Cead Mile Failte

Cead Mile Failte, 2011, gouache, walnut ink and 23k gold leaf on watercolor paper.  @10 x 8"

"Cead Mile Failte"!  In the Gaelic that means "One Hundred Thousand Welcomes". Hence this posting in celebration of Saint Patrick's Day. I love working with Celtic influences in my art, weaving uncial letters with vines and spirals. Maybe it has to do with my Irish heritage, after all, my ancestors on both sides of the family stepped "off the boat" from the old country. I imagine them wide eyed, ready to start new lives in America, and am awestruck that myself, all my siblings and cousins have blood and dna that has travelled across the Atlantic. It warms my soul to know all that history has passed through hearts and veins over a century, shaping me into the person I am today. Add to that the lilting laughter, love of words and music that comes with the culture of the old country and you'd say I'm a lucky girl.

Being of Irish descent, however, brings a big bag of mixed blessings. Historically, the Celts have been cursed with a weakness for potatoes, melancholy and the tendency to imbibe in "the drink". So it seems I was destined to be touched by all three. Perhaps it's by divine will that potatoes have worked their way into, or should I say onto my bones. I love them fried, baked, roasted and of course, mashed with a little butter and milk. However my body does not approve, which brings me to the melancholy.

During my life I have battled bouts of depression. In middle school I had anxiety attacks whenever I took math tests. The births of my babies brought on postpartum depression and psychosis, a small price to pay for bringing two beautiful girls into the world. Menopause has given me much to panic about as hormones wreak havoc on me. All this has been managed with medications, which had the added gift of weight gain and the subsequent need for more potatoes. If I wasn't already affected by alcohol, I would have turned to the drink to deal with my moods. But that was not, nor ever shall be an option.


I grew up in the middle of a classic big Irish Catholic family, fraught with alcohol and the ups and downs that go with it. There was lots of song and drama juxtaposed with bouts of mayhem and madness. The thing about alcohol is that it seeps into the lives of the drinkers, then spreads through the family and into the community. No one is to blame. It's just the nature of "the drink". Though technically I am not an alcoholic, my "holic" is food and sugar, which brings on the melancholy, which in turn calls for a stiff drink. In my case the "drink" is in a Hershey bar or Potato Skins. Thus is the circle of addiction and the Irish. 


I wouldn't be surprised if we as Irish descendants have a genetic predisposition to react to starch in our diet. After all, potatoes are mostly starch, which manifests as sugar, which brings on mood swings and naturally leads to the tendency to "bend the elbow", so to speak. But if that's what comes with my heritage of celtic runes and knotwork, a loud, loving family in which cousins abound, sweet soda bread and Barry's tea, a fondness for little ditties and almost anything green, then I guess the sweet far outweighs the bitter. 


And so I wish you, "Slainte" or Good Health. May you enjoy today and all the rest of your days. Oh, and the luck of the Irish to you.


Thanks for looking,


Claire


p.s. Don't forget to check out my etsy shop.  here's the link,
http://www.etsy.com/shop/clairegriffin164

Just sing...

Just Sing, paint markers, pigma pen, parallel pen on arches watercolor paper, 2012

"Just sing the song in your own heart now... it's beautiful and free, like breathing."


I did this piece recently when I was experimenting with layering and texture. I started with the word, sing. I don't know what it is about that word that strikes a chord in me. Maybe it has to do with the role singing and music played in my family when I was younger, and even now. I know, I'm a calligrapher, but I come from a family of singers. You could call us the poor man's Irish American Von Trap Singers.


My folks didn't sing, but they encouraged music appreciation in myself and all my siblings from an early age. I can remember piling into the station wagon on Thursdays for our weekly invasion of the South End Community Music Center. With various instruments in tow, we'd march through the doors and find our spots in the big room where book bags were planted like flags to mark territory. Then came the lessons. Violin, piano, flute, recorder and solfege (rhythm, sound and and music exercising). Running up and down the stairs from room to room, we were like crazed sports jocks, only our equipment included horse hair bows and music books. Then of course there was the weekly search for missing violin cases, school books, borrowed pencils and the occasional family member. All the while my mom remained calm and carried on, as the Londoners did during the blitz of World War 2. When the lessons were over and the final check was made; kids, instruments, homework and the occasional rogue shoes from last week, into the big old wagon we were packed again. Off we'd go to either Regina's in the North End after we'd pickup dad at work downtown, or to the brand new Burger King in East Milton. Either place was heaven to us!  Those were wild times.


I'd like to say that all those Thursday lessons led to a career as a virtuoso violinist or soprano, but I decided to become a visual artist. Maybe it was all the raw garlic my elderly violin teacher chewed while leaning over my eight year old shoulder, or the flute that I could never make a sound on because I couldn't breathe through my upper lip. I realized that the song of my own heart was meant to be sung with a paintbrush or pen. And sing I did, in my own way. After highschool, where I was in chorus for only one year, a scandal in a family where the daughters sang for the four year stint, I moved on to Mass Art. It was not an easy journey. I had to prove myself. But I traveled to my own tune, graduated with a BFA and started my life as a graphic artist.


Over the years I've continued to sing occasionally with my sisters and brother. It surprises me how much I can still retain from my years at the Music Center. Many of my siblings have continued their pursuits of music and it shows, which can sometimes prove intimidating. I chose to be an artist, but still feel that magic when we come together, and despite the arguing and occasional memory loss, we've been able to sing at each other's weddings, anniversaries, special occasions and as we age, even funerals. It's a way that we connect with each other and a joy to my folks. In the end, that's what it's about to me. When we sing from the heart, though we may be out of tune, the feeling is always right.


Yes, music is like breath to my family legacy. In and out of our hearts and lungs it flows and dances across our history, and will continue as an instrument of our future, in song, on canvas or on paper. Now whether we can all stay in rhythm and work out the dissonance, that's something that requires some improvising.


Thanks for looking, and check out my etsy store...


http://www.etsy.com/shop/clairegriffin164


Claire