Nicholas Mackey

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I write. I take photos. Go figure.

The Butterfly of Memory

An extract from my diary of 12th October 2018:

Today, a white butterfly caught my eye as it flew briefly through the tiny garden of our ground-floor flat and as the wee airborne insect fluttered about, I was reminded of an event of many years ago.

It was 1970 and I had just exited the family home in Fitzwilliam Place in Dublin heading towards the city centre. I was on my own and the weather was fine. I remember passing Fitzwilliam Square, an urban haven of greenery, trees and harmony, and as I did so, a white butterfly suddenly landed on my left shoulder. Whilst not breaking my stride, I glanced at this beautiful presence expecting it to fly away at any moment but my impudent yet fine-looking visitor seemed very much at ease on this mobile resting place. 

As a 15-year old boy, I was truly fascinated at what had happened and I did eventually slow down and stopped in my tracks as I couldn't take my eyes off this marvellous interloper still calmly seated on my shoulder. I noticed the outline of its translucent white wings varying in whiteness, its exquisitely-thin body and the two small antennae gently moving to and fro. To and fro. I walked on and I recall an upsurge of happiness inside me as I pondered on why this delicate, tiny creature of the air with gossamer-like wings had chosen me as a new friend; someone to trust.

I wondered if this was an omen of some sort: was I good person or perhaps I might not be a good person and this butterfly was sent as a warning so that I might mend my ways and banish any evil tendencies lurking in my soul. Would I lead a long and happy life, I mused, or would some other pathway be mine? 

My miraculous butterfly remained with me for ages and I felt emboldened with its presence as I left Fitzwilliam Square far behind me. In a way that I couldn't explain, I felt a connection with this new-found companion. I felt happy. Happy.

Then, with a sense of drama to match its exciting arrival, all of a sudden my friendly butterfly flew away and as it faded from my vision, I felt a twinge of sadness that I had lost someone close. I was alone again.

Perhaps, the white butterfly of today just spotted in my compact urban garden was a reincarnation of that Irish winged friend all those years ago. 

 

Recent Comments
Ken Hartke
Nice memory -- wondrous things happen if we pay attention.
Tuesday, 06 November 2018 06:43
Nicholas Mackey
Hi Ken, Thank you for reading and commenting. I'm always amazed at how such memories lie buried for years and then something by c... Read More
Sunday, 11 November 2018 12:25
Rosy Cole
By some quirk of coincidence, I was thinking about this kind of synchronicity the day you posted this lovely piece. Having spent m... Read More
Monday, 12 November 2018 18:26
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6 Comments

An Irish Photographer at the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition

 

At the time of the 2010 Royal Academy Summer Exhibition in London, I wrote the following:  

It was an anxiously-awaited letter from a certain auspicious institution that stopped me in my tracks late that Friday morning. I ripped it open with suitable theatrical disdain. It dramatically announced that ‘with over 10,000 entries, the competition was extremely strong’, yes, yes I thought, get on with it, ‘however I am delighted to inform you that your work..........’ the rest of the missive faded away momentarily from view as I tried to take in the magic of what had been written by my correspondent, Sir Nicholas Grimshaw CBE and President of the Royal Academy. I could not believe that a photograph of mine had ‘been selected and hung in the exhibition’ – the Summer Exhibition no less at Burlington House.

I was a newbie to all this (on my second attempt) but I was determined to enjoy every moment of it and my wife has observed on several occasions that I have been floating on Cloud 9 since then. Enclosed with the letter was what my father many years ago used to call a ‘stiffy’ – an embossed invitation to the quixotically-named Non-Members’ Varnishing Day.

The big day arrived and thankfully a gorgeous summer’s morn beckoned. I journeyed up on the train turning up a little too early at the exalted address in Piccadilly with the unholy zeal of someone who is a reformed latecomer. Only the exhibiting artists are invited – not even significant others are permitted and I find myself surrounded by arty types presumably and larger than life figures standing on plinths disporting themselves in striking poses in the courtyard outside. Since I lead such an inconsequential existence in rural south-east England, I do not recognise a soul but even I begin to take the hint when I see largish medals worn demonstrably by various women and men; that’s what an Academician must be then, I surmise simultaneously discerning the remarkable sculptures of the late Barry Flanagan.

It feels like my first day at school with attendant ‘butterflies’ but many others greet each other warmly as long lost friends and display the insouciance of being on familiar territory. A carnival atmosphere is palpable as a steel band is playing and a television crew is going through its paces with smiling media personality, Andrew Graham-Dixon in full flow to camera. While waiting I strike up a conversation with Austin Ruddy, a Yorkshire-based artist (with Irish roots, he proclaimed) and who has been here before. He seems so cool and relaxed, detached even. As I normally have a camera with me, I snap away.

