Madly tap my mouse and type on my keyboard with massive expectations with what can be achieved in the next 12 hours,

 As I continue to madly tap my mouse and type on my keyboard with massive expectations with what can be achieved in the next 12 hours, 

I am secure in the knowledge that it is all ok, even if the world is turned upside down . . You'd never know the world is in turmoil if you make it to Tinahely tomorrow. In the Courthouse, all will be calm. There will be little in the way of speech making, and hopefully some time for a bit of real conversation. If you've not been to an art exhibition opening before, don't be intimidated. It's best described as a relaxed party in the afternoon.

You can ask questions like, "Why don't you paint The Sea/Boats/ Bogs /Rare Fen Habitats anymore?"

And if you either like (or don't like what you see) and are afraid of how to respond if asked, take my advice . . it's nearly always possible to comment that "It's got lots of energy". 

I've used this phrase myself, loads of times, to significant effect in the very same situation. (Thanks, John McGahern)

I suspect that some of you might be curious to know what happened to the painting I attempted to repair with the iron and only made it worse.  Thankfully, it was surplus to requirements, and the show looks great without it. I even fixed the hole by cutting the painting, and I painted over the melted wax iron-shaped marks. Now it is an even better painting than it was before, although I doubt it will ever see a frame.

I am sending this late email because as an astute 'by the nose' navigator, fearless crossing mountainy roads and bóithríns, I am not proud to say that I kept getting lost on my way to Tinahely. I have been a few times now, and my trips were beginning to develop a kind of reputational vortex akin to the Bermuda Triangle. Even last Monday, on my way down with the paintings, I was diverted around Arklow town and I knew it was really time to get a grip. I have come to the conclusion that it was my fantasy that the road should run straight to The Courthouse that caused me to overshoot the turns again and again. In my daydreamy way on the lush and winding roads, I would end up in Coolboy, Carlow or Coolattin.

And so, it is with more than a bit of embarrassment that I offer this advice: , if you intend to travel tomorrow, do keep a keen eye out all the way and use your own judgement rather than blindly following roadsigns, satnav or Google. I am not afraid to use a SatNav or a map, but as I keep getting lost, I have learned to temper my enthusiasm for blindly going where Google has gone before.

If you are driving from Dublin and the north, use the N11 as far as junction 16 Rathnew, heading for Glenealy on the R772. Avoid going via Arklow as there is really no need, and there were loads of roadworks and weird diversions. 

If you are coming from the south, Tinahely is 30 mins north of Bunclody and 40 mins north of Enniscorthy. If coming from anywhere else, I can only advise beware of false directions and crazy diversions and leave in plenty of time. There is a bus service from Arklow train station at 11.58 am if you are that way inclined. It takes 45 mins.

Whatever way you travel, if you arrive early, I understand that O'Connor's Bar, next door to the Gallery, has a carvery lunch on Sundays (if that's your thing). If it's not, the Farm Shop & Restaurant provides for everyone else, and they say that most of their food is "gluten-free and vegetarian".

 

Despite my best efforts, there is pandemonium in the studio right now. Wet paintings everywhere, half-finished, half done. I am racing to the wire with my distinctive, peculiar loping gait. 

Despite my best efforts, there is pandemonium in the studio right now. Wet paintings everywhere, half-finished, half done. I am racing to the wire with my distinctive, peculiar loping gait.  You might recall that I sincerely tried to avoid this outcome several months ago by getting frames made for paintings not yet started. I even bought bubble wrap. By now most of the paintings for the show are wrapped, labelled, and ready to be hung two weeks from Monday. But recently, I discovered that the list doesn't correspond with the pile and must be redone.  So far, so typical If it involves numbers, I get it wrong every time. So, with his generosity of spirit my Beloved is marching around with loving kindness trying to reconcile the list with the neat stack of bubble-wrapped paintings. The labels are duplicated and numerous but in their content they vary wildly. I am at pains to tell him to just "trust the numbers". Whatever about a consistent title, every painting gets a number early on. Then it gets entered into my beautiful database. Always. He can bearly contain his incredulity at the confusion I have managed to create, and neither can he contain his mirth.  I am only interrupting this tranquil scene to let you know that the date has been set for the opening reception for this show at the Courthouse Arts Centre, Tinahely Co Wicklow, on Sunday afternoon, October 16, 2022. My other big news is that I will be included (in a small way) in a TV programme on TG4 called Imeall (Edge) tomorrow night, celebrating Culture Night. The Red Shoe Film crew came here months ago, and despite my love of the cúpla focail, I couldn't cobble together a few sentences 'as Gaeilge'*. For that reason, my contribution will all be 'i mBéarla'.** I find it hard enough to be coherent in English that it was extremely challenging in Irish. I gave it my best shot, and before throwing in the towel, I talked a lot of nonsense about being out of my mind instead of what was in my mind. I probably never said truer words (in Irish or in English)

as Gaeilge. in Irish language 'i mBéarla in English language

Requiem for the Norm

 

I will soon address a conference in New York about my work in the 1980s. The conference was entitled Requiem for the Norm, and celebrated the life and work of Lorenza Böttner.   This Chilean/German artist was born in 1959, and although  her artistic career spanned just sixteen years, Böttner created hundreds of individual works, using dance, photography, street performance, drawing, and installation to celebrate the complexity of armless embodiment and gender expression. Casting herself as a ballerina, a mother, a young man with glass arms, a Greek statue, Böttner’s work is irreverent and hedonistic, filled with the artist’s joy in her own body.

