This year I’m not going to write about Mother’s Day, but the next best thing, death.

I’ve just came across the work of photo-journalist Alain Schroeder in a series called Living for Death, and the story blew my mind. I want to share it and hear your thoughts.

In Toraja,Indonesia, the rituals associated with death are complex, require extensive planning and are expensive. Therefore, when a person dies, it can take weeks, months even years for the family to organize the funeral. During this time, the deceased is considered to be “sick” and kept at home. Relatives continue to interact with them offering gifts of cigarettes and betel leaves, drinking coffee, having meals by their side and conversing with them. While, it remains a sad time, the transition from life to death is a slow and peaceful process strengthening family bonds. Depending on the family, the body may be kept uncovered, bundled in layers of cloth or in a coffin.

The funeral ceremony, Rambu Solo, lasts 3 to 7 or more days according to the social status of the family and includes, traditional dances and processions for receiving guests, buffalo and coq fighting, animal sacrifice and large feasts. In the region of Pangala, the Ma’ Nene, or cleaning of the corpses, ceremony takes place in August after the rice harvest. Coffins are removed from their burial sites and opened. The mummies are cleaned, dried in the sun and given a change of clothes. Expressions of sadness are mixed with the overall happy atmosphere surrounding these moments of bonding with loved ones and honoring ancestors.

I find this culture’s attitude toward death immensely moving, and wonderful. The first person I discussed this with one person who was mildly disgusted, and observed that it seemed very primitive. Another person was delighted.

Maybe primitive isn’t so bad. The First World has divorced itself from most primitive customs, starting with childbirth.

I remember in every detail the birth of my first child, and reaching out for him. It was totally without thought, just a primitive reflex. But instead of handing him over, the nurses took him and wheeled me alone to the recovery area. I still feel cheated out of those first moments of motherhood! Now, many of us believe that children should be born at home, and that’s a great step backwards, toward the primitive.

I wonder if our culture is capable of a step backwards in its attitude toward death. We are so squeamish about it that The Neptune Society is making a fortune off of our rush to be rid of our dead. Just hurry up and throw their ashes into the sea so we can begin our Journey of Grief, or of Fighting Over The Will.

Everyone seems to like celebrating Dia de los Muertos, with it’s Goth costumes and other hipster friendly activities. But the Toraja take it to another level. Maybe somewhere between their culture and ours there’s a way to accept and embrace death as part of a natural cycle if not a voyage to the other side.

In Mexico, it’s not uncommon to surround your dead loved one with ice until all family members have had a chance to visit and say goodby. In the deaths I’ve experienced, there’s a haste to get the body out of the house. Because death has suddenly made the loved one a piece of refuse? People probably had more respect during the Plague than they do now in the US.

Looking at Schroeder’s photos, I noticed in one that far from looking primitive, a mourner is carrying a fucking nice handbag, probably a designer knockoff.

So perhaps it’s possible to straddle both worlds, the modern and primitive, in a way that connects us to our humanity and spirituality while still allowing for nice handbags! This is my dream.

What about you?

Last night I discovered that I might be an unwitting member of the online Burqa Fetish Community.

I had never been aware of this fetish, which seeks and celebrates “complete coverage.” I only knew that I like pictures of people wearing veils. In my Tumbler collection, there are hundreds of photos of veiled women (and a few men too.)

Veils are mysterious and exotic, and every culture that employs a veil in some way gets a big thumbs up from me.

Coming across weird photos of draped figures sitting around doing nothing has piqued my interest, but not enough to do any research. God, am I lazy; that’s probably why I’m always the last to know anything.

Now, voila, I get it!

A book called 2041 features a “complete coverage” enthusiast who goes by that number on Flickr, a man who has 60,000 photos that the publishers have edited to form a narrative that is humorous, sinister, and surreal.

It stand to reason that 2014 is British. The Brits really know how to do fetish, don’t they? Remember those guys who can’t be happy until they chop off one of their legs? British. And the tourist who was arrested for coming to the US to have sex with a stallion? British.

But of course, these enthusiasts are not all British. 2041 is part of a connected online community of men and women from across Western Europe and the Gulf States. They are Christians, Muslims and without religion.*

Personally, I don’t care about the drives and underlying psychology behind this fetish. You can do your own research if you want. I only care about the allure and the weirdness.

Here’s what one of the editors says about 2041:

There is definitely an aesthetic dimension of these images that is appealing – the composition and contrast between flatness and texture, the shapes are unlike others I have seen – and there is also a lot of time and effort that has gone into these.

Okay, good  He’s the expert.

I love them because what’s not to love, god damn it!

