Tag: photography

When I was a kid, to be called a “bogman” was an insult. It meant you were stupid, uncultured, uncivilised. Never mind that many of Ireland’s greatest poets and painters were inspired by bogland, by its history, its beauty and its mysteries. I’d never really seen the attraction myself, not having grown up near it and catching only glimpses of flat, dark earth on long car journeys. If it wasn’t boring it was mildly menacing, with stories of lost souls drowned in bogholes, led astray by a will-o’-the-wisp, or human sacrifices buried in the bog by druids or republicans. 

So I went to the bog to see what I was missing. And it really is beautiful. It was lonely and windswept, but warm and soft underfoot, with an incredible variety of bizarre, alien plant-life. Pieces of a fallen branch eroded by acid looked like twists of fabric, feathered and fraying. I almost lost my foot a couple of times to treacherous ground, pitch black water gliding into deep footprints. I half hoped to find a body. What I did find was a thin tree, creaking in annoyance as a wooden pallet left leaning against its trunk gradually wore away the bark. I pulled the pallet down, I saved the tree. I half expected someone to grant me wishes. 

So painting hasn’t been going well lately and I’ve been trying to find other ways to make art. I’ve been thinking a lot about sculpture, but the problem with the world of three dimensions is that Nature got there first and totally owns the field. I keep finding these organic structures that are as beautiful and poetic and rich with the capacity for metaphor as any sculpture I’ve ever seen or could ever hope to make myself.

Like these…things. They’re essentially just knots of flotsam that got snagged on branches when the floods came: mostly dead leaves and grass, knitted together into these strange little nests that are strong enough to withstand the current but disintegrate when handled. I’m totally obsessed with them. I try to think of ways to photograph one or recreate it or just claim it like a Duchampian readymade and I can think of plenty of art-historical precedents that I could use to justify whatever I wanted to do. But then again, there’s a little voice in the back of my head saying: “Seriously, that is literally just a piece of crap." 

pI went to the Dead Zoo in Dublin. It’s overrun with morbid children in the summer but it’s quiet in the autumn. It’s less disturbing than a real zoo, because for these creatures, the worst is over. Long over, in most cases. I find it peaceful, except for the mounted heads, which somehow seem more grotesque than full-body taxidermy, possibly because it’s less dignified. 

Also this week, something tragic and terrible happened involving a mouse, but I don’t want to talk about it. 

Photos show a skelephant. 

I. Like. Fish. It is always worthwhile going to the aquarium.

Even if they are strange, sad places.

In the bottom of one tank I saw a horseshoe crab trapped on his back. He figured it out eventually. 

I like birds. Even the ubiquitous ones, like ducks and pigeons. They’re beautiful, if you remember to look. 

I went to the park today. It started to rain so I sat on a bench under a tree with a book until a homeless man happened by. We talked for a long time. I don’t know his name, but he doesn’t like women, foreigners, the city, the cops, or the rich. He likes cheese and the Aryan race. He told me I was a passive sort of person. He’s probably right. He also told me that everything was going to be ok. 

He’s probably right about that too.