Sunday Morning, With the Dead

On Sunday morning, Mr. Razor and I went to see A Day in Pompeii.

I can't really give you a review, because the moment we walked into the exhibit I got hit with what I privately call "the graveyard feeling," because the first time I felt it I was standing in a lonely, overgrown graveyard on Penikese Island. It's not that I'm squeamish about the dead--I've toured catacombs and tombs, and seen mummies and skeletons and not felt it. But it hits me sometimes, like something pushing down on my shoulders or holding a hand uncomfortably close to my neck.

Yes, I realize this is just me being my own personal gothic heroine, and it's all in my head. But I wasn't expecting it, and it made me edgy the whole time we were there. So I took a bunch of pictures to give myself some distance.


This is a detail of the wall-sized fresco at the entrance to the exhibit. I had no idea the colors would be so vibrant. (Nearby, there was a pornographic--oh, sorry, we were in a museum, so it was "erotic"--detail from another fresco, and I really wanted to take a picture, but there was a young girl standing next to me, and I was afraid if I called attention to it she'd be like, "Hey, mom, what are those two men doing to that woman?" and my parenting karma would go in the toilet. So no ancient dirty pictures for you all, sorry.)



Gladiator's helmet. Me: "They must have had really strong necks." Mr. Razor: "That's what you're taking away from this?"



The jewelry is my favorite part of any exhibition. I enjoy the continuity of humans liking pretty things.



Funerary statue. I think this picture really highlights the amazing lighting throughout the exhibit.



Minerva says you can all go fuck yourselves. Or she's giving her blessing, whatever. But doesn't she look cranky?



Minerva detail. We figured this is Medusa's head.



Neptune seems very chill here. I love the clean lines of his tunic, which really contrast with the ornateness of Minerva's.


We did the body casts last:


Mr. Razor never met a special on Pompeii that he didn't like, so I have watched upwards of a dozen programs on the disaster since we've been together. I have to tell you: I hate them. I hate being told in graphic, vivid detail how the people whose faces I saw yesterday knew they were dying; how it may have taken them minutes to choke to death on the hot ash flooding the air. Yet I can never bring myself to turn the channel or leave the room, which is how I felt looking at the casts yesterday. I figure it they had to die like that, the least I can do is pay attention.