I keep a painting of a skull and hourglass above where my laptop sits.
It helps me write.
Skulls bring a lot to the imagination. Most of which tend toward the grim: death metal, goth, Satanism, horror films, witchcraft.
You can thank bands like Metallica for that. Before skulls became the aesthetic of angry rock subculture, they were a contemplative symbol.
And, until a century ago, the skull aesthetic was very significant for Christians. In fact, if you found yourself in one of their homes between the 1700s to the 1900s, you might find skulls posted throughout their interior décor – kinda like how we now hang family photos. This was thanks to a trendy wave of art called “Vanitas.”
Named after the common refrain in Ecclesiastes – “Vanity of vanity, all is vanity!” (1:2) – Vanitas were designed to capture the emotion that “vanity” was going for. Which wasn’t necessarily about arrogance or self-obsession, like how we might think of someone who’s “vain.”
In Hebrew, “vanity” is hevel, which means “vapor” or “smoke.” Although chances are we should interpret hevel less literally than “vapor.” Loads of scholars translate it as “meaninglessness” or “futility.” Professor Robert Alter translates it as “merest breath.” The image it’s trying to evoke is that time and energy are always slipping away, disintegrating like mist – that generations come and go faster than most trees sprout and die.
Vanitas are artistic interpretations of hevel. Each painting was a still life; the point of view was of a table cluttered with random objects like fruit, coins, books, flowers, instruments, wine glasses, bubbles, chess pieces – stuff meant to symbolize life’s fleeting pleasures. Then, somewhere among those temporal objects, there would be two things: a skull and an hourglass (or sometimes a timepiece) – symbols of death and hevel.
Any 16th-18th century Christian who belonged to the art-buying class hung Vanitas throughout their studies or bedrooms. Their skulls and hourglass weren’t meant to cause depression. They were reminders to elevate the mind toward God. Passing glances at Vanitas were like a sedative to the stresses of day-to-day life. As philosopher Alain de Botton notes, they encouraged viewers “to find fault with particular aspects of their own experience, while at the same time attending more closely to the virtues of love, goodness, sincerity, humility and kindness.”
Each still life was like a memento warning against pursuing fame “in the record of man,” as Sir Thomas Browne put it; rather, we should find it “in the Register of God.”
They reminded viewers that no matter who they were, however famous or respected, unknown or forgettable, everything around them – the statues, buildings, committees, clocks, museums, award ceremonies – would eventually become dust.
Which, depending on your personality, might sound ridiculously morbid. But it’s not meant to put you in a depressive funk. It’s designed to help you narrow your thinking. Why are you doing what you’re doing? What’s this all really for?
Vanitas put you in the shoes of Ecclesiastes’ author: someone who’s seen, tasted, experienced, known, and conquered everything the world has to offer and still can’t shake the feeling that something’s missing.
This is pretty similar spot to what C.S. Lewis describes in one of his best quotes, “If I find in myself desires which nothing in this world can satisfy, the only logical explanation is that I was made for another world.”
Because, the truth is, there really isn’t anything in this world – no amount of work, pleasure, wisdom, leisure, travel – that’s going to leave us permanently satisfied. We’re a machine that never stops wanting. Turning those wants to God is really the only way to logically conclude our perpetual longings.
Vanitas also helped people realize the beauty in keeping death before the daily consciousness. Lots of wise people throughout history recommended this, too. In Thomas à Kempis’ Imitation of Christ, one of the most popular devotionals in history, he recommends meditating on death daily. To live each day as if we might be dead by nightfall.
In Ignatius of Loyola’s Spiritual Exercises, he tells readers that if they want to grow spiritually, they should contemplate this question everyday: if you were on your deathbed, what would be your regrets of today?
Many Christian monks even kept skulls on their desks. But they were made of actual bone – no silicon. Skulls were their “Momento Mori.” Which is Latin for “Remember that you will die.” It’s a contrast to the popular Epicurean philosophy of nunc est bibendum (“now is the time to drink” – similar to “eat, drink, and be merry”). These mementos taught monks that instant gratification, living for the moment, wasn’t all it was chalked up to be. Sometimes their momento mori’s were the actual skulls of past mentors. Which, though bleak, really cut to the heart of their purpose: no matter how much respect you store up on earth, it can’t come with you to heaven.
Before a century ago, death was a more blatant part of society. People used to die much younger, and conversations about it weren’t swept under the rug – they’d even have “in-home wakes.” Some traditions would even keep the coffins of recently deceased family in their living rooms for a week or more before burial.
But modern Western society lives in “denial of death.” It only enters our imaginations in worst case scenarios. And that makes the process of aging all the more difficult. The more we fight time and death, the harder they’ll fight us.
Psychologist Laura Carstensen’s studies on “time horizons” – the amount of time we think we have left to live – found that those who come to terms with their mortality can more easily surrender their anxieties and pressures to achieve. They’re also much more willing to live for others than for themselves.
Acclimating ourselves to death is wiser than the alternative. And for the modern Christian, accepting our limited time horizons would help us live more peacefully with God’s will, timing, and goal for our lives.
All this to say, I like my Vanitas. I’ve done all the go-to methods for alleviating anxiety – deep breaths, vitamin supplements, talk therapy, etcetera – but none of them work faster than this painting. When I get discouraged over my writing or lack of prestige, I just look above my laptop and remember. Most of my concerns are really non-concerns in the span of eternity – and that’s really truly beautiful. Anxieties over reputation or achievement or failure slowly lose their leverage.
I can’t control time. There’s no rush, no real need to hurry. Breathe, enjoy the moment. Suffering is normal. All creation is groaning, too. One day everything that’s wrong will be right. Yes – for now, it’s not. But one day it will be. As one rapper puts it, “It ain’t all good, but it’s all good.” A pillar of mental and spiritual health is the ability to accept reality as is, and that’s why my Vanitas helps calm my anxiety.