Death and slate

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I was reading a piece recently wherein a writer was arguing that all mankind's actions are motivated, in some way or other, by the knowledge that we will all die. That this characteristic, one that distinguishes us from all other living beings, lies behind all that we do. Every action, no matter how important or trivial seeks to divert us from the thought of death, convince ourselves that we can transcend death, or prompts us to leave a record of ourselves that will last beyond the act of dying. I paraphrase rather crudely, but that was the gist of it.

That article came to mind when I was checking up on the progress of the repair of the spire at St Wulfram, Grantham. The usual entrance through the west door is not available due to scaffolding and a temporary path leads round to a door on the south side. This takes you through an area of the graveyard that surrounds the church where slate memorials predominate. Green Swithland slate, purple-tinged slate, grey slate and slate with a hint of blue can all be seen. Oolitic limestone is also present, but it is slate that catches the eye. The gravestones made of this material date from around 1760 through to the second half of the nineteenth century. And, the fact that they are made of slate means that they can still be easily read, the incisions almost as sharp as the day they were cut two hundred and fifty years ago. I've said elsewhere in this blog, and I'll repeat it again: if you want a tangible memorial to tell the world of your existence then it's hard to do better than a piece of inscribed slate placed somewhere that will not be disturbed.

photograph and text © Tony Boughen

Camera: Olympus E-M10
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 116mm (232mm - 35mm equiv.)
F No: f5.6
Shutter Speed: 1/250 sec
ISO:200
Exposure Compensation: -0.33 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Ghost bikes

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A ghost bike is a white painted bicycle, often changed to a fence, post or some other immovable object, sometimes without tyres and/or pedals to deter thieves. One of its purposes is to remind all who pass by, particularly motorists, that a cyclists died at the location, and that the road is a facility that motorised traffic shares with cyclists. A second, and no less important reason for a ghost bike is to serve as a memorial to the dead cyclist.

I periodically come across ghost bikes when I travel around the country. They are more usual in cities than elsewhere, and they are often decorated with floral and other tributes to the deceased. I came across the example in today's photograph in Deptford Church Street in London. A quick web search revealed that it is a tribute to seventeen year old Olatunji Adeyanju. He was hit by a car driven by a motorist who drove off after the collision, and was subsequently traced by the police, prosecuted and jailed.

The ghost bike initiative is a development that one wishes wasn't necessary. It shouldn't be beyond motorists and cyclists to co-exist on the roads, but too often they are characterised as enemies rather than fellow travellers. This is nonsense, of course, because many people are both cyclists and motorists. It is often argued by anti-cyclist motorists that segregated routes are required for cyclists, but whilst these are helpful and necessary they can never be the whole answer in a city with a tightly packed grid of roads. A little more goodwill will solve what a lot of concrete and tarmac never can.

photograph and text © Tony Boughen

Camera: Sony RX100
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 30.5mm (82mm - 35mm equiv.)
F No: f5
Shutter Speed: 1/100
ISO: 160
Exposure Compensation:  -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Remembering Sir Henry Fryer

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There are some people in this world, a relatively small group, often with more money than they know what to do with, for whom the prospect of death is a great inconvenience, because for them "shuffling off this mortal coil" means an end to their significance. Such people, and they have always existed, use their money to seek ways of extending their presence on earth. Whilst many are happy to do this through their offspring others require pyramids, palaces, terra cotta armies, massive mausoleums, foundations named after themselves, cryopreservation or the status of notable author. Through such things they imagine that their importance (often self-importance) will continue to make itself felt down the ages.

I came across an example of this the other day in the church of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary at Harlton, Cambridgeshire. On the south side of the chancel is an alabaster memorial to Sir Henry Fryer who died in 1631. This massive, opulent edifice fills the space between two south aisle windows, and features classical detailing - a pediment, a coffered arch, weeping caryatids, allegorical figures, etc - that frame four large, portrait figures. Kneeling in pious poses, are Sir Henry (in armour), flanked by his parents. Below, reclining in what to modern sensibilities looks like a casual, bored, almost devil-may-care way, is Bridget Fryer, who survived her husband.

The piece is a fascinating source of the art, design and fashion of its time, but also an interesting attempt at making one's presence continue after death. I see a lot of memorials in my tours of churches, but every now and then one jumps out as much more egocentric than usual. In this example, whilst the figures adopt the pose of devout believers in the Christian faith, everything else about the memorial screams pride (one of the seven deadly sins) and vanity. In terms of this small corner of England, and this church in particular, the memorial has achieved its purpose - up to a point. But what about in the wider world: how effectively did Sir Henry Fryer keep his importance alive? When I Googled his name I got one solitary "hit" with information about this memorial! Hardly a massive impact on posterity. But, after this blog post, Google will be returning at least two hits!

photographs & text (c) T. Boughen

Photo 1 (Photo2)
Camera: Lumix LX3
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 5.1mm (24mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f2.8
Shutter Speed: 1/160 (1/100)
ISO: 80
Exposure Compensation: -0.66 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Not fade away

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Shortly after May 10th 1793, John Ladd was laid to rest in Quadring churchyard, Lincolnshire. He was 49 years old, and had died 21 years short of his "three score years and ten". I imagine he would have wished for longer. The gravestone poignantly notes that "Also 4 children lie near him".

Those who chose the memorial for John Ladd followed the fashions of the day. The monumental mason selected a heavy, rectangular slab of Lincolnshire limestone and gave the top a rounded arch. Below it he carved a winged cherub in the form of a classical putto, to represent a soul rising to heaven, and this he flanked with flowers. A raised panel with a curved top and straight sides, echoing the shape of the gravestone, received the simple inscription carved in elegant Roman lettering. It is similar to several nearby, and probably represents the work of someone based in the locality. What purpose did it serve? Like all such stones, it was a memorial and tribute to the man, and a place where family members would come to remember him. But is it anything else? It certainly claimed his place in the churchyard, and on the "best" and sunny south side of the attractive medieval church. More than that, it reminded the world that this man existed. A gravestone is a relatively inexpensive way of claiming some sort of immortality. But for how much longer? The rain, wind and frost of 215 winters have softened the edges of the mason's carving, and lichen has ravaged the stone. In another 100 years it will be difficult to read the inscription, and in twice that the putto and flowers will be indecipherable lumps. And, with their passing, you might imagine that the memory of John Ladd will have completely faded away.

That, however, is to reckon without the power of the internet and the tenacity of family history enthusiasts! A quick Google reveals the following information. Apparently John Ladd was married to Jane Bradcher in Quadring church in 1777, and over a period of 12 years they had 7 children baptised there. Jane died a widow, aged 50. The next earthly apocalypse permitting, it seems that the memory of many of us may outlast our gravestones!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 15mm (30mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f8
Shutter Speed: 1/320
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On