Some silliness about my home as Art:

Once upon a time, my daughter Sarah, was slated to be named Nora Noel. For some reason known only to my ex-wife she changed it at the last minute. The idea was that she didn't want her to have the initials NNÓB. "People will call her Knobs!" She said. So at the last minute she changed "our" mind and named her Sarah. It's debatable wether SÓB was a wiser choice. And no-one I know of ever accused my Ex of that malady.... Being wise that is... Bah-dump-tish!

Anyone who has looked closely at my Instagram Gallery can guess that Frederic Church has always been a big influence. He was one of my Ma's top 10. (Followed closely by Winslow Homer, Maxfield Parish and Norman Rockwell. (We debated endlessly wether Rockwell (who described himself as an Illustrator) should be included on this list as an Illustrator.) (Parish of course was quite obviously both without question.) 

I remember the first time Ma brought me to The Albany Institute Of History And Art and the first time I walked the narthex/hallway hung with what must be the largest collection of "Hudson River School" works. 

Needless to say My mother brought me to Olana several times as a kid. I was always impressed and awed. By the building and the "Viewshed." (Which is now obscured by Radio Antennas.) 

I also loved the fact that Church and his wife Isabel named their estate Olana after an ancient form of the name for "The Garden Of Eden."

In retrospect, based on what I have learned of my family history during the ensuing years Honora would have been a good choice instead of Nora. That would have made the initials HÓB instead. Of course my preference would have been for the ancient Irish spelling of Onnóra. Which would in turn result in OÓB. 

Oops! I won't even go there. Yeah, I know, you already did...

The story goes the that first Joyce legitimized himself by marrying "The Royal Princess Onnora Ó Brien" when he came to Ireland from England as a part of the Norman invasion. [Princess Onnóra Ó Brien of Thomond married Thomas dé Jorse (the first Joyce) in 1283.] 

I've also seen it spelled Onorah, Honora, and Honoria. It goes way way back in the Ó Brien clan.

My third Great Grandmother was named Honóra Flynn. Several of my distant cousins and Great Aunts from this era also carried the name. The translation for Honora or Onnóra would be "Honor" and/or "She Knows." 

I purchased this home with inheritance from my Ma. The more I think about this, my Ma, her influence on my life artistically and otherwise, this suits me. This suits me well. Honor was everything to my Mom and Dad. She watches over me still and "She knows."

Since I will obviously never have the chance again to name a child Onnóra, I have decided instead to follow suit and name my house. Some may have noticed a couple of weeks ago when I quietly changed my Instagram location to "Onnóra, Clarksville, New York."

It goes without saying that like Church my style of architecture is obviously my own. It may not be the Garden Of Eden but it's home! 

         Onnóra, Clarksville, New York.

Hey 'Ol Man!

You don't know many people in your lifetime with only one name. Elvis. Sting. Elton. Roger?

"Roger?"

"Yeah, I saw him up the Fair at the Rodeo last week. Said he saw 'The Racing Pigs.' but missed 'Joey Chittwood's Thrill Show' 'cause it were jus' too dam hot."

"Seems like he got tired of sitting with the Sheriff, took his badge and went home."

In the village of Voorheesville, New York, even Rogder's knew who you meant when you started talkin' 'bout Roger. We were his friends, and he was ours.

When my kids were little, and I was out working at my old '62 Mercury Comet in the back lot behind the Laundromat, Roger would come by and talk my ear off while I worked. In the sun. In the cold. In the rain. In the snow. One day my son was with us. I think he was five or six at the time. After we went back into the house he asked me: "Daddy, what language, does Roger speak?" You see Roger had a lisp. I'm not sure but I would guess it was the result of hearing loss. I don't know what happened, if he was born with it, or it happened to him. I guess I never asked. Didn't seem necessary, or right. 

Anyway, if you were around him you just got it eventually. And if you didn't he was patient with you. You see, he spoke English, but I must have been feeling smart ass that day and jokingly I said to my son.

"French, he speaks French!"

Roger was what we called "Special." Smarter than he let on, but now days he would have been "mainstreamed." Things might have been different. As it is he worked for an re-upholstery place, ripping off old fabric 'till the place closed down. Then he went on "The County." But he was fiercely independent and lived life on his own terms. Even The County couldn't get him to quit smoking or drinking his Pop. 

They took his Moped away for his own good when he was caught drinking and driving on it. Then he road a Ten Speed with a ten foot reflective flag off the back seat, so's you could see him the other side of the tracks at night, on his way home from The Gun Club, after he swept up at closing time. When his feet got bad and he mostly just stayed to South Main Street. Started sitting on the front porch or the bench outside the Laundromat.

"Roger? You mean "The 'Ol Cowboy" who sits out by the laundromat?"

"Sure, where's he been lately?"

"Ain't seen him around since 'got cold, must be hunkered, watchin' his Cowboy Shows."

"They sure funny."

If you're not from here, maybe you don't know what I'm talkin 'bout. Then again, this is small town America, maybe you do. See, Roge', started every conversation with: "How you?" not "Hey you!" 'Cause the first thing he always wanted to know was "How you do?" Later, he might tap you for a pack of smokes, or a bottle of pop, but by then you knew you were being tapped and you liked it. He knew everything about you, your ex-wife, your second cousin's bunion even. 

"Oh, you up late today, me no hear toilet flush 'till ten terdy, me know you off today den. Me go-home, watch my horsy shows, come back later, when you come out for paper."

One day, years later, my daughter came marching home from school and announced: "I'm taking French in school, now we will be able to talk French!"

"What ever gave you the idea I could speak French?" I replied surprised. 

