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The iconography of death
Perspectives
Exhibition The iconography of death
Death: A Self-Portrait The Richard Harris Collection Wellcome Collection, London, UK, until Feb 24, 2013 http://www.wellcomecollection. org/whats-on/exhibitions
The Richard Harris Collection
See Online for video
1984
Death is an uncomfortable subject, but not for Richard Harris, a 75-yearold retired antique print dealer from Chicago. He has spent the past 12 years amassing a collection of 2000 artifacts that explore the iconography of death. I met Harris at the Wellcome Collection’s winter exhibition Death: A Self-Portrait, The Richard Harris Collection. He told me that he would like his collection to elicit a wider discourse about death: “I thought that this collection maybe can act as a vehicle—a gateway to that discussion, dialogue, and conversation...to share the visual experience and maybe begin many, many, many more conversations about the subject.” The exhibition comprises about 300 objects from Harris’s collection displayed in five themed rooms. The
exhibits not only reveal Harris’s eclectic tastes but also reflect the diversity of creative responses to mortality across different times and cultures. In Contemplating Death, memento mori remind us that life is ephemeral. Lucas Franchoys the Younger’s flawless Portrait of a Doctor (1650) suggests that even the confident doctor has Death waiting in the background, equally confident. Memento mori can be humorous too. Luis Crucius’s drawings of skeletons in colourful outfits were used for a promotional calendar distributed to doctors by the US Antikamnia Chemical Company in 1900–01. This use of skeletons was inadvertently far-sighted because the company’s antikamnia medicines contained acetanilide, a coal-tar derivative, which was later found to be toxic and addictive. One of Harris’s favourite exhibits in The Dance of Death is June Leaf’s endearing Gentleman on Green Table (1999–2000)—a small skeleton made from wood and wire, sitting, hunchedover, on a tin table—“I identify with the figure, with its exhaustion”, Harris remarks. An exuberant energy, however, is evident in other exhibits in this room that represent how death is indiscriminate—perhaps most aptly shown in Der Zizenhausener Totentanz (1822), a lively series of 42 handpainted terracotta figures that depict Death as a friend and foe who wants to dance with everyone—whatever their age, status, or sex. Violent Death gives a much bleaker vision: the horrors of war are powerfully captured in such works as The Disasters of War (1810–20) by Francisco Goya and The War (1924) by Otto Dix, whose compelling series of 51 highly detailed prints are displayed on one wall. According to Harris, “The power of the imagery, in my mind the anti-war picture it portrays, is that mankind should resolve its problems
in a humane, peaceful way without having to kill anyone.” Eros and Thanatos are the conflicting instincts towards continuation of life and towards death. Here, art and medicine merge. In the middle of the room is John Isaacs’s visceral depiction of the gruesome aftermath of an anatomical investigation in Are you still mad at me? (2001). Just a few paces away, 13 metamorphic postcards (1900–10) offer a rather different diversion: these images of skulls cleverly morph into people. After death comes Commemoration. Remembrance varies in different cultures and religions and over time, but a common theme is the desire to connect with loved ones who have passed away. In Mexico, this is a joyous affair: Miguel Linares’s papier-mâché Twelve “Day of the Dead” Skeletons and huge colourful Skull show that relatives and friends who have died are celebrated in the festivals of All Saints and All Souls. This final room affirms that an interest in death should not be construed as morbid. I asked Harris which aspects of death he thinks we should talk about? “I think maybe it is part of the closure for the dying person, and family and friends of the dying person. It’s a sadness that most people do die outside in a medical, antiseptic kind of surroundings and I think maybe in a practical sense it’s not as easily accomplished that we all should die, say, at home or in a hospice situation, but I think maybe even hospitals or other institutions can be made in some way or another more amenable and more comfortable for the dying and the grieving process. My mother and father died and I wasn’t present on either of their deaths and I miss that. I wish there was a way that I could say goodbye and they could say goodbye to me.”
