In December last I was ushered to the opening of an exhibition near Cork Street in London by Genieve Figgis, about whom I knew and still know little, except that she lived in Wicklow and received her degree in fine art from the Gorey School of Art.
What left an impression was less the totality of her work, than her allusion to dark narratives of history and how as an artist she inhabited the dissonance of the natural world. This was my interpretation, not hers’. There was undoubtedly, for those in attendance, an instant allure, but not for me.
Hours after the exhibition, huddled against the cold shimmying in from the rising Thames, I thought about my lack of connection with an artist from my own neck of the woods. And yet, stalking her exhibition quietly like a curious shark, I had sensed in the turbulent narrative an unspoken assimilation of a shared history
And why not: ours’ is a small island where, whether north, south, east or west, one is a slave to the same four seasons. Being islanders, though we rarely describe ourselves as thus, many in attendance at the opening of a show by Terry Dunne and Juliet Ball at The Blue Egg Gallery in Wexford in August, were born in a country at a time when Ireland gloried in its natural impregnability.
The impregnability, a legacy of political will, could also be suffocating for those with a creative and idiosyncratic bent, so when Joyce sought to forge in the smithy of his soul the uncreated conscience of his race, he went into exile, and there was a steady queue after him in the decades that followed
Recalling the Figgis exhibition, experiencing abroad an Irish artist’s take on the locus of my childhood, and whose studio I am told is surrounded by what Seamus Heaney would have described as ‘the alders dripping’, I gradually sensed an osmosis between her work and myself.
It took time, but an awakening, like the firing of clay or threading and weaving, has its own rhythm. And so, a new exhibition of work by Juliet and Terry is always an initiation into another world, where there is no turning back. There seems to be, because we share the same small turf, an enjambement between the arts, whether it is painting, sculpture, pottery, weaving and literature.
An enjambement is associated primarily with poetry, where the last sentence of a stanza connects unhesitatingly with the first line of the next. But it can also mean to encroach upon. Music filters into poetry, poetry is distilled into song, and nature is woven through the prism of personal experience, as you can see in the earthenware and tapestries in The Blue Egg.
The artist absorbs.
The imagination is a sieve.
The impulse to create is a catalyst, and the gestation commences.
It is the undefinable mystery of that chain of events which segues the artist with the viewer, which is why openings matter. Each new work has the potential of being a portal, and if you look attentively and engage the spirit level of the eye honestly, you instigate an unconscious assimilation.
And what you choose to do with that experience after you leave the gallery, is what counts. Only don’t abdicate it. As Terry Dunne says, it is just a matter of making time to observe.
I referenced enjambement earlier; poets are obsessed with the technical virtuosity of both weaving and pottery, two skills which, because of their tactility and intricate deployment of colour, provide a crucible of metaphor and simile. Terry and Juliet harvest the bounty of nature.
Ted Hughes, reflecting on Arachne’s duel with Minerva, has the weaver “feeding the cloth with colours that glowed every gradation of tints in the rainbow and where the sun shines through a shower.” These sensations are mirrored in Terry’s Autumn Falling Into Snow and Earth Energy.
It is as if the hand at the loom, fired by the patterned webs of the imagination, need to be as deft and swift and as light, as the initial source of inspiration. Terry seeks his in the colours of plants and flowers, and if you take the time to observe, if you mimic the focus and industry of the bee, you too will experience the efflorescence of the tapestry artist.
Seamus Heaney collaborated with playwrights, musicians, artists, but I think he had a specific gra for potters. It is arguable that the development of a poem apes the long view taken by the potter. He studied Sonja Landweer, and from my casual encounter with Juliet Ball’s decorative stoneware and porcelain and smoke fired vases, I can appreciate the interweave of ceramic and poetic allusions.
Heaney imagines a bridge between the buried substance used by the potter and the volcanic heat of the kiln. His couplet helped me to embrace the essence of Juliet’s brilliance, demonstrable in the ash-glazed stoneware.
“If glazes, as you say, bring down the sun
Your potter’s wheel is bringing up the earth.”
This exhibition by Terry and Juliet, the latest of many in The Blue Egg Gallery curated by Mary Gallagher, amplifies our better understanding of the ancient art of craft making. Housed in two rooms flooded by natural light, the juxtaposition of an object and its space is a metamorphosis brought about by hand guided by the eye.
Our time is transient, but engagement with tapestries made from traditional materials and work rooted in the traditions of functional pottery, can transcend the busy hourglass and leave a legacy of woven or fired beauty, undimmed in lasting radiance.