september 11th and the mourning after: media narrating grief

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September 11th and the Mourning After: MediaNarrating GriefAdi Drori-AvrahamPublished online: 19 Jan 2007.

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September 11th and the MourningAfter: Media Narrating GriefAdi Drori-Avraham

It is the weeks following 11 September and the people of New York are returning toDowntown Manhattan. Those who work there, who on the day of the attack on theWorld Trade Center were fleeing the site of the collapsing towers, must now walk back

into the city and return to their offices.But tourists and ‘picture takers’ stand in their way. Clicking their cameras and

pointing at the ruins, they capture a moment that has still not been realized, explainedand overcome. They are blocking the path, making it impossible for the workers to

move forward. The situation becomes so unbearable that the city’s employees finallydecide to distribute a flyer around the area (see Figure 1) (Anonymous, 2001). Reading

it, it is easy to sympathize with the workers of Downtown Manhattan. Having to begfor respect, they seem to naturally deserve it. Their way of grieving, their need to

understand and resolve—to narrate—is in itself an authoritative narrative.In his essay ‘On Mourning and Melancholia’, Freud ([1917] 1984) defined two

responses to grief: one is healthy mourning, in which grief over the lost object can be

transformed into some accommodation with reality and into some kind of a renewalof the life force; the other is melancholia, the destructive, thwarted or incomplete

process of bad or unhealthy mourning. Unable to let go, the grieving self is powerlessto overcome its loss and achieve resolution. In mourning, unlike in melancholia, the

bereaved and shattered self learns to let go of the lost object and to make its worldmeaningful again. Like all narratives, mourning is a movement forward driven by a

passion for meaning (see Brooks, 1984, p. 19).No one in DowntownManhattan expected it to be easy. In mourning, it never is; the

grieving self ’s movement forward is always featured as disturbed, encountering

opposition as it goes along:

In what does the work which mourning performs consist? I do not think there isanything far fetched in presenting it in the following way. Reality-testing has shownthat the loved object no longer exists, and it proceeds to demand that all libido shallbe withdrawn from its attachments to that object. This demand arousesunderstandable opposition—it is a matter of general observation that people

ISSN 1030-4312 (print)/ISSN 1469-3666 (online)/06/030289-9 q 2006 Taylor & Francis

DOI: 10.1080/10304310600814110

Adi Drori-Avraham has a BA in English Literature (Roehampton) and MA in Cultural and Critical Studies

(Birkbeck, London). She is a writer, translator and the editor of Episteme Literary Magazine. Correspondence to:

Adi Drori-Avraham, 110 Cleveland Gardens, London NW6 1DU, UK. E-mail: [email protected]

Continuum: Journal of Media & Cultural Studies

Vol. 20, No. 3, September 2006, pp. 289–297

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Figure 1 Flyer distributed in Downtown Manhatten.

290 A. Drori-Avraham

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never willingly abandon a libidinal position . . . Normally, respect for reality gainsthe day. Nevertheless, its orders cannot be obeyed at once. They are carried out bit bybit, at a great expense of time and cathectic energy . . . Time is needed for thecommand of reality-testing to be carried out in detail, and when this work has beenaccomplished the ego will have succeeded in freeing its libido from the lost object.(Freud, [1917] 1984, pp. 253, 262)

The work of mourning emerges as the act of narration par excellence—a discourse inwhich ‘meanings are developedover temporal succession in suspense of a final prediction’

(Brooks, 1984, p. 19). Seen this way, however, the conflict between the employees and thepicture takers, between narrative and image, should not be a conflict at all. Are the tourists

not oneof the obstacles narrated intomourning?Do theynot, in obstructing the narrativeof mourning, in fact inject it with meaning? Or is it that the picture takers, capturing and

arresting the moment of loss with their cameras, are necessarily signs of unhealthy grief,and are altogether alien to the narrative of mourning?

