As William Butler Yeats turns 150, an exhibition at the Hugh Lane is a little like having the poet as a tour guide
You would hardly know it was three days to Bloomsday. The middle of June in Dublin is usually infused with Joycean events and readings and articles, but this year, the face in the arts pages, banners and posters is not James Joyce but W.B. Yeats. Fair enough, though. Tuesday might be the annual celebration of Joyce’s masterwork, but today would have been Yeats’ 150th birthday.
I admit I’m not hugely knowledgeable on either. I’ve read and reread Portrait of the Artist… and Dubliners, but dipped no more than a toe in the “snotgreen… scrotumtightening sea” of Ulysses. I’m fine with the fact that I’ll die without attempting Finnegan’s Wake. The Yeats poems I know best are still the ones we studied at school – Sailing to Byzantium, September 1913 and When You are Old – and even though I loved mythology as a kid, I sometimes find his mythological and spiritualist allusions a little too cerebral for my tastes. For me, Yeats dealt more with the grandiose – with idealism and politics and nationalism – whereas Joyce was more rooted in mundane and intimate humanity, and it might be for that reason that I feel more of an affinity with Joyce’s writings.
That said, an accidental encounter with Yeats this week was a disarmingly intimate and personal one. Continue reading →
Curator of curiosity Maria Popova took an editorial turn last week to champion journalistic integrity and truth in the media
I have something of a soft spot for Maria Popova. For the past two years, her Brain Pickings blog has been a constant companion, like a ridiculously well-read friend whose smarts would put yours to shame if it weren’t for her wholehearted delight in sharing them.
That said, I have something of a tsundoku approach to her weekly Sunday newsletters, which tend to pile up in my inbox like the books on my shelf. I have been gradually clearing that backlog, and enjoying every minute of it. But I am baffled as to how, when I can’t get through all she posts in a week, she manages to find time enough not only to write it all but to read all she writes about.
Opening up Brain Pickings is to venture down the rabbit hole of curiosity. Once you’re in, you quickly discover it’s more than a hole – it’s a whole warren of wonderment you could easily get lost in and never emerge from – but at least you’d never get bored.
The first thing that struck me about Granby Park was the smell. The warm earthy aroma of woodchip and mulch is something more connected with garden centres and countryside than with the heart of a capital city. The day before Granby Park opened I went down to the site to get a take a look at how it was coming together. Behind the decorated railings, volunteers in hi-vis vests were swarming around the site making the final preparations. And the air all around the park, all up Dominick Street, was filled with that sweet, slightly musty smell. Even before Granby Park opened, it was already changing the way I sensed the city.
A while back, I wrote about a book called “Slow Dublin” by Anto Howard, a handy little guide for taking a deeper, richer approach to life in Dublin by slowing down and taking in more of the city. “Live more, fret less”, the book’s cover exhorts, and in the introduction, Howard explains his approach:
“Adopting a slow approach to life is about arousing the senses, connecting with community… and in these hard-hit times it’s about pulling together, sharing a burden, sharing a hope and learning to live with less.”
This is Granby Park, in the heart of Dublin’s north inner-city. A few weeks ago, it didn’t have a name. It didn’t have an open-air theatre or a café. There was no library or creative workshop space. There were no art installations, and no children playing here. A few weeks ago, it was just another vacant, derelict site in an area of the city with more than its fair share of vacant, derelict sites. But for the next month, this site has been given a new, creative and inspiring lease of life by the volunteer arts collective, Upstart.
I used to live around here, not too far from this corner of Parnell Street and Dominick Street Lower, in the last of the boom years. I passed the flats that used to stand on this vacant site just about every day, on my way to work, to buy groceries or just walking into town. I watched those flats be boarded up, one by one, saw the council notice about their impending demolition and the regeneration of the street. Then I moved away. First to the suburbs, then to the south side, and then to another country, and never saw what happened next. Or didn’t happen. Continue reading →