Déjà vu in Paris

MONICA BOYLE

Déjà vu in Paris

By Lynda Cookson

As the ferry slipped into the harbour on Eigg Island in the Hebrides where Monica Boyle was working at the time, she mused on the feeling of knowing the intimacies of the islanders’ lives as well as knowing the ways of mainland folk. She felt like both an insider and an outsider and yet neither one, in a limbo between the two - and so, in the late ‘80s her fascination and love affair with islands began. In her own words: ‘I have never been able to understand or escape my growing infatuation with 'the islands'. It has compelled me for decades to fall through layers of relationship from distant admirer, acquaintance and finally lover to a whole archipelago. Like most obsessions, it has become narrower in its focus, mainly the islands around West Cork and Heir in particular. The first time I went to Paris, the hamlet of houses on the west coast of Heir island, it all seemed very familiar to me, I had a sense of déjà vu and felt as if I had been there before. Sole possession or an understanding of the relationship is not a necessity for me. It is my 'encounter' with the offshore islands and my subsequent response to it in paint that is important to me. Water, land and sky merge and separate into abstracted forms as I wipe paint on and scrape it off again. I dip my finger in vibrant vermillion and make an emphatic smear, which is then enveloped in a haze as I smudge grey-blues around their edge. Indian red and sultry ochre trickle along dark shorefronts to lift the temperature further in these cold western seas. Finally, I scratch the surface to stitch and consolidate the whole. The painted surface is the only vestigial record of the experience.’

A relationship with her bucket and mop … but actually in love with the sea

MAJELLA O’NEILL COLLINS

A relationship with her bucket and mop … but actually in love with the sea

By Lynda Cookson

The last house on the there-and-back road on Sherkin Island, a brown-stained cabin sitting on a lawn just metres from the lapping sea, belongs to artist Majella O’Neill Collins and her husband Michael. They live there with their children Michael (12) and Fiona (10).

Majella’s abstract paintings, vibrant in their blues, crimsons, greens and yellows, hang against fresh white walls, looking back at the reality of themselves - the real sea - through large windows and the open front door.

Mashed potato to begin with please …

KATE FRENCH

Mashed potato to begin with please …

By Lynda Cookson

Kate French was asked to write about herself for a recent exhibition: ‘I wanted at first just to write … “My name is Kate French and I make sculpture” … but then I thought it would look pretty stupid so here goes … I have made things three dimensional for as long as I can remember. I modelled things in mashed potato as a toddler and it remains a passion. If I were to analyse my work I would say that it is about movement. The movement just before and after an object moves. I also hope that it conveys a sensation of joy. Something magical, as I notice that a lot of my work is inspired by Greek legend. This just seems to happen. But then it could simply be organised chaos or Quantum heresy.’

I met Kate in the art gallery she shares with her painter husband Philip, at the end of a colourful walkway of shops above the centre of Kinsale. Before I knew it I had been welcomed into the airy and light gallery with an enthusiastic handshake, and settled comfortably in a chair I thought I may never be able to, or want to, get out of while Kate energetically talked a blue streak about family, health and fitness. Her enjoyment of pilates (breathing exercises), tai chi and yoga flow naturally into her work and are reflected in the physical challenges she attempts with sculpture – like the bronze horse balancing delicately on one hoof. She laughs: ‘I like to challenge engineering. A lot of the things I want to do defy the laws of sculpture.’ But it’s her knowledge and sense of how breath, muscles and state of mind work together as a team, which allows her to bring grace, balance and sensitivity to the movement in her sculpture.

Normally late but usually right

JOHN SIMPSON

Normally late but usually right

By Lynda Cookson

John Simpson held me spellbound for more than two hours, using simple words to say clearly and calmly what so many artists feel but cannot describe - from their need to escape to a private space to feed their compulsion to paint, to the irresistible pull of expressing uniquely the element of life that catches their passion.