Images and narratives typically go hand in hand. In newspapers, magazines andwebsites, images shift the weight of the story, allowing the narrative to slow down and

momentarily freeze its progress towards resolution. At times, a picture might containdetails that the narrative did not care to mention, create a space for nuances and workalmost like a subplot. Appropriated by the narrative, these signs of bad mourning—

these obstructions—form a hermeneutic code. This is the code that ‘concerns theenigmas and answers that structure a story’, explains Peter Brooks:

their suspense, partial unveiling, temporary blockage, eventual resolution, with theresulting creation of a dilatory space—the space of suspense—which we workthrough towards the revelation of meanings that occurs when the narrative sentencereaches full predication. A temporary blockage to eventual resolution and the fullperdition of the narrative reach all the way to perfect text. At its best, thehermeneutic code creates a delay, postponement in the discharge of energy; aturning back from immediate pleasure, to ensure that ultimate pleasure will becomplete. The most effective, or at least, the most challenging texts maybe thosewhich are most painful. (1984, p. 18)

The photographic image, with its indexical power, its unflinching persistence to freeze

time, to capture, to arrest, defies any attempt to deny or forget. As an authenticrepresentationof events, the imagenot only testifies that an event really happenedbut alsoguarantees that it never ceases to happen. ‘When the picture is painful’, writes Ronald

Barthes inCamera Lucida, ‘nothing in it can transform grief intomourning’ (1993, p. 90).As part of a narrative, the image, a sign of painful genuineness, is a proof of the

narrative’s reliability. It also points at the narrative as a discourse that heals and soothes.Moving forward fromthe agonizing event, thenarrative is shown tobe capable of relieving

pain, of rationalizing and explaining, performing the act of detachment from the lostobject that is constitutive of mourning. ‘Photographic connotation’, writes Barthes,

is an institutional activity; its function to integrateman, to reassure him. Every code isat once arbitrary and rational; recourse to a code is thus always an opportunity forman to prove himself, to test himself through a reason and a liberty. (1977, p. 31)

Continuum: Journal of Media & Cultural Studies 291

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This is precisely the enjoyment of rationalization that Brooks derives from the perfecttext.

Photographic connotation was to form the New York Times’ famous response to theevents of 11 September. Soon after the attack, the paper embarked on a large-scale

mission to trace and identify all the victims who died on that day. It was titled Portraitsof Grief. From 15 September, the paper published a photograph and a short piece on

each person who died. Around 15 a day, the paper told the stories of more than 2,000victims—their lives, their families, where they worked and what they enjoyed doing in

their free time. Each story began with a photograph of the lost object and then workedto explain and rationalize its loss. Portraits of Grief became a master narrative ofmourning, where libidinal detachment was carried out bit by bit, portrait by portrait.

Portraits of Grief seemed to have answered the need for a narrative. Seven Pulitzerprizes aside, the stories were read religiously by the people of New York City. Where

images freeze, stories, like the employees of Downtown Manhattan, walk; and after11 September they were literally walking the streets of New York—‘part of their

morning ritual, as they approach a bridge or a tunnel, is to pull up the page of Portraitsand read them as a way of sort of protecting themselves’ (New York Times, 2003). Each

detachment, each little narrative, brought a taste of that joyful reaffirmation of reasonand meaning. In a city struck by loss, Portraits of Grief became a story of survival.Some images, however, cannot be narrated. ‘The traumatic image’, writes Barthes

(1977, p. 31), ‘offers no value, no knowledge’. Violently shocking, the traumatic imageis ‘a photograph about which there is nothing to say’. The pictures of the people

jumping from the towers were such images. One picture, famously titled ‘Falling Man’,proved particularly disturbing, perhaps because it was the one to reach the front pages

of papers around the world. The image was run for a single day then disappeared, andfor more than two years American media refused to tell the story of the falling man.

Faceless and unidentifiable, as he was captured falling at a speed of 150 miles an hour,the falling man was left anonymous, his loss never rationalized and overcome.

Nothing, prior to journalist Tom Junod’s search to identify the falling man,published by the magazine Esquire in September 2003, worked to relieve or neutralizethat sense of arrestedness which, intrinsic to all photographic images, seemed to be

particularly strong in ‘Falling Man’. Its subject was captured in a split second of his fallwhen he is ‘perfectly vertical’,

and so is in accord with the lines of the buildings behind him. He bisects them:everything to the left of him in the picture is the north tower; everything to the right,the south. Between them, he departs from this earth like an arrow. Though obliviousto the geometric balance he has achieved, he is the essential element in the creation ofa new flag, a banner composed entirely of steel bars shining in the sun. (Junod, 2003)

And there he stayed. Unidentified, his story untold, he was left trapped in the moment of

loss and was never mourned. ‘Falling Man’ became a melancholic sign. In melancholia,the loss of the object is compulsively repeated yet its meaning remains unacknowledged


