Living Urns

I've been thinking about what to do with ashes, trying to think outside the urn. Currently I'm knitting a new urn cozy to replace an earlier version (I'm still low on the knitting learning curve.) What else can be done with them? How can ashes be used in a way that's beneficial?

For one thing, ashes are rich in phosphorous, which helps plants grow. So what about a Living Urn? A little terrarium globe like this one from Doodle Bird Designs could make a lovely and discreet home for a small amount of a loved one's ashes. I know this may be a little odd, but the idea grows on me (no pun intended!)

Libraries of Dust

For those who choose to be cremated, there are a lot of decisions about what to do with the ashes. But what if you didn't have a choice? What if your ashes were stashed in a utilitarian canister, anonymously hidden away with others in a dark storage room? It sounds like a tragic fate. Yet photographer David Maisel has uncovered a strange and beautiful alchemy that has occurred in the realm of the forgotten.



In his book Library of Dust, Maisel photographs the ashes of patients from the Oregon State Hospital (formally the Oregon State Insane Asylum, the location where One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest was filmed.) The canisters of the unclaimed are kept in a room with pine shelves, ordered as if they were books - literally libraries of dust. Maisel noticed how some of the cans corroded, transforming from stamped anonymity into hauntingly beautiful objects. The people here may have been forgotten in life, but in death they have become unique works of art.




This has me thinking about the nature of urns. We want them to be stable, permanent objects, stand-ins for the inevitable loss of our physical bodies. But what about an urn that changed with time? Evolved with the elements? Someone should make copper urns. And for some reason, I love the simple, utilitarian shape of the canister.

Rest in Pieces

Most urns are designed to convey a sense of permanence. I think this comes at a cost - traditional urns have a fake monumentality to them, feeling cold and impersonal. Urns don't need to look like ancient artifacts or bank vaults to have meaning. I'm still looking for designs that are warm and feel welcome in the home.

Product designer Nadine Jarvis's ceramic urn defies any sense of permanence. In fact, its design includes a built-in scattering, a return to nature on its own terms. This urn hangs by a thread, literally. In time (1-3 years) the thread disintegrates. The ashes plume into a final cloud, and that's it.



Although this project is more conceptual, I love the idea of a gradual return to nature. Holding on to the ashes seems to coincide with the natural process of grief, almost timed to let go when we are also finally ready to let go.

My Life as a Book

I have always loved the metaphor of books as a life well lived. Every day is like a new page, and at critical junctures in our lives we close old chapters to begin new ones. As objects, books are like our bodies - they grow old, weathered, and are eventually destroyed, but their words live on in the hearts of others.

It's no coincidence that Powell's Books in Portland, Oregon, the largest bookstore in the world, is also a coveted destination for dearly departed book lovers. Apparently many people have requested to be buried here, and according to Powell's blog, there are ashes beneath the Pearl Room (and I'm sure many others are surreptitiously scattered throughout the store.)


Yet it's the legendary Pillar of Books, a nine foot high column on Powell's northwest entrance, that stands as the ultimate memorial. This impressive column is carved to represent a stack of world classics. But it's actually an elaborate urn - an reader's ashes are interred within. It's hard to pass by this column without reflecting on ones own mortality, which I suppose is the point of any good book.


I hope to see more urns or memorials that make use of books. So far, I've only found this expensive and stoic book urn, but it's a start.