Born in Fraserburg in Scotland, John spent four years at The Slade School of Fine Art in London and was strongly influenced by modern American painters like Rothco, Koenig, Ellesworth Kelly and Jackson Pollock. However, he said of an exhibition of Bonard’s paintings in London at the time: ‘I thought that’s really what painting is or should be about. It was very rich and his work stuck in my mind through all the influences even although it threw me into a bit of confusion, being older than all the contemporary stuff around.’

Art, Music and Seagulls Dancing

JOHN HURLEY

Art, Music and Seagulls Dancing

By Lynda Cookson

On 23 February 2006, John Hurley, artist, lyricist and musician, attended the World Premiere of ‘Seagulls Dance’ at the Draoicht Theatre in Dublin. He got in for free. And so he should. He wrote all the music and the lyrics!

Not only did he create the music, but he produced a collection of abstract paintings depicting the stage production in soul-awakening abstract form. His painting style is intense, colourful and pure like his personality which is intense, deeply coloured (with emphasis on the ‘deep’ bit) – and I’m not qualified to pass opinion on the ‘pure’ bit!

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Now back to John where I visited him in his home just outside Tralee, and sat on a stool in his music studio amongst an array of guitars, mandolins, avocado pear-shaped shakers, microphones, a computerised keyboard and an elastic band. Well, not really an elastic band, but John who at times made me think of an elastic band stretched to full capacity and about to ‘ping!’ into a hall of fame somewhere.

He’s a very clear-minded person indeed, with not only a well-organised music studio in a room of the house overlooking Tralee Bay, but with an outside art studio and another room set aside entirely for picture framing. As he says himself ‘Maybe twenty years working in a bank in Dublin was a good grounding for me.’ It gave him a solid business head as a perfect shovel with which to fuel his ambitions. And there’s no doubt that he is an ambitious person.

Memories and the Secret Bits

GERALDINE O’SULLIVAN

Memories and the Secret Bits …

By Lynda Cookson

Geraldine O’Sullivan leaned back in her dining room chair and stretched out her tanned legs. ‘The 80’s were just so bad!’ she laughed. We were sitting in her West Cork home nestled in the farmlands of Ballylibert.

At a time when most young Leaving Cert. hopefuls went into banking, the civil service or teaching, Geraldine studied art at the National College of Art and Design in Dublin. She specialised in textiles and graduated with first class honours but finding work in the 80’s in Ireland was very difficult indeed. Luckily Kilkenny Design and the Crafts Council of Ireland came into being when Irish design sense was still raw. They were partly funded by the Irish government and their aim was to upgrade crafts, to take skill bases and sharpen them in packaging, presentation and design. ‘It was a pivotal time and I was lucky enough to work for Kilkenny Design and part time with Fashion Designer Paul Costello. My work became more commercial, designing fabrics rather than painting pictures.’

As west as west can go

CLAUDIO VISCARDI

As west as west can go

By Lynda Cookson

Claudio Viscardi had not long left his homeland of Switzerland when he met a Turkish Robin Hood in a deserted square in Rome.

By this time, he had turned professional artist and sold his paintings on the piazza in Rome. There was a huge market in Porta Portese where, amongst the usual market paraphernalia, artists would sell their work. Claudio secured for himself a spot in the Piazza Navona where he sold much of his art to the Romans themselves, rather than to tourists. One particular Sunday, probably at the end of a month when all the artists sold well, the artists decided to celebrate their good fortune and went from one bar and friend’s home to another, enjoying each other’s company and spending some of their hard-earned art money. The night wore on and at about 4 am Claudio found himself walking alone across the big deserted piazza on his way to the bus station. Suddenly he found himself surrounded by a group of Turkish men, some of whom held his arms while others riffled through his clothing to find his wallet. Claudio had stuffed his day’s takings well down into an inside pocket of his jacket, leaving only a small amount of cash in his wallet. When the robbers seemed disbelieving that this well-dressed young man had no money, ‘You’ve got the wrong guy here’, he told them. ‘I’m just a poor artist with no money, and no paintings sold today from my stall on the piazza.’ At that, the leader of the gang shook his head, called off his men, reached into his own wallet, and gave Claudio 1000 lira!

If it’s the end of June, it’s Bluebells.

