Art, or something like it.
There are so many other things I could post at this point, but the more time goes by the harder it is to try to sum things up. If I've been out of touch the last few months, feel free to poke me.
But poking's not what I'm posting about today. Today is all about dead cats transformed into remote-controlled helicopters.
scholargipsy posted a link to this story in the Guardian a few days ago. To summarize, when Dutch artist Bart Jansen's cat Orville was hit by a car, he choose to honor his memory by, well, making a helicopter out of him.
Yes, I know. Read the article, take a minute, and then come back.
I can see why the story might inspire a visceral reaction. We're talking about pets, which in America today is often a more emotionally charged topic than discussing children. We're talking about cats, the most beloved creatures on the internet and the remnants of same after they pass on. In the end, we're talking about a flying dead cat, an object heretofore not found in nature. (Except when tossed, and then only for very short distances.)
I had all of those reactions and unpacking them took me some odd places. Thinking about love and death is always a painful business. If one of my pets died, would I contemplate doing something similar? No, of course not. However, the painful part of that thought process was contemplating losing someone I loved, not concern for their remains. I had dog that died at home when I was a teenager. The worst part wasn't the death itself, but rather the cold, impersonal credit-card swipe at the vet when I handed over the limp blanket-wrapped bundle. Macy wasn't particularly interested in what happened to her shell; if anything, her last moments suggested she was pretty glad to be shut of it. I doubt she'd care if I turned her into a robot-dog that fought crime or something. The problem is, I wouldn't have the heart. Because death is scary. I wouldn't want to touch it or be near it or have it in my home.
Until very recently, even in America people had a more intimate relationship with death and dead things. They hunted, slaughtered their own farm animals, waited for family members to die. And they washed and bathed those dead loved ones in preparation for going into the ground. The open casket is still a part of Catholic (and some other denominations', I assume) funerary rituals, but there's also a long and respected tradition of keeping the casket in the home for a day or two before burial, a period with the deceased to give the family one last private time to say goodbye. Because death is scary, and as with anything scary, the closer you stand to it the more it becomes a part of life.
Assuming Jansen is possessed of normal human emotions, he spent a lot of time with the remains of a pet he loved. He cleaned and dressed and prepared the remains, and the result made me think for a couple of days about life, the things I value, being alive and being dead. Like it or not, that's art. Quite possibly good art.
The first response in a lot of the comments was "I hope someone does that to Jansen!" (both alive and dead were suggested) but no matter how I try, I can't imagine I'd mind someone using my remainder for art after I passed on. Y'all can fight over who gets to use the remote control first and I hope whoever does the embalming gives me at least as funny an expression on my face as Orville's. I'll give one free table-rapping session to the person who can land me on Dick Cheney's lap.
But poking's not what I'm posting about today. Today is all about dead cats transformed into remote-controlled helicopters.
scholargipsy posted a link to this story in the Guardian a few days ago. To summarize, when Dutch artist Bart Jansen's cat Orville was hit by a car, he choose to honor his memory by, well, making a helicopter out of him.
Yes, I know. Read the article, take a minute, and then come back.
I can see why the story might inspire a visceral reaction. We're talking about pets, which in America today is often a more emotionally charged topic than discussing children. We're talking about cats, the most beloved creatures on the internet and the remnants of same after they pass on. In the end, we're talking about a flying dead cat, an object heretofore not found in nature. (Except when tossed, and then only for very short distances.)
I had all of those reactions and unpacking them took me some odd places. Thinking about love and death is always a painful business. If one of my pets died, would I contemplate doing something similar? No, of course not. However, the painful part of that thought process was contemplating losing someone I loved, not concern for their remains. I had dog that died at home when I was a teenager. The worst part wasn't the death itself, but rather the cold, impersonal credit-card swipe at the vet when I handed over the limp blanket-wrapped bundle. Macy wasn't particularly interested in what happened to her shell; if anything, her last moments suggested she was pretty glad to be shut of it. I doubt she'd care if I turned her into a robot-dog that fought crime or something. The problem is, I wouldn't have the heart. Because death is scary. I wouldn't want to touch it or be near it or have it in my home.
Until very recently, even in America people had a more intimate relationship with death and dead things. They hunted, slaughtered their own farm animals, waited for family members to die. And they washed and bathed those dead loved ones in preparation for going into the ground. The open casket is still a part of Catholic (and some other denominations', I assume) funerary rituals, but there's also a long and respected tradition of keeping the casket in the home for a day or two before burial, a period with the deceased to give the family one last private time to say goodbye. Because death is scary, and as with anything scary, the closer you stand to it the more it becomes a part of life.
Assuming Jansen is possessed of normal human emotions, he spent a lot of time with the remains of a pet he loved. He cleaned and dressed and prepared the remains, and the result made me think for a couple of days about life, the things I value, being alive and being dead. Like it or not, that's art. Quite possibly good art.
The first response in a lot of the comments was "I hope someone does that to Jansen!" (both alive and dead were suggested) but no matter how I try, I can't imagine I'd mind someone using my remainder for art after I passed on. Y'all can fight over who gets to use the remote control first and I hope whoever does the embalming gives me at least as funny an expression on my face as Orville's. I'll give one free table-rapping session to the person who can land me on Dick Cheney's lap.