Dying Young in Letterfrack: From the Gloucester Diamond to Diamond Hill

It was a glorious day today in Connemara so I ceased my scribbling early and took myself and Missy out for a walk. I’m only 9 Kms from Letterfrack so I decided to check out the infamous St. Joseph’s Industrial School graveyard. It’s not easy to find – the honest burghers of Letterfrack have not deigned to signpost their best known feature. History suggests that the town’s people often returned escaping children to their captors. I ended up in Toorena Graveyard near Renvyle – a perfectly good spot with gorgeous views but not what I was looking for. I succumbed to Google Maps and typed in GMIT. I knew GMIT had a college in Letterfrack (specializing in furniture design) that had taken over the space occupied by the old industrial school.  I could have headed for St. Joseph’s church – had I known it existed as Google retook me straight to the church car park. I parked and walked the few yards up the hill to the graveyard, with Missy in tow. A stark notice on a pillar informed me I was there: Letterfrack Industrial School Graveyard. An uneven path through a very scraggly, misshapen wood led to an area enclosed with a low wall. By the gate there were a couple of poems by Paula Meehan etched on wood: The Boys from the Gloucester Diamond and the Cardboard Suitcase - fine moving pieces (“We cursed those cold, black-robed men”).. The Gloucester Diamond was a slum area near Summerhill in Dublin from where many of the boys would have come. I’m sure many of the boys would have looked through the windows of their prison at Diamond Hill (a shapely peak looming over Letterfrack) and wished they were instead looking out their tenement windows at the Gloucester Diamond.

The graveyard covers a small area bisected by a path – less than half the size of a soccer pitch. Initially the boys buried there had only a small stone slab marking the spot but the Joseph Pike Research Group (a group seeking justice for victims of abuse in industrial schools) has affixed a rather kitschy heart-shaped slab to each with the name, date of death and age of the boy. There are Kellys and Dunnes, a Gill and two Hastings. The ages range from 8 to 18. A cross, erected at one end by the Christian Brothers in 1969 contains the rather mealy-mouthed message: “You are all remembered by the brothers, lay staff and pupils of St. Joseph’s.”  No hint of remorse there - but I suppose 1969 was before the floodgates opened. I notice the slab on the base of the cross has a large diagonal crack. Perhaps some past pupil was affronted by the blandness of the message and took violent action. Around the cross and elsewhere in the graveyard there are scattered toys that we’d associate with boys: footballs, racing cars, tractors and even a small helicopter. There are also an inordinate number of small sneakers hanging off railings and scattered about generally.

It’s a poignant, understated memorial to a particularly horrific episode in Irish history. Our brave new state, mostly fronted by the priest-loving De Valera handed responsibility for our children’s education and for dealing with young miscreants to a collection of sex-starved celibates who when they weren’t sublimating their urges in violence were satisfying it perversely on children. I only encountered the more genteel Christian Brothers in CBC in Cork (apparently Letterfrack was where  they sent the more abusive brethren)  and was never sexually abused. However myself and many of my classmates were beaten daily. Those were brutish times.

Myself and Missy returned to our car much chastened. I’ll have to bring her chasing rabbits on Omey Island tomorrow. If you’re touring Connemara this summer drop in and pay your respects. 

Prognostications on the Six Nations

So far so reasonably predictable except that I thought England would beat France in Paris. But history tells us that home advantage is a huge indicator except where Italy are concerned. Things look finely poised for the championship at the moment but I suspect that on the final weekend it will come down to the result of the Ireland/France match. Here’s what I think will happen. Wales will beat France in Cardiff and England will beat Ireland in Twickenham. Forget Scotland and Italy - they’ve both lost two matches and so are out of it. Scotland may eke out a result in Italy. These round 3 results could mean that four teams are on 9 points so the odd bonus point here or there could be vital in the final analysis. In the next round England will beat a declining Wales and Ireland will obviously beat Italy. France and Scotland is hard to call but I’ll give the nod to Scotland. That means that coming into the final weekend it’s between Ireland and England for the championship – both could have between 13 and 15 points. It’s hard to see England put 4 tries on either Ireland or Wales so an Ireland losing bonus point against England would be crucial. It would mean that before the final round England have 13 points and Ireland 15 (I’m giving us 5 points against Italy in the previous round)  England will probably get a winning bonus point in its final match against Italy but a mere win will suffice for Ireland (if we get those two aforementioned bonuses points). Now a win away to France is hardly a foregone conclusion but they will have nothing to play for and may play a young team with an eye on the future. So the most crucial factor in all this is to avoid losing by more that 7 points against England. Winning of course means that the Grand Slam is firmly on the agenda. A fly in this ointment may be England getting 4 tries against Wales – not impossible. This could mean points difference comes into play. So we may need a very big score against Italy. I’d risk a few bob on Ireland at this stage.

