Dada's Funeral
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Dada’s funeral as an experience was handed down to me when I was 9 years old. I remember my mother sitting at the kitchen table and staring dejectedly at the wall. When I asked her what was wrong she burst into tears and told me that her grandfather, the man who had raised her, had died. I remember not knowing how to feel about this. I had only met him twice in my short life. The last time I had seen him he was an old man sitting on the edge of a cast iron bed dressed in pajamas but wearing a fedora. The door to the cottage that he lived in was open to the yard and just beyond his shrunken body, chickens scratched in the dirt. I knew that I loved him because my mother loved him and that I then felt sad because she was. When my mother returned she had images that had been taken for family abroad who were also unable to attend. These images are a record of Dada’s funeral and it is from these images that I have decided to explore that event in order to form my own narrative.
Dada’s funeral as an experience was handed down to me when I was 9 years old. I remember my mother sitting at the kitchen table and staring dejectedly at the wall. When I asked her what was wrong she burst into tears and told me that her grandfather, the man who had raised her, had died. I remember not knowing how to feel about this. I had only met him twice in my short life. The last time I had seen him he was an old man sitting on the edge of a cast iron bed dressed in pajamas but wearing a fedora. The door to the cottage that he lived in was open to the yard and just beyond his shrunken body, chickens scratched in the dirt. I knew that I loved him because my mother loved him and that I then felt sad because she was. When my mother returned she had images that had been taken for family abroad who were also unable to attend. These images are a record of Dada’s funeral and it is from these images that I have decided to explore that event in order to form my own narrative.
