[Tomb of Absalom, Zacharias, and St. James] 1860s

Editor: So, this is a landscape photograph from the 1860s, an albumen print titled "[Tomb of Absalom, Zacharias, and St. James]" by John Anthony, currently held at The Met. The sepia tones lend it an air of antiquity. What leaps out at me is the sheer scale of the landscape compared to the tombs; it almost makes them seem insignificant against the hillside. What's your take on it? Curator: The scale, yes, it's interesting isn't it? It reminds me a little of a stage set. I wonder what prompted Anthony to focus on these particular tombs in this way. Do you notice how the road almost forces your eye to meander through the landscape, yet the architecture almost blends into its surroundings? Editor: I see what you mean. It's like the natural world is slowly reclaiming these spaces. Were these pilgrimage sites back then, do you think? Curator: Possibly. What do you feel when you consider that these are tombs, spaces intended for rest? Does the image evoke peace, or perhaps a more unsettling contemplation of mortality? Editor: Actually, the muted palette gives it a peaceful feel, but you're right, the subject matter – tombs – throws in a somber note. What do you think people at the time would have felt about it? Curator: Perhaps a sense of connection to biblical history, a longing for the past. Maybe also the simple novelty of seeing such faraway places represented in a photograph. Though for us, used to immediate global imagery, that can be hard to imagine. It gives you a lot to consider, doesn't it? Editor: It certainly does! I didn't think I’d find so much in a sepia photograph of tombs, but it has a surprising resonance. Curator: Exactly. Isn't it amazing how much a single image can spark? It shows us, doesn't it, that photographs can be more than records; they can also be journeys.