(c) 2041, Here press

(c) Mustafa-Sabbagh

(c) Brendan Zhang

Earlier this month, I came across a  story about a family in Nepal who suffer from a genetic disorder known as Congenital Hypertrichosis Lanuginosa (CHL).  It causes excessive body hair growth and is sometimes referred to as “werewolf syndrome.”

The photos by Navesh Chitrakar are staggeringly beautiful. They show a very poor family living in a remote village in Nepal, making regular trips to a hospital in Katmandu for free laser hair-removing treatments.

Despite their unsettling looks, I thought I could perceive a kind of happiness that I’m incapable of achieving.

They are a family,  joined in a team effort to survive poverty and disfigurement. They are surrounded by natural beauty. The children look cared for and happy. They know what matters and what doesn’t.

I’m probably projecting a fantasy on them but it helps me to see how depression not only distorts everything, but how traumatic childhood experiences deprive you of something essential. I don’t feel okay being me. I feel disfigured and unlovable. I find it hard to be at one with nature. I want my mommy.

Anyway, today I woke up to learn there has been a massive earthquake in Nepal. What about my werewolf family?!? It is unbearable. Are they okay? What about everybody else??

Let’s all give money to relief efforts in Nepal, because we are so blessed, no matter how miserable we are, to have somewhere to sleep tonight and to know where our loved one are.

Doctors Without Borders, Mercy Corps, and CARE.

I can only look at art or photography. But no nudes or kitsch. No cats, No pictures of food or girls wearing hats. No ironic memes. No selfies. I can no longer wear thongs or socks. I can only eat cookies.

I can’t sleep until I’ve watched two hours of ‘Morning Joe.’ Until Joe and Mika and Willie and their guests have deplored the state of things and gushed about yesterday’s football games.

I can’t stop playing with my hair. I cut my split ends in the car. Not when I’m driving. I can’t pass a mirror without checking to see if my hair is okay. I can barely see because my glasses are too old.

I can only enjoy reruns of Breaking Bad or crime TV. I can only read the New Yorker and The Atlantic. When I hear someone on TV use the wrong word, I am incensed. “It’s ‘repentant’ not ‘pentent’, you stupid cunt!”

None of those Affirmations about how to live apply to me. I have already fucked things up.

But. I am comforted by coffee, jewelry, lipstick, midgets, showgirls, nuns, Indian and Persian Royalty, Cuban and Peruvian photographers, Victorian acrobats and cross-dressers.

I love my bed! If only I could sleep forever and ever.

Martine Roch is pure delight. Let’s love her!

*Picasso

In the ever-changing world of the Yoruba people of southwestern Nigeria, one thing that remains consistent is a close connection with their ancestors. The ancestral spirits of the Yoruba are much more than just dead relatives, they play an active role in the daily life of the living. They are sought out for protection and guidance, and are believed to possess the ability to punish those who have forgotten their familial ties. While there are numerous ways the ancestors communicate with the living, one of the most unique is their manifestation on earth in the form of masked spirits known as Egungun.

The Yoruba believe that the transition from the realm of the living to the abode of the dead is not finite. It is just part of what African author Wole Soyinka describes as the “cyclical reality” of the “Yoruba world-view”. Each person comes to this life from the world of the unborn, through the “abyss of transition.” And each will leave again through this archetypal realm, as they make they way to the world of the ancestors.

When a child comes into this world, he or she is said to carry with them aspects of a former ancestor who is reborn in the child. This is not to say they are the ancestor reincarnate, but that there are certain features of their personality and elements of inborn knowledge that come from a previous relative. When the time comes to leave this earth, it is not the end of their existence either. Yoruba scholar Bòlaji Idowu explains: “Death is not the end of life. It is only a means whereby the present earthly existence is changed for another. After death, therefore, man passes into a ‘life beyond’ which is called Èhìn-ÃŒwà—‘After-Life’”

To be remembered is to be kept alive; to remain within the Sasa period, which is the realm of the living, the unborn and the ancestors.

Once an ancestor has been forgotten, they simply slip into the vast expanse of the Zamani, where the gods, divinities and spirits dwell. As long as an ancestor remains within the Sasa period, they have the ability to help those here on earth, because the living-dead are bilingual: they speak the language of men, with whom they lived until ‘recently’; and they speak the language of the spirits and of God, to Whom they are drawing nearer ontologically. In exchange for being ritually remembered, the living-dead watch over the family and can be contacted for advice and guidance.

Each Egungun may represent a particular person, a family lineage, or a broader concept of the ancestors. When contacted at a family shrine, the Egungun who appears is generally thought to represent the ancestor who is being summoned.

