The Irish Goodbye

The Irish Goodbye

I talk to my father every day. Our conversations are news reports about our day. They don’t last long. But the closing salutations take forever due to the “one more thing” and “oh, yeah, I forgot to tell you this”. My grandmother said it’s the Irish Goodbye, meaning it is an involved and lengthy ceremony based on the reluctance to part company. With that sentiment in mind, I titled this painting and its mates The Irish Goodbye. Each piece is a place in Ireland that spoke to me on a deeply personal level.

Listowel

My artist’s residency was in Listowel, a lovely town that looks like a Richard Scarry book come to life. The view from my room looked upon the popular John B Keane’s statue and an ever changing parade of villagers. Listowel is surrounded by rolling green hills, lush fields, and the River Faille. This river is the mighty heroine of many Irish plays, poems, and stories. It has a lovely park and a bridge. The daffodils were blooming the first day I ventured out that way.

Dingle

Dingle is where I stayed when I visited The Great Blasket Centre, a museum to the remote islands off the coast of the Dingle Peninsula. The Blaskets are lesser known than the Aran Island but share many similarities in the time capsule like existence of the people. The Islands were closed in 1952 at the behest of the relatives of the final inhabitants. When they left, most landing in…. the city of my birth. These Irish voyagers would live in the same neighborhoods as my great-grandparents who immigrated almost a century before. I had no idea of this connection until I sat in the viewing of the documentary at the museum. When the narrator said my hometown, I totally forgot my theater voice with a very loud “oh, my!” Then I wept for the rest of the day.

Kilgarvan

Then I traveled further south below Killarney National Park where my ancestors lived. Both sets of paternal great grandparents were neighbors in Kilgarvan. Each set out separately in the mid to late 1800’s. They were reunited and married when they settled in Massachusetts. While I was there, my lofty goal was to get a photo of me with the signpost.

We went to the cemetery where the ancestors are buried. I stood in the shell of the church where my great grandfather was christened. I had to call my father from the site. Of all the calls, this one marked my soul.

I heard that there was a store with my family name on it. The current owners are the descendants of the original grocers who started with a pushcart. They were welcoming and generously answered all my queries. They even shared a copy of the family genealogy. Still trying to see where we all intersect. Not only did I get the signpost shot but I got this one, too. The genes are strong, we must be related.

In the painting, that bright shape is the orange color Ireland uses as a symbol of brotherhood. Definitely left a piece of my heart in this place.

At the time I was painting these pieces, the movie An Irish Goodbye was winning awards and in the news. In their context, an Irish Goodbye is equivalent to our “ghosting” or leaving without saying goodbye . Maybe it is just too heartbreaking to say the word out loud.