I love cemeteries. I love the tranquillity and the history. I love the stories and the way generations of families are honoured in one place. And I love seeing them as a great equalizer. No matter how ornate the grave, or how obscure and unremarkable the life, all were simply human in the end. All experienced joy and sadness, fear, hope and love.
I spent 4 hours wandering around the Père Lachaise Cemetery and could easily have spent 4 more. Or 100 more. The cemetery is known for its famous inhabitants: Jim Morrison, Édith Piaf, Oscar Wilde, Maria Callas, Marcel Marceau and Frédéric Chopin, to name a few. I chose to not go looking for most of them.
I did make a point of stopping by the grave of poet, novelist and playwright, Gertrude Stein. Her tomb was plain and the inscription was so faded, I walked past several times before I found it. Instead of fan tributes like the tacky ones at the tombs of Oscar Wilde and Jim Morrison, her grave had little notes pinned down by stones. I found it both touching and sad.
i knew there was a section dedicated to the memory of Holocaust, but was unprepared for the impact of the sculptures, including the one below. It took my breath away.
The description on www.visites-guidees.com translates as follows: This monumental sculpture is the work of Jean-Baptiste Leducq. It is made of hammered copper. It leaves no one indifferent, striking the visitor with its scale, intensity, and power. At the base of the monument, the bristling crown represents the barbed wire of the camp fence. The posts of this fence bear roots, which give rise to a tree of sorrow, whose top transforms into a flame of memory. In the center, the scene is tragic: a deportee rises, his body tense in a hope of rebirth and life in the memory of the men who contemplate him.
There were other memorials to the Holocaust, each one equally unsettling and sobering.
And then there were the tens of thousands of other graves, tombs and monuments spread out over 110 acres. More than 1 million bodies are buried at Père Lachaise.
Many of the sculptures are stunning works of art. Some are hundreds of years old, others more recent like the grave of Turkish musician, Ahmet Kaya, who was persecuted in his homeland for singing in Kurdish and died in 2000 while exiled in France. His grave is lovingly cleaned and tended to by his fans.
This last photo, below, was one of the most touching for me. It commemorates the life of Josephine Verazzi who died in 1879. A translation of the inscription reads ‘she was a model mother’. The dates for other family members are inscribed on it as well.
In a sea of poignant sculptures and family tombs, it was this one that brought to mind a personal story. A year or so after my mom died, I took my dad to visit her grave. His dementia was advancing at that point and I was a little worried about how he would react. He looked down at the headstone for a while and then said ‘where are the kids going to be buried?’ I guess he thought I was my mom.
Where are the kids going to be buried? The question reflects a time, not so long ago, when people stayed in their communities and were buried in family plots. Part of me feels a little sad that this is no longer a reality for many of us. I realize how ironic it is that I’m saying that, but it speaks to a loss I can’t quite articulate.
This song was in my head as a wandered through the cemetery:
I really enjoyed Père Lachaise! So much art, history, beauty!
Hello Sue,
Glad to read and understand that, only after a year in France, you really feel at home. I was sad and happy at the same time to see your beautiful photos from Père Lachaise. Ma son who died 3 years ago is burried there.
Regards
Ragnhild
Thank you, Ragnhild. What a beautiful resting place for your dear son. The next time I go, I’ll ask you for the location of his grave so I can pay my respects.