Mask of the Macabre by Haynes David

Author:Haynes, David [Haynes, David]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2013-02-09T05:00:00+00:00

Memento Mori

The first occasion I observed a corpse, I was beside the bed of my deceased father. Perfectly still, yet only seconds prior, he had been gripped by a hideous convulsion which threatened to break him in half. There, under the stained and bloody sheets, I looked for the final time upon the lifeless body of my progenitor. I was not frightened and I was not grief-stricken, for I felt that his body had been released from the terrible pain it had long endured. Amid the wailing sound of my mother’s misery I gazed at his face and tried not to forget.

In the moments that passed, his body was covered with the soiled sheets, and taken away. As to where it was taken, I did not know, but I remained where I was and closed my eyes. I kept the image of him in my mind for as long as I could.

Memories are fleeting, some more than others, but none is eternally exact. We embellish and decorate our reminiscences with elegant mendacities where our wits fail to recall. This is humanity, and some may say, it is a failing in our creation.

The image of my father’s body remained with me for as long as it took me to pass through puberty. After that, he was merely an indistinct figure, present only in my dreams.

A cologne bottle stands empty on my dresser, the last drops long since gone. The faintest of his scent still lingers on the stopper and reminds me of him. It won’t be long before the trace is entirely departed; like the sound of his voice and the touch of his gruff, calloused hand, lamented so long ago.

This yearned for loss of memory led me to my current profession as a photographer. For many years I completed an apprenticeship under the experienced guidance of Mr. Saundersfoot, who apart from being a competent photographer, was a skilled teacher. His studio, modest by some standards, was always well used and popular, if not necessarily with the class of society he had hoped to attract.

Saundersfoot taught the basics of the craft, but his ambitions were, at least to me, infuriatingly humble.

“We must cater to the tastes of the masses now, Richard. Photography is not an art; It is merely a function which we use to help us remember.” That function is exactly the reason why I adore this profession.

Saundersfoot passed, and without an heir, I took his studio as my own. Fashions change like the passage of the seasons and photography was no different. The stilted images of grim faced families sitting precisely on the posing couch were no longer in demand. My training under Saundersfoot, as comprehensive, as it had been, was deliberately conservative. It had focused entirely on capturing the grim faced stoicism of the common man and nothing more adventurous. As a result of this dogmatism, and whilst under my care, W.A. Saundersfoot (Photographer) almost became a financial ruin. I take my share of the blame for that but, had Saundersfoot been alive, the result would have been the same.

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