The more I looked at memento mori paintings, the more their very existence seemed to embody the beginnings of an answer. These paintings speak as much about life as they do of death. After all, putting brush to canvas, even in order to paint a skull, is a stubborn statement of creation in the face of decay. Nor did the careers of these Dutch artists become snuffed out with their depictions of candles and clocks. Memento mori painters produced all kinds of imagery. They rendered cavernous skulls and decaying flesh and then went on to paint other subjects, including sumptuous banquets and airy landscapes. They did not lay their brushes down, despite the visions of death and destruction that populate some of their canvases.
Rembrandt, again, provides an object lesson. The artist may have glimpsed his own mortality in his slaughtered ox, but he also continued to paint more hopeful versions of himself. In his 1658 Self-Portrait in the Frick Collection, Rembrandt appears as a cross between a Renaissance artist and a magisterial king. Shown life-size, he grasps the arms of his “throne” and stares down the viewer as if deigning to grant her an audience. In the context of the Dutch memento mori theme, this painting suggests a reversal of the seemingly inevitable movement toward death and decay: renewal of the flesh is possible after all, the portrait seems to state. For me, this evidence of renewal held out hope. If Rembrandt could metamorphose from flayed ox to Renaissance master or even mighty king, surely I could effect some small change of my own. My ambitions were far humbler than the artist’s. I did not aspire to rulership; I merely wanted to see my own flesh transformed from meat seller into writer.
My customer Jack joined Rembrandt in encouraging my professional aspirations. Jack faced a desperate situation in his wife’s illness—and, as a meat cutter, he dealt with the memento mori aspects of decaying flesh far more than did I—yet he also had certain ambitions. Each day I checked his order to ensure that our warehouse could cover the product he needed, and I called him if I spotted any problems. Not every customer asked me to do this, but Jack did; he wanted to be well informed so that he could do his job well. When I told him one day of my eventual plans to pursue writing, he said, with feeling, “Go for it. Life is short.”
Thus, despite the vanitas lessons of the warehouse, I could not help but cling, as Rembrandt did and as Jack advised, to my ambitions and dreams. I held fast to the hope of returning to my writing, of producing words that actually would sell. Roundy’s, I realized, was not merely a memento mori lesson; it was itself a passing stage in my life, as fleeting and ephemeral as a wisp of smoke. Standing back, I could watch it twist and curl. I realized that I was figured not only in the giant side of decaying beef in Rembrandt’s painting, but also in the woman peering out of a doorway at the carcass. The woman and the carcass almost merge, but in the end their bodies remain distinct. The ox is dead, but the woman, for now anyway, will go on. Resolutely, she clings to life.
Ultimately, we cling to life because we have hope. In Rembrandt’s painting the biggest sign of hope resides, paradoxically, in the dead ox itself. In the scholarly literature, this ox has been iconographically linked not only to death and decay but also and more monumentally to the Crucifixion of Christ. The ox is tied to a beam in much the same way that the soldiers lashed Jesus to his own tree, the peering woman (my alter ego) becoming a figure at the foot of the cross. Indeed, the majestic isolation of Rembrandt’s carcass, complete with its own spotlight, prompts viewers to contemplate this earthy scene with as much reverence as they would a bona fide religious subject. Rembrandt’s painting is thus far more than a memento mori; it is also a reminder of life. The great ox makes death “palatable”—a gruesome play on words that nevertheless retains validity given Christ’s command to eat of his flesh.
Mimicking a meat cutter, Rembrandt becomes a kind of pastor. And so did another meat cutter I knew, my husband’s maternal grandfather. During World War II, Granddad Byrne butchered meat for a mining company store in Pennsylvania, although this career was short lived. By the time I knew him, he had long since hung up his knives in favor of pastoring in the American Baptist church. In my mind, I picture him not wielding a cleaver or standing behind a counter but holding the Bible he carried with him nearly everywhere he went. I remember him not immersed in animal innards but officiating at the marriage of my husband’s oldest brother. What connection did Granddad Byrne make between his earlier career and his pastorate, between a side of beef and the sacrament of marriage? Did he see meat as Rembrandt did? I wish I had thought to ask him before he died.
Meat and marriage are connected in my own mind, thanks to my experience at Roun