Description
Columbarium
Conceptual photographic research
February 2025 | Variable dimensions
One did not wait for death to begin burying oneself, one did it progressively throughout life, niche after niche, each cell contained piece of self one had renounced being, MY DREAMS in niche eighteen sixty with small empty copper urn, MY FIRST LOVE in niche fourteen seventy-seven in bordeaux granite, MY YOUTH somewhere in middle row with white flowers fading, and at center of all this inner cemetery single inscription carved in gray marble – Regret, universal epitaph for all niches for all unlived lives for all our selves murdered slowly by compromises renunciations daily capitulations.
MY MEMORIES occupied niche fourteen thirty-six at upper left, first chronological burial perhaps, moment one realized one was beginning to forget, that entire swaths of childhood disappeared in memorial haze, that faces faded voices erased precise details transformed into vague impressions, and one sealed this loss in funerary niche with purple flowers marking mourning of own memory, voluntary early Alzheimer’s where one abandoned parts of past because keeping them alive demanded too much effort too much energy too much pain.
MY MEANNESS lay in next niche, sky blue ironically, as if cruelty deserved tender colors, and perhaps one had buried this meanness young, decided at twenty-five one would be kind accommodating pleasant, would renounce hardness necessary to assert oneself in harsh world, and decades later one wondered if one had not been wrong, if this buried meanness would not have been useful to defend oneself to say no to set boundaries, but too late it rested in marble coffin and one had lost key.
MY PAST occupied entire niche numbered eighteen sixty-seven, not just memories but past itself, this earlier version of self one killed ritually each time one said « I am no longer this person », moves divorces career changes that systematically erased who one had been, perpetual blank slate liquid society that valued constant reinvention, and buried past haunted anyway, returned in dreams in flashbacks in psychological triggers, ghost that refused to stay dead despite flowers one regularly placed on its niche.
MY GUNS – troubling metaphor in niche seventeen eighty-three, weapons one had voluntarily laid down or been forced to lay down, capacity to fight to resist to wage war, progressive pacification that transformed warriors into sheep, and some would say it was good that one had to bury violence, but others would mourn this loss of pugnacity this domestication this symbolic castration that made us incapable of defending ourselves when History became violent again as it did cyclically.
February twenty twenty-five, sixty-three years, twenty-three years in France, and this image inventoried my own inner columbarium, how many occupied niches already, how many parts of myself buried prematurely, MY YOUTH obviously dead long ago with its yellow flowers fading, MY EGO perhaps killed by twenty-three years of artistic rejections, MY IDEALS certainly eroded by exposure to reality, and I walked mentally before this funerary wall wondering what remained alive, which niches were still empty waiting to be filled before final death that would seal everything.
MY HOPE in niche fourteen fifty-two with carved golden branch, was it truly dead or just sleeping, difficult to know, some days I thought I had buried it definitively, other days it stirred in coffin pounded against marble demanding resurrection, and maybe that was aging, this permanent ambiguity between what was dead and what pretended to be dead, between what one had truly abandoned and what one pretended to abandon out of fatigue discouragement conformism.
MY EXPECTATIONS MY GRUDGES MY DESIRES lined up in same row formed pathetic trilogy of human dissatisfaction, and probably everyone should bury these three as early as possible, expectations that generated disappointment, grudges that poisoned present, desires that made gratitude impossible, but one kept them alive for decades nurtured maintained them refused to let them die, psychological masochism that made us prefer familiar suffering to unknown void.
MY FIRST LOVE MY FIRST FRIEND side by side in their bordeaux niches numbered fourteen seventy-seven and fourteen seventy-eight, buried together as perhaps they had lived together in adolescence when love and friendship blended, and these first times carried particular intensity one never found after, first emotions first kisses first betrayals, everything was stronger because one did not yet know it would repeat dozens of times in predictable variations, and now they rested in marble coffins and one visited them mentally sometimes wondering what had become of these people who had marked us so at fifteen.
MY DREAMS with date eighteen sixty, was it year one had killed them or just random number, and which dreams exactly, become astronaut novelist president millionaire, childhood dreams one abandoned at twenty, or adult dreams one abandoned at fifty when one realized they would never come true, and empty urn beside suggested one did not even bother bringing flowers anymore, mourning so old one marked it no more, dreams so dead one forgot one had had them.
MY ACCOUNTS in niche fourteen fifty-four obviously spoke of money but also of scores to settle, and perhaps one buried them by wisdom, deciding at some point one would no longer seek revenge vengeance retributive justice, would leave offenses unpunished wrongs unrepaired, forgiveness forced by exhaustion more than virtue, and accounts rested in black shining niche accusatory even dead reminding of all those times one should have fought but chose peace.
MY ADDICTIONS number eighteen ninety-two would have deserved several niches, alcohol cigarettes drugs but also psychological emotional behavioral addictions, and those one had managed to kill truly deserved honorable burial, difficult victories over oneself that transformed addiction into abstinence, but how many addictions remained alive hidden in other niches labeled differently, need for validation need for love need for recognition, addictions respectable socially acceptable but equally destructive.
MY FRUSTRATIONS MY STUPIDITIES MY BAD THOUGHTS MY WHIMS formed entire neighborhood of columbarium, psychological waste one should have discarded but carefully preserved in mortuary formaldehyde, inability to let go even of what harmed us, and maybe that was true paradox, one buried good things – dreams hopes ideals – and kept alive bad things – frustrations grudges addictions, inverted mental architecture where cemetery contained life and life contained death.
MY FAITH in middle niche wore fresh red roses someone still visited it, and this faith religious philosophical humanistic whatever had it truly survived or lay dead despite flowers one brought by habit by superstition by fear, empty rituals that continued after belief had extinguished, and how many people frequented churches temples mosques with faith buried long ago, practicing hollow gestures before funerary niches adorned with lying flowers.
MY LUXURY MY DESIRES MY WHIMS suggested life of progressive renunciation, material desires abandoned one by one until only essentials remained or perhaps less than essentials, asceticism forced by circumstances or chosen by wisdom, and difference mattered because voluntary renunciation liberated while involuntary deprivation imprisoned in resentment, and niches did not say which of these two cases applied, intended ambiguity that forced each viewer to project own story.
Regret at center of entire inner cemetery summed everything, universal epitaph covering all niches all unlived lives all unchosen choices, and regret killed more surely than time because it poisoned present with ghosts of all alternate pasts, and only way to free oneself was perhaps to bury it too, to create additional niche with inscription MY REGRET and deposit all toxic nostalgia all « if onlys » all « I should haves » in it, and seal niche forever, but probably it was impossible, regret was keeper of columbarium, one who could never be buried because it was act of burying itself, Columbarium February twenty twenty-five complete inventory of life before it ends, dress rehearsal of final death where all these partial niches merged into single large niche containing simply name birth date death date, and between them everything one would have buried progressively until nothing living remained to bury, just empty body that would continue walking by inertia before own inner columbarium, February twenty twenty-five forever.
Cornel Barsan
February 2025
