Mick O’Dea and the DruidO’Casey Trilogy

A shorter, edited version of this article appears in the current edition (Spring 2024) of the Irish Arts Review.

 

It seemed particularly apt when Interviewing Mick O’Dea for this article that our meeting took place in his Dublin studio on Henrietta Street. This wide, cobbled street, leading up to the Kings Inns’ archway, is the first of the great Georgian building projects to adorn our capitol. It went from being home to aristocrats in the 18th Century to infested tenements in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, with up to 100 people sharing one house. This was the environment in which Sean O’Casey grew up (in nearby Mountjoy Square) and buildings such as this formed the backdrop to his great trilogy: Juno and the Paycock, The Shadow of a Gunman, and The Plough and the Stars. Walking up the original stairs with its time-polished banisters, O’Dea pointed out a series of metal clamps at intervals along the rail, designed apparently to thwart those wayward lads of yore who might attempt the deliciously lengthy slide. An early painting from his current Druid series shows The Young Covey from The Plough and the Stars (played by Marty Rea) looking back up these very stairs. A creative and leap by O’Dea as he’s brought the actor from the Druid stage to his own studio. O’Dea was equivocal about including this resonant work in the upcoming show as the scale of the figure is unrepresentative of what he’s aiming for and it doesn’t portray the back stage action that’s his main concern. On the way up to his second flor studio we pass the locked-up studio of the late and much lamented Mick Cullen, and next door was Charlie Cullen’s studio. Fergus Martin’s space was further up on the top floor. All these artists benefited from the ongoing generosity of the MacEoin family who let the spaces at peppercorn rents. Given the sturdy and impeccable Republican roots of that family they would surely approve of O’Dea’s current engagement with O’Casey’s plays. We sat in O’Dea’s chilly studio crammed with paintings, drawings, and a profusion of books and catalogues. In the corner was a typical minimalist Charlie Brady painting of an envelope. O’Dea remembers how helpful Brady was to him as a young aspiring artist - opening doors for him on a visit to New York.

 

We were meeting to discuss his exhibition What is the Stars? at the Molesworth Gallery, inspired by Garry Hynes’s epic production DruidO’Casey. The title of  O’Dea’s show is Captain Boyle’s metaphysical plaint from Juno and the Paycock (echoed by his drinking buddy Joxer). DruidO’Casey involved the consecutive staging of the three great O’Casey plays on the same day. It premiered at the 2023 Galway International Arts Festival and also enjoyed runs in Dublin, London and New York – where it was described by the New Yorker as “the season’s most exciting international visit.” The genesis of O’Dea’s exhibition was a phone call from Hynes asking him if he would like to be artist-in-residence for DruidO’Casey and document visually the preparation and staging of O’Casey’s masterpieces. O’Dea’s painting Attention had been used in the promotional material for the show and Hynes had been impressed by his recent exhibitions commemorating 1916, the War of Independence and the subsequent Civil War. In particular she was taken by his capturing of the period detail, the colour of the uniforms and the self-consciously stagey way many of the protagonists posed for the photographs on which the exhibitions were based. O’Dea saw them as the rock stars and boy bands of that era - with Lee Enfield rifles replacing Fender Stratocasters. Hynes had bought one of these paintings for her own collection (a depiction of one of the infamous Black-and-Tans curiously). “It acts as a sentinel as you walk in the door of her house” he reports. Hynes felt that O’Dea was the right man to do justice to her drama set in the same period.

 

Over a period of 3 or 4 months in the summer of 2023, O’Dea embedded himself within the Druid company as they went about their elaborate preparations for the mighty enterprise. Most of the activity took place in rooms at the Digital Hub in Thomas Street, Dublin. In addition to sitting in on rehearsals and ultimately viewing live performances in Galway, O’Dea observed the multifarious creative and backstage activities that staging a play entails. While viewing the dress rehearsals in Galway, O’Dea was delighted to be joined by his old friend Brian Bourke in sketching the action on stage. Bourke had a tradition of making drawings of Druid productions and asked O’Dea if he could sit in for a few days. “You the maestro” was the generous response. “It was nice to catch up with Brian” O’Dea remarked and he commented on how fit and flamboyant (scarves, hats and fancy shoes) the older artist remains.

 

O’Dea spent time with the set designers, the musical director, the dance coordinators, the sound engineers and the wardrobe people. While not directly responsible for the latter activity, he was able to offer Francis O’Connor and her team advice and suggestions concerning the dress and uniforms of the period. “It was superficial help” he concedes modestly.  “I was  familiar with military uniforms. I could be useful with the particular shade of bottle green used by the RIC for example”.  O’Dea has had a lifelong weakness for men in uniform and refers more than once to a box of lead toy soldiers from his childhood stored on a high shelf in the studio. (Coming from a military background myself, I was tempted to ask him to get them down to play but my fatal sense of propriety kicked in.) Like these toy soldiers his aim in the exhibition was to reduce in scale the actors in the O’Casey plays to reflect the relative puniness of their presence on the giant stage in which they operated: to emphasise the staginess and artifice rather than go for a realist depiction of the action.  “I need to have the figures diminished by the scale of the arena – elements in a bigger composite.”

 

There is a history of artists engaging with the theatre: Degas and Toulouse-Lautrec spring immediately to mind and Walter Sickert in London. In Ireland Jack B. Yeats didn’t just depict the theatre in his paintings but also wrote plays and was involved in stage design. Louis le Brocquy also got involved in stage design, I remember that significant tree on the Gate stage for Waiting for Godot in 2003. However, these artists were mostly involved in set design or in depicting the audience or the actors on stage. O’Dea’s is a different take. He sees Edward Hopper as the nearest parallel with his cinema usherettes – a focus on the attendant elements. I like the parallel with another epic enterprise with which an Irish artist engaged – Sean Keating’s series of  paintings of the development stages of the giant hydro-electric scheme at Ardnacrusha. When I mentioned this fanciful connection, O’Dea gleefully pointed out that Keating hadn’t been paid for his enterprise, whereas his own efforts were sponsored by An Post.

 

As well as serving as a record of a great artistic enterprise the paintings must succeed in their own right by having the impact and radiance of art. Ou find this in the expectancy and energy in Up Above for example which shows a character at the floor of a staircase not unlike the one in Henrietta Street. I thought it could be Joxer looking up to see if Captain Boyle is emerging to join him in a visit to the pub, or maybe Fluther seeking help to loot a bombed pub. It’s actually Marty Rea as The Young Covey, presumable engaged in more serious business. You see it also in the piquant juxtaposing of the O’Casey character in the wings and the stagehand on stage in Stagehand and Irregular.

 

A number of the paintings were built around dress rehearsals, with characters in costume waiting to go on – the period costumes often clashing anachronistically with modern Exit signs or backstage paraphernalia. In Mollser we see Tara Cush as O’Casey’s tragic consumptive from The Plough and the Stars during dress rehearsals – she sits amidst ladders and technicians back stage as she awaits her cue. She looks nervous but perhaps her stricken look is her getting into character as the misfortunate girl. In Captain Boyle we see  Rory Nolan as the feckless husband in Juno and the Paycock getting in the mood for his entrance in full 20s period costume while standing beside a palpably modern door. The artifice exposed. In similar vein Rosie and the Barman depicts a scene from a  dress rehearsal of The Plough and the Stars - rear views of Anna Healy and Sean Kearns below an array of lights. In the Wings exposes the anachronism of a modern blue plastic bag. Back Stage reveals the relative chaos and disorder behind he scenes as the carefully ordered and choreographed action takes place out front. The ominous cowled figure in the doorway seems a portent of doom – apt for the times that O’Casey was writing about in his trilogy.

 

DruidO’Casey was arguably the most significant cultural event in this country in 2023. O’Dea’s dense, and evocative exhibition provides a permanent record of its genesis - of the physical toil and creative energy that went into the great project. The playwright Denis Johnston famously said of the 1916 rising that “the birth of a nation is never an immaculate conception”. What is the Stars is  O’Dea’s visual equivalent of that comment in relation to Hynes’ revolutionary production.

 

John P. O’Sullivan

March 2024

 

 

 

 

“The End” - the Doors’ Gothic Dream Song Brings Back a Hot Day in 1967

 

Driving near Schull yesterday one of those evocative tracks from the past comes up on Spotify – The End by the Doors.  It was from their first and best album, The Doors, released in January 1967. I am immediately taken back to a baking afternoon in August of that year. I am heading to Clanricarde Gardens in Notting Hill with a friend to score some dope from a group of Irish friends we bumped into regularly around Earl’s Court - and with whom we shared an affection for the Warwick Arms on Warwick Road - where acceptable pints of Guinness were available. We arrive at their spacious ground floor flat and are let in after the customary paranoid interrogation (“who are you with”, “anyone around”). The room is in semi-darkness, the heavy, floor-length velvet curtains closed and a small lamp is fighting the murk. There is a heavy smell of hash. Pakistani Black was the most generally available form of marijuana in those days. It was a heavy, drowsy, high - conducive to listening to Pink Floyd or the Moody Blues and to crashing out. The End was playing as we entered the room. It was my first time hearing its Gothic doom-laden lyrics and dramatic musical pyrotechnics. The three occupants were Batt, Deke and Martin – all stretched out on comfortable armchairs and clearly stoned. Batt was the officer in command of their little drug-dealing triad. He was the son of a Garda sergeant in Clare and his drug-dealing would escalate to dealing heroin internationally and dying a few years later from an overdose in a hotel room in Toronto. He was a speedy, dashing guy who usually sported a beret and was always plotting the next move, the next rip off. His two companions Deke and Martin were very different types. Deke was a good-time Charlie with an endless capacity for booze and dope and little going for him except a striking physiognomy and a large muscular physique. He returned to Cork in later years and became reclusive due to a large growth on his once handsome face. He too is long gone – but his was a lingering, dying fall, played out in the corners of murky suburban pubs far from his old haunts. Martin was a slim, good-looking man with very long dark hair and sensitive features. He was a gentle soul, intelligent and well-read but much riven by a destructive cynicism about life in general and any form of endeavour or aspiration. He became a heroin addict and died choking on his own vomit about 10 years later. We were motioned to one of the abundant sofas in the room, a fresh joint was rolled and we too settled back and listened to that portentous Doors album on repeat. “This is the end, beautiful friends, the end.”

Jack Donovan and Pinkey Downey’s

An edited version of this snippet appeared in the Winter edition of the Irish Arts Review.

Not long before he died in 2014 Jack Donovan was asked by a friend if he was still painting. His reply was pithy: “Of course I’m bloody painting. It’s a disease, I couldn’t stop if I wanted to.” It was a disease that Donovan passed on to many a budding artist during his inspirational sojourn as head of the Limerick School of Art from 1962 To 1978. Two of those inspired, John Shinnors and Donald Teskey, are now in the front rank of Irish contemporary art. Shinnors saw Donovan more as an exemplar than a teacher. Rather than overseeing his charges, Donovan set up his easel amongst them and led by example. “To me and my fellow students, Jack was an artist who practised his art amongst us. His self-imposed presence was unorthodox.” Nudes, clowns and a penchant for the irreverent were Donovan’s stock-in-trade. The earlier nudes often came in the form of collage using images torn from ‘girly’ magazines. In the later work, his nudes were painted, stylised, candy-store pink creations - far from erotic. There was a darker edge to his early paintings, while his later style became positively playful – even when depicting scenes from the crucifixion. Nude in Bed from Pinkey Downey Series  in Morgan O’Driscoll’s late October sale featureda large pink nude typical of his later work except for the fact that the eyes are painted realistically instead of his customary black orbs. The Pinkey Downey referred to in the title was a well-known bar in Michael Street (not far from the Hunt Museum) that also operated as a discreet brothel. Donovan and his friend the poet Desmond O’Grady were regulars there. It would be cheeky to suggest that they sampled the full range of options available in the long-closed premises. However, the hat hanging on the far side of the bed is exactly the type that Donovan favoured. This prime example of the storied Limerick artist went under the hammer at a modest €3,000.

RWC 2023 - Regrets We Have a Few

 

This current Irish team is the best I’ve ever seen since started going to rugby internationals as a schoolboy in CBC Cork back in the early 60s. Perhaps we need another world-class prop and a bit more cover in the second-row but generally we have outstanding players in most positions. With New Zealand in rebuilding mode, South Africa and France seemed our only challengers. This was an opportunity for this team of all the talents to achieve sporting immortality. That this opportunity was not taken will haunt them to their death beds. The distorted nature of the draw was a factor - it stretched our resources and depleted our energies. And maybe South Africa, with greater strength in depth, husbanded theirs better. The closeness of the four top teams is illustrated by the fact that Ireland beat SA, SA beat France, France beat NZ and NZ beat Ireland. All by small margins. But even allowing for our limited backup resources, the defeat to New Zealand was avoidable but for a series of mistakes – some of which were inspired perhaps by Joe Schmidt’s intimate knowledge of our team. Our lineout was a mess and we couldn’t rely on regular clean ball from it. We didn’t seem able to counteract the NZ contesting tactics on the fly. I think James Ryan’s absence was a major factor here. Remember his injury removal for the latter stages of Leinster’s loss to La Rochelle in the European club final turned the tide in that match. The referee Wayne Barnes is an officious little prick, full of his own importance, and had clearly been briefed on Porter’s scrummaging style. Our boys should have been aware of this and adjusted accordingly. Losing all those early scrums and line outs sucked a lot of confidence and momentum from the team. The timely intervention from Jordie Barrett when it looked a certain try for Ronan Kelleher was a real killer blow. But still we hung in there. Then Murray gave away a silly three points for obstruction when there was no danger and Sexton missed a routine penalty not long afterwards. A six-point difference that would have given us the match. Even if one of those had not happened we could have been chasing a drop goal or penalty in those last desperate minutes rather than the required try. And then the ever-reliable Doris knocks on a routine catch near the NZ twenty-two when we are gathering momentum for a final surge. Thin margins, fine lines. And suddenly it’s all over. For ever. The Roundheads won - the brute pragmatists South Africa with their scrum-based tactics and their supreme defensive excellence vanquished the Cavaliers from France, Ireland and  New Zealand. One positive note - we were saved from having to endure more of that appalling song the team seem to have adopted. I remain unconvinced of the Cranberries talents but Zombie has to be one of their direst efforts.

Recent Reads - October 2023

 

Be Mine by Richard Ford

****

This is supposed to be Ford’s last novel in the Frank Bascombe series. And it certainly has an elegiac feel to it with the ageing and infirm protagonist taking his dying son on a road trip to Mount Rushmore. Doesn’t sound like much fun but it’s Ford’s usual blend of acute observation and reflections on Middle America - and there is much humour in his rueful account of the difficult journey and the parade of characters they encounter as they traverse parts of America that rarely appear in popular fiction. Even though he’s a cranky old bollocks I would strongly recommend it.

A Thread of Violence by Mark O’Connell

*****

Probably one of the two most engrossing books I’ve read this year. It sound unpromising - revisiting the much trodden path around Malcolm MacArthur and his two brutal murders. However, it focuses less on the murders and more on the slippery MacArthur, his family background and his current post-jail circumstances. O’Connell explores his psychology and fails to reach a conclusion. MacArthur’s inability to accept his deeds as anything more than a momentary aberration and his complete absence of remorse and empathy certainly suggest sociopathy. He sees himself as above the common herd and the only motive we can ascribe to his deeds is his quaint notion that gentlemen should not be burdened with the need to work. It all makes for a riveting read. 

Prophet Song by Paul Lynch

****

My tip for this year’s Booker Prize. It’s set in the near future where an authoritarian government, complete with Stasi-type intelligence services, began to sort out their supporters from the dissidents. The resulting violence and turmoil create a very modern state of disruption and deprivation in our own Fair City and beyond. It’s told through the experiences of a particular family as they go from cosy middle-class comfort to dislocated refugees. A convincing and timely warning of how fragile our world is and how we must guard our freedoms. Lynch writes well and draws us into this highly credible dystopia. 

Bee Sting by Paul Murray

***

Another tale of the cosy certitudes of a middle-class family being smashed but this time it’s economic recession rather than a fascist government. Murray focuses on the gradual diminishing of a family’s material well-being and the consequent effect it has on the individuals in the family: mother selling her clothes on eBay, daughter hiding their alarming fall from riches from her friends etc. This is also a Booker nomination but I found it somewhat lighter and less absorbing than Lynch’s book. Mildly entertaining at best.

Old God’s Time by Sebastian Barry

**

I must confess that I’ve never really warmed to Sebastian Barry as a novelist although I remember enjoying very much his play The Steward of Christendom. Perhaps the fact that I saw the version with Donal McCann in the lead role (at The Gate) helped. There is a certain straining for effect, trying too hard for the literary flourish in his writing, that I find grating. This novel got such good reviews I thought I’d try him again - the fact that it was set down the road (in Killiney) also encouraged me. But no, it just didn’t work for me. There was a decent story in there somewhere but I found the journey to get there tiresome. I finished it but it was a struggle.

The Wager by David Grann

*****

This was the second of the two most enjoyable books I’ve read this year. But a very different sort of book to Mark O’Connell’s. This is a ripping yarn. There are few psychological musings - just a highly readable account of of the privations suffered by the shipwrecked crew of a Royal Navy ship on an inhospitable island off Cape Horn. This was the 18th Century with strict hierarchies on board ship which slowly break down as those best equipped for survival come from the lower ranks. Hints of Lord of the Flies in there and Mutiny on the Bounty. The sources for Grann’s work included the detailed diaries kept by two of the survivors - one of whom was an ancestor of the poet Byron. So we got a couple of perspectives on all the main events and loads of attendant detail. There is even the added bonus of a very surprising ending.

The Singularities by John Banville

****

Banville just can’t let Malcolm MacArthur go - this is the fourth novel in which his doppelgänger Freddie Montgomery features. As always with Banville you can luxuriate in the fine writing and the waxing and waning of the narrative is unimportant as usual. There are many sly references to characters and places from his earlier novels - even as far back as his books on the cosmologists. Those familiar with Banville will nod knowingly, but it can be enjoyed without having consumed his back catalogue. The characters are well rendered and the setting lovingly depicted. He story kind of peters out when Freddie moves into the background but we don’t read Banville for a neat conclusion. The particularly ugly cover features an irregular black sphere and when I queried Banville about it at the Dalkey Book Festival he maintained that it represented a full-stop - so maybe this is his last go at MacArthur.