‘Fancy Caskets, Sparkly Lamps, and Unspoken Pain’

Edward Michael Supranowicz is the grandson of Irish and Russian/Ukrainian immigrants. He grew up on a small farm in Appalachia. He has a grad background in painting and printmaking. Some of his artwork has recently or will soon appear in Fish Food, Streetlight, Another Chicago Magazine, The Door Is A Jar, The Phoenix, and The Harvard Advocate. Edward is also a published poet who has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize multiple times.

Fancy Caskets, Sparkly Lamps, and Unspoken Pain

My mid-twenties are haunted by thoughts of my grandfather, who died in 2006, when I was six. At first, it felt like delayed grief set on by guilt that, due to my age when he died, I remember being rather indifferent to the entire ordeal. Another part of me felt robbed of a chance to know an integral part of myself: the person who raised my father, an even further extension of my bloodline. I began asking lots of questions: to my mom, dad, grandma, aunt, siblings, anyone in my life who could tell me more about him. Sure, they had spoken about him since his death, but I wanted to know who he was as a person, not just their favorite memories they would share from time to time. What I came to learn caused me grief in a much more visceral and complicated fashion, and highlighted the way the past bleeds into the present, but not without time transforming the circumstances.

On February 24th, 2004, the New York Times reported that the Metropolitan Museum of Art (MET) would be expanding its exhibition space and performing renovations on existing galleries in a ten year, $155 million project that would bring back its collection of Classical art on display in a new Roman- style court. As well as bringing back collections that had been in storage for decades, they would be renovating the portion of the MET with windows facing Central Park (an area previously closed to visitors for decades), marking a period of rejuvenation for the MET as an institution.

Twenty years later, I found myself wandering the product of this large renovation project, after what could be called a six year rejuvenation project of leaving Michigan and moving to New York, to maintain a complicatedly loving, but necessarily distant relationship with my family. I was almost immediately struck by a large intricately carved marble sarcophagus. What struck me was that, while made to house the dead, the sarcophagus was carved like a mosaic, made up entirely of living things. It had over 40 figures representing panthers, Gods, men, babies, plants, dogs, intentionally woven together in a piece that felt all-consuming, without seeming overdone. On the front side, there was a central figure seated atop a panther, surrounded by four young men, equal in size and stature. They were surrounded by several different human and animal figures, some a mixture of the two species, all varying in size and shape but fitting into the whole scene perfectly. On the left side, there was a beautiful female figure lying wrapped in a sheet, holding fruit, surrounded by babies and two young men, peering across at the scene at the front of the piece. On the right side, there was an equally pristine bearded male figure lying in the same fashion, surrounded by babies and angels, looking at the scene unfolding in front of him.

According to research from the MET, the central male figure is Dionysos, and he is surrounded by the Four Seasons depicted as strong young men. The woman on the left side is Mother Earth, and the male figure on the right is thought to be a representation of a river God of the time . The piece was incredibly well preserved, only missing its lid and a few minor extremities, but appeared whole and complete nonetheless due to the extreme amount of detail still present. It was purchased for the MET in 1955 from the Dukes of Beaufort, who had purchased the piece and had it on display as part of their collection since 1733. It originally came from 260-270 CE in the Roman Empire, likely purchased from an incredibly wealthy member of Roman society, given the costs associated with commissioning a piece as large and ornate as this one.

I was, honestly still am, in awe of this piece. I’ve gone back to look at it multiple times. There is something so awe-inspiring about ornate detail etched into stone, and this sarcophagus embodies that feat to me. While it’s striking to look at, the placement of all of the different figures together in this living mosaic felt very representative of life to me; especially with two Godly figures looking on and watching, as if waiting in the shadows of a lifetime. Coupled with the fact that this imagery is captured on a sarcophagus, it felt deeply meaningful to me. This is why I was so surprised to learn that this design was a preset in the sculptors portfolio, depicting a well known scene centering a God many formed cults around at the time, so it didn’t hold nearly as much individual meaning as I had originally thought. It’s almost funny, to me, that this final resting place that seemed so representative of the most fruitful parts of living likely wasn’t purchased with the same thought. What made this piece important to the commissioner? And realistically, it can’t have been in the dirt that long if it was ever buried, given how pristine of condition it is in and the lack of lid, so I can’t help but wonder how that came to be. If someone was buried in it, where do their bones lie now? If it was never used, what was used instead? Most importantly, why were those decisions made? They likely weren’t made by the person who commissioned the piece, but the people he left on Earth after death.

