Читать книгу Harry Clarke’s War - Marguerite Helmers - Страница 9

Introduction

‘Cities, like dreams, are made of desires and fears, even if the thread of their discourse is secret, their rules are absurd, their perspectives deceitful, and everything conceals something else.’

Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities

The Missing

For several years, when visiting Dublin, I attempted to spend an afternoon at the Irish National Memorial Gardens at Islandbridge, but there was always some barrier. Once, it was dramatic. When Queen Elizabeth visited the city in 2011, I walked along the Liffey only to find the memorial secured and guarded. I should also clarify my first statement: I attempted to visit the Irish National Memorial Gardens at Islandbridge once I became aware that the gardens existed, for five years of travels to the city had come and gone before I knew the memorial was there. It’s not featured on Streetwise Dublin or on city centre maps; tourist maps show bright bus lines circling from O’Connell Street to Kilmainham Gaol, but there’s typically a large blank space on the map where the memorial should be. My own curiosity about the memorial comes from an unlikely source. I have been teaching and researching the poems, memoirs and art of the First World War for two decades, and my interest was piqued by an extended scene set at the gardens in Paul Murray’s novel Skippy Dies, published in 2010. In that novel, erstwhile history teacher Howard Fallon, tired of history taught from books, takes his secondary students from Seabrook College on an impromptu field trip to Islandbridge. The students are nervous, traveling into a part of Dublin that they are not familiar with, but once they are among the monuments and hear the stories of the soldiers who fought and died in the First World War, they are intrigued with recovering lost history.1

In the process of cursory research of the Irish National War Memorial Gardens, mostly through websites, I learned that there were illustrated books of remembrance in the pavilion bookrooms. I am, by training, a rhetorician, and my particular field of interest is in visual rhetoric. Visual rhetoric is a field of study that the American scholar W. J. T. Mitchell has called an ‘indiscipline’, on the borders between philosophy, rhetoric and art history. Visual rhetoricians return to Aristotle’s concept of rhetoric as ‘the capacity to observe in regard to any subject the available means of persuasion’.2 Whereas art historians study the provenance of works of art, visual rhetoricians study the arts of communication and persuasion. We have the freedom to take literary criticism and theory and apply it to works of art, mass culture, and visual culture. Our intent is not to define, but to examine and provoke. Thus, the illustrated books of remembrance housed within the war memorial signalled to me an intriguing intellectual opportunity to consider the way that physical spaces and material objects relate to collective memory.

Writers who describe the research process often speak of a special moment of serendipity, a combination of luck and what rhetoricians call kairos – being in the right place at the right time. It’s likely true that luck favours those who are prepared; I was very lucky to be prepared enough to discover Harry Clarke’s illustrations for Ireland’s Memorial Records when I did, in May 2013, on the eve of the First World War Centenary. The war memorial is a space charged with a unique task: to hold eight beautifully bound books created by an important Irish artist of the early twentieth century. This purpose is replicated only at a few national memorial sites from the First World War, most notably in Scotland and Australia. Within a single bookroom at the memorial site, the full eight volumes of the set of Ireland’s Memorial Records lie open in glass cases. That bookroom is locked, but once it opens, the sight of sixteen Harry Clarke engravings is unforgettable. In this book, I will do my best to tell the history of these beautiful volumes. Frustrations and breakthroughs are part of the research process. It’s not uncommon to discover that a key document from an archive is missing, nor is it unusual to travel hundreds or thousands of miles to an archive only to find it unexpectedly closed on the very day that you arrive with your notebook. In many ways, this book about Ireland’s Memorial Records is a tale of research and writing. Yet a century of silence has intervened between their commission and this publication. Documents, if they ever existed, are missing. Library copies of rare publications, among them, Harry Clarke’s diary from the 1920s, have been lost, destroyed, or stolen. Ireland’s Memorial Records themselves have been locked away.3

The Walls

One of the key questions that the history of Ireland’s Memorial Records raises is about memory: how can something be a memorial if it is lost or forgotten? John Horne, Keith Jeffery, Fergus d’Arcy, and Paul Murray have all pointed out that the Irish National War Memorial Gardens have been neglected culturally (and, until recently, uncared for physically as well), their significance erased from Irish history.4 The art historical significance of these records, held by this culturally marginalized memorial, are modestly acknowleged but overlooked in the greater stories of First World War art.

