On the Many Deaths of Amanda Palmer (14 page)

Again, who died where now she brings

Her clients for nightly spanking fun

And other corporate disciplines.

(Finally he turns his head away in despair, and walks, through the CHORUS off stage right.)

CHORUS:

Who killed Amanda Palmer?

Who snatched her from our hearts?

Who stole away the best of us

To cleave the dream apart?

Who was it snuffed the candle?

Who damned us with that wrong?

Who plucked the flower before its bloom

Full ripened into song?

Who plucked the flower before its bloom

Full ripened into song?

 

By
XXX XXXXXXX

Initially I was quick to discard this piece as it is in many ways not really a
palmeresque
at all, however it caused me such ironic amusement that in the end I found myself returning to it repeatedly for light relief during the arduous reading process. Finally, and quite unexpectedly, I found it had become my choice.

I am still uncertain quite how seriously it is intended: I like to think that the author was entirely unaware of the comic potential of his/her work (the work itself implies that the author is male), although I suspect it was knowingly calculated, largely due to the faintly mocking tone of the chorus sections. It is very much a piece that only really works when read aloud, as the high register of the language seems clunky and exaggerated on the page but proves great fun to perform. I imagine it being read aloud at some Victorian fireside, vastly overacted, and the whole family joining in the chorus sections.

The narrative of the piece is interesting in a number of ways, some of them most likely unintentional or possibly again cleverly contrived. Essentially it seems to be a glorification of the poet himself. The poet stumbles accidentally upon the dying Miss Palmer and there finds himself paralysed by the sight, unable to help or assist in any real way. But then the spirit of Miss Palmer's creativity is passed from her dying body to him, and he vows to make something in verse worthy of the terrible sight he has encountered, to make art from her death. He returns home and writes a masterpiece, but alas it is never read as he dies upon concluding, the power of his own words having literally broken his heart, and since he owes money for his rent his possessions are hastily cleared and discarded for the next tenant. Thus it seems to ask the questions:
is Art of any real value compared to the realities of Life and Death?; is a great poem still a great poem if it is never read?; can inaction when action is necessary ever be redeemed through Artistic creation? But there is also a proto-literary twist, for it is hinted at that the poem we are reading is the poet's great work, but that was supposed to have been lost, and if it is then who finished it? Who wrote of the poet's death? Or is it essentially a poem about the making of the great poem? A making-of docu-verse?

But in the end the narrative itself had little to do with why I chose this particular piece – I chose it because of that charmingly ludicrous image I had of a stern Victorian father reciting aloud at the fireside, his children chiming in with every chorus. Television has indeed got a lot to answer for.

 

TEXT NUMBER SIX

One of the stranger fashions to have been taken up by the wealthy and celebrated in recent years is that of staging one's own funeral. And indeed it is a great illustration of how we, the readers of tabloid newspapers and glossy magazines, can become acclimatised to that which is absurd, bizarre and utterly extraordinary. The other day, whilst standing in a supermarket queue, I overheard a conversation between two middle-aged and somewhat overweight women flicking through
Zoo
magazine. Suddenly the elder of the two said, “Ooh, they've got Ozzie's funeral”. The other leant over to take a look. “How many goats did he have?” After a brief pause the first replied “Sixteen, and four ostriches. . . . Eddie Izzard was the priest.” They turned the page. “Oh, doesn't Kelly look gorgeous in black.” “I bet those shoes cost a fortune.” Then one pointed at some picture I couldn't see and they both erupted in laughter. “Did she really think she could get away with that! . . .” “J-Lo's was better, more colourful.” I was fascinated by the casualness with which they discussed what I felt to be a considerably surreal event. To them it was little more than a fashion parade, an excuse to admire and condemn the tastes and figures of younger, richer, prettier people than themselves; to me it was an expression of unprecedented decadence amongst the celebrity classes, and, as with all expressions of decadence, a most revealing window to the
many hidden (and not so hidden) sicknesses within.

This unlikely fashion for the premature staging of one's own death ritual should not be confused with the ancient rituals of re-birth that are known to date back to the days of the Pharaohs, if not earlier. Those were part of a larger whole, a manifestation of religious beliefs that placed the political leader in the role of a God, whose rebirth on a monthly, or in some cases daily, cycle was deemed to be essential for the health of society. Their political purpose was the demonstration of hierarchy, and the reinforcement of power bases. They remained fixed and unchanged across generations. By contrast, this modern manifestation is an expression of individual concerns and values and though it naturally relates to issues within the larger society it is essentially a personalised ritual, in most cases designed as a public display of the aesthetic or philosophy of what I shall refer to as the “notionally deceased”.

To fully grasp the essence of the mock-funeral it is important to contemplate for a moment the essence of a real funeral, that being, at least in today's society, the cathartic expression of grief. A funeral without grief is essentially an empty vessel, devoid of meaning or motivation, and it is that vacuum which lies at the heart of the mock-funeral. How it is filled, be it with statements of aesthetic, commercial implications, protest, egotism or simply fashion, can be a very telling indicator of the spiritual and indeed mental health and concerns not just of the persons involved, but also of the times in which they live.