Thus Spoke Zarathustra.

Here’s the Solution...

For those of you who might scoff at this finely-tuned aesthete getting involved in the world of politics might I refer you to my piece back in October about how Boris and the Brexit debacle would play out in the UK. Read it and marvel at my prescience:

https://ardmayle.blogspot.com/2019/10/some-sporting-and-political-soothsaying.html

But let’s move on. What the fuck is going to happen here now with the deadly impasse thrown up by the General Election. Here’s what I think, based on three premises.

Premise 1:  Eamon Ryan is a nice middle-class lad who would be quite comfortable going into a coalition with FF and FG. FG are his social peers who eat in the same restaurants, enjoy muesli for breakfast, and watch Leinster at the RDS. He could just about endure the more horny-handed FFers. However he’s not thick. He knows that such a coalition would give him a few cabinet seats in the short-term but would annihilate the Green Party in the long term - especially where the younger vote is concerned. Think of the party that once was Labour.

Premise 2: Micheal Martin is a man at the end of his tether. He’s history unless he can cobble together a coalition that will allow him to become Taoiseach. He knows that even if he becomes Taoiseach he’s finished but he doesn’t care - give him a couple of years and he’ll die happy.

Premise 3:  Leo is brighter than Micheal and he knows full well the gig is up - for the time being. He relishes the idea of a shaky coalition between SF/FF/Greens with FG on the opposition benches taking pot shots at the shaky edifice. All the while  intimating that the adults in the room are ready to take over again when the nation comes to its senses.

So there will be a coalition between the Greens, SF and FF. FF will use the Greens as prophylactic saying it would only touch SF with the Greens interposing their bodies. And of course that it is doing it for the sake of the country because there is no other solution. The Greens can say they are abiding by the desire for change which they could not do if bound to FF and FG. So they can hang on to their core vote.

This coalition will not live long of course. SF and FF will never endure each other for five years and SF know full well that an election will serve them far better than it will FF. Michael Martin may become Taoiseach (or rotating Taoiseach with Mary Lou) but it will be a Pyrrhic victory for him and possibly fatal for FF.

This whole theory is of course based on Eamon Ryan thinking long-term instead of short-term. History (as the cliche has it) will judge him harshly if he sells the Green out for a mess of pottage.

Tommy Smith and Memories of Grogan’s

Tommy Smith’s recent death surely marks the end of the Grogan’s we knew and loved. It can hardly remain the same – he was the soul of the place, the presiding spirit. I attended his funeral service in Mount Jerome last Wednesday where a huge crowd paid tribute to the man. While establishment Ireland (including the President) attended the estimable Keelin Shanley’s obsequies in Gleanageary Church, the artistic community and royalty from the political left gathered at Mount Jerome to honor an arguably more influential figure in Irish life. He was a selfless supporter of all the arts and a life-long republican both in the French Revolution sense and in the narrower Irish sense. Mary Lou McDonald and Gerry Adams were amongst the congregation and the final act at the service featured that old socialist war horse Des Geraghty delivering a rousing version of The Parting Glass – with audience participation. Robert Ballagh and Finbarr Cullen delivered fulsome and entertaining eulogies and there was plenty of music. Tommy was great lover of poetry so it was fitting that our female laureate Paul Meehan was there to celebrate him with a moving reading.

I first came to live in Dublin in the late 1970s after completing a degree in English and Philosophy at UCC and spending a few years working on the oil rigs without any great notions of making a career of it. I landed a job with Altergo – an IT company on Pearse Street that trained foreign students and developed software for IBM-based systems. A propitious time to get involved in that industry. I was introduced to Grogan’s by a writer friend and it immediately became my city-centre pub of choice. On my very first visit I went to use their classic old style urinals (now gone alas) and found a very tall man stretched the length of the ledge on which one stood. Knowing my literary figures I recognized him as the poet John Jordan – a prominent figure in poetry circles at the time. He was clearly the worse for drink so I let him be and took myself to the nearby cubicle. It confirmed for me however that I was in the right pub – this was surely the epicenter of Dublin bohemian life. Another writer who frequented the place was Des Hogan – an outsider figure now (and a not very likeable person back then) who never quite recaptured those early glory days after the publication of The Ikon Maker. He was obviously a rabid note taker because he was forever pulling out dozens of small bits of paper covered in writing from various pockets to find a particular phrase or piece of information he wanted to impart. He had a very evident belief in his own talents – one not generally shared by the more discerning around him. Visual artists were also there in abundance - with Tom Matthews a seeming permanent fixture – and of course the walls were adorned with a rotating collection of work which we’ll politely describe as eclectic. 

