The road up to Claremorris from Liscannor flashes by the windows and with every mile, we inhabit this landscape of blurred hedgerow, jet contrails in the sunset sky, the road ahead and that odd flyover that is so like an alpine tunnel. And on into the town of Claremorris, hunched together and bustling in the evening streetlamp glow, cones of misty light forming a row down the street. Gallery! Gallery! The neon announces.
The first artwork I ever saw was a print my mother had brought from Cape Dorset in the Arctic of an Inuit mother and her two children. Its basic form was cartoon-like and it hung in a corner of our kitchen. Another lingering image was that of a boy with a satchel sitting atop some steps to his home with a sign tacked on the door saying, “please use another door” and it affected me in much the same way as had the bedtime story of the Little Match Girl. It distracted me as I learned my scales.