 

Curated by Paul B. Preciado, the exhibition was co-produced by Württembergischer Kunstverein Stuttgart, Germany, and La Virreina Centre de la Imatge Barcelona, Spain. This touring exhibition is organized by the Art Museum at the University of Toronto, Canada, in collaboration with the producers, the Württembergischer Kunstverein Stuttgart, Germany, and La Virreina Centre de la Imatge Barcelona, Spain.

 www.leslielohman.org

26 Wooster Street

New York, NY 10013

On Heading West

 It is not yet 6am and I am typing here and trying not to spill my cup of tea. It is of course, pitch dark outside and I am doing "one last thing before I go. ." . . 

Later in the morning I will be driving off west on what I think of as my "painting retreat". In order to get away for ten days, I have been working hard but mostly, I must admit, failing to catch up.

It was not possible to do anything except focus entirely on getting to Palermo, being there and getting home again. In fact, it was all very challenging and if you have an appetite for it you can read about an account I wrote about my experience and especially about my last race for Irish Sailing magazine. It is called "You All have Someone and I have Nobody" and it's a frank account of the emotional toll stuff like this takes. Despite appearances to the contrary, living in this world without arms is not easy, (while it does make life very interesting). However, because it was written for sailors it has some terms that are frankly, very strange. The short version is that in sailing ropes are called sheets and pulling ropes is called "sheeting in".

The Medic & The Missing Punchline

 it has been a very peculiar time. There is no denying that. And it is not just the confinement and the chaos as a result of Covid. There has been a lot of banging and drilling as the work goes on and on. I have complicated matters of course, by deciding to relocate the little nook I call 'my office' where I write this, to the attic. I am in pursuit of a bit of "leg room" and a better view of The Goosefield, to the sea and beyond. After 18 months of dust and disruption, I am very nearly spun out.

But not quite.

The main purpose of this blog post is to share with you a most glorious new video, made recently by two young men, just finishing college.

Sean Hart and Bill McHugh. recorded this on a sunny day in late April. The camerawork is remarkable and beautiful, and the sound recording is just simply, outstanding. (I am at heart, an old radio head).  Even though I talk a lot of incoherent nonsense and don't finish many of my sentences, surprisingly, this doesn't take away from the video, which is a work of art.

Near the end, while telling a simple story, I leave out the punchline. Maybe the punchline is implied, and doesn't need to be said out loud, but to me it is a glaring omission (on my part . . . like the lads did not edit it out).

The story involves a medic who was asking me a load of questions, as he was puzzling how was it possible for ANYONE to accidentally cut their own big toe with a knife? In the whole time I was with him, he never looked at me once. I mean, he never looked at me in the eye. He was too busy bandaging my bleeding toe as he repeatedly asked, exactly how had I done the damage? 

In telling my story I did not mention that to cut my right foot so effortlessly, I did, of course, use my left foot. That might have caused him to glance at me, but I never said it, and he never did and he packed me off, once he had finished admiring his own handiwork.

As I walked away, I was still puzzling as to why he kept asking me the same question. Was he asking it to ascertain my level of consciousness or comprehension? I hadn't banged my head, so his repeated inquiries made no sense. 

As I hit the street and the cold November rain lashed my face, in a flash, I realised what had happened. 

He never knew.  Did I really have to spell it out? In my experience, yes, I really did, because someone that hell-bent
on figuring out the mystery of the bleeding toe, could not see what was right in front of them.

 Listening to the radio morning, about the challenges of small talk for disabled people,  I was reminded of double leg amputee Ian Stanton, who died over 20 years ago… Ian was a great singer and wrote songs and one song came to mind that goes along the lines of "How did you get to be like that then . . . was it some great tragedy?"

"I was a stuntman in Jaws Two, and I really earned my fee"

People’s thoughtless invasion of privacy and the lack of basic courtesy afforded to disabled people in the public gaze is little spoken about.  

As a disabled person, I deal a lot with people who are unskilled in the art of striking up a conversation with those perceived as “other”.  

 More often than not, when I'm answering somebody's inquisitive question about whether I paint using my feet are in my mouth, and I challenge them a little with my answer, sometimes they're embarrassed and explain that they're only asking because one of their best friends has no arms/or they know a lot of artists without arms… My next question is kinda cheeky because I've never actually met anybody who could substantiate either of those claims. The person who told me that one of her best friends had no arms couldn't name her and. As for the guy who knew "a lot of artists without limbs” could not name one of them either.

 

Anyway, the point is, I love conversation, but sometimes if it's one direction disability focussed, it can be wearing. This means that I and other disabled people like me are experts at fielding unwanted attention. What interested me in the woman's conversation today was the assumption by the people engaging in small talk that her condition was temporary that she was one of really "one of them"… really an able-bodied person with a temporary inconvenience of a crutch. 

I know the conversation would have been very different if they thought she was permanently incapacitated. I could even predict the direction the conversation would have taken in that case. 

 

.......I predict that if those engaging in small talk considered her a permanently disabled person, their opening comment would have been "You are such an inspiration!"

I think it's ironic that the most frequent opening small talk gambit by non-disabled people about disabled people (designed to compliment), is also top of the list for the most cringeworthy, unwanted small talk by those of us on the receiving end . . . disabled people in the public gaze. 

One only has to listen to Stella Young's TED Talk to appreciate the depth of this little spoken-about, truth. She argues it ought to be referred to as 'Inspiration Porn '  . . . .in fetishising difference and/or tragedy we fetishise all difference and tragedy, and feed off it to make ourselves feel better about our own lives.