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and thus the object’s libidinal hold is never severed. It is incorporated into the ego and itsloss turns into the loss of the self, an ‘overcoming of the instinct which compels every

living thing to cling to life’ (Freud, [1917] 1984, p. 254). Without a story, the falling manlacks ‘the authoritywhich even the poorestwretch indying possesses for the living around

him’ (Benjamin, 1999, p. 93). This traumatic image, capturing aman falling tohisdeath, isworthless as a hermeneutic code—its blockage of meaning is neither temporary nor

enjoyable. The image, existing outside the narrative of mourning, no longer indicates afuture resolution. It can only point repeatedly, stubbornly, like the tourists with their

cameras, at nothing but the moment of loss as an unsolved enigma. And there it stays.‘One felt looking at those pages every day that real lives were jumping at you. We were

notmourning ananonymousmassof people,weweremourning thousandsof individuals’,

reflected thewriter PaulAuster, an avid reader ofPortraits of Grief (NewYorkTimes, 2003).One also felt that New York City was populated exclusively by the heroic and courageous,

those who ‘preferred to be with [their] family rather than anybody else’, those who were‘modest winner[s]’ or ‘Prankster[s] with a heart’, or a ‘Mr. Generosity’ with a magical

ability to ‘touch everyone’ (New York Times, 2003). The victims of 11 September were allhard-working family men and women; the good, gentle and graceful people of America.

In their death, one is left to conclude, the victims’ stories became a nostalgicnarrative of American life. Rescued from anonymity, these thousands of individualswere made to personify a romantic vision of America. An embodiment of Good, they

are worthy of being destroyed by what can only feature in American narrative asquintessential Evil.

Their death turned into simulacra of loss of nostalgic American society. It allowedthis society to exist retroactively, because it suggested that it is had actually been there

(in the nostalgic world of) before, prior to the moment of loss.‘In the olden days,’ writes Baudrillard (1991, p. 180), ‘the king (also the god) had to

die—that was his strength. Today he does his remarkable utmost to pretend to die, soas to preserve the blessing of power.’

The death of the good victim is ideologically constitutive. His story is significant, tofollowWalter Benjamin (1999, p. 100), ‘not because it presents someone else’s fate to us,but because this stranger’s fate by virtue of the flame which consumes it yields us the

warmth which we never draw from own fate’, the affirmation of those values that theliving perhaps forget or perhaps give up on. The deaths that featured in Portraits of Grief

remained loyal to their ideological role. Each death seemed to have sculptured thevictim’s family and community into a nostalgic ideal. The fire fighter who died in the

middle of building his dream home, drove ‘scores of fire fighters, all friends andcolleagues from engine company 6’, to help his wife, who ‘decided to go on with the

building’. The kitchen worker in the restaurant on the top floor of the south towerworked hard to bring his daughters from Ecuador. Eight days after his death, the familywas reunited: ‘the girls arrived with a humanitarian visa. It cost him his life, his wife

said, ‘but he brought them to me’ (New York Times, 2003). Unlike the fire fighter andthe kitchen worker, the falling man was refused a place in the family narrative. Peter

Cheney, a Canadian journalist, attempted to solve themystery surrounding the identity


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of the man; he showed the image to a daughter of one of the victims, who took oneglance at the photograph and said, ‘that piece of shit is not my father’ (Junod, 2003).

In mourning, unlike in melancholia, the ego does not experience the loss of theobject as the loss of the self. Instead, it is ‘persuaded by the sum of the narcissistic

satisfactions from being alive to severe its attachment to the object that has beenabolished’ [italics my own] (Freud, [1917] 1984, p. 265). In mourning, the worthy of

death finally transforms into the worthy of life; grief is transformed into the pleasure ofliving, a satisfaction with the self ’s place in the world. In other words, the living self is

an object of ideology; and mourning is an affirmation of that ideology. What definesmourning as a healthy response to grief, one is left to conclude, is that it necessarilyends the crisis in meaning generated by loss in a return to a prior status quo. But how

does this confirmation, indeed persuasion, come about?The resolution of mourning is always a return to a previous state—‘when the work

of mourning is completed the ego becomes free and uninhibited again’ [italics myown] Freud promised ([1917] 1984, p. 253). Though, arguably, prior to the crisis of

loss there is no reason for the ego to experience itself as free and uninhibited.Nevertheless, in mourning, the movement forward is essentially a movement back;

what lies on the other side of death is exactly what was before, not the ego as such, butthe ego as an ideological constitution.Hence, in mourning the victim is always a good victim; any imperfections are

smoothed over and forgotten. Viewed as it were through rose-tinted glasses, the lostobject is always what we lost and what we wish for, or think we deserve, existing in our

past and our future simultaneously.The resolution ofmourning then lies in themoment that loss is declared.The relatives

