Catacombe dei Cappuccini di Palermo

For me one of the most important things to experience during my visit to Sicily was the Catacombs in Palermo.

Your average tourist in Palermo has no idea the Catacombs are even there, and would probably have zero desire to visit the moment they saw a few photographs. This ensures that the site isn’t too busy and generally means it manages to maintain a sombre, calm atmosphere most fitting for the Catacombs.

I was lucky enough to have the advice of my good friend Soile before visiting who had been to the Catacombs 10 years ago, and also the information from a few blogs read many years ago when my thirst for Sicily first began. Opening times in Sicily can be very varied so it’s always worth checking before you visit any attraction/restaurant.

The Catacombs stand on the site of an old church, which existed before the Capuchin friars arrived in Palermo. The birth of the Catacombs itself is an incredibly interesting one. Initially, the bodies of the deceased friars were simply covered in a shroud and placed in a mass pit beneath the altar, known as a Charnel House. As you might imagine, eventually as the order grew so did the number of monks dying, and the Charnel House became rather full. The decision was made that an underground cemetery would be excavated for future burials to solve the potential health risk being created by a bulging mass grave. One day when the Charnel House was opened to remove some of the bodies to the new space created for the dead, it was immediately noted that the unfortunate folk who were last deposited looked as if they had been dead for mere hours, not months. This miracle was declared fascinating and word soon spread about the miracle cemetery.

The decision was made to remove 40 of the best preserved bodies from the pit and display them in the catacombs of the church. This began what we see today as the Catacombs, lifeless figures propped up as if standing waiting endlessly for some important event, or recumbent as if they just slipped into slumber in their Sunday best.

Initially no lay burials were allowed in the Catacombs, but over time they did accept lay mummies, and increasingly so. People were willing to pay handsomely to have the honour of being displayed in the Catacombs. During the 16th and 17th Century when the Catacombs were at their height, the emphasis was on where your body lay after death. The thinking of the time was if you were laid to rest near a holy relic, inside an important church or somewhere with great religious significance you improved your standing in the afterlife. So the Catacombs was a very sought after place to spend your eternity.

However prepared you might think you are for seeing the Catacombs and its inhabitants with your own eyes, you won’t be. Nothing can quite prepare you for the huge range of different mummies lining the walls, all fully dressed in their best clothes, allowing them to maintain some of their humanity and personality throughout the ages. It makes them seem far more ‘real’ than a pile of bones, relatable. A little girl in a lace dress, curls still rolling from her head. A monk, hood hanging low, still looking in pious contemplation. Men in suits lined up as if for a job interview. Bishops still in their mitres and robes, having some eternal debate with one another on theology. Children, posing as if for a school photograph. It causes questions to flood the mind. Who were they? What did they do? How did they die? How did they look alive compared to now? All unanswerable.

The most shocking are probably those whose flesh still clings to their old bones. Tight and twisted with age. Their mouth hangs open in a silent, never ending scream. Lips peeled back to reveal the vastness of their gape in all its glory. Their flesh waxy and yellow like the pages of an old book. It is disintegrating in places and looks like it may just slide off the bone at any time. Their eyes mostly closed, or looking at you through huge hollow sockets. Some still have all their limbs, others have substitutes for what has fallen away, a hessian sack stuffed with straw to form an arm and stop a suit looking empty. White gloves as if about to handle some priceless museum piece, hiding the nothingness. The different rates of decay/preservation are fascinating to observe. Some are skeletal, while others cling to their former selves more vigorously, one man even still sporting his beard and eyebrows.

There was a quality I suppose quite puppet-like about many of the dead. They stand motionless, but as if about to burst into action, held up by string and wire, their clothes slightly surreal on their bodies, their form reduced to a bare structure with joints and bones laid bare. Thankfully nobody moved a muscle and the calm and quiet continued.

The Catacombs is a unique glimpse into a past when attitudes, beliefs and the world in general were so incredibly different. It is a close took into the face of death. And, understandably, not everyone likes what they see. But I have to admit I found it both fascinating, and moving. All these people, all these faces and lives. That no one remembers. That will be us all one day. And perhaps that's the reality people who fear the Catacombs shy away from.

Holy Trinity Church - Washington

Hidden beside Washington Old Hall lies an overgrown and forgotten, lonely looking graveyard. When exploring the grounds of the house I found myself repeatedly catching glimpses of this moody looking graveyard. Over walls, through gaps and just about anywhere. There it was silently waiting. Its probably largely down to my incredible ability to sniff out cemeteries everywhere I go, a morbid gift I seem to have acquired over the years.

