a portrait
There was a funeral in Gorey today of a local painter. Notorious amongst his own community, but a little less so on a national level. I doubt very much if he´s known abroad. But Ireland is a small place: it was whispered that U2 had sent a wreath and my Dad swears he saw “the fat bloke from the Commitments” in the graveyard.
So who was he? I couldn´t tell you but I do remember the time he came to our house at 4am stinking drunk to paint my father´s portrait. Roaring up the stairs, “Wake up! The muse is with me!” (We don´t lock our door in this part of the world) We were small and pyjama-ed, hiding behind mum´s nightdress. He sat on a preposterously small stool making big, downward strokes of the brush as he sang. Dad in his vest trying to look serious for the painting. He said his fingers were getting too fat to squeeze the paint from the tubes and I was persuaded to come out of hiding to assist.
The painting is a masterpiece.
