A number of years ago, too long ago to remember where, I came across a series of pictures taken of a dying woman. And when I mean dying, I don’t mean in the several months to live sense of dying, but rather the last few breaths of life when death is all but inevitable.
The pictures struck me, so much so that I’ve spent quite a bit of time thinking about them since.
The woman photographed was actually the photographer’s mother. It struck me as odd, that’s how he chose to spend the last few moments of his mother’s life, but every person makes their own choices for their own reasons.
Part of me wishes I knew where to find the photos, but they packed such an emotional wallop I made a conscious to leave them in the past.
The pictures were simple, just black and white images of the woman’s face. Yet the pictures seemed to convey so much emotion as the woman struggled to live. I was convinced that’s what death actually looked like. Some complicated mix of terror, peace, and a thousand other emotions all at once, and there it was, all for me to stare at.
I marveled at the pictures and the way they affected me in that moment.
Now I wonder though, was it actually the photographs that had such an impact, or was it the context in which they were taken? If I saw those same images, but was unaware they were taken of the photographer’s mother in the moments before her death, would they have made the same impression? Or would I have just viewed them as ordinary black and white portraits of an old woman that was barely awake?
I honestly don’t know. I’m not sure it even matters. Isn’t the context part of the art? Or should the art stand on its own?