In the mid-2000s, I went to Ireland. I bummed around in the Republic and then took the train north to visit my friend Carrie and her husband Anthony. They lived in Belfast, in the Catholic neighborhood always in the news in the 70s and 80s. You could feel the tension in the air, still, particularly because every other house is emBLAZONED with gigantic very very detailed “graffiti”. Carrie and Anthony, longtime dissidents – no other word for it, considering the general atmosphere (for which they have paid a hefty price), welcomed me into their home. I called Carrie from the train station telling her I was about to hail a cab. She gave me brief directions, saying, “Tell him to take a right when he sees the chicks with the guns.” I had no idea what she was talking about, but I filed it away, Okay, that sounds alarming, but okay …
As the cab trolled through the warren of streets, suddenly I saw:
I don’t know about you, but that looks like a bunch of chicks with guns.
I am sure there are photography books about the graffiti in Belfast, which occupies its own unique category. It can’t even really be called graffiti. It’s much much MUCH more aggressive than that. TWe took a walk in their neighborhood, and suddenly you’d turn a corner and see …
Just a regular person’s house with that on the side.
A couple days later, Carrie and I were out for a walk, and we passed the Sinn Féin offices. There was actually a news truck outside which got Carrie – a journalist and activist – curious. She walked over to ask the crew, who were just hanging around the truck smoking cigarettes – what might be happening. She also said to me, “Oh look, that’s Gerry’s car.” Gerry. No last name necessary. On the side of the Sinn Féin offices:
That same day, they took me to Milltown Cemetery, where Bobby Sands is buried. The cemetery that was also featured on the news throughout the 70s and 80s, with lengthy processions, everyone bristling with armory, pall bearers wearing ski masks, and violence often breaking out. It was quite something to get to see it at last. Anthony knew Bobby Sands. They were in prison together. Anthony was on the blanket protest. So this was a personal pilgrimage for him too and it made it special, almost holy, for me to be visiting the cemetery with Anthony. Carrie and Anthony’s two small children scampered around among the graves, laughing. Anthony said, and he was in tears, “Bobby said what our revenge would be. Listen to the laughter. It’s here right now.”
And then we came across a phantasmagorical wall covered in furious mural art.
I honestly didn’t take that many pictures in Belfast. None of Carrie and Anthony. None of their kids. I wish I had been more alert to photographic possibilities, but I guess I was just too engaged and involved.
