Monday, March 17, 2014

Soul Cages

"Soul Cages"



                   Back in 1995, I visited the Cork City Gaol in Ireland.  The ghosts of long gone political prisoners still lingered amid the scribblings on the walls. I captured the words of one haunting poem with my camera.  Years later, I found a place for it...
(Materials: tea bags, photography, acrylic paint, and paper)

"Bloody Sunday: 1972"



    This work is a memorial to those massacred in Londonderry, Northern Ireland. I remember finding photos of all the victims, (most no more than 17 yrs. old).  I tried to focus on each face; carefully arranging the lines and shadows that somehow would combine to represent a unique individual.   Each  life cut short by politics;  by religious ideology;  by misplaced imperialism, etc.  I thought of my son at 17 yrs. old and thought what a bloody waste...

 Materials: tea bags, charcoal, ink, acrylics and type face.








Sunday, February 23, 2014

The Numbering of Days









                                                 The Numbering of Days



From candles to capsules; a banker and a date; all contribute to a young man's fate.



The rain never stopped that September. Relentless, as the cascading pain in her gut. No mercy. This was her punishment and she was determined to ride these waves alone. As soon as it was born, she would get rid of the little parasite. St. Patrick's Cathedral: what better place to begin a life ? Once upon a time, the church had been her haven. How appropriate the babe's first gaze would be upon the rows of vigil lights casting sensuous reminders of her sin. After all, it all began with a few cheap candles in a hotel room. Hey, maybe the great Bishop Fulton Sheen himself would find the basket. But no, what future would there be for a foundling most likely to be baptized Mary or Joseph?

Perhaps this would have been a happier tale if she had stuck to her original plan. The Irving Trust Bank was a different sort of a cathedral; one built to worship the gods of money. In her fractured mind, this secular church symbolized the American Dream. At the close of day, no one noticed this small hunched figure lurking under the eave. She watched the flock of grey hats sprouting umbrellas and listened to the click clack of fancy heels as they danced between the puddles. This scene would haunt her the rest of her days. But now, she held him close; ostensibly to muffle his cries, but in reality, this would be the last moment of their life together. A life that was only 10 days old. She dared to breathe in one finale scent.

Meanwhile, on the twentieth floor, the mighty Walter Irving III, was ensconced in his private office suite. He poured his first Martini and lit his 30th Camel. He placed the newest Nat King Cole album on the turntable and took a deep sip. No need to hurry. This was his solitary time; the interlude between mogul banker and responsible husband. He likened it to the 15 seconds of silence before the deadly V-I bombs hit. Yes, the missus was becoming more and more a pain in the ass. Childless and “barren” had been the final diagnosis. Didn't she get that he had the same sense of loss ? Maybe, more so. There had to be a Walter Irving, IV. He secretly blamed her and now sought peace in his fortress of glass and steel.

As Walter gazed across the Hudson River, he caught his reflection: a hollow, plastic and grey man. Nothing remained of the Air Force captain who once downed an evil Messerschmitt . Just one more drink tonight. This one, straight -up. Who needed the pretense of an olive ? Or Vermouth for that matter. He waited for the sublime numbness to begin in his gut and find its way to his brain. “ Must be what junkies seek,” he said aloud. Not a giddy high, but rather a soft veil, like a mother's touch … “Hey, I'm a poet !”

“Maybe I'll just walk for awhile”. Was that his own voice sounding slightly slurred ? Once in the lobby, he again lingered. “Just can't face it tonight. “ He thought he heard someone answer ; startled that he's* not alone. He heard it again and then saw a package half -hidden in the foyer. It moved. A baby no bigger than his hat waved his tiny hands as if to say, “Take me.” And so he did. No thought; no weighing all of the possibilities. So unlike him. He swooped up his surprise package and hailed a cab. Just then, a crinkled piece of paper fell unto the wet sidewalk. He read, “Please take care of him because I can't.” So enrapt was he with his prize that he failed to notice the lone figure of a woman standing in the pouring rain.

And so it began. The reinvention and christening of Walter Irving IV: a name the child would grow to  
loathe. Money back then, as today, could open doors, buy silver spoons and fabricate birth certificates. The Irvings decided that he was born on September 14, 1950; the day he was found. No one, particularly Walt, would ever be the wiser. And for a time, just like the 50's, everything was nearly idyllic. As a young boy, he didn't mind the name, “Walt“, as he shared it with the great god, Disney. Like most New York boys, he idolized Joe DiMaggio and dreamt of hitting home runs in Yankee stadium.

Now, as for Walter, Sr., his hats were retired to their boxes in the closet. Pinot Grigios and Merlots gradually replaced his martini habit. He still smoked, but now it was menthol filters. He continued to trudge each day to the bank in his grey flannel suit, but he he rarely lingered past 6 p.m. Now he had a better reason to return home. Walter Irving III sought to groom the future scion of the Irving Trust Bank : Walter Irving IV. As for the wife, their relationship had mellowed, but their mutual secret grew heavier through the years. These co-conspirators stayed together as many couples did back then, “for the sake of the boy” .