After an enjoyable visit to the ancient family residence of George Washington (though he never actually set foot there) I eagerly rushed off to see the shady churchyard which it turned out belongs to the Holy Trinity Church next door.

The graves in closest proximity to the church were well tended, tidy, trimmed and mowed. As you moved into the darker recesses of the graveyard nature had taken over, with nettles and ivy lining the floor and trees taking over wherever they can rest their limbs. Often this is the type of graveyard I love to see the most. Nature taking back what is rightfully hers. Interacting with the stones which are all that's left to represent the people nourishing from below. The relationship between the stones and the trees certainly made for an interesting and unusual photo opportunity, which of course I grasped with both hands.

Return to Paris Catacombs

Since my initial visit to the Paris Catacombs a number of years ago I have long dreamed of returning to this breathtaking, utterly unique place. Finally now our road trip was taking us through Paris providing the perfect chance to return to the Empire of the dead.

Unfortunately the timing of the trip was not the greatest, and for months on the run up to our visit the catacombs workers were on strike, meaning it was closed to the public for some time. As the time for our visit crept nearer, the dispute was still unresolved, and I began to fear there was no chance of making it to the catacombs this time, a very distressing thought as it was one of the main reasons we were stopping in Paris at all and to be one of the highlights of the trip.

By some miracle our luck was in, the Catacombs reopened for business just in time. We arrived early in the morning to join the infamous line to enter, I decided against pre-booking due to the uncertainty created by the strike, and on my previous visit I waited just under an hour to gain entry. Though after over 3 hours in the baking hot sun with little to no shade I certainly regretted it. The amount of time spent waiting compared to actually absorbing the atmosphere of the catacombs did leave a bit of a bitter taste in the mouth, which was a real shame.

And in the few short years since I last visited the world has changed. And not necessarily for the better. The selfie reigns supreme and the selfie stick is the sceptre of every self obsessed idiot roaming the planet. I remember a couple of annoying people posing for photos with the remains and one woman talking loudly on my first visit. But this time the catacombs seemed full of people hell bent on destroying the tranquil, uniquely beautiful atmosphere which I know this place possesses when unpolluted by the living. As ever I tried to block out these distractions and focus on capturing the macabre beauty that lays within these tunnels.

Eventually I blocked out those around me and immersed myself in the Catacombs once again. I couldn't decide if it was an illusion, my memory playing tricks on me or in fact the truth but the death and decay in these tunnels seems to be a living, breathing entity. Since my previous visit more water drips than I remember, moss grows here and there coating some skulls in a macabre green film as if claiming them back for nature and bones are damaged, displaced and some clearly the victim of meddling visitors fingers. The neat order of death I witnessed previously feels a little more decrepit, and little more fractured and ebbed away by more time and further decay.

This was a strange idea to me, as I had initially viewed these bones picked clean by time and entirely skeletal upon their arrival at the catacombs as the end product of decay, when I suppose in reality even in these tunnels the remains will continue to deteriorate and eventually become dust or brittle fragments if left uncared for. A strange thought, I don't know why it had never occurred to me previously.

Ultimately I dream one day of wandering the empire of the dead alone. The only living soul paying tribute and admiring all these beings, wondering what lives they lived as I wander through the tunnels. As ever the Catacombs are a truly unique place with a pure beauty and a staggering effect when you see the thousands upon thousands of bones delicately lining the tunnels. I hope if I one day return to the Catacombs once more sections which were previously accessible (and are now not) are open again, such as the quarry men's carvings. And I hope people will have learned how to show a little more respect and give the dead the dignity they deserve when visiting their great empire.

Memento Mori - St Lawrence's Churchyard, Eyam

My cemetery creeping activities have been more active than ever this summer. And I confess I find great peace and calm from wandering through graveyards and observing the wildlife, the flora thriving in a truly natural, unfettered way and the legacy of generations summed up in a simple stone.

Recently I have found myself observing more and more closely the designs of gravestones. It is interesting to observe the aesthetics of different ages, the favoured motifs of the day, popular phrases which came and went, strange symbols familiar in a time long since passed but now nothing more than a curious creation on an eroding face of stone.

