NEW YORK (TND) — Whenever I picture Green-Wood Cemetery, it is, for whatever reason, covered in a thick blanket of fog.
Sometimes, I envision the monumental Gothic Revival-style main gate that stretches above an otherwise industrial area as a befitting emblem of the grandeur awaiting those who pass beneath its arches. Otherwise, it could be rows of long-faded headstones, no two emerging from the ground at precisely the same angle, or a splendid sculpture of a Roman goddess with a real-life mockingbird perched upon her outstretched hand, as if posing specifically for the bird watchers who frequent Green-Wood in the early hours of the morning. But even though I've visited the 478-acre Brooklyn cemetery on many a sun-soaked day, a misty, overcast mood remains a constant in my mental image of its grounds.
Maybe it’s how we’ve been conditioned to perceive cemeteries — solemn reminders of our mortality, with equal parts intrigue and reverence attached to the souls who may accompany us on the winding paths in the gentle glow of a hazy morning. Cemeteries are regarded as a place for quiet reflection, and there’s something about a bright blue sky that just seems far too loud. The snapshot in my mind will never be sunny.
Also — it’s always daytime.
Now, that could come from attending numerous bird walks in pursuit of the nearly 200 species that pass through Green-Wood each year, or else the simple fact that cemeteries tend to close their gates well in advance of sunset, reopening only when it’s once again light enough to see a pocket-sized black-and-white warbler working its way up a tree trunk.
There’s again, though, the stereotypical cemetery’s reputation to consider. Too many tales of hauntings have created the impression that it's unwise to call upon the permanent residents with only the light of the moon providing any sense of security. As legend would have it, a cemetery at night is no place for the living.
But just past 8 p.m. on a balmy Thursday evening in mid-October, I ventured into Green-Wood Cemetery to join a flock of others ignoring that shrewd advice.
We weren't trespassers but revelers, permitted to explore after-hours through the purchase of a ticket to Nightfall, a showcase of the arts and the last hurrah of Green-Wood’s programming before the weather turns too bitter for outdoor events.
Showing up over an hour after doors opened meant I had to hurry along the dimly lit path of performances if I wanted to make it to even half of the two dozen stages scattered among the tombs. Others with the sense to arrive earlier had no doubt been lured deep into the very innards of the cemetery by then, leaving the gallant main gate to rest in nearly the same solitude it would enjoy on an average night. Not even the vivid green monk parakeets that nest year-round in the gate’s tallest spire made a peep.
I stopped first at Green-Wood’s historic chapel, a New York City landmark built in 1911 by Warren and Wetmore, the same architects responsible, in part, for the iconic design of Grand Central Terminal.
It looked nothing like it did in the daytime, and not only because of the psychedelic swirls of color dancing across its facade in time with eerie music echoing out from an unknown source. Strategic illumination somehow rendered the robust neo-gothic structure two-dimensional, as if the view from the other side would reveal nothing more than wooden support beams propping up a flattened panel.
With plenty more left to see and time ticking away, I began my climb up a hill just barely illuminated by candlelight. The pulsating spectacle of the chapel in the distance provided some additional visibility, but as two figures approached from the opposite direction, their forms remained obscured by the darkness until we were mere feet apart. Partygoers heading out early, I had figured, but their outfits signified that I was wrong. Only performers, not guests, were allowed to wear costumes at Nightfall.
“We’re looking for a body,” one of them said. “We need a volunteer.”The grave digger's partner chimed in with an enticing offer: “There’s a nice grave that we need to fill, or we can throw you into one of the ponds for the snapping turtles.”
They seemed unwilling to take no for an answer, so I told them that I’d prefer the pond. We agreed to meet again at 10:30 p.m. that night. Satisfied, they resumed their descent, and I continued upward, hoping that they were indeed actors.
In a way, the gravediggers weren’t wrong — cemeteries do need living bodies, but not to feed to snapping turtles.
