How many photos do you have of your loved ones? Just on your phone or in the cloud, there might be hundreds. Even more tucked away in photo albums and boxes of old holiday snapshots from the days of analog cameras.
Now imagine having just one single photograph of a family member – and it being of their corpse.
In this post, we’ll explore how, during the Victorian era, people remembered their loved ones through a photograph of their dead body.
Images: Courtesy by Ann Longmore-Etheridge Collection
Above: Iola Haley Newell in her coffin 1901
Below left: A mother with her dead son 1863
Below right: Mrs. Della Powell 1894
The rise of the camera
In the Victorian era, grief was worn as much on the outside as it was carried on the inside. People dressed in mourning clothes, wore memorial jewelry, kept memory books, and followed a host of social rules throughout their mourning period.
The upper classes could commission painted memorial portraits of the deceased, something far too costly for most ordinary families.
By the 1840s, as photography became more commercially available, a new tradition emerged: post-mortem photography.
Suddenly, more than just the wealthy had the chance to preserve a memory of the departed. Photography was still expensive and formal, so for poorer families a post-mortem photograph was often the only picture ever taken of that person.
Peaceful illusion and macabre realism
The technology was still slow and required plenty of light, so early post-mortem photographs often show the deceased lying in bed (or a cradle for children), placed near a window and bathed in natural sunlight. The effect was serene – as if the person were only sleeping.
By the later 19th century, cameras had grown more sophisticated and the images became more artistic. It became common to show a mother holding her deceased child, or the dead – lying down or seated in a chair – surrounded by their family. A widow beside her late husband. A last – sometimes the only – photo together.
It was not unusual to add a touch of color to the cheeks, or even paint pupils onto open eyes in the final print, to give an illusion of life.
There are also post-mortem photographs showing clear signs of illness, trauma, or the first stages of decomposition.
These different “styles” could depend on the family’s wishes and their views on death, the clothing or decorations available, or simply the time it took to gather enough money to pay the photographer.
The demand for post-mortem photography began to decline after the turn of the century, as it became more common to have several photographs of a person taken while alive. By the 1920s and 30s, the tradition had all but disappeared.
The myth of posed corpses
One of the most widespread myths about post-mortem photography is that photographers used stands, wires, or strings to pose the deceased upright in family photos or to make them hold a pose. This is not true.
It would be like trying to make a rag doll cooperate. If you prop up the person’s chest, their shoulders roll forward. Support the shoulders, and the chin drops. The end result simply wouldn’t be worth the effort.
If you see a photograph said to be post-mortem where the subject’s head is resting against a stand, it was actually to help living sitters remain perfectly still during the long exposure time. Try sitting motionless for 30–50 seconds yourself - it is not easy!
As for the rigid expressions, it’s simply because people were doing their best not to move a muscle while the image was captured. A stern, still face was easier to hold than a lively smile.
Sometimes the eyes in these photos appear cloudy or white – this was due to how blue pigment was rendered in early photography, often showing up as very pale or white. That “vacant stare” was, in many cases, just blue eyes.
Whether the photographs show peaceful repose or the body’s fragility, the purpose was the same: to preserve a memory of the one who had passed. For many families, it was the only photograph ever taken – which made it priceless.
The next time you take a selfie or snap a picture of your loved ones – will you see it as just another in the feed, or as a memory beyond value?
A short story with Quinley & Herrow
Who are Quinley and Herrow?
In Coffinfolk Café’s stand alone short stories, you’ll meet two most unlikely friends:
Quinley – Coffinfolk’s café host. A young woman who loves life just as much as she loves exploring the cultural heritage of death and sharing advice, information, and insights that can help people – whether they are facing their own encounter with Death or living with grief.
Herrow – Death himself. He may look frightening in his black cloak, but beneath the bones is a kind soul who enjoys a cup of coffee and sharing experiences gathered from every corner of time.
You can find a longer introduction + a short story about their first meeting HERE
“A Portrait of Death – A Memory for Life”
Narrated by Quinley
How I had been looking forward to this day!
I froze mid-motion, my hand still trying in vain to tame a stubborn lock of hair, and bit my lip. This bubbling joy would have to be pushed aside for now—I was supposed to play a grieving widow, after all.