CLARE BUSWELL

If it’s the end of June, it’s Bluebells.

By Lynda Cookson

‘Raindrops on roses and … gates in sunny gardens…’ - just a little made-up ditty which soaks the mind when Tralee artist, Clare Buswell, is around. She’s got a twinkly smile and an aura of peace, probably because she spends a lot of her time photographing and painting sunny gardens and parks with secretive gates and timeless statues. She says: ‘I love painting gardens and if it’s the end of June, I know it’s Bluebells I’ll be doing. But I prefer painting statues to painting people - I wouldn’t like people to be offended by what I produce!’

Carving new life into the ancient

RONNIE GRAHAM

Carving new life into the ancient

By Lynda Cookson

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Fascinated, I listened to Ronnie’s comments on the history of the bog-wood: ‘The Ice Age began retreating about ten thousand years ago and growth started to appear. About two or three thousand years later trees like oak, yew and a close relative to the scots pine took hold. There were huge climate changes after that – it got warmer and wetter and trees in many areas found the conditions no longer suitable for them and they died. They either crashed down or rotted where they stood. The death of the trees allowed fast growing bog plants like moss to develop, and if it grew fast enough, it covered the tree quickly and began the process of preservation. Hundreds of years later, the bog covered it. The bog is oxygen free and therefore has excellent potential for preserving the wood for many centuries.’

He went on to tell me about how the different hues in the wood developed: ‘The oak was the ordinary white oak but a mixture of iron in the bog water and tannin in the oak produced a chemical reaction in the wood, which turned it black. The yew darkened in the same way to a maroon tint, and the extinct variety of wood which is closest to scots pine turned into a honey colour.’

From Behind the Shades

PAM O’CONNELL

From Behind the Shades

By Lynda Cookson

Pam O’Connell hangs on her own studio wall, grinning hugely behind dark glasses, and hugging her knees to her chest, happy and secure. Her tanned body is clad in a stunning white bathing suit and she’s sitting on a sunny beach far from her ivy-clad Galway home and the wall which she adorns.

Not only does Pam direct her people-watching gaze on others, but on herself as well. She tells me she doesn’t particularly like the self-portrait which I found so compelling, but that she has painted herself on the beach several times, changing the colour of her bathing attire to suit her will and whim.

Lisa O'Brien

LISA O’BRIEN

A pioneering artist with a golden mouth

By Lynda Cookson

Lisa O’Brien touched the Taoiseach this summer but her golden mouth just didn’t manage to get past a wobbly – ‘Those are my paintings over there…’ – words which he sadly did not hear and a light touch on his arm which he probably didn’t feel. It was the opening night of Ormonde Designs in Oranmore where Lisa’s work was displayed, and probably one of the few times in her life when she has felt a little over-awed. It doesn’t happen often. Lisa is known for her ability to pioneer and organise groups and situations she feels are necessary, jumping courageously into the deep end and talking a blue streak about her passions. She gave herself the golden mouth … there’s a self-portrait in her studio where she’s painted a block of golden paint over her mouth. When I asked her why, she said: ‘Because I talk too much!’

Anyone for Honours?

JOHN DINAN

Anyone for Honours?

By Lynda Cookson

Ten year old John Dinan, a strong fan of western stories, gazed in awe at another boy’s detailed drawing of Davy Crockett, furry hat with shoulder-draped raccoon tail included. Later, at the school’s sale of work, he stood for three hours gazing over the shoulder of a portrait artist, fascinated by his accuracy in drawing. His passion for art had been awakened.

