--The Book of the Dead
1. They're looking a little parched after millennia standing side by side in the crypt, but the limestone Egyptian couple, inseparable on their slab, emerge from it as noble and grand as you could ask of people thirteen inches tall. The pleasant, droopy-breasted wife smiles hospitably in her gown (the V-necked sheath "a style popular for the entire 3,000-year pharaonic period"). Her skin is painted paler than his: a lady kept out of the sun. Bare-chested in his A-line kilt, her husband puts his spatulate best foot forward, so as to stride into a new life. Not mummies; more like dummies. Not idols, yet not merely dolls. Stocky synecdoches of the ruling class, they survey an entourage of figurines at work providing necessaries for long days under the reigns of dynasties still unborn. To serenade them, here's a harpist. A dwarf even in life-- a mascot to amuse the court whose music must not be cut short. A potter modeling vessels that seem, like him, already fired in a kiln. Six silos of wheat, imaginary granaries. A woman of stone grinding grain, as she would have, on a quern of stone. A woman winnowing grain in a pan. Another on her knees, kneading. A brewer mashing a vat of beer, a butcher slitting the throat of a heifer for the hereafter. 2. What had it felt like, a credence in the afterlife of art? To die, as the departed did, comforted by the guaranteed incarnation of a statuette; to feed then on that slaughtered meat? To take a leap from the stock-still tyranny of the literal? To see the miniature, the fiction as a grow-in-the-dark depiction of the soon-to-be actual? 3. Aboveground, thought was evolving. So many lords and ladies died; not everyone could be supplied with a finely sculpted retinue of laborers to keep them living. And how were the high ones to keep so many minions at their task? The overseer with his whip became a smiling, bland convention: one foreman for every ten or so farmers with a hoe. It wasn't only math. Something unforeseen transforming transfiguration-- a canny, efficient faith that less detail might well stand in for the stand-in; a simplicity of encryption. Hundreds and hundreds of years passed. Alabaster, faience, wood, the scale of the factotum-totems dwindled as numbers multiplied; jostled in the mass graves of toy-box coffins, they were transported by a procession of living slaves a little distance, and slipped into their niches in the crypt for the shelf-life of eternity. Thumb-sized effigies wrapped in bandages of holy script, the hieroglyphed Book of the Dead . Words. The nominal vow to work, not the enactment of work. The shabti held one stylized tool, barely identifiable-- and were serene as Christian saints with their hatchets and wheels, the instruments of a recurring martyrdom. In time they grew more mummiform, cross-armed at the chest or armless. Finally, curiously, at rest-- like zeroes who were something in being nothing, place-markers of their own as much as of the master's soul. 4. And on the wall of a vault, an artist has drawn himself-- or a cunning substitute-- at work, shaping a life-sized shabti designed to be his twin: a goateed dandy that our mute, vainglorious ventriloquist settles on one knee. Profile to profile, they stare into the mannered mirror of the other. In whatever kingdom this was (by now, the blink of one kohl-lined, almond eye), what did people think was the lifespan of the stunt man who betokens man? The shabti sent to make shabti ? But the question too has shrunken, eroded to vocabulary-- one fine old potsherd of a word to be carried from the museum like any other item in the museum shop: a replica necklace, a postcard. The visitor is illiterate. What did that stone scroll say, meant to convert someday to the thing it represents, papyrus? Even the scribes couldn't read. Something about the god Osiris who came back from the dead. She must be going. Feels for the gloves in her pockets, empty hands for her hands. Opens a door to Chicago, where a fine dust is ticking coldly onto everything; where she is still alive, and it's snowing.
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|Title Annotation:||Style as Performance/Performance as Style|
|Author:||Salter, Mary Jo|
|Date:||Jan 1, 2010|
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