Post by darkstar on Jul 2, 2005 13:49:45 GMT
Gadfly-Online:
AFTER THE END:
JIM MORRISON'S 30 YEAR TENURE IN A FRENCH CEMETERY
By Grant Rosenberg
It is rather indistinct these days—a common, simple headstone
and
plot, rather boring in the ornate company of the other burial plots.
The graffitied, sculptured head is gone and with it, the Cult of
Jim. Yes, there are bouquets of fresh flowers all the time. And, to
be sure, there must be days when many loiter for hours, singing
songs quietly and lighting candles, despite the continuous presence
of security guards nearby. But the level of devotion has dropped off
considerably in recent years.
James Douglas Morrison has been dead longer than he lived, and
though he is firmly entrenched in the pantheon shared by Marilyn
Monroe, James Dean, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin and more recent
inductees such as Kurt Cobain, it seems that the seekers and
groupies have better things to do. They've become tourists, if
they
come at all.
Cimetière du Père-Lachaise, with its cobblestone paths,
sepulchers
and above-ground graves, is a spooky combination of fascination and
dread, of celebrity and the unknown. Opening its gates on May 21,
1804, Père-Lachaise has become probably the most visited cemetery
in
Paris, and possibly beyond. It hosts 100,000 tombs over 44 hectares
of land. Along with Jim are the remains of such international
notables as Oscar Wilde, Modigliani, Maria Callas, Marcel Proust,
Edith Piaf and Frederic Chopin, in addition to a variety of French
actors, artists, politicians, soldiers, inventors, humanitarians and
Resistance fighters.
Jim's grave is not exactly in plain view. In fact, if you
don't know
where to look for it, you probably won't find it. The paths that
lead to it run at odd angles, and neither one exactly offers a clear
view of it. On the stone itself, underneath the words James Douglas
Morrison 1943-1971, is the following, in same type and size:
KATA TON DAIMONA EAYTOY
This Greek inscription means either "against the devil himself"
or "against the devil within," depending on the context. This
ambiguity is curious; the latter could imply an internal struggle
with immorality (very interesting, as it was inscribed by Jim's
father, with whom he was estranged), while the former has more of an
overwrought air of heroic confrontation. This present headstone has
been in place since 1991, courtesy of Jim's father. The grave is
by
far the most visited by the most people in the cemetery, and a
security officer or two is always stationed within view. I asked one
of them why there must always be a guard present. Very succinctly, I
was told, "Drugs. Alcohol. Graffiti. Other bad things."
There is much truth to this. Graffiti still covers the neighboring
graves—all either directly or indirectly in reference to
Jim—the
perpetrators perhaps not aware of the disrespect they are showing
the other deceased by desecrating their resting places, some of whom
may still have relatives visiting. Having your eternal resting-place
in close proximity to Jim Morrison does not seem enviable, at least
from the perspective of your living loved ones. To be fair, it's
doubtful that those who write in chalk and marker on neighboring
graves would do such things at other cemeteries. There is a certain
gothic unreality to Père-Lachaise, which certainly must have
fueled
the Jim Mystique for so many years after his death, making his grave
a pilgrimage destination.
Julia Kolberger, a 23-year-old Polish student studying in Paris,
recalls the way it was a decade ago. At only 13 years of age, she
spent a month in Paris, just as the popular culture of the West was
opening up to her for the first time. For a child growing up behind
the Iron Curtain, it was a lot to take in. The music of The Doors
was a big part of it all.
"I was there in May 1991, before the movie was released in Europe. I
wore the same pair of jeans for three weeks straight, which had a
drawing I had made of Jim's face along with many flowers. I went
to
the cemetery at 11am everyday until 6pm when it closed. There were a
handful of other people who were there all day as well."
Of these people, Kolberger spent much time with three others in
particular, including a punk who carried around a pet rat that he
would put in his mouth for kicks. "Everyone sat on the neighboring
graves. Nobody moved us away. We played loud stereos, not just The
Doors…all kinds of music from the 1970s."
