by Tim Buckley
I think I can remember the awe in which I beheld my father as a young child. This tall man, imposing and handsome even to my young eyes, bestrode my world like Cassius’ colossus. And I learned from an early age to admire and respect his art, encouraged by the Master’s admiring commentary and the crowds that regularly filled the Gallery. I learned, too, to be grateful. The covetous looks of my school-mates taught me to appreciate that I had more than most. But we stopped somewhere short of warmth, and somewhere short of friendship. We shared a passion, yes, but we had no stories of valiant deeds to recount from the past, and I don’t think I ever really shared his values, his motivations. Not that I disagreed with them, I just never understood them.
And what of a parent’s love for a child? That love, we’re told, is innate, not learned through experience. But what did I feel standing over Aoife’s cot in the hospital room? Powerful, almost debilitating emotion, yes – but love? I don’t know. I suppose I didn’t have long enough to find out.
I had heard stories of women, friends or friends of friends, who found the days immediately after birth the most gruelling emotionally. Conditioned to believe, and fully expecting, that the arrival of their child would trigger a wave of love more potent than any emotion they had ever known, they had been distraught to discover that they felt no bond, no overwhelming adoration or devotion. Caitríona, I have no doubt, loved Aoife from before she made her entry to the world. Perhaps knowing that their time together would be brief, her initial shock and horror gave way to an affection and ultimately to love, a love she was perhaps too frightened to entertain. That’s maybe the difference between the paternal and the maternal. Her love was innate. Mine had to be learned. All of which perhaps explains my father’s emotions toward me. His grief stopped him learning to love.
A father’s love for a son, I think, grows and changes with his child. Every new phase of life must bring new and unexpected emotions and reward. At the start is vulnerability. This tiny child is so helpless and dependent that a father strives to protect. Then comes reliance, where protection gives way to provision. Then comes investment. Not financial, but the investment of self, the passing down of skills and talents, and the living of dreams that have never quite materialised. And finally friendship, where father and son become equal – the closing equilibrium. A father uncovers yet another new treasure in every change his son goes through. A mother doesn’t ever want him to change.
As a child and a young man, I would watch my friends with their fathers, at the school gates or at football matches or in the pub on a Friday evening – fascinated by the ease of their company and all that they so clearly shared. I have watched my friends with their new-born children, besotted and disarmed by a beguiling infant. I watched their need to protect taking over like a primeval instinct. As time went on, I watched their need to provide offer a clear purpose where perhaps purpose had begun to fade. And I watched their investment of self, perhaps as much about celebrating their own ambitions and aspirations as the achievements of the child. I watched but I never understood. Only a father – a real father who has nurtured, protected, provided for and invested himself in a child – can know the true meaning of a father’s love. Aoife might not share blood with the father who adopted her, but it gave me hope that he would love her no less because of it.
And I think it’s only when this journey has run its course, when the child takes on the mantle of responsibility for himself, that father and child become friends, that they become equal. My own father somehow missed these stages, or avoided them. Protection was out-sourced to child-minders. He provided for me, for sure, but from a safe distance – affording me everything, but giving me little. For a man with so much to give, he invested nothing. And so we had never become friends.
I suppose he gave me a sneak preview of the relationship I might some day share with Aoife. I had not earned the right to be her friend.
The Master looked around the Gallery, his lip curled, tutting his disapproval.
“Those boys are not the fastest workers, Lochlann, are they now? And where are they this morning?”
“They had to go into Dublin to get some filler. A problem with the far wall, I think.”
“And it took two of them to go? Afraid of being lonely were they? I’ll tell you now, if it wasn’t for Oran you’d have no chance of being ready on time.”
My father saw my eyebrow rise at the mention of Oran’s name.
“Oran is helping me with the work here. As Críostóir says, we would be at a real loss without him. I owe him a great deal.”
Oran was my best friend as a child, we were inseparable throughout primary school. Despite the enforced separation of my time at boarding school, we remained firm friends, sharing the school holidays and growing up together. Then came time to leave school, and Oran failed to secure a place in university. Even though we were both living in Howth, we drifted apart. I think he resented my new life and friends, whom he unfairly considered pretentious and fake. And of course I was spending my time with Caitríona, trying to come to terms with Aoife, of whom he knew nothing. He got a job working in a restaurant in town, working unsocial hours for small reward. Our paths diverged and I saw little of my old friend. Having left to live in London, I had been in contact with him very little, and indeed over the past few years communication had dried up altogether. To be honest, with all of the distractions of the previous days I had hardly thought of him despite being back in Dublin. It would be good to spend some time catching up with him.
“An understatement, Lochlann, if I may say so. Have you told Aengus about the exhibition?”
“I mentioned that we were preparing the Gallery, yes.”
“How big is the show?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Not very big, fifty pieces or so.”
“What’s it about?”
