ALL IS WELL
The poem “Death is Nothing at All” by Henry Scott Holland conveys the idea that the death of a loved one “is nothing; it changes nothing,” as everything experienced together remains intact, unchanging. According to Holland, death has merely moved that person “to the next room,” where they patiently await reunion with those left behind. Holland advocates for those who remain to experience loss in a light and natural way, without condemning the deceased to become a somber, unspoken memory.
Using this poem as a guiding thread, this editorial piece connects two independent photo collections by the same photographer, Álvaro Arissó. The two collections not only share the essence of the photographer but occasionally feature the same subjects, captured in very different times and contexts. Leveraging these incidental similarities and differences, a narrative unfolds that complements the poem at the heart of the piece.
This dialogue between life/death and presence/absence culminates in the art direction that captures the physical piece. The setting is designed to be sterile and inert, allowing the publication to be showcased in its entirety. Color plays a pivotal role, as the photos might appear in black and white were it not for the unapologetic interruption of blue — in the sky, the model, and the piece itself — breaking the sterile white of the walls.
Death is nothing at all,
Henry Scott Holland
Death is nothing at all. It does not count. I have only slipped away into the next room.
Nothing has happened. Everything remains exactly as it was. I am I, and you are you, and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged. Whatever we were to each other, that we are still.
Call me by the old familiar name. Speak of me in the easy way which you always used. Put no difference in your tone. Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow. Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together. Play, smile, think of me, pray for me. Let my name be ever the household word that it always was. Let it be spoken without an effort, without the ghost of a shadow upon it.
Life means all that it ever meant. It is the same as it ever was. There is absolute and unbroken continuity. What is this death but a negligible accident? Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? I am but waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just round the corner. All is well.