It was in this environment that a routine apparently arose. A man in
his late 30s or early 40s, a Native South American, according to
Kolberger, was the unofficial "Spiritmaster" of the gravesite. He
claimed to have been a regular visitor for 15 years, when not in
jail for drugs. He was the de facto guardian of the famous Morrison
sculptured bust that had been a part of the grave for years. "Since
it had been stolen before," explains Kolberger, "he took it home and
would bring it out only for special ceremonies such as Jim's
birthday or deathday."
Later, the sculpture disappeared completely. Kolberger learned that
the man went to jail again so perhaps it was in his possession at
the time and confiscated—Kolberger doesn't know. Nowadays,
when she
goes to the grave on occasion, it is to show it to visiting friends,
in spite of the location not being what it used to be. In other
words, seeing the grave has become a bit of a nostalgia trip for the
post-Jim era, in addition to being his grave. As in, "This is where
the Jim seances happened, when we all got crazy and people danced
naked, back in the day."
*
He was buried on July 8, 1971, at the age of 27—my age, though
this
has less effect on me than I would have imagined a few years ago.
And now, on an overcast afternoon thirty years and two months later,
I stand near Jim's grave for about an hour. During this time,
there
are twenty-something English speaking hippies as well as Germans,
Spanish, Poles and others of all ages. The numbers of people ebb and
flow; I might be standing alone for a good ten minutes, then a crowd
of twenty or so would assemble for a half hour.
There are many interesting graves at Père-Lachaise, works of art
to
rival museum set pieces. Chopin's is quite beautiful—white,
clean
and pious. Others are creepy, thanks to their windowed doorways
where the remains are entombed, and the doors are often open or the
glass broken. Litter abounds, candy wrappers and beer cans, the
modern consumer world marking its territory.
The peculiarities don't end. One grave from thirteen years ago is
about ten feet in length, designed as a floor, jet white, with steps
leading up to several four-foot-tall pillars built in a faux-tumble.
At the front, protruding horizontally from the pseudo-floor's
edge,
is a copper sculpture of a young man looking like a Beethoven or
Einstein with wild, wiry hair. The only words on the entire
gravestone translate as, "He loved Stendahl, Pavarotti, Gamine and
Pink Floyd, but he was 29 years old…" Then his name, Velario, and
the year 1988. As I walk toward the exit, I see a guy walking up
with a guitar in the general direction of Jim.
There are conspiracy theorists who believe Jim's remains were
secretly brought back to the United States in recent years. And
there is merit for this idea; the lease on the gravesite was for
thirty years, which expired two months ago. Yet, apparently it is
now an official French cultural landmark, and it seems there is
little doubt that this would be the case. Despite the added security
and the attendant headaches that come with such an attraction,
it's
obvious that Père-Lachaise and Paris-at-large benefit from the
resting-place of this celebrated American guest. Does it really
matter if it hosts his bones or not? Grave or shrine, it is what it
is.
The question that remains is why? What attracted, and still
attracts, people to spend entire days here in a manner that is not
common at other dead rock stars' graves? Perhaps the answer is
the
same as why The Grateful Dead achieved a following that could have
very well been for another band in its stead. A combination of time
and place and a splash of the ineffable. Jim Morrison was more than
a pop star. For many, he was a pop philosopher. Maybe a part of the
draw is the stake of Americana in Paris, something about the binding
of two cultures that seem very far from one another—and an
American
oasis of sorts, in this bizarre, international time warp of a
cemetery. Our own player in a cultural all-star game.
Having so many people buried in one place, the famous, infamous and
immortal next to others with local or simply lesser fame, is a
strange thing. The variations on the graves, the haunting crypts
from 1830 next to burials from earlier this year, it's a lot to
take
in. Big or small, simple or ornate, the appearance and expense of
one's grave has always been an issue everywhere—the
capitalist thorn
in Death's side.
Death, that great equalizer. Supposedly.
