Goodbye, goodbye.

The truest gift he gave me was the gift of having met him.

And having worked closely with him.

I had been working for ten weeks as a substitute art teacher in Summerhill College, Sligo. It was where I had attended secondary school myself.

The school was staging the musical, The White Horse Inn. I ended up painting two scenes...one to the left of the main stage and one to the right of it. Two stage extensions had been built to ease the pressure of space and to help the production flow better. I think I painted two Alpine scenes.

Joe saw the show, inquired as to who the artist was and he sought me out. He asked me if I would help out painting the stage settings for the Sligo Musical Society show. Little did I know he meant for me to design and paint the complete set single-handed. The backdrops I had painted for the Summerhill College shows were the only large scale work I had ever done but I had the confidence of youth and agreed.

(.......I digress for a moment...... I am just now recalling how the live orchestra stirred me. Not for the brilliance of their music, but for the loveliness of the instruments too. 

The cases. 

The rich, shiny ebony, maple and willow wood. The strings and bows agleam in reddish-orange browns. 

The double bass. And violins. The cello. 

 

 

The clarinet and the flute. 

The creamed sheet music lit by warm ambient lighting. 

The sea-shell lampshades. 

Silver. 

Dress suits, formal wear. 

Some very Protestant names. 

Nervous tuning of instruments. 

It was special and so magical..........)

 

I was part of it all now and I was valued as a scene painter....and so young, they said.

I even had my name printed in the programme. 

Scenery Painter.......Nelius Flynn.

I felt so worthwhile with my limited talent, and lack of experience.

Joe gifted me the confidence to paint huge backdrops that I never dreamt I could do.

No matter what I produced  for him it was always enough. He never expected more than I was able to give.

I don't ever remember thinking I would not be able to fulfill the many diverse tasks he set out for me in musical theatre and other shows. He steered me through and together we were a team.......and I was his confidant.

We worked together with the carpenters, the lighting crew and the director of the show. 

Joe was stage manager.

And strict with flighty chorus singers and dancers who might be heard chattering in the front rows of the audience. 

Or who might be tempted to look out at the audience through the centre-opening in the front curtain.

 

Somehow on opening night there was always a finished set for the latest production. The Merry Widow, The Pirates of Penzance, Guys and Dolls, Where's Charlie, Viva Mexico. 

Always. I would be handed a prop half an hour before the show was due to start and asked to paint it. It was not unusual for me to be painting on stage  as the orchestra started to play the overture and Joe would be saying,

"Clear the stage! Clear the stage!"

I always muddled through and I learnt something with every passing production. 

We rehearsed the scene changes. 

Like clockwork we performed magical tasks behind the scenes. Together with some freshly recruited stage hands we (dressed in black) set up for the next act in record time. 

Always quietly. 

And when the curtain was drawn back we listened expectantly for the minor gasps, and chatter of appreciation from the audience. 

I became familiar with the backstage vocabulary: flats, cut-outs, proscenium, french brace, legs, fly curtains, house lights, sight lines, stays  and cleats. It all had a charm that I devoured.

I was twenty one or twenty two years of age.

When we moved from Sligo to Monaghan to start my art teaching career the thing that I missed most was working with Joe on shows.

The excitement and magic of life backstage has stayed with me throughout my life. I have performed, done stage make up, directed shows and designed scenery many times.

Yesterday we laid you to rest in Sligo cemetery Joe. You carried your many gifts lightly. You exited the stage in the quiet way you had lived.

It all went off smoothly. 

No unnecessary drama. 

You would have approved. 

No fluffed lines. No missed cues. No props dropped !

The stage is bare now but I listen and hear the strains of Josef Locke singing out

"Goodbye"

 from 

The White Horse Inn. 

https://youtu.be/2JvUkzVFKmY?si=Y4g4VEZKghbq-bsO&t=41

 Joe and Mary at the launch of Eye Level in 1987 

I had my first public art exhibition in 1987 with Mary Quinn.

It was called Eye Level. 

We asked Joe, as a director of The Hawkswell Theatre to speak at the launch in the Emyvale Leisure Centre. He travelled from Sligo and of course he did a great opening for us.