Let me note, as well, the diverse names that the memorial takes. It is variously referred to as the War Memorial Gardens, Ireland’s War Memorial, National War Memorial Gardens, Irish War Memorial Gardens, Irish National War Memorial, and the Irish National War Memorial Park. Officially, the site should be termed the Irish National War Memorial Gardens. The proliferation of terms suggests an uncertainty over their role: Are they gardens? Are they a memorial? What is a memorial garden?

In addition to the name, tangible obstructions and a consistent pattern of not naming the site limit access to the Irish National War Memorial Gardens. While there are several gateways to the gardens from all directions, imagine a westerly walk along the south bank of the River Liffey to visit them.

As anyone who has strolled up the river on a bright weekend will be able to envision, the city of Dublin shines under the light. The sun highlights the low eighteenth-century buildings that line the quays and tips the pillars and dome of the Four Courts with golden light. The alleys and streets running north and south are filled with shoppers and visitors, crossing the bridges over the Liffey.

At a certain point near the Guinness brewery, the pedestrians are scarce, the road begins to turn, and the points of ingress to the north and south are blocked by fencing. The high walls of the brewery and the lorries that enter and exit the complex push the walker closer to the embankment. Beyond the brewery and Croppies Acre, the road divides and turns to pass Heuston Station; the Luas Line cuts the road in two; and two bridges cross the river. The walker is faced with a choice at the crossroads: left or right? If the walker is looking for some sign that points to the Irish National War Memorial Gardens, the walker will seek in vain.

Left or right? A logical choice, if seeking a park, is to turn right towards Phoenix Park, brave the oncoming traffic at the convergence of the Luas Line and Parkgate Street, and start up the hill. Not long after, the stone pillars and wide tree-lined boulevard of Phoenix Park appear on the opposite side of the road. Large tour coaches coming from the city to the east turn into the park; none of the coaches continue west along Conyngham Road, past the blank walls of the bus depot and the new apartment block. It’s at this point that a walker will notice two things: all the cars are moving quickly, either toward the city center or away from it; and most of the sidewalk and street is blocked off by walls and fences. There are still no signs for the Irish National War Memorial Gardens.

Following the fences as the road gently slopes down toward the river, the walker will turn left at Con Colbert Road and follow it a short distance to an unnamed road, just past several older houses. Here, at last, is a sign. It is a small sign that announces in Irish and English, ‘Gairdíní Cuimhneacháin Cogaidh, Irish Memorial Gardens’. The walker turns to the right, only to encounter more walls, some with graffiti on them, parked cars and lorries. The lane takes another turning and draws between some high decorative gates. Through them, down another path and past the parking area for the Trinity Boat House, are more decorative, high metal gates – locked. Upon them, a second sign: ‘Ireland’s War Memorial’.

The Margins

I tell this story because it introduces the prevalent theme of the margins to the study of Ireland’s Memorial Records. Harry Clarke’s contributions to Ireland’s Memorial Records consist of decorative borders in the style of medieval illuminated manuscripts – marginalia. His subject was a topic that was pushed to the margins of Irish history. While the elaborate artwork makes Ireland’s Memorial Records a lasting, significant contribution to modernist art of the early twentieth century, knowledge of the illustrations is generally limited. Recently, websites have been developed to help locate names of the Irish who were killed in the First World War; however, the names from the Records are decontextualized from the elaborate ornamentation designed by Clarke. In other words, anyone searching online can’t see the images.

This book attempts to build a pathway through the history of Ireland’s Memorial Records. Any new writing about Harry Clarke is indebted to the considerable scholarship of his biographer, Nicola Gordon Bowe. Her publications are not only thorough, but beautifully illustrated and carefully written. There is no better place to begin than Harry Clarke: The Life and Work.

My own work is intended for a general audience. It draws on historical documents, scholarly sources, and some critical theory. My hope is that the criticism will illuminate some of the interpretive aspects of Clarke’s work and offer questions for further research.

