We're delighted to present an extract from Skelligs Haul, a new compilation of the prose and poetry of Michael Kirby, edited by Mary Shine Thompson and published by the Lilliput Press.
Skelligs Haul is a generous compilation of Michael Kirby's prose and poetry, appealing for his simple, elegant style, his knowledge of unique local lore, and his inimitable observations. Kirby, a man who spent nearly every day of his ninety-nine years on the beautiful Iveragh peninsula, apart from a brief period in the United States, knew better than most that survival demanded persistence, passion, civility and good humour. Close to the World Heritage site of Skellig Michael, he eked out a living fishing and farming with intimate knowledge of every inch of sea and soil.
A painting is born...
Now, why did I attempt to paint a picture in the first place? Truly it came from within. Maybe a pregnancy of the mind, wanting to emulate with the crudest strokes of a brush the mountains and landscape that surround me daily. The phenomenal, ever-changing kaleidoscope of light and shade when clouds momentarily obscure the sun, instantly changing the colour of the landscape into a sequence of different hues, adds to the difficulty of the artist who aspires to imitate.
On a summer’s day can be seen the serenity and bloom of meadows and mountains in a distant dreamy, hazy, bluish shade of purple; clouds of cumuli in perfect complementary colour, all blending harmoniously into the ethereal arch of infinity. Surely the scene is composed by the divine will of some god-artist, painter of nature and of our very being. On the other side of the canvas we see the awesome power, yet terrifying grandeur, of a violent storm, in which little waves become mountainous crashing seas, venting, washing, spilling and spending a spume-blown, foaming fury on shingle beaches and rock-bound headlands. A good ship can be seen wallowing between breaking billows, her patient master anxiously guiding, tending, shepherding, and finally bringing her back from the brink of impending doom.
On reaching my seventieth birthday I finally decided to satisfy the consuming, pent-up desire to paint the beautiful scene that had confronted me since my childhood. If memory serves me right I pondered, mulled and minded what kind of materials I would need. Having decided, I murmured to my wife Peggy: 'Here goes nothing.’ Clomping out of the back door, I caught the end of her retort: ‘At this hour
of your life, it’s your prayers you should be thinking of!’
In a shed at the back of the house I kept all kinds of bric-a-brac. Faithfully awaiting me on a shelf I found some small tubes of oils that I had bought some time previously, and also several rusted tins of paint, some of which had only a few inches of thickened paint in the bottom. I suddenly imagined the ghost of Little Boy Blue standing in the attic surveying his toys, some covered with dust and rust, and the beautiful ending of the poem depicting his childhood innocence: ‘Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand, / Since he kissed them and put them there.’ Alas, I fit, not into the category of childhood innocence, but the category of ‘gone with the wind’! I found a saw and a piece of hardboard that my son was using. He obligingly cut me a rectangular piece, twenty inches by eighteen inches. I told him I was to become the new Picasso. He didn’t seem surprised, just said: ‘Why not!’
My paints, as I remember, were a motley mix of colours. I used raw linseed oil and some turpentine and a drying agent called terpene. After a long period of stirring, pouring, thinning, mixing and experimenting, at last I painted a sky of hazy, light blue-green. Not a cloud in view; I called it eggshell blue, but for the life of me I could never tell what species of bird laid that colour egg. I waited several days for my cloudless sky to dry out. Probably it suffered a hangover from my generosity with raw linseed, plus my trial and error.
Next morning I gazed longingly at the mountains beyond Ballinskelligs Bay that I knew so well: Hog’s Head and the curving hills stretching eastward and upward; to the south the majestic mountains of Beara nodding their heads with chieftain-bearing pride in the background; Deenish Island and Scariff Island westward, sheltering the entrance to the bay. I employed some makeshift tools of my own, such as a half-inch black bristle brush used for painting windows and an old steel writing pen with a wooden handle that I found effective for drawing lines. Pieces of rag and scraps of foam came into play and as I progressed I even tried using the tip of my right forefinger. This tended to lead to a somewhat messy kind of art, and so I was obliged to demote the promoted finger back to its original index position.
I painted the near hills with every colour I thought possible. To match the scene I painted in some little blotches like clouds of grey and white, and a very calm serene sea with glossy reflections. All in all, I felt pleased with my first effort. I did not receive any great recognition or encouragement from anybody, except friendly remarks such as: ‘I suppose it’s nice!’ ‘Well, I wouldn’t know really!’ and ‘Are they pictures of cows in the sky?’ This was the last straw, enough to make poor Picasso take a flying jump into the bay. Months passed. My masterpiece stood nakedly without frame, fame or recognition in a dim corner near the fireplace. My enthusiasm for future creativity in the world of painting seemed to suffer a deflective downward curve. Despite that, a fervour and an ardent flame still burned within my mind.
I confess to feeling pangs of regret on the day that Peggy and I decided that the picture had served its purpose and it was now to be consigned to its original birthplace in the shed behind the house, and to the limbo of my unfulfilled dream. On my way out to dispose of the painting, Peggy said: ‘Wait a moment, I see somebody at the front door.’ I laid the painting on the kitchen table, face upwards, before opening the door. Two men stood there, and upon inviting them inside, they told me that they were interested in information regarding Skelligs Rock and the possibility of a boat trip there. After exchanging some pleasantries and graciously thanking me, much to my surprise one of the men approached the kitchen table and, taking the picture in his hands, he asked: ‘Who painted this?’
He introduced himself as a person who held a distinction from an academy of art,
and accompanying him was a student from that school. I humbly asked for his evaluation of the work. His reply was as follows: ‘If I was asked to give an evaluation, I would have to give it full marks for colour, blending and distribution, including natural perspective of mountains.’ He then asked if anyone had given me tuition, to which question I truthfully answered in the negative. The good man advised me to study nature as it appeared to me and not depend on books. His words and generous appreciation helped to free my mind. Immediately I became part of the sea, wind and shadow of the hillside. I felt free.
Skelligs Haul (published by The Lilliput Press) is out now - find out more here.
