At the Hugh Lane Museum of Modern Art, Jesse Jones has an exhibit entitled No More Fun and Games. NMFG intends “to redress and renegotiate omissions in the historical canon of art.” This presentation is not a static piece, as we might assume of other pieces of art. Instead, Jones creates a dynamic experience for on-lookers. Her project seems to deal with minimalist ideas concerning the negative space of female representation in canonized art.

At first, the exhibition is confusing. The front desk of the show opens into a small room and then a large, white room. Jones includes speakers that play soft, soothing music, mounted on stands that face in all directions create an erratic pattern throughout the room. The huge walls, white and bare, create an eerie feeling of absence. After all, an art show should have drawings, photos, or paintings on the wall, right? The white room gives way to a room that has silver walls, reminiscent of aluminum foil or the industrial freezers we might see at a restaurant. In this room, Jones includes a few paintings, but still the inclusion is minimal.

Jones drags a floor-to-ceiling piece of cloth attached to a track overhead. It provides the image of woman’s arm and hand. I stand in the room and wait to see the impression it casts into the large white room. The cloth overlays the feminine over the represented absence of the empty walls. The experience moves me. Jones seems to be arguing that the work of women colors all art, even in places that may not seem to contain such art. She also creates a stark contrast between the blank walls of the white room and the obscurely reflective walls of the silver room, the first containing no art and the second housing only a few pieces.

The underrepresented nature of minority artists in cultural canons comes into focus through the work of Jones. As we discuss the importance of women in the politics surround Irish independent, we still understand how women are subtracted from the general discussion.

“Love, Peace

and Happiness

is this Possible

IN Belfast……?”

These words were plastered on a wall during our walk to Queen’s University Belfast. The street art caught my attention just as I was about to pass by. Illegally graffitied on the city building, the words open up new possibilities for those who might share the same ideologies. It also creates a place of contention for others.

The side an Irish person might fall on the divide between nationalist and unionist would determine how that person would respond to that statement. In Northern Ireland, people tend to lean one of two ways: Irish or British. Our tour guide that led us through Falls Road and Shankill Road told us how the real issue undergirding the Irish Troubles is not religious (i.e. Catholic vs. Protestant) but one about identity—identity found in either Britishness or Irishness.

The neighborhoods in west Belfast are divided by physical location—place of identity. While Falls road houses Catholics (those who identify as Irish), Skankill road houses Protestants (those who embrace their own Britishness). In these neighborhoods, the place constructed through desired identity is even complete with flags that either represent Ireland as a nation or give homage to Britain, revealing Unionist sentiments.

One of the best examples explained to us surrounds an Irishman named Stevie McKeag. In the Protestant are of Skankill, Stevie is decorated and commemorated as a war hero. A mural is displayed boldly in his honor. However, in the Catholic area of Falls road, Stevie is remembered as a murderer of not only those directly involved in the Troubles but innocent civilians. A plaque that commemorates the deaths of innocent people contains at least eight people known to be murdered by Stevie. Those names spanning Dominic O’Connor through Philomena Hanna are said to among his victims—same man, different place.

The move from Dublin to Belfast was quick. When we arrived in the new city, we went straightway from our bus to the hotel that would be home for the next few nights. Our hotel has all the necessities we need. Instead of having private rooms, we share rooms with other students. Harlow and I share a room.

We take a walk down to city hall and have an informative tour led by a jolly Irishman. He walks us through rooms where city operations still take place. He describes portraits that hang from walls and robes mounted in display cases. He describes what would take place in each room.

After the tour of city hall, we are free to walk around and explore. We decide to make our way to the Titanic museum. The walk is beautiful. We cross over the channel where locks allow boats to pass in and out. A couple boats wait anchored for the lock to fill and allow safe passage. So much of this city’s identity is wrapped up in industries dependent on its coastal nature.

We eventually make it down to where the Titanic would have been constructed and experienced its cast away from land. We walk the length of the ship and gaze out over the bay. We sit in silence until approaching rain clouds push us back to our feet and onward to dinner. Our group has grown comfortable together. Awkwardness of old has all but disappeared, and we now function as a group of old friends.

For the past two weeks, I have called University College Dublin home. It has been a comfortable place—one of learning, making new friends, and resting from long days around Dublin and the surrounding areas. We all had our own rooms, but we shared a kitchen and living space. Often, I would find someone in one of the chair eating porridge or by the counter making a much-needed cup of coffee. Other times, I might would find someone reading or getting ready to teach a lesson to the rest of the class. It became a comfortable place for me. My room became a place for me to escape to recharge from the expense of social activity. More specifically, over the past few days, my room has become a place where I can rest to try to get over an Irish cold (not really sure how that descriptor might change the meaning).

