(Re)collection: Echoes and Perspectives Written in 2020

Reimagine, Remake, Replay (RRR) is a project that connects young people and museums across Northern Ireland in meaningful ways. It enables participants to interpret and respond to museums' collections through creative approaches and the latest digital technologies.

It is led by a consortium including Nerve Centre, National Museums Northern Ireland, Northern Ireland Museums Council and Northern Ireland Screen, and is funded by the National Lottery Heritage Fund’s Kick the Dust programme.

About the Booklet Design The cover of this book and the design within it have been created to reflect the more structured nature of the lockdown of late 2020/early 2021.

The shapes on the cover correspond to the cover of ‘Virtually (Re)Writing History’, the first RRR Writing Programme booklet. (If you haven’t checked out the first booklet, find it online or in the Ulster Museum!)

Taking the soft, organic shapes of its cover and replacing them with more rigid, uniform and geometric shapes, we wanted to highlight the differences between the two separate eras of COVID-19 lockdown. While the first lockdown was scary, chaotic and new, this later lockdown was more defined, organised and predictable.

The group of participants that created this book collectively decided to group the pages by the type of writing that was created. You’ll also notice that the colours of the writing and decoration on each page correspond to the area of the museum where they belong. We have included a museum map at the back of this book so you can walk through the museum when it is open again and connect with the works that connected us to our past.

I hope you enjoy flicking through this book and discovering some of the heritage that has inspired us during lockdown!

-Hannah Sharp, RRR Core Participant

Contents Foreward

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History Poetry Hidden Symbol of Sin

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Bizarre Silk and Circumstance

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A Public History

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The Skipping Rope

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Poem on Picture House Queue

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Achill Island

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Brigit, Our Idol

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Museum Labels Iompraímid Prátaí

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Big Fight

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George Hackney photo

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Westwood Corset

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Leaving Home

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Pincushion

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Blog Posts Travel and my Pursuit of Museums, Heritage, and Culture

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Back to the Future

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Quests in Quarantine

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Lesbians and the Easter Rising

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People, Art, & 2020 Taught Me How to Live

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Contributors

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Museum Map

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Foreward

Ciaran O’Sullivan

As Northern Ireland went into yet another lockdown, some of us were blessed with the opportunity of taking part in Creative Writing at the Museum, a programme organized by Reimagine, Remake, Replay - an initiative designed to reignite the importance of culture and heritage within youth today. What followed was (Re)Collection: Perspectives in 2020, an assortment of creation which reflects the sheer talent of those who took part in the programme. Engaging with ekphrastic poetry, dipping our feet into the nuances of exhibition design and deconstructing museum labels are amongst the many activities we enjoyed.

Firstly, thanks must be given to each and every one of the organizers: Stephen, Clodagh, Hannah and, of course, Niamh. Guys, without you, this programme would not have been so enjoyable. Continually showing bright, quirky, and welcoming faces. You inspired much of the work as you did organize it. And, despite not having the physical museum, you invited the experience into our homes, making it a unique and wonderful interaction.

would think that the lack of a museum would be a problem. It wasn’t. With the virtual museum we were challenged in a fun and interactive way to create.

And, did we! Inspirations included: corsets and pincushions, cottages and carvings, and, incredibly, the lesbians of the Easter Rising! Truly an assortment of diverse interests.

Personally, I joined the programme with the hope of rekindling a fire once lit and since smothered. I was not expecting to find a refuge, to find an escape not just from the trappings of COVID but an escape from the mind and an escape to the soul. The work we did, reflected throughout this publication, was both enlightening and inspiring.

Finally, each Thursday night, a group of young, creative minds gathered on zoom for an escape from the monotonous banality of lockdown life.

Guided by our trio and some of Belfast’s most interesting minds, we created a publication which underlines a tumultuous period of time in our lives. I urge you to keep this in mind whilst reading, as these pieces are literal echoes of an era.

Indeed, in a programme dubbed Creative Writing at the Museum, one

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Poetry

The Lovers' Whirlwind, Francesca da Rimini and Paolo Malatesta William Blake (1757-1827)

Hidden Symbol of Sin Rose Winter Since their wedding day, a William Blake print has hung in my parents’ bedroom.

They aren’t mad about art, not people who walk through galleries.

The original hangs in a city neither have ever been to.

It must have been a gift.

Canto V from Hell.

That’s what Blake was going for here.

Driving home the point that love=sin.

Dante fainted at the sight of it, he reminds us.

The painting’s fame has only come to me in the last year, from a moment studying Blake in a university class; the only thing I could remember about him after was that he was a hoarder of art himself.

But my parents do not hoard art like Blake, they might not even know who this scene was dreamt up by.

Instead it is a strange symbol in our house, strung constantly in a different place.

Every time we move.

Sometimes I feel that I am not meant to have seen it.

I think we all might, in some small ways, hang the fainted Dante in the hall.

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Poetry

Bizarre Silk and Circumstance

Rebecca Jane McMonagle

I carry the weight of a small child, born of woven silk and pinned in gathers, like a partially unfurled chaperon; it rests on the small of my back.

A Huguenot’s hands, nails trimmed and clean, finger the lace upon my chest; he pricks my bosom, frees a pin, and slides it neat between his teeth.

Inside the sleeve he fits a frