Kotryna Calova
Bridge Paper 3
Monmartre Cemetery – Creative Non- Fiction Essay
Different. This was the first thought that came to my mind when I have
first arrived to Monmartre Cemetery. It was not like any other cemetery I have
ever been to. There was nothing depressing, or spooky about it, which made it
awkward. The beauty of absence embodied within the architectural
masterpieces of pygmy gothic chapels distances you from typically frightening
associations with death. In addition, something essential was missing to
complete this picture…. And then I realized. It was probably my absence of
sorrow or melancholy that made me feel guilty that I could be so desensitized or
even disrespectful to such a sacred place. Instead, I felt calm and peaceful, as this
place seemed to be in harmony.
Even though it was a cloudy day, you could feel the light sunbeams gently
stroking your skin. It was already mid autumn when I went there, so by that
time, most of trees’ leaves had started changing to their winter garments. Most of
them had accents of yellowish and brownish tones that warmed the overall
atmosphere of the place. Those colours dominated the palette of the whole
cemetery, which caused the whole scenery to appear as if it were projected
through a sepia filter, which added a slight sense of antiquity.
Rustle… Apart from few occasional muffles far-off, it was the only sound
you could hear. It was the wind, who was the culprit responsible for this
euphony. Yet, he was just leading the dry leaves in various elegant pirouettes
along the cobbled path. If you listened carefully enough, you could hear a quiet,
tranquil murmur of trees, as they were affirmatively swaying to the same
dancing rhythm. I was bewitched by these delicacies of nature that stroke the
stings of violins in my mind, dragging into a colourful world of imagination. The
next few seconds I was overwhelmed by too realistic images of baroque period
ball with sonorous instrumental tunes in the background. Yet, these dreams
were cut by a sharp croak of a craw that made me descend back to reality.
I sat down on one of the benches to observe the surroundings.
Surprisingly, there were many people walking around, as if they were in a park,
contradicting stereotypes of hostility and sadness typically associated with
cemeteries. I saw couples having their first dates; mothers pushing strollers with
their babies and of course, a number of tourists getting overwhelmed by the size
of the place and being incapable to decide which end to start from.
After few moments, I noticed a rather comic scene moving towards me. If
I have understood right, it was supposed to be a funeral ceremony, but ironically,
the whole picture looked quite funny and bizarre. Firstly, the priest looked
cartoonish, which was probably because of his round belly, dark brown beard
and long curly hair of the same colour. His spasmodic gaze was cold and it was
easy to connote seriousness and angriness behind it. I noticed a thick, ragged,
brown book in his palm that was approximately fist-size, which served just as a
useless symbol, because I am sure that they know all those praying by heart
anyway. A massive, wooden cross necklace that was almost touching his belly
button was rhythmically bouncing of his belly as he kept on walking, creating a
silent beat of drums.
A younger man, who was most likely to be priest’s assistant due to his
similar clothing, almost ground-touching black robe, followed the leader of the
ceremony. The rest of a crowd was a small group of people dressed in black,
which made me connote the occasion. Yet, as I looked into their faces, none of
them was sad or at least serious. Instead, they were just chit chatting with one
another, creating a tide of racket, which quickly dispelled, as they turned around
the corner. I was confused. Apart from their black clothing, nothing within this
scene reminded me of traditional funeral customs. For some reason it seemed
more like a frame of some film, where humorous (like the priest) or stereotyped
(like that “perfect”, blond hair lady I noticed in a crowd, who was obviously
overdressed for the occasion) characters are often utilized to make the story
clear and entertaining.
On the other hand, I was glad that I had a chance to witness something
like this, which broadened the range of senses and thoughts circulating within
me, which enriched my understanding of the place. I know that this scene is
doubtful to be true, but maybe it’s just a consequence of my emotional nature,
which made me envisage small details that were only illusions inside my head.
Even so, I do believe that there is something unique about this cemetery, as it
sank in a soft fog of fantasy and illusions.
After a good half an hour, I moved forward in need to explore every nook
and cranny of the place. The tombstones and coffins resembled pieces of art or
sculptures rather than their actual purpose of memorial. It is no doubt that the
theme of death servers as a spring of inspiration to artists. And yet, all of them
were so different and specific to their owners, which could make you lose
yourself in imagination, interpreting stories about them. I met Oscar. A tough,
masculine man in his 20s, who looked almost like Hermes, one of the Greek gods,
as his white marble sculpture that was 3 meters tall, was looking down on you,
needling straight through your soul. Also, I passed by Marian, who was much
taller than me. She was as skinny as a match and lived in a world of black and red
colour pallet only. Her wrinkled, bony fingers that stretched from countless
hours of her piano practices were too long and not proportional to her hand. She
used to be beautiful and her gothic essence was irresistibly attractive to men.
Yet, even though these stories are probably far from reality, the cemetery
just bombards your mind with all these little scenarios that are just impossible to
escape when you are surrounded by this innumerable number of “biographies”.
Many monuments that I encountered were more than one hundred years old,
covered by a dense layer of dust. The majority of those looked like small houses
that actually had doors and colourful, stained glass windows, reminding me of
tiny churches, which was mainly due to their pointy rooftops. Yet, half of the
windows were shattered causing them to look ghostly and abandoned, which
keeps a cloud of mystery floating above them. Nonetheless, all of them are
unique, characterized by diverse ornaments and engravings particular to each
memorial. Meanwhile, the newer tombstones tend to appear in the form of
various kinds of sculptures: there were ones in the Ancient Greek style or
baroque period, while others were just humorous, like a cactus sculpture of my
size, which would be more appropriate as an interior detail of a Mexican
restaurant rather than here!
Therefore, you could spend hours, days and maybe even weeks if you
wanted to scrutinize every single detail of the cemetery. I felt that this place hid
many secrets under its thick, countless layers of history, which the cemetery
saved only to itself and refused to share with strangers. These enigmas are
buried with their owners and will never leak out to our world of mortal
creatures. This state of suspense made my body almost itch from the curiosity
and desire to literally unearth those mysteries. Yet, as soon as I abandoned my
thoughts and descended 168 floors down to reality, an ugly mask of
“disappointment” was already put on my face. I realized that I will have to leave
this place empty –handed, so, I slowly headed towards the exit.