Leaving the bathroom, I nearly tripped over the long folds of my dress.
“Good grief! Just my luck if Harley ends up mourning me instead—without faking the tears.”
After some wrestling with the fabric—the gown was inspired by Victorian mourning attire—I slipped on my shoes and took a few testing steps. Oh, I already missed my sneakers. Even with the low heel, I felt a little unsteady.
I glanced at the clock and swore loudly. “Damn it, I’m going to end up playing the corpse after all—only without a ‘husband’ to mourn me!”
The front door slammed shut behind me as I fumbled with my keys.
“Herrow—I could really use a lift to the café!” I hissed between clenched teeth, focusing on taking one step at a time down the stairs.
I heard the soft rustle of fabric beside me and stifled a gasp as the Grim Reaper scooped me up into his arms.
“Not inside the café—outside!” I managed to whisper just before we vanished into nothingness. I buried my face against Herrow’s cloak as the familiar gust of wind tugged at loose strands of hair across my shoulders.
“As you wish my lady; outside the café.” His bony yet unnaturally strong arms set me gently down on solid ground again.
“Thank you, you’re an angel!” I brushed off invisible travel dust from the flowing black fabric of my dress.
“Some have called me that…” Herrow chuckled as he walked toward the café door. I hurried after him and unlocked it.
Even though I knew what I would see inside, it was hard not to flinch. It’s not every day you see your boss lying in an open coffin. Well, okay, I had seen just that before—but today he was dressed in a black suit that hadn’t been in fashion since the late 1800s, accompanied by a photographer who not only had a replica antique camera but had also rigged up a makeshift darkroom in Harley’s office. The air smelled sweet and chemical. Alcohol and ether?
The photographer, Julia, turned around and waved at me with a wide smile.
“Welcome to Coffinfolk’s improvised photo studio, Quinley!” She turned back toward the coffin where Harley lay with his eyes closed. “Stay still—20 seconds to go!”
When the camera captured the image, Julia pulled out the plate and hurried into the office, disappearing beneath the black drape of the small tent she’d set up on the desk to develop the picture.
Harley sat up, blinking like a freshly roused owl.
“Sorry, I lost track of time…” I squeaked, hurrying over to the coffin.
“No harm done, my dear ‘wife.’ These photo sessions aren’t to be rushed.” Harley reached for a water bottle, took a sip, then lay back down. “I barely recognized you dressed like this.”
“Likewise.” I giggled.
Julia came back out, clapping her hands together a few times.
“Alright, let’s see. Quinley, if you sit here—” She pushed a stool next to the coffin. “Lean in like this, rest your hand here, and tilt your head a little this… a little more… perfect!” She turned to Harley again. “Same as before—play dead. If anything itches or tickles, tough it out. Ready?”
We both gave a small nod and Julia disappeared again to prepare the next plate.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the café’s little guardian and mascot, the church grim Grimmy, sneaking out of a dark corner, his big amber eyes locked on the camera tripod.
“Oh no, don’t you dare, you little rascal!” Herrow laughed, scooping up the pitch-black creature into his arms.
Julia returned shortly after and slid the plate into the camera.
“Forty seconds starting… now!” She lifted off the lens cap and started a timer. “There’s a very special atmosphere in here. You can almost feel Death’s presence—but in a comforting way.”
I bit my cheek to stop myself from reacting to her words, when Death himself—currently giggling with a church grim in his arms—stood right at her side. If only she could let herself see one of them, or both, she’d understand why Coffinfolk was so special.
Each second felt like a minute as I sat leaning over the coffin where my “husband” lay. Even though I knew Harley would soon sit up, that all this was just theater, the feeling crept in of how it would be if it were real.
Julia’s encouraging countdown blurred into background noise.
What if this had been the only photo I had with Harley? What if this was one of our last moments together before his funeral…?
Now I wished time could stand still.
My hand rested on Harley’s, and I couldn’t help but squeeze it. When I felt him squeeze back, I could finally breathe again. Theater. It is only theater.
The rest of our photo session was an exciting and deeply emotional experience.
It was fascinating to re-enact a tradition in this way—and it gave me a newfound appreciation for the photos I already have, and the ones I’ve yet to take, of my loved ones.