Walking up to the heavy metal gates, the museum is a rather foreboding looking structure. It is in the middle of a run-down stretch of Holly Wood separated from the glitzy veneer a few blocks down. The dirt is still caked on in this part of town, perhaps even thicker. The sun was gone, and everything was lost in this sick peachy glow of smog and light pollution. A giant painted skull adorns the entrance to the museum, a stylish reminder of what lies inside: Death. Sparse and dry as bone itself.
You open the gates and the place feels almost deserted. For some reason I was a little surprised by how scarce staff were or how intimate the actual building was; I suppose Death is after all, an acquired taste. When we walked up to the building, the first room we were greeted with was the gift shop. Tee shirts and posters and magnets lined the walls, and a desk occupied the center of the room. It was big and demanding, like a podium. Perched atop that desk was a very kind woman, who kept her tickets in a miniature coffin-shaped box. My friends and I stumbled in high as kites and, not knowing what else to do, made meandering small talk with the woman for what must have been an hour. I was half expecting her to ask for the secret handshake or password or knock before we could cross the velvet curtains and enter the museum. It was as if we had stumbled into the front lobby of some underground society and we were all struggling to remain "cool" and divert attention from the fact that we were novices.
Somehow, the small talk managed to charm the woman, rather than come off us patronizing and desperate. We got into a long conversation (I really forget how) about her evening at the Los Angeles County Coroner's. Her eyes lit up. I don't think I had ever seen a person muster up so much excitement to explain a situation that to most people, would have been beyond dismal. "I had to leave the room several times just to vomit" she exclaimed, "the mask they gave us is sitting outside; it still reeks of putrid flesh". She was like a kid in a candy store, if the candy were dead people. You could tell she was legitimately passionate about her line of work; she approached death the way I approached digging for worms as a kid. The shimmer in her eyes as she graphically described the process of decomposition, was equal parts morbid fascination and humbled awe of the complexity of nature. For as much as she was repulsed by the stench of it and excited by the nastiness of it, she was also just really humbled by Death. She respected it. Well, in the same sort of way most school boys respect bugs and dirt and volatile chemicals. "Did you know that they drag the bodies around with ropes, and that they are too broke to afford individual body bags, so instead the cadavers are left to soak in plastic pools. You could grow cauliflower on one of those things." She even showed off to us the putrid surgical mask, her trophy, that she had left outside to air.
Before she took our money and gave us our tickets, she directed our eyes to a little picture that was taped to the front of the desk of a gentleman in a motorcycle accident whose body looked more like poultry than person. "This is the longest man in the world and if you can't stomach this, then you may want to reconsider the rest of this exhibit. We have had several people faint today, so be smart and if at any point you need to sit down or turn around, please do!", she said with controlled enthusiasm. You could tell there was urgency in her voice. Letting us into her museum of mortification was bestowing a lot of faith and confidence on to us. I suppose we proved our merit by sticking our noses so close into the image that whatever ink they used wafted into our nostrils. We asked questions and spouted off jokes. She entertained them. I became very intimately acquainted with the fresco of brains a la asphalt on that photograph. It was like Christmas all over again as she guided us through those initial double curtains and left us on our own.
At first, I was really apprehensive, I can't reiterate that enough. I consider myself to be rather open-minded but also incredibly sheltered and sensitive to gore. I didn't know how harmonious those traits would prove to be. In the first room, I felt my anxiety rise, my temples throb, and my senses all unanimously perk up.
The museum began with their collection of serial killer illustrations and writings. There were absolutely ingenious illustrations, letters, first person accounts, and even a collection of hand-made pop-up cards. I think serial killers are a common fascination, or at least, I seem to run into all of the nut jobs who share the fascination. It was a good room to start off with, and probably the most entertaining. Apparently crazed homicidal maniacs have a pretty entertaining sense of humor. The subsequent rooms became more and more intense and provided significantly fewer opportunities to joke (we found them anyway). I had a silly fan-girl moment when I noticed the Rozz Williams tribute to the museum, complete with the very cabinet door on which he hanged himself. There were also electric chairs, coffins, infant death portraits, car accidents, and rooms dedicated to the Heaven's Gate, Manson, Dahlia, and a movie reel of gruesome execution and death footage. The worst of said footage was re-capped in slow motion.
The place often felt more like a maniacal fan's shrine than a museum installation. The arrangements felt painstaking and intimate, rather than sterile. There were no sophisticated alarm systems. No glass. No barriers. I walked in feeling a little wary of what I was embarking on, but I left really thankful for the place. This might officially make me a pervert, but I even enjoyed it. I would go back if given the opportunity (ahem with a camera because I need my picture with Rozz)! The enjoyment didn't sink in until much later, though. The shock had to work its way around in my head for a few hours before I could decide how to feel about any of it. I'm still not sleeping well after this, but I'm thankful for going, a little giddy even.
There is a deep sense of awe and reverence I have toward Death now. While sitting in a darkened room next to a taxidermied hog and a casket, my own corporeal problems went away. I couldn't think about my depression, my body image, my financial woes...it ll becomes so trivial when you're watching a man get his arms yanked clean off. I never had to stare at so much carnage before, and somehow there was a sense of peace in it. It was look getting out of bed and opening the closet door to confront the monsters, and realizing it was nothing but a shadow. It scares the pants off of you, but you get to work through that fear. I worked through that fear last night, and come out (still squeamish around gore) capable of being...God forbid....fascinated. Death isn't that scary, it's rather amazing actually. Decay, that horrible thing we don't want to ever have to face, isn't that bad. It's ugly, but its also a rather miraculous and efficient method of recycling. It's the final step in the cycle of life, and in dying you can become a part of the soil and the vast ecosystem that surrounds you, and will eventually incubate new life. In Middle School I read a poem proclaiming how in death we become food for worms. We cease to be human, and sink to the lowest realm of the food chain. That terrified me as a kid. We are worm food. We are worm food; but a garden could grow above your grave.
"Have a nice life!" The owners cheered as we left.
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