Brian Bourke Revisited

 

The first piece of art I owned was a print Two Heads of Don Quixote by Brian Bourke. It was a present from an old girl friend. I had met Bourke frequently over the years and was always impressed by his energy and positivity and frequently by his art. He is a live wire. Even now, in his latter years, he gives off an enthusiasm for life and art that puts a jaded old hack like me to shame. He has been adding to the gaiety of nations for well on 70 years and shows no sign of slowing up. I interviewed him in 2013 for a forthcoming show at Taylor Galleries. Himself and his equally warm and lively partner Jay supplied a handsome lunch after our interview in his Galway home and Bourke ended up selling me a painting before I left. He then threw in a beautiful nude study of Jay for free. I headed back to Dublin feeling positively buoyed by my encounter with them both. The piece below appeared in a slightly edited version in the Sunday Times on the 24 February 2013.

 

There's always been something of the outsider about Brian Bourke.  He was thrown out of NCAD as part of the annual cull and later thrown out of St. Martin's College of Art for deviations from the planned programme of studies.  But undeterred, he went his own way, unburdened by what was current and fashionable in the art world.  His art school expulsions encouraged him to cut out the middleman and learn directly from the great masters.  He spent his free time at the National Gallery, the Courtauld and the other richly endowed galleries and museums of London.  An encounter in the National Gallery with Antonio del Pollaiuolo's Apollo and Daphne was his epiphany - it confirmed for him the path he would follow.  And those laurel trees depicted in that painting took root in his imagination.  In London he also discovered the newly published Beckett and developed a taste for absurdity. This is an artist so independent that he quit the Independent Artists group because they introduced a selection policy akin to the one he despised at the RHA.  He occasionally courts this outsider image identifying himself with the exiled Sweeney, and the deluded Don Quixote. But there's nothing deluded about Bourke.  He has carved out a successful career in art and supported himself and his large family for nearly fifty years. Nor is he showing any signs of slowing up.  His new show, opening in Taylor Galleries on 28 February, consists of 43 new paintings - all interesting some masterful.

 

In 1968 the Cold War was at its bitterest as Dubcek's attempt at liberalisation in Czechoslovakia was crushed ruthlessly by troops from the Warsaw Pact countries.  As war clouds gathered Bourke was going about his business in a forest studio in Bavaria not far from the Czech border. His sombre paintings of the trees around him from that period were given a sinister edge by the inclusion of low-flying Starfighters. These NATO fighter planes were keeping a watching brief on Germany's border and as Bourke painted, they roared overhead intruding on his sylvan studies.  They were a daily reminder of the fragility of our existence at that time and an intimation of mortality as significant as the skulls he loves to include in his work.  His new show also features aeroplanes flying over woods.  These however belong to model plane enthusiasts in Belmont, County Offaly where one of his son's lives.  They provide a peaceful and playful echo of that fraught earlier period.  

 

Brian Bourke's first one-man show took place in the Dawson Gallery way back in 1965.  That fabled gallery was run by the late Leo Smith and his youthful assistant was John Taylor. Nearly 50 years later Bourke continues this relationship around the corner at Taylor Galleries in Kildare Street.  Bourke has seen the ebb and flow of the art market, the periods of being in fashion, and of being beyond the artistic pale.  It has been a precarious existence at times. When I spoke to him recently, he described feelingly a period at the start of the Eighties when he lived "half-way up a mountain in Connemara, with no electricity or running water".  Bourke and his wife Jay (a fellow artist) had a new baby, and the art market was stagnant.  Just when things were at their bleakest, the Aosdana scheme was launched.  With one bound our hero was free.  Colm O'Briain, chairman of the Arts Council at the time, was an admirer of Bourkes.  He helped the artist to surmount the hurdles (Bourke is dyslexic) that led to membership and, crucially, qualification for the Cnuas.  Bourke's career has been punctuated by such timely financial boosts. The cottage he lives in outside Moycullen was bought over 20 years ago with the proceeds of his involvement in the Gate's Samuel Beckett festival in 1991.  The well-heeled international audience the festival attracted were quick to buy Bourke's associated work which was on display in the theatre.  A past connection with the Gate had given him this opportunity to display his wares and reap these rewards.  He spoke nostalgically of the relationship between artists and theatre folk in the old days.  He was a big admirer of James McKenna's work ("a very underrated man" he opined) in both spheres and of Deirdre O'Connell late of the Focus Theatre.  He pointed out a treasured portrait of O'Connell in a corner of the studio.  Another outsider resolutely following her star.  