Chapter One situates Harry Clarke’s commission to create the illustrations within the major political conflicts of the war years, 1914–18. Although a single chapter of this book cannot do justice to the complexities of the conflicts of the First World War and the 1916 Easter Rising in Dublin, it is necessary to envision Ireland’s Memorial Records emerging from differing national allegiances. On the one hand, supporters of the British government wanted to remember the service of the Irish in the First World War as heroic; on the other hand, Irish nationalists found such service to be traitorous. I would hope that readers unfamiliar with the relationship of these two significant events might be encouraged to read further in the many excellent histories of both conflicts.

Chapter Two positions Ireland’s Memorial Records within various art historical movements, including the development of war art, the Arts and Crafts Movement, and popular silent film. In addition, Ireland’s Memorial Records were connected to an important movement by England’s Imperial War Graves Commission1 and London’s Royal Academy of Arts to establish a common memorial language, given that nation’s unprecedented struggle to honour the millions of dead. Accordingly, I introduce the publication of Imperial War Graves Commission cemetery registers by Douglas Cockerell to this discussion.¹

Chapter Three examines the detailed drawings for each of the nine plates in Ireland’s Memorial Records. The record of an artist’s thought is often found within the work itself. Clarke did not leave any written or sketched record of his commission, other than the printed pages of the books. Bowe, who had access to the family papers as she worked on her many detailed studies of his stained glass and graphic art, reports that there are no known extant sketches, preliminary drawings, or correspondence related to the commission.5 I have relied on my research into First World War posters and my previous publications on the visual culture of the war to build an interpretation for readers.

Chapter Four takes up the story of the Irish National War Memorial Gardens, which I contend were designed as an archive, a Palladian construction of four bookrooms where copies of Ireland’s Memorial Records could be housed and consulted. Sir Edwin Lutyens, who drew up the architectural plans for the Irish National War Memorial Gardens, replaces Clarke as the protagonist in this chapter, for Clarke passed away in 1931, just as the ground was broken for the memorial in Islandbridge. This chapter concludes with reflections on the irony of the two forgotten spaces: Ireland’s Memorial Records and the bookrooms of the Irish National War Memorial Gardens.

My position as an American researcher has allowed me to weigh the facts as I have found them. I have treated Harry Clarke’s engravings as I have treated other aspects of visual culture that I have written about in the past: examining the way that the illustrations came into being, the details of the artistic work, and how the set of Ireland’s Memorial Records are displayed. This is a work about rhetoric and the particular rhetorical trope of epediectic, or display. It is not a work about politics. That Harry Clarke’s illustrations for Ireland’s Memorial Records were intended to be housed in an Irish national war memorial does not mean that this war memorial is being elevated above other memorial sites in Dublin or Ireland.

Although the legacy of the war once known as the Great War is still contentious, we need to remind ourselves that Harry Clarke was in no way celebrating war and that Ireland’s Memorial Records are not instruments of propaganda. Clarke was creating art – and art matters. Art mattered just as much in 1923, when the books were published, as it matters now. Art can restore the soul and refresh the senses. Art can make us think and see the world around us in a new way. Clarke’s decorative designs gave voice to his intellect and his sentiment, and they should engage our minds as well as release our emotions. If they ask us what we believe, so much the better, as that is one province of art. Ireland’s Memorial Records are distinctive; they are the only national roll of honour completed by an internationally renowned artist to emerge from the 1914–18 conflict. This singular feature is a distinction for Ireland, for Dublin, and for art.

¹The Imperial War Graves Commission (IWGC) was created by Royal Charter in 1917. In 1960, its name became the Commonwealth War Graves Commission. Throughout this book I refer to it by the name in use from 1917–39.

NOTES

1.P. Murray, Skippy Dies (New York: Macmillan, 2010), pp.552–53.

2.E. M. Cope, Commentary on the Rhetoric of Aristotle, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1877).

3.H. Clarke, National Library of Ireland, MS 39,202/B, contains diaries from 1914 and 1919.

4.J. Horne and E. Madigan, Towards Commemoration: Ireland in War and Revolution, 1912-1923, (Dublin: Royal Irish Academy, 2013); K. Jeffery, Ireland and the Great War, (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2000); F. D’Arcy, Remembering the War Dead: British Commonwealth and International War Graves in Ireland Since 1914 (Dublin: The Stationery Office, 2007); P. Murray, Skippy Dies.

5.. N. Bowe, personal conversation, June 2014.