New York Exhibitions Dance With Death Through Victorian Mourning Culture
People often get flummoxed around death. Some get teary, others emotionally distant from the inevitable. An exhibition at New York's Metropolitan Museum of Art, "Death Becomes Her: A Century of Mourning Attire," embodies that tension with mourning fashion from the mid-1800s to the early 20th century. It has multi-layered fabric, tight bodices and enveloping head gear that emulates the garb of cloistered nuns. Even the faces of the ghost-white mannequins seem closed off, demure and unshakable. This is death at its most bloodless.
"I wanted Victorian melodrama; I wanted widows collapsing on the floor," says Harold Koda, curator in charge of the museum's Costume Institute. Still, Koda, who worked with a co-curator, says he would have liked a bit more juice in the installation. "You see an inert dress on a stiff mannequin. How do you get the fact that this was because somebody died, you know?"
Across the river, in the Gowanus neighborhood of Brooklyn, the Morbid Anatomy Museum tells a different story. Creative Director Joanna Ebenstein describes a scene from the museum's gallery walls: "You see here four women weeping into handkerchiefs. Their faces are obscured by their handkerchiefs and they're standing around a column in black. To me, that sums up the romanticism of Victorian mourning."
Ebenstein is a very serious woman in her 40s; she wears glasses and shoulder-length, straight hair. Standing in the museum's front gallery, she points to a box with a glass top.
"What we're looking at here is a large, framed shadowbox and in that shadowbox is a wreath of brown flowers," she explains. "And if you look closely, each of those flowers is made from hair coiled around wire. And this is probably a whole family's hair; you can tell from the different colors — you can see gray, you can see black, you can see brown."
Part of the beauty, she says, is its permanence. "What symbolizes mourning more than a floral wreath? This is a floral wreath, made of the hair of the family, that will never decay."
There can be beauty in death, but there's tragedy here too. One vitrine has photographs of dead infants, many of them swaddled in their mother's arms. To Ebenstein, none of this is morbid.
"My whole life I've been called morbid for thinking about death and I used accept that," she says. "And at a certain point, I began to think: Well, why is it morbid to look at death? If we're all going die and every single culture but us seems to have some sophisticated, aboveboard way of talking about it in art and philosophy, why don't we? And why should I be considered morbid for being interested in what I consider the greatest problem of being a human being, which is foreknowledge of our own death?"
Ebenstein seems to have come by this obsession naturally. In a back room of the museum, there's a library of books, bones, ephemera and specimens in jars (hence the museum's name). One jar holds a bat, another a snake and yet another a pig fetus, and they're all stored in a cabinet once owned by her grandfather, who was a doctor.
The Morbid Anatomy Museum's staff seems to be a kind of extended Addams family. Tracy Hurley Martin, the museum's CEO and board chair, grew up around death. She says, "Our uncle Vito had a funeral home and he lived in it and he treated people like they were deli meat."
The museum's attraction is partly its creepy funereal vibe. The black painted building is no Metropolitan Museum of Art, but it's become a destination. Cawleen Cavanis lives in Queens, a 40 minute subway ride away. She brought a visiting friend and was checking out the gift shop's offerings: a diaphanized mouse, sugar skulls, museum T-shirts and books, including The Morbid Anatomy Anthology, with essays about stuffed humans and demonic children. "It looks like just a lot of interesting specimens here, you know," Cavanis says. "It's definitely worth the trip."
But if you're wondering about taking selfies in the museum, Joanna Ebenstein points to a sign on the door to the galleries: "Photograph taking, digital, analog, video, spirit, is absolutely forbidden."
For those visitors who want to do more than admire, or acquire, the Morbid Anatomy Museum has lectures and workshops on making a bat in a jar and Victorian hair art.
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Transcript
LINDA WERTHEIMER, HOST:
In case you didn't get enough of Halloween, here's a story about ghostly white figures in mourning, bats, skeletons, body parts in jars. It's a story about death as presented by two very different museums. The Costume Institute of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City has just opened a temporary exhibit on nineteenth century mourning attire and across the river in Brooklyn, the Morbid Anatomy Museum - great name - immerses visitors in death all the time.
Karen Michel visited both and brought back this story.
KAREN MICHEL, BYLINE: Harold Koda is the curator in charge of the Metropolitan Museum's Costume Institute.
HAROLD KODA: We're in the Costume Institute galleries with "Mourning Becomes Her: Mourning Dress."
Sorry - "Death Becomes Her." I've taken all these anti-histamines.