I decided a few months ago to have my second Emyvale exhibition this year in the same venue over the May bank holiday weekend. 

It is titled: Ink & Imagination

It will be on view 4th. and 5th. May. 

I have fond memories of both Mary and Joe. 

The exhibition is dedicated to them both.

 

 

 

Evening Visit near Castle Leslie Estate

See above us a small but very brilliant moon, high in the sky, shining through the scattered clouds and onto the lake. It is a night sky, bright with stars and moonlight, a night sky that you only see in the countryside in Ireland.

 

 

The waves seen through the woods were all a ripple.

They glimmered.

And

Sparkled.

It was on such a night that I imagined as a child Joseph, Mary and the Infant Jesus fleeing to Egypt.                                               

Joseph had been warned in a dream that King Herod was intent on killing the child and so he took the baby and Mary to safety.

  

King Herod the Great killed all boys under the age of two in the hope that the new Messiah would be among them.                                         

It was a massacre of the innocent.

"A voice was heard in Ramah, weeping and loud lamentation, Rachel weeping for her children; she refused to be comforted, because they are no more."  Matthew 2:18

 

It was chilly as we walked through an arched tunnel cut through the hedge. I observed a stand of tall trees like black-paper-cut-outs close by me.

The Scots pine trees are now maybe 30 metres in height.

They always give me a feeling of well being.

We had finished our meal in the comfortable old world ambience of The Hunting Lodge.

It was a pleasant two and a half hours in Conor's Bar. The milk chocolate glossy woodwork and warm, pale mustard painted walls complimented the exquisite food.

We were seated at a small, square glass-topped table. Beneath the glass on display was an arrangement of Victorian cutlery. We surmised about the handles...maybe ox horn, bovine bone, or stag antler....the larger pieces had inscribed and pierced detailing on the blade surfaces.

 

The silverware was of the big house era long before stainless steel flatware and later disposable plastic.....eating utensils.

 

Homeward bound.

A Palestine flag, on the border between the northern border towns of Emyvale and Aughnacloy, shuffles a little.

Uncomfortably. 

This was normally the domain of  two other conflicting flags.

I shuffle a little too.

Uncomfortably.

But helpless.

 

The Israeli military offensive against Rafah, Gaza's southern border town is imminent.

One million Palestinian refugees are sheltering in this area.

My great fear is that if Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyhu's troops mount a ground assault there will be no Joseph to lead the innocent to safety.

No Egypt.

Only border patrols....and high walls with razor wire.

No room at the inn.

No wise men.

No star to follow.

 

A voice will be heard in Rafah, weeping, and great mourning, Rachel weeps for her children; as she refuses again to be consoled, because they are no more.

 See above us a small but very brilliant moon, high in the sky, shining through the scattered clouds above the city. It is a night sky, bright with stars and moonlight a night sky that you only see in Palestine.

                                 

 

Photos:

From top:

Castle Leslie grounds: Nelius Flynn

The Flight into Egypt: Vittore Carpucchi

The Rest on The Flight into Egypt: Rembrandt van Rijn

Massacre of The Innocent: Leon Cogniet 

Victorian Cutlery: Curious Atelier

A Full Moon Over Palestine:Tim Frank

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Honour Thy Father & Thy Mother

 

The third year student's rooms were above the chapel.

 

 

It was said that Fr. Finnegan had seen the devil there one night when he went in to pray. It was all over the college the next day.

It frightened us.

The wooden desks in our classroom had seen better days. Each one had a bit of history, of something, or someone inscribed on its surfaces. One of the first things I did whenever I sat at a new desk was read it.

We had come up to collect our school bags after playing soccer in the alleys.

 

There were older boys there doing some study. I wondered why they hadn't gone to study in their own classroom but I said nothing.

Class was done for the day.

We were in good form and I only caught the end of what one of the older lads said....

"....because of your appearance"

"What's wrong with my parents?"

Eyes burning

With a piercing rage.

Right fist raised.

Tethering on the brink of a white knuckled assault.

That muscled arm, strong and hand normally unused to any violent action was trembling fiercely.

Twitching.

Wired now for justice.

For the honour of his lovely parents.

