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T I N Y

In the ancient Greek tragedies we know, death almost always happens offstage. A messenger runs on to tell the audience what happened. Someone rolls out a cart with a body slumped on top. A bloody little diorama. Little means cute, but also nimble and able to survive. Little can tuck into a corner.

The body on the cart might also be limp in a kitchen, or slung on top of sheep. All red, and pulsing at the neck if you look closely enough. Sometimes it’s sweaty.

There is solemnity in looking at a body pretending to be dead. Pretending release. It’s almost funny, like a kid playing a joke. Because eventually, the lights come back.

With a fake dead body, there are no flies. No muscle spasms, no gut-gas. The audience is not forced to watch the last breath or the moment the eyes dull, or to feel anything about any of it.

This turns death into an object. A reference point. A glow.

It turns death into something anyone could understand or forget.