Bhí an-la againn De Mhairt ag dhéanamh ceamara as an sean carr a bhí taobh amuigh den ceardlann. Bhí  páipéar stáin agus téip againn agus thusaigh muid ag chlúdach fuinneoig an carr. Rinne muid lionsa as cartán bainne.

Tar eis cúpla uair bhí sé reidh.  Chuaigh Sue angus Anna isteach le piosa páipéar bán agus muid go leir ag fanacht le pictiúr a tharla.  Chonaic said mise amuigh den car agus mé bun os cionn. Ghlac muid phictiúr de Sue ar a cuid cathaoir ach bhí rud mícheart faoi na ceimiceáin agus ní deanamíd íomhá.

Bhi an-tuirseach orainn tar eis an lá ag obair ach bhaint muid an-taithneamh as é.  B’féidir go déanfaimid iarracht arís níos déanaí sa tseachtain.

Aréir scríobh mé sios na rudaí ba mhaith liom dhéanamh roimh críoch mo chuid ama anseo.  Agus inniu bhí mé suas agus ag obair ag a naoi a clog.

Níl aon internet againn anseo.  De Luain ní raibh internet agus an seachtaine ar fad ní raibh muid abalta féach ar email.  Níl muid sasta ar bith.

Bímíd ag siúl ó teach go ceardlann agus níl fhios againn cad a dhéanamh.  Inniu bhí mé ar an fón ar feadh daichead nomid ag caint le mban san India.  Níl internet againn fós.

Rinne me paipeir as féar inniu agus glac me cúpla phictiúr.  Rinne mé foirm as paipeir agus glan mé suas an ceardlann.  Anocht téim abhaile go mBaile na nGallogach mar tá rudaí agam a dhéanamh ar an internet agus tar eis é sin tá mé ag obair sa siopa ag deireadh na seachtaine.

Ní raibh mé go maith inniu.  D’ól mé níos mó fíon na raibh me abalta aréir agus nuair a dhúisigh mé thit mé in mo codladh arís mar cheap me go raibh mé fein marbh.

Nuair a bhí mé suas, glanadh mé an teach agus ag am lón bhí mé abalta dul amach. Bhí Sue in a seomra ach ní raibh fhíos againn cá raibh Anna. Chuaigh mé go dtí and ceardlann agus thosaigh me ag scríobh.

Bhí se ciúin sa ceardlann ach ní rinne mé aon obair.  Bhí mé ag smaoineamh ar an oíche a bhí againn nuair a thainig Sue agus Anna.  Anois ní raibh me in uaigneach.  Bfheidir go mbeadh cairde agam anseo?

Sa tráthnóna suí muid arís le cheile ag caint.  An ám seo bhí muid i mo theach agus bhí tine deas againn.  Smaoineadh muid go dhéanfidh muid obair le cheile an seachtaine seo chugainn. Bhí an-athas orm and ag an am ceanna tá brón orm mar is docha go caithfidh mé an fanacht i gCló a chríochnú Dé hAoine seo chugainn.

Mo tine deas cathain bhfuil tú anocht? Tá na mná fuar agus ba mhaith leo caint go dtí an maidin.

Inniu; Inniu, an lá inniu agus gach duine ag chaint faoi marbh agus deireadh saol an leanbh a bhfuil ar fos sa boilg.
Ar maidin, múinteoir a raibh mé, ach de reir leath huair tar eis a deich ní raibh mé. Kordula, an bhéan a bhí ann, agus is í a beith in a múinteoir liom.  Fuair mé rudaí amuigh faoi dhéanamh pictúir agus bhí athas orm.

Chuaigh mé go dtí Gaoth Doire go dtí ceacht líníocht. Bhí a lán daoine ann ach ní raibh mé abalta scríobh rud ar bith.  Chuaigh me aras arís go dtí Cló agus bhí cupla gloine fíon againn. 

Bhí me ag caint lé Anna agus Sue faoi rudaí san ealaín in Eire.  Anois tá an-tuirseach agam agus níl mé abalta scriobh arís.  B'fheidir go bfhuil daoine sa gcontae ag chur bais; ar na boithre, san uisce, i gcein, agus tá mná ag chur chun bás leanaí atá fós san boilg ach tá an bhás i gconaí san nuacht – gach lá; an bhfuil an gcontae nó an tir i ngrá le bás? Níl fhios agam.

Today I spoke to one person.  At about half three a man came in a vintage car.  I was actually really busy but the prospect of contact with another human being drew me out into the wind. He was leaving back a grass strimmer, he told me so and then just got on with it and so did I.

