The photograph above is of a very large trunk of a living pine tree in the park near my house. There is a big gash in it and I don’t know what caused it, but it is very dramatic and every time I go by I must stop to admire it.

From the very first time I set my eyes on it I saw petrified lava rather than wood and the colours reminded me of the rocks and minerals I saw on Mount Etna a few years ago after an eruption.

My Muse (see November 26, 2011 entry) repeatedly asked me to paint this image and eventually I gave in. The description of the act of painting that picture has ended up as part of a chapter in my new book Rua.

‘She started to paint slowly and carefully as if trying to reconnect with a flow that was interrupted when the knock came on the door. Then with a steady increase of movements she entered a rhythm and painted with great energy. She applied the oils thick and fast with a hard brush and, using the other end of it, she dragged it through the colour scratching the surface with wavy marks.

After a while she took a tube of red paint and squeezed the colour directly onto the canvas and spread and smoothed the colour with her fingers, relishing the silky feel of the paint.

All the time she was thinking about the visit, the day before, to the Red island,  the hard climb up to the crater, the smell, the rumbles, the scarse vegetation but, most of all, the heat and the colours of the scorched hearth.

Rua worked without a break for a few hours feeling that she was obeying an inner urge directed by something or someone else.

When the impulse was exhausted she laid down the brushes and went outside on the terrace. There she collapsed on the tiled bench that stretched between two of the pillars that held up the pergola and sat for a while looking out at sea and at the approaching sunset. Then she half reclined her body, resting her head in her arms and laid there with her eyes closed.’

Mullaghmore, The Burren, Co. Clare

The small sign “HOLY WELL” is situated beside a gate just a few yards from the well itself and no other directions are to be found in the area. I stumbled on it a few years ago when I was out walking with friends but now is part of a walk sign posted “Lough Avalla Farm Loop” near Mullaghmore in the Burren.

The best time to visit is after abundant rain and as you approach the spring you are greeted by a musical symphony of water cascading in a chamber hidden inside the rocks. Further down the water appears into the open to join a stream that goes meandering through the wood.

At this spot somebody has recently left a holy image with a medal while, hooked on a straight branch of hazel, Harry the keeper of the place, has hung two glass mugs so that visitors can drink from the well in style.

The water of the well is said to cure diabetes provided you drink it in situ over six consecutive days.

Harry, the Dutch farmer who manages the land at Lough Avalla tends the place with great care and welcomes people provided they respect the place with the same reverence that he does.

You are likely to meet him clearing paths, fixing fences or checking on the the cattle. He’s always ready for a chat and has an extensive knowledge of the area as well as some original and interesting theories on the “Fulacht Fiadh” the ancient Irish cooking or bathing pits.

The secluded well and its surroundings are so beautiful that I’ m drawn back to it regularly and spend much time wandering in the wood and along the stream. I feel my way through the branches and by trunks that are wrapped around by wonderful sleeves of thickly knitted moss.

The older trees have grown into gnarled and contorted shapes that spiral around each other creating a truly magical setting.

Over time during my repeated visits the desire to paint or draw the place grew stronger. Often I would sit at my favorite spot just looking at the trees and listening to the water.

When I felt that I “knew” the place well enough I brought with me a board, paper, soft pastels and a flask of tea. I sat on a mossy rock and worked steadily and undisturbed until the drawing was finished.

All along my mind was calmly  focused on lines, forms and textures as I tried to capture the atmosphere and render the myriad of greens illuminated by the sunlight shining through the wood.

Only when the picture was completed I allowed myself  a cup of tea and sat there comparing my work with the original subject and feeling happy with what I had done.

The picture now hangs in my house and is a lovely reminder of a magical afternoon spent in the woods.

"At the Well" by Jole Bortoli

Volcanoland by Jole Bortoli

Stories from Volcanoland

I can’t recall when my love for volcanoes started but I clearly remember my first visit to Mount Etna in Sicily. There had been an eruption a couple of months earlier which I had followed on television. I had been mesmerized by the images of a river of red hot lava that was slowly but relentlessly swallowing everything on its path.

By the time I visited Etna the river was a large petrified black scar cutting through green vineyards and brushing past farmers’ huts. I stood there looking at the incredible contrast of colours and forms, at the regularity of man-made rows of vines against the unpredictable chaotic forcefulness of nature.

