When an artist attempts to tell the story of others, of whose lives they seemingly have no direct experience, I’m always wary of the objectification of hardship and a misappropriation of voice. And I couldn’t help wondering as I climbed the stairs in Limerick City...
The road up to Claremorris from Liscannor flashes by the windows and with every mile, we inhabit this landscape of blurred hedgerow, jet contrails in the sunset sky, the road ahead and that odd flyover that is so like an alpine tunnel. And on into...
The first artwork I ever saw was a print my mother had brought from Cape Dorset in the Arctic of an Inuit mother and her two children. Its basic form was cartoon-like and it hung in a corner of our kitchen. Another lingering image...