We are then gently called to order and led by the ‘great and the good’ of the RA world to an age-old ceremonial of thanksgiving. This is a brief moment where a main London thoroughfare, Piccadilly falls silent for artists as we march proudly to St. James’s Church nearby. The tone for the service and also for the Summer Exhibition is set with an uplifting but warm atmosphere bolstered by a gentle reading from Sir Nicholas as above, some superb choral music and a riveting sermon from Professor Tina Beattie of Roehampton University who forcefully says that art has direct relevance for us today quoting the poignant account of an ill-timed delivery of lipstick to a Nazi concentration camp at the moment of its liberation by the Allies in 1945 and how the former inmates then used this item of make-up to strike an artistic blow against the depravity of their inhuman surroundings. Not one for emotional display, even I felt moved and dare I say it, tearful, at this point.

After the service, we all trooped back to the Academy for champagne plus canapés and naturally to see our own work on display. For the record, my photograph with an Irish theme, Four Courts Dublin was eventually located by a member of the Academy staff in the Porter Gallery (Room X) near to the exit high up on the wall. While milling around in one of the galleries where mutual congratulations are being exchanged, the sound of a bell is heard and someone says that a speech is being given. We make a move to the Central Hall where the President of the Royal Academy, Sir Nicholas himself was discoursing on the high number of entrants to the Exhibition and the challenge of choosing the final successful supplicants with this year’s focus on ‘raw’ in mind. Sir Nicholas then introduced a coterie of fellow Academicians who went on to make a number of awards to the winners of various creative categories.

I bump into Austin again and as he recalls I have a camera, he requests that I take a picture of his painting in the Small Weston Room. ‘No problem’, I say but as it is quite high up, getting a decent angle on it would be a dilemma. Unperturbed, Austin turns around and sees a fancy bright red step ladder – presumably placed there conveniently and with some forethought to enable us artists to touch up or varnish our works on this very day – after all, it is Varnishing Day. Austin and I haul the piece of equipment near to his painting and he offers to hold the ladder securely as I mount it; I notice that we have become comrades-in-arms by now. No worries as I leapt up the contraption like a ferret after its prey. Very conveniently the restraining bar at the top is at just the right height to balance my camera on and I take two snaps of Mr Ruddy’s painting. At that moment, a polite kerfuffle beneath me ensues – I guess all such encounters at the RA are conducted with such finesse – where Austin is now locked in an exchange with an official who warns of the dangers associated with our actions and that health and safety is being infringed. As I feel confident about the pictures just taken, I decide to descend the ladder and meekly comply with this jobsworth’s ruling. Just at that moment, a young lady barred my path downwards with false bonhomie, asking mysteriously: “Is that a G9?” while pointing at my camera. Fortunately we photographers are switched on to such exciting developments in our lives and I immediately clicked into ‘techie mode’ recognising her rather impudent inquiry about my equipment. I crisply replied: “No, actually it’s a G10” showing my camera to her as best I could as I endeavoured to evade the steely glare of the gallery apparatchik who was by this time tugging at the step ladder to wrest it from Austin’s grasp lest we use it again. The impetuous camera lady then melted back into the crowd. As an Irishman abroad, I noticed that the fuss with Academy officialdom was amicably concluded in that quintessential English manner but this little vignette of an episode is emblematic of how a modern Britain is seized with a new tyranny: that the infantilising dogma of health and safety abuts awkwardly against certain well-oiled artistic practices of the past. But I digress.

Later on, when the throng had departed I walked around undistracted gazing in wonder at the inventiveness and creative skill exhibited. It was truly exciting but let me give you a very brief flavour of what is on show: David Mach and his striking collage, Babel Towers next to his incredible sculpture, Silver Streak (think of King Kong) made entirely of coat hangers; Bill Jacklin’s intriguing inkjet print, Wollman Rink 1; Norman Ackroyd and his enchanting etching on stainless steel, Gallapagos; The Crown of Esfahan: Mosque of the Sun, an entrancing and intricate creation of brass, paper and ink by Sara Shaffei and Ben Cowd. The whimsical but telling message contained in the topical sculpture, Crash Willy by Yinka Shonibare – winner of the coveted Wollaston Prize plus a cheque for £25,000; take note of the vehicle registration, if you can.

Irish artists are well represented and indeed triumphant with Elizabeth Magill’s large oil painting with a mysterious feel to it, Blue Hold which earned her the Sunny Dupree Family Award for a woman artist and Paul Murphy’s award-winning Untitled, a c-type photographic print. Other artists on show with Irish connections are: Carey Clarke, Francis Matthews, Terry McAllister Padraig MacMiadhachain, Séan Scully and Hughie O’Donoghue. The Exhibition is on until 22nd August.

No doubt there will be rumbustious critics who will lambast this artistic extravaganza with well-chosen bon mots based on entrenched prejudices fossilised sometime in the Kensington or Soho ateliers of the 1950s and who then enter into this post-modern world of wonder and inspiration sometimes verging on the anarchic only to weald an axe of destructive blithering ignorance. But I digress, again.

As a photographer, I should confess to a certain bias but Room X did have a number of striking images many of which were produced with the help of a camera rather than a brush, palette knife or chisel, such as Suzanne Moxhay’s Cablecar and Swarm, both archival digital prints with an indefinable eeriness about them. Also, Allen Jones’ Undressed Hatstand, a black and white silver print; Substrate Shadow, an archival digital print by Barton Hargreaves and Nicola Walsh’s Envelopes, a c-type digital print; all these images spectacularly observed the official remit of ‘raw’ for the Summer Exhibition. I was further heartened when chatting to Sir Nicholas Grimshaw towards the end of Varnishing Day when he voiced strong support for the photographic element of this event. This positive attitude should send out a welcoming signal to photographers that their images are now being taken seriously by the arts world; the Royal Academy has accepted photographs at the Summer Exhibition since 2006.

As a newbie, this magical day was coming to an end and I savoured it to the last knowing that for a very brief moment I had been privileged to play a small part in this world-class artistic occasion. It may never happen again but now that the lotus flower of the Summer Exhibition has been tasted ...............

©Nicholas Mackey 2010

 

Recent Comments
Rosy Cole
A graphic mix of subjective and objective experience on a wonderful occasion! And a very poignant account of the Nazi concentratio... Read More
Thursday, 07 September 2017 13:48
Nicholas Mackey
I appreciate the kind words in your comment and the words of that sermon I referred to in my article re. the value of art in our l... Read More
Sunday, 10 September 2017 23:05
Rosy Cole
You're welcome, Nicholas!
Wednesday, 13 September 2017 18:13
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Election Result

What a sacroscrotilogenous and idiopatheticorniphrastic election result!
It's incredularious and unacceptabilioso to the point of confududilinarianism.
Recent Comments
Rosy Cole
Exactly! I see you have taken up Professor Stanley Unwin's mantle as to the manner born :-) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R2nI... Read More
Friday, 09 June 2017 15:11
Nicholas Mackey
How can one take this political charade with any degree of seriousness? Many thanks for commenting, Rosy.
Saturday, 10 June 2017 13:41
Rosy Cole
I suspect what we find most uncomfortable is that our Government leaders force us to take a good hard look in the mirror.
Monday, 12 June 2017 15:12
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A House of Peace

Dateline: January 2010, India

Some dear friends of ours from Delhi we have known for many years invited my wife and I to stay with them. During our visit there, I met a retired general from the Indian army

He was an uncle of one of our friends: a distinguished-looking man with a wealth of stories, a bushy grey beard and an impish sense of humour. This former military figure told me a tale of being posted some years previously to the Ladakh region of India by Pangong Lake (the local name meaning long enchanted lake) on the northern frontier with China as commanding officer (CO) of a contingent of soldiers on border guard duty in this far-away place

This elderly army man described the dramatic landscape he and his men found themselves in surrounded by high mountains and rocky ground. There were no signs of civilisation for many miles where the men were planning to set up camp save for a small roofed dwelling in their midst. It was unlived in, empty, abandoned

The junior officers suggested the general should take this one isolated building as his residence for his comfort to reflect his high rank – the rest of the rank and file would be happy to sleep in their tents but the CO declined

Instead, he proposed that this small building should be used as a divine place of worship and he too would sleep with his men under canvas

While his junior officers welcomed his proposal they politely reminded him that there might be a problem with his suggestion: among all the personnel serving in this group, there were Hindus, Muslims, Sikhs and Christians – how could they share this building at prayer? It seemed out of the question with four religions sharing the same space and all under the same roof. It had never been done before

“No problem,” said the practically-minded general unfazed by this apparent impasse when he gathered his subalterns around him to give them guidance in how to use this isolated house as a proposed shared place of worship. Following him they all trooped inside and with confident gestures the general responded to their hesitancy. “In this corner, we will have the Hindus” as he indicated one corner of the interior. He turned saying “And in this adjoining corner, we will have the Muslims praying.” His officers exchanged puzzled glances but the CO carried on unhindered by these received ideas turning around to point out the other two corners which would be occupied by the Sikhs and Christians respectively

At this point, the junior officers overcame their understandable reticence in not wishing to appear insubordinate to their CO as they felt that this was pushing social cohesion among the troops too far given the unhappy and bloody history of religions occupying the same space and they made their feelings plainly known. Much discussion ensued. Well-articulated stumbling blocks were raised

The general listened patiently to what they had to say. He demonstrated sympathy to the many points of view expressed. Then, calmly but firmly he overruled their stoutly-voiced objections and his command was put into effect. The dwelling was modified to accommodate these four persuasions and holy books of the faithful and other necessary holy accoutrements were gathered in the four corners assigned to each belief and all preparations were carefully rendered sensitive to each tradition

Life carried on in this army base camp in this beautiful but remote mountainous region

A few days later, the general visited this unique place of worship where two thirds of the nearby enormous Pangong Lake lies within China and the remainder of this stretch of water is Indian territory. The CO went into the small house and he observed that some of the soldiers were inside utilising each of the four corners assigned to their respective religions and all praying simultaneously

All was well, there was harmony. The general confessed he was moved at the display of unity as he joined his fellow men under the roof of this special place

And so it came to pass that I was told a story about a house of peace high in the Karakorum of India

(First appeared on Red Room website, Dec. 2013)

 

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