Portraits of the Artists 4: Basil Blackshaw

Basil Blackshaw - January 2013 (Paddy Benson)

This is my profile of Basil Blackshaw first published in the Sunday Times Culture magazine on the 27th January 2013:


Home is the Hunter

In rural Antrim, a few miles east of Lough Neagh, Basil Blackshaw is resting on his laurels.  His work may have slowed down to a trickle, but the esteem in which he is held continues to grow.  His reputation is set to be further enhanced by the exhibition Blackshaw at 80, currently running at the RHA.  This show features a representative selection of paintings from across his career chosen by the artist himself and Dr. Riann Coulter, curator of the F. E. McWilliam gallery in Banbridge.  In March it will move on to the Gordon Gallery in Derry as part of the UK City of Culture programme.

Blackshaw lives with his personable partner Helen Faloon in a warm and well-maintained old farmhouse off a side road near Antrim town.  His once thriving community of dogs is reduced to one, an elderly and affectionate Staffordshire Bull Terrier called Jet.  He enjoys a leisurely pipe after indulging his sweet tooth with a slice of rich coffee cake as he mulls over his memories.  He is reserved but friendly, smiling a lot and frequently bursting into laughter when recounting some amusing anecdote from his past.  Memories of the late Tom Caldwell and Markey Robinson were a particular source of humour for him. With some prompting from Helen he told a scabrous story about Markey that illustrated that artist's infamous capacity for foul language.  His response to any probing questions about his art is equivocal and often downright contradictory. In an interview with Brian McAvera in 2002 he maintained that Franz Marc had an influence on his horse paintings.  And you can surely see a connection in their use of colour.  However Marc's work seems much more controlled and not at all like Blackshaw's looser more painterly style.  When I brought it up he laughed and said there was no connection whatsoever.  Take your pick.

He is coy about influences generally but a tour of the current show will give a flavour of these.  There's his tribute to Cezanne in Cezanne's Gardener, his window paintings nod towards Rothko, his strings of horses at exercise suggest Degas, and you often see hints of Charlie Brady, especially in Studio.  Blackshaw is a master draughtsman and most of his work, especially his horse and dog paintings, are realistic depictions of these creatures.  One piece, Big Brown Dog, certainly isn't.  It's more heraldic than realistic, as Brian Fallon noted in his excellent 2012 essay.  He wasn't forthcoming when I queried this anomaly.  He's not keen on interpretation, preferring to emphasise the primary visual encounter.  One particular work, Anna on a Sofa, begs for analysis.  It features his erstwhile wife, Anna Ritchie sitting, arms folded tightly, jammed up to one side of an otherwise empty striped sofa. Again Blackshaw doesn't rise to bait - just smiling gnomically when I brought it up.  Their marriage break up was a difficult time for him.

Blackshaw may seem an amiable and easy-going character but he gets much exercised by the public airing of any work he deems inferior and he took a keen interest in the selection  for the show.  He also expressed himself as displeased that a substantial biography published a few years back by Eamonn Mallie contained pictures of work with which he had become dissatisfied.  His partner Helen chided him good-naturedly saying that it was his own fault as he was asked for his input but only took an interest when it was too late.

He's much more forthcoming on the subjects of dogs and horses.  He regrets not having more dogs these days but as he walks with the aid of a stick he cannot exercise them as before.  He trained greyhounds for about 12 years and had much success not just at local tracks but in  big races at Shelbourne Park and Harolds Cross.  He was unlucky not to win the Oaks on one occasion and spoke fondly of those days:  "Dateline was the best dog we ever had" he recalled, "she won bitch of the year that year".   Before he began to sell his art, dogs were his main source of income.  Unlike his fellow artists Bacon and Freud, Blackshaw didn't gamble.  He is too much the shrewd country boy for that foolishness I suspect.  His real affection for these creatures can be seen in the delightful A Dog and Two Men (see illustration).  Here two men chat while the dog sits close to one (Blackshaw himself) and gazes up at him adoringly.


