The Funeral Photographer

A photographer finally faces his own mortality when he has an unlikely business idea.

After years of living with almost unbearable depression and anxiety (and after taking every antidepressant and anti-anxiety medication under the sun, both prescribed and otherwise), I decided to take the advice of a friend of mine and consider the very real possibility that I might be having a hard time coming to terms with my own imminent death. No, I don't have a terminal illness (unless you consider mortality to be one),but the idea that everything I ever accomplished and acquired would suddenly vanish from my grasp with my last breath has been nagging at the edges of my consciousness since I can remember. I used to spend days on end huddled in my house with no desire to leave, using the philosophy shared by those who don't make their beds (you're just gonna mess it up at bedtime anyway... why bother?). Why should I bust my hump to get things done in this world if death is going to rob me of it all in one fell swoop anyway?

My friend was right. I needed to bring death front and center to my life if I ever wanted to fully live.This perceived horror with which I had postponed an inevitable reckoning was knocking at my door relentlessly.

“Deal with me, or I will deal with you,” it seemed to say.

That's when I became a funeral photographer.

My portrait photography studio had lost most of its clients during my deep funk, and I found myself with photographic equipment and no subjects to photograph. I registered my new business (it's name has since been changed) with the State of Oregon, and I created a website. I posted ads on Craigslist, made Facebook, Twitter, and Google+ pages, and I waited for the phone to ring. To my delight, I quickly booked a funeral during the last weekof December. Hardly anyone was surprised when I declined holiday invitations. They probably figured I was planning on pouting in the dark.

While my friends were busily preparing to celebrate the birth of their savior, I was scurrying about preparing to document the funeral of an anonymous human being. I almost laughed out loud at the grocery store when the clerk asked if I was ready for Christmas (as I had spent every last dime and minute preparing to make pictures for another type of ritual altogether).

I carefully cleaned the sensors on two DSLR cameras, packed a small bag with three lenses of various ranges,charged two batteries, and found my black suit and black tie. Would the sound of clicking cameras disrupt the mourning? Would people consider it to be in bad taste? It did not matter to me. I was hired to do a job. Ask not for whom the shutter clicks.

I wondered whether there was ever a photographer at any funeral I had ever attended. I couldn't remember one. Uncle Dave's funeral was just last year, and I don't remember anyone being there besides close family, an Army buddy, a high school pal, and his most recent girlfriend. Cousin Lena's funeral, the year before that, was virtually unattended besides the officiator and I.Her urn looked so lonely. Suicide has a way of alienating people, but I attended anyway. Better to go and face it than stay home waiting for the regrets to come to me.

I met Judy, the daughter of the deceased, at the Starbucks on Pioneer Square. The city Christmas tree was up, a towering defiant evergreen, sparkling with hope and joy.Judy was all business.

“I want photographs of everyone there. We can do a group photo at the reception at my house, but I want candids throughout. Make sure to photograph the pastor and everyone who speaks at the pulpit. Of course, I'll want a few of the casket; detail shots of the workmanship. It cost as much as a car,and we're going to bury it in dirt. I guess Dad deserves to travel in style.” She laughed and took a shaky sip of a Venti Americano.

“Yes,” I said, imitating the compassionate tones of the funeral directors I'd seen in movies.“I'll be sure to get thorough coverage of the day.” Not knowing quite what else to say, I offered, “My condolences.”

“Thank you,” she said, through a restrained expression of formal grief.

Judy was a law professor at Lewis &Clark College. Her clothes, hair, and makeup were of the upper-middle variety. Restraint was the theme of her ensemble. I wondered what made her decide to hire a photographer for the funeral when all other aspects of her personality seemed to be inclined to a more traditional approach. I heard myself ask her.

“So, what made you decide to call me? I hope you don't mind my asking, but a funeral photographer is not for everyone.”

She smiled just a little, started to take another sip of coffee, but then set the cup down to cover her face with both hands.

“I loved my dad,” she said through her fingers. “I can't believe he's gone. I never thought it would ever happen or be so final. I just want him to know I care, that I want to remember everything I can about him. I want the goodbye to be as complete as possible. I want to remember everything about his funeral, just like I want to remember everything about the rest of his life. I wish we had spent more time together. I wish there were more... pictures.”

Pictures. What's the big deal? Light goes through the lens, hits the sensor, gets transferred to a digital file to record its gradations and nuances. Somehow it all comes out as a reflection of reality. And yet, no one really has a grasp on reality itself. Or, so it seemed to me then. A snapshot slices off a sliver of time and offers it up to its viewers as a moment in the past. Once photographed, the mortal becomes immortal. Ah. There it is. How nice to intellectualize rather than feel the imminence of death.