Let us consider for how this all started. The earliest known example of a mock-funeral being staged purely for aesthetic or artistic reasons is that of Frances Featherstone in 1894. Featherstone, a self proclaimed
pre-modernist
¹
poet of the late nineteenth century and spiritual leader of the movement known as the
Devonshire Cathartists
,
became, towards the end of his life, increasingly fixated upon the crucifixion and subsequent resurrection of Jesus, despite being an ardent atheist and proudly devout sinner. On July 4th 1894, before a crowd of around thirty fellow poets and other pre-modernist artists, he was ritually enshrouded and be-coffined, placed upon a pauper's hearse and pulled, by his followers, eight miles into the depths of Dartmoor, to a ready dug grave. The coffin was interred at midday, fires were lit, toasts were given and Featherstone's epic poem,
Reinventing Lazarus
(now sadly lost) was recited by Sir Henry Irving, with occasional breaks for light refreshments. Finally, upon completion of the recitation some twelve or so hours later, the grave was unfilled and Featherstone arose from the ground at midnight, cleansed and renewed, miraculously reborn through Art. At least that is how the event is presented in his journal.
²
A local newspaper
³
report paints a slightly different picture:

This last Sunday was witnessed a further demonstration of the increasing lunatic eccentricity of local “character” Frances Featherston
[sic.]
and his dubious associates. In what can only be described as a most perplexing comedy of sanctimony Featherstone had himself be-coffined amid considerable invented ceremony, and then dragged upon an offall
[sic.]
cart into the depths of the moor. Our source, who followed the proceedings at what was described as a respectable distance, reports that upon arrival atop Crow Tor the coffin was placed in a ready dug grave and covered over, following which the most debaucherous of celebrations ensued involving much drunkenness and not inconsiderable nudity. Among the revellers were the actor Henry Irving and Exeter stationary magnate Sir Edmond Whitstable . . . What possible motive he might have had for such an act of assured self-importance is hard to
fathom, but one would have thought Mr. Featherston
[sic.]
would be keeping a low profile given the recent allegations levelled against him . . .

Whichever account is closer to the actual occasion, it is clear that the proceedings were conducted with considerable ritual intention, and it should be noted that even drunken nudity would not be undertaken lightly in February on Dartmoor where temperatures frequently fall well below freezing. Featherstone's journal
⁴
indicates that his intention was that of rebirth:

. . . and through this act I shall arise reborn, cleansed of all that has corroded my soul over a life unduly devoted t'wards sin, corruption and vice . . .

However overblown, romanticised and egotistical this may seem, it must be acknowledged that ritual rebirth is at least a fitting purpose to motivate a mock-funeral, and is in many ways expressive of the aesthetic of the
fin de siecle
as a whole. This was after all a period whose artistic movements were dominated by Mme. Blavatsky's pseudo-spiritualism, consumption of opium and absinthe, and a faith in social progress not yet undermined by the savage mechanisation of war. Featherstone was attempting to free himself of his past persona, to make himself a better man, and ultimately to prepare himself for his final act of contrition—the self-crucifixion of 1896 that was to inspire a generation of future artists.

Featherstone himself had certainly never intended to start a trend. As a man dedicated to uniquenesses of expression, he would most likely have been scornful toward those he often described as “nature's harmless copyists”. However, among the then-fashionable
Decadent
movement of artists, this ritual of rebirth through artistic debauchery was widely taken up. In the following years
there are many such accounts of mock-funerals, each of them following something of the same pattern. Count Eric Von Stenbock, Franz Stuck, Ernest Dowson, M.P. Shiel, and Octave Mirbeau are all known to have conducted mock-funerals that largely followed the same pattern as Featherstone's, specifically including recitations, drunkenness and nudity; though in none of the above cases did the notionally-deceased spend more than an hour nailed within the coffin.

Among the more notable figures to plan such an event at that time was Featherstone's one time friend, and long time enemy (following a much publicised argument involving accusations of plagiarism on Featherstone's part) Oscar Wilde. Until recently it was assumed that Wilde had planned this event to mark a ritual rebirth after his all too public disgrace, however recently discovered letters
⁵
strongly imply that it was in fact planned more as a satire on Featherstone's own self-importance. Either way it was widely anticipated as a most elaborate event, due to take place on January 1st, 1901. Sadly Wilde's actual death on November 30th 1900 cut these plans short, and the lack of funds left upon his decease resulted in a plain and non-descript real funeral most memorable for the moment when “Bosey” Douglas, Wilde's lover and instrument of his downfall, was accidentally knocked into the open grave by Father Cuthbert Dunne.

The unprecedented death toll of World War One brought an abrupt end to this first wave of mock-funerals, particularly after the unfortunately timed event staged by the minor English painter Edgar Stanhope in November 1916 which resulted in a mob chasing the participants along Brighton's London Road, whilst hurling both abuse and horse dung.
⁶
At a time when many families were deprived of the closure of a real funeral for their lost brothers,
fathers and lovers such self-indulgent stagings were deemed to be in considerable bad taste, a mood that continued between the wars and on into the years of depression and austerity. This consensus was however broken by two notable exceptions, those being Ezra Pound and Aleister Crowley, both men who took great delight in affronting polite society and challenging what they considered, each in their own way, to be the “woolly thinking of the bourgeoisie”.