Monday 15th July
I am a busy woman these days, posting sketching videos on YouTube and working hard to get my SketchPocket onto the market. I’m also writing a small book which I want to include in one of the SketchPocket pockets, so some things are not getting much attention as a result, including my blog…
But my SketchPocket comes with me wherever I go, so throughout it all I am sketching away, so I thought I would share them with you here.
Here’s one I drew in the National Gallery in Dublin. I am in the city to visit an exhibition with my sister who is over from Jamaica for a few weeks. She and my mother will arrive soon, and I am having a coffee while I wait: there’s no way I am going to have a coffee on my own and not sketch, so my pen is flying around and I am capturing the two men in the centre of the page. My brother pops in to say hello, and we are soon joined by my sister and my mother. As they chat and discuss all things family – our relatives, living and deceased – my thoughts are half on the conversation, and half on my colour choices and the size and positions of people’s heads.
The exhibition is called Women Impressionists. I would prefer the “women” bit not to be in the title – Impressionists would do nicely – but that’s the world we find ourselves in, for now.
Here are some observations about the exhibition.
- The skill level ranges from very good to exceptional. Some brilliant work, some less so.
- The subject matter is notable: children, babies, flowers, domestic scenes, all rather Ukiyo-e. I am delighted to see this beautiful world honoured and captured by those who are closest to it, who lived it, as I have done, and do.
- I am in awe of Mary Cassat’s Japonisme-inspired prints.
- Many of the artists died young, not of drink or debauchery as so many artists do, but from complications of childbirth and cancer.
- When an artist in the exhibition has displayed skill in a certain area (such as a print technique), her male teacher of the technique is named. Normally, the teacher of a technique isn’t referred to.
- The artists have all come from upper-middle-class backgrounds, have been educated, with independent means of their own. One wasn’t, and after years of being undermined by her husband, gives up painting.
- The moral? Do what you want and don’t take any guff about it, from anyone. Don’t get me wrong – I love looking after my family – but fair is fair, and we as women have to stand up for ourselves and take time to do what we want.
The next sketch is made at Dublin’s Heuston Station when I am a little early for my train back to Galway. I sit outside the station on a bench at the Luas stop across the little bus / taxi lane from the station. I remember the day I drew the gorgeous station exterior for my book, Dublin In Sketches and Stories, which was so hard that it made me question my life’s choices, in particular the decision to make an entire book of sketches of Dublin.
To be honest I would do it differently now, in a way that is much easier – but that’s another story, one I might even make a YouTube about. Back to Monday, when I am filling in time before my train leaves.
I have, as you know, a LOT of experience sketching in public: in places where you can leave your bag all on its own while you nip off to the Ladies, and in places where you most decidedly cannot. So I am used to it and I am generally unafraid of onlookers – they’re nearly always lovely…but usually also solitary.
I have started sketching and have done just enough so that I can’t leave it unfinished, or my page will be ruined. Three people approach, three Dubliners, two men and a woman, all in their late twenties / early thirties. The woman is fat, the men are haggard, lean, a bit like Conor McGregor. In fact – they look very like Conor McGregor, but with tracksuits rather than three-piece suits. They are all eating Icebergers (one of my favourites) and carry plastic bags.
One of the men, in a black t-shirt, is high or drunk or unwell. He is weather-beaten and gaunt, with sunken cheekbones and a small fresh wound on his forehead. He slurs his words and speaks slowly. Unwell or not, he is in fine enough fettle to spot two young women lolling in a doorway at the station entrance and to try to get ther numbers. They aren’t “working girls”, as far as I can tell. This guy just won’t leave them alone. He trails after them like a dog, and they try to shake him. He keeps coming back to his friends, who are finding the whole thing hilarious, guffawing loudly. They don’t care a hoot that the girls are being hassled.
“He’s owny ourra de hospital!” the young man beside me calls over to the women. “Don’t moynd him!”
And, to the man doing the annoying,
“Would ye stop roardin’?” “Roardin” in that part of Dublin means roaring, shouting, making a nuisance of yourself.
This goes on and on and the young man in the black t-shirt isn’t giving up. He keeps crossing the little plaza separating the Luas stop from the train station, and of course they all notice that I am drawing. They are in awe, despite the fact that I have done nothing but pull one line of dilute watercolour across the page. Eventually Skinny Black Slurrer starts to get annoyed by the girls’ lack of interest. The two men are right next to me; the man who is finding the drama very amusing has propped himself up on the back of the bench for a better view, and his bottom is inches from my left shoulder. There is no “personal space” at all afforded to me, but sometimes that’s not very high on your list of priorities. I don’t mind that until the two men start talking loudly about which of the women, or both, they’d “do”. It is done out of macho pride and not losing face in the teeth of the rejection by the women, but it is disrespectful to me, which doesn’t bode well. I really, really want to finish my sketch but I tell myself that if things kick off I will have no one to blame but myself for not leaving sooner. But I am mightily annoyed. The best I can do is finish it on the train from a photo (anathema!) and when I get back to Galway I draw the Dubliners in question in my little diary, colour them in in pencil, cut them out and stick them into my sketchbook.
Thursday 18th July
Bliss. A field of hay bales. A sunny summer’s evening. Time to sketch, and plenty of battery in my phone.
You can follow the subsequent Sketchalong I made for YouTube here: https://youtu.be/-mFjNPon60E
This is free for everyone, although I must tell you that I very much appreciate the generous donations some kind people have made to my YouTube channel. (Bringing a product to the market is expensive, and my SketchPocket is no exception, so it is especially appreciated now that I am in the process of doing so.)
