his glass with whiskey.
‘A Non-Head, you say?’ Arthur remarked, pausing briefly to sip from his glass. ‘And what would that be, George?’
‘It’s what I said it was,’ George replied, with some irritation.
‘Well, if you say it was, then it was. But, if you don’t mind, I’d like to see one of these Non-Heads for myself.’ Arthur’s tone was polite but somewhat slurred.
George left the room, returning moments later with an oil-on-board painting. I instantly recognised the image of a head camouflaged in a stocking mask even though it was somewhat abstract in form. Arthur looked puzzled as he pointed to the work, his index finger wavering slightly.
‘And you say that’s a Non-Head, George?’
George fixed him with a wicked stare. ‘I’d say the Powers Gold Label has gone to yours,’ muttered George, holding the painting close to a lamp so we all had a better view of it. ‘I suppose you still can’t see it, you silly bollocks,’ he added, looking directly at Arthur.
Arthur squinted. ‘Well, I see the fuzzy outline of a head but what’s this Non-Head business about? It’s a head or it’s not a head, George. Saying it’s a Non-Head means even you don’t know if it’s a head. Am I right?’
‘No, you’re not fucking right. But then again, in one sense you are. It’s not a head because the stocking mask hides the humanity. That’s my point, you see.’
George drew his finger along the shape of the head in the painting. Its greyish colour depicted a terrifying image of a human head in a stocking mask with no visible features. Arthur leaned forward, ever so slightly, and stared again at the painting.
‘Oh, I see! That’s a stocking mask over a head. I thought you said it was a Non-Head, George.’
‘If I painted your head that would be a real Non-Head,’ snapped George, scooping up the painting and leaving the room.
George died before he could complete his Non-Head series, but his earlier paintings of the Troubles were important reflections of the true nature of political violence. On the day of his funeral in the Wicklow countryside, I remained in the cemetery after mourners filed out of the churchyard to a nearby bar-restaurant to celebrate his passing. I paid the gravediggers to take an early lunch break to allow me time to fill in the grave, which I did with the help of my friend, Colin Lewis. After the grave was filled in, I realised a gold Parker pen I had in my jacket pocket had fallen into the grave while I was shovelling soil. George didn’t get the vodka or whiskey he requested, but he had a pen to sketch places and people in his afterlife. I hoped there would be no Non-Heads where he was going.
Now, looking back on the many hours I enjoyed with George after Uncle Gerard’s death, I realise we spent most of them talking about my uncle. We were joined on occasions by Tom Caldwell, the Belfast gallery owner, who was at one time a prominent Unionist known for his liberal views. George liked him. His presence often led to spirited political debates about the Troubles. George’s wife, Madge, became a staunch Nationalist as events on the streets of Northern Ireland worsened in the early 1970s, and more often than not she used Tom as a political football. He took it all in his stride and rarely felt offended. Tom’s contribution to the social life of Belfast at the height of the Troubles was much appreciated, and the same can be said of artists like Brian Ferran and Brian Ballard when they dominated the Northern Ireland Arts Council and organised exhibition openings in the besieged centre of the city. But it was the Caldwell Gallery that stood out because of its salon-like atmosphere. Its openings were held in a cavernous room under the public Caldwell Gallery, which also sold antique furniture. When bombings and killings all but closed down much of the nightlife, a Caldwell opening was not to be missed. Wine and good conversation flowed freely for hours, and it was a wonderful oasis. I often went to these events with my father and met collectors and artists. It was there I first set eyes on the highly gifted sculptor Caroline Mulholland and got to know many of Northern Ireland’s serious art collectors. Chief among them were outstanding legal minds like Michael Lavery and Ronald Appleton. There were politicians too, from both sides of the divide, and many notable broadcasters. The wonderful poets, Michael Longley, his wife, Edna, and my BBC colleague, Paul Muldoon, often attended openings. It was not only an opportunity for people to meet, share a few glasses of wine and talk about art, but a place to establish social contacts and discuss political issues.
The Caldwell Gallery wasn’t the only art space to enhance life in Belfast in the early 1970s. There was the McClelland Gallery in Chichester Street, run by George McClelland, a former policeman, and his wife Maura. They had a fine taste in art, and their exhibition of the works of Dan O’Neill in 1970 was a milestone for those who loved O’Neill’s work. I remember attending the opening with my father, who bought an oil painting of a kitchen scene. There is a follow-up story to George McClelland’s role as an artists’ agent, which bears mention.
The year before Uncle Gerard died, he was befriended by George McClelland and they both got on well together. For reasons I cannot fully explain, my uncle’s Dublin agent, Leo Smith, became very jealous. One reason might have been my uncle’s decision to let McClelland buy or sell some of his paintings. Leo might have seen that as complicating his business relations with my uncle. But James White had another take on the episode. He told me Leo behaved like ‘a lover spurned’. George Campbell agreed, saying it was somewhat bizarre. Leo Smith had no contract with my uncle that restricted him selling his work to anyone or allowing someone to represent it to collectors. George said it was curious because it could not have been a lover spurned because George McClelland was heterosexual and happily married. I believe Leo was worried McClelland, as a northerner, might manage to steal Gerard as a client by offering him a more lucrative contract. According to George Campbell, always one to inject humour into his renderings of stories, the rift between my uncle and Leo was quickly healed over lunch when they ‘agreed they weren’t married but could behave like an asexual couple’. Contrary to what has been published in some reports, George McClelland was never Gerard Dillon’s agent, but he was nevertheless a trusted agent and gallery owner who loved Gerard’s work. He and his wife were respected in the art world.
The Lower Clonard Street Dillons had a profound influence on my life. I inherited their attachment to the arts and a desire to pursue a creative career. But first I would have to pursue the dream my Uncle Joe once had.
FIVE
My Life in a Seminary
I sang Dies Irae, Dies Illa,
accented finely
in its sombre metre.
Gone were beads worn smooth;
indulgences stacked like chips on a poker table.
I longed for November’s bleakness,
tiny hands warmed over candles,
flickering before a terrible wrath.
I imagined souls calling to me,
locked in their emptiness.
It was before I learned to sing
Pie Jesu Domine,
dona eis requiem.
A MONTFORT REQUIEM – Martin Dillon
To this day, I am not sure why I chose to study in a seminary run by the Montfort Fathers in historic Romsey in Hampshire, England. Perhaps, I was taken with a brochure someone had given my mother, displaying