Source: www.gadflyonline.com/9-24-01/TRAVEL-MORRISON.HTML
AFTER THE END:
JIM MORRISON'S 30 YEAR TENURE IN A FRENCH CEMETERY
By Grant Rosenberg
It is rather indistinct these days—a common, simple headstone
and
plot, rather boring in the ornate company of the other burial plots.
The graffitied, sculptured head is gone and with it, the Cult of
Jim. Yes, there are bouquets of fresh flowers all the time. And, to
be sure, there must be days when many loiter for hours, singing
songs quietly and lighting candles, despite the continuous presence
of security guards nearby. But the level of devotion has dropped off
considerably in recent years.
James Douglas Morrison has been dead longer than he lived, and
though he is firmly entrenched in the pantheon shared by Marilyn
Monroe, James Dean, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin and more recent
inductees such as Kurt Cobain, it seems that the seekers and
groupies have better things to do. They've become tourists, if
they
come at all.
Cimetière du Père-Lachaise, with its cobblestone paths,
sepulchers
and above-ground graves, is a spooky combination of fascination and
dread, of celebrity and the unknown. Opening its gates on May 21,
1804, Père-Lachaise has become probably the most visited cemetery
in
Paris, and possibly beyond. It hosts 100,000 tombs over 44 hectares
of land. Along with Jim are the remains of such international
notables as Oscar Wilde, Modigliani, Maria Callas, Marcel Proust,
Edith Piaf and Frederic Chopin, in addition to a variety of French
actors, artists, politicians, soldiers, inventors, humanitarians and
Resistance fighters.
Jim's grave is not exactly in plain view. In fact, if you
don't know
where to look for it, you probably won't find it. The paths that
lead to it run at odd angles, and neither one exactly offers a clear
view of it. On the stone itself, underneath the words James Douglas
Morrison 1943-1971, is the following, in same type and size:
KATA TON DAIMONA EAYTOY
This Greek inscription means either "against the devil himself"
or "against the devil within," depending on the context. This
ambiguity is curious; the latter could imply an internal struggle
with immorality (very interesting, as it was inscribed by Jim's
father, with whom he was estranged), while the former has more of an
overwrought air of heroic confrontation. This present headstone has
been in place since 1991, courtesy of Jim's father. The grave is
by
far the most visited by the most people in the cemetery, and a
security officer or two is always stationed within view. I asked one
of them why there must always be a guard present. Very succinctly, I
was told, "Drugs. Alcohol. Graffiti. Other bad things."
There is much truth to this. Graffiti still covers the neighboring
graves—all either directly or indirectly in reference to
Jim—the
perpetrators perhaps not aware of the disrespect they are showing
the other deceased by desecrating their resting places, some of whom
may still have relatives visiting. Having your eternal resting-place
in close proximity to Jim Morrison does not seem enviable, at least
from the perspective of your living loved ones. To be fair, it's
doubtful that those who write in chalk and marker on neighboring
graves would do such things at other cemeteries. There is a certain
gothic unreality to Père-Lachaise, which certainly must have
fueled
the Jim Mystique for so many years after his death, making his grave
a pilgrimage destination.
Julia Kolberger, a 23-year-old Polish student studying in Paris,
recalls the way it was a decade ago. At only 13 years of age, she
spent a month in Paris, just as the popular culture of the West was
opening up to her for the first time. For a child growing up behind
the Iron Curtain, it was a lot to take in. The music of The Doors
was a big part of it all.
"I was there in May 1991, before the movie was released in Europe. I
wore the same pair of jeans for three weeks straight, which had a
drawing I had made of Jim's face along with many flowers. I went
to
the cemetery at 11am everyday until 6pm when it closed. There were a
handful of other people who were there all day as well."
Of these people, Kolberger spent much time with three others in
particular, including a punk who carried around a pet rat that he
would put in his mouth for kicks. "Everyone sat on the neighboring
graves. Nobody moved us away. We played loud stereos, not just The
Doors…all kinds of music from the 1970s."
