Another 40 Shades

Here’s another snippet from the book I’m currently working on. I’m still putting it on the computer, which makes this part of the second draft.

….

He took another hit from the bottle and jumped, startled by the sound of his father’s voice. Frank watched the old man sit at the table of his Hollywood home.

‘That’s a grand girl you have there,’ his father said. ‘That was a grand ceremony.’ He opened a lite beer. ‘Your mother would have been proud.’ He lifted the beer bottle in toast and bowed his head. ‘Hail Mary, full of Grace, fell on the floor and broke her face.’ He put the beer bottle to his lips and tilted his head back, and then spat it out almost a quickly. ‘Jesus,’ he said, ‘that’s awful watery beer.’ He turned to Frank’s wife, Carrie, sat beside him, ‘Is this what they’re drinking in Hollywood these days?’

Carrie answered without taking her eyes off Frank. He would pay for putting her in this situation. ‘We don’t keep alcohol in the house,’ she said.

‘Apparently I have a drinking problem,’ Frank said.

‘We’re not getting into this now,’ Carrie said, ‘My daughter is asleep in the next room.

The old man laughed, ‘Shure isn’t she Francie’s daughter as well.’

Frank turned smiling in triumph to his wife, but she wasn’t there. He was back in his childhood kitchen; empty beer bottles on the table around him and a locket in his hands. He opened the locket and found the teenage Francie and Mary inside. His eyes moved from picture to picture, surfing a wave of nostalgia. Again he felt the regret that he now realized had been with him most of his life. He pushed the chair back as he struggled to his feet. He took a few steps and tripped, falling to the couch. He lay there looking at the room. Maybe he wouldn’t bother getting up. No. He had to get up. His future depended on it. Mary needed him. As he stood he dropped the locket. He tried to steady himself in order to pick up the locket. He felt, more than heard, the sound of glass breaking, and looking down as he moved his foot, he saw their faces, each in its oval and covered in a network of cracks. In his drunken melancholy he imposed a deeper meaning on this and began to cry. He looked around, not recognizing the room, but with a feeling that he was playing a role. He saw the telephone and his brows knitted together because he didn’t remember it, and for a moment he wasn’t sure what it was for.

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Wind Farm

Wind Farm compressedWind Farm. (2018) This painting is now in a private collection in Moscow, and given that I also have work in collections in New York and London, I can honestly say I’m an artist with an international career, yet such a claim could also be fairly described as nonsense.  This is the first painting of mine that wasn’t sold for charity or given away. Looking at it this picture now, I’m almost sorry I sold it. As haphazard as that sky looks it took ages to get right.

Anyway, I was thinking of wind farms, these massive structures and how they are dwarfed by the landscape, and I came up with this painting.

New Poem

Children run wildI’ve decided it’s high time I started submitting to magazines, if only to find out how good or otherwise my work is. I call it poetry, but I’m not at all sure.

Anyway, I thought one last poetry post until I get published. So here it is, an untitled story of a bus journey.

Now to find a magazine…

 

My Violin

My Violin web It’s been a long time since I updated this blog. I noticed recently that my best performing pics on Instagram are the ones with a story attached, which I find ironic and slightly annoying. I joined that site because it was about photos, and I don’t really like talking about myself.

Anyway, the picture here is called My Violin, as the title suggests, it’s a painting of my violin, which I can’t play yet. My girlfriend gave me a violin for my birthday. It’s a lovely instrument and I hope to start learning to play some actual tunes by Christmas.

I made this painting for an exhibition, currently running at Blanchardstown Library here in stormy Dublin (both the weather at the moment and the political climate). That’s a story for another post. The painting is a natural progression from the previous four. I thought I was discovering my own style of Cubism, but something was nagging at me so I went searching and learned that I was really just ripping off Juan Gris. However, I like this painting and the style, so I think I’ll keep going. Maybe ten or twenty paintings down the line I’ll do something of my own.

And now, here’s a picture of my actual violin…

My Actual Violin web

 

 

Finished, maybe!

I published an earlier version of this a few posts back. I think this is finished, although now I can see some possible changes. I guess it never ends.

 

I tried many times to get it right, not even sure what right is, but this is the version I arrived at.

Church Collection

Street Performance

An acrobat leaps
On Grafton Street
Sculpting the air

Sculpting memory

Kindling dreams.

True Story

Finally she gave up, and looking at him, exasperated, she said, ‘You can’t be an actor. There has never been an actor called Fergus.’