Graves as Galleries

As a child, every road trip to our Texas ranch included an unexpected detour: graveyards. My dad would pull over, step out, and wander through the headstones, sometimes snapping photos. At first, I thought it was a little odd — maybe even unsettling. But to him, cemeteries weren’t about death; they were about life. The names, the dates, the way people were buried together — it all told a story.  

Eventually, his fascination rubbed off on me, though I saw cemeteries differently: while he saw history, I saw art. Cemeteries became accidental museums — each headstone a final self-portrait. Some were carefully chosen by the deceased themselves or their loved ones, others decided by strangers. Yet, no matter who made the choice, each grave left an impression, a testament to a life once lived.  

Like any gallery, cemeteries have their own artistic movements, from the dramatic arches of Gothic revival graves to the sleek lines of modern headstones; Art Deco mausoleums are finished with precision, while military graves stand in uniform rows. But some gravestones go beyond tradition, standing out in ways that feel more personal, more deliberate — almost like sculptures meant to be interpreted rather than just observed.  

At some point, I realised I had become something of an art critic — not of paintings or sculptures in a museum — but of graves. I study their composition, their symbolism, and their storytelling. What does a window in a tomb reveal about the person inside? What does a marble figure say about the man of its likeness? Which graves whisper their stories subtly, and which ones demand attention?

Before Merritt Beardsley died of a fever in 1865, he asked his father not to bury him underground, terrified of spending eternity in darkness. So his father honoured his wish by designing a tomb with a small window, allowing sunlight to trickle in. It’s a piece of art, really — blending love and fear into one design. However, the window isn’t just about light; it transforms the tomb into something dynamic, changing with the time of day and seasons. Even in death, Beardsley’s grave invites interaction, a quiet conversation between light and shadow.  

Then there’s the Luyties family plot in Bellefontaine Cemetery, where a striking marble sculpture of a woman stands in a stone chamber, encased behind a glass window to protect her from the elements. Her gown drapes over her feet, impossibly long, her eyes left open as if watching over the man who placed her there. But here’s the twist: she isn’t a member of the Luyties family. While travelling in Italy, Herman Luyties fell for a woman modelling for the Genoese sculptor Giulio Monteverde. She rejected his advances, but that didn’t stop him from commissioning Monteverde to carve a lifelike marble figure of her, possessing her in stone when he couldn’t do so in life.  

For years, the statue sat in his foyer. When it became too burdensome to keep at home due to its extreme weight, he moved it to the family burial plot. And when he died, he was buried at her feet. The symbolism is almost too poetic to ignore: she, is forever elevated and untouchable, while he lies beneath her. Even in death, his longing is palpable. Meanwhile, his wife and children are buried across the street.

Not all gravestones are grand gestures of love or fear — some tell stories of community. If you’ve ever stumbled upon a tombstone shaped like a tree stump, you’ve found a relic of a forgotten history. In 1890, Woodmen of the World, a fraternal benefit organisation, offered life insurance policies that included a unique perk: provided gravestones. But these weren’t ordinary markers. Members received elaborate stone carvings designed to resemble tree stumps, symbolising strength and a life cut short. Adults were honoured with towering stumps, while children received a stack of three logs. Each monument was deeply personal, with bark textures, severed branches, and carved inscriptions with small details to make every piece feel alive.   

Wandering through cemeteries, you start to realise that graves, like people, have personalities. Some are grand, demanding attention; others are quiet, waiting to be noticed. And while we like to think of death as an ending, these markers prove otherwise. They’re art, history, and storytelling encased in stone — a final statement left behind.  

I don’t visit graveyards because I find the macabre intriguing, and I certainly don’t visit them to be sentimental — I visit them because they are strange, open-air galleries where art and history collide. 

Illustration by Isabelle Holloway