Take, for instance, the Historic Jersey City and Harsimus Cemetery. Established in the outskirts of Jersey City, New Jersey during the transition period from a reliance on colonial graveyards to a burgeoning interest in rural cemeteries, the burial ground was once such a popular destination that ticketed entry was implemented to better control the crowds of eager visitors. As opposed to the common perception of cemeteries today, the draw for many in the 19th century wasn’t the grave of a dearly departed loved one but the grounds themselves, as attractive as any modern-day public park.
Green-Wood came almost a decade later, built in 1838 at the peak of the rural cemetery movement.
Whereas the Brooklyn cemetery has largely flourished since its opening, a host of challenges led to the eventual abandonment of the already-neglected Historic Jersey City and Harsimus Cemetery in 2007. It would take a team of volunteers — most notably, Jersey City native Eileen Markenstein — and a tremendous amount of effort to revive the once-exquisite six-acre parcel of land.
It would also take money.
Generally speaking, a cemetery can only sell so many burial plots.
The Historic Jersey City and Harsimus Cemetery still have the occasional burial, but spots needed to be reserved long ago. Now, every square inch of space is spoken for. And given its urban location, expansion is out of the question.
Over in Brooklyn, Green-Wood Cemetery took advantage of the opportunity to expand several times, turning the original 175 acres into its present-day 478. Those who wish to spend eternity in the company of Jean-Michel Basquiat, Louis Comfort Tiffany, and Leonard Bernstein still have a chance, for the right price. But even here, land is not unlimited, and keeping future generations engaged with the space is already a key consideration of Green-Wood’s programming.
“How do you engage the community with that space, especially if they don’t have family members that are buried there?” said Harry Weil, director of public programs and special projects for Green-Wood. “One day in the far future, we won’t be burying people here anymore, so how do we get the next generation geared up to love and appreciate this space?”
One solution, for Green-Wood and the Historic Jersey City and Harsimus Cemetery and others around the country, is an event calendar that often steps outside the boundaries of the stale perception of cemeteries as ever-somber spaces to silently stroll around in an air of sadness. Think oddities markets, cider tastings, catacomb concerts, and — in the case of Green-Wood — a hot dog-themed extravaganza in remembrance of a German-American restaurateur credited as one possible inventor of the summertime favorite.
Success, or at least one measure of it, comes when the idea of hanging out in a cemetery no longer seems like all that weird of a weekend activity to the surrounding community.
Just last week, at a yoga studio in Brooklyn Heights, I overheard an employee ask a student if he had any weekend plans. He did; he was headed to Green-Wood for a silent disco.
“Oh, Emily just went to an event there, too,” the staff member responded, with no more surprise in her voice than if we had both recently attended a concert at Madison Square Garden or happy hour at a local bar.
Jersey City, for its part, has rallied around the revival of the historic cemetery, and an annual music showcase held on the property each October for the past 14 years has become a highly anticipated occasion for locals and out-of-towners alike.
A cemetery is a fitting location for the yearly Ghost of Uncle Joe’s fundraiser. Always situated near Halloween, the masquerade ball is as much of a costume party for the musicians as it is for the attendees. Performers take the stage not as themselves but instead dressed up as their favorite musicians, ready to belt out the catalog of, say, The Killers, Johnny Cash, or Taking Back Sunday.
The name of the event, although appropriate for October, was not chosen just to sound spooky. It references the 2005 death of a long-standing Jersey City bar known for keeping the city's rock scene alive during periods of drought — and coming up with the idea to let local musicians live out their cover band dreams each Halloween.
It’s thanks to music maven, event organizer, and local legend Dancing Tony, whose real name is Anthony Susco, that the seasonal soirée has continued long after the original Uncle Joe’s closed its First Street doors. Susco can also take credit for the choice of venue, after reaching out to Markenstein with a proposal and high hopes. Markenstein said yes.
“That was the best response I could have gotten, because I knew immediately I wouldn’t have to do any decorating,” he joked.
The atmospheric element of a cemetery party is impossible for even the best party planner to replicate elsewhere, but it’s not without its logistical challenges.