I’m preparing for the papermaking workshop tomorrow.  I have no idea if anyone is booked on it but I’m ready even if nobody turns up;  I’ve made a mould and deckle out of a frame I found using a rusty saw, a red biro, a staple gun and some material for making hats.  I’ve brushed off 100 couching cloths, rinsed the boiled reeds, and collected all the containers I could find, moved the tables and cut down some long grass to boil tomorrow.

Did I mention I also applied for an opportunity in Geneva, made a loaf of soda bread, stewed apples and did a load of washing.  I’ve just finished sweeping and mopping and it’s just turning 6pm.  Might take a wee run out on the bike cos there’s a few hours before it gets dark. 

Yesterday I did absolutely nothing because I was contorted with anxiety.

I left the serenity of the mountains for the city this weekend and it’s been emotional.  I experienced sunshine and seagulls alongside serious economic and social debate at This Situation by Tino Sehgal and then crashed back to the true reality of poverty through Seamus Nolans 10th President.

On Wednesday as I sat slurping tea with Heidi, discussing our plans for upcoming residencies; she will go to Paris on 1st May for one month, I will go to Leeds for a week at the end of May.  As a plein air painter mainly working in rural locations – the city will be a challenge for her.  I must produce and exhibition in one week at Leeds.  The finer details are all to be worked out on arrival.  It is exciting but also I think we both feel apprehension around what it is possible to produce in these circumstances. So why do it, and how does it affect the work you produce? 

For now I have relocated to the Gaeltacht, not far from my home, but far enough away for me to dedicate my time to making art without feeling guilty about choosing this activity over housework or spending time with my family.  I’ve been productive; I get up go to the studio, make work, talk about making work, think about work, write about making work.  In the evening I can call my friends and family and at the weekend I go back and work in the little shop and have family Sunday dinner.  It’s like having a normal full time job (and then working part-time at the weekend).  

If I were at home I would not have a studio or a space of any kind to go to.  I think this is the key to making art – having the space to do so, and this is what residencies offer: a place where you are supposed to make art. Of course you still have to do housework, cook and clean up after yourself but the rest of the time is working and living as an artist. If you are lucky there are other artists around to discuss art and if not you can talk to yourself in the form of a blog, although I believe there are a few who actually read what I blurt out.

I had a fairly good reason to leave my safe studio and head for the city; I had been invited for an interview at one of Dublin’s most established artist led galleries. Due to various factors a friend has worked out I have about 5% chance of getting this job, but it was still worth the trip.  It’s always good to meet people in your field. The art world is so small but getting in the door is not easy.  If a door opens only slightly artists must wedge their foot in there and hope that they are wearing the appropriate footwear.  As it turns out I was wearing shoes that “mean business and look good whilst doin’ it”[1].  Hopefully this is the kind of candidate they are looking for and they saw my shoes.

Those shoes took me to the National Concert Theatre where IMMA have temporarily relocated.  I was quite overwhelmed by the exhibition downstairs ‘I Know You’ and my feet were in bits as I finally made it up the stairs to Tino Sehgals work.  I’d never experienced his work and so it was very daunting.  I don’t really want to say much about it because you have to be there yourself but I spent about half an hour in the room with the six performers and began to drift off when they turned their conversation over to me.  I was daydreaming, it had started when I was contemplating something there were discussing about being involved in your community and I started to wonder about this dynamic between me as the viewer/audience and they as performers.  The sun was shining in the skylights warming my aching feet which were now stretched out before me when they pointed to me and asked: what did I think?  As usual I was too honest and admitted that the sound of their voices had carried me off into the fluffy clouds and I was not even aware of their current dialogue.  They did not seem offended and I stayed for a while as they pondered on the world outside above them, then I made my way down to Temple Bar where I visited Sean Nolan’s 10th President.

Outside on the streets of Temple Bar some young men were singing, maybe imitating Justin Beiber and they were being cooed at by a large group of young girls with backpacks.  Men in and out of white vans carried tools and drilled into the road.  The last of the deliveries for the bars and restaurants were being dropped off by people navigating the cobbled streets laden with boxes.  Inside the bars the cover bands played and tourists sang along clutching their pints of Guinness.  A group of charity collectors stopped for an al fresco coffee in the all too infrequent Irish sunshine. 

Amidst all this drama, I entered a glass door on the corner and was confronted with the background story for the 10th President. The show was minimal; a poster, a framed letter from Michael D Higgans and a small table with booklets. As I read the vinyl on the wall I began to well up with emotion.  I tried to walk as calmly as I could around the corner when a film was playing.  In the dark I wept as the text in the film told of this young boy who died aged just 10 years old from abuse whilst in the care of the state.  Because he was poor his life was not valued and he became the victim of the frustrations of those whose job it was to care for him.

The artist has requested that this young boy become the 10th President, the highest honour that can be given to a citizen.  Nothing can undo what harm has been done, but this act which I feel could not have been requested by any other representative only an artist shows what art can do to be part of the community and give a voice to those who are invisible. Surely it is our responsibility as artists, with the freedom this allows us, to do what we can; exercise this freedom for the betterment of the community, city, country or world we live in?

And what am I doing? Well firstly I am ‘being’ an artist in Ireland and this is a start.


[1] Comment from performer at This Situation

I jiggled to Kíla with my right eye on the peaks of Errigal as I pootled up and down the lanes on my adventure out to the post office this afternoon.  I’m still a terrible driver but I have been very lucky and for this I am grateful.  Despite all the drama and expense it is very enjoyable to just leave at will and go as far as your tank will take you.

I haphazardly came across Ian and Sarah’s home on the way back.  He’d drawn a kind of map but I’d forgotten to bring it with me.  I’d not left with the intention visiting them, just kind of chanced a road I thought might be the one.  Unfortunately at the time I decided to use that road/laneway it also occupied by a bus, maybe the local school bus, but I negotiated my way past without incident.  I had travelled up the road quite a bit and had given up and was looking for a somewhere I could turn around when I found the ideal spot.  As it turned out it was actually Ian and Sara’s home but they were leaving.  Now that I know where they are I will collect Sara for life drawing class in Gweedore tomorrow.

This will be the second lift I will give tomorrow as I will be dropping the Joyce family to Gortahork to catch the bus to Dublin in the morning.  We aim to leave before 7am so I am planning to go for a walk on the beach after I have dropped them off.  I haven’t been, but I am told Maheraroarty beach is the place to go. I haven’t seen the Atlantic since February so I am looking forward to spending some time together.

In art news: It wasn’t forecast but we got a little sun today so I made some progress with the cyanotype prints. Slow and steady wins the race!

I’ve left the bright lights of Milford for Mín na Lea again.  Errigal has been covered in a sheet of mist all day today.  I miss it. 

At the weekend I did my few hours at the shop as usual.  I’m looking forward to showing the images I’ve made to the people there.  I’m disappointed that none of the photographs of the staff came out so maybe next weekend I will concentrate on getting good images of them.  The only problem is Marie and Patrick don’t work at the weekend but I could take them on Monday morning before I come back.

The ‘receiving mouths’ I made last week have nearly dried and because they are made from receipt paper – which is also thermal paper the noses and lips have darkened in the warmth of the sun.  They are sinister and at the same time comical.

Last Friday was cyanotype day, because it was the only day when there was enough sun to develop the photographs.  I had to guess the chemical mixtures because I had no weighing scale so it was very ‘hit and miss’.  Mainly miss, actually. 

It’s really hard to tell what the images are without some prompting.  I showed them to Heidi this morning and when I pointed out details she began to see an image but this is a big problem.  The point isn’t to confuse people when they see these images and I don’t really want to have to install those audio explanation devices they have in museums but it is really hard to tell what is happening.

I had a few prints of the same image so I laid them out together.  It seems when you see both beside each other the marks become less abstract and you start to recognise a pattern and then you can make out what is in the image.  So I will try making a number of prints and displaying two or three next to each other so that the viewer has some clues as to what they are looking at. Also the titles may be important but for now I have called them by the name of the subject.

The other thing I was thinking about with regards to presentation was in a shop setting could I make paper objects that would be for sale. Little ornamental blob type things like ‘poop man’. I could make little paper customers.  I have an image in my head of Gormley’s Field for the British Isles except in paper with huge mouths.  Maybe people would be offended if they thought that I was saying they have big mouths? or instead of a head just a big orifice or receptacle? Again I can see this causing unintended offence. Hmmm…

I will mull it over and tomorrow I will make paper from the rushed I boiled up on Friday also.  Doing something different may help me resolve this other problem.  Would be good to hear your thoughts…

The Oxford dictionary defines ‘receipt’ as:

Noun

1 [mass noun] the action of receiving something or the fact of its being received

It is 1st Holy Communion time again for school children of the right age and because of this I began to think about the inaugural receipt of the body of Christ into my seven year old mouth.  We practiced with ice-cream wafers at school to get used to the sweet dryness of the communion wafer.  I was told how this wafer when blessed by the priest was in fact the body of Christ that I would take into my own body.  It is a hugely abstract concept for a young mind to take in and we spent much of the year preparing for the occasion.  Firstly learning the Act of Contrition, and then going to confess my sins so that I would be clean in the sight of God and rightly wear my white dress.  Boys did not wear white. I didn’t question this at the time.