Blackshaw's life has not just been a rural idyll surrounded by God's creatures.  It has been described by Brian Fallon as "an epic of survival".  He has fought and survived alcoholism, a painful separation, and a major studio fire (in 1985). The fire destroyed a large number of paintings and drawings (including a cherished horse painting by his father) and knocked the stuffing out of him for a period.  He particularly regretted the loss of four easels.  The fire did give him the opportunity to build a new studio without a view.  The absence of windows in this new studio, all light coming from skylights, meant he didn't get distracted by the scenery around him as before.  A further stimulus to get on with it came in the form of the model Jude Stephens. She was his muse for a whole series of nude studies which took him away from his landscapes and animals.  Her essay in Basil Blackshaw - Painter by Brian Ferran (published in 1995) is a charming evocation of an unworldly man.

Many artists move to the country and pursue their careers from idyllic locales,
with romantic views of the Atlantic perhaps, or amid the rugged grandeur of West Cork. There they live within their creative bubbles - occasionally emerging to astonish the city with their visions. Blackshaw is different - he is of the countryside as well as being in it. His horses, dogs and fighting cocks are not mere objects selected for our visual delectation.  They are the creatures of his daily round. The colourful fighting cocks were an enthusiasm for many years.  He trained them for their bloody battle and still speaks proudly of his success in this arena.  His landscapes are inspired by Dromora and the areas around his home where he enjoyed hunting and point-to-points.  In his time he has been better known to many of his neighbours as a trainer of dogs or a breeder of horses than as an artist. The practical horny-handed farmers of South Antrim would have little time in any case for a pursuit they would have deemed effete and worse, unprofitable.  Jude Stevens' essay tells a wonderful story of a trip to the "meat man" for dog food with Blackshaw. The trip culminated in a shack behind a ramshackle cottage which was was straight out  the Texas Chainsaw Massacre.  The floor was carpeted with congealed blood, swarms of blue bottles buzzed around her head, and in the gloom she could see carcasses of dead cattle in varying stages of dismemberment.  Blackshaw was quite at home there, chatting to the bloodied butcher, and they departed with a package of "warm meat".


Considering what a horsey country we are it's amazing that so few artists seem drawn to the subject.  True there are a few specialists, such as Peter Curling, but in terms of major figures it's hard to think of anyone other than Jack Yeats. He shares with Blackshaw a feel for the world of racing particularly.  In the current show we get horses in a variety of guises: coming a cropper in a steeplechase, exercising in strings, surreal in purple or red, or, as in Night Rider, conveying an sinister cowboy.  One giant piece,The Fall, is a virtuoso performance.  This charcoal and oil work shows a crashing fall, the horse  landing on its head as the jockey flies through the air, hands braced for impact.  The energy of the calamitous moment perfectly preserved.  You also marvel at the use of charcoal in a picture of such scale.

You can't help but feel that Blackshaw prefers animals to people.  He has famously declared that "portrait painting is a nuisance".  Looking at his portrait of Arthur Gibney in the show you can see dead hand of a commission rather than heartfelt engagement.  Many of his portraits however are alive and engaging. Two that stood out were a thoughtful Brian Friel and a warm and vivacious Mary McGrath.


Blackshaw was a precocious talent.  He was doing commissions in his teens and was accepted for art college at the age of 16.  There he enjoyed the benign influence of the wonderfully named Romeo Toogood.  He thrived there and his career took off when he had a piece acquired by the Ulster Museum when he was 20.  He was also taken up early by Tom Caldwell, an astute judge of talent and an energetic dealer.



The sturm and drang of his boozing days with the likes of Dan O'Neill and Paddy Collins are but fond memories.  Helen tells stories of rescuing Blackshaw and O'Neill from Belfast during the troubles and running the gauntlet of army road blocks with the two drunken and garrulous artists.  He has long foresworn the drink.  Himself and Helen are plainly happy and at peace in their comfortable rural retreat.  Their walls are bedecked with an eclectic collection of paintings:  amidst his own pieces are works by friends past and present, such as Charlie Brady and Neil Shawcross.  There's also a  wonderful drawing of a boar by Elizabeth Frink.  One suspects Blackshaw will do little more painting. When I enquired about looking at his studio Helen said the heating was broken and that it was a bit dismal. A cursory look confirmed this.  He has no immediate plans to set foot in it.  Maybe spring will bring some inspiration, or his old friend Jude will call around and stir him into action.   But a man who has painted for nearly 70 years is surely entitled to take life easy.  His legacy is safe.

Union Haul

Walking my dog on Killiney Beach yesterday I came upon a fine sturdy plastic container washed up on the shoreline. Thinking it would be ideal to store logs, I stuck it in the boot and brought it home. It was emblazoned with the identifier: Union Hall Fishermens Co. Could this really have made it all the way up the Irish Sea from West Cork? Or more prosaically had it made its way down the coast from Dun Laoghaire or Bullock Harbour, places where commerce in fish occurs. A creepy coincidence is that it's exactly a year since that Union Hall trawler sank with the loss of five lives near Glandore.

Tremendous Turner Turnout

The National Gallery was packed out (no room in cloakroom for latecomers) last night for the launch of the annual Turner exhibition.  It wasn't the standard arty crowd that you might see at IMMA or the RHA.  This lot mainly featured clusters of over-dressed middle-aged women, hard-faced men in suits,  and a plethora of those officious biddies that administer the arts in our institutions.  I overheard a number of foreign accents so maybe the diplomatic corps were in attendance - supporting the British Ambassador who opened the event.  Hennessy sponsored the launch so we were offered various brandy cocktails on arrival, including a delicious hot brandy and cassis confection that went down well (twice).  We were forced to sing for our cocktails by enduring four  speeches before we could view the art.  Three of these were dull and worthy, but the fourth,  performed with panache by the British Ambassador Dominick Chilcot, was well turned and witty.  You can't beat that Oxbridge polish.  He mentioned that he had stood up Tessa May (his Home Secretary) to be with us - bringing  an appreciative laugh from the assembled worthies.  He also noted that Turner and Shakespeare shared a birthday.

Eventually we were allowed upstairs to view the work.  I wonder about this annual limited season for the Turners.  I suppose it gives them a spurious cachet - like creme eggs.  It's certainly wonderful PR for the National Gallery and it does focus attention on art - always a good thing in this country where most people don't give a fart through their corduroys (as Beckett maintained) for it.  And yet the works are slight and modest enough - some mere sketches for larger pieces.  Only one or two hint at the drama and power of Turner's major works.

The Christmas Debacle

Thank God that's over.  As the years pass I identify more and more with Scrooge.  It's the enforced jollifications I particularly dread. But of course there are certain elements that I still enjoy. The trip to Blackrock College to buy the tree is always fun: the sap, the smell, the helpful lads, the car crammed on the way home. The annual viewing of the Bono on Christmas morning in St. Patrick's near Bulloch Harbour - the amiable padre and the solid Protestant burghers. The quality racing at Kempton and Leopardstown - with Cheltenham prospects on view. But the highlight is the escape to Schull on the 27th. A week of walks on Barleycove Beach, and crab sandwiches and Guinness in O'Sullivan's of Crookhaven.  The brace of pints before dinner every evening - in Hacketts or O'Regans. The extended sessions of mutual abuse when the family convenes. An annual purging of affectations.  The glimpses of Schull's most infamous denizen - older and wearier looking this year, grim-faced woman in tow. The unflagging amiability of Tom Brosnan - unofficial mayor, fire brigade driver, musician, supermarket owner and deer lover. The wonderous vistas along the Sheep's Head peninsula. Checking out the graveyard on the Colla Road I noticed they've finally given Jim O'Driscoll a decent stone with handsome surrounds. The inscription is a bit cryptic:  "Surrecturi" -  no dictionary helps here.  Jim was a well known exponent of the Cork art of ball-hopping so I'd like to think it's an attempt to befuddle us from beyond the grave. However it's more likely to be an arcane Latin term known only to his fellow obfuscators in the legal profession.