Graphic Studio Gallery

Went to the opening of a group show in the Graphic Studio yesterday evening. It featured work by he currently hot Donald Teskey, the perenially sound Gwen O'Dowd, and the nicest artist in Ireland Tim Goulding. There was also peripheral work by Nigel Rolfe, Brian Henderson and the bearded patriarchal Patrick Pye.

There's always lots of artists and few punters at these GS gigs so it's great for networking. In addition to the above named we had Tom Phelan, the saturine Stephen Lawlor, Gerry Cox (in a fez), the delectable Yoko Akino and a host of familiar faces.

This was a very strong show but two pieces stood out: a beautiful Teskey seascape (I bought it dear reader); and a gorgeous colourful piece by Gwen O'Dowd. The works by Tim are worthy but don't engage me.

Bertie's Blatherings

Bertie's act of contrition (but not perfect contrition) in the Dail yesterday was a vomit inducing performance. His sins were minor in my eyes but his playing of the poor befuddled Joe Soap was deeply unconvincing. When he's in the wrong and is playing to the plain people of Ireland in explanation, a few things occur: firstly he reverts to dis, dat, dese and dose in a big way; then he introduces a stutter - all the better to display his deep-felt dismay at these unfair accusations; then there's the mispronunciations: "relevations", "quid per quo" etc. He is disgracefully inarticulate for a prime minister at the best of times, but in extremis he seems to lay it on with a trowel - all the better to show the people that he's one of their own.

The Edinburgh Art Expedition

Off to Edinburgh to see exhibitions by Ron Meuck and Robert Mapplethorpe. I arrive at Dublin Airport with a tragic hangover and in a mood of quiet desperation. Ryanair delay the flight by 2 hours to allow me further time to dwell on my misery.

Finally arrive and we take a bus into the city centre - enjoying the substantial architecture of this impressive city. We're staying at the Radisson Hotel on the Royal Mile. We climb piss-soaked steps through Advocate's Close to reach the hotel.

It's a glorious day but it's raining, raining in my heart. Try a few beers in the trendy hotel bar and watch the Ryder Cup for a while - mood lifts a little. Then it's off to dinner, weaving our way through the standing army of on-street alcoholics. We have selected an upmarket and slightly stuffy French restaurant called Cafe St. Honore. It's passable but the wine is too expensive and the clientele uninteresting - stolid Scottish burghers.

Up and about next moring for the Ron Mueck show in the Nationa Gallery of Scotland - followed by a trip across town to a Robert Mapplethorpe show. Mueck is a puppet maker who has raised his craft to the level of art by using two simple devices. Firstly he dramatically alters the scale of his subjects - making them either gigantic or miniature. Secondly, they are all portrayed as profoundly unhappy or disturbed - the human condition don't you know. It makes for a diverting encounter but it's hardly Titian.

Mapplethoprpe's work is notorious because of his obsession with naked black men and the trappings of SM. While this show contains some of these pieces, its main focus are his portraits and these are surprisingly good. There are also a number of very moving self-portraits as he neared the end of his riotous life. The two pieces that stood out for me were a wonderful image of Louise Bourgeois with a phallus-shaped sculpture under her arm smiling mischievously; and a portrait of De Kooning shortly before he died - looking like an amiable old farmer.

Mapplethorpe's bad boy sthick was a bit wearying, but as a living cause celebre he had fame and thus he had access. He used this access to photograph the main movers in the New York art scene of his time. These portraits may turn out to be his real legacy.

En France

Fetched up in a quiet village south of Lyons; spending a few days pleasantly matching the pace of the locals. A couple of experiences reinforce how badly off we are back in Ireland in comparison; how poorly we provide for the general public.

We took the kids down to the local swimming pool - an immaculately maintained, carefully supervised, hygiene conscious operation. This is a small village - do we have any equivalent facility in Cork, or Dublin or Galway? Only if you pay exhorbitant gym fees I reckon. It highlights yet again the way our government leaves everything to private enterprise and does very little for the less well off. Every town and village in France has similar public facilities.

While staying in this village I had to get a routine blood test so I made an appointment to see one of the 5 GPs in the town - a Dr. Dubois. He saw me 5 minutes after I arrived in his waiting room, gave me a note for a nearby laboratory and told me that he would contact me with the results. He then bade me a very cordial farewell and refused to take any money. Later that day he contacted me with my results and some advice on the implications. I try to imagine how a French man arriving at my local GP in Killiney would fare by comparison - he,d probably take one look at the queue and turn on his heel.

Sick Transit

Watching the state funeral for Haughey it’s hard not to feel a little queasy. Here we have the state honouring someone who considered himself above the laws of the state. You can count the ways: there was the arms debacle; and bless my soul the offshore accounts; and ‘pon my word the phone tapping and to be sure the perjury before the Moriarty Tribunal.

I never bought into the myth of the lofty leader above all mundane considerations. He cheated, lied, hustled and threatened to gain power and to fund his grandiose life style. His arrogance and squireen posturings were risible. He was a Mussolini manqué, a pompous o’erweening power-crazed little man – and deserved a similar fate.

Shame they didn't use a gun carriage - the associations were too blatant I suppose.