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There’s no denying it: as a sea and sailing enthusiast, I cannot remain indifferent to an already quite trumpeted anniversary. A century ago, the legendary Titanic set sail from Southampton to be lost in the depths of the icy North Atlantic. Everyone takes it as they see fit; personally, I have no intention of going to the cinema to watch the polished James Cameron blockbuster again, nor would I dream of buying trashy books on the wreck or enduring broadcasts filled with oft-seen footage and faces worn by time. I just need to take this photo and observe it for a while.
It is one of the last images of the ocean liner, most likely taken by Reverend Frank Browne after his disembarkation in Queenstown, today known as Cobh. It is not the very last, as that distinction belongs to the plate by one John Morrogh, capturing the great ship from land at the Red Bay of Crosshaven, Ireland, shortly after departing from Queenstown, when the steamer stops the engines to disembark the pilot who guided her out of the bay. But these details are of little importance. This is the Titanic leaving Europe forever. The invisible bow is already pointed towards the vastness of the ocean, with only a wisp of smoke escaping the funnels, the engines not yet spinning at full speed because the mad race toward destiny has not yet begun. You can glimpse the people crowding the deck; the graceful lines of the ocean liner glide serenely on the slightly rippled sea, its bold grandeur and the black of the hull standing out sharply against the vapory backdrop of a covered, immense sky. A farewell to the mainland to directly enter legend. But Titanic is not alone on its journey. Behind it, invisible yet colossal, follows a procession of specters. They are the ghosts of the belle époque, of rampant positivism, and joyful trust in the magnificent and progressive fate, those invincible spirits that accompanied the magnificence of the West throughout the Victorian age and beyond. Specters grown out of all proportion that follow the great ship on its first and only voyage to vanish with it into the icy waters of history. Titanic leads a funeral procession that nobody of the time could conceive, but we, a hundred years later, might perhaps glimpse among the shades of gray, behind the veil of time, and among the voices of memories that slowly fade.
In some way, the death of the largest and most powerful ship of its time traumatically concludes the age of enlightenment: a similar tragedy was inconceivable for a humanity that believed itself invincible. The end of that technological dream hands over the twentieth century to all its terribleness: 18 months later, the reckoning would be near.
It is in this sense that the sinking of Titanic acquires all its inexorable drama. True, it was also the theater of logistical oversights, technical and design errors, and social injustices, but in a broader sense, its farewell is like a farewell to an era, the closing of a curtain, the last melancholic act before the final carnage. It's as if the ship in the photo wants to issue a warning, to boldly point out the path that humanity will have to travel and to prepare the West for the dreadful series of tragedies looming over it.
Probably my imagination sees more than what is really in this photo. But I cannot help but consider it as an elegant and unforgettable farewell, a bitter goodbye drenched in pain, death, shattered dreams, and hopes. A mocking preamble to what contemporary times have and will have in store for us. Sometimes it seems to me that the race of the Titanic, launched towards a horizon too vast for the human eye to embrace, is not over yet; as if those gigantic specters might resurface from the ocean to taunt us again. Maybe they are just dreams, fears, impressions. I hope.
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