Sunday 21st July
My brother has invited me to see Damien Dempsey play live in the Iveagh Gardens, in the heart of Dublin City, on Saturday night. This is a very special gig. My brother does not have tickets but we hope to get some at the last second. (Damien plays the song Serious, about a miscreant trying to persuade a younger guy to take drugs. The three jokers outside Heuston are straight out of Central Casting, “Serious” style. Put it on, you won’t regret it.)
My brother and I meet his four friends, who have tried to get into Mulligans bar, which is closed. A man is cleaning inside, and the girls ask him if he will be opening soon. “When I’m good and ready!” he says, which is, we agree, a good maxim by which to live. Instead we go to the Odeon for drinks, which is a magnificent and beautiful bar, the converted Harcourt Street railway station, I’m told. It has vast ceilings, wonderful murals and plenty of room. We get tickets at the last minute and soon we are heading into the Iveagh Gardens, and it’s not raining any more so our mood is buoyant.
Some impressions of the gig:
- The most peaceful crowd ever. Anyone who knocks you as they dance or pass you with a tray of pints apologises profusely.
- The crowd is not just white, not just Irish, but specifically Dublin, and North Dublin at that. It’s niche. There is one brown person, which is one more than last summer’s concert. I remark to my brother that in five years’ time it would be amazing to see more brown faces again, because if they’re at a Damo concert then they feel like Dubliners, which is good for Ireland.
- The crowd’s hair colour, faces and bone structure are Norse, but my brother and I say this quietly to each other as we’ll be considered weirdos if we say it aloud.
- My brother and I repeat the Dublin syntax of Damo and the crowd around us in delight, but again, we do this quietly, sotto voce.
- All the punters know all the lyrics (except me and my brother).
- Damo is pure poetry, in stature, in soul and in song.
- The Gardens are surrounded by huge trees in full leaf. Damo says he is happy to be here in the Iveagh Gardens, surrounded by all the gree-yin of the tree-yiz.
- As evening turns to twilight, the bellies of the seagulls flying overhead turn a deep orange gold of the setting sun.
- At the end the crowd files out – peacefully and slowly – singing “It’s All Good”, another one you have to play.
- I do not bring my SketchPocket, the first time in a year I have left the house without it. This is so that I can jump up and down, which I do.
- Damo does not sing my favourites, nor did he do so last year. However he sings a wonderful line-up. He sings Rocky Road and for some reason the crowd crouch during the slow verses, and spring up and fling their pints into the air at the emotional bits, and I am glad I have my rubberised raincoat as I have to wear the same clothes for my return trip tomorrow. This pint-flinging feels quite Norse to me, but I am not sure why. I am not even sure what Norse means.
- We all love Damo. He is a national treasure.
The next morning I head back to Galway, and find myself in Heuston Station again. I am a few minutes early and I try to draw the people around me, but they are the fidgetiest group I have ever encountered. There are a few Americans on the train, in front and behind me. I see my moment when the blonde curly-haired lady is reading quietly. Then one of her party in the next seats along the aisle turns around and taps her on the head. She turns. “I’m just saying hello!” he says in a jolly American accent. Well! If thoughts could kill…you can see his back, he’s the man in orange. In the end, the only drawings I like are the ones on the right of the man and the woman.
That’s it, we’re all up to date.
I know I don’t reply to your comments that you very kindly email to me in response to my blogs. I can’t reply to them all so I reply to none – see above the bit about having my hands full at the moment – but I read them all and I appreciate them all so much. You all say such lovely things, and very thoughtfully-expressed too.
I am expecting the CACTUS LEATHER version of the SketchPocket tomorrow. I am beyond excited. You know, I could have made it from PU leather and it would have been a great deal less expensive but it’s important to me to be able to stand behind a product that doesn’t add to the planet’s woes. Cactus leather is made from cacti that don’t need to be watered or fertilised…so I hope that’s important to you too. If the third sample proves to be the last, with all its tweaks and improvements, then the turnaround time is 35 days. If you’re interested in a bag please say so in the Expression of Interest form on the home page, and not by sending me an email, as I need to have one place and one place only to have some idea of numbers. Everyone who registers their interest will be sent a first-come-first served option when the bags are finally here. There will be a black version and an off-white version – because I need a white one for my summer outfits and so does my mother (if we ever get another summer, that is).
If you have a few minutes to reply, you can do something small for me: send me your sketching “FAQs.” For example, the two most common questions I get on my YouTube channel are “do you have lots of pensfor different colours, or do you clean them out all the time?” (The former.) and “what brand or pen / paper/ paint do you use?” (Watch the whole video before you ask, I nearly always list my brands.) But please ask freely whatever you like, I might be able to use it in my little book.
Thank you in advance!
One last word: it’s a complaint about Reuben. I know Reuben loves me – I catch him staring at me sometimes, even when I am not eating – but when it comes to throwing his ball only my husband Marcel will do. During coffee break Marcel has no patience for this, as he says Reuben interrupts the chat. I don’t mind because I know it’s Reuben’s way of being involved, because he can’t take part in the chat. So today I poke my foot towards Reuben under the table, and I tell him to pass me his ball, so I can throw it for him. What does he do? He shoves my foot out of the way with his paw and goes back to staring at Marcel and his ball and wagging his tail.
Reuben better watch out…not everyone is as tolerant of a house-marking person as I am.
