blue blue

blue blue...completed near the end of January 2012. Length 56", width 16", 7/8" deep (~140x40x2cm). Screenprinting and drawing on three wood panels which were then fastened together as one piece. The central panel is thin sheet steel bonded to the wood.

'May the road always rise to meet you...'

The left image is derived from a photo I took on Inish More, the largest of the three Aran Islands off the west coast of Ireland. I was on the 'rock road', which is exactly what it sounds like, a narrow road on bare rock running along the height of land on the southeasterly side of the island. From the road, one can look southwest across the gentle grey slope of the Burren-esque landscape to the Atlantic beyond. This image was taken a kilometre or so east of Liam O'Flaherty's home and his elegant memorial at Gort na gCapall, looking northwest towards the village of Kilmurvey, at the foot of the long slope that rises to the extraordinary stone walls of Dun Aonghasa (Dun Angus). In one of their sagas the Vikings speak of  'the enemy before you, and a cliff at your back'. They could have been speaking of Dun Angus.

The right image comes from the Canadian prairies, somewhere in the southernmost part of Saskatchewan. I grew up on the prairies and I am still awed by and drawn to the powerful peace and beauty of this landscape in all seasons, the home at one time of the Blackfoot and Sioux first nations, amongst others, and more recently but still long gone, the great Metis buffalo hunters and their families. The lonely expanses still seem to whisper longingly for Poundmaker, Crowfoot, Sitting Bull, Gabriel Dumont and Louis Riel and all of the magnificent people who lived here for five millennia before we 'settlers' arrived with our fenceposts and barbed wire to divide and partition, frequently for no apparent reason, this seemingly endless sea of grass.

Tigh Joe Mac's Bar, Kilronan

Finally, the central image is from the mirror and mantlepiece above the fireplace in one of the world's loveliest and coziest bars, Tigh Joe Mac's in Kilronan, the main town on Inishmore. It is here, after a long day of walking in wind, rain and sporadic sunshine that you'll find a warm turf fire, an equally warming beverage of your choice, never-ending craic, and sometimes an impromptu musical session*. Facing the mirror above the fireplace, one can see the reflection of a large painting on the wall of a four-man curragh, the skin and wood rowing/sailing craft used by the islanders for centuries to fish and to transport themselves and just about anything else to wherever it or they were wanted or needed. The painting in Tigh Joe Mac's is reminiscent of a similar illustration by Jack Butler Yeats in J.M. Synge's The Aran Islands (1907).

As in all my work, there is a public and private narrative contained within each piece and from piece to piece, only one aspect of the 'idiotic symmetry' that lies at the heart of these pieces, and which continues to drive my motivations and reasons for making the work.

 

*(added ten years later...28 November 2022): 

'It was a long walk, the full length of Inis Mór along the rock road, with side paths up to Dún Eoghanachta and Dún Aonghasa, so a warming pint or two by the turf fire in Tigh Joe Mac’s tiny bar was necessary. The handball kids were out on the patio, sending one of their crowd in periodically for more soft drinks to mix with their smuggled mickeys. Their chaperone Valerie eventually gave up and settled herself at a table inside. The Eurovision Song Contest was playing on the small tv behind the bar, eliciting frequent loud commentary by three or four young lads seated there. At another of the tables were three ancient islanders, dozing over their half pints.
‘Fuck this!’ said Valerie suddenly and loudly, and from under her bench pulled out an accordion and started playing a wild tune. The lads at the bar spun around in surprise. The bartender reached over and clicked off the tv. The ancients snapped awake, wide-eyed. Valerie ran through a few lively pieces, then plopped the accordion down as the bartender put a pint before her. The bar was suddenly enveloped in silence. Then:

‘Sing us one of the old songs, Betty’ croaked one of her companions. ‘Oh, no, I can’t sing any more,’ says Betty, ‘My voice is gone now’. Betty looks like she’s made of tissue paper, difficult to imagine a voice inside her at all. ‘Ach, no! Your voice is not gone at all. I can hear you when I walk past your house’ piped up the other. ‘Oh no, I really can’t. I’m out of tune now, and practice’ she protested, but not very convincingly. All eyes in the bar were on Betty now. Another few moments of silence, then she sat up straight, raised her eyes to the ceiling… and I swear an angel started to sing, in Irish, that late spring afternoon in Tigh Joe Mac’s, after a long walk down Inis Mór.'

This is the magic of Ireland. It stays with you forever, wherever you go, wherever you are, whatever you're doing.