Becoming aware that you have a choice to be good or bad, that you have done bad things, that you are being watched by a higher being and that if you admit these things openly to this higher being you will be forgiven is a yet another complex idea that my parents, grandparents and teacher instilled in my developing mind. This act of admitting you are at fault and wish to be forgiven in order to be entitled to be in receipt of the actual body of Christ himself perplexed me as a child.  The forgiveness thing seemed logical enough but I questioned how all of these wafers, all over the world, every Sunday could have a little piece of a body in them.  I wondered the body would be divided up, and who cut it up – was it God up there in heaven slicing away at his son?  How did he make sure there was enough for everyone every week and not run out?  I didn’t doubt that it was the body and I respected it as such but I did wonder about the logistics. I never got an answer but as a seven year old I had an understanding that what you put into your body affects your spirit.

I have been feeling quite unwell these past few days.  I’m anxious I’ve not slept very well as my mind has been turning over ideas, images, processes, questions and visualising scenarios and trying to work out the correct options. A few days ago I had a conversation with an artist friend about paper and the body, the possibilities of casting, and generally putting both together.  Last year doing my MA I did a lot of research on paper and the body, specifically the mouth, the chewing and digestion process and its links to the metaphors we use for understanding.

I consider there to be a connection between the mouth and higher understanding of complex ideas and abstract concepts; which is why the way we consume today worries me. Decisions about what we take into our bodies are so complicated.  I feel bombarded with information about what I should be consuming and it is very important to me as this early concept of taking in and its effect on you is still prominent for me. It seems that most people I know, including myself, are concerned that they are eating too much of the wrong thing, but they still do it.  I try to eat healthily but I think I am addicted to processed sugar. I have cut down since I have been here and I feel faint and ill and confused.  I feel some empathy for the thieves who stole 5.5 tonnes of Nutella this week. It’s so cheap and so trilling for that moment, then guilt.  I also read in the newspaper that per kcal a bar of chocolate is three times less expensive than an apple.  We still have this survival instinct for consuming as if we will never see food again, but the shop shelves are stacked with choice, it’s just a pity that it’s so hard to pick up and apple rather than a chocolate bar.  All these thoughts are going through my head and so today I made a series of receiving mouths.

It’s been all about the PM today and I don’t mean the late Baroness Thatcher. 

I got out of bed on the wrong side today so got back in until I felt I could face the day.  I made pancakes, put on some make up and eventually got dressed.  I didn’t venture very far just outside and upstairs to the ‘Living Archive’ here at Cló.  I wandered round opening latched doors and came upon a room where the stone juts out of the ground. On the windowsill are little red tractors maybe made out of clay, and there are ferns growing out of the floor.

Last night I started to wonder about these ideas of receipt and document so started to research the meanings and origins of the words.  I discovered that receipt paper is thermal paper and the information is burned on not printed.  This may be very interesting when it comes to printing with cyanotype process which uses the sun.  The forecast says the wind and rain will subside by the end of the week so I am hoping to have things ready for then.

I met a very enthusiastic lady called Sonia today who came from Switzerland for three days in November 2012 and has been in Donegal since.  She has encouraged me to revisit a project I began some time ago in an abandoned building in Milford.  Alone I don’t think it would happen but her naïve enthusiasm may make it work.

At 5.30pm we left to go to the opening of Samkura show at An Gailearaí in Gweedore.  I got a lift there with Oona and met Ian Gordan and his wife Sara as well as Úna the curator of the gallery who I’d met briefly at Cló, Marjorie from Cló who is currently on maternity leave and Heidi who continues to make me laugh until I cry.  The exhibition was a curious collection of responses to environments mostly foreign for the artist as a result of a series of exchange residencies between Ireland, Portugal, Greece, Armenia and Georgia. 

Ian and Oona invited Cathal I for food after to the local Chinese restaurant, where I ate a little despite not being that hungry.  We spoke about families, ancestors, the Gaelige language, travel, art, funding, madness and Woofers.  I have just arrived back and I’m jaded but pleasantly surprised to have a little internet reception.  I haven’t much to say but I hope I feel a bit livelier tomorrow.