 

Bourke is a great talker and unexpectedly a great mimic.  His stories of the old days in the Graphic Studio Dublin (GSD) are punctuated with hilarious imitations of some of James McCreery's many comic utterances.  He related an unrepeatable anecdote about Eelagh Brady (Charlie's wife) and a large handbag.  Bourke has retained an appreciation of the ladies.  There was a twinkle in his eye when he spoke of the late Mary Farrell Powers who was an influential figure in the early days of Graphic Studio Dublin (GSD).  He painted her twice, showing her long legs to advantage in pieces that are downright erotic.  An attractive woman, many were "in lust with her" he remembered.  He also tells a story of Anne Yeats interrupting a printing session with him because she had to collect Ezra Pound from the airport and bring him to the Hibernian Hotel to meet her mother - the illustrious George, W.B.Yeats' widow.  On returning to the GSD, Anne Yeats described how Pound and her mother had sat in the lobby without a word for an hour or so and then went on their respective ways.  A scene worthy of Beckett.

 

Brian Bourke is both dyslexic and discalculate and it may be that these ostensible handicaps have helped to make him the artist he is today.  He is quite open about it and confesses his discalculia means an absolute dependence on Jay for managing the household finances.  Many famous artists were dyslexic, including Leonardo da Vinci, Rodin and Picasso. This is hardly surprising since dyslexia means essentially that the right-hand side of the brain is stronger than the left. Therefore, dyslexics are inclined to have more highly developed visual skills.  In addition, they often suffer in an academic environment and so turn to the practical.  He certainly has an appreciation of and enthusiasm for colour that marks him out from many of his more chromatically restrained peers.  I also got an illuminating demonstration of his practical skills.  Bourke uses his studio walls as easels for his larger works.  My photographer friend Paddy Benson asked him to pose against a couple of specific paintings which we didn't realise lacked the relevant screws for hanging on the wall.  Quick as flash he whipped out a drill, made the holes, inserted the screws and had the two large paintings in position before we could demur.

 

Occasionally the amiable anecdotalist gives way to pungently expressed opinions when something touches a nerve.  He has no time for alcoholic artists and is quite scathing about anyone who would glamorise that tendency:  Charlie Brady and Brendan Behan were cited.  He doesn't buy into the myth of the tortured genius damping down his fevered brain with drink.  He saw too much of it in Ireland during the Fifties and Sixties.  Another subject that gets him going is overpricing.  He has always striven to keep his prices accessible - even through the boom years.  There was an implicit rebuke here for certain artists who maintain unreasonably high prices even as the art market tumbles. 

 

When you consider Bourke's work across his career there is a surprising consistency between what he was doing back in the Sixties and what he is doing now.  The locales and the subjects have changed but the current show's major difference from those earlier shows is the general lightening of tone.  A painting such as Apple Tree, Ower, Autumn 2 is positively Arcadian compared to his early work.  He agrees that his palette is not as dark these days.  He worked in a lower key back then he maintains.  He likes to compare colour to keys in music, a comparison not surprising from one who wields a mean bodhran and counts Frankie Gavin amongst his friends.  All the Bourke tropes have endured however:  the preponderance of trees, the disturbed skies, the palette suffused with reds and green, the circular interludes to escape the tyranny of the rectangle (as in Small Apple Tree 1) and the painted frames. His portraits continue to be almost hieratic.  They have the stripped-down formalism of African art - examples of which abound in his County Galway cottage. They studiously avoid background detail, focusing on the sitter rather than dissipating their energy in attendant frippery.  His aim is to "avoid the Victorian".  There is also a series of exquisite minimal drawings notably Mother and Daughter 1.

 

There was a hiatus in the otherwise consistent evolution of Bourke's work.  In the early 90s he was offered an apartment in New York with a view filled with the skyscrapers of Manhattan.  He painted a series of minimal, stylised and beautifully composed studies of these stern buildings in golden and russet colours.  The show was a great success both critically and commercially.  They pointed away from Bourke's usual style and towards a more stripped-down vision, not quite Mondrian yet but heading in that direction, it seemed that abstraction beckoned.  But it was a one off.  He feels now it was a response to a particular time and place - and he has never had cause or opportunity to repeat it.  He is no enemy of abstract art, being an admirer of Charlie Tyrrell's work, but he paints in response to what he sees around him.  If he was confined to a mundane urban locale then he could perhaps escape into abstraction but in his current situation he is happy to chronicle friends, family, and especially the seasons' differences in the countryside around him.

 

As I was leaving Bourke's cottage I noticed an invitation from Aras an Uachtaran on the mantle-piece.  So much for my thesis of him being an outsider I thought. This ultimate indicator of official acceptance was, however, deceptive.  Bourke and Jay have been friendly with President Higgins and his wife for many years – when Michael D. was one of our more articulate left-wing TDs. Their friendship continues, notwithstanding Michael D's change in circumstances.  