With my friends we drove up to as near to the crater as it was allowed and for a moment we thought of climbing up, but we were soon stopped in our tracks by a deep rumble that shook the earth under our feet.

My reaction wasn’t so much of fear, since my friend who lived locally had told us that the rumbles were a normal occurrence, but the fact is that I had never experience such an overwhelming feeling of reverence and awe. I was acutely aware of being in a place of some magnitude and mystery produced by that which is grand, sublime and extremely powerful. It was unsettling and thrilling at the same time.

I reckon my love must have increased gradually. I started to look for artwork that depicted volcanoes in different stages of eruptions. I travelled to Naples where in dusty small shops I searched for prints and watercolours, leafing through dozens of folders. I bought some and brought them home to have them ready when the time to paint and draw would come.

Further visits to the volcanic islands north of Sicily where also interspersed by the reading of books and articles. From my shelves I took out  ”The Volcano Lover”, a historical novel by Susan Sontag and read it a second time.

The main character, the “volcano lover” is Sir William Hamilton, the British diplomat and antiquary envoy to the court of the egregious Bourbon monarch Ferdinand IV of Naples from 1764 to 1800.

Sir William Hamilton had two grand passions, the first was the collection of art and artefacts, the second was volcanoes, and in particular Mount Vesuvius which he could see and closely observe from his house. Hamilton is thought to have climbed Mount Vesuvius more than 65 times and sponsored documentation of the volcano daily activity from 1779 to 1794.

Detail from plate IX interior view of the crater of Mount Vesuvius, as it was before the great eruption of 1767

Hamilton employed the Anglo-Neapolitan artist Peter Fabris to create sketches in situ to document the work. These were then reproduced in prints that were hand coloured individually by local artists by the application of gouache. The work was published in 1776 as Campi Phlegraei: observations on the volcanoes of the two Sicilies.

Plate VI view of the great eruption of Vesuvius from the mole of Naples in the night of the 20th of October 1767

The outstanding illustrations showed the eruptions from different vantage points and depicted various rock samples.

Plate LIV Gems and marbles from Mount Vesuvius

I too have a small collection of volcanic rocks: obsidian, pumice, lava and sulphur crystals and recently I have started a still life oil painting which is going to be part of my new illustrated book.

While painting the rocks I constantly refer back to Hamilton’s prints pinned on the wall, wanting to be as precise as possible, almost scientific, resisting the temptation to slip into a more free interpretation of the objects.

I thought I would never have the patience for such a slow, detailed type of work but I found that I like it very much and gives me the time I need to let the story come through effortlessly.

Preparing the right visual aid and content for the introduction to the work is crucial. I can spend hours and days researching for it and, if I am particularly interested in the subject I just get into the task aware that no matter how much time I spend in it it’s never wasted. This is my ‘learning time’ and I love it.

The research takes diverse forms. It can involve physical endeavors like jumping over stone walls and crossing muddy fields while looking for unmarked ruins to photograph or a more academic approach of reading, writing and net-surfing.

The beauty is that I often come across some true gems. The latest one I found one day as I was looking for examples of artistic projects that would cross poetry, visual art and music. Since I could not find a satisfactory one I decided to take a break and watch some interesting talks on TED. (http://www.ted.com/talks)

From the available list I chose the ‘Rated Beautiful’ and from that I clicked on http://www.ted.com/talks/natalie_merchant_sings_old_poems_to_life.html and there was exactly what I was looking for!

Natalie Merchant is an American singer-songwriter and musician about whom I knew very little prior to finding her on TED, but now I have become a fan specially after a friend surprised me a few days ago by giving me Merchant’s CD of poetry in music Leave Your Sleep.

Everything about this CD is beautiful: the packaging, the design, the accompanying booklet and of course the music.

The album is a brilliant adaptation of near-forgotten 19th- and 20th-century British and American children’s poetry which includes poets like Rachel Field, Robert Graves, Christina Rossetti and a little-known genius like Brooklyn poet Nathalia Crane, who published her first book in 1927 at the age of ten.

Nathalia Clara Ruth Crane (1913 - 1998)

What started Merchant in this great project were the ‘conversations’ with her daughter during the first six years of her life by resurrecting word-of-mouth tradition in the stories, poems, and songs. ‘I pulled these obscure and eccentric poems off their flat, yellowed pages and brought them to life for her.’

