A message came from a friend, “is this something you’d consider doing?” and a link. A long website with glorious images of one of my favorite places – the west coast of Ireland. Hills that meander to the cliffs and straight off into the sea, flowers that bloom in cold rain, and trees that stand and bend in the fierce wind. History written in stone and salt.
So I did what anyone would do – I figured out how many pennies to save and I said yes.
10 days in Doolin, a tiny village 2km from the Cliffs of Moher.
A retreat of visual artists and poets into a land of inspiration.
Days walking the land and creating in a supportive space.
Nights sipping the water of life and listening to live music ring clear and loud.
I was not prepared for how inspiration would reach up and grab me!
Poll na Brón
A dolman, a passage tomb… it loosely means Hole of Sorrows. It sits on the Burren, a massive limestone formation that resembles the surface of the moon with craters and cracks… but bursts with life in those shadowed crevices.
A Hermitage, and a Holy Well
A long walk toward towering limestone cliffs and wind that could knock a man over… the trees stand there defiant against weather and all who come. I borrowed on their defiance and made the trek and my rewards were bountiful.
The remains of the cottage stood overrun with life and greenery. The cave sat as it always had, quiet and hidden.
Then there was the well. The waters were so quiet in their running that the silence was almost deafening. I dipped my fingers in the crisp pool that rippled in the light and the water was nearly freezing and a balm in the heat of the cloudless sky.
Aillte an Mhothair
I’ve been to the Cliffs of Moher, literally “the cliffs of the ruin”, once before on the northern side. I’ve never been to the visitor center, and I may never go.
The Cliffs I’ve seen have been free of gobs of people.
They are loud with the wind the presses against your cheek and pulls at your hair.
They are quiet with the sway of flowers and the slow crawl of snails.
They are busy with the dance of birds and those damn midges…
I walked 4.5 miles from our hotel in Doolin to our pick up point along the road.
Down 100 feet to sea level and then once on the actual trail, up 550 feet to nearly, but not quite, the top of the cliffs.
It is a climb I never thought I’d do. The steepest uphill was at the end and I thought I wouldn’t make it.
The people I met there, people I now call friend who I didn’t know when I stepped out my door that morning, helped me. They helped me see and take each step.
Old Growth
The last walk I did was in an old growth forest, deep and hidden from the world.
A canopy so dense that the rain didn’t touch us. Moss so soft that the stories of maidens lying down for a nap suddenly made perfect sense. Rocks as smooth as altars and trees standing strong as sentinels… This is a place of magic and I am lucky to have gotten to see it.
Inspiration and Creation
I was seriously unprepared for how creation would flow in a space where my only requirement was to make art. How easy it was to turn the inspiration I was gathering out in the world into art as soon as I got back to the studio and sat with my fellow artists, also making art from our daily inspirational surroundings. How easily the paint would take to the page. How new techniques would take hold easier, how it is to be in a supportive group to bounce ideas and collaborate.
We didn’t spend all our time gathering miles across the landscape – there were art learning sessions. Classes on the basics, rapid fire “speed dating” sessions on portraiture and figure drawing, and hands on materials instruction. I had more honest instruction here than I had in some of my college classes. I was given time and space to learn to be an artist again, to use materials with abandon, to test new technique without fear of ridicule. They’re my friends and we tested the waters together. We learned and stretched and grew as artists.
I’ve never spent so long with only art to do. No cooking, no cleaning, no day job… I spent my evenings in the pub listening to live music and sipping Irish whiskey and Guinness. I laughed and cried with my friends. I sketched and painted until my eyes were blurry and stumbled to bed with paint on my fingers. Even now, sitting in my studio at home, it seems like a dream. Was it real? I have the paintings to prove it was, and the memories to hold on to.
I learned so much.
How important it is to have a dedicated space.
How important it is to have a supportive community.
How important it is to have mental space to see wonder and inspiration.
How important it is to slow down and really look.
How important it is to see.