The common area became a place where we could share about our day. Sara and Kristen told us all about their travels to Sandcove and their remapping of Bloomsday. I would tell others about events that happened when they weren’t around. Whether secluded in my private room or in the common area, our flat at UCD became a safe space. UCD has a beautiful campus. Much of our time was spent traveling to Dublin or meeting in our classroom, but one day we had a chance to spend the whole day on campus. We had lunch on the lawn, served by a handful of food trucks. Then we headed to see a couple of dramatic performances—“Strolling Through Ulysses” and “The Lime Tree Bower.” Both were professional and moving for me.

After leaving a coffee shop, we wait at a crosswalk. I notice a flag at half-mass. It’s a rainbow flag. Being away from Atlanta for so long has been bizarre. I haven’t been away this long in about ten years. I miss my family. I miss normal life. I missed being able to be around after the hateful tragedy in Orlando last week. The separation of hours between Ireland and Atlanta creates a break in communication—or at least a break in when events normally happen. By the time my wife wakes up in Atlanta, I’ve already finished lunch. When the shooting happened in Orlando, Ireland was mostly asleep. I woke up to news reports and social media, stories of hateful events that seem to horrific to be true.

I love that a place all the way across the ocean would have the respect to stand with those hurting in Orlando. These acts of respect and remembrance connect humanity as we are supposed to be connected. No sort of gesture of respect could ever mend the hurt that those affected by the Orlando shooting feel, but I hope that it offers a feeling of togetherness. So many people lost their lives that night for reasons soaked in hate and bigotry. Seeing the flag at half-mast by the Liffey does work to restore the separateness that often comes with connecting global communities. It also shows that people at home and abroad can stand with those hurting in solidarity and support.

On Bloomsday, the day that honors James Joyce’s fictional character Leopold Bloom, a few of us decided to take the day slow. So, we rested up, washed some clothes, and headed out around lunchtime. We had little plans—some miscellaneous gift-buying and partaking in something that at least vaguely relates to Ulysses. Joyce wrote his Ulysses as a story that comprises one day—a long account of what could otherwise be a much shorter story. Others in our group spent the day trying to remap the steps of Harold Bloom’s epic journey. Call me under-ambitious, but my only goal for the day was to find a nice hard-copy edition of Ulysses, purchase it, and commemorate the moment by writing “Purchased on Bloomsday in Dublin, Ireland, 16 June 2016.” Then I, of course, would signed my name. Lorcan Collins, from the 1916 walking tour, implanted this idea in my head earlier in the week. I couldn’t shake the sentiment. I found the exact edition he recommended and did just as planned.

Later, we had lunch then made our way to the square at temple bar, hoping to see people dressed up in period clothing and acting out moments from the novel. Instead, we stumbled upon a band—four-piece, set up with a minimal sound system, playing a free show in the middle of the street. It all might sound gimmicky, except they were really talented. Based out of Dublin, they played all originals. Between songs, the singer would tell parts of the band’s story—how they pursued record labels, how they were consistently rejected, and how they eventually decided to take control of their music. During the last song, someone dressed up for Bloomsday joins the show, dancing along the front of the band in the empty space separating the crowd.

I didn’t imagine I would visit a place on this trip where I gawked at figure after figure of antique taxidermy. But I did. The Natural History Museum in Dublin is both startling and intriguing. Though saying it might be a stretch, the museum is even oddly beautiful. Being from the American South, I’ve seen a lot of animals both alive in nature and mounted on the walls of family and friends. Where I come from, the white-tail deer is the animal that people hunt the most—albeit for the sustenance and not only sport. The food harvested from the animals mounted in the Natural History Museum likely would have been donated to the local towns around where they were killed. Such is still the custom. But I assume many of the animals would have killed solely for sport or culling or displaying.

Don’t get me wrong. Seeing the animals was so interesting. But something about the mass collection of the dead was eerie. Obviously, I’ve never stood so close to animals such as large cats, hippopotamuses, whales, bears, etc, so the moment was educational and eye-opening. But my eyes were opened wider to my place in the world and, more importantly, the place that animals fill in the world. I eat meat. I have for all my life. But in recent years I’ve become more sensitive (if not sensitive, than definitely considerate) to where the meat that I enjoy comes from. People often argue over shared space, claiming that those spaces should be negotiated with manners and kindness.

