Paul Cotter

Titim Icarus - The Fall of Icarus, Katrina Quille 2009

Paul Cotter
Titim Icarus - The Fall of Icarus, Katrina Quille 2009

Ina shaothar maolaithe sonraíoch, cuireann Quille iallach orainn amharc síos ar antalamh ó airde neamhchinntithe (idir grianagus tonn). Ina chuid péintéireachta dethaoidí trá, scrúdaíonnan t-ealaíonóir i ndáiríre doimhne na tanúlachta lasmuighagus laistigh araon. Mar atá sa bhás agus sa bhreith, tá a patrún féin ag an taoideagus ní thig linn a bheith ag dréim le níos mó.Is é an cuar nathairín atá tarraingtheaige ón tulra go bun na spéire a hanatamaíocht. Ach tá iomairí beaga istigh idireatarthu. Agus, macasamhail an tsaoil, is cosúil go ritheann sí go díreach ar feadhseal, go dtionaíonn sí go tobann agus ansin go ritheann sí go díreach arís. Castarbac eile ina bealach a thugann uirthi tiontú arís agus ansin ritheann sí díreachathuair go dtí sa deireadh go dtéann sí as amharc ar imeall an chanbháis. Bhí afhios againn go raibh sruth taoide sna cainéil thirime seo dornán uaireanta ó shinagus anois níl fágtha ach scáileanna spéire atá ag athrú i gcónaí, sna poilllathacha os ár gcoinne.B’fhéidir gurbh é an dóigh a bhfaigheann muid an aithnecheart ar rud ná fríd a éaga.

Sliocht tógtha as aiste bunaidh le John Cunningham.

Quille forces us to gaze down upon the ground from an undetermined height(between sun and wave), in his remarkable, understated paintings. In reality, theartist’s paintings of ebbedtides, explore both outer shallow and inner depth. Indeath as in birth,the tide has its pattern, and we can only hope for as much. Itsanatomy is the serpentine curve that he has drawn from the foreground to thehorizon. But internally it is made up of slight ridges. And much like life, it runsseemingly straight for a while, turning abruptly then runs smoothly again. Thenmeets another obstacle, again is turned and again runs smoothly, until it is sweptacross the canvasto where it can no longer be seen. Hours before we knew thetide flowed through these dry channels, and now all that is left are the reflectionsof the ever-changing sky, in the silting puddles in front of us. Perhaps, part of theway we truly come to know something is through its death.

Excerpt taken from original essay by John Cunningham.

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