The day of the funeral I woke up early. I wanted everything to be right. Yeah, I needed the money after my anxious and depressive hiatus, but there was something larger at work. I wanted my head to be right to capture the moments that Judy asked for. I tried to put myself in her shoes; her conservative leather pumps. Transvestism laughingly crossed my mind. Imagine my fat hairy feet in Pradas. I think the culturally relevant response to such an absurd thought is, “LOL.” And I did. How nice to have absurdity to combat the solemnity of death.

I arrived at the funeral parlor called“Omega” in outer east Portland on 122^nd Avenue at 10amon December 23rd as she requested. Judy's dad was being interred that day, but the crematorium had heat waves flowing out of its steel pipes out back. We weren't the only customers.

There were no guests there yet, except for Judy. She stood by the casket at the front of the chapel,nervously arranging fresh flowers that adorned the box. She pretended not to see me, and I took it as a cue to take a couple of shots of her alone at the casket that contained her dad's remains.

“Thank you for being here,” she said, after I clicked off a few awkward frames.

“Of course,” I said. Just then a woman entered the room. By her age and the emotional heaviness that accompanied her, I assumed it was Judy's mother. They hugged, cried,and spoke softly to one another. By now I had drawn back to assume the peripheral role I was there to fulfil. Let them grieve, and make sure you don't miss anything.

Lighting is always an issue when shooting indoors, and flash photography seemed entirely inappropriate. I was using a very fast lens that could practically shoot in the dark. How nice to have my camera for eyes instead of looking at death directly.

The guests began to quickly file in,and I took some decent candids of people hugging and consoling one another. What people wear to a funeral was curious to me. Many selected the traditional black while others went the entirely opposite direction, wearing cheerful tones of red or yellow as if to say, “We are here to celebrate his life.” There were women with big hats, a man with a cane, more than one boy in a loose fitting suit, and girls in pretty dresses and ribbons. How nice to consider what to wear instead of pondering the nakedness of death.

“As we turn our hearts to God this morning,” a soft low voice said from the pulpit, “we take our seats to begin the commemoration of the life of Tom Coleman.” There was shuffling and situating and program rustling for only a few seconds, and then a heavy blanket of silence. The stillness of the generic chapel was punctuated by the movement of the ceiling fans,and the quiet was complete except for the pastor's words and someone with a nagging cough.

“Tom Coleman lived a full and good life. He was a good Christian who helped his fellow man. He was an honest businessman who conducted himself with dignity. He was a devoted husband and a loving father. He could also be quite a character.” This last statement produced a few chuckles. How nice.

The pastor went pretty easy on the religious talk, perhaps in consideration of the group's diversity. I,myself, having no particular affiliation, was in no way put off by references to God, Jesus, and the hereafter. I considered the whole myth to be a compassionate elixir to soothe the minds that ached with ignorance. How nice to have a warm bedtime story to glow in your thoughts throughout the long night.

The other speakers were family members, including Judy. Tom's virtues were extolled, of course, but there were also reminiscences of his antics (especially when he had one martini too many). And when the talking was done, the casket was filed out by the men of the family, their shoulders looking especially big to me. I carefully documented all of this with my camera, and I was even somewhat proud to have captured Judy's reaction as her young son, waist high to the other men and sleeves too long, did his best to help with the casket and keep up with the long strides of his father and uncles. Freezing that moment tickled my ego. How nice to have one of those.

At the graveside there was a brief prayer and the first shovel of dirt by Tom's widow. A dozen doves were released, and then a few people came forward to throw flowers in the hole. I was not thinking of death as I went about my work. I thought only of getting things right for Judy.

The reception was, gratefully, a casual and much lighter affair. I took a few candids of people conversing, laughing, embracing, and serving food and drinks. Judy whispered that I should forget the group photo and join the family with refreshments. I thanked her, had a glass of very good wine and a few slices of cheese, and I left.

I don't know why, but on the drive home I began to cry. I resisted the urge to turn on the radio, and I just let it flow. I sobbed for five minutes, and when I dried my eyes the world looked more beautiful to me than it ever had.

At the studio the next day, I edited the photos and, using my wedding album software, compiled a beautiful book of funeral photos for Judy. When the hard copy arrived in the mail two weeks later, I turned the leather bound pages with my fingertips, smiled, and had another good cry. I delivered the book to Judy personally, and I watched her turn the pages. When she closed the book, she stood up and hugged me. “Thank you,” she said. How nice to hug another living person.

I didn't know Tom when I began this process, but now I felt like I did. Something had happened to me. In the next days, I began to meditate on death almost constantly, and the remarkable thing about it was that I began to feel better. The more I considered the nature of reality, how everything comes and goes, how the universe gives and takes and gives again, the more I felt that I was an integral part of a pattern of creation that was inescapably beautiful from many perspectives. The world regained its color, and my life took on a value that I could actually feel and experience on a daily basis. How nice to be alive.

I photographed three funerals in January, and nine in February, mostly in rainy weather. I'm looking forward to a Spring funeral.