When I stand face-to-face with a terrifying and beautiful animal such as this hippo, I think about how the space that we should be sharing with the animals around us is often seized or destroyed with little consideration of who would have called that home. Fortunately, over the years, others have become more concerned with the animals’ place in the world, leading to wildlife conservation and ethically-sourced meats and vegetables. But seeing the scores of cases and once-living statues of animals speaks to how they are still denied their rightful place aside humans.

Lorcan Collins, one of the authors of The Easter Rising: A Guide to Dublin in 1916, leads us on a walking tour of Dublin, discussing significant places associated with the rising. We began at a pub just south of the Liffey. Collins has a big personality and a voice to match it. He tells the story of the rising and events leading up to it in a narrative that is intriguing and moving. He includes small anecdotes that relate to the places we inhabit. He takes us to Trinity College and explains the significance of it during the rising. We look across the street at the Parliament building—now converted into the Bank of Ireland.

Next, Collins takes us through the city to north of the Liffey to see bullets holes in a statue on O’Connell Street. By this time, the rain has begun to fall heavy. He talks to us about significant buildings, helping us understand how the rebels would have stood up to the British. We look across the river and imagine young, British soldiers posted high in buildings with sniper rifles, shooting statues in the distance to either sight their guns in or have target practice.
We eventually make our way to the GPO. He takes us inside to tell us some history, again placing us in the middle of the happenings of 1916.

Outside of the GPO, Collins pulls out bullets from his pocket. We all look at indentations in the columns outside. He conjectures what artillery the British would have used. Then, he physically places bullets into the holes. The likelihood of his explanation is undeniable. Through this, he is able to connect the two-dimensional narrative of his book to the three-dimensional spectrum of real life. Hearing the stories and history in the place it happened opens up new possibilities of understanding.

The Kilmainham Gaol sits west of the city, a short bus ride from all the attractions contemporary cosmopolitan life. It’s in a pretty developed area itself, although it seems to be newer development as opposed to the old buildings closer to city centre. Many of those involved in the 1916 Easter Rising were kept at this prison—14 eventually executed here. Two others were executed due to their involvement in the rising elsewhere.

Being in a space where people offered up their life for the cause of freedom weighs heavy. The men executed were the leaders of the rising. They well knew that they would likely not make it through the revolution alive. The west wing includes the cells that those from 1916 would have been held. These cells are old, dark, and narrow, designed to provide adequate ventilation. There isn’t much beautiful about this area except for the actions committed by those who experienced each cell as their last home.

However, some of the prison is beautiful. Intricate architecture surrounds newer cells where later rebels would be housed. This area creates optimal surveillance. Our tour guide told us how that was part of the new system of reformed prison. He said that they strive for silence, supervision, and segregation. The newer cell block provide these means.

Standing in the entrance of this beautiful construction, I notice a group of young students posing for a photo. Some of them are being silly; others are smiling from ear to ear. The scene strikes me as a bizarre juxtaposition—a group of tourists taking a photo in a place where so many people were wrongly imprisoned and where others gave their lives. I am also a tourist, standing in the middle of the room, surrounded by jail cells, taking photos to document my experience. The place that this is now is obviously not the place it was in the early twentieth century.

To study James Joyce is largely to study place. Especially in Dubliners, his first book-length publication, Joyce draws his reader into the cultural place of Irish identity. Today, we went on a walking tour around Dublin city to see the locations that Joyce includes in his work. Jonathan led our tour. He’s a young man, maybe mid-thirties, and teaches at Trinity here in Dublin. He carries a cheap, old copy of Dubliners. Pages are marked, and slips of paper are taped to blank pages at the beginnings and ends of chapters. He’s obviously been studying Joyce for years. He tells us stories of Joyce’s childhood, connecting the narrative of Dubliners to the biography of its author through concepts of place.

We stand in a circle, attentive to the words of our guide, trying to imagine how Joyce wold have understood the place of his childhood. We looks towards the end of the street, a place presumably from one of his stories, and consider the biographical implications of that place on Joyce’s text. We end at the Gresham Hotel. Jonathan talks with us about the conclusion of “The Dead.” We contemplate the westward gaze of its characters and the Irish people during Joyce’s day, trying to understand the cultural place that Joyce’s Dubliners would offer the Irish people. Joyce was more interested in the present and future, while so many of his contemporaries (especially those of the Irish literary revival) were concerned with the past. Joyce wanted Ireland to become active players in all facets of the global experience. We walk towards the General Post Office. The rain falls harder. We looks around the busy city street. I consider the connections and disconnections of Joyce’s 1914 Dubliners and Dublin’s 1916 Easter Rising.