Reading this I no longer feel so guilty about spending inordinate amount of time lost in my searchings, and in fact, if anything is reassuring me of the importance of loving what you do in the moment you are doing it.

Holy Well on the R476 between Corofin and Kilnaboy, Co. Clare, Ireland

My fascination with Irish holy wells continues. I guess that I am strongly attracted by them because they are often situated in special places, are generally not sign posted and therefore very elusive even when found along busy roads, like the one photographed above.

At the moment I am tracking the ones in the geographical area known as the Burren, from the Gaelic word Boireann, a magnificent  place of limestone rock covering, majestic hills, and tranquil valleys full of streams, rivers and lakes.

The Burren, County Clare

This is a place where the ever-changing light plays beautifully on rocks, water and fields creating a sense of suspension and magic. The presence of numerous megalithic tombs, dolmens and early christian churches underlines the importance that such a place had for the spirituality of early civilizations.

‘One of the features of Irish Celtic cosmogeny is the power of place. This, to an earth-centered religion (i.e. goddess as opposed to the god in the sky), means that certain places possess power that is curative and regenerative. This power of place in Ireland is an essential element of the sacredness of the holy well.
Many myths surround the sacred springs or holy wells, including the theme of erotic love, intoxication as wisdom, the location of such springs as being in the Otherworld, which can mean both the land of the dead as well as the land of eternal youth. The Otherworld is perceived to be a source of power and of wisdom and is thought to be located under the earth, hidden in a mound, beneath the sea, in the far west, on a plain hidden in a mist. These elements can be found in the Fianna Cycle, the Brown Bull of Cooley, Niall and the Hag at the Well among others. Always, the emphasis among the Celtic peoples (earth-centered culture) was of cyclic regeneration rather than the linear movement or evolution of the historical culture. Even today, the “rounds” made at various of these holy wells has tradition rooted in antiquity.’  Suzanne Barrett

The holy well on the R476 is dedicated to the Virgin Mary who’s statue stands behind glass in a brand new white painted shrine. A bunch of  plastic flowers is tied around the trunk of a tree.

The new shrine

At the foot of the tree there is the round well surmounted by slabs of stone to form a protective roof. To look inside the well you have to kneel and in doing so you notice that, where the roof rests on the well’s wall many pieces of papers with prayers printed on it are wedged in.

After your eyes adjust to the dark you also see that a little statue of the Virgin is resting on the wall. The water in the well is pure and clear.

Inside the well

The well and the tree stand in a green area surrounded by a low wall and it is in one corner at the base of the wall, that I find the discarded old shrine. It is shaped like a little house with no door and the back wall is painted like a sky; a small Brigit’s cross is nailed on it. Although the roof and the side are protected by sheets of metal, the bottom is rotten. Whoever is taking care of the place  is doing a good job in replacing the old with the new.

Yet I am very taken by the old wooden shrine. Like all abandoned objects or ruins they retain a special aura that the weathered effects of faded paint, mould and moss makes beautiful.

So I lift the box  and I know that I want to take it home, restore it, touch it up and give it a new life. I look around to see if somebody is around to ask for permission to take it but nobody is in the fields or on the road, only fast passing cars.

I decide to take it anyway and deal with the permission later on. I know people from the area I can enquire with. I put the box in the car and drive home. I put it in the shed to dry up and start thinking how to work with it during the Winter days and get it ready for Spring.

P.S. As I was looking up on Wikipedia for the origin of the name Shrine (Latin: scrinium ”case or chest”) I came across this beautiful painting by J.W. Waterhouse.

'The Shrine' by J. W. Waterhouse

They say that with a new story you should have a rough idea of a start, a middle and an end, but I don’t like that, I much prefer to start off, sit back and see what happens.

My stories tend to start with images that don’t follow a particular style or technique. When the book is completed you are likely to have a mix of pencil drawings, oil paintings and watercolours in various styles that reflect the mood of a passage or a particular setting.

The words tend to come a bit later and I might spend some time only writing then I go back on to the images and so on… weaving in and out like a colourful tapestry that slowly evolves from and with me on a journey  of discovery.

What I like about new stories is to start the process somehow and then step aside and hand over the creative journey to my muse, The Creature of the Land, my guiding principle.

Let me introduce you to her. Here she is.

