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| In a tiny bathroom just off the old crematorium, my photographer and I crouched in a dusty stall. Our plan: to spend the night at Hollywood Memorial Park for a story about LA after hours. Huddled there since early afternoon, we were anxious for the sun to set. |
| Before the park closed, we'd wandered through a labyrinth of crypts and dimly lit alcoves filled with pews. We cruised through earthquake-damaged hallways lined with long-dead Angelenos. Through the chapel, dotted with water damage and faintly smelling of mold, we walked, and into the columbarium, a dark, musty hall with cherry wood walls and twisting Art Nouveau staircases and fountains. |
| No one bothered us during official hours. Occasionally, the sound of far-off footsteps bounced along the marble floors, but no mourners ever materialized. |
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| The floors were warped and cracked. The stained glass ceilings were missing panes. One wall, filled with those entombed in the early 1920s, leaned dangerously toward us as we passed. A piece of yellow tape draped from two buckling stones warned us to stay clear. | |
| Under each name were dates explaining, in part, the reason for this shameful neglect. Reading the walls, I wondered if anyone living remembered James Flood Jr. 1916-1926. Those who had inscribed his stone "Our Little Man" were likely to be long gone. If his stone falls off the wall, who will complain to the management? If it's not replaced, will anyone miss it? | |
| Though I never knew James, I did know the cemetery. Seeing its state of disrepair saddened me. |
| I visit cemeteries when I travel. I find it interesting to see how different cultures honor those who have gone before them. In graveyards, it's obvious what people value; the evidence is distilled. I wonder over the artifacts a society chooses to commemorate its past while the society itself continually mutates outside the funerary gates. I try to see how history and the present interact. Is the cemetery part of the community, or it is shunned, neglected, forgotten: out of touch with modern needs and uses? How we treat the dead says a lot about how we understand our own lives. |
| Generally, I don't find graveyards morbid places at all. The sun on my skin, the peaceful landscaping, the solitude all repair the damage done to my psyche by living in the city. Some cemeteries, particularly 19th century ones, are public sculpture gardens. My favorite outdoor artwork resides at Cimitière de Père Lachaise in Paris. Larger than life, Prometheus is shackled to a boulder. The vulture stands ready to thrust its cruel beak into the Titan's side, but Prometheus still has the strength to raise his fist against the gods. I know nothing at all about the life commemorated by the stone, but the courage implied by its monument, railing against fate, speaks to me across the gulf of time. |
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