Rookwood Memorial Gardens & Crematorium in Sydney’s western suburbs is remarkable for a number of reasons, not least its size. With more than a million souls laid to rest there, it’s the largest cemetery in the southern hemisphere, Australia’s oldest place of interment, and the world’s largest Victorian cemetery still in operation.

 The dearly departed have been laid to rest at Rookwood since 1867. At one point the necropolis was even served by its own railway line with the deceased arriving from Sydney’s Central Station twice a day. And with over 90 different religious and cultural groups represented there via numerous monuments, memorials, war graves, gardens of remembrance, mausoleums and chapels, you will find online resources and books documenting Rookwood’s size and importance. But my interest in Rookwood is not about numbers.

 I have come to view Rookwood from the perspective of remembrance. Every single one of its silent inhabitants was unique in their own way. And I wanted to capture the essence of commemoration – the ways in which we remember our loved ones after they’ve ceased to be.

 I wanted to explore this thing called remembrance. What is it? How do we do it? And is the way we express loss and mourning related to wealth, culture, religion, societal norms or simply personal taste?

 The art of dying
Death is petrifying to many and thanatophobia has been a regular visitor to my bedside since adolescence, poking at my consciousness and gnawing at my peace of mind, keeping me from slumber. I drive past Rookwood twice a day, every day and on one particular journey I was drawn to go in. What I discovered amazed me. Gazing at names on headstones I felt a connection: these are not just letters chiseled, etched or lasered into stone – these people lived – they were real people with stories to tell. But the only way to start to unpick those stories is by analyzing what you can see before your eyes. Some of the clues come not from words, but iconography and symbolism: Celtic crosses, broken columns, vases draped in cloth…

 In some cases entire families died on the same day in what one can only assume are tragic circumstances, and it’s important to remember the loss, even if they are strangers who lived a century ago. Clearly, that was the purpose of their loved ones when they put headstones and memorials in place. Choices are of course dictated by religion, culture, wealth and undoubtedly, trends. During Victorian times it wasn’t unusual to find people enjoying a day out at Rookwood, picnicking amongst the scroll-decorated plinths and memento mori – but these days the site is often empty – mourners perhaps preferring to lay it all bare up front via digital photographs and long inscriptions that read like Facebook statuses telling all there is to know.

There’s often a great poignancy in the contrasting ways in which families choose to remember: a very simple tombstone with a few gut-wrenching words alongside an elaborate, angel-bedecked stone urn creates great juxtaposition. So this project aims to bear witness to that intention of commemoration, exploring the theme: how will my loved ones remember me when I’m gone?