 

February 2013

 

Postscript

 

In his February show at Taylor Galleries in 2013 after this profile was published in the Sunday Times, one of Burke’s earlier wifes reproached me for suggesting that he supported her and their family through his art. “I went out to work and supported him and the family” she claimed, with more humour than anger. Twelve years later and Burke’s artistic revels are far from ended. As recently as March 2024 he held an exhibition of new work at Taylor Galleries alongside his old pal Michael Kane. In 2023 he had joined Mick O’Dea in going backstage at the feted Druid O’Casey trilogy in Galway to sketch the action on stage from Gary Hynes troupe. I saw him at a Teskey opening a few months ago in Claremorris (March 2025) and he’s as sprightly as ever - and dressed to kill (see image at start - Brian Bourke and Jay Murphy in the middle, flanked by the artist Diana Kingston and man about the art scene John P. Quinlan)). Long may he run.

 

Dalkey Book Festival 2025 - a Few Observations

It felt like a livelier affair than last year and all the events I attended were filled to capacity. Also, despite the erratic weather, Dalkey was en fete with crowded streets and bars and restaurants bursting at the seams.

But it’s all about the quality of the protagonists and apart from a stuttering start on the Thursday evening with Joseph O’Neill, there were many thought-provoking contributions and lively debate. On the opening night (12 June), O’Neill had a packed St. Patrick’s Church keen to hear from someone who is a bit of a rara avis on the festival circuit. His latest novel Godwin came out recently to mixed reviews, but many were keen to see the author of the marvellous Netherland. The evening never took off. Netherland was barely mentioned adn his non-fiction work Blood-dark Track about his family history wasn’t mentioned at all. This despite the fact that his two grandfathers (one Turkish and one Irish) were jailed by the British authorities – one in Palestine and the other in Ireland. Also, he had an uncle who was an active service IRA man in the North during the troubles. As the languid and relaxed O’Neill rarely moved beyond the bland, O’Shea continued to feed him irrelevant questions such as “what was it like to stay in the Chelsea Hotel”. O’Neill seemed bored and rarely sparkled – often pausing as he struggled to formulate responses. A damp squib.

John Banville is a hardy annual at these affairs and, although always worth a listen, his jaded sardonic shtick can become wearisome. I remember him declaring at a previous festival that his favourite book was the Catechism. However, his discussion with Neil Jordan about Roger Casement was a very animated affair with both men very well-informed in arriving at a consensus about the arc of Casement’s career. The audience included Bono and his entourage - including his good wife Ali. This event hosted by Caroline Erskine who had clearly done her homework and kept the debate on the rails. Both writers spoke glowingly about his heroic work in Africa and  Peru exposing the atrocities around the rubber industry and were equally in agreement about the farcical nature of his engagement with the 1916 Rising. Both agreed with current historical thinking that the Black Diaries were genuine although Banville was struck by how boring they were. Having read extracts of them, I’d have to agree. Banville and Jordan had in the past tried to get a film made of Casement’s life but despite Banville writing a script, the deal fell through. Jordan, who was in fine form, felt a long-form TV series would best serve the project but saw no immediate prospect of that.

The other two events I attended featured James Shapiro the American Shakespearean scholar. In addition to being the definitive word on Shakespeare, Shapiro is a very engaged and articulate political commentator. In his appearance with Fintan O’Toole discussing Shakespeare in relation to American politics  he told an amusing story about the disruption of a production of Julius Caesar (a depiction of another political character overreaching himself) in Central Park a number of years ago by a deranged woman who kept trying to interrupt the play. It tuns out that said woman was Trump’s number one supporter and advisor Laura Loomer. Shapiro and O’Toole had great fun looking at the many parallels between Shakeapeare’s work and the current state of the USA. Shapiro made the point that a large number of Shakespeare’s plays see rulers being punished for overreaching their authority.

Shapiro’s second appearance was more directly political in its focus – examining the parlous state of America under Trump. The panel, ably steered by Mark Little, featured Shapiro, Simon Kuper from the Financial Times, the impressively frizzy-haired and sleepy-eyed Paul Muldoon, and the always controversial Lionel Shriver. The debate was a lively one, made even more exciting by Shapiro’s evident antipathy towards Shriver. Her previous statements of some moral equivalence between the sins of the left (the Democrats) and Trump’s current excesses on the right sparked his wrath. Shriver backed off quickly from this position and made it clear that she was by no means a Trump supporter. But not before Shapiro had delivered a passionate assault on that position. Stirring stuff.

