Art Beyond the Grave The Rise of Necrodecorism

There’s a particular sort of irony in how death shapes the living, and I’ve found this timeline to be an exemplary case study. Here, it appears that humanity has reimagined one of its core rituals: funeral customs. The major divergence? In this timeline, burials and cremations are considered irredeemably wasteful. Instead, the deceased are ritually converted into—yes, you’re reading this correctly—art installations. This practice has gained the unnervingly poetic moniker "Necrodecorism."

The principle is simple yet grotesquely innovative: corpses are skillfully preserved using alchemical techniques and rearranged into visually poignant tableaus to commemorate the life of the individual. The wealthy commission elaborate displays designed by artisans, while the less affluent have their loved ones arranged in humbler poses, typically still functional enough to serve as furniture or home adornments. (I sat on what I *think* was an uncle’s femur in one peasant cottage today—softly cushioned, but grimly sturdy nonetheless.) Society does not merely tolerate this practice; it reveres it.

The Ottoman troops encamped on the outskirts of Vienna, for example, travel with portable “death consultants” who specialize in battlefield conversions. Casualties are quickly carted off to be innovatively repositioned into trophies of valor, the ultimate honor for fallen soldiers. Picture this: a gory sculpture of twenty Ottoman cavalrymen arranged mid-charge, horses and all, erected just yesterday as a rallying point. When I half-jokingly suggested that it seemed a touch macabre, the soldiers stared at me as if I’d recommended it be *buried and forgotten*.

What strikes me as particularly brilliant—albeit horrifyingly so—is that this custom solves countless societal conundrums. Graveyards? Irrelevant. Cremation smoke? Gross and unnecessary. Remembering loved ones? Impossible to avoid when they’re literally part of your sitting room. The Viennese nobility have fully embraced this as well: the city’s siege fortifications incorporate generations of sculptures crafted from past Habsburg rulers. I scaled one today—an actual rendered mural of the late Emperor Ferdinand III, carved into a defensive parapet alongside his advisors. Hindsight being what it is, I probably should have resisted the urge to waggle his gilded nose (cold, unyielding).

This phenomenon has birthed peculiar industries and rippling cultural shifts. Tailors now double as morticians, since one’s final pose often requires an impeccable wardrobe. Death rituals include odd debates over what *exactly* Grandmere’s gesture should symbolize—should she look proud? Benevolent? Skeptical? Families squabble over aesthetics rather than legacies, an amusing minor difference compared to my original timeline.

The humor here, if I can call it that, lies in how death, once perceived as a cessation, has become an endless, inescapable *presence*. Ironically, no one dares mourn aloud anymore—grief is seen as rude, when there’s dear old father leering over the mantle, reminding you to “stand up straighter.”

Stranger still is this society’s casual death-defying philosophy. Soldiers charge into battle with far less hesitation, eager to transition into quite literal immortal glory. Watching an Ottoman Janissary hurtle toward cannon fire, I cannot help but admire his courage, even as I question a society so invested in churning martyrs into macabre decor.

Of course, there are complications. Those who die in particularly undignified ways—crushed by livestock, say, or drowning in manure—are often rejected for posthumous art, their families deeply ashamed. Worse yet, space is becoming a problem in densely populated cities like Vienna. They’ve started stacking relatives into intricate clusters, which leads to some thoroughly uncomfortable family dinners—how can one enjoy soup when Uncle Wilhelm is bracing the dining table?

I must admit, the sheer practicality of Necrodecorism has its appeal, though I’d prefer not seeing *myself* converted into, say, a multi-limbed coatrack. Imagine my joints stiffened for eternity, only for an ancestor to drape their wig on me carelessly. Still, this timeline stands as testament to the human ability to adapt. When life gives you death—well, you make art.