“It will be titled ‘Ireland’s Changing Women in Ireland’s Changing Times.’ It explores the evolving nature of womanhood in Ireland.”
“Will you have much new material?”
“Some, yes, some borrowed from collectors.”
The Master interjected.
“Well, aren’t you the master of understatement this morning, Lochlann?”
He turned to me and made an expansive gesture with his hands.
“This will be the most important show by an Irish artist in Dublin this side of the millennium,” he said emphatically, pausing for dramatic effect. “The past few years have been barren, just barren. It’s time that the changes in this country were reflected in the work of an Irish artist. And this is the man to do it.”
My father shook his head slowly and gave him the same despairing look that I had received so many times before.
“Críostóir, that’s nonsense as you very well know,” he said, quietly. “I appreciate the compliment, but it is simply not true. What about Caoimhghin Ó’Cróidheáin? Or Conor Walton? Or Colin Davidson up in Belfast? Or our own Paul Kelly? Excellent artists producing fine works.”
The Master raised his right hand. “That’s fair enough, Lochlann, fair enough. Very fine painters all of them and no doubt. But, tell me, where is the art that reflects the enormous changes sweeping through this country, ha? It can’t just be reflected in city-scapes with tall cranes and shiny new trams, saying ‘now, look at all the building that’s going on, isn’t it all change?’ That’s just scratching at the surface, there’s so much more to it than that. Our writers are doing it, our film-makers are doing it. Even our photographers are out there capturing the new mood and the new culture of this country. But landscape art that simply records the physical can surely never provide a full record of how much things are changing before our very eyes?” He pointed an index finger at my father. “Make no mistake, Lochlann – what you’re doing now is studying one of the ways that Ireland’s evolution is manifesting itself, through the evolution of our women. Not the only way, that’s for sure. B
ut an important way. That’s what you’re doing. And it’s important for that very reason.”
Lochlann nodded.
“It has merit, I’m not denying that. It will be interesting, I hope, to examine how the composition of one section of our community has grown and changed. But recording the physical change has no less merit, indeed it is perhaps more important. In fifty years from now, you and I will be gone. But the fruits of the construction and development that we see all over Dublin and all over the country will stand, redefining the landscape. What came before, and the manner of the metamorphosis, that must be recorded too.”
It had been a very long time since I had seen my father so animated, if indeed I ever had. He spoke slowly, deliberately, never losing control, never yielding completely to passion, but there was no doubting the strength of his conviction. Like sparring partners, I could see that they revelled in the verbal joust, each accepting the arguments of the other and respecting his right to express them.
Pauline’s arrival with a mug for the master and a fresh pot of coffee enforced a truce. As she left the Master poured himself a coffee and asked my father, “So have you decided how ‘t will work? The layout I mean?”
My father walked over to the centre of the Gallery.
“There will be four sections, not clearly defined but separate sections nonetheless. The first will use older pieces and represents Irish woman as depicted in so many stereotypes – the fruit-seller on Moore Street, the old woman sitting sewing nets on the up-turned currach in Dingle, and so on. The second will represent motherhood, and the constancy of a mother’s selfless love amid the changing demands of raising children in Ireland.” He paused, and looked at me. “It will centre around a portrait of Claire.”
My mother. Although he never referred to her as my mother. He had never shown me his portraits of her, although I knew there were many. I nodded, not really knowing how to respond. He continued to look into my eyes for a moment and then carried on.
“The third section will represent the powerful, professional young woman of more recent times. And the fourth will look at the entirely new role of women – women as radicals, women not content to simply conform, determined to shock with their appearance or their words.”
He turned full circle and surveyed the Gallery.
“I have not yet determined the positioning, the flow. It remains difficult with the room in this state. Oran and I are going to look at it this week.”
The Master gestured towards me. “This man should be able to help too.” To me, he said, “You must have worked on this kind of thing in London, for companies and the like?”
“Yes, but I’m sure it’s a very different proposition when it’s art and not corporate marketing,” I laughed half-heartedly, and looked at my father.
“Indeed,” he replied.
CHAPTER 8
The gate outside clanged shut and Oran walked into the Gallery. He was the same Oran I remembered from so many episodes in our past. A little heavier maybe, flecks of grey appearing at his temples, but the same Oran. He grunted a greeting to my father and the Master, then saw me and stopped.
“Aengus?” He seemed to double-take, making sure he wasn’t mistaken. “How’s it goin’?”
I walked over to shake his hand, and went to embrace him. He recoiled a fraction and we compromised with a rough slap on each other’s shoulders.
“Good, Oran, thanks. How have you been? Eatin’ well by the looks of things,” I joked, punching his shoulder.
He hesitated. “Yeah, s’pose so.”
He turned to my father, and shook his head angrily.
