Yeats and other prominent artists. In the process, he learned that when an artist died his reputation went into decline because the market was flooded with his or her creations by heirs determined to make a quick buck. As a consequence, the value of the work plummeted, and the artist’s reputation suffered for decades or in some cases went into a serious decline. Gerard’s legacy would be assured only if his paintings were released for sale over time to maximise interest in them, thereby enhancing their value. As Leo put it, the ultimate goal was to honour Gerard by ‘handling his work in a fashion that solidified his place in the history of Irish art’. The logic appealed to my father, who loved Gerard and always wanted him to be considered one of Ireland’s ‘greats’. Shortly after Uncle Gerard’s death, my parents told me they were convinced Leo had the ability and respect for my uncle to handle the art he left behind. Clearly, Leo Smith’s campaign in the months before my uncle’s passing had proved successful.
What happened next constitutes, in my opinion, one of the hidden scandals of the Irish art world. On learning my father had given Aunt Molly twenty-five oil paintings, Leo Smith flew right away to London and bought them from her at a knock-down price, knowing she was living on a pension and needed the money. This angered me when I found out about it years later. Leo’s main objective, however, was to get his hands on the rest of the art Uncle Gerard left behind. He persuaded my father, against my judgment and that of a close family friend, who also happened to be a lawyer, that he was ready to buy the work and do all the wonderful things only he could do with it. Of course, he would have to get it at the right price, he pointed out. Hundreds of works were removed from Gerard’s home and transferred for safe keeping to the Killiney home of a leading Dublin solicitor. They included major oils, watercolours, drawings and mixed media. In the meantime, Leo Smith put in motion a strategy to ensure he could purchase them at a price that suited him. He began by enlisting the help of his friend, James White, an international art expert and former director of the National Gallery of Ireland. White, who would later publish, Gerard Dillon – An Illustrated Biography, knew and personally admired Gerard’s work to the extent most people deemed him the sole expert on him. It was a clever move by Smith because any valuation by White of Dillon’s works would not be challenged should my father decide to seek an alternative valuation from another expert. Leo Smith, I believe, was confident my parents and Gerard’s sister, Molly, would not question White’s judgment. He was right.
White subsequently valued the work in a way that ensured Leo Smith acquired it for a ridiculous price. I recall seeing White’s valuation document and being appalled by the prices he attached to some of the work. Etchings, for example, were listed at fifty pence. I am confident a copy of White’s valuation, as well as numerous other documents related to my late uncle’s life and work, were among my father’s possessions before he died in 2007. For the purpose of this book, I asked the executors of my late father’s estate, my brother, Dr Patrick Dillon and my sister, Ursula Mc Laughlin, about the archive of documents related to Uncle Gerard. They told me no such archive existed even though I had seen parts of it with my own eyes.
My father could have bought the Dillon collection instead of permitting Leo Smith to purchase it. In fact, a family friend offered to loan him money to buy it, but by then Smith had done a marvellous job of convincing my parents and Molly only he could deliver Gerard Dillon’s proper legacy. I cannot be exact about the overall value placed on Gerard’s work, but I believe it did not exceed £6,000. Not long after Leo Smith acquired the collection he died on his way from a funeral in Dublin. Ironically, he left no will and the collection was passed to his heirs to sell as they saw fit.
Before James White died, I had an opportunity to talk to him about my uncle’s unusual relationship with Leo Smith. I remarked how George Campbell had, once or twice, hinted that there was much more he could say about it. White smiled in a way that suggested he was the keeper of secrets. He admitted that Leo and Gerard shared a habit of ‘cruising’ for lovers in Dublin’s docks area. He suggested they may even have done this together on some occasions. According to White, Leo and Gerard were very close but had never been lovers, even though Leo loved and desired a physical relationship with Gerard. Unlike Gerard, Leo was indiscreet and liked to confide in White. Gerard was secretive. White admitted my uncle never opened up to him about his sexuality. I have often wondered how and why White became Leo’s ‘confessor’. One thing that stands out about White is how he genuinely feared, when writing the book on my uncle, that if he spilled all his secrets about Leo and Gerard, he risked being ostracised by his contemporaries. Nevertheless, he managed during his research for the book to encourage close friends of Gerard’s to talk to him off the record about matters that had remained hidden for decades, including the closeted lives of Gerard’s siblings, Joe, Molly and Vincent. I regretted that White lacked the tenacity to publish what he learned, knowing it could help future art historians.
FOUR
George Campbell’s ‘Non-Heads’
After Uncle Gerard’s death, I visited Dublin a lot, staying mostly with George and Madge Campbell. George also visited me in Belfast, where I drove him through districts marred by the Troubles. My tales of riots and gun battles provided the inspiration for a little known series of paintings he made about the Troubles. A typical evening with George in Dublin involved a leisurely stroll with him and Arthur Armstrong to Madigan’s pub on Morehampton Road. After the pub closed, we always went to George’s, each of us carrying a half bottle of spirits. Arthur preferred Powers whiskey, while George liked vodka. I usually bought gin or whiskey, depending on my mood. It was the same routine George and Arthur had often followed with Gerard on nights he was not hiding from them.
On these evenings out, Madge stayed alone at home drinking whiskey and watching television. When we got back, she made tapas while ‘the lads’, as she called us, retired to the front room. Once drinks were poured, George became our DJ, selecting vinyl discs from his huge collection of flamenco and classical music. I never tired of the experience because it had its eccentric twists in the end. Madge would serve tapas and argue loudly with George about his music selections, calling him a ‘nasty old bollocks’ or ‘old fart’. We were careful never to favour either of them in their disputes because Madge was just as likely to turn on the person who came to her rescue.
Many times, I found myself alone with George in the early hours, sitting on the floor while we reminisced about Uncle Gerard. At some point, George would put on his favourite LP of David Oistrakh playing the Adagio from the Bruch Violin Concerto No 1. We would both cry for a friend we missed a lot. Over time, George’s sense of loss became more pronounced whereas Arthur rarely expressed regret at my late uncle’s passing.
Arthur Armstrong was tall, skinny and had a sickly appearance. George gave him the nickname ‘Skinny’ and often joked about his talent for being inconspicuous. Madge adored Arthur, lavished affection on him and treated him like her child even though he was in his fifties. She never ceased reminding him to take his vitamins and encouraged everyone to pamper him. She never chastised him for the amount of Powers whiskey he consumed because she was fond of a fair old tipple. There was a funny side to Arthur I truly enjoyed, and it related to his dry, conversational mannerisms and his attachment to the ‘juice of the barley’. One evening, Madge arrived from the kitchen with tapas and reprimanded George for his choice of music. He stopped the music and announced he had begun painting a new series of works he called ‘Non-Heads’.
He said the series reflected his personal distress about the terror campaign in Northern Ireland, especially the grisly sectarian murders, which had become commonplace. He believed that while killers sought to dehumanise their victims by the act of murder, they, too, were dehumanised. He was particularly intrigued by the fact terrorists hid behind masks made from nylon stockings, woollen balaclavas and hessian bags. In his opinion, the mask transformed the terrorist into a ‘Non-Head’, reflecting an abstract, gruesome and dehumanising persona.
‘I began painting Non-Heads to get the terror out of my own head,’ he declared loudly, after pouring the last drops from his vodka bottle.
It
