All the world’s eyes

I would be unhappily aware of the shadow I cast,
The dark colours I pick do nothing for my stance.
I have ideas I said one night thinking that made up for the spit,
My father’s hands try stop the sea.

I would be unhappily aware of the eyes that stare,
The uneasy arrival of that man again, who he be.
Yes I wore my shoes down to get to this place, the other,
Not the side of the desk you seem keen to use, to work.

I don’t sit easy in the worn out pretend edge of things,
Don’t you collect people and make them yours, that’s still work.
My work is not saying yes to work but saying no to following. You.
The water in the eyes from laughing.

Then back to sleeping.



She’s worn down,  I always remember fresh paint in the summer but nowadays rarely does the step ladder leave the shed. Brushes got soaked again, he would smile that I hated these summer jobs, walls needed a new coat. ‘Get the silver paint out for the gate, and sand paper’ I had despise for glass paper, I’d rather stare at the rose bushes, the local team in a final up at St Pauls and any kind of sunshine would glint and pass the minutes away closer to bed time.
What would I give for one more day cleaning those steps on the ladder.
The sound of the man’s bark to hold on, not let go, the fear of heights.
The old hardshaws are long gone, like the emulsion broken like Porter pint glasses and horses buried with their gold cups.
Gone are the cute girls at mass on Sunday and school ceili on Fridays. I wish for youth but the rain and the bus come instead. Go home son sleep it off.




The gulls

Because the cathedral is further,
We don’t hear the bell fade.
Instead we have seagulls,
Who wake us early at the weekends.
People who don’t live near the sea
love this, visitors and those renting.

I couldn’t get a good photo of a seagull.


I thought about you a lot today.
More on my mind than before,
Eyes and lights, pretend tears,
You seem to be gone again.

I grew up dreaming of girls like you,
I meet the dream, the real thing slips.
From my hands and onto the bed,
Some flicker, a sunny glimpse alone

You knew all this was coming,
I let the secret out.
You knew the parts of me were seen,
Used them to get your way.


Five Missed Call Girls

Why would anyone who works late nights be in their right mind to get up at 7.30 in the morning, to go painting in a studio? Probably a friend of someone who needs to make work they promised another and hasn’t done it yet. It’s a case of panic, get into studio, do the work and get out before lunch. We’ve all been guilty of selling an idea quicker than making it. But DMC has a very early work ethic, he really does mean business this morning, Not good, I’m not used to this early startin’ with my DJ hat on but i do like the buzz from the coffee, seeing early people go about their lives beyond the rainy studio window and the smell of Montana 94’s.

I wanted to talk to him again about the missed call girls, it has been 3 years or so since i seen them first, I wondered what had happened to the idea in that time, how it had evolved and grown, maybe get the truth out of him of who they were really, and what was special about these five, maybe I’d get a free one.

The only way to do the morning justice this time was to record the sound of it and ask himself a few questions.


Little white lies.

Something happened. Over three years or so ago to help and re-acquaint myself with Dublin I did what any normal artist would do in difficult and trying times, I, lonely man started to record again. Record the feelings that maybe a place would bring back, without being nostalgic which is very cool these days [ i.e. – sitting outside Pygmalion drinking thunders of pints and at the age of 25 looking back at when it was great in Andrews lane ]

I looked around daytime and found the look of the city too busy for me, It was  that new bustle that probably adds to the separation I might have felt towards the large mix of Dubliners, it’s this that makes me grumpy, I felt i was on my own, maybe this happens to all of us but I felt singular, all of a sudden those who broke their backs bringing class and culture to the city slid sideways for a new set who believed they invented whats happening. The different cultures who live here still would be suspicious if you said hello, the suits in Leinster house further away and it was always hard to get to sleep or get a tea in a cafe at 3 in the morning. Something happened, I lost her. I lost something.


The text on photos of the city came naturally seeing black and whites of unusually favourite places down by the river or up at maggot street or O’Connell street where i would see the woman that I imagined Dublin being wandering around changing shoes or laughing loudly, a little drunk, sassy and yet rough around the edges, it was herself I missed, that funny girl, she’d just stand up and sing whenever the inclination came over her. She didn’t care, now she’s worried what people think. well that was what I thought.

Thisplace project initially started as a photographic experiment and as all that could be said was finally spoken the photographs seemed to finally shimmer, if I stared at the screen long enough they might flicker, they might move.
Imagine Dublin herself might meet the one man in the street that loved her for what she was, he got to talk to her asked her a simple question or two, Do you love me? what happened to us?