Any outdoor venue leaves a lot up to the whims of Mother Nature, and the seemingly never-ending rain this autumn didn’t spare either event. Friday’s Nightfall was shifted to Saturday; the Ghost of Uncle Joe’s pushed both Friday’s entire schedule and Saturday’s daytime lineup to Sunday.
And even without the added challenge of a last-minute date swap, most cemeteries were not designed with parties and performances in mind.
“We have to set up everything. Nothing is there,” said Susco. “We’re basically bringing the entire production to the cemetery.”It’s a similar story at Green-Wood, where there’s no electricity to light Nightfall’s maze of paths, nor restrooms suitable to the scale of the event. But another major undertaking, according to Weil, is ensuring that the event remains respectful to the cemetery’s permanent residents, in terms of both the performances offered and the audience’s behavior.
For Nightfall, Green-Wood works primarily with familiar faces: the Bindlestiff Family Cirkus, Death By Classical, Morbid Anatomy, Rooftop Films, and others who have a history of partnering with the cemetery. The lineup of Green-Wood’s greatest hits makes perfect sense for an event that serves as the culmination of the season, with the added bonus that each performer is already distinctly aware that the cemetery is the true star of the evening.
“We never disguise the fact that we’re in Green-Wood and that this is a place where over 580,000 people are laid to rest. So even though we do programs that are fun, and there’s dancing involved and there’s music, all of it is done with the utmost respect for the people who are buried here,” said Weil.
“We treat all of our permanent residents as if they were our own family members,” he added. He finds some validation in the frequency of positive conversations held with event attendees who do actually have loved ones buried in Green-Wood, many of whom believe that their relatives would be delighted to see so much engagement in the space.
Not every reaction is positive.
In 2017, a news outlet asked to interview Markenstein about the Ghost of Uncle Joe’s, only to then publish an article with a headline asking “Does New Jersey cemetery cross the line with fundraising parties?” and grumblings from those who would say yes without hesitation.
To dissenters, Susco vouches for the high level of respect that attendees exhibit “generally 99 percent of the time.” He also points to the rural cemetery movement, back when no one would blink an eye at taking a picnic to the graveyard. “It’s not something new for people to have fun events in the cemetery,” Susco said.
Besides, the profits from the Ghost of Uncle Joe’s have had an instrumental impact on the continued preservation of the once-dilapidated burial ground. In the first year alone, the event raised $4,000 for the Historic Jersey City and Harsimus Cemetery, a total that has only gone up as the festivities have expanded from a five-band lineup to a two-day spectacular.
There’s also no telling exactly how much of an event, if any at all, a cemetery’s permanent residents are able to experience. Susco’s faith gives him hope that we’re being watched by those who have departed, and there’s one person, in particular, he likes to believe attends the Ghost of Uncle Joe’s from the afterlife — Eileen Markenstein, who passed away in 2020 and is interred in the cemetery she fought so hard to save.
“I know at least she’s watching, if she can,” he said. “I’m hoping that we’re making her proud when we do these events.”With a similar mindset, some couples are heading to the cemetery to say "I do."
For brides who have lost a father, getting married next to his burial site could stand in for the traditional walk down the aisle. Or soon-to-be-newlyweds may want grandparents who have passed to be present, in some sense of the word, on their special day.
Unlike the distant cousins forced onto the guest list by a stubborn parent, the inclusion of these extra attendees can actually serve as an unintentional cost-cutting measure, with booking prices for cemeteries reflective of a relative lack of demand in comparison with more typical venues. Even couples, then, without any personal connection to a cemetery may consider it among their options in order to stick to a budget.
Then, there are those attracted to the idea through their love of Halloween or a fascination with the macabre. Often, these weddings involve costumes or goth-inspired elements; occasionally, a bride will make waves by getting carried up the aisle in a coffin.
For Shannon S. and her fiance Turi, cemeteries weren't initially on their radar in the pursuit of an unconventional outdoor wedding. The couple, who met on Hinge during the first year of the pandemic, looked at barns, estates, and waterfalls without much luck.
But it was during a tour of the Historic Oakland Cemetery in Atlanta that Shannon found herself falling in love with a venue.
