On a groggy Tuesday, “Lovers, Strangers, Friends”, slapped me awake with refreshing inspiration. The small, rectangular book sat on display in the LAB Gallery. The cover featured a black and white wedding photograph from the early 19th century. Each of the eleven figures in the photograph had sparkling dabs of black glitter covering their face; preluding the weird, often disturbing content within.
What struck me most about this book was the mysterious way the content of each story mirrored my emotions that morning. A disastrous Tuesday was foreshadowed by a horrible night sleep. I estimated four hours of sleep before an 8 AM alarm forced me out of my cozy nest.
I began the most mentally disengaged day of my trip with a walk to the LAB gallery; kept alert only by headphones blaring triumphantly dark guitar riffs. I sat down for a general discussion of art in Dublin. I heard little, I felt beat-down, sick of the city and sick of school. I remained asleep with eyes open until my writing professor, LeAnn, placed the charmingly handmade book in my hand.
“He stepped off the bus and hitched his bag over his shoulder, accidentally hitting the guy getting off behind him. He muttered an apology and moved away, not really thinking about what direction he went”. The opening line of Niahm Connaghan’s, “Anonymous”, captured the dark, cynical mood that had infected my morning.
I was so enthralled by these sick twisted tales; eagerly devouring each climax, inevitably ending in despair. “Lovers, Strangers, Friends, was the brainchild of visual artist, Martha, who recruited writers off the internet to write a poem or short story inspired by an image she had created, recycled, or distorted. Response was overwhelming, 60 writers wanted to partake. Martha cut down participants to be featured in the final piece. Two books, identical in content rested on a virgin white table in a corner of the gallery. Above in a horizontal line were each of the visual pieces that inspired the stories.
The theme of the book was clearly Dublin, more generally city living. It highlighted the sense of despair, of complete and total loneliness one can feel while surrounded by 1.5 million people. A country boy at heart, this feeling resonates with me, especially on a worn and depressed Tuesday morning.
“Anonymous”, was the only tale that ended remotely happily. The main character, who represents all of us city-livers, moved through a day with meaningless interactions, a ghost in living flesh, until he met a woman named Emma, in an empty pub. A gently and inspiring reminder brightened my day; all it takes to slap any person back into living like it matters is a warm smile, a firm handshake, and the gift of sharing your lonely evening with another soul, lost and suffocated in a hostile terrain of cold concrete. To find such beauty in unexpected art is an incredible reminder to live everyday with eyes wide open.