Canned Keats

A while ago I photographed some death masks on display in Edinburgh's National Gallery. They are extraordinary things, death masks. Despite the inevitable contortions, this closest possible contact with the actual face of yer actual Isaac Newton, say, is uncanny, to say the least. In a way, I suppose, the process is a sort of pre-figuration of photography, with plaster taking the place of photons.

The first such mask I ever saw was William Blake's, actually done in life, when it was reproduced on a flyer for an exhibition at Cambridge's Fitzwilliam Museum in 1970. It struck me then that it looked as if he were listening intently to some profoundly emotional music; Beethoven, perhaps, but possibly also "Gimme Shelter" (much more my style at the time, and still a chills-inducing touchstone), but probably not our friend M.R.I. Bach. Apparently, though, his expression was uncharacteristically severe, due to the discomfort caused by the process: exothermic plaster on the face (or, um, anywhere else on the body) is definitely something best experienced when dead. No need for straws up the nose, either.

Many of the masks I have seen since give exactly the same impression as Blake's; that is, intense closed-eye concentration on music or some other private and intensely pleasurable experience (stop giggling at the back there). Don't believe me? Check these out. So, looking again at a collage I'd made using my photo of John Keats's death mask, it struck me that something important was missing... Then I realised what it was. Much better!