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A TRIP TO IRELAND AND WHAT CAME HOME WITH ME…

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The Liffey at evening.

The Liffey at evening.

I returned a week ago from my fourth trip to Ireland, spent mostly in Dublin, this trip, at World Con (a science fiction/fantasy convention). I’m not sure how much I got out of the convention itself, but I went with a writer friend and met many of her friends–very open and friendly people. And that was worth a lot.

Dublin is much changed since I was there last, in 1997. With membership in the EU, it has become a much more international city. On my first morning there, I was astonished by how fast everything–pedestrians and traffic–moved, rushing off to work. It felt more like New York than DC does. I’m very happy for Dublin. But I miss Bewley’s counters and pots of tea made without tea bags. There seem to be a zillion coffee shops, and Grafton street seems to have an awful lot of the same stores we can find in any Mall here in the United States.

But I revisited Dublin haunts I remembered from past trips–the goldsmith, Declan Killen, on Fade Street, where I had bought my Irish knot necklace back in 1986. (I lost it some years later, but managed to trace a photo of it and sent it to him, and he made me a replacement.) This trip, I came to his red door on Fade street. One had to push a button, and he answered and buzzed me in. I went up a long flight of stairs covered with a red carpet, and was greeted at the top of the stairs. He ushered me into his small shop. His jewelry, necklaces, pendants, pins, and a few earrings, are lovely, though mostly beyond my means.  It seems that every twenty years or so, I visit his shop, admire his beautiful work without managing to buy any of it, and nevertheless, on each visit, he offers to–and takes–my silver necklace, and cleans and polishes it for me.

I also accidentally came upon the International Bar on a corner of Wicklow street, where I had had a humorous adventure on that 1986 trip (a story for another time). Lots of nostalgia.  20190814_160402_Film1This trip, I was staying in the Temple Bar area along Wellington Quay for some of my time, and on St. Augustine street the rest. I loved waking to the cries of sea gulls in the mornings, and the cool, fresh air. I also loved the Leprechaun Museum which, despite its name, is neither a museum nor a tourist attraction devoted to what Americans would expect Leprechauns to be. Rather, it is a place of Shanachies–storytellers of old Irish myths. We were treated to wonderful tales more performed than merely recited by a terrific, theatrical storyteller named Emily.

There was a guided day-trip to the Cliffs of Moher and Galway town that, due to circumstances beyond our control–weather and some other things–was rather a bust. But we did get to see the Aillwee Cave–which was fascinating: a series of caverns created by underwater rivers cutting through rock over centuries.

But the main piece of Ireland I brought home with me this trip, was the experience of seeing a small exhibit of Martyn Turner’s political cartoons at the entrance to Trinity’s Berkeley Library. I simply had to get a book of them. I tried Easons–they said the books were out of print, and suggested Chapters, which has a used book section. So off I went to Chapters, and found a number of them. I bought two. Turner’s themes mostly relate to Irish politics. But he also addresses world politics. Something clicked in my brain, and I came back with (a) a sudden enthusiasm to write and draw political cartoons; and (b) a zillion ideas pulsing through my brain at once. I had recently signed up to have a Daily Kos Diary, and have now decided to start posting political cartoons there. We’ll see  whether ideas will keep coming to me, how well I can draw them (I do have a style of my own, but I’m not sure how compatible it is with political import), how adeptly I can combine text and pictures to satiric effect, and whether or not I can develop an audience for them. (So far, I have posted two, and have received five recommendations for each.  It is not a lot, but at least someone has SEEN them and, apparently, liked them.) I am excited about this new endeavor. As I grow and develop, I hope to post here what I may learn about the craft and about developing an audience.

VERMONT STUDIO CENTER

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Red Mill, on Gihon River at VSC in Johnson, Vt.

Red Mill, on Gihon River at VSC in Johnson, Vt.

Observed on April 8, 2014:  A few days ago, although a low rapid gushed on the far side of the bridge, the Gihon river was mostly covered with ice.  You knew water must be flowing under it, but except for a thin stream along the shorelines, the surface was white, cold, and still.  Yesterday, the ice began breaking up a bit and, today, the river is suddenly flowing fast in a snake-like curve around the remaining broken ice beneath the bridge, a swirl of tiny ice-shards roiling down the middle, as the water comes.  The sudden power, after the days of seeming stillness, invigorates, instilling a sense of anticipation, excitement, even danger—power now exposed, not hidden.

A green-headed wild duck darts from the sky straight at the water, but somehow ends its dive on its belly, treading water in the middle of the river, paddling against the current, moving a little upstream, and then paddling towards the shore.  A piece of ice about the duck’s own size crosses its path, but just misses hitting it.  My studio window gives me a good view of the flowing river.

I spent the first two weeks of April at the Vermont Studio Center (VSC), in Johnson, Vermont.  VSC offers residencies for visual artists and writers and, when you get the right combination of people at a residency, the quiet little town of Johnson provides, daily, an inner excitement and sense of anticipation.  It is a wonderful, renewing experience that stays with you after you go home, and  leaves you wanting to find ways to keep the spirit you found there alive.

In my short time at VSC, the resident writers (no more than sixteen of us) and artists (the balance of approximately 50 people) had a wonderful spirit of playfulness and curiosity as well as an appreciation for and encouragement of each other’s work.  This was true not only within disciplines, but between them.  When the writers got together for their informal readings, artists were welcome to come and listen, but also to participate if they had something written they wanted to try out.  Some were fascinated to see the writer’s process–how we develop our work and analyze what we have done.  Writers (at least this writer) were welcomed into studios where the visual artists were happy to take time out to talk about what they were working on and their process.  I was fascinated by the visual artists’ experimentation with the tools of their various media.  Just as I might play with writing devices, many of them experiment to see how one medium will affect another (eg. the effect created by spilling cleaning fluid on a color magazine photo).

Meals are communal there, and conversation at lunch or dinner, when not happily silly, often was a time when you might be asked what you were working on or how the work was going and thus given an entrée to talk out a problem you had with your work, or bounce an idea off of someone, or become inspired by an idea or problem they were working out.

In addition, during each two-week period (most artists stay for one month), there is at least one writer or poet who comes for some days as a visiting writer, gives a reading, a craft talk, and meets with those who want critique of their work.  (In my two-week period, the writer was Rikki Ducornet.)  Likewise, there are painters and sculptors who come to give a talk and slide show of their work and visit with visual artists who want a critique.  (in my time, these were Kyle Staver and Kim Jones).  The resident writers (who wish to) have an opportunity to give formal readings once per week, and the resident artists (who wish to) likewise have the opportunity to give slide shows of their work.  Other than these events, we made our own fun:  bonfires, roasting marshmallows, Karaoke at the local Italian bar/restaurant on a Saturday night, a Friday night dance party in the Red Mill dining hall’s downstairs lounge (organized informally), even a makeshift séance.  One poet was working on a series inspired by Hitchcock’s oeuvre, and so, with her, one night, a small group of us watched a dvd of Rear Window together.  And through it all, the beer, and wine, and chocolate flowed.  (And coffee and tea and marshmallows and chips, too.)

The creative impulse and comradeship we found together in this month of April was far more free-spirited than I have experienced at any previous residency.  I think I can speak for many of us when I say that our greatest desire is to find ways to sustain that spirit and those supportive friendships now that we have come home and back to our everyday lives.