The 50's flew into the 60's. The once sweet little baby who reached up to the strange man, now often turned away in rage. The boy with the silver spoon, grew his hair, stopped shaving and lived in his faded denims. The future king of the Irving Bank dynasty preferred strumming a guitar over an adding machine. His drug of choice was a joint. There were constant arguments about Viet Nam. Walt grew up watching his father riveted to the TV set whenever a World War II war film came on. Often, his old man seemed to retreat into a dark, secret place.

“Dad, I'm not going to fight in some jungle and kill innocent children and women. “
“ Really ? I risked my life for your freedom. Enlisted at 19 yrs. And what about the commies ?
“Yeah, Dad, and let's have another Hiroshima".  And so it went...on and on.

Predictably, at 19, Walt dropped out of college with dreams of joining a Hippie commune in Haight – Ashbury. Halfway to San Francisco, he found himself demonstrating at the Chicago Convention. This was the final blow. What a disgrace it was to the Irving name when his photo appeared being hauled off to jail ! Sometimes, Walter secretly regretted finding that package on that fateful September14th. But this was only a passing wish. Deep down, Walter loved him, at least more than he had anyone else in his life.

On that fateful evening of Dec 1, 1969, it was not an old John Wayne war movie nor “Mission Impossible” that gathered them in front of the television. Ironically, that night the Sitcom, “Mayberry RFD” was pre-empted by the first national draft lottery. No laughing matter. Millions of parents and sons sat anxiously to await their fate; many to receive a death sentence via their friendly television set. . All young men between 19 and 25 would be chosen randomly by their birth dates. If yours were one of the first 125 dates drawn, you would be certain to be drafted. The Irvings watched as 366 blue plastic capsules were pulled out of assorted shoe boxes and placed in a large glass bowl. Quite a rudimentary procedure for such a life altering game.

A Republican Senator, strongly resembling Richard Nixon, reached in and grabbed the first capsule. “May as well be cyanide”, said Walt.
“Oh God, what have I done ?”, thought Walter, Sr.
The blue capsule was broken.

“September fourteenth. September fourteenth is our first birth date. Number one.. I repeat, September fourteenth is number one..”

There was only stunned silence in the Irving household.

Several blocks down from Park Ave. there was another TV viewer. Her set was small and black and white. This woman strained to understand the complicated procedure, but stayed with it until she saw the date, September 4 appear on the screen. “September fourth. Number 232. “ There was a sigh of relief as the screen went to black.








Tuesday, November 26, 2013








           Hair Story







This was the summer of my nineteenth year and my first venture to Europe. Liege, Belgium was my first stop. My college roommate Michele, was born in Belgium and a close family friend, her “Tante Berte”,  was kind enough to let us stay at her tiny apartment . Lacking bathing facilities, she recommended her hair salon so that we could wash our long, “jolie” locks. We prided ourselves on being free spirited hippies, hence not a curler or hairspray had touched our virgin hair. (well perhaps an ironing session or two ) And so, it was a matter of vital importance that we learn the french phrase for, “ no teasing”. According to Tante Berte, it was, “no crepage”. .

I can still picture that Salon de Beaute. There I sat, plastic caped, continuously muttering, “No crepage, s'ils vous plait, Madame.” “No crepage”, I uttered while she set my very long hair on miniscule rollers. “No crepage”, I begged, as I viewed my very tight curls. Then, out came the metal comb and I cringed as each little ringlet was backcombed to a height I could never have imagined. My eyes were shut as I heard the hiss of hairspray. She may have been going for a Bridgette Bardot coif but the rest of me missed the mark. I ventured a peek over at Michele. Her “do” was an Audrey Hepburn french twist multiplied by 100. I don't know who would have won the height contest, as Michele's extended nearly two feet above her petite frame. I, on the other hand, sported two feet wings from each ear. When I reached to touch it, it felt like a motorcycle helmut.

As we retreated from this place of torture, I glimpsed at our reflections in a shop window. In retrospect, Michele's style was a forerunner to the “ Marge Simpson”, and mine an exaggerated, 'Georgie Girl”. Right now, I can still see us rushing down the street to hide our embarrassment. It took us ages to comb out all the knots and wash out all the hair gunk in the kitchen sink; all accompanied by fits of laughter. I don't know why this memory stayed with me all these years. There was something about that summer ; the feeling that anything was possible. Ahead of us was Paris and my first real love , but that's another Chapter...

Sunday, November 24, 2013


Arachne



She lives inside me now:
crotched beneath my surface..
poised to pounce..
poised to scrape me raw
at the least hint of a suggestion.

Teased mane; the lioness
laden with false eyes and
and painted lips: uttering
her metaphors as she
gathers her victims.
All hapless souls ; eager,
so eager to suck her youth dry


They thrive on the mock flattery
These hollow men : her slaves
as she spins the Web
around them.
All fall down.
All fall down.

Raw and gaping.
She awaits an errant word
any farfetched reminder of
your indiscretions,
misconceptions
venial and mortal sins…

She lingers; now anxious
to open my cancerous
scars…

This flesh will endure.
They  only killed my soul.


C Reilly 11/2013