By Brian Newman

Artwork by Marcia Borell

I hate to start off with a philosophic comment, but fear that I have to. There is something about death that brings out solemn thoughts. I would guess that we just do not understand such a basic thing, and so turn to the 'bigger picture' in order to figure things out. If I have anything at all to communicate about death it is that we are not called to understand it, only to accept it.

As a bachelor I am well aware of those joking comments that equate marriage with a 'death' of sorts. However my first experience of 'picturing death' happened, at all places, at a wedding. I flew out West for the event, and had a fun time. I knew virtually no one there. Sometimes that is bad, sometimes it works out great. I was fine with it. I had my camera, a rather good one, and I took pictures. My gift to the happy couple was to be a wedding album filled with those pictures. At one time I had done that professionally, and so I thought it would be an excellent gift.

Once home, I got an emergency telephone call from the new bride. Could they get my pictures as soon as possible? A couple attending the wedding had been killed in a car accident a day or two after the wedding. I had the last photographs of them alive.

I had no idea who they were. There had been so many people there that it was impossible for me to pick any strangers out. I had pictures of the crowd, pictures of people dancing, eating, offering congratulations. I make it a habit to take far more pictures that I actually use in the album. You get quality by careful selection. I put together the album, and sent it off.

I had indeed photographed that couple. I got back a picture that showed them, and I hunted through all my extra pictures, and found several more that included them. Although they had not fit into the album, I sent them. The parents had requested any last photos, and I seemed to be the only one who had taken those pictures. Good ones.

Much later, I received a 'Thank You'. It was then that it hit me how eerie it was to have taken the last picture of someone before they died.

It happened again.

Whenever I hear the phrase 'deeply troubled' I get an instant mental picture of someone I knew. His life was full of problems, and in spite of friends and family, he took his own life. I don't judge people who do that. One can never really know the full troubles of another, and the terror that makes them see life as something not worth going on with. I'll only say that if one takes his own life, he should do it neatly. Think of those who have to clean up.

My friend's life ended in a river. They found his body much later. It was a closed-casket ceremony, with a very old, and very bad, picture resting on top. I had far better. Troubled souls rarely get their pictures taken. They even more rarely want their pictures taken. As someone who cheered him up on occasion, and as someone who almost always has a camera in my car, I had pictures of him. Some of him even smiling. Perhaps, almost certainly, the best, and the last pictures of him ever taken.

The next time has, thankfully, vanished from my memory. I don't recall who, or where. I just recall that eerie realization that someone was gone forever, and that recent photographs were sitting on my shelf. I could sort through pictures, go through my albums, and find that missing memory. After all, that is what photographs are for. But there are certain events you do not want to remember. Certain things you do not want to think about again.

Last week, I got a call. A sudden death, a car accident. His brother mentioned that they had no good pictures.

I, of course, had some. A Christmas party. I was sitting beside him, talking away. He was a big guy, and he had a long white beard. A little girl shyly walked up to him, and asked if he was Santa? He could have been a perfect Santa, and I had never realized that!

He told the little girl that he was not Santa. She still, shyly, wanted to sit on his knee.

It was the perfect picture. And I captured it, several times. I sent that girl's father a picture. And the lady who had hosted the party. I also gave one to my friend, while telling him that he would be known as Santa from now on. All seemed delighted with the pictures.

One of those pictures was in the funeral home. The brother had been scrambling to find pictures. Some people just don't like to have their picture taken, he said.

Was that 'Santa's' last picture? I sort of think so.

Now, I'm a tad nervous. I mean, it can't be my fault, but still. Should I keep taking pictures?

They say that neither the sun nor death can be looked at with a steady eye. Yet photographs demand that steady eye. A photograph captures an instant of time. Is that worth doing, is that worthwhile? I'm still figuring that question out.