I could see his urgent need to protect their integrity after this affront to their good name.

It overshadowed all consequences of what might unfold in the principal's office later.

"I said your appearance not your parents!"

My friend dissolved.

Embarrassed.

Shrunk.

The fight was gone from him.

He had not seen a trinity on that pedestal. 

 

 

 

Agus Anois, An Aimsir

 

 

In Ireland we love talking about the weather and observing it.

We even have more than twenty words or terms for rain:

 

Soft rain,

mizzle,

drizzle &

mist.

 

Showers.

 

Lashing, 

pelting &

torrential rain.

The Heavens opened, 

Cats & dogs !

There was a cloudburst, a downpour and it was coming down in 

Buckets !!

Met Éireann is Ireland's National Meteorological Service. It is a division of the Department of Housing, Local Government and Heritage. It is the leading provider of weather information and related services in the State.

I measure the daily rainfall in North Monaghan at 10:00 am every day for Met Eireann.

Even on Christmas Day.

I record the measurement on Form 714.

I get a stipend twice a year for my efforts. My rain cheque !

 

 

At the end of each month I send off the monthly rainfall information to Met Eireann's head office in Glasnevin, Dublin. 

 

 

My official job title is Rainfall Observer.

I have been doing it for 28 years.

In Ireland, like all countries with a temperate climate we have four seasons . Spring Summer, Autumn and Winter.

Sometimes we experience all four seasons in the same day.  

If you ask an Irish person the difference between Summer and Winter in Ireland they will probably tell you that in Summer the rain is a bit warmer !

The weather in Ireland is never boring.

Or predictable. 

Just like its people. 

It is 22nd. January......

There will be a full moon in four nights.

A storm started to blow about 5:00pm. It had been forecast and arrived promptly at the appointed time. Strong winds knocked down my garden fence and the village was dark.

The street lights were out first of course.

Heavy rain swept down and danced frantically around the back yard.

The Christmas tree I planted in the early 1980's seemed to struggle against the violent ebb and flow of the storm surges.

Then the house was without power.

Gradually the windows of surrounding houses were warmly lit by candlelight only.

 

 

There was no cold.

We walked down the garden path and looked at the black and grey clouds driving wildly and tumbling uncontrollably across the sky. 

Sometimes the Moon poured in through gaps and illuminated the garden.

It was eerily quiet though.

The only sensation was the power of the storm rising and falling and blowing through the Winter trees. 

 

A January  storm.

No electrical sounds.

The occasional light of passing cars on the street flitting past the front of the house.

 

And now the wind outside my window will be my lullaby.

It will have passed before I wake.

I will have some rain to measure at 10:00.

 

Teeming,

pouring

&

sheeting........

 

 

 

 

Sweet Lemony Wax

 

It was a nice walk around Dublin City today. 

 

Surprisingly mild for the end of January

A very interesting place to visit is Sweny’s (pharmacy) in 1 Lincoln Place Dublin 2

It is mentioned in James Joyce’s Ulysses.

 

 Photo: Peter Chrisp

-Standing outside the church in Lotus Eaters, Bloom checks his watch and figures that he still has plenty of time before the funeral:

"How goes the time?

Quarter past. Time enough yet.

Better get that lotion made up. Where is this?

Ah yes, the last time. Sweny's in Lincoln place.

Walking southward along Westland row to its end, and crossing the perpendicular Lincoln Place, he enters Sweny's pharmacy under a façade that says "Chemist" and "Druggist-

This business closed in 2009, but the physical shop has been lovingly preserved and repurposed by Joycean volunteers.

 

Surprised to have found it so easily, we opened the two half doors and I put my head over the threshold and into the shop.

 

 

Half in, I heard someone reading some pages from Ulysses. 

 

The reader stopped. 

All present looked in our direction and beckoned us in.

We entered. 

Stood awkwardly in the crowded space.

Thought about leaving. 

Someone gestured and proffered cushioned seats behind one counter.

So nice. 

We were glad of them.

 

Deus nobis hæc otia fecit 

(Latin) a god has made these comforts for us.

And they handed us two copies of Ulysses and told us the page number they were reading aloud. 

