Within the context of death, I have spoken about, and I am sure that I am not alone in this, the strange feeling when a person, persona, and life slip from the realm of the personable to the world of an object, a thing, a husk, though still loved, ultimately lacking the anima necessary to carry the living to accepting it as the person they knew no matter the bond. One does not even need to know who the corpse was to have this feeling of alienation for the body in front of them; it simply happens. What strikes me as undefined is the moment when that idea, that notion that we understood someone, is now merely an immobile (mostly) and fading thing.

I do not mean to be callous when I write this. I have gone through this experience several times. I remember when my mother died when I found her mouth agape in her bed shortly after her heart attack; I remember she was cooling but still warm, and the horror I felt as I called 9/11 all futile. Before she left the house, she was my mom, not even my mother. When I saw her next, she was something else. It happened again not long after with my grandmother; previously, it was with my grandfather and others who were less intimate. I remember putting my hand on the hand of not-quite-my-mother at the wake. It was cold; there was a feeling that it was an illusion, cardboard or papier mache cutout of the person who brought me into all of this. I imagined the corpse to be lighter than I would have liked to imagine.

Death has followed me throughout my adult life, though it has not always been in the manner above. My first interaction with a corpse was in high school, though I had seen people run over and also twice death by train. In High School, our religion teacher, Mr. Baltus, took us to the local university for biology class, something he also dealt with. The idea was to view the human body in death at the pathology lab, a strange idea, even now, as I sit and type this. The body was raised from the brine it stewed in, pickled with a noxious chemical odor rising from the stainless steel sarcophagus it had lain in. The chemical preservative cascaded down underneath it as it was raised by hand crank to the surface, a white cloth placed over the eyes and genitals. At 17, the same year I would see a man run over by a car (later), head obliterated, while high on opium and weed, I would be given the excuse to medel in the body of a corpse at the University of Wisconsin, La Crosse’s medical lab. We were encouraged to don plastic gloves and feel the body’s organs. I remember the bloodless viscera, the intestines, mostly being inter-webbed with this odd sort of webbing. When you watch horror movies, it does not happen that way.

Later on, after most of the deaths (until recently) that I had observed, I was given access to a gross anatomy lab in Belgium. I am trying to remember the specifics other than the fact that it was encouraged that one could draw, paint, and photograph the bodies with access to the other medical illustrators and artists. I remember the lab being remote and the lights they used in situ to give definition to the corpse. After hours of shooting and drawing, these same lights would begin to break down the adipose tissue on the legs of the corpse that an anatomist was working on for us, sheaving muscle from bone. The yellow of the subcutaneous fat glistened and slid as it was exposed first to air, then heat from the lamps. To suggest that it was unnerving would be an understatement for most people. I can smell it still, but it is an antiseptic smell, not one of decomposition or cooking.

Over the history of photography, the corpse, the It of which, not whom, I speak, has been an object of fascination. This fascination predates the camera by some time. People, not just doctors, have been interested in what is inside us for as long as we have been on two feet. This tenuousness between who we are versus what we become informs much of how we handle our living, breathing life. In the history of photographs, it is easy to think about Self–Portrait as Drowned Man (1840) by Hippolyte Bayard as an interesting image regarding the body in (faked) death. From there, the history of the corpse and the camera is outlined in an exquisite recent book by Brandon Zimmerman, Photography: Cadavers, Abjection, & the Formation of Identity. Bristol University Press, 2024 explains the performative nature of photography, the corpse, and how the body is seen in varying stages as a de-personalized It. One may also cite the Stanley Burns collection and the books that he has published as reference points.

In artistic terms, artists from Jerome Liebling to Jeffrey Silverthorne, Andre Serrano, Sue Fox, and Rudolf Schäfer, amongst many others, have handled the topic. So, what draws us to See and record the body in death in such a manner, and are we capable of expressing the mix of feelings that come with the venture of being in proximity to death? It is almost impossible to cope on a one-to-one basis with the vagueries of death and its affecting condition, and to relate that to another human is a futile gesture. To experience death on a one-to-one or a one-to-none basis is the most alive one can feel by determination of what that is not. You will never feel more like a tourist than you do at that moment.

“I enter with the funeral home employee into a small, sterile room in the basement of a hospital. It’s lit by neon lights, and the floor is linoleum. There are metal stretchers, metal fridge doors, and metal tools: the zinc coffin lid, screws, and a soldering iron. The only thing that warms the atmosphere slightly is the presence of fabrics: white sheets, pillows, decorated blankets. The funeral home employee takes the stretcher out of the fridge and gently lifts the sheet. I observe the scene through the camera viewfinder. I’m hiding, in fact. We’re here for Mrs. R, an elderly woman with smooth grey hair and a crooked nose.

Shortly after I’m left alone with Mrs. R., I begin to really look at her, not focusing on taking photos anymore. There are two of us in the room, yet I am alone. I can’t comprehend that she’s dead. I watch for any movement in her hands or the sheets. By staring so intently, I get the feeling that they are moving. I fear she might open her eyes. I dare not turn my back on her. Confronted with something I can’t understand, I’m petrified and frozen still.”

Margot Jourquin’s book Transi, published by Kult Books, will be challenging for most people. The subject of death or un-life finds most people disagreeable or absent from the conversation. Yet, we all must face the inevitable punchline: the shared commonality. Whereas it is challenging to understand the shift our bodies will take and to comprehend who will clip our fingernails that continue to grow in un-life, the universal industry of funerary practice is inherent to our species. Jourquin has covered the topic with sensitivity in monochromatic interludes, photographing several deceased bodies that are reverently undressed and redressed for burial and closure. The images are permissive and thought-through, and though I might not opine that they are peaceful, I do not find them disrespectful.

In design terms, the book is light, similar to the sheets that cover the bodies. The paper stock is considered for this very notion, and the book opens into a triptych, not unlike a 16th-century Flemish altarpiece, invoking further sanctity in the experience. The black thread used to suture the spine in place is reminiscent of the same suture wire used to sew the body together. The choice of de=bossed title is an analogous typography to gravestones.- It is an object that suggests matter-of-factness, contemplation, and reverence. I highly recommend it for the images and the decision to downplay the majority of the grotesquerie that can be associated with these moments.