The Creature of the Land

She first came through when I started working on IRIA and initially I thought that she would be one of the characters. I tried to give her a name and a place in the story but it became clear that she didn’t belong in it. I kept her in the same folder with all the other drawings and paintings as I strongly believed that eventually she would let me know where she wanted to feature and kept working on the image, slowly adding details while looking straight into her eyes waiting for directions.

When the book was ready to go to print, my creature of the land wasn’t featuring anywhere in the story and I felt guilty. I looked at her in the empty folder while the rest of the images where away being framed and apologized half promising that she’ll be in the next book.

Now that the new story has started I already know that she doesn’t belong there either because, in a surprising twist of events, she’s managed to let me know that she’s here just to walk with me a few steps ahead and asked if I would go with her, please, to the many places she has put on her map.

So we are off now to far away lands from where we’ll report shortly.

I am very excited about the appointment of Michael D. and thankful to the Irish people for electing him. Nothing pleases me more than having a poet as a president, a man of the ‘mind and heart’ and whose unique vocabulary repeatedly includes words and sentences like “the flowering of creativity in all its forms”, “celebrate all possibilities”, “being young in Ireland” and “Ireland as a seabed of creativity and expression”.

I feel that the future is a bit rosier, and not only for the Arts, and that the ‘transformation’ the president is repeatedly talking about is possible. In other words I feel I am in the right country and happy to stay while making my humble contribution. (I am not talking only about paying my taxes).

During the electoral campaign I retrieved from my shelves a book of poetry by Michael D. titled ‘The Season of Fire’ with powerful black and white illustrations by Mick Mulcahy. Back in 1993 when this book was being published I was a graphic designer and in our company, the Graphiconies, we used to design many book covers. So my claim to fame now is that I got to design a book cover for the President of Ireland and my copy is now resting on my coffee table. It will be for at least the next seven years.

I never got a chance to ask Michael D. to sign the copy for me but you never know, one day I might cycle up to Áras an Uachtaráin with my picnic basket full of words and ask the president to come out and share a sandwich of them with me sitting on his rug on the grass.

See below my favourite poem from ‘The Picnic’ from ‘The Season of Fire’.

The Season of Fire, a book of poetry by Michael D. Higgins

The Picnic

I have taken my basket of language

to a quiet place.

I stretch out my rug

on the grass

I remember

as a child.

I note,

even in their disorder,

how well they’ve travelled

in their sealed containers,

my words.

Looking at their variety,

as a cloud passes,

I remember

I’ve savoured them all before.

As I contemplate

the meaning

of “al fresco”

the clouds close in

and I remember

I am not hungry

anymore.

That hunger from another season

of the senses

was a fantasy

destroyed

by effort

at re-creation.

A view of Urbino

Art to Heart’s next summer course will take place in Raffaello’s land, the beautiful Pesaro province in the Marche region.

The art programme will be inspired by a gentle landscape of rolling hills dotted with medieval walled villages, rock castles and the magnificent  Renaissance town of Urbino.

In Urbino, a long time ago, I spent three wonderful years as an art student (see the blog “The School of the Book’ below posted May 4, 2010) and after I graduated I had desperately wanted to stay and work there. To me Urbino represented Beauty and Art; its breathtaking
architecture and the surrounding landscape of green hills and distant blue mountains always felt strangely familiar although I am not from that region.

As a student I lived in accommodation with frescos on the ceilings and the art college I attended was housed in the Duke’s palace where many Renaissance masterpieces where displayed. One of my favorite painting was the Portrait of a Young Woman, also known as La Muta (the silent one) by Raphael.

I loved the fine precision of its execution and the modesty and elegance of the figure.

Portrait of a Young Woman by Raphael

When walking through those rooms I was acutely aware that some of those masters had been there and that I was walking in their footsteps. I loved history of art and I was living it!

At weekends with my fellows students we would go inland in search of hidden treasures. The Apennines were just one hour drive and once over the mountains we would be in Tuscany or Umbria. During one of those trips in a small cemetery chapel, placed over the high altar we admired the famous Madonna del Parto by Piero della Francesca, right there in the middle of nowhere! In 1992 it was moved to the Museo della Madonna del Parto in Monterchi, Tuscany.

Madonna del Parto by Piero della Francesca

I never found any work in Urbino and so I moved to Pesaro where I opened a graphic design studio with another two partners. Pesaro is a seaside town on the Adriatic coast, a family-friendly holiday resort with wide beaches that stretch between two hills. In Pesaro everybody moves around on bicycles.