We joined in and Noreen and myself read an excerpt too.

 

 

 

Bloomsday boaters in abundance.

The character of the shop has not changed since Leopold Bloom bought a bar of lemon soap there while on an errand for his wife Molly.

The errand: to buy his wife her favourite face cream.

 

 

"On Thursday, June 16, 1904, (Bloom) calls into Sweny Chemist Druggist, on Lincoln Place, to buy his wife Molly her favourite face cream. Drawn to the sweet wax smell, he buys a cake of Sweny's lemon soap:

"… and I'll take one of those soaps. How much are they?

"Fourpence, sir."

Mr Bloom raised a cake to his nostrils. Sweet lemony wax…

He strolled out of the shop… the coolwrappered soap in his left hand."

 

 

Noreen's Lemon Soap

 

There are some prescriptions left unfilled in some of the many dark drawers behind you I was told.

I nodded. 

The place reminded me of my trinket cabinet in the studio back home.

Like Leopold Bloom, Noreen, bought a bar of lemon soap.

To take back to Chicago on Tuesday.

 

I brought home to my wife Mary too,

 

A small jar of her favourite face cream.

 

A sweet (but not lemony) floral fragrance. 

 

Nora Barnacle, James Joyce on their way to be married and Fred Monro, 1931

 

 

 

                               

                   Half Moon Bay, Hazelwood, Sligo                      

                    

     I was driving along the winding road to the framer. 

It was at the turning of the year, not quite evening but getting atmospheric as the darkness was starting to settle over Armagh fields.

Quiet.

There was flooding and some tractor tracks in nearby fields were filled with water and reflected the sky. 

I am tuned in to trees, their black lines, trunks and branches in inky black. In the folder beside me is my completed pen drawing, in the style of Fumio Yamaguchi or some other Japanese print-maker. 

Its imperfections are what make it perfect to me.

I am happy.

A field of stubble reminds me of my visits to the off-shore islands of Ireland that I have visited.

On that fine first day on Rathlin Island I walked among long dappled grasses. 

I may even pluck the silver apples of the Moon and perhaps the golden apples of the Sun some time.

I, am not too old from wandering through hollow lands and the stony gray hills of Monaghan.

I pull into the framer's drive and the West Highland White Terrier walks towards me, as always.

I have been to Hazelwood many times and I have walked the sculpture trail near Half Moon Bay.

 

Half Moon Bay.

 

Sun days stealing golden red apples from the twisted trees at Lissadell in Autumn. 

Laughter and pride as my mother looks up at us,

Eternally.

William Butler Yeats had a fleeting mystical experience there near Half Moon Bay on the shore of Lough Gill.

A vision of a glimmering girl with apple blossom in her hair who called out his name. "William". 

And disappeared.

It is that type of place. 

The Song of Wandering Aengus

by

W.B.Yeats

I went out to the hazel wood,

Because a fire was in my head,

And cut and peeled a hazel wand,

And hooked a berry to a thread;

And when white moths were on the wing,

And moth-like stars were flickering out,

I dropped the berry in a stream

And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor

I went to blow the fire a-flame,

But something rustled on the floor,

And someone called me by my name:

It had become a glimmering girl

With apple blossom in her hair

Who called me by my name and ran

And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering

Through hollow lands and hilly lands,

I will find out where she has gone,

And kiss her lips and take her hands;

And walk among long dappled grass,

And pluck till time and times are done,

The silver apples of the moon,

The golden apples of the sun.

 

My own experience by the shore there was far less descriptive but still clearly memorable to this day.

All around me everything glowed with an intense bright light.

Something like the lighting in an El Greco religious oil painting.

Shielding my eyes with my hands, I felt elation, maybe even rapture.

It was ethereal and passed in an instant.

The brief counter-emotion, of two weeks filled with ugly grief.

A turning point in that year.

A sign of a brighter future.

 

Maybe.

 

Mary just booked a trip for us to Washington DC in March.

 

Just now, as I finished writing that last  piece she said her brother Danny had just messaged her to say

that The Cherry Blossom Festival will take place the week we are there.

 

My glimmering girl..... with cherry blossom in her hair. 

 

Washington DC 2024