As Time Goes By - September 1984
Walk in the door and Oh Lord, so it's going to be one of these. There he is, talking out of one side of his mouth, drinking a pint of Harp through the other. Tosh Finnegan doesn't like to waste good drinking time. Shudda known he'd be here.
Was a time when I avoided this Art stuff because I thought it was a load of rubbish. Then I conceded that it's been around a long time and maybe there's something to it. Spent a lot of time looking at things on walls and things on floors and things like that. Trying not to look puzzled. That's when I began running into people like Tosh Finnegan.
Tosh is a poet. Back in October 1976 he published his first (and so far his only) collection, Postcards From Hades. This consisted of most of the poems which Tosh had written over the previous two years. (Actually, Tosh denies that he writes his poems. He says he "wrestles with thoughts and emotions, using words to pin them to the page.") Two of Tosh's poems were published in the Irish Press, one on the Letters Page of the Herald and seventeen in the xeroxed quarterly, Abby sinnian Dreams, prooduced by Tosh and his sister, Jacinta (who changed her name to Fragments).
Postcards From Hades was pubblished by Ikonmaker Books in an edition of 87 copies. Of these, 31 were sent out for review (and were reviewed in all the national dailies, evenings and Sundays here and in Britain), 18 were signed by Tosh and given to fellow poets, 12 were sent to publishing houses in Britain, soliciting a commission for an epic on the Fall of Troy. Of the remaining copies, 7 can be found on the shelves of Parson's Boo ksh op at Baggot Street Bridge and the other 19 were sent to various grant-giving bodies here and in Britain. Tosh immediately got £350 from the Arts Council, £250 from the NI Arts Council, £ I ,350 from the Xavier Hollymore Memorial Foundation, £920 from the Merton Trust, and £5,004. from the Charles Merceau Fund. He has each year since then received various grants towards a "work in progress", averaging £3,650 a year and two years ago became a member of Aosdana, notching up another £5,000 a year for life. He spends three months a year in America, lecturing on Conntemporary Irish Poetry on the college circuit. He has been permanently pissed since November 1976.
Tosh spends most of his time on the Art Circuit in Dublin. This innvolves attending openings and recepptions of one sort or another - painting, sculpture, plays, books, whatever 8five nights out of seven. The drink is free, if you corner a couple of hors d 'oeuvre trays you've got the makings of a meal, and all you have to do to justify your presence is make one profound statement per event. Tosh has five profound statements, which he rotates from venue to venue, spoutting them at the top of his voice.
(1) "The crucial point about this painting (sculpture/play /book/whattever) is its internal consistency, each of its parts blending with the others, melting into a tensile whole."
(2) "It reaches in through one's eyes and ears and grasps one's guts, hauling them out for a traumatic but necessary examination of the essential self. "
(3) "This (pause) this is (very 10 ng pause) well (pause long enough to cook a lasagne) this is (very fast) this is what it's all about, isn't it?" (Since this statement is somewhat lacking in profundity it depends greatly on the delivery, and after eight years on the circuit Tosh has it down to a tee.)
(4) "There are flaws, I must conncede, but it, well, it moves me, it draws me close and whispers to me and what its statement lacks in clarity it more than makes up for in emotion."
(5) "This could have been great, though it is merely good, had the painter (sculptor/writer/whatever) alllowed it to breathe, to define its own limits, its own heart, instead of impoosing him(her)self on the painting (sculpture/play /book/whatever) and I know I like it, but I'm not sure if it likes me."
It is widely thought that those innvolved in Ireland's art business spend most of their time hanging around pubs and receptions slagging one another and backbiting. In fact, they spend most of their time hanging around pubs and receptions praising one another and backscratching. There are 314 "artists" making a living on this circuit, plus 237 critics and 47 administrators and bureaucrats. There are 103 people who buy these works of art. Eighteen of these are public relations executives from large firms trying to improve their corporate image. 43 are middle-class people hedging against inflation, 8 are promiinent rich people attempting to prove that there is more to them than ruthhlessness and avarice, 15 are gallery owners who buy from one another in order to push up the prices of the "artists" with whom they have conntracts. And 19 are people who like works of art.
They were all at the opening of Rose, along with Tosh Finnegan and the rest of the gang. Will Wicklow was there, the RTE continuity announcer who is tipped to become Arts Advisor to the Taoiseach next year. He was staring at a ventilation inlet and murrmuring, "Incisive ... " Bruce Woose, the novelist, art expert and amateur journalist, was leaning on what he thought was a steel pillar but which turned out to be a work by Oleg Nnoffe, the Danish artist who has all his pieces run up for him by the local blacksmith.
Tosh was into his "This could have been great ... " spiel, so I just nodded to him and went to look at some of the pieces. There was one which connsisted of a file of a year's back issues of the Irish Times, which the catalogue told me was called "All Our Yesterrdays". There was a white canvas with three small brown splotches on the bottom left-hand corner. This was "Untitled" and I was assured that the splotches were actual drops of blood from the artist's hand. "He gives his all for his art", I was told. Well, not exactly "gives" - the canvas was going for eight grand. There was a 1963 Mexican telephone directory smeared with peanut butter and with three knitting needles driven right through it. This was titled "Alligators XII". There was a Hush Puppy slipper stuffed with hardened cement, titled "Juliet's Tango". There was an old Philips valve radio fixed up with a tape loop inside that played the BBC commentary on the long jump in the 1956 Melbourne Olympics. This was titled "Arrigato (Part One)". There was ...
My friend Lazy Pete Maguire says it's all a con, a scam to make a commfortable living for and improve the social life of a small bunch of Philisstines. But I know he's wrong. This is art. And it's me, my shallowness, my ignorance, my insularity, that makes me think that Rosc stands for Right Old Shower of Crap.