as someone so wonderfully said, and yet it’s very common for us to avoid it like the plague, death, that is.
It’s going to happen to us all and yet on the whole we just don’t want to look at it, talk about it, think about it or even entertain the idea of its existence. We can accept it in nature, evidently seen in the turning of the seasons, or even when our little pet hamster dies, but we tend to regard our mere mortal selves as above nature, turn the other cheek and it won’t happen to us. Only when it does, we don’t know what to do with it.
Being that my art practice is centred around death, grief and loss I think about it quite a lot in its wide and varied permeations. One area I have been rather slacking in however has been in writing my will and planning my funeral. You might think perhaps I am too young, but having had a long shopping list of deaths in my life from an early age; from the tragic death of my friend’s six year old to the retiring of my ex’s 87 year old dad, and let’s not forget my brother’s sudden death at 24, oh and a friend’s a year later at just 20, and more friends of my age to follow, you’d think more than anyone I’d be right up there putting pen to paper and writing down my wishes. You’d also think, having had a dad who did none of that and left me in my covid addled state to try and work out just what he wanted, looking for clues as to whether, at the very least he’d want to be buried or cremated, would have done it a long time ago, man it all pickled my head. The only inclination I had to go on for my dad was of a newspaper article he’d sent me whilst I was living in Spain, no letter included, (writing was challenging after his brain haemorrhage and stroke, and there was no way his schizophrenic girlfriend who hated my guts was going to oblige by adding a note). It was about a woman who was buried in her garden. Oh my days. I immediately phoned my dad.
‘Dad, is this what you want, to be buried in the garden?’
‘Yes’
‘Yeah, I don’t think that’s gonna happen.’
At that point I didn’t even think it was legal, but apparently it is, you just have to dig to a certain depth and watch out for water pipes and the like along the way.
‘When I die . . ‘ was a classic line coming out of my dad’s mouth ‘just stick me in a cardboard box’,
‘Alright dad’ (eye roll).
And that was that, our death chat. Knowing how he was, and with the hint of cardboard I could only surmise that he wanted his funeral to be kept cheap, as cheap as. And there they were, my two little nuggets to put towards planning his whole funeral. Music, hymns (if any), chapel, cemetery, wake and so on, no idea, and delving through an ancient Tesco’s carrier bag full of his paper’s produced no results. There was a spare plot with his mum. Did he want to be buried with her, (it was a good 90 miles away, let’s hope not), could he be? Who owned it? Apparently one of my uncles, which being that I’d seen him probably all of twice in my life wasn’t going to get me very far. So, seeing as I was already feeling totally shit and stressed out with more on my plate than you can imagine, I gave myself artistic license. I honoured his wishes in keeping it cheap and got him his cardboard box, well, which actually wasn’t far off from paying for a bog standard wooden one which is actually more ecological, (especially if it’s recycled wood) as it burns slower and longer than a cardboard box, hence not needing as much gas in the furnace, forgive me, I’m digressing.
It was agonising trying to think of what music he may like. I knew he listened to the old ‘classics’ now and again but there wasn’t a particular song he was absolutely in love with. How I got to choosing Lou Reed though I’ll never know. I blame my addled covid brain, think I had the Delta variant, yep, it was early days. I went with cremation in the end. I’m not one for burials, as, without wanting to offend, they just don’t make sense to me. I also knew that I’d never be going back to Clacton after he died, I’d never be sitting there ‘talking to him’.
So apart from absolutely nobody coming to his funeral (I find it hard to count his insane friend who came and preceded to bang on about Lazarus when given the podium, no mention of my dad, thanks ‘mate’) that was it. The most basic of ceremonies. Of course I’d gotten him some beautiful flowers (which the florist mixed up), chosen a couple of other songs and wrote a meaningful eulogy. Almost relieved (if I hadn’t been so pissed off), there was no wake to plan as there were no friends or family who came to the service.
What a mess. I vowed never to inflict that on anyone and that I would get to writing my will, laying out clearly all that I wished for in my death plan. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve made some notes along the way, jotted down some musings, but you’d never find them as there’re in random notebooks of which I have many. Doing the admin even came up in the first Death Cafe meeting that I ever attended (it’s a sign Lara). So whilst back in Spain earlier this year I made it my mission to get some concrete ideas written down and at the very least tell my friends where they were. I was fresh from the opening of my solo show at the funeral parlour which kinda helped to get in the groove.
