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Publishing Photos of Dead People

When I write a “blog” here, it is about Arts and Culture, and the case of the late David Carradine fits both categories. I have seen him in a few of his B-movies before I watched his performance in Kill Bill One and Two, although I’ve never seen the Kung Fu series. He also produced and starred in Richard III (2008), so the aficionados of Shakespeare adaptations should certainly check out the film.

This is about Art. Culture comes in when we consider his death. It is widely accepted today that when someone dies we are in for a long reading of multiple stories of their lives and exits. The amount of stories depends on various factors, from their age (e.g. Rhys Jones) through their status (David Carradine, e.g.) to the circumstances of their deaths. The more details surface, the more stories published. Add to this blogs, and now Twitter, to get the idea of how much information is spitted out in no time.

And now something very different happens: a Thai tabloid publishes what is alleged to be a photo of Carradine as he was found in his hotel room. I read the following three posts –

Carradine Death Photo Published in Thai Tabloid

Sick But True: Thai Newspaper Publishes David Carradine Death Scene Forensic Photo, Family Beyond Outraged

David Carradine’s Death Photo

and I am now wondering about the question posited in the post’s title:
Publishing photos of dead people – is it OK or not?

The first thing we must do, which will serve justice to the argument and all parties involved, is to determine why the photo needs to be published at all. As you know, I originally came from the country that was invaded during the World War Two. The Nazi atrocities across the invaded territories of the Soviet Union were commemorated in both photographs and documentaries. While Soviet photographers were taking photos of the killed citizens, Lee Miller, Vogue‘s correspondent during the war, was snapping the killed Nazis and taking a bath in Hitler’s tub.

My tone above is not very serious but reflects well my attitude to those images until 2003. I sympathised with the victims, but as I said elsewhere, this past was already quite distant. Then the Iraqi war had started. Suddenly I felt very deeply about the citizens who were inevitably going to perish. And then I saw the photographs of casualties on the Al-Jazeera website, and for the first time, looking at the picture of a dead young boy, realised that, physically, we are nothing but tissue that can be violently torn into pieces.

I wholeheartedly believe that photos of war atrocities must be published. The photos of victims of terror attacks must be published. There may be certain considerations and some sort of guidance – but the pictures of humans killed by other humans for whatever lofty goal must not be hidden behind some cowardly assumptions of appropriateness. There is nothing appropriate about mass murder.

And, of course, there may be political victims, like John Lennon, and publishing or distributing their photos at death will depend on the impact the parties involved want to achieve.

But then, sadly for today, people can simply be killed – as was the case of Rhys Jones. Or, as with Carradine, they can be found dead, chained in their closet in a hotel in a foreign land. Speculations abound, but now that the Thai tabloid has released the forensic photo, the question rises: why? Even if Carradine’s death wasn’t accidental, what does publishing the photo serve to illustrate?

I will never tire of citing the concerns BBC Manchester Blog raised amidst the Virginia Tech tragedy in 2007: how appropriate is it to encroach on one’s private life? And in case with Carradine we, after all, are talking about a private individual, however famous, who evidently had his secrets. But, by the look of things, secrets they are no more: if the published photo is authentic, then the dead actor is likely to be denied every bit of posthumous privacy. This makes sense in our gossip-driven, link-baiting world. But does it really make any sense?

The Professional Fallacy of Historians

Back in 2006, when I wrote Tudors, Me, and an Elusive Ghost, I explained why I chose to specialise in 16th c. history, or even more narrowly, in Tudor history:

I chose to specialise in Tudor history because I loved England, the English language and culture, and because I adored Medieval and Early Modern History, but wanted to be closer to the modern times, thus I opted to research into the 16th c. It was an absolutely amazing period of time, as far as I’m concerned. The geographical and scientific discoveries, Renaissance and Baroque, the beginnings of cartography and research into the Solar system, on the one hand, – and Reformation, the Wars of Religion, the Inquisition, and slavery, on the other. The co-existence of the opposites has made the 16th c. irresistibly attractive. I don’t think I would want to study any other time, had I been given the choice once again.

