegible” in the book. I work with Harry, who grew up in Rendville, and Jake, my new friend from graduate school. Jake records the sounds of the cemetery while Harry rubs a thick brush back and forth over the headstone to scrape away the layers of time. He finds a water bottle in his car and pours it over the stone to reveal anything we missed. Nearby there is a large patch of grass where leaves have gathered in shallow depressions in the earth. They are oblong shapes about 5 ft long and 2 feet wide. I realize that they are graves that were never backfilled. They are the shadows of bodies resting below them, with no names attached. There is nothing to record but the word “unknown.” This week we learn that the Covid-19 pandemic has reached the United States and is spreading quickly across the country. We must stop our project early and drive back to our homes, anxiously preparing for a period of isolation. We are unaware of what is ahead of us and how pervasive daily conversations around death with become over the next years as the world tackles a plague. In the moments that we sit in Rendville, counting and washing these headstones, we feel a sense of connection and peace.