One strange design which struck me was that of a hand pointing to the sky, surrounded by flowers, holding a scroll with words 'Meet me there', suggesting an eternal reunion together in Heaven. Later the same day at Spittal Cemetery I found an almost identical design, with variations in the scroll wording, the flowers used and shapes within the headstone, but the similarities could be no mere coincidence. I initially assumed these were perhaps by the same stone mason, however further investigation proved this theory incorrect. Then I began to compare the actual inscriptions of the stones and their dates, both late Victorian period (1890's), both men, leaving behind a widow and daughter, who naturally in the order of the grave followed afterwards. The inscriptions on both of the stones are lengthy, and their ornamentation is fine and extensive, suggesting they would have come at quite a cost. Are both of these grave stones towns apart desperate expressions of grief for the loss of the head of the household? Or am I missing the bigger picture of Victorian funerary tradition?

Observing and comparing the various graves from many hundreds of years there are certainly trends and fashions, even in death. Some years the cross was very popular, or a Gothic arch, the Victorians seemed to favour lengthy inscriptions, sometimes even detailing how a person died (my favourite one to date is lightening) and lamenting their woe, yet as time moves on our grave stones become plainer, more uniform and the exuberance fades. The varied sea of stones, some dating back to the great plague, sit like broken teeth jutting in and out of the undulating grass and wild blooms. The ravages of time have spared some, with their proud artistry still intact and preserving the memory of many below, others have been less fortunate, with their twisting and toppling being a slow ballet performed over the ages as the weather wears away names and sentiments of love that are forever lost to time.

I dearly wish we still had the pride and enthusiasm for funerary art that our Victorian predecessors possessed. The time and care that was taken over these designs, the incredible work by stone masons bringing them to life, miniature monuments to a memory, designed to cement their place in history and stand the test of time. Yet the majority of modern monuments in Britain do not have the same detail or dedication displayed as in years gone by, with the concept of design and individuality virtually being eliminated, doesn't choosing the colour of your stone say enough about the deceased? Keep your inscription short and sweet, you're paying by the letter. Lined up neatly like faceless figures, there's something very detached and distant about modern gravestones, which perhaps says just as much about our attitude to death, the morbid and macabre as Victorian headstones said about theirs ...

Spital Cemetery

During a civilized Sunday out in Eyam the decision was made to come back home via Chesterfield, namely Spital Cemetery. Spital Cemetery was something that had occupied our minds for a number of months, and for good reason. The old Church within the Cemetery grounds is for sale, and we have long dreamed of living in a Church, restoring it to its former glory, saving the building and worshipping its beauty. But due to timing, finances etc, my partner and I had agreed that a visit would be a bad idea and risk us falling in love with the place. Yet against out better judgement we found ourselves rolling through the gates in my Morris Minor and parking at the bottom of an embankment peppered with graves.

First impressions were of a sprawling hillside with two quite distinct personalities. To the right is a neat, compact modern style cemetery, with tidy rows of small grave stones, all relatively new and shiny, adorned with flowers, ornaments and the like. To the left however, upon the rising hill towering lofty trees and a ragged meadow of grass stretch out across the bank, with graves and monuments protruding forth every now and then, some temptingly hidden from view by the rippling hillside. The left had a far wilder, more ancient temptation, and its winding paths create a certain intrigue to dig a little deeper. So I did ...

Picking my way up the hillside, I realised all manner of wild flowers, trees and wildlife have almost claimed the cemetery for their own, with Ivy slowly eating gravestones with its grip of greenery, tree roots erupting mercilessly through stone and a carpet of pine needles and autumn leaves lingering on to join those below. The afternoon sunshine filtered through the trees in mottled drabs, falling on graves and wildflowers, then proceeding to dance with the wind. It quickly became apparent what a tranquil, idyllic space the Cemetery is, with the dead silent as ever in their eternal rest. 

At the crown of the hill, surrounded by a whole host of graves was the Church. At first it emerged between the trees, peaking out in faint glimpses, until it rose proud and bold in a clearing. Its Gothic Revival style is my preferred architectural aesthetic for Churches, and I was hugely impressed by the grotesques adorning its humble facade. Carved stone faces peered for from the edges of windowsills, each one entirely unique, and Medieval inspired monsters loomed in guttering, jutting out harsh against the sky. The roof would once have been a work of art with its pattern of fishscale tiles, but many years have passed and patching up and essential repairs to save the building from decay have given it a quilt like quality still hinting at its former glory. The Church was certainly larger than photos had me believe, and its exquisite details and honest personality make it a charming little gem.

