There is something oddly attractive about graveyards.
As a child I would attend the funerals of my family. We were nominally Methodist, though it was hard to tell when the only times one attended church were births, deaths and marriages. Despite being mysteriously sent for three years to a Church of Christ Sunday school, the experience that had the most impact on me was funerals.
Funerals are of course, not for the dead, but the living. Convinced of our mortality, we seek reassurance that we too will be remembered after we die. The sadness I felt at funerals was not for the departed, but for myself, as one more person in my web of friends and relatives was now gone.
Graveyards and cemeteries are therefore, not memorials for the dead, but for the living. Perhaps this is why so much excess and expense goes into personalising the monuments therein. Human nature being what it is however, even the grandest monument falls into disrepair. And that I think is what intrigues me.
In the midst of efforts of capturing the sublime, ever present is decay. Weeds and grafitti mix with attempted beauty and grandeur. What could be more Gothic than that?