A brief article on the Medieval genre of the Danse Macabre and a poem titled by the same name.
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| Lübecker Totentanz (Detail), Bernt Notke ~1463. |
The Danse Macabre (French) or the Dance of
Death, was a genre of art that flourished in late-medieval Europe, in which
an allegorical motif of the inevitability and suddenness of death was expounded
in paintings, prints, songs and poems. The Danse Macabre involved figures
who were dead, or “personified Death summoning representatives from all walks
of life to dance along to the grave, typically with a pope, emperor, king,
child, and labourer.”[1] The
inclusion of people from all spheres of social and religious profiles
articulated the universality of death, which comes equally to all.
The Danse Macabre was a reminder of the immanence
of death, and were produced in various artistic forms – especially visual and
orally – “to remind people of the fragility of their lives,” the importance of
using the time one has for good before the judgement, “and how vain were the
glories of earthly life.”[2] Such
thoughts dominated mid to late medieval life, in the face of the Bubonic Plague
which killed up to a third of Europe’s population, and which resurfaced at
various intervals over the centuries in death casing bouts.
The dance of death itself, was also an allegory inciting
the acceptance of death in those whose souls abided in their mortal frames. Depictions
of this ‘dance’ sometimes played out literally in forms of dancing skeletons or
corpses, or conceptually by the fact of a dead figure seeking to awaken the
living to the music of eternity by means of accepting to dance with death – that
is, to adjust one’s steps in life in view of their mortality.
| Detail of a miniature of the Three Living and the Three Dead, c. 1308 – c. 1340, Arundel MS 83. |
The Three Living and the Three Dead was among the
most popular legends which was often depicted in varying accounts in the form
of frescos. Generally, the scene is portrayed where three young gentlemen on
horseback meet three cadavers who are sometimes described as their ancestors,
who warn them with the words: “Quod fuimus, estis; quod sumus, vos eritis” – “What
we were, you are; what we are, you will be.”[3]
The Danse Macabre is by no means an irrelevant
quirk of the past, since death remains as inevitably and universally apart of
life today as it did then. Our Medieval predecessors are often dismissed as
ignorant and superstitious; yet there is a superior wisdom that flourished in
the Medieval world – a wisdom that comes from the cognisance of death which
carries with it an awareness of the place of temporal goods and life, not as a
hedonistic end, but as a means towards something greater that demands us to
live ethically and prayerfully in stride with the transcendent. A rendering of Ecclesiastes
7:4 speaks of such wisdom: “He is wise who ponders his death”.
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| Hans Holbein Engraving, 1549. |
In our own time it is necessary to stir up this wisdom shunned through a denial and fear of mortality. Or else it is pushed aside by its pseudo-counterpart that consists in a nihilistic despair that convinces itself death in and of itself gives meaning to life. Whereas if the grave is the final end, then it renders vain life itself, making its meaning no more than a construct passed down through a legacy that will likely be forgotten. Yet intrinsic and universal to the human heart are desires for eternal things - for endless happiness, relationship, and fulfillment. No intrinsically universal desire is an imaginary construct for non-existent realities. For just as the intrinsic thirst for water exists within us because water exists and we need it; likewise, the intrinsic thirst for eternity exists within us because eternity is real and we were made for it. The Danse Macabre imparts this wisdom which consists in reminding us of our mortality, but always in view of our eternity.
It seems pertinent to bring back from the grave of the past the Danse Macabre and to carry
on in this tradition, by formulating our own like-imageries of faith. For through such frescoes, which above all must be painted on the ceiling of our minds, God sacramentally
invites us to the dance with death – with the selflessness of the Cross. A dance of resignation, acceptance, and delight, through which we come to enter into the mystery of eternal life, because by dancing with the Cross of Death we dance with
Christ who says of Himself “I am the resurrection and the life.” (Jn 11:25).
The following poem is written in light of the tradition
of the Danse Macabre.
The night was thick,
but moon cut through,
Illumining in dark a
view,
An ancient scene that
feels quite new
That’s carried on
since Eden’s rue.
The skeletons awake from
tombs once sealed,
No lovely flesh their
bones revealed,
They scatter here and
scatter there
Like swarm of hare
that climb the burrow stair.
Across the grandest
floor of hall of life,
Towards their partners
scared with strife,
Each swans forth with strides
and a leap
As face to skull these
destined partners meet.
With a bow, each boned
figure states not name
But their once state in
life and fame,
An address which
ironically
Mirrors their mortal friend
identically.
With outstretched hand,
and sockets bare that glance,
Extends invite to join
the dance –
Some stand stiff
whilst others decline,
And few there are who
gladly join the line.
Yet nonetheless the
song that played from womb,
Its coda starts which
ends in tomb,
And those who hand
refused to take,
Are took in force by ministers
of fate.
And none are left out,
discriminated,
For poor and rich
alike share bed
Of dirt where all will
rest – since Pope,
King, and labourer all
form this dance troupe.
What contrast ‘twix
the skeletons and folk!
The first who gaily
dance and dote,
Smiling so it seems – posture
bright,
Whilst limp-sullen partners
are pale with fright.
“Must I dance now,
when I have much to do?”
Say some whilst dragged
through festal que.
“I cannot go! Please
come back soon!”
Say others scared who
fear impending doom.
Yet the pipes, the
violins, harp and flute,
Cymbals and fiddles resolute
Carry on, so the dance
goes on,
Heedless to the cries
of the summoned one.
A rare spectacle
indeed are the few
Who ready and eager stepped
in que.
The joy and elegance
of these
Exceeds their escorts dead
who seem thus pleased.
And Ah! not long has
passed from dance's start
When sounds the finest
key of art,
Whereat each skeletal
lead, spins
Their partner, holding
high their hand and sins,
And letting go, the
final note is struck
Whence hand in ribs skeletons
tuck
Whilst other hand
outlaid they bow,
As partner breathes
their last and falls to ground.
“What a dance! What a
dance! And all must dance.”
Each skeleton in
chorus chants.
As vultures come and
take the clothes
And rings, flesh, and
home from newly disclosed.
Then skeletons return
to sleep,
Carrying with them to
grave deep
Their newly gathered brethren
Whose souls have flown
to meet their en’.
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