I have a show! It’s in Dooradoyle Library in the Crescent Shopping Centre in Limerick City from Thursday, April 17th, until Friday, May 9th. The
opening times are 10am to 5pm Tuesday to Saturday with late opening (until 8pm) on Thursdays (excluding bank holidays),
and the official opening is on April 17th at 6pm by David Lane.

All works are prints and are for sale, either directly from me or through my website. As all works are printed to order, they can be done in any size, and can be
mounted only or mounted and framed. If you
need to contact me, DM me through the link here.

Please note that the exhibition space is closed at certain times during the week to facilitate events: on Thursdays between 1pm and 3pm and on Wednesdays between 11am and 1pm each week. I’ll try to include any temporary closures here, but the best thing to do is to ring ahead to ensure the space is open. 

This is an archive of all my blog posts in order of publication. As they are not really linked, please feel free to hop in anywhere! Posts with a specific title rather than a number are related to the specific images of that name; the numbered pieces are my caffeine- and fatigue-fueled musings… (Note: the weird formatting and line breaks are caused by the website and I can’t be bothered to correct them, so please ignore them.)

October 15th, 2024: ‘a momentary cessation of unhappiness’

October 18th, 2024: 1

October 26th, 2024: 2

October 26th, 2024: 3

November 2nd, 2024: 4

November 5th, 2024: 5

Once, when I lived in London, I splashed out and bought a
pair of Italian leather burgundy-coloured shoes, the kind with wooden heels that tap when you
walk in them. They were expensive, but I wanted shoes that would do
me for special occasions and for strutting about the town like a popinjay. One
day, shortly after Rothko, my part Labrador, part setter, part who-knows-what rescue hound arrived in my home from the dog pound, he got into the cupboard when I was out briefly (I
mean, I had only been gone twenty minutes) and, using his powerful doggie
teeth, tore my glorious Italian footwear into flitters, while leaving untouched the maggoty green-stained runners that I cut
the grass in. I came home to what was to become a typical
scene: Rothko, tail wagging, eyes gleaming, sitting on the carpet with, between
his outstretched paws, a treasured possession demolished beyond the ability of
the most skilled craftsman to repair. Quality socks were his favourite: leave
the laundry basket unattended for even a few seconds, and he struck like the
Day of the Jackal: nose into the clothes and out the back door with a clean
sock hanging from his mouth and me in hot pursuit. Of course, no human can
catch a dog in full flight, so after chasing him around the garden for a bit, I
would give up and he’d be left triumphant with his booty. He would
follow me back inside, sock left on the grass, as it was the game, the fact that
he was doing something naughty, that obviously amused his canine brain (such as
it was) rather than the prize itself. And I know that by chasing him I was
giving in and indulging the behaviour, but so what? A handful of socks is a
small price to play for my memories of him, which is all I have now that he is
dead.