Return to Istanbul

I first visited Istanbul in the early 1970s when I worked on an American oil-rig drilling in the Sea of Marmara. Because of the conflict in Cyprus, where the USA was perceived to be siding with Greece, our presence was a discreet one and our movements strictly constrained by our American masters – Global Marine and the Marathon Petroleum Company. The latter company was the developer of the Kinsale Gas field – which explains my presence there. Experienced Cork crews were flown to Turkey for this six-month assignment. We flew into Istanbul Airport and a bus took us directly to the coast – where a tender took us out to the drilling ship (the Glomar North Sea). Our journey through the city left little impression on me at the time apart from liking the large old American cars being used as taxis – rather like those you found if you visited Havana. We retraced this journey when our fortnight’s shift was over and I remember spending an inordinate amount of time drinking foul beer at the airport. Despite the poor quality, we hammered it - two weeks deprived of alcohol on the dry oil-rig rendered us less judgemental. Every round entailed a full 12-bottle case as befits hard-drinking oil men. So, when I finally quit this historic city with its awe-inspiring architecture and its unique mix of the European and the Asian, all I carried with me were memories of big old cars and bad beer.

A couple of weeks ago I returned to Istanbul with three friends. This time staying in a hotel in the Pera neighbourhood, close to Istiklal Avenue which is a lengthy pedestrianised street running through the city centre. The many side streets off this shopping area are full of bars, restaurants, and a few jazz clubs. It’s also lined with a very perceptible police presence – heavily armed. Because of the current crackdown by Erdogan, some of our families were nervous of us visiting lest we run into riots, but the areas we hung around showed no evidence of unrest – although we read of demonstrations elsewhere in the country. The only agitation and unrest we witnessed was on the evening of the local derby between Galatasaray and Bisiktas when the streets were crowded with rival football supporters and every café and bar was showing the match on multiple televisions. No trouble, just intense excitement in the air and not a whiff of the political turmoil that is being reported abroad. I suspect our tourism-oriented location is protected from any agitation that might damage Turkey’s lucrative tourism industry.

Istanbul is split in two by the Bosphorous Strait – there’s an Asian side and a European side and we were located on the richer and more populous European side. Nonetheless I was surprised by how Westernised the place was. The staff in the smallest cafés and the most modest shops all spoke excellent English. Also, they all allowed for electronic transactions, including Revolut, so our use of the local currency was confined to tipping. Another noticeable feature was the very large number of stray cats around – mostly looking  healthy and well fed. When I commented on this to a local, she told me that feeding them was something people did in Istanbul as a matter of course. And I saw plenty of evidence of this over the few days we were there. Not many dogs around – and certainly no strays. Of course in Moslem culture dogs are not approved of, whereas cats are. Not that there was much general evidence of Islamic strictures in this happy-go-lucky hard-drinking part of town. It was the end of Ramadan so there was a holiday atmosphere – helped by the good weather.

 The architectural highlight was a visit to the Hagia Sophia – built in the 6th Century as a church by the Holy Roman Emperor, then it became a mosque under the Ottomans, then a museum, and latterly, under Erdogan’s Islamic restoration, it’s a mosque once again. As we walked around admiring its massive scale and its chipped and faded grandeur, the midday prayers were being conducted with the congregation vastly outnumbered by the tourists. Nearby were the other architectural highlights, the Blue Mosque and the dark and eerie Cistern – once baths for the populace - so you can fulfil your tourist duties with minimal travel and get back to eating and drinking.

The food for me was pretty basic but then so are my appetites. I enjoyed the mezes, that array of appetisers including hummus, kibbeh and sundry meat and fish snacks, usually served with tasty breads. The meat was mostly well-spiced lamb which I enjoy, served with rice and fresh salads. And maybe some baklavas to finish. But I’m not a fan of their coffee (too ground-laden for me), so I disgraced myself by ordering Americanos. My gourmandising friends had done their research and booked an up-market restaurant for lunch one of the days, that catered to their more refined tastes.  Lokanta1741 has, as its name suggests, been around for centuries, and you are able to indulge in such delicacies as Lambshead Terrine, Sweetbreads and Liver, and Twice Cooked Octupus. The more delicate appetites could enjoy Beetroot and Quinoa Kisir (a bulgur dish). I eschewed the food and but enjoyed the company and the spectacle while sampling the generally excellent local wines (including a fine earthy Riesling.

The highlight of the trip for two of my companions was their attendance at the raucous local derby – surrounded by 70,000 chain-smoking and bellowing Turks. Noisy but great fun I believe. Myself and our fourth member found a funky jazz cellar (Kemsaati Blues Club) where the ambience was somewhat superior to the music. Although, when the band wasn’t playing, the recorded selection of blues standards was mighty fine.