In 2009 I am to admit that there are some corrections to be made. For example, I’ve always loved France and French language, and with my interest in 18th c. and the Enlightenment I could well go and study 18th c. French history. Arguably, as far as using the Russian archives goes, this would be a better period to study. But, looking back and around, I think I am the kind of person who never (or rarely) follows the beaten track. Sometimes it makes life harder, but usually yields good results in the long run.

I remember about the English Quinquecento – I purposely use the Italian term as it better denotes the exact date – each time I look at my watch and see “15:47”. 1547 was the year when Edward VI Tudor ascended the throne at the age of 9, upon Henry VIII’s death. From what I remember, it was my supervisor in Russia who offered me “The Privy Council under Edward VI” as a possible topic. The volumes of the Privy Council papers that I needed were not available either in Moscow or in St. Petersburg. But there were other sources, and my research turned into a “personal” history of the Privy Councillors. It surveyed their background, education, and cultural activities.

Little did I know, though, that I would find myself in the midst of the debate that is, frankly, somewhat ahistorical. To put it succintly, to this day there is bickering among historians regarding the degree of political skill and involvement on the part of Edward VI. He ascended the throne when he was 9, and died at the age of 15. It is difficult for our contemporary’s mind to ascertain a degree of intellect to this age, let alone any veritable raison d’etat.

Taken in the context of studies, this is a reverse of the situation when we explain things in the narrative by the almighty Author’s intent or life. Edward VI has long been hailed “the boy-king”, so in this scenario things are explained by the influence of his tutors and uncles. The paradox is that, as with the Author, if he or she is long dead, there is no way whatsoever to “know” anything exactly about the text, be it the meaning or composition. To state that whatever Edward wrote was influenced by his uncles means to be oblivious to the fact that people of all ages can be influenced by someone. Historical studies are influenced by other studies, as a matter of fact. But there is little doubt that Edward’s manuscripts were written with his own hand, and there must be the point when this begins to matter more than his age.

What an historian must also understand is that, although a boy, Edward VI was no ordinary kid, and not only because he was the only son of a father who had seven wives of which two were beheaded. He was an heir to the throne and a king in the making, and, comparing him to other young or less capable royal heirs, Edward VI’s life at court was rather fortunate. To understand how much worse it could be, we only need to consider the fate of Edward V in 1483.

And once again, Nietzsche’s phrase comes to mind: “Lack of historical sense is the family failure of all philosophers” because they had the common failing of starting out from man as he is now”. Looks like, as far as Edward VI studies are concerned, the lack of historical sense happened to be the family failure of historians themselves. It will never cease to amaze me how many academics were oblivious to this, as they were trying to wriggle past Edward’s works, and indeed Edward himself, because they didn’t see the forest for the trees – or the king for the boy. And so they turned a blind eye to the fact that this royal youngster was miles better versed in languages and history than the Royal Highnesses of today.

It’s not all that bad, of course: there is a posthumously published study by Jennifer Loach; a mammoth book on Edward’s involvement in the Reformation by Diarmaid MacCulloch; a provocative study by Stephen Alford that was laughed off by one established scholar. Thankfully, Prof John Guy did Alford’s study the justice:

It is bold, even radical, in its determination not to be distracted by conventional narratives of politics, and it explains extremely well how previous narratives have been constructed and why they don’t work. At the same time the book is sensitive to its competitors, and is skilfully positioned in the space between Diarmaid MacCulloch’s Tudor Church Militant and Jennifer Loach’s Edward VI (quoted from Copac).


However, the attitude seems to continue following the statement from an official review at Library Journal: “
The subject, however, is not one of universal interest, recommending this book for academic libraries with collections in the area of English history and the Reformation” (about MacCulloch’s book – JD).

Of course, there’s more to Tudor Studies than Edward VI – likewise, there’s more than Elizabeth or Reformation to Tudor Studies. But somehow mid-Tudor scholars have to keep reminding their colleagues that without Edward and Mary the English Quinquecento would perhaps be too grand – and too dull. And so, not unlike their subject, those who study Edward’s reign are sandwiched between their genuine interest in the topic and the duty of explaining why they are fascinated by something that is not of “universal interest”.

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