Tales of a Patchwork Life (eBook)

Brighid 'Biddy' McLaughlin (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2024 | 1. Auflage
320 Seiten
Mercier Press (Verlag)
978-1-78117-951-2 (ISBN)

Infos

Brighid 'Biddy' McLaughlin, the acclaimed Irish journalist and storyteller, has endured unthinkable tragedy-the murder of her beloved sister Siobhan and the devastating drowning of her husband. Yet, in the face of overwhelming grief, McLaughlin refuses to be consumed by darkness. From behind the half-door of her enchanting Dalkey cottage, in exquisite and honest prose, McLaughlin reflects upon the cherished memories evoked by the objects surrounding her, carrying the reader along on a journey of grief, resilience and hope. From the delicate Madeleine tray that whispers Siobhan's name to her own folk art illustrations that dance across the pages, McLaughlin's memoir is a testament to the resilience of the human spirit and the power of storytelling to heal even the deepest wounds. As the late John B. Keane once remarked, 'Biddy had been a storyteller all her life. In drawings, words and painting, she has captured the tales of common and not-so-common folk caught up in the maelstrom of life.'  McLaughlin's memoir celebrates the people, places, and passions that sustained her: her unconventional background, her bohemian friends, her love of art and cooking, and the solace found within the walls of her cottage. Tales of a Patchwork Life is a must-read for anyone seeking inspiration and comfort. It offers a powerful reminder of the extraordinary strength that lies within.

Brighid 'Biddy' McLaughlin is an award-winning Irish journalist known for her captivating storytelling.

Textauszug

6
Grogan’s Pub

It was April Fool’s Day 1988, when I left Dublin Public Libraries for good – without a farthing to my name. One year later, absolutely penniless, I was living in a flat in 127 South Circular Road with Paddy. Embarrassed not to be bringing in my own money, I enviously watched him leave for work every day. Paddy, looking dapper in his crisp white shirt, bright yellow polka dot tie, navy pinstriped suit and camel overcoat, would return in the late evening with hampers and goodies from some business lunch he had in the Unicorn or the Burlington Hotel. In those days business journalists were treated like kings.

In the meantime, I sat in Grogan’s Pub on South William Street devouring cheese and ham toasties and answering advertisements for jobs. As I was studying for a master’s degree in English by night in UCD, I wanted a job that was unchallenging enough to keep my brain fresh and alert for the long hours of study ahead. Even they were hard to come by. Finally, in desperation, I walked into the Pound Shop, a tacky, smelly shop on Camden Street tucked behind the fruit sellers. They were looking for staff. The man who managed it, Jamie, was straight out of an episode of Only Fools and Horses. He wore slicked back jet-black hair and a dirty grey tracksuit. ‘You can start now,’ he said.

So I did, packing boxes of Squeez orange juice and men’s half-price jocks. In terms of observation it was fascinating. Oh my God I was in my element eavesdropping on the conversations of the punters who came in, market sellers, students, hookers and alcoholics. On my first lunch break I went into Cassidy’s pub, happy as a bumblebee and ordered a ham sandwich, a gin and tonic and a slice of apple pie. Then having paid the bill I realised I had spent my first day’s wages and it was only 1:30 p.m.

After work that evening, I walked disconsolately down Aungier Street to meet Paddy in Grogan’s Pub. Grogan’s was, and is to this day, an extraordinary place. Owned by Cavan born publican and art collector, the late Tommy Smith, it attracted creatives, legal eagles, republicans, students but most of all artists. Tommy was a genuine and enthusiastic friend to artists allowing them to hang paintings on the walls of the pub without taking commission. That was unheard of, even now. He was incredibly generous to painters and sculptors, often letting them store their work in his basement that had access from the bar. And best of all you would never find a TV blaring, ever. They are banned.

As usual, I found ‘My Paddy’ as I called him, being the centre of attention in the back bar of Grogan’s, chatting with some business journalists, a lovely gentleman called Martin Fitzpatrick and Campbell Spray. Both men worked for the Sunday Independent. When Paddy informed Campbell that I was an artist, Campbell asked me to send in some illustrations which I subsequently did. And to my delight he published them in the Sunday Independent.

The pub was packed, crammed with artists. I found myself surrounded by AR Penck, Mick Mulcahy, Brian Bourke, Rory Breslin, Corbawn Walker, Liam Delaney, T.C. Murphy, who lived in Christiania in Denmark and spoke fluent Danish, Brian McMahon, Rachel Ballagh, Catherine Lamb, Johnny Duhan, Maeve O’Byrne, Kevin Liddy, Tim Morris, the Rastafarian painter, Ulli Bili and Paddy’s best friend, a lad called Conor Kenny, the nephew of the journalist, Mary Kenny. His brother Patrick, an angelic looking creature with curly black hair, was often with him. Conor was an aspiring filmmaker. I wasn’t his biggest fan. The feeling was mutual. Conor could be urbane, selfish, arrogant, bright, intelligent, cruel, sad, funny. He was also witty, and despite merciless slagging from his bar fly buddies retained a fascination for James Joyce. I could never understand what was so bad about that. Not unlike Leopold Bloom, Conor spent much of his nocturnal time pounding the pavements of Dublin forever in search of revelation and free drink. Exhausted from listening to the two of them, I retired home on my own. I was never one for late nights.