It brings me back to the memories of my grandfather’s death. After the funeral all of the family got to go through his house and choose what they wanted to keep to remember him. I chose a pair of boxing gloves, a beautiful orange glass lamp decorated with hanging crystals all around the base of the lampshade and a wallet-size black and white photo of my grandfather around his high school graduation. My mom got an ornate looking silver frame to display in my room, and my aunt wrote the message I instructed her to on the back to mark the occasion

“Leon Rodney Boyce

My grandpa, he praised the Lord with all his heart! I love him!!

Cheri, Mallory, Doll, Scott, Stephanie, Alex, Joe, Grandma Boyce”

Whether it was the decision to keep the sarcophagus or sell it opposed to using it for its intended purpose, is a mystery of history that can never be known, but was most certainly a circumstance at some point in time. And nearly two thousand years later, it’s sitting on display for millions of people to see, with no way to share the story of how it got here, except for what’s been displayed on the front and sides and a small inscription on the back.

In researching the piece, I came to learn that it was depicting a scene deemed a roman “triumph,” which was a ceremonial parade through the streets put on by leaders to celebrate a specific event or accomplishment, from the Olympic Games to military victories (Boardman, 2014). “Dionysos’ Triumph,” in particular, was seen as the triumph of the living over death. With this knowledge, coupled with the socioeconomic status of the commissioner, it’s likely that they chose such a grand and ornate depiction of an immortal scene as a way to commemorate how they feel their accomplishments in life would sustain them in their death. In a lot of ways, it’s sad, because I know it’s not true. His grand sarcophagus is on display for millions of people to see all this time later, but any recognition or claim he or his family held over this art is long gone, as well as their memory.

Aside from the memories around my grandfather's death, the only memory I have of him was a giant stuffed cheetah and karaoke machine he got for me and my sister one year for Christmas. It was the only Christmas, hell, the only holiday I remember seeing him, but I ranked him highly as a child because of this. Even as a child, I knew my paternal grandparents' relationship was different from my maternal ones’. Grandpa and Grandma Yost lived together at their house, and Grandma Boyce lived with us, and I had no idea where Grandpa Boyce lived. Until I had to miss school to see him lie in bed at this mysterious house. And then he was dead, and I didn’t think about it much. He wasn’t a big part of my life before, not nearly as much as the rest of my family, so his death didn’t hold a big part in my life either, and this seemed normal to me. If I had to guess where the cheetah and karaoke machine are right now, I’d say they’re probably lying in a landfill somewhere, covered by layers and layers of other people’s plastic.

While Dionysos is meant to be the focal point, I believe the way in which everyone is intertwined around him is really what caught my eye, and what makes the piece feel so complete. I see it as a panoramic timeline of life, and the impact one individual can have on their environment throughout it. On the left side, we see Creation, curiously watching the fruits of Her labor, and the right side seems to me to be the masculine side to that coin, some overseer of death, waiting for His time. In between is the fruit of that labor. Gods and people and babies and animals, all fitting in together and relating to each other in a way that creates a perfectly cohesive picture. All of the lore and religious meaning behind Dionysos aside, I see him at the center of this as the architect, as if the people branching out are the generations of people his existence founded, for better or for worse.

On another day out at the MET, in the middle of all my research about this piece, I was wandering around the museum with my friend Nicole when I brought her to the Roman Court to see it, and she was astounded by the craftsmanship as well.

“I can’t even imagine all the kinds of tools it must’ve taken to create all this detail, or how they went about making them in the first place.”

We were standing in front of the sarcophagus, just staring in wonder. Her words of amazement validated my hyperfixation, but her next thought as we walked around the piece gave me a lot of pause throughout the next couple days.

“Where are all the women? All I see is male figures, besides the left.”

She was right, and it was unusual, even for the time. It was commonplace for the Four Seasons to be represented as fully grown, robust women in Roman art, so the switch to young men was both novel, and served to drown out the feminine energy within the piece. I can’t help but wonder if this change was intentional too, given the peak physical form the men surrounding Dionysos are, and the knowledge that this sarcophagus was likely the resting place for an aging man. Sitting with the feelings this brought me caused a lot of internal struggle too. How was it that I could extract so much meaning about the complexities of life from this piece, when I can’t even see myself represented within it? It’s not an ideal I want to emulate in my life, given the centuries upon centuries of people like me having to make space for the egos of the men in their lives. I think this long held truth is still so upsetting to me because I didn’t have a real understanding of how closely it’s impacted my life until relatively recently, when I learned something that caused me to hide the frame holding my grandfather’s picture in a shoebox in my closet, and make plans for a cross country road trip to Michigan to drive back the fragile lamp from my mom’s house to promptly sell it for the cash.

