Scarecrowing

My long-term obsession with the work of the Limerick artist John Shinnors has led me to commission just one more piece to round off my collection - that'll be it I swear. He did a series of scarecrow heads (one of his perennial motifs) that he sold as one lot to Dunloe Ewart about 5 years ago - I was much miffed at the time that he didn't sell them individually but he has agreed to paint me a piece in the same style. So I took myself off to Limerick last Saturday morning to collect the finished article. Commissions are always a bit problematical as you are under pressure to take a painting that you may not like when you see it. It's a bit like a blind date only, in this case, more expensive. So I approached this encounter with some trepidation.

We meet as always at the White House, at the Crescent end of O'Connell Street. This is a fine old bohemian pub with photgraphs of poets and artists lining the walls - and advertisements for various art events everywhere. There's even a framed letter from Robert Graves. There's some poetry event on in the evening and I meet one of the organisers - Gerry O'Brien. He's a gnarled looking character sporting very long hair dyed a reddish colour unknown to nature. Underneath this extraordinary head is a Munster jersey mainly concealed by a multi-coloured cardigan. Nature disclaims him.

Shinnors eventually shuffles in head down in his Lemmy Caution white coat with white pork-pie hat pulled down over the frizz of his remaining hair. I am playing with a black coffee (it's 1.30) but he launches into the Smithwicks. He gets a pint with a half-pint glass on the side - this I discover is for use on his very frequent trips outside for a smoke. He tips a portion of his pint into his half pint glass and out he goes. Strange, eh? He is a man with many foibles. He also goes to the jakes more often than any human being I have ever met. I'd estimate 3 visits for every pint. I would advise him to have his prostate checked but I expect he doesn't need me to tell him.

After an amiable chat we head for his display studio nearby. He does almost all his painting in his home studio, which he keeps very private. He assures me that I will like what I see. He has the painting set up on an easel with light flowing onto it from the large windows. It's a masterpiece - way beyond what I had hoped for. In addition to the stark and ominous image of the scarecrow, there's a wealth of attendant detail - red stitching, flecks of colour and a shadowy mirror image. I had been uneasy about the cost, given his recent auction results, but he comes straight out with a figure that is most agreeable to me. If I flipped the painting tomorrow, I could get twice his asking price.

We head off to Willie Sexton's (an old Garryown hero) to celebrate and after that to South's - another of the many rugby pubs in the city. I see Shinnors for about 50% of the time we are there. He's either out smoking with his miniature Smithwicks, or going for yet another piss. But that's OK, I watch Ulster hammer Toulouse.

We return to his studio eventually and he packs up the painting for transportation. We go back to the White House for one for the road and we run into the multi-coloured Gerry again. We are joined by two amiable old bohemian broilers who are very chatty and amusing about historical art events in Dublin - both seem very familiar with McDaids in the rare old times. It transpires that one of them is the wife of the estimable Jack Donovan.

I head back to Dublin with my precious cargo - taking extra care.

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.