The American artist Charlie Brady was a great favourite of Tommy’s. While the art on the walls was of mixed quality – the exception was Charlie’s work. Even though he was a made man with regular exhibitions at Taylor Galleries and a hardy annual at the RHA he always had a piece hanging in Grogan’s for sale. And he kept his prices democratic. I doubt he ever sold a work for more than £1,000. My wife exhibited in the Caldwell Gallery where Charlie’s wife worked (although Charlie showed at Taylor Galleries) so we became friendly. He lived near me in South County Dublin so at a certain point in the early evening he would say “c’mon Sullivan we’re going home” and I would obediently drive him to his doorstep. Which was just as well as he was frequently in no condition to walk – nor was I in truth. The last time I met him in Grogan’s he was sitting at the bar with a medical friend having just received a diagnosis for terminal cancer. When I went up to chat he told me in a somewhat bad-tempered way to “go home to your wife”. A non-sequitur I put down to his fraught circumstances. In an awful irony, the frequently impecunious Charlie had been left a large legacy ($800,000 I believe) by an aunt in America a few months before his fatal diagnosis. Charlie is long gone but his image remains in the bottom right-hand corner of the stained glass work in the main bar. It was hard to get barred from Grogan’s but I do remember Mannix Flynn receiving the rough edge of Tommy’s tongue when the now respectable and sober councillor was going through his manic phase. Flynn was proceeding from table to table informing drinkers that “we kill quickly”. Tommy sent him on his way with little ceremony. They must have made up because I saw a suited and booted Mannix at the ceremony in Mount Jerome. A number of years ago I almost suffered the same fate as Mannix when I was importuned to play the accordion by an over-friendly member of the traveling community. The tall and very stern lady behind the bar was having none of it as the following clip demonstrates:

https://youtu.be/PUemrNff8cs

Music was not allowed although it’s said that Brendan Behan’s mother got a dispensation. 

Tommy Smith was of course the soul of the place. In addition to running a very efficient pub and making sure all were looked after he was always on for a chat. Frequently he would deliver the drink and himself together – sitting down to discuss Shinnors or Michael Hartnett or the latest show at Taylor Galleries. Conversation was the primary charm of Grogan’s in those days. You could walk in for a pint at four in the afternoon (my preferred time) and chat away to anybody in residence – the scale was just right for cross-pub banter. These days with TripAdvisor touting its attractions it’s got so popular that for much of the day it’s no longer the loose agglomeration of like-minded folk that it used to be. I suspect that Tommy’s death, the ATM machine, and the renovation of the bathrooms are harbingers of a new order. I hope not. As long as the TV is not introduced I’ll keep the faith.

John P. O’Sullivan

February 2020

RUA Annual Exhibition

In the Wings by Cara Gordon

A slightly edited version of this review appeared in the Sunday Times Culture magazine on the 17 November.

Considering the dearth of open submission exhibitions in this country, it’s remarkable how few artists from the Republic submit work for the Royal Ulster Academy (RUA) Annual Exhibition. The submission process for the RUA is less irksome than that of the Royal Hibernian Academy (RHA) and the odds on being accepted are much higher. One in four submissions were accepted at the RUA show this year whereas it was around one in nine at the RHA. The RUA allows online submission costing £15 while at the RHA you must transport your work to the venue and pay €20. This leads to the annual debacle at the RHA where 100s of artists must queue up in a very public way at a circumscribed date and time to collect their rejected work. A more thoughtful process would surely aim to avoid this annual via dolorosa. One of the reasons for the discrepancy in terms of acceptance between the two academies is that the RUA exhibits only two works per academy member whereas the RHA allows six per member. Not all RHA members take up the full allowance but 4, 5, or 6 works by an artist is not uncommon. The net result of all this is that the RUA’s exhibition has a more democratic spread – there’s more variety. This does not of course mean that the quality is necessarily any better. It’s also noticeable that prices seem lower at the RUA – an impression supported by the healthy sprinkling of red dots when I visited early in the run.