of the good victims have accomplished their mourning as soon as they portrayed theirloved ones to theNew York Times journalists. As they depicted the victims as ‘good’ they

had already been persuaded by the sum of their narcissistic satisfactions. Mourning, innarrating its own difficulties, in creating suspense and taking time to achieve resolution,

only works to disguise the fact that in its ideological meaning it takes no time at all.In choosing tomournwe have already overcome our loss, yet one still knows to expect apainful, difficult process—a temporary blockage—otherwise the loss and its

reaffirmation of life would mean nothing at all. Mourning is a proairetic narrative:complete already from its initiation, ‘the sequence of actions exists when and because it

can be given a name, it unfolds as this process of naming takes place, as a title is sought orconfirmed; its basis is therefore empirical; its only logic is that of the “already-done” or

“already read”’ (Barthes, 1975, p. 19)—or, in Freud’s terms, the ‘already persuaded’.The fallingman could not bemourned because he posed a problem on the level of the

proairetic—a problem that inevitably goes back to the moment of loss. Even the title ofthe image, that single attempt to rationalize his death, seemed to have ignored the factthat the ‘Falling Man’ did not fall. He jumped. ‘We don’t like to say they jumped. They

didn’t jump.Nobody jumped. Theywere forcedout or blownout’ asserted theNewYorkMedical Examiner when Tom Junod called to ask for the official number of people who

(did not) jump on that day (Junod, 2003).


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Apersonwho falls is a victim. Apersonwho jumpsmay ormay not be a victim. Thosewho jumped from the burning buildings created an enigma where there should not be

one, and the image of the falling man brought this enigma to the surface so acutely, thatonly by turning away from the image, could one avoid confronting it.

Although he has not chosen his fate, the falling man appears to have, in his lastinstants of life, embraced it. If he were not falling, he might very well be flying. Heappears relaxed, hurtling through the air. He appears comfortable in the grip ofunimaginable motion. His arms are by his side, only slightly outriggered. His left legis bent at the knee almost casually . . . There is something rebellious in his posture.(Junod, 2003)

In his death, the falling man defied the category of the good victim. The opticalunconscious of the image reveals a disturbing lack of intimidation or struggle, an

embracement of death that blurs the boundaries between good and evil, victim andterrorist. Dying so spectacularly, so calmly, the falling man awkwardly echoed his

killers. Perhaps the terrorists are not his real enemies. Escaping the buildings, thesegiant constructions against which he appears so fragile and insignificant, he evokes anambivalent relationship with the lost towers. He reminds us, as does Baudrillard, that

‘the horror for the 4,000 victims of dying in those towers was inseparable from thehorror of living in them—the horror of living and working in sarcophagi of concrete

and steel’ (2002, p. 41). From the outset, the falling man resists the nostalgic impulse.He questions the meaning of the world prior to the loss as a world worth returning to

and so remains melancholically trapped in his moment of death.In melancholia, writes Freud,

The occasions which give rise to the illness extend for the most part beyond the clearcase of loss by death, and include all those situations of being slighted, neglected ordisappointed, which can import opposed feelings of love and hate into therelationship or reinforce an already existing ambivalence. ([1917] 1984, p. 260)

The ego is unable to name its loss, and therefore cannot detach itself from the lost

object and reach resolution. However, what Freud seems to have ignored is that one’srelation to another person, to an idea or to one’s country is always ambivalent. No

human attachment is untainted by dissatisfaction or disappointment.But there can be no two narratives of grief. Melancholia, therefore, becomes a

category whose function is to include all those unconscious meanings that need to beexcluded from the narrative and is only unhealthy to the extent to which it undermines

the narrative’s resolution. In other words, the exclusion of the melancholic impulse isconstructive of mourning.

Mourning, then, is a monopoly. And what reflects this better than Portraits of Grief?

Without the image of the jumping/falling man in sight, the victims’ stories did notcompete for the reader’s attention as stories in the newspaper usually do. Identical in

length and size, they dominated the pages of the New York Times like the Twin Towershad dominated the skyline of Manhattan.1 But this dominance cannot be too

overpowering or too painless; pain, the hermeneutic code, gives this narrative its


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authority and without some degree of ‘understandable opposition’ it risks losing its

meaning and thus its monopoly. Competition must then be created retroactively,coming from inside the story itself.

