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.


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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's sleep last night, so I woke up this morning feeling knackered. I should feel grumpy, but I don't; anyway, that job is already well filled by others. Life is far too short to be waisted on self-pity. One day this journey of my life will end and the next step of my journey will begin. The only thing that I will be able to take with me is that which I have become. Maybe I might get a little break in between and get some sleep then.

Every year, hundreds of people come to see me and each one of them believe that the crises they are in are the most unique. With a little help, they recover, having forgotten how they felt when they came to see me. I recall one man whose wife had left him. "My life is over!" he exclaimed. I replied, reminding him his marriage was over, whereas his life was still intact.

Perhaps like him, I am not really knackered. I just feel tired.

Our Own Humanity Dies

No matter who they may be or what they may have have done, the day we celebrate the death of a human, a little bit of our own humanity dies.

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