MICHEL: Even without meds, people often get flummoxed around death. Some get teary, others emotionally distant from the inevitable. The exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, "Death Becomes Her: A Century Of Mourning Attire" embodies that tension. Here it's the fashions of fashionable mourning from the mid-1800s to the early twentieth century, multilayered fabric, tight bodices and enveloping headgear, emulating the garb of cloistered nuns. Even the faces of the ghost white mannequins seem closed-off, demure, unshakable. This is death at its most bloodless.
KODA: I wanted Victorian melodrama. I wanted widows collapsing on the floor, you know?
MICHEL: Harold Koda worked with a co-curator. He would've liked a bit more juice in the installation.
KODA: You see an inert dress on a stiff mannequin. How do you get the fact that this was because somebody died, you know?
JOANNA EBENSTEIN: So you see here four women weeping into handkerchiefs. Their faces are obscured by their handkerchiefs and they're standing around a column in black. To me, that sums up the romanticism of Victorian mourning.
MICHEL: Joanna Ebenstein is the creative director of the Morbid Anatomy Museum across the river in the Gowanus neighborhood of Brooklyn, which appropriately is a Superfund site. Ebenstein is a very serious woman in her forties wearing glasses and shoulder-length straight hair. Standing in the museum's front gallery, she points to a box with a glass top.
EBENSTEIN: What we're looking at here is large framed shadowbox and in that shadowbox is a wreath of brown flowers and if you look closely, each of those flowers is made from human hair coiled around wire. This is probably a whole family's hair. You can tell from the different color. You can see gray, can see black, you can see brown.
MICHEL: Part of the beauty, she says, is its permanence.
EBENSTEIN: What symbolizes mourning more than a floral wreath? This is a floral wreath made of the hair of the family that will never decay.
MICHEL: There can be beauty in death and there's tragedy shown here, too. One vitrine has photographs of dead infants, many of them swaddled in their mother's arms. To Ebenstein, none of this is morbid.
EBENSTEIN: My whole life I've been called morbid for thinking about death and I used to accept that and at a certain point, I began to think well, why is it morbid to look at death? If we're all going to die and every single culture but us seems to have some sophisticated aboveboard way of talking about it in art and philosophy, why don't we? And why should I be considered morbid for being interested in what I consider the greatest problem of being a human being, which is foreknowledge of our own death?
MICHEL: Ebenstein seems to have come by this obsession naturally. In a backroom of the museum there's a library of books and of bones and ephemera and specimens in jars, hence the museum's name. Those jars are in a cabinet once owned by her grandfather, a doctor.
EBENSTEIN: So we have here a mouse and you can see that it's quite beautiful, right? We have a little snake in formaldehyde, we have a fetal pig and then you can open drawers, as well. So in this drawer for example, we have some emu feet that got sent to me in the mail because someone's wife didn't want them in the house anymore.
MICHEL: The Morbid Anatomy Museum staff seems to be a kind of extended Addams Family. Tracy Hurley Martin is the museum's CEO and board chair.
TRACY HURLEY MARTIN: I think when you're brought up in a funeral home family - our Uncle Vito had a funeral home and he lived in it and he treated people like they were deli meat.
MICHEL: It's partly that creepy funereal vibe that's the attraction. The black painted building is certainly no Metropolitan Museum of Art, but it's become a destination. Cawleen Cavanis lives in Queens, a 40 minute subway ride away. She brought a visiting friend and was checking out some choice items in the gift shop.
UNIDENTIFIED WOMAN: This is very interesting. I think this with the mouse...
CAWLEEN CAVANIS: We were like, wow, how did they do that?
MICHEL: Diaphonized mouse. Would you have one in your home?
CAVANIS: Not that one. That would like, freak me out a little but the lizard one looks very interesting. A lot of interesting specimens here, you know? It's definitely worth the trip.
MICHEL: There are more benign things like sugar skulls for the Day of the Dead and museum T-shirts. Books too, including "The Morbid Anatomy Anthology" with essays about stuffed humans and demonic children, but if you're wondering about taking selfies in the museum, Joanna Ebenstein points out the sign on the door to the galleries.
EBENSTEIN: Photograph taking; digital, analog, video, spirit, is absolutely forbidden.
MICHEL: For those visitors who want to do more than admire or acquire, the Morbid Anatomy Museum has lectures and workshops on making a bat in a jar and Victorian hair art.
For NPR News I'm Karen Michel. Transcript provided by NPR, Copyright NPR.
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