While it may have an enlightened submission process the RUA sadly continues to be homeless – a fact bemoaned by its current president Betty Brown in the  exhibition catalogue. The show, as has become customary in recent years, is held on the 5th floor of the Ulster Museum. There’s the usual mixture of the good, the bad and the ordinary. But even the most rigorous judge will find much to enjoy. You look for trends and themes at these shows and I was struck by the number of works featuring trees, or landscapes where trees are prominent.  Notable amongst these were Gillian Cullen’s Beaulieu Wood, a virtuoso study in pencil and Robert Russell’s Morning Light, a beautifully composed etching of the sun rising on a tree-adorned landscape. David Crone, a hardy annual at the RUA, gets up much closer to this subject with Asleep with Trees. Also amongst the trees are Sanctuary by Elizabeth Bullock McFarland (a skillful exercise in tricky media: egg tempera and watercolor) and Elizabeth Magill’s lithograph In Two Parts. There are other arboreal studies deserving of mention by Keith Wilson, Margaret Arthur, Lisa Ballard, Michael Durning, Linda Plunkett and Vincent Sloan.

One of the more unusual exhibits is Tribe by Helen Merrigan Colfer, a five-piece sculpture in steel, resin and granite that is a tour de force of craft. Each member of this assemblage of elaborately decorated figures is a standalone work of art. Together they make up the sinister denizens of some infernal, but stylishly accoutered, tribe. The family-like composition of the group could lend itself to a Freudian interpretation. Carolyn Mulholland has two very contrasting works on show:  A portrait bust of Samuel Beckett showing him in all his hawk-featured austerity and severity; and In Time, an elegant glass work with elaborate geometric patterns.

Video works often get scant attention at these group shows because viewers are generally reluctant to hang about for the requisite few minutes it takes to watch the complete work. Woodfellas by Philip McDowell, a gangster animation, is certainly worth pausing for. It’s an amusing and strangely sinister take on the Martin Scorsese film Goodfellas. The characters are hinged marionettes in gangster suits going about their bloody business punctuated by wise guy dialogue. A poignant note is struck by Home – another animation, by Rhea Hanlon and Méabh Gilheany, where the comforts of home are juxtaposed with the dubious alternative of the park bench. The work was inspired by the issue of homelessness in Northern Ireland. This is a rare foray into social issues amongst the exhibits although Joy Gerrard’s Protest Crowd (The North is Next) has also got an axe to grind.

Cara Gordon’s In the Wings at first glance seems to be a charming portrayal of little girls about to go on stage to show their ballet skills. However, on closer inspection you notice the fragments of advertisements for plastic surgery and various body modification services. The title suddenly becomes more resonant as we realize what’s ahead of these happy innocents. There’s an unusual work by the old Northern warhorse Neil Shawcross – he puts aside his red paint and surprises us with large and lively portrait of a black bull. The energy and primitive feel of the work suggests ancient cave painting. The title, Amada’s bull, tells us that Shawcross has taken his inspiration from the Temple of Amada – the oldest Egyptian temple in Nubia. Another lively and somewhat malevolent animal on view is Austin Clarke’s Bad Dog – there are intimations of Basil Blackshaw in this piece but I doubt if Basil would have included those teeth. Jennifer Trouton demonstrates that nothing whatever is by art debarred in The Invisible Past – a photorealist study of a crumpled old blanket.

Portraits abound but mostly not the stiff depictions of local worthies that we associate with the academy. Many are personal and quirky. I like my yearly encounters with Michael Connolly at the RUA and his June’s Lover does not disappoint. There’s a subtly surreal portrait, In Blue, by Tom McClean, a winsome self-portrait by Rebecca Jane Dolan, and a study in melancholy (I See You in Feathers) by Catherine Creaney. It comes as some surprise to encounter the comedian Colin Murphy in these august surroundings. The mischief-maker and scatology-merchant from the Blizzard of Odd has produced a very competent self-portrait which depicts a figure imbued with gravitas and adorned with stolid glasses. Murphy is clearly a man of many parts.

Last Thatch in Galway City by Stephen Shaw seemed at first glance to be a photograph preserving a picturesquely decrepit old house. In fact its’a very skillful water-colour in photorealist style – no mean feat. Another accomplished watercolor is John Cooney’s Winter Turf, Donegal – a minutely detailed landscape. Both the RUA and the RHA have female presidents at the moment. Betty Brown from the RUA exhibited at the RHA’s annual show and Abigail O’Brien returns the compliment with Why Would You Go on Half Cocked. This is a shimmering, sensuous, almost abstract image of a high-performance car lit from above and on all sides.

While the exhibition as a whole tends towards the safe and the figurative, there are deviations. One of the invited artists is Cathy Wilkes, a Northern Irish artist who lives and works in Glasgow and who represented Britain in the 2019 Venice Biennale. Her Untitled consists of a pair of small frames hung side by side – each one devoid of content apart from a blank sheet of paper, yellow in one and white in one in the other. It’s polymer gravure on chine-colle paper we are told. You can use your imagination if you like, or admire the quality of the frames. I’d prefer to walk on by muttering “passé”.


John P. O’Sullivan
November 2019