Early the following morning, I could hear footsteps padding up the stairs. It was 4 a.m. Who the hell was it? ’Twas the bould Paddy and Conor, drunk as skunks. Paddy always defended Conor like he was some sort of godlike genius. Maybe he was. But Conor could also be contemptuous, mocking my little folk-art paintings that were hanging on the wall, blasting the Dublin social scene, scoffing at journalists he had met that evening, yet bumming drinks from those same hacks.

When he sat on the sofa, already pee-eyed from booze, I knew he was there for the night, I was furious. As for Conor, he wasn’t bothered at all. He paid scant attention to my annoyance. I had an exam in UCD the next morning and grew fidgety as I tried to think of a way to get him out and home, but he stayed on. I knew the makings of a bad situation when I saw it. After several glasses of vino later, he was talking about the surrealist filmmaker Luis Bunuel’s ‘L’Age d’Or’, about ‘dissolves’ framing and ‘shot device’, Klaus Kinski, Bertolucci, his pudding stomach pushing out above the buckle of his belt. Conor’s talented nose had sniffed a sucker.

As the night progressed into morning, I subsequently took a slightly fresh view of things. I learned that Conor was as bright as a button. He was intellectually and artistically adventurous and possessed the agnostic, lofty, satiric views of a rebellious teenager. Obsessed by film, he saw Dublin as by and large Philistine, with artists sunk in passivity waiting to be handed down truths. By Conor of course.

Conor had charm and it worked. By 4 a.m., I was slavishly reheating spaghetti for him in the early hours, and the three of us were happily blitzed having drunk copious amounts of Rose D’Anjou. He was cordial and polite. I remember that he spilled pasta on his trousers and on the cover of a copy of a well-thumbed book about Tito. At 7 a.m., I emerged from my room wrecked with tiredness. Conor had rolled off the couch and began massaging cramped limbs. He clutched his chest. ‘Jesus, it’s the heart murmur,’ he said and grinned. I didn’t know he was serious about the heart murmur. He was. In the meantime I cycled to UCD to do my English exam. Delicate doesn’t begin to describe how I felt. Years later Conor died tragically of a heroin overdose in the Central Hotel, followed a few days later by his gorgeous brother Patrick. ’Twas a shocking time.

Anyhow, back to the subject of employment, remember the Pound Shop? I lasted two days. So on Paddy’s advice, I nervously attended an interview with Frances O’ Rourke, the editor of the Irish Press whose offices were on Burgh Quay. I had never worked for a newspaper. The only thing I had ever written were some horrendous, self-indulgent plays that I had the nerve to direct and produce in Temple Bar Studios before Temple Bar was famous like it is now. An extraordinary lady called Jenny Haughton had founded the studios transforming it from a disused shirt factory to artist studios and space for performances. She encouraged my dreams and offered me a space to produce the plays. She had an air of what the art critic Aidan Dunne once called ‘Utopian possibility’, about her. I remember crying in one of the old phone boxes after reading a review of one play I had written by the Irish Times. The critic rightly savaged it. ‘Ms McLaughlin’s youthful naivety is cringeworthy’. Sure I was only devastated. ’Twould hardly give you confidence to write again now would it?

The first person who consoled me was Jenny as she sat breast feeding her child in the concrete foyer of Temple Bar Studios. She always made me feel better about myself. I think she was a Quaker and to this day I don’t think I ever met a Quaker who I didn’t like. Anyhow I digress. The interview with Frances O’ Rourke seemed to go okay. She even mentioned the possibility of writing a piece on the new IMMA Gallery of Art.

Having spent time with Jenny, I tipped through the city dropping into my usual haunts. The Duke Street Gallery, owned by Hugh Charlton, was top of my list. I found wise old Hugh, like a big owl, ensconced in his chair, behind an enormous canvas surrounded by painters, Peter and Graham Knuttel, Rachel Strong and Simon MacLeod. They were all admiring Graham’s portrait, a very strange one of Patrick Collins the painter, with long extended arms, eyes that pierced through a shock of white hair, defying his one-dimensional, paralysed, cardboard body. I cannot say I liked Knuttel’s harsh paintings. I felt he was an illustrator, a fine one at that but I did love his papier mâché sculptures.

After all the artists left, I told Hugh that Frances O’Rourke suggested I might write about the opening of IMMA – if I got the job, he clutched the sleeve of my coat. ‘Go downstairs to Geraldine in the basement and ask her about writing some art catalogues for us.’

The ‘Geraldine’he was referring to was Geraldine Walsh, who ran an environmental publishing business downstairs. She was a leading conservationist and would later found the Dublin Civic Trust, an independent charitable trust dedicated to protecting and promoting the architectural heritage of Dublin. Geraldine and I gelled at once. She was and is to this day one of the smartest people I have ever met. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘we are compiling a book of interviews with artists for the RHA. Would you go and interview Patrick Pye and Markey Robinson for his forthcoming exhibition there?’

‘In fact,’ she said, ‘you just missed Markey. He’s gone to Bewley’s on...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 1.11.2024
• Zusatzinfo: Folk Art by the Author
• Verlagsort: London
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Biografien / Erfahrungsberichte
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Romane / Erzählungen
• Schlagworte: 90s • Anglo Irish Interviews • Autobiography • autobiography author • autobiography writing • Bereavement • Bohemia • Drowning • Family • famous person • Health • Inspirational • Journalist • life journey • life lessons • Life Story • memoirist • memoir writing • Murder • Nonfiction • overcoming challenges • personal experience • personal story • the nineties • True story • victim impact
• ISBN-10: 1-78117-951-4 / 1781179514
• ISBN-13: 978-1-78117-951-2 / 9781781179512