Many of the monuments and graces close to the Church were large and must have been a grand sight to behold at one time, their slow decay and faded magnificence has a kind of romantic charm which reminded me of Highgate Cemetery, having a similar mixture of wildness and faded beauty.
Spital Cemetery's similarities with Highgate are no mere coincidence. Many Victorian cemeteries like this were most probably modelled on Highgate and the Magnificent Seven (which in turn was modeled on Pere Lachaise) and the concept of a picturesque cemetery. From 1852 onwards many Burial Acts were passed reforming the rites and laws of death in Victorian Britain. Severe overcrowding in inner city Churchyards was causing a public health hazard, and two cholera epedemics and tens of thousands of deaths had bought burial and safe internment of remains to the forefront of public concern. In 1857, the same year Spttal Cemetery opened, a national system of public cemeteries was established and Burial Boards were formed to manage and maintain the new Cemeteries. Cemeteries became a planned park-like space, where you could mourn, be remembered and set your place in history for eternity.

Spital Cemetery is a truly beautiful, special slice of Victorian Cemetery, and I envy, and commend the lucky soul who may one day get to save Spital Church and call its rolling hill home.

Art in Focus: 'Death'

'Death' is famously the most feared card to crop up in a Tarot reading. But its not all doom and gloom when it comes to the actual meaning of 'Death' in Tarot. 'Death' signifies change, something in your life is coming to a close and as one phase ends a new beginning can bring renewed energy to your life. The transition your about to undergo should be embraced and welcomed as a positive transformation in your life. 'Death' teaches us to move forward with our life, progress positively and treasure the gift of renewal. 'Death' is not only the end, but also the beginning ...

In Tarot decks 'Death' like 'The Devil', has a great many depictions. Once again, this is something which is deeply rooted in most cultures, societies and religions. As something we all must face, every culture has a different viewpoint on death and the messages surrounding it. Death is something we all have a highly personal opinion on, depending on specific beliefs this can differ vastly from individual to individual. I believe that this is the reason there are so many artistic interpretations of death. There are so many personal viewpoints and traditions surrounding death, he wears many masks.
Death itself is viewed by many with great fear and terror, which is presumably the reason many of the depictions of 'Death' are so negative and full of fear, though some can see death as the inevitable course of life, and just something which will happen as part of natures course.

When designing my 'Death' card I wanted to draw inspiration from lots of traditional depictions of death. I wanted to maintain the traditional 'grim reaper' approach of many Tarot, but also incorporate a lot of artistic symbolism with close ties to death. My 'carcass collector' character is not given any elevated status or power, he is a skeleton and is not intended to be threatening, though the simple image of a skeleton tends to conjure up fear and threat naturally. The thing which sets him apart from the other dead is his scythe, which I liked the idea that he is literally harvesting the dead and collecting them. He roams the earth eternally in search of the dead. I chose to depict him in an ancient dilapidated graveyard which has all but eroded away. In the distance different perspectives of death are portrayed; a hanging tree, with a noose, as reference to death as release or relief, and to the right, a gibbet, as reference to death as punishment. The various different paths represent the different journeys we all take from the beginning to the end of our lives. In the foreground some unearthed bones can be seen. A crown has fallen from the brow of a skull. The long dead king reminds us that status is no protection from death, and however powerful, you cannot avoid the inevitable. Sitting happily atop the kings skull is a Barn Owl. Traditionally in art symbolism Owls were harbingers of death, and can be seen on many ancient religious paintings bearing ill fate and doom.
I wanted the sky to reflect the true message of 'Death' as a Tarot card. A new day is just dawning. The warmth of the sun is just beginning to creep into the sky and a new beginning is here. Death is not only the end, but also the beginning ...

Aesthetics of Death: The Tomb Effigy

Following a visit to one of my favourite museums; the V&A during a short break in London, I have decided to write a piece looking at the aesthetics and importance surrounding tombs.

The V&A is packed with effigies, busts, sarcophagi and tombs. The aesthetic depiction of death is everywhere, but what is its historical and cultural significance?

Physical reminders and markers of the dead stretch throughout history, from domed earth mounds bearing the remains of one, or many people, to elaborate tombs and monuments found in virtually every civilisation across the globe. With time, tastes and faith, the way we bury, and physically remember and represent our dead has changed. Certainly in modern day England, personal monuments have largely become (for the most part) unimaginative, uninspired and increasingly unpopular. Something you simply choose out of a catalogue, for your convenience, and pay by the letter to express your dearest sentiments. But across Europe during the Medieval and Renaissance periods things were very different. Like the Romans and Egyptians before them, they felt death mattered. Being remembered, respected and immortalized forever, demonstrated the most important things achieved during your life; your wealth, earthly deeds and ultimately - status.

The 'Tomb Effigy' or as the French call it 'Gisant' (meaning recumbent) was a popular expression of this. The height of funerary fashion from the 12th century onwards, a tomb effigy was a guaranteed reminder of your physical presence and legacy on the earth, indefinitely. Monarchs from the mightiest kingdoms and empires were immortalised after death, with the most excessive tombs and monuments imaginable. But gisants weren't just reserved for royalty, and they provided the chance for a few to get their slice of immortality.

