Middlefocus

Really enjoyed this memoir from the reserved shelves of Libraries NI.  An account of three artists, George Campbell, Gerard Dillon and James MacIntyre spending the summer of 1951 on the Island of Inishlacken on the western coast of Ireland across from Roundstone, County Galway. James was the youngest of the three and the author of the memoir. Gerard died in 1971, George in 1979 and James in 2015. What I liked about this memoir was the sense of comradeship and adventure back in the early 1950s. The stories of the artistic community in Belfast of the time and the familiar (to me) places mentioned all combined to keep me turning the pages. There are delightful pen portraits of the characters and islanders. The observations on the work of artists developing their style were fascinating. I went in search of this book having heard about it through the publicity for an event in the FE McWilliam Gallery in Banbridge. Back in November 2025 the Friends of the Gallery hosted an artist talk b...

Visited this exhibition at TheMacBelfast  today. Okay the sound was off but that didn't detract from a wonderful deepdive into the sea bed.  I'll be back to experience it again.  It's on to January. Why? The dark is inviting.  The colours stand out.  I didn't touch but Oh... how I wished to roll in that seaweed texture. Wonderful! The textures, the colours, the shapes, the fabrics. The creative process.   Do yourself a favour. If you are near this immerse yourself and Let flow!

Managed to squeeze-in-a-read on our trip in Turkey.  How appropriate that it should be Orhan PAMUK's The Red-Haired Woman .  I thoroughly enjoyed this story which reprised aspects of the Oedipus myth - the interplay of tensions between fathers and sons. The context of the novel is well-digging in a small town on the outskirts of Istanbul. The red-haired woman is a member of a travelling troup of actors who visit the town. She becomes the object of our narrator's attention. There is a connection with the father. A terrible accident occurs and there follows decades of repressed guilt... and an unexpected denouement.  The story definitely kept my interest and the final pages definitely caught me off guard. Reading those I simply had to go back and restart the novel. Really?  Check it out - you'll get my drift. It was fascinating to read a novel in situ - travelling through parts of Istanbul mentioned in the story. I finished it while there but I didn't take th...

  The guide asked us to stop in front of this stone fragment on our visit to Ephesus in Turkey.  "What does it remind you of?" she asked.  Not being that sporty I didn't see the connection immediately. But now, I cannot not see it. According to the guide it was the inspiration for a widely recognised logo. Do you see it? It is an image of the Greek winged goddess Nike. She symbolises victory not just in wars but in more peaceful pursuits such as games and athletics.  She is renowned for her speed and strength. I guess the resulting stylised logo ticked all the right boxes.

  In Kraków for a short break we had been making our way to the Oskar Schindler factory which sits alongside the Museum of Contemporary Art.  We chanced upon this painted doorway which certainly catches attention. I knew as soon as I saw it that it would pass the test for inclusion in my photo collection of Closed Openings.  No descriptive words for this one.  Just look at it.  Observe.  Anything come to mind?

Walking a beach today, we came across a group of stones balanced on top of each other. Not a natural formation and clearly someone had found the time to engage in creative effort. How much time? How much effort? No doubt it was a meditation of sorts. Picking the right stones and shells to lend structure and support. The stack looked as if it would topple over at the slightest touch but no…it resisted the incoming waves that washed and frothed around. I stepped into the foam to get a close-up picture. I thought of other times; childhood, when armed with buckets and spades we sculpted with sand. This seemed the product of maturer effort - a rock castle and moat. Later we watched as a small flock of turnstones flew down, plumage the colour of the foreshore, and got busy living up to their appellation, flicking over pebbles in search of food. Did the stack look out of place to the birds? Upset their larder? Not a bit of it, they took it in their glide. A small stone stack, kinder to the en...

  It may have been the light from a sunny day at the beach because a glint of something caught my eye and made me pay attention. Glass. I stooped to look closer and picked up a bottle. Had it been just discarded or washed up? It looked as if it had been buried, brown caked-on sand around its neck, still stoppered. I could feel the embossment on the body and dusting it down could read the details: REGISTERED. WJ. BRIGGS. BELFAST and signed WJ.Briggs. But what did it contain? Holding it up to the light I peered inside hoping to find a roll of paper - a message in a bottle maybe. No such luck, it was quite empty. No hint of or even a trace of whatever liquid it once contained. One thing was sure, it was a glass bottle, dulled by abrasion but clearly vintage. This would-be beachcomber wanted to learn as much as possible about it. Questions surfaced. Why was the bottle here? How come? What was nearby? Who left it, an adult or a child? Does the Briggs company still exist? Where was it? S...

A railway line runs close to the rear of our home. Local and express trains including the hourly ones serving the Belfast/Dublin route hurtle past every fifteen minutes and apart from the occasional sustained warning blast of an air horn we don’t pay them much attention. Visitors to our home are taken aback: “Does that noise not bother you?” It doesn’t. It is simply part of the soundscape of where we live; something we are used to. Our paternal family has close connection with the railway. Granda Christy was a driver on a steam locomotive for the London, Midland and Scottish Railway (LMS) which also operated in Northern Ireland. A story is told of him stopping his engine on the Antrim Coast as he felt that the sound coming back to him from up ahead was not quite right. His intuitive experience was correct, boulders had fallen unto the track. Catastrophe avoided. A close call. Christy TRACEY with his steam locomotive. Photo source unknown. Exterior sounds are one type of resonance and t...

  There are times when I feel that I have to clear out some of my books. It’s not that I no longer appreciate those that I have decided to re-home, it’s more about making more space to let in the new. My latest dispersal included several books not on display but stored away in cupboards. It has been years since I opened them and I decided that they needed a more conscientious custodian.  Use them or diffuse them!  is my new guiding mantra. Mind you, flicking through some that I had earmarked for donation, I found myself rereading. Interest renewed I decided to keep them. They live to light another day. I wondered how much I had invested in the books and did a quick online search to check availability and current values. Even some of my pristine hard covers were only just a few £ pounds and there were loads for sale. So having decided to send the books on their way to new owners, it would be relatively simple and cheap to buy them again if I found I was missing them. Selec...

  Preparing for our trip to the Czech Republic I purchased a copy of Vaclav Havel's Power of the Powerless with an introduction by Professor Timothy Snyder. I've made this contract with myself that wherever I go abroad I'll delve into appropriate literature from the country, get a book, bring it with me and read it when there.  A cultural backcloth to the visit. In situ reading. Close to our hotel in Prague we spotted this memorial to the Velvet Revolution and returned to picture it with the book. Power of the Powerless is a challenging although instructive read. Notes: Check out the Vintage edition of the book here. See this related Wikipedia article here. Find the Velvet Revolution Memorial on Národní Trida in Prague

  Sense? Pencil shavings. Trees. Fallen by the wayside. Sawdust. Pooled like blood.

The beautiful church in central France where I met the Refugee Woman and Child I wrote the following poem 50 years ago. Scalded by an experience I found that I could only express my feelings through writing it. Whatever the poem lacks in style and structure, the act of going home and penning it had a powerful effect. Powerful enough to have stayed with me for 50 years. Still vivid in my memory. I had been at a church service in a town in France and during the ceremony a woman, clearly a refugee, head covered in a blanket and carrying an infant made her way up the aisle through the congregation reaching out her hand for money. It was a direct approach to a captive audience. I remember seeing the celebrant taking her to the side and discree tly giving her some money. She hadn’t finished just yet however and continued her path through the church, having much less success with others in attendance. Then our eyes met. The look in those eyes. Defiant dignity. I felt really uncomfortable as s...