It was actually quite good fun. My imagination got totally carried away and I’d quickly planned a whole magical midnight twinkling gathering of a wake in the woods along by the river (to take place in Spain, with no public transport to get there). Friends, flying in from around the world could be bussed in from the city. That’s if I happen to die in Spain of course which is a possibility seeing as I spend a fair amount of time out there. If I died in the UK I’d need a whole other plan. Man, it felt like there was quite a lot of work involved. The other thing I need to find answers to is who do I leave my things to with no spouse or children?
Let’s eat.
Handily, on getting back to the UK and going to collect my prints from the funeral parlour I had a lovely chat with the owner who asked if I’d like a behind the scenes tour. I can’t tell you how excited I was! On the few visits that I’d had there I was always intrigued by what was behind the ‘forbidden’ doors. The tour began. We passed through into the incredibly peaceful viewing room. Did you know you can wash your loved ones body there? I was shown the sink hidden under the respectfully laid velveteen fabric. I didn’t. How beautiful is that. We spoke of embalming, which is not widely requested these days; horrendous procedure, chemicals so toxic that you can’t be buried after, and actually, depending on where the person was at in their life health wise their body can actually stay in quite a good natural state after departing.
We went through the next door out back to where the fridge was, it can hold nine, and saw various materials stored, one I was fascinated with but I’m not going to tell you about it, I’ve already offended one person by doing so. Through the kitchen and into the backroom where the various coffins are stored (how many sizes did they come in?), urns, shrouds and oh my days, the top hats worn when leading the cortege.
‘Can I try it on? I was literally having kittens. I love and top hat and at one stage in my life considered buying one.
On the way out, arm extended, he asked if I’d like a handy guide ‘My Funeral Plan’. Oh yes please.
I don’t know what it is about death that holds such a fascination for me, don’t get me wrong, of course there’s some parts that quite freak me out, the main one being, and this could be what puts me off about writing a death plan, is that I’m not properly dead when they think I am and stick me in the ground, burying me alive, or in the furnace, alive, or padlock in a coffin and thrown into the sea and drowned. I think it comes from a programme I saw as an impressionable teen about a woman who was brain dead about to undergo an autopsy and just at the knife was about to puncture her skin a tear rolled down her eye. Jesus!
But I’m trying. I have an allotted notebook now (baby steps), the funeral plan, and lot’s of handy printed lists courtesy of the author Evie King. And I’m pretty sure that I’d want to be cremated (being composted is also a high contender although it’s not possible right now in the UK plus I don’t like the idea of being sealed in a suffocating box for a couple of months. I know!). When I received an email from the hospice asking if I would like to join a behind the scenes at the local crematorium, yep, you’ve guessed it, I jumped at the chance. I was probably the first to RSVP. Overall impressions: initially I found the space to be a bit industrial, a bit too Mr White to be honest, but once they opened up the furnace door it all felt a bit snug, warm and cosy. For some reason I had it in my mind that the space would have been larger and brighter, a bit too spacious. I was also quite mesmerised by the super sculptural stainless steel vessels and tools that they used (unfortunately I was unable to photograph them as there was some data nearby, but I did ask). The enormously long rake, the ‘bits’ bin (my term) where all of the various metal body replacement parts ended up. Did you know that you can request to have them returned to you. I wish I’d know that when my dad was cremated, I would have kept his replacement knee. Apparently it’s quite a new service, the tour guide told me. I learnt all about the cremation procedure and now know how they get the bones so tiny, thank you cremulator. So overall I’m feeling pretty well informed, also on all the myriad of options available out there on services and so on and so all as I need to do is stop procrastinating. Maybe that’s what I’d have a PA for, yes, if I ever had a PA (conversation with friends recently based on an overheard conversation), apart from having my bespoke holiday itineraries compiled I’d have her/him do all of my funeral plan admin, much more useful than having her/him pay for my parking.
Tiger.On.The.Rock 