What’s funny about being a kid is that the chaos of what’s happened before you is ever present in the words, actions and circumstances of those immediately around you, but you don’t get a clear view of what’s actually going on until you’re old enough to understand it. A lot of the time, people will try to make that decision for you. My grandma never actually told me my grandfather was abusive. I had to come out and ask. After several attempts of prying into the reasons for her divorce and getting veiled, polite answers, years after I had moved from Michigan I was back on a visit and we had gotten into a long discussion about her marriage with Leon.

“Did he hit you?”

“Yes.”

For every other question, my grandma had no concern for brevity in her answer. She held specific memories from decades back, remembering what she said, what she heard, what she cooked, and all I got was “yes.” That wasn’t an invitation for further questioning, it was an answer and a line. ‘Yes, he did, no I will not say more.’

The rage this knowledge unleashed in me is a rage I’m sure I’m not alone in feeling throughout the years. Over the span of civilizations, societies, and all the progress we’ve been able to make as a human race, we still hurt each other the same. And, much of the time, that harm and hurt never gets to be addressed, all in the name of upholding an intangible sense of honor. We strive to remember people for the best parts of themselves, while ignoring and pushing away the parts that horrified us. What we leave behind when we leave this Earth are the material possessions that will outlive us, and the relationships we built with the people around us. Death doesn’t heal the wounds we inflicted on others, it only leaves them open to rot without being able to confront the source. We want to project this legacy of victory, of accomplishment and success without truly reconciling the harm that remains whether it is named or not.

My grandfather hurt my grandma, his children, and the generations of people that resulted from that union, but above all, he sabotaged himself. One of the most fascinating parts of this deep family shame is how much love exists in my family despite it; and it is a love that I didn’t see my grandfather get to know or experience in a meaningful way. The people he hurt, while imperfect, managed to learn to grow and love in ways that didn’t cause so much pain and dysfunction, but he didn’t seem to grow with them. I don’t know if it was shame, or some other deep seeded emotion that kept him from us until his very last days, or if I’m projecting emotions onto a man that was never connected enough with his own to be aware enough to name them. Realistically, it can’t be known, but I do know that the product of this dysfunction, while requiring work to grow stronger and more stable, is still a beautiful family that I am proud to be a part of.

Nearly two thousand years after the creation of this piece, the sarcophagus stands in one of the most significant museums in what’s considered the capital city of the world, completely disengaged from its roots an entire ocean away. Its stone has and will outlive anyone who sees it, and as such, it holds far more memories than we ever could. Eighteen years after my grandfather's death, I finally did get the chance to bring the orange glass lamp from Michigan to New York City, and it proudly sits in my living room. With all the complicated feelings I have around my grandfather and the legacy he left in my family, this lamp stands outside of it. I chose it at age six, yet it perfectly fits the eclectic vibe I’ve fallen into as an adult better than anything I could reasonably afford now. Something also tells me a woman in my family picked it out, with the bright orange color and borderline gaudy dangling crystal pieces, so it feels like a familial heirloom that I picked out for myself years ago, almost prophesying the person I was meant to become. The boxing gloves are shoved in my closet, because after learning just a few details about my grandparents' marriage, choosing them back then feels like a sick joke, but I can’t imagine donating them or giving them to another family member for the same reason. The photo with the writing on the back is in the back of the frame now, which displays a photo of my boyfriend and I. Part of me thinks I’ll grow out of this hatred at a man who’s been dead well over a decade, but the way every other person in my family just swallowed the shit makes me want to hang onto it forever. Someone has to. I haven’t decided yet, so the photo stays.

I may be projecting my specific pain onto this relic, but familial circumstances aside, it stands perfectly encompassing the range and effect one person can have on their environment over the course of a lifetime, while telling nothing of the person it was meant to hold. This piece could and likely does hold a range of different meaning to all of the different people who have seen it over its lifetime of being displayed in different places in different eras, and none of those could be aligned with the true history and meaning of this piece, which died with the people who were there to live through it. There’s such an alluring mystery within that, but that mystery can be painful when you’re a part of the mosaic. And, realistically, the only actionable way to make that mystery special and impactful in a positive way, is to recognize the impression you will leave on others and work to leave a presence you can be proud of, before it fades away like we all inevitably do. I can’t affect my grandfather’s legacy, only my own. For everyone’s sake, I don’t intend to make the same mistakes.

Samantha Boyce is a Michigan native who moved to New York City at eighteen years old. In her youth, she was a Staff Writer for Affinity Magazine, having multiple articles published, all centered around social justice and mental wellness. In 2020, she began schoool, and is currently designing a Bachelor in Arts degree in Restorative Justice and Dispute Resolution through the Cuny Baccalaureate for Unique and Individual Studies program at John Jay, set to graduate in the winter of 2024.