Art in Dublin
As my bus reached the Four Courts the bus lane was no use anymore. I would be late.
A protest march was quietly making its way down the quays. For unmarried and separated fathers. On Ormond Quay I watched two elderly men standing in the doorway of a pub, stop talking and applaud as the march went by.
By the Táin mosaic mural I had arranged to meet somebody. For a pre-meeting meeting. Remember, this is the land where we spend decades talking about talks.
The ultimate meeting was in the National Gallery. The Millenium Wing opened in 2002, and having left Ireland in 1999 I had never set foot inside it. Much like the debate around the transformation of the Royal Hospital Kilmainham into the Irish Museum of Modern Art, being out of the country for the discussion around its design and subsequent compromise freed me from having to worry about whether I agreed with the initial proposals.
It is quite spectacular and beautiful and I could have stayed there for days. But I wasn’t there to have fun; I was there to have tea. So I did, once I first floated up past Louis le Brocquy’s tapestry entitled The Triumph of Cúchulainn.
As exciting as it was, I can’t tell you just yet who I was meeting or why, but I ended up in the archives of the National Gallery, the proverbial child in the sweet shop. While there I looked at the paintings I was there to look at, but it was impossible not to see so much else. Not on display to the public I recognized paintings by Paul Henry, Mainie Jellet, John Skelton, Nathaniel Hone, and so many more.
When I left, to put things in perspective, I then looked at some bad art on sale for ridiculous prices in commercial galleries. Give or take a new wing for the National Gallery, in many respects it’s like I was never away.
I hope to be able to tell you more on this artistic adventure soon.
Eolaí gan Fhéile:
It sounds intriguing. What have you up your woolly sleeve?
I like that they said The Triumph Of Cuchulainn was held up “by the modern means of velcro.”
Maybe up my woolly sleeve I have velcro, Sam. Or some other modern means.
By all modern means, keep your velcro wherever you please.