It was in this environment that a routine apparently arose. A man in
his late 30s or early 40s, a Native South American, according to
Kolberger, was the unofficial "Spiritmaster" of the gravesite. He
claimed to have been a regular visitor for 15 years, when not in
jail for drugs. He was the de facto guardian of the famous Morrison
sculptured bust that had been a part of the grave for years. "Since
it had been stolen before," explains Kolberger, "he took it home and
would bring it out only for special ceremonies such as Jim's
birthday or deathday."
Later, the sculpture disappeared completely. Kolberger learned that
the man went to jail again so perhaps it was in his possession at
the time and confiscated—Kolberger doesn't know. Nowadays,
when she
goes to the grave on occasion, it is to show it to visiting friends,
in spite of the location not being what it used to be. In other
words, seeing the grave has become a bit of a nostalgia trip for the
post-Jim era, in addition to being his grave. As in, "This is where
the Jim seances happened, when we all got crazy and people danced
naked, back in the day."
*
He was buried on July 8, 1971, at the age of 27—my age, though
this
has less effect on me than I would have imagined a few years ago.
And now, on an overcast afternoon thirty years and two months later,
I stand near Jim's grave for about an hour. During this time,
there
are twenty-something English speaking hippies as well as Germans,
Spanish, Poles and others of all ages. The numbers of people ebb and
flow; I might be standing alone for a good ten minutes, then a crowd
of twenty or so would assemble for a half hour.
There are many interesting graves at Père-Lachaise, works of art
to
rival museum set pieces. Chopin's is quite beautiful—white,
clean
and pious. Others are creepy, thanks to their windowed doorways
where the remains are entombed, and the doors are often open or the
glass broken. Litter abounds, candy wrappers and beer cans, the
modern consumer world marking its territory.
The peculiarities don't end. One grave from thirteen years ago is
about ten feet in length, designed as a floor, jet white, with steps
leading up to several four-foot-tall pillars built in a faux-tumble.
At the front, protruding horizontally from the pseudo-floor's
edge,
is a copper sculpture of a young man looking like a Beethoven or
Einstein with wild, wiry hair. The only words on the entire
gravestone translate as, "He loved Stendahl, Pavarotti, Gamine and
Pink Floyd, but he was 29 years old…" Then his name, Velario, and
the year 1988. As I walk toward the exit, I see a guy walking up
with a guitar in the general direction of Jim.
There are conspiracy theorists who believe Jim's remains were
secretly brought back to the United States in recent years. And
there is merit for this idea; the lease on the gravesite was for
thirty years, which expired two months ago. Yet, apparently it is
now an official French cultural landmark, and it seems there is
little doubt that this would be the case. Despite the added security
and the attendant headaches that come with such an attraction,
it's
obvious that Père-Lachaise and Paris-at-large benefit from the
resting-place of this celebrated American guest. Does it really
matter if it hosts his bones or not? Grave or shrine, it is what it
is.
The question that remains is why? What attracted, and still
attracts, people to spend entire days here in a manner that is not
common at other dead rock stars' graves? Perhaps the answer is
the
same as why The Grateful Dead achieved a following that could have
very well been for another band in its stead. A combination of time
and place and a splash of the ineffable. Jim Morrison was more than
a pop star. For many, he was a pop philosopher. Maybe a part of the
draw is the stake of Americana in Paris, something about the binding
of two cultures that seem very far from one another—and an
American
oasis of sorts, in this bizarre, international time warp of a
cemetery. Our own player in a cultural all-star game.
Having so many people buried in one place, the famous, infamous and
immortal next to others with local or simply lesser fame, is a
strange thing. The variations on the graves, the haunting crypts
from 1830 next to burials from earlier this year, it's a lot to
take
in. Big or small, simple or ornate, the appearance and expense of
one's grave has always been an issue everywhere—the
capitalist thorn
in Death's side.
Death, that great equalizer. Supposedly.
Source: www.gadflyonline.com/9-24-01/TRAVEL-MORRISON.HTML