[To see my Paintings for Sale - click HERE].
Photo: Literary Parade, St. Patrick’s Park
Another Dublin city centre photo for you. This is the Literary Parade in St. Patrick’s Park by the cathedral.
I took this picture from Bull Alley Street. If Nicholas Street and Patrick Street weren’t so crude in how they manage traffic I might go in the park more often. If you go in you can peer through those grills you’ll see stuff celebrating Mangan, Wilde, Shaw, Yeats, Synge, O’Casey, Joyce, Behan, Beckett, Clarke, Dillon, and of course Swift, who was Dean next door, albeit a century and a half before the park was created.
Some Other Dublin Photos:
• Dublin Pub: The Oval
• Dublin, A Horse
• Dublin Changing Rooms
• Abbey Street: That Door
• Sunlight Chambers, Grattan Bridge Lamps
• Smithfield Cobblestones
Photo: By The Viking Boat
A photo of some windows by the Viking Boat sculpture in Dublin, where Essex Quay meets Wood Quay - though technically the windows are on Lower Exchange Street next door to the former church of Ss. Michael and John, itself the former Theatre Royal of Smock Alley.
Some Other Dublin Photos:
• Abbey Street: That Door
• Dublin West: A Boy and His Pony
• Sunlight Chambers, Grattan Bridge Lamps
• Dublin Door: Number 18
• Dublin, A Horse
Photo: Runners, Rook
As a background I prefer the plain canvas of a dark raincloud than that of a pure blue sky. These might well be football boots and not runners, but the rook is a rook. And I’m not responsible for putting either up there.
Some Other Dublin Photos:
• A Boy, A Bicycle, and his Little Pony
• Abbey Street: That Door
• Smithfield Cobblestones
• Dublin, A Horse
• Dublin Door: Number 18
Studio Photos
I’ve posted an album of photos of inside and outside my studio. It’s on FaceBook but you should be able to view them without logging in.
The photos complement the existing page here on my studio but don’t yet include any shots of the orchard, the house that the stableyard is attached to, or of the private driveway through the woods that cycling up through from the river is the last part when I go to the studio.
Photo: Oifig An Phoist
Another Dublin photo for you. It’s the post office on Usher’s Quay in Dublin 8.
If you’re not Irish, Oifig An Phoist is Irish for “Post Office”. In fact even if you are Irish, that’s what it is.
Some Other Dublin Photos:
• Dublin, A Horse
• Dublin Changing Rooms
• Abbey Street: That Door
• Dublin Pub: The Oval
• Sunlight Chambers, Grattan Bridge Lamps
• Smithfield Cobblestones
Photo: The Oval
A photo of a pub in Dublin for you. It’s The Oval as seen from the way to avoid the crowds on O’Connell Street.
Some Other Dublin Photos:
• Dublin, A Horse
• Abbey Street: That Door
• Dublin Changing Rooms
• Sunlight Chambers, Grattan Bridge Lamps
• Arann Street, Dublin 7
• Smithfield Cobblestones
Photo: Arann Street, Dublin
A photo of the east side of Arann Street in Dublin 7.
Some Other Dublin Photos:
• Abbey Street: That Door
• Smithfield Cobblestones
• Dublin Door: Number 18
• Dublin, A Horse
• Sunlight Chambers, Grattan Bridge Lamps
Photo: Blades of Grass
A photo. Of blades of grass.
Ok, I know it’s not really blades of grass - but it looks like grass and I’m useless at plant names, so maybe it even is grass after all or somewhere in the family, like that relative you name-drop but never actually see.
Some Other Photos
• Grafitti, Genoa
• Little Yellow Flower Things
• A Boy, His Pony, And His Pink Bicycle
• Teabags On A Window Sill
Jim Larkin - Sale
A photo of Big Jim Larkin on O’Connell Street. When I noticed the juxtaposition of the Clery’s sale sign and the poster of the woman, together with the statue of Ireland’s great socialist, I went in search of the angle to take the photo that’s crying out for a caption. The great appear great because they’re in their underwear, is one of many that come to mind.
Some Other Dublin Photos:
• Sunlight Chambers, Grattan Bridge Lamps
• Abbey Street: That Doorl
• Smithfield Cobblestones
• Dublin Door: Number 18
• Dublin, A Horse
A Night in London
-Can I borrow your Mirror? he said, waking me up.
I took my head off my newspaper pillow.
-It’s the Independent, I replied groggily, referring to the wrong London newspaper.
He walked away. I remade my pillow with the magazine Flash Art on top. Half an hour later I woke and peeled my now blue, hand and ear, from the magazine.
It was Euston station, London, in the early hours. He had asked me for a few pence for a cuppa several times. The last time I had been tempted to point out the food bars were closed. Not being quite that arrogant I said no, and I was sorry, yet again. Wearing only bandages on his feet he shuffled off seemingly trying to maintain his balance the whole time.
He had a shoelace tied around his head keeping most of his greasy matted hair off his face. That was how he had been when I arrived in London in the early morning and that was how he was still, sixteen hours later. Still shuffling, balancing, with his hand feebly outstretched as he mumbled requests for a few pence. At 3 in the morning he changed.
Feet apart, trembling with anger he pointed down at some young people.
-This is Babylon. This is Sodom and Gomorrah.
His speech became suddenly coherent. He went on about Good and Bad, Heaven and Hell, boys and girls, repentence and judgment. He wasn’t very persuasive or informative - but he was angry and believable. The young people didn’t seem too concerned about the disruption to their sleep or the implications of his message. Balance no longer was a problem for him and his speech became more and more assertive, and his London accent clear.
From over 70 yards a young man suddenly sprinted toward him and leaped over the young offenders.
-Shut up! Now, just shut up! he roared. Are you going to shut up? Bloody idiot!
The middle-aged man scurried away quickly managing to gesture that he would shut up as instructed. Looking back he waited until the young man had returned to his sleeping space. Then he sang.
Looking every bit like an English Willie Nelson, he sheepishly at first, and then boldly upon reaching the chorus, treated us all to his version of Wake Up Little Susie.
A young man lay down beside me.
-Put your shoes by your head, he told me, somebody will steal them if you leave them there.
I was reading Flash Art and he the Mirror. When he finished he offered it to me. I accepted saying thanks.
-It’s something to do. Stop you getting bored, he told me.
I got the impression that he wanted me to read it beginning right away. I put down “the leading European art magazine” and glanced through the awful British paper. He turned over and slept face down on a supplement. His feet smelt worse than mine. I moved on.
A British Rail employee edged towards me with a brush. I asked him if he wanted me to move but he said I was fine and swept up my leaflets from London’s Tate Gallery.
I walked some more in north London until I was near Kings Cross. A young man, better dressed than I, stopped me.
-Could you give me 20 pence please?
-Sorry, no.
-It isn’t very much.
-You’re right it isn’t very much - why don’t you ask for more?
He didn’t answer.
I made my way on, to a group of London homeless and sat with them. Some had a small plastic carrier bag full of possessions. Most had nothing. One had a very large hearing-aid. He was in his 20s. All had been on the streets long enough for their hair to grow uncomfortably long and matted. Uncomfortable for them or me?
Most of them tried to sleep, except for the few who instead just rested their limbs from a day of walking the streets of London. Everybody stank, including me. A fabulous collection of human smells. This was another place not to read Europe’s leading art magazine.
