This essay was originally printed in my book In Residence, which was made to accompany my exhibition of the same name in The Dean Art Studios, Dublin. Editing assistance by Cara Spelman.
To be awarded anything is a thrill, but a studio
for a year is a real prize. A studio lets you affirm,
“I have a real job! I have a place of work!”
A studio makes you feel validated as an artist
who deserves four solid walls, central heating and
running water.
“We are excited to see where this residency takes
you”, said the email I received in May 2022 from
Kate Farnon, the studio director of the Dean
Art Studios. And it has indeed been exciting to
see where all of the resident artists have gone
with this great prize of space and time; support
and community.
I had been aware of the old, redbrick building
on Chatham Row that used to house the DIT
Conservatory ever since I was old enough to
wander around town. You would hear music
emanating from the place long before you
could see it - a few bars of an aria might waft
towards South King Street, or the call of a
trumpet could reach halfway up South William’s
Street, depending on which way the wind was
blowing. Classical music in the air gave the
surroundings a touch of glamour - it felt like there
was culture at the heart of the city, just as there
should be.
I was able to visit the building a few years ago
when I took my daughter to a violin lesson.
It was a busy place. You could hear the sounds
of different instruments drowning each other
out as you passed along the corridors. Students
rushed to classes, instruments swinging from
their shoulders, while parents sat around waiting,
scrolling on their phones.
It was strange to come back in 2022 and see the
place painted bright white, temporarily emptied
of music as a new group of artists moved into the
rooms they had been allocated.
Each resident artist or collective was given a
studio with four walls, a window and a lockable
door. My room was small and bright and looked
out onto Clarendon Row, where I could see people
rushing past two storeys below.
I filled my studio with my stuff. I piled in painter’s
tools and books, old work and new canvases, a
mirror and a radio, a computer, an easel, a bag
of rags and files full of bills and receipts. As the
summer of 2022 progressed, all the rooms became
personalised by artists of different disciplines.
Some studios were monastically spartan with
only a desk and a chair, some had plants and
wall hangings; there were comfortable ones with
sofas and shag rugs, and a few of them were
already chaotic with the detritus of hard work
everywhere. It was clear that this was a collective
that contained many different ideas at once.
Kate arranged a party for us all to introduce
ourselves. It was a little awkward at first -
describing what we did and who we were. It is
always hard to shake the feeling of having to
explain your belonging to a new group; of having
to think of accomplishments that might allow
you to plausibly sit alongside the other thinkers
and makers.
I was hugely impressed with how vivacious and
beautiful everyone was. I realised that I already
knew some of the work of these artists (the plays,
the songs, the images), but I hadn’t really thought
about how any of it was made. It is so easy to
consume art without thinking about where and
how it came about.
***
Portraiture has always been one of the starting
points of my work, but I had done very little
painting from life since before the pandemic.
When a person sits before you and allows you
to paint them, there’s a kind of adrenaline that
rises; you know they won’t sit forever, so you try
to pin them to your canvas, eyeballing them and
directing your painting hand around the contours
of what you see. I always loved the work of Alice
Neel, Paula Rego, Maggi Hambling and David
Hockney, who would each leave tangible traces
of vitality on the work they made from life.
I had been thinking about making quick paintings
from life, and at the same time I had been
considering the idea of ensemble portraiture;
I was interested in the idea that groups or
collectives are fleeting by nature and that, as
with painting from life, it is hard to capture
what that group dynamic feels like at a certain
moment in time. Groups usually represent
something, but what the group represents also
changes and dissipates over time - new people
join, others move on. In the Dean Art Studios
there is a common purpose of creativity, and
some of the artists occasionally collaborate, but
ultimately everyone is on a different trajectory
and the group cannot stay the same.
I asked if anyone would like to sit for me as part of
a project that would build a group portrait from
individual paintings. A few people were keen, and
seemed to be interested in what it might feel like
to have their likeness made; others were a little
wary, and I think they may have only agreed to
sit because they didn’t like to refuse my request.
There was also a small number of people who
didn’t want to sit or couldn’t make the time. They
might have baulked at the idea of sitting still
for three hours, or being scrutinised, or being
immortalised in a manner totally outside of their
own control. These are all valid misgivings.
I had to overcome my own shyness at having
people come through my door to sit on my chair
and look around the personal mess of my studio.
I always felt a quick flush of self-consciousness as
they entered, but I tried to affect an air of breezy
self-assurance, instructing each sitter to relax
and pick a point on the windowpane to look at
while they sat. I would usually chat a bit at the
beginning to distract the sitter from the fact that
I am looking at them - but we all know that’s a
ruse. I am aware that they are watching me too.
It is strange to work with someone else in the
room. An element of involuntary performance
creeps into the act of painting. I probably perform
decisiveness; I don’t want anyone to see me
struggle. This is not a normal social situation - we
sit for three hours, sometimes talking, sometimes
silent together. The moment of this unusual
encounter becomes painted onto the surface
of the board - each brushstroke is simultaneous
with an occasion of shared experience between
the two of us.
I work quickly, mixing colours and swivelling my
head between the growing painting and the
person before me. They usually move a lot too,
but that’s OK. I am seeing all their angles as
they shift in their seat and look around the room.
One of the group even crocheted a blanket
while she sat. It is not really possible to “pose”
for three hours. Instead of capturing a face for
a split second in time, as a photographer does,
the painter is trying to record thousands of
distinct points in time. For me, this attempt to
capture likeness and life, inevitably becomes an
empathic act.
Empathy can be tricky because, without realising
it, I may be considering how the sitter is feeling
and wondering what they are expecting to see at
the end of the process. Maybe, without meaning
to, these speculations inform how I paint. This
could be a real weakness in the work. I imagine
that a true artist should be single-minded in
their vision and their process, and yet here am I
chatting and laughing and slightly dreading the
final reveal of the painting.
As the year went on, I realised that there were
more people within these walls than I had initially
imagined. Portraits piled up in the corner of my
studio like a colourful deck of cards. I had to stop
somewhere (already people were moving on and
being replaced by new artists), so I decided to
make a final painting as a tribute to the group
members who couldn’t sit for me. I painted the
view from the chair - what they might have seen
if they had sat there. It is an interior of the studio,
showing the window, marked with Xs for them to
focus on. There’s a self-portrait in it too, because
they probably would have seen me.
Together, the paintings show a group of people,
united under one roof for a year. These artists
caused a thrum of creativity and industry to
emanate in all directions from the redbrick
building on Chatham Row again. I look forward
to seeing where each of them goes next.
Photo credit: Vera Ryklova