For Saturday, December 26, 2009:
I ran into that weird photographer's dilemma of making something look beautiful when it's all but. Like a grave for example. How strange is it to photograph a grave and make it look beautiful? My grandmother's grave.
I'll tell you the whole experience.
My grandmother has been buried 2 months now. I got into my cousin's car where we were listening to Eminem's music, which felt so offbeat for me, but I guess since most of my family has done the mourning already, I was alone in feeling that way. I was the only dressed all in black.
We bought crappy flowers on the side of the road, and drove into this complex, which turns out was the burial ground. This was the beginning of my anger.
I couldn't get away from the feeling of how disconnected the burial ground is. The very idea of burying somebody who's dead is of honor - the cemetery was almost political and bureaucratic (the only reason why my grandmother's grave is 1 hour away from my house is because it's the only cemetery my WHOLE family could afford). The thought of buying a lot, a space and a casket all from deathdealers felt so angering. At the risk of sounding like a lost rebel, I couldn't stop thinking how impossible it is to escape the silly political world of human civilization, even in our death. (This of course prompted a very strange idea for a new project on graves...more on this later.) The place was so organized. The lots were labeled. It just seemed all a bit strange, like almost too civilized. I kept thinking that maybe once upon a time, cemeteries seemed more dignified than any of this. It was the angry mourning that was doing the talking in my head.
So we get to the grave waiting for my family. We had no vase for the flowers, and so my aunt felt it was totally appropriate to walk over 10 feet and steal a vase from some other woman's grave. I was pissed off.
Then we all sat around the grave, my grandfather was already there. He has apparently been avoiding the whole topic, only talking to certain people about it, and being very quiet overall. They were married over 60 years. He left and sat in the car to sleep while the rest of my aunts showed up for a moment of silence, prayer and reminiscing about my grandmother's life.
I obviously had my camera. My own very strange way of mourning (and while standing in cemetery my mother asked me to take a picture of her with some sunglasses on - I refused, apparently she didn't understand.)
So I started snapping pictures, observing the surroundings, a huge mound of dirt and garbage placed right behind the grave. The squares of fabricated grass were still discernible on the bulging ground. The gravestone, barely a foot tall, could only be read if you got really close. The word "Dignity" was cheaply engraved inside an oval. The stolen pot resting behind it. The whole thing seemed a bit ironic and like bad satire.
I only took a few photographs. It didn't feel right, but it was a bit necessary.
We all left to go have coffee - at Starbucks. All 13 of us. Like a caravan of mourners from a William Faulkner novel gone 21st century. I couldn't be angry for too long, it was kind of surreal. Maybe I was just being a bit childish. Maybe. Who knows? Is there really a correct way of mourning anyway?
It was a very emotionally diverse day. The mall in the morning, buying shoes for my boyfriend. My cousin was starting to panic because of how crowded the place was, so we left after he vomited. Inglourious Basterds in the afternoon. My grandmother's grave. Being stolen away from it all by my friend and hanging out with my other friends at night.
All epitomizing how emotionally demanding the last two weeks were. I slept deeply that night.
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