Piazza del Popolo, Pesaro

In all I have lived in the region for fifteen years and during that time I roamed the area in my beautiful red Renault 4 visiting every valley, rock, castle, church, hill and mountain until I decided to move to Ireland! The rest is history.

by Jole Bortoli

Meanwhile friends are sending me images of many Virgin Marys. From Italy I received photos of paintings from small country churches and shrines at crossroads. A week ago the postman delivered a book a cousin sent me; it tells the history of my mother’s village  up in the Alps where as a child, I spent all my summers. Flicking through it I came upon the photograph of a fresco painted on the exterior wall of one of the old houses bringing back memories and a sense of longing. I remember how I used to admire those simple paintings that dotted the village, the only examples of Art in a place where otherwise Crafts (wood carving, weaving and basket making of high standard) reigned supreme.

A Spanish friend has promised to document the traditions of her native village that involves hosting statues of Madonnas in people’s homes and of passing them around after a certain time has elapsed.

I have taken a very interesting course on the Sacred Feminine in Irish tradition meanwhile, back in County Clare, I keep my eyes open for new signs. This is how recently, as I was driving on the R460 Corofin to Gort road  for the millionth time, something white amongst the green vegetation caught my attention. I parked the car, took the camera and walked back to the spot where a small shrine that I have never noticed before, hung on the bushes at the side of the road.

This shrine was peculiar insofar as it contained not one but a multitude of small statues: six Madonnas, two crucifixes, one Sacred Heart, one Mother Teresa and one St. Brigid. It was obvious that it had been hanging there for a long time but had been only recently painted therefore becoming more visible.

After taking a couple of pictures I started to walk back to the car wondering about the presence of the shrine at that particular spot when I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, something shining on the ground at the other side the bushes’ edge. I removed the pallet that stood at the gap and entered a small area sheltered by trees and, there in the ground a plastic laminated image of a bizantine-style Madonna marked the presence of a well surrounded by rocks, moss, ivy and ferns. On the left hand side, nestled amongst the stones, stood a small blue and white statue.

The place was beautiful, peaceful and serene; a little oasis on the side of a relatively busy road.

I know of a few of these wells around the area and promised myself to revisit and document them. I am also interested in finding out who makes, maintains and look after them, who visits and leave signs,continuing an old undying tradition that goes back to more pagan times of respect for the sacredness of the Land and the power of Place.

The summer is over but not forgotten, though usually by this time of the year it is nothing but a faint memory. As I write, the summer is still very much present and alive.

A few other friends I have spoken to in recent days have shared the same opinion, they too having had an ‘intense time’.

In my case it involved reviewing my position in relation to my own roots and culture.

The first Art to Heart course in Italy has taken place and the general consensus seems to be that it was a success.

On the first day I had invited the participants to ‘open up all the senses’ and to experience the week in its many different manifestations.

This they did splendidly considering that there was no shortage of challenges, which were dealt with a great sense of humour, aware that ‘When in Rome…’

What I was unprepared for was the effect that the week would have on myself, and the shift that it demanded on my usual way of viewing my country.

Like many people who have chosen to emigrate, going back home for holidays can be an ordeal. It implies a mixture of contrasting emotions that span from love to hate, longing and irritation that make you declare that you’ll definitely go somewhere else next year.

Strangely this summer, by the end of that week, a profound internal transformation had taken place to the extent that the relationship with my native country had shifted dramatically.

The act of having to ‘facilitate’ the indigenous art and culture for others and to witness their response in words and pictures caused many strong emotions.

In inviting the Irish to ‘open up the senses’ I allowed myself the same experience and for the first time, free of judgement.

I saw my country for what it was, warts and all, and loved it.

Back in Ireland I debated these feelings with other people who are living a similar experience, namely wishing that we would stop wanting to be here when we are there and vice versa.

We agreed that many elements connected to the senses constantly weave in and out driving us to compare and criticise; the weather, followed by food, customs and attitudes.

We discussed what it means ‘to belong to’ or ‘feel at home’; how much of your native culture you feel you can import and share and how much of the new one you are prepared to embrace.

Perhaps our times demand that we learn to be at ease wherever we are, either for a day or for years, aware that we share much more than divides us. Myths, legends, stories and symbols look much the same the world over, we just express them differently, variety being the spice of life.