So I decided to write a script for the chance meeting, set it in a car at the city edge or in a Spar cafe on Dame street, or a fast food place, I wanted to hear what the city had to say, glamourous and rough that she is, his eyes betrayed him with the love. they’d have a coffee, stare and argue, smile and forgive. walking away but looking back “You know I love you right?” she would touch him on the arm and say “Don’t say those things” it would be tense, probably raining but he wouldn’t give in. We start shooting in a month with two good friends of mine, great actors whose read through on the first day made my hairs stand up. Anne Whyte, Mark Donaghy and Wissame Cherfi will be second camera on the day. I’ll show you when its quietly finished.

fast food place

To have that other place to go to work sometimes. it’s good to have a space for your head, not a work place although this place is a work space shared with Solus and Maser we walked in and said yes, a spot on Cork Street a difficult feeling place in Dublin I think but good windows and a big cutting table, it would be good for photographs and painting, sitting around on the computer and working things through, but its taken me a while to get used to it.
Recently though as quick as a short phone call i spoke to DMC a painter from the north who said it might be an idea to collaborate. i liked the idea of words on the idea of a photo city, but paint, that was different, how would the handwriting work outside of the organic digital, well.

IMG_9567 IMG_9562 IMG_9551IMG_9573

Don’t forget he said it’s sometimes good to go driving with someone who doesn’t talk the ear off you. Dermot brought up the idea that maybe it was good to work with someone else when you don’t like working. Fair play when it came to painting those words on, he showed me the distance, the build up. It would bleed but no matter that sat well with me, Bleeding. Hang on what about the guilt and lonerism? what about it’s me and them and never ‘us’ …that wasn’t in the script. well maybe not. There was a calm in the studio at times, maybe when brothers don’tt talk they already know what they’re saying long before the laughing, the agreement.

The feeling was the next level is to go into printed paper photographs at a larger scale, on its side, upside down, a figure, a shape of a woman, maybe herself. paint on, destroy and repaint, then finally say something, text over. It wouldn’t have to be that either, it could be anything that happened but thats being brave, sometimes you need parameters. Paint can be a flash across the sky and into the water, its the sun through the eyelids that helps you through the gate to the next part of the dream. Maybe this dream I had of sleepy eyes herself. just brilliant white. walking and saying something to make it all ok again. “will I see you tomorrow?” with her bag and coat she slides and said under her huge breath from Drumcondra to Rathmines, “Maybe”





stay calm liberty love

Still see you

Even though I’m stupidly adamant no one pays much attention, it shouldn’t matter. You should do everything for yourself and if they see it, if they care to leave more than one constructive comment then that’s some sort of good reason. It’s me, it’s me and the fake paranoia that stops it. Here it is here is the flowing, the words and the return of the sleepless. That’s okay it’ll be like we only talked last week. But we didn’t, I did all the talking and only really to myself. So even though we haven’t talked in a while I still see things that would have been good to talk about.

Had we been in touch.

The colours of love.



It’s only when you get there that the reverence for what they love hits home, the flag a simple symbol of what any country stands up for, I think of Palestine or the difference between North and South in Ireland make more sense attached to the top of a bonfire than around the shoulders of an Italian football supporter standing in the smoke of a flared stadium. The flag of America is different. I was in Philadelphia to see balloons and flags, It makes me happy to take photos of balloons and flags, I don’t know why, I just think they’re striking and represent so much fake happiness and do such a job in convincing people that much of this happiness exists but it actually doesn’t, well it does but momentarily, sort of in a flash.

The balloon with such herald and promise, if it doesn’t have helium or that silver glaze seems to be actually the opposite of delirium and more realistically whispers “Here listen, what you thought was discounted inside is full price” so although nostalgic and floating away into a sky day with some child weeping sadly, it’s all talk and no walk with balloons I feel.

Although being wary of comparing flags and balloons, flags are much laden down, history and blood in most cases hard to ignore they have such meaning, the colours they pick stand alone and say so much more about why a country, especially America, exists. What happened in the process of that journey to existence? a flag seems to ask for reverence. I see a flag in America and well up, odd seeing as I’m Irish and will never probably gain residency in the states [I’d love to be an Ice Road Trucker though] so to see a flag in America is like the highest reminder that you’re in a place that fought tooth and nail to get those stars and stripes and also the freedom to buy fast food at regular intervals co-incidentally where they display numerous balloons. The flag does so much Balloons say so much too but theres an anti climax – Sorry but It’s balloons or flags for me these cold walking days. What else is there?



Fall down fall down around
Pick up pick up the sound
At last Its found you down
Won’t turn until aloud.

My blind my eye can cry
Which day burns truth and lies
For time and bind again
It’s me and you the ties.