Many pencils and sketchpads but no art classes later he was presented with the form onto which he had to indicate the exams he wished to sit for his Leaving Cert. Should he sit an extra exam and tick that box next to art? The pull was strong so he trotted down to the art class to get formal approval for ticking the box, only to be met with: ‘I haven’t wasted two years on these eejits to get them through to have you upset my good work! No.’ Fuming mad, John returned to his desk … and ticked the box. That June as the art papers were being handed out the examiner called: ‘Anyone for honours?’ In a flash ‘What have I got to lose?’ flashed through John’s mind and he raised his hand for the only pink paper being handed out amongst the blues. Everyone laughed. He grinned back…’

Artist, musician, lyricist, poet, yet man of few words

JOE DOLAN

Artist, musician, lyricist, poet, yet man of few words

By Lynda Cookson

There’s no doubting the strength of Joe Dolan’s character and ideals, but when he speaks, the sadness leaks out and you know that there are many more words in his head which he refuses to unleash. He talks, he answers, but it’s all blanketed with ‘where’s the value in it now?’ Few are the folk who can feel and see what is actually inside the head and heart of this hot-headed idealist. And even fewer are those he will confide in. But it all comes out in his painting.

Artist and Musician

Jim McKee

Artist and Musician

By Lynda Cookson

Jim McKee is not a person you can forget easily. And it’s not the ‘big hair’ unruly mass of dark brown twists which frame his bearded face, or the disarming and probing eyes that crinkle so easily into a smile, which stick in your mind. It’s the feeling that you’ve met a person of substance. You’ve met someone who’s tasted vulnerability and has let it make him a wiser person. You’ve met someone who, in turn, will never forget you because he’s taken a genuine interest in you. And his handshake is something else again! If he’s not happy with it, if he feels it was a paltry greeting, he asks you to do it again – properly this time, with the valley between thumb and forefinger meeting your hand firmly in the same place while his eyes meet yours directly and openly. He’s charming and he knows it but it’s all for fun and in the name of friendship.

When it doesn’t hurt your eye anymore …

Grace Cunningham

When it doesn’t hurt your eye anymore …

By Lynda Cookson

Grace Cunningham surreptitiously fed a piece of cheesecake to Radebe, the family Spaniel, trying not to let me guess that he rules the roost. She laughed gently as she told me about her life and her art - ‘I was all over the place when I left school. I wanted to work with animals, I knew art had to come in somewhere - and I wanted to be a ballet dancer as well!’ She broke off in order to fetch Radebe’s bone which he had dropped out of reach and was too lazy to fetch. He was lying at the door open onto Grace’s peaceful garden, whimpering with his ears and stumpy tail twitching, pleading for the attention which he felt was rightly his and which he knew he would get from his kind and gentle mistress.

‘What lies beneath …’

CHARLOTTE KELLY

‘What lies beneath …’

By Lynda Cookson

What lies beneath is layers and layers of paint, usually oil paint, on stretched canvas or cotton, or linen on board. It is also the title to one of Charlotte Kelly’s paintings. But what really lies beneath is, in her own words: ‘My feelings of being in a privileged position and gaining great and deep satisfaction, where all good things come from truth and honesty; where the sadness in losing a loved one can be reflected in paintings of the Crucifixion; and where there’s also a great comfort and reassurance of a deeper meaning in life. For me, this comes from working in the caring profession for many years, meeting the elderly, dealing with sickness, loneliness and death. I met wonderful people - wise and accepting - who gave me inspiration to search for meaning in life. Why are we here and what is our purpose? This beauty, I hope, is reflected in my landscape paintings which are not often your typical type of landscape but are more the way in which I feel and respond to it.’

Even ‘Ebony’, Charlotte’s silver-whiskered Black Labrador who sat heavily leaning against the glassed dining room door, with her dark chocolate-rich eyes trying to stare Charlotte into letting her in, has an air of wisdom and acceptance. Mind you, she was probably hoping she’d also be given a slice of oven-fresh, crispy-glazed apple pie with a steaming mug of coffee, just like mine, as we sat in a nook of Charlotte’s kitchen, talking about art.

If all else fails … have a good cry

BERNIE WALSH

If all else fails … have a good cry

By Lynda Cookson

Red feathers swirled into the room on a shoulder strapped handbag, with bits of red fluff floating off to remain on the floor as a reminder that Bernie Walsh, artist, had been there that night. The scene was the opening night of my art exhibition at the Fisheries Tower a couple of days after my interview with Bernie, and the night of the highest tide in eighteen years. The weather was magnificent, the view from the Fisheries Tower incredible, with Bernie’s flashing transparent blue eyes matching it all.