Up and Running.


It seemed to take too long to build my new studio.  That is because I was anxious about the cost of it all and cramped in my living space.  I was living, cooking, sleeping and working in the same space.  It was a shock to my system.  My clothes were hanging on an oar.  Someone pointed out how artistic that was.  Yes, you ought to try it. See how artistic it feels.

After two years...this Spring of 2018...I moved into my new studio. A friend had said this would up my game.  It has upped my game.

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Leaving Which of Course Implies Arriving

3rd Mar


I can clearly remember leaving Kilcreggan, waiting for the ferry to take me across the Clyde and from there to the airport to fly to Montreal.  A leaving, it certainly was, but not a permanent one.  I was leaving on a research trip to Canada and the United States to retrace the steps of all those Celts who have crossed the Atlantic to emigrate.

I have emigrated – from Ireland to Scotland.  It may not seem like a big deal – and we speak the same language after all, but Scotland is not Ireland with all that that implies, and so….I don’t really belong.

Now more than any time in recent memory the issue of migration and national identity looms large in the political arena and in the daily lives of so many in our communities who are either accommodating people from another country who are trying to fit in here, or who are trying to fit in here, having come from a different country.

My new exhibition at Art Pistol in Glasgow opens tomorrow on this theme.  This is the work I have produced in the wake of that trip across the Atlantic.

I wrote about not belonging in Scotland a wee while ago now, but it seems appropriate to quote it here.


My heart is squeezed and hard pressed

Wrung out like an old bell

That never had a clapper;

Clapped out like the rungs

Of a rotten ladder

Cause I live in Glasgow

And I don’t belong.

Although you too have

Satsumas and holly,

Mangoes and cabbage

Kumquats and those pot scourers

That don’t do and much damage as Brillo

All clamouring just the same

In Drumchapel as in Saintfield

I can’t sing the song

I don’t belong, I don’t belong

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