The hole everyone is here for
Center foreground, low, the bare turned earth
The whole crowd is gathered around this, not a coffin, not a cross, but an open grave painted as a flat black wedge with almost no depth, a void dropped into the dead center where a hero ought to be. The gravedigger kneels patiently beside it in his shirtsleeves, and on the turned earth lie a skull and a scatter of bones, dug up to make room: the bluntest reminder of death there is, with no allegory and no scythe.