And so Portraits of Grief became a self-reflexive narrative: competing itself, creating

its own temporary blockages and obstacles on its way to resolution.Unconventionally for a newspaper story, the project brought to the foreground all

the difficulties the writers and editors were facing in producing the stories. Thereaders of the New York Times were not only reading about the victims’ lives but werealso let in on the nitty-gritty of the journalistic endeavour. They learnt that at least

170 journalists were always working on the stories at the same time and that eachjournalist wrote 50 stories on average; editorial decisions were described to them in

detail (‘There was no attempt to select, we were going to everyone’ the editor told hisreaders (New York Times, 2003)); they were told that up to 10 relatives and friends

were contacted to get a full impression of the victim and they also explained thedifficulty of interviewing people in grief (‘the level of emotion was so high, that you

don’t cut off and say “Sorry, I got enough, go away”’, explained one of the writers).For the journalists of the New York Times, as for the employees of Downtown

Manhattan, doing one’s job became the most powerful manifestation of mourningthose who were killed while at work. Reporters and victims, they were all hard-working people—all, but the falling man.

What did finally happen to the man who stood in the way of national grief? In

Downtown Manhattan, the conflict between workers and picture takers was at lastresolved with a compromise. The tourists can stay as long as they acknowledge the

authority of mourning.

If you must be here taking pictures and gawking, please take your pictures quickly,look to your fill but please don’t get in the way of others around you so we who haveto be here can move forward with our lives with as little additional pain as possible.. . . I think it is fair to say that you should understand that we have already suffered sovery much. (Anonymous, 2001)

But the falling man cannot get his death quickly over and done with. He is frozen in hispicture, defiantly arrested in the air and will never reach stable ground. Rejected bydominant media narratives, the image found its place on the fridges of the information

highway. On one website, ‘Falling Man’ (usually re-titled ‘Swan Dive’) featuredalongside a conspiracy theory, which claimed that the $20 note, when folded in a

particular way, showed the smoky Twin Towers and the word ‘Osama’. The imagebecame a visual leftover, one of the many acts on the World Wide Web’s informational

freak show. One Internet community was still dedicated for a while to solving themystery of theman’s identity. After enlarging the image, theman appeared to bewearing

an orange T-shirt under a uniform of a kitchen worker. Enlarged further, the imageshowed the orange T-shirt is in fact a blood stain on the man’s back. Enlarged even

further, it showed nothing at all.


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Whatever the case might be, it no longer mattered. Deemed hysterical, imaginativeand unreliable, the image of the falling man was confined to the asylum of the Internet,

where it was accessible to all but from which it was instantly marginalized. Anymeaning that the image might offer was rendered as nonsensical as the ravings of mad

men and conspiracy theorists. And America could mourn in peace.

Note

[1] Jean Baudrillard writes on the Twin Towers, ‘this architectural graphism is the embodiment of asystem that is no longer competitive, but digital and countable, and from which competition hasdisappeared in favour of networks and monopoly. If there had been only one [tower], monopolywould not have been perfectly embodied’ (Baudrillard, 2002, pp. 38–39).

References

Anonymous (2001) ‘An open letter’, The September 11 Digital Archive, Centre for History and NewMedia at George Mason University, Available at: http://www.911digitalarchive.org/lowresflyers/ragsdale/f9.jpg.

Barthes, R. (1975) S/Z, trans. Richard Miller. Jonathan Cape, London.Barthes, R. (1977) ‘The photographic message’, in Image Music Text, trans. Stephen Heath, Fontana

Press, London, pp. 15–31.Barthes, R. (1993) Camera Lucida, trans. Richard Howard, Vintage, London.Baudrillard, J. (1991) ‘Simulacra and simulation’, in Selected Writings, ed. Mark Poster, Polity Press,

Cambridge, pp. 166–184.Baudrillard, J. (2002) The Spirit of Terrorism, trans. Chris Turner, Verso, New York and London.Benjamin, W. (1999) ‘The storyteller’, in Illuminations, trans. Harry Zorn, Pimlico, London,

pp. 83–107.Brooks, P. (1984) Reading for the Plot: Design and Intention in Narrative, Harvard University Press,

Cambridge, MA.Freud, S. ([1917] 1984) ‘On mourning and melancholia’, in The Theory of Psychoanalysis, Volume 11:

On Metapsychology, Penguin, New York and London, pp. 245–268.Junod, T. (2003) ‘The falling man’, Esquire, Available at: http://www.esquire.com/features/articles/

2003/030903_mfe_falling_7.htmlNew York Times (2003) Available at: http://www.nytimes.com/pages/national/portraits/index


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september 11th and the mourning after: media narrating grief

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