Initially the tomb effigy began life essentially as a low relief or carving decorating the lid of the deceased's casket. As time progressed designs became larger and more elaborate, eventually becoming life size, fully formed reclining sculptures. The gisants became lavish, opulent and excessive, with Queen Elizabeth I's tomb effigy even dressed in magnificent, luxurious clothing.    

An example of Royal gisants and their unapologetic grandeur is Henry VII's tomb effigy. A plaster reproduction of the original can be seen in the V&A, the main article is on display in its own dedicated chapel in Westminster Abby. The original gilded bronze effigy, which is positioned beside Henry's Queen looks remarkably different to the reproduction. The gilding of the reproduction is tarnished with oxidization, giving it a much more subdued, emotionless look in comparison to the gleaming, lavish original which simply oozes power, wealth and excess.

My favourite tomb effigies on display at the V&A were those of husband and wife Don García de Osorio and Doña María de Perea. The effigies originated from 14th century Spain, which is reflected in their religious imagery and the simple, honest aesthetics of the figures. On first glance the female figure appears to be a nun, however she is not, the items such as the rosary beads and her modest dress, symbolise her piety and faith. Her husband was a member of the Order of Santiago, an order of Christian knights who defended pilgrims and the Christian faith. On his chest the symbol of his order can be clearly seen, suggesting his allegiance in life and death. Latin inscriptions upon his sword reading 'Jesus give me victory' and 'The blessing of God' reaffirm the importance of their faith. It is the main focus of their effigies, suggesting that religion was the foundation of their lives.
Knelt at the feet of Don García de Osorio is an unidentified woman, a 'mourning figure' became popular feature of tomb effigies as they developed in complexity and detail. Many mourning figures knelt in prayer for the dead, as an attempt to encourage those who looked upon the tomb to do the same, however the figure mourning the knight is simply supporting the weight of her grief with her hand, with a posture which suggests respect, sorrow and possibly even waiting.

These effigies are prime examples of how funerary art was used to convey various elements of peoples lives after their death. Their morals, achievements, status and their legacy have all been captured in stone, immortalising their fleeting earthly existence forever.

Alice Durose   

Catacombes de Paris

The Paris catacombs are yet another morbid landmark which I had become eager to experience. And this experience was wholly unlike any other.
The vast network of winding tunnels which snake within the belly of subterranean Paris were originally created during the quarrying of limestone. The tunnels took on an entirely different life when the cities largest cemetery 'Cimetière des Saints-Innocents' was closed due to unsanitary conditions in 1780. The remains from within the cemetery were exhumed and bought to rest in the quarries, creating the labyrinth of the dead which can be seen today.

Upon leaving the quarries and entering the ossuary, one is greeted by the words 'Arrête! C'est ici l'empire de la Mort.' (Stop! Here lies the empire of death') carved above a pillared doorway, and the tunnels change dramatically. Suddenly, one is face to face with a skull. Staring with hollow gloom in greeting to the morbidly curious. I fully confess that I was left breathless with the shock of being face to face with death so instantly, and the full reality of the catacombs is, there is no escaping the countless hollow stares. Nothing can prepare anyone for the actuality of seeing the bones of six million people.

The chill of the subterranean took on an entirely new level in the 'Empire of the Dead'. My body and heart seemed to ache with the cold and terror of this incredible place. The experience of the catacombs was, for me, almost two hours of entirely silent reflective thinking. Slowly walking through mile upon mile of what were, people, was indescribable. The catacombs generated a mixture of emotions; terror, disbelief, horror and largely sorrow. My heart ached for these poor long dead, long forgotten people. And of course the inescapable thought that the fate of these people is the fate of us all.
In a sense the catacombs were very beautiful. Delicate, often artistic displays of remains carefully arranged with love and care. A wonderful, awe-inspiring monument to the people who rest there. The inscriptions which appeared in some parts of the ossuary were appropriately reflective and thought provoking, maintaining the atmosphere of solemn sorrow.

Upon my ascent to the surface I found myself shaken and weak. The experience had been incredibly overwhelming and had chilled me to the bone, both physically and mentally. I toiled wearily upwards until eventually I stumbled forth into the bright sunlight of a gai Parisian street, where life continued as normal.

'Ainsi tout passe sur la terre. Esprit, Beauté, Grâce, Talent. Telle est une fleur éphémère. Que renverse le moindre vent.'