The tour had been just for fun, completely unrelated to their wedding prep, but without Shannon saying a word, Turi felt it, too. "What about getting married here?" he asked, and by 10 p.m. that evening, the couple was emailing the cemetery to inquire about next steps.
Oakland's atmosphere and price felt like the right fit, but it was the tie to a lesser-known Jewish custom that sealed the deal for Turi, who is Jewish, and Shannon.
"It is an old Jewish custom to get married in a cemetery, but it was a specific case during plagues," said Shannon, referring to the so-called black weddings in which the most marginal members of the Jewish community were forcibly married in hopes that the mitzvah would please God enough to end the cholera pandemics of the 19th century.
Shannon and Turi, of course, plan to modernize that custom. They'll also update the tradition of the bride circling the groom seven times; instead, Shannon and Turi will each circle the other three times before completing the seventh circle hand-in-hand.
The wedding section of Oakland Cemetery's website looks almost like any other venue's, save for the unavoidable repetition of the word "cemetery" and a single mention of mausolea. The property's gardens, by contrast, are referenced three times in the short blurb. Even when viewing the photo gallery, with said mausolea as conspicuous as can be in each picture, the emphasis is on the "stunning backdrop" of "Oakland's Victorian gardens."
It's not that Oakland Cemetery is trying to masquerade as no more than a garden. The 48-acre cemetery is just especially proud of its landscaped grounds and its status as Atlanta's oldest public park.
But even at a cemetery that encourages both picnics and dogs (often against the rules at other cemeteries), some may find it difficult to relax in the presence of Oakland's 70,000 permanent residents.
A little while ago, Shannon posted on Reddit that her venue was "freaking people out." Her stepmom, she wrote, was particularly uncomfortable. Her hope was that fellow Redditors could advise her on the most effective way to explain her reasoning to guests who felt uneasy about the concept.
The post garnered a good amount of attention, with dozens offering input. Among the top comments, there seemed to be a general consensus that it was best to keep the explanation of her choice simple, if she even owed anyone an explanation at all. But scrolling further down, one commenter felt it necessary to criticize the venue that Shannon had already booked, ignoring her palpable excitement in favor of expressing strong opposition to weddings held in cemeteries.
"I would be weirded out," the Reddit user wrote. "I don't like the idea of people drinking, dancing and whooping it up in these places where I have, in part, been devastated by life-altering losses."Thankfully for Shannon, her stepmom has come around since learning more about the venue. Shannon also thinks the wedding's theme — romance and the chapters of life — will create a greater sense of comfort for anyone else questioning the atypical setting.
"We're not here to make this cheesy or gimmicky. We truly feel that passing on is just another part of the journey we all go through and wanted to represent that in our ceremony," Shannon said.
Each year, a new theme is chosen for Nightfall, not necessarily to serve as the sole source of inspiration for the programming but to guide the direction that the performers may take.
This year, the theme was "Danse Macabre," or the dance of death, in reference to artwork from the Middle Ages that depicts the inevitability of death through dancing skeletons beckoning to the grave the young and the old, the rich and the poor, the rulers and the laborers.
"For this year's theme, the idea really is that we're all going to die," said Weil, "and you can either go kicking and screaming to your grave, or you can go jubilant and joyful."Facing our own mortality, he added, could help us better appreciate and celebrate the opportunities we do have to come together. "In a cemetery, nonetheless," he said.
Headstones and mausoleums, impossible to ignore during the winding journey throughout Nightfall's sprawl, prompted guests to keep the theme in mind, even unintentionally, whether they were watching a hauntingly beautiful performance or waiting in line for a beer. If there were any dancing skeletons, I never ran into them, but after leaving what I had thought was the final performance of the evening, I heard a New Order song reverberating throughout the grounds.
I followed the sound to the same chapel where I began my night, now finding a DJ stationed in front and a crowd of partiers moving their bodies to the familiar '80s beat.
I didn't stay long. It was nearly 10:30 p.m., the time I had agreed to surrender myself to the grave diggers, and I was not yet ready to confront my own mortality quite so closely.
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