The highlight for me was a two-hour cruise around the Bosphorus where a charming and well-informed local guide pointed out landmarks and gave us a potted history of the locale – and, bravely I thought, threw in a number of sour comments about their current dictator. My friends were staying at the Pera Palace Hotel, made famous by Agatha Christie who began her famous Murder on the Orient Express in Room 411. She stayed there regularly as did Ernest Hemingway and many other luminaries. If you can’t afford the five-star rates there, I would strongly recommend a visit to its famous bar – where we started each evening with an impeccable Negroni.

I knew not what to expect when I undertook this brief holiday, but I would certainly recommend Istanbul as a holiday destination as long as you don’t get caught up in the political demonstrations. And, by the way, for those conditioned to abusive interactions with airlines, Turkish Airlines provided a very amiable service and got us there and back at the scheduled time. Ok, they did spill a main course into my lap but luckily it was a rice dish so no major scalding was entailed.

Finally, I’d like to report that I have changed my attitude to Turkish beer. I found a very tasty local beer that I would strongly recommend. Bomonti is a traditional Turkish beer with that grainy weissbier flavour – much superior to the rather bland Elfes which is more popular but has less character.

The Face of Our New Government

People seem puzzled that Michael Martin should abandon principle, precedent and the smooth progress of government to shove through this ludicrous deal with Lowry. Students of history know, however, that abandoning principles for power comes naturally to Fianna Fáil – going back to the oath of allegiance in the 1920s. That Lowry and his rag-tag cohort enabled FF to cement power meant that no request was too ludicrous to consider. The result of this farrago is to place this tainted sleeveen, this blot on the escutcheon of Tipperary front and centre in our proud new government. Its entire term of office will be tainted by this completely unnecessary stroke. If FG had any sense, it would pull the plug on the whole sorry saga.

 

Cheltenham 2025 – Day 4 and Conclusions

 

I’ve been gambling long enough to realise that whenever you have a good day, you think you are invincible and that can lead to giving back quickly your hard-earned winnings. I approached Day 4 with this in mind and had only two bets before racing started. I avoided the temptations of the first race the Triumph Hurdle – a host of inexperienced four-year-olds competing, with 11 of the runners coming from the Mullins stable. My caution was justified as an unraced horse of Mullins, Poniros, won at 100-1. In the second race, the County Hurdle, I liked the profile of Elliot’s horse Nadawi and thought he was overpriced at 25-1. He looked the winner two out but, inevitably, was caught by one of Mullins’ battalion (Kargese). Still a tidy profit at that price for my each way bet. I avoided the next few races, including the Gold Cup, which, like most people, assumed would be won by Galopin Des Champs. In retrospect, the fact that McManus supplemented the winner, Inothewayurthinkin (horrible name), for €33,000 should have elicited an each-way bet. But retrospect is no use to me so we move on. My other bet was Angel’s Dawn in the Hunter’s Chase at a very slim 3-1. I had been advised to back it by a close connection of the stable. Knowing it was my last bet of the meeting, I was wondering should I add to my modest stake. I was uneasy about the quickening ground so I rang my source. He confirmed my misgivings by saying that the ground wasn’t going to help. However, he told me, the stable’s other runner, an outsider called Wonderwall would love it and that he couldn’t believe the generous price. Now I have lost a lot of money over the years from inside information (Dermot Weld once put me horribly wrong about a good thing at Galway many years ago.), but I liked the look of the horse’s form and he had a featherweight. So I abandoned hope for Angels Dawn and had a decent bet on Wonderwall. He jumped beautifully throughout and took the lead from two out. He was pursued, ominously, by one of McManus’s after the last but held on by a diminishing neck. The crowd watching the race at Finnegan’s in Dalkey were left in no doubt that I’d backed a winner. He came in at 28-1. Angels Dawn finished down the field. This was the cherry on the icing on the cake of my Cheltenham.

Over four days, I had 17 winning bets (that includes profitable each way bets). An unheard-of statistic in 50 years of betting at the Festival. I wish my old buddy Donal Murray was still alive to enjoy my run – we shared our resources and insights every year. There were only three disasters:  State Man falling in the Champion Hurdle while I was counting my winnings; the wretched showing of Workahead in the Supreme Novices – he finished last despite being strongly fancied (I had him singly and coupled with my second William Munny); and the arrant failure of Maughreen to be facing in the right direction in the Mare’s Novice Hurdle when the tapes went up. That’s mares for you, and novices. Paddy Power very graciously refunded losing bets.