The Egungun is celebrated in festivals,    and in family ritual through the masquerade custom.   Through drumming and dance, these robed performers are believed to become possessed of the spirits of the ancestors as maifested as a single entity. The Egungun then spiritually clean the community and through exaggerated acting and miming, demonstrate both ethical and amoral behavior that occurred since their last visit.

“To be remembered is to be kept alive.”
~

*  Leonce Raphael Agbodjelou‘s photos led me to read about this subject. Even without their spiritual significance, they are sublime.

The eccentric photographer known as Disfarmer (1884-1959) seemed to be a man determined to shroud himself in mystery. Born Mike Meyers, the sixth of seven children in a German immigrant family, Disfarmer rejected the Arkansas farming world and the family in which he was raised. He even claimed at one point in his life that a tornado had lifted him up from places unknown and deposited him into the Meyers family.

In time Mike expressed his discontent with his family and farming by changing his name to Disfarmer. In modern German “meier” means dairy farmer, and since he thought of himself as neither a “Meyer” nor a “farmer,” Mike Meyer became “dis”- farmer. *

I fucking love him. Even before I knew about his made-up name, I fell in love with him. The photo above just stopped me in my tracks. Unlike Diane Arbus, he doesn’t seem to be unduly drawn to the grotesque. But he does manage to create an almost alarming sense of intimacy.

Explore his work here.

I’m not interested in Royalty, but I love old photographs.   Today I came across a forum for people who are obsessed with Royal families and it is a motherlode of vintage photos.

An unexpected bonus is the number of arguments that break out between the people who post there. I wonder if people have to argue in online forums. Maybe it’s just the competitive nature of people who are proud of their expertise.

My husband reads a forum for audiophiles and he says they don’t argue there.   I’m surprised that guys who can tell the difference between five different masters of a Jimi Hendrix record can accept each other’s opinions without jockeying for authority. But moderators are there to end discussions, so who knows what would happen if the posters were left alone to boast about their rare Japanese boxed sets of obscure Eric Clapton demos.

Check out “Alexander Palace Time Machine” for amazing photos and petty arguments! Start here.

~

* According to a forum regular, here are the Royals who are worst at being Royals:

Prince Charles of Great Britian.
Camilla, The Duchess of Cornwall.
Prince Harry of Great Britian.
Princess Anne of Great Britian.
Crown Prince Philip of Belgium.
Prince Joachim of Denmark.
Prince Albert of Monaco.
Victor-Emmanuel of Italy, Duke of Savoye.
Marina-Doria of Italy, Duchess of Savoye.

Goodbye to Dad

Two walkers, December 2009

High School graduation, June 2011

Max and Pico

Playing guitars

and finally this photo by Antanas Sutkus. I can’t describe how much I love it. It is so exquisitely tender! It sums up everything for me. I want to kiss the little child and to reassure her. But I know she is me.

This photo in the Daily Mail is accompanied by the tragic story of twins who have suffered from anorexia for twenty years.   It’s a disturbing story that touches on sibling rivalry, parental enabling, and the failure of all mechanisms to heal the victims of our culture’s obsession with beauty.

If you read the story, you’ll notice images on the right-hand side of the page, mostly celebrities chosen by the Daily Mail to ridicule for their weight gain, plastic surgery or cankles.   The message is clear: There is no escape from the search for physical perfection. No escape and no winning either.

A couple of weeks ago, I went to a photography exhibit called Beauty and Culture that examines the many ways that images work to influence our concept of beauty. The exhibit featured a short documentary that was truly devastating. Five year old beauty queens, cancer survivors, ancient women still trying to look young, and a history of evolving thinness in fashion models…it leaves you sickened by the shit we go through to measure up to a stupid restrictive ideal of beauty.

The documentary points out that only 2 percent of women are built like fashion models. Why do these models have so much power over us?!

You know the “It Gets Better” campaign for gays? We also need a campaign for women that says:YOU LOOK FINE! Maybe if we were reminded 100 times a day that we are okay as we are, we could forget about the size of our butts.

When we left the exhibit, my friend and I looked for somewhere to have coffee. We found a Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf, where they display calorie counts with their pastries. Naturally, I freaked out and ordered a reduced-calorie muffin, because no matter what I know intellectually, deep down in my psyche I’m an unlovable fat pig.

I would like to thank Vogue, Glamour, the fashion industry and most of all my dad, who loved to drive around shouting “Look at the fat ass on that one!” I can relate to those poor  emaciated  twins, even though I’m a normal size. Accepting  yourself  can be a lifelong project.