How To Tell A Story -The Seanachaí (Eamon Kelly)

Dana Milano presents " Maurice Roncalli "

Landscapes in Ireland

'Molly Chamberpots' and The Wren Boys

My earliest memories of St Steven's day would certainly include the 'wren' or  'wran' boys coming around to the doors of the houses early in the morning. You would first hear them at the neighbouring houses, getting louder and louder until the racket would arrive at our door. I call it a racket because they would beat out the time of the song on the front door with a large bunch of ivy. The song they sang in my part of Cork was quite often unrecognisable but quite often went like this:

 The wran the wran the king of all birds,
Up in the holly and ivy tree,
Whether its big or whether its small,
Give us a copper and we'll leave ye alone.

Knock at the knocker,
Ring at the bell,
Give us a copper,
For singing so well.

In our lane one house was always avoided, as the woman of the house was well known for emptying the contents of a chamber pot out of the upstairs window over the unwelcome callers. She became known locally as 'Molly Chamberpots'.

Ireland a Living Entity

I see Ireland like a living entity; a mother who provides for her children with all that they need. However, like all petulant children we don't always choose that which is good for us, but instead follow our own whims. We make foolish choices based upon the predatory suggestions of bigger children abroad, then blame each other when everything goes pear shaped. Like the children of any family,  there will be amongst the children of Ireland disagreements and sibling rivalry, there will be fallings-out and even estrangements.

In these turbulent times, we must put an end to the blame and accusations, and putting aside the old discordances of the past, we need to unite in the rebuilding of this nation - this family of Ireland.

I watch in sadness as our leaders spend more time on recrimination than on showing the example of positivity. I watch in frustration the greed of financial speculators, as they try and squeeze the last drop from the tit of our Mother Ireland.  And then I watch in pride the entrepreneurial spirit of  those who, struggling  against great odds in these troubled times, start up businesses and enterprises in the cities, towns, villages and parishes throughout this land.  These men and women are the true heroes of our time.  These men and women are our true leaders.

Ireland is indeed a living entity and I am proud to be one of Her children.

~

A Woman in My Eyes

If you were to ask me what my ideal woman would be, it would not take me long to reflect; for my answer would be the same as it would had you asked me about a man. A woman, like a man, is a fellow human being - a person. Therefore, my ideal person is one of honour and courage; a person who is trustworthy and idealistic. While I may have preferences as to physical characteristics, these are secondary and temporary.

When I think of an ideal woman, I think of people like Rosa Parks, who in December of 1955 refused to give up her seat on a Montgomery bus, to make room for a white passenger. I think of a young woman, Anne Frank, who spent two years hiding in an attic, during WWII, before her capture and death in March 1945. Anne´s diary, translated into 67 different languages, has been an inspiration to so many. I think of contralto Marian Anderson, who despite segregation, worked scrubbing steps before finally singing her way out of poverty in South Philadelphia.

I think of the many millions of women around the world, working in factories, shops and offices; in hospitals, hotels and restaurants. I think of those women struggling to bring up families in these difficult times. I think of my own mother, who strove against all the odds to provide me with an education and who instilled in me a love for others.

I find it an insult to our humanity when the advertising, fashion and cosmetic industries, who in the interest of profits, objectify women treat and them like uneducated brainless human accessories.

All That it Takes For It To Be A Good Day

For me all that it takes for it to be a good day is that I awaken in the morning.

If I wake up, it is a good day.
If I wake up feeling wonderful, then it’s a good day in which I feel wonderful.
If I wake up not feeling great, it is a good day in which I’m not feeling great.
All it takes for me to win, is that I wake up.

Well I awoke today, and it feels good to be a winner.

~

The Ultimate Freedom

There is nothing I fear enough to be coerced and nothing I want enough to be induced! I have the ultimate freedom, that to choose how I feel.
I may experience the sensation of fear and I may experience the sensation of desire but that point, I am free to choose how I feel about those sensations. That is the ultimate freedom.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Could Not Afford to Buy One of his Own Paintings

While talking with some people about the late Limerick artist, Finian Horan. I assumed that they would be able to read about him on Google. I was deeply saddened, when I tried to Google him myself, to find that as far as the Internet was concerned, he had faded into obscurity. It was this sadness that prompted me to write about him from my original notes of an interview I did with him, in December of 1991.

The late Finian Horan



The first dream of any artist is to have an exhibition of his or her own, and such was the case with Finian Horan. Though he had shown and sold some of his paintings previously, his dream was about to be realised, only to be shattered because he could not afford the frames.

I spoke with the owner of, what used to be the Willow Gallery, on George’s Quay in Limerick, who said, "I loved his work as soon as I saw it, if only he could find some sponsorship for his frames, I would be delighted to exhibit it".

With the help of a photojournalist, who liked his work, Finian got his sponsorship and his exhibition which sold out. I still have one of his paintings, in pride of place, over my mantelpiece.

Back in December of 1991, I met Finian Horan, then a thirty six year old Limerick artist. He told me how he would sometimes go for days without sleep in order to finish a painting. I was introduced to Finian by in one of the local art galleries, where I was at once impressed by an enthusiasm seen only in young children. He carried under his arm a bundle of paintings, which represented a small sample of his work from over the previous two years. Finian told me how he had always been interested in art as a young child, and when the opportunity to study it came up, it felt like the most natural thing in the world to do.

He was born in Limerick and educated at St. Mary’s CBS. Not being the most scholarly of students, he would amuse his friends by drawing cartoons.

He started work by serving his time as an electrician but later worked for himself, repairing shoes. However, when the solvents made him ill, he started painting on a regular basis. He later went to the Limerick’s art college, where he began by studying sculpture and then painting.

Finian liked to work in pastels, though he did sometime use oils. He explained, "With pastels, I just hold them and they seem to take on a life of their own". Having seen some of his work, I could believe him, for it certainly did seem to have a life of it’s own about it. "Some people may laugh at this," he went on, "But when I start painting, it seems as it were, that I have left my body and that I am watching myself work."

"I could be kneeling or bending for hours in the most uncomfortable position, but I wont feel or notice it until the painting is finished." He then describes how, "I have often been in agony for hours afterwards, unable to move my knees and with my finger tips burnt and raw from rubbing in the pastels." While painting, Finian would listen to Bob Dylan or Beethoven, explaining that he found a lot of inspiration from music.

When I spoke with him he was teaching art classes, under a state FAS art scheme, to feed himself and his daughter. Sometimes he would do street paintings to help finance his materials, though that could at times use up more than he could afford.

Back then, Finian lived with his daughter, Sarah, who was eleven at the time and also shared his passion for painting and music. "My daughter, my painting and music are now my life", he told me as we walked along Limerick’s George’s Quay. "I am driven by a burning desire to be recognised, not for fame but to be able to provide a decent life for my daughter and so she can be proud of me".

Knackered or Just Tired

I had about an hour of sleep last night, so I woke up knackered this morning. I should be grumpy but I am not: that job is already well filled. Life is far too short for me to be feeling sorry for myself. One day, this journey will end and another journey will begin and the only thing I can take on this new journey with me is what I have become. Maybe I might get a little break in between journeys and get some sleep then.

Every year, I see hundreds of people; each one believing that the crises they are experiencing is the most unique and the most disastrous of all times only to come out the other side, forgetting the depth of the hole they were in. One man whose wife had left him, exclaimed, "My life is fucked". I replied telling him that, it was his marriage was fucked, his life was still intact. Maybe like him, I am not really knackered; I just feel tired.