“Sorry I’ve been so long. Some fucker hit my car while I was in the shop. Just fucked off. No note, nothing.” He was seething. “I tried to see if I could see him, you know, looked around for a car with a dent or something, but he was gone. Fucker.”
My father shook his head. “What sort of fellow does that? What sort of rotten so-and-so?” He squeezed Oran’s arm. “Don’t worry. I know a chap in Ballyfermot who does crash repairs, I have no doubt he’ll be able to carry out the necessary repairs at a reasonable cost. Go into the house and get Pauline to make you a cup of tea. And don’t worry, it will be ok.”
“Ah, those other gobshites aren’t back from town yet and I’m way behind now, Lochlann, I better get on…”
My father blocked his path with an outstretched arm.
“Oran, go and get a cup of tea, and sit quietly for a few minutes. Go on.”
Oran nodded, but as he walked to the door he noticed something on the floor.
“Ah for FUCK sake!”
I looked for what had caused this violent reaction and realised with dismay that he was looking at the pieces of string and plastic that I had trodden on earlier.
“How the FUCK did that happen?”
My father walked over to where he was standing.
“What’s wrong, Oran?”
“I set out the grid for the tiles here last night with lines of string, and they’re all over the place now. Fuck it.”
I hesitated, then stepped forward, and said, “Jesus, Oran, I’m sorry, I think I might have stood on them. Here, I’ll help you sort it out.” I bent down and began to straighten the lines of string but had no real idea what to do.
“Just leave it, leave it. I’ll do it myself. Fuck sake, Aengus, only just back and you’re already making a mess of things.”
The Master intervened with arms outstretched, palms down in a calming gesture.
“Ah now, Oran, take it easy lad, it was only an accident and there’s no permanent damage done.”
“No, it’s not permanent. Just more work and we’re already behind. Great.”
And with that he was gone out the door, violent expletives left hanging in the air.
I stooped again to try to undo at least some of the damage, but my father stopped me.
“Just leave it, Aengus, leave it to Oran to fix it.” His tone was impatient. “He knows what he’s doing.”
Turning to the Master, he said, “Let’s go and have a look at his car, see how bad the damage is.”
He walked out of the Gallery and the Master looked at me. I shook my head, and he followed my father out the gate.
The optimism of the morning had faded and, like the sun, retreated behind the clouds. The contrast of my father’s reaction to my appearance and to Oran’s arrival could not have been more marked. I would have said that he was trying to deliberately make a point, but any intention to do so would have been superseded by Oran’s misfortune and I had no doubt that my father’s reaction was entirely genuine. It was one of the things I admired in him, his calmness in a crisis, and yet it was his evenness of temper that I found most frustrating when the crisis was mine.
I sat on the bare concrete floor and set to work on the strings. I could scarcely make it any worse and I had nothing else to do. It was like a child’s puzzle. The section of floor covered by the makeshift grid was small, perhaps designed to be an island in the middle of… of something. I tried to make out the intended pattern from the undisturbed sections. It looked like Oran was aiming for a mosaic-like composition, so small were the shapes bounded by the lines of string. One or two of the segments were complete, unbroken, and so I set about recreating these where I had uprooted the small plastic stakes.
As I got older, my father’s exhibitions had become less and less frequent, and the Gallery was too often bare and empty. It had become my playroom, the place where I could bring toy cars or a train set or my action men and lose myself in their imaginary world. So when Pauline came in to tidy away the cups and coffee pot, it must have been quite a throwback to see me sitting there, lost in the task at hand. I didn’t hear her come in, and when she spoke I started.
“Sorry, love,” she said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“That’s alright, Pauline,”
I looked up and smiled without much enthusiasm. “I made a mess of Oran’s work, I’m just putting it right.”
“Don’t mind Oran,” she said, “he’s havin’ a bad day.”
She waved her hand over the tangle of string.
“You weren’t to know that was there for any reason. If I’d seen it myself, I’d probably have set to it with a brush and pan. Accidents happen to the best of us.”
“I’m not sure Oran sees it like that.” I said ruefully.
Pauline looked at me, then down at her hands, then back at me.
“It might have been better if you’d let them know you were coming. It’s been such a long time, and so much has happened. They probably just need a chance to get used to the idea. But they will, and things will settle down, you’ll see.”
I imagined Oran’s indignant ranting that had prompted Pauline to come down to pour oil on the waters. She and the Master had a lot of work to do.
“What brings you home anyway? Apart from seeing me,” she chuckled.
“I just had a few things to do in town, a few things to sort out. I didn’t even know I was coming until last week.”
“And how long can you stay? You can stay a wee while can’t you?”
“I really don’t know. But a wee while, yes.”
“Good. It’ll be good for you to spend some time with your father. He misses you terribly, Aengus. I know he doesn’t always show it, but he thinks the world of you, you know he does. I just wish the two of you would stop this pretending and just talk to each other. You won’t have him forever, and it’ll be too late for regrets then.”