Farhat Yaqub www.thelancet.com Vol 380 December 8, 2012
Exhibition The iconography of death
Death: A Self-Portrait The Richard Harris Collection Wellcome Collection, London, UK, until Feb 24, 2013 http://www.wellcomecollection. org/whats-on/exhibitions
The Richard Harris Collection
See Online for video
1984
Death is an uncomfortable subject, but not for Richard Harris, a 75-yearold retired antique print dealer from Chicago. He has spent the past 12 years amassing a collection of 2000 artifacts that explore the iconography of death. I met Harris at the Wellcome Collection’s winter exhibition Death: A Self-Portrait, The Richard Harris Collection. He told me that he would like his collection to elicit a wider discourse about death: “I thought that this collection maybe can act as a vehicle—a gateway to that discussion, dialogue, and conversation...to share the visual experience and maybe begin many, many, many more conversations about the subject.” The exhibition comprises about 300 objects from Harris’s collection displayed in five themed rooms. The
exhibits not only reveal Harris’s eclectic tastes but also reflect the diversity of creative responses to mortality across different times and cultures. In Contemplating Death, memento mori remind us that life is ephemeral. Lucas Franchoys the Younger’s flawless Portrait of a Doctor (1650) suggests that even the confident doctor has Death waiting in the background, equally confident. Memento mori can be humorous too. Luis Crucius’s drawings of skeletons in colourful outfits were used for a promotional calendar distributed to doctors by the US Antikamnia Chemical Company in 1900–01. This use of skeletons was inadvertently far-sighted because the company’s antikamnia medicines contained acetanilide, a coal-tar derivative, which was later found to be toxic and addictive. One of Harris’s favourite exhibits in The Dance of Death is June Leaf’s endearing Gentleman on Green Table (1999–2000)—a small skeleton made from wood and wire, sitting, hunchedover, on a tin table—“I identify with the figure, with its exhaustion”, Harris remarks. An exuberant energy, however, is evident in other exhibits in this room that represent how death is indiscriminate—perhaps most aptly shown in Der Zizenhausener Totentanz (1822), a lively series of 42 handpainted terracotta figures that depict Death as a friend and foe who wants to dance with everyone—whatever their age, status, or sex. Violent Death gives a much bleaker vision: the horrors of war are powerfully captured in such works as The Disasters of War (1810–20) by Francisco Goya and The War (1924) by Otto Dix, whose compelling series of 51 highly detailed prints are displayed on one wall. According to Harris, “The power of the imagery, in my mind the anti-war picture it portrays, is that mankind should resolve its problems
in a humane, peaceful way without having to kill anyone.” Eros and Thanatos are the conflicting instincts towards continuation of life and towards death. Here, art and medicine merge. In the middle of the room is John Isaacs’s visceral depiction of the gruesome aftermath of an anatomical investigation in Are you still mad at me? (2001). Just a few paces away, 13 metamorphic postcards (1900–10) offer a rather different diversion: these images of skulls cleverly morph into people. After death comes Commemoration. Remembrance varies in different cultures and religions and over time, but a common theme is the desire to connect with loved ones who have passed away. In Mexico, this is a joyous affair: Miguel Linares’s papier-mâché Twelve “Day of the Dead” Skeletons and huge colourful Skull show that relatives and friends who have died are celebrated in the festivals of All Saints and All Souls. This final room affirms that an interest in death should not be construed as morbid. I asked Harris which aspects of death he thinks we should talk about? “I think maybe it is part of the closure for the dying person, and family and friends of the dying person. It’s a sadness that most people do die outside in a medical, antiseptic kind of surroundings and I think maybe in a practical sense it’s not as easily accomplished that we all should die, say, at home or in a hospice situation, but I think maybe even hospitals or other institutions can be made in some way or another more amenable and more comfortable for the dying and the grieving process. My mother and father died and I wasn’t present on either of their deaths and I miss that. I wish there was a way that I could say goodbye and they could say goodbye to me.”
Farhat Yaqub www.thelancet.com Vol 380 December 8, 2012