"Devin says you can speak French 'cause you can talk to Roger..."

We took care of Roger. All of us. And he took care of us. All of us. If any one ever personified the physical embodiment of "Ferdinand The Bull" it were Roge. He smelled the flowers. He talked to the animals. He stopped traffic so "Swo-poke The Cat" could cross the road. He chattered at the squirrels. Scolded them when they were late crossing the phone wire, climbing down the pole to say good morning, while he greeted them from his porch chair. Then a neighbor came on, walking their new puppy and he was "Oh, I see you! Where my fren? You funny! Come'ere you, me miss you, yeah, he like me, oh you my buddy, yeah!" It's no wonder he believed in Santa all of his life!

I told Roger what had happened with my kids one day. How they thought we both could speak French. He thought it was the best! "That funny!" he said. Then he went into the Laundromat and told the next 5 people he met he could speak French. He was so proud! 

"Me'n my fren Mawk, we speak like fore-ners. Na-nah, foo-foo. Hehe! We so funny!"

I said goodbye to my friend today. He went out like a real Cowboy. With his hat, pocket watch and six shooter. With his boots on. And there is a Big Big hole in my heart; where his heart once was. A heart that sure 'nough went to "The Big County Fair In The Sky." After he stopped at the Chicken Barn to look at the Roosters. 

"They so funny! Wear silly hats."

You don't know many people in your lifetime with only one name. Elvis. Sting. Elton. Roger. Yeah, Roger!

Prayer of the dispossessed:

Saint Barrind the Ferryman pray for us

Carry us safely back to yon glass plain 

Convey us unharmed to the isle of delight

Father, embark in boat and help us return to Westland 

Transport us without risk to the island of the Promised Land of Saints

Navigate poop and prow through mist and fog

Oh ancient Saint of Ireland's Infancy we beseech you

Protect us from Traitorous Patriarchs of the Dáil with questionable authority

Deliver us we pray from those who would cause us harm and tax our water

In the name of all that is and ever shall be holy

Defend us from our own Irish greed and love of graft 

Hunt down our enemies and separate them from their balls

Give us this day our daily pint

Tell that bastard Rory to stay away from the sister Kate

And give this lowly ones Sainted Mother a big wet kiss form her boy

This we pray most fervently, in your reverent name, Amen.

Mark W. Ó Brien

02/Jan/15

 

I John 4:11 The Call!

Some 16 years ago, I first came to read the "Call To Love" contained in "1 John 4" in a Disciple Bible Study course with Gary and Betsy Bates. I have tried to live this verse daily from that day until this. Some days I almost succeed, most days I fall woefully short as I am human and prone to such humbleness.

Soon afterwards I conceived of a sculpture 12' tall illustrating verse "11: Beloved, if God so loved us, we also ought to love one another." 

Well, back then I borrowed my buddy Gary's wood clamps and began construction of a 1/3 size maquette. Somewhere, somehow, I reached a point when I felt called to put the sculpture aside as it was not time for me to complete it. 

Years have passed and it has lived in in my creative thoughts always on the periphery of my artistic consciousness. Periodically I would question in breath prayer: "Now?" 

This November when I was thinking of asking Gail to marry me I came across it in my studio and once again I asked: "Now?" 

To which I heard a resounding "Yes!"

And so at every opportunity for the past month I have been building and carving and thinking and praying this verse. 

Gail is the reason for my joy each and every day now. She personifies this verse in my life. It was only natural that I present it to her as a gift before then kneeling and asking her for her hand in life. To be called to this terribly wonderful commission is daunting. The path may not always be defined and true as it seems now, but with The Lords help I know we are up to it.

Oh yeah, Gary, you can have your clamps back now! 😉

Unfinished, from the back, without the heart. The jagged edges of the broken dowels and the ends of the crossbeams simaltianiously suggest thrones as well as rays of light. 

Close up, with Amber Shellac. I carved the soft grain away with a wire brush to create a 3-D effect all around the heart. The core Heartwood is meant to suggest the presence of the host. 

The finished 1/3 the size maquette. 😊

Saint Mary's Church, Castletownroche, Church Of Ireland.

Virtual Post Cards!

...Just up the road!

The Front Graveyard.

Looking back towards the church.

Away from the Church looking towards the old Mill in the distance.

The old Mill in the distance as a storm rolls through!

I would have loved to managed pics of the inside but it was late in the day on a Bank Holiday so... 

More posts soon!

My Poem Poster goes up in "Cheers."

Back on the 26th I posted a poem "That Sweet Weekly Agony:" on this blog. I will be reading it during my reading and here is a poster picture of the poem that will be tacked up in the "Cheers Bar" in Fermoy to advert the festival! 

This is me presenting the poster to "Conor McNulty" the head bartender! 

Way Cool! 

Raw milk and Soda bread in the morning!

Where do I begin? From the moment I arrived I've felt at home. From Gene and Margo's hospitality to the scent, and feel of things.

I spent Monday with Margo shopping in Cork City. I was spun around at first but eventually came to rest. As I looked around and listened I kept thinking: 

"There goes my brother, my sister, and he looks just like my cousin too!"

After some bank business we began in the English Market. ...and the smells! My nose had a field day! We shopped for clothes and gifts and talked and chatted until finally we stopped back to the Market for evening food. 

I had spotted raw milk the first time through so I asked Margo if she wouldn't mind my buying a bottle. It took a little bit to find the stall I was plesently surprised to meet a "Mary Walsh" the spitting image of my Ma! 

I am sitting here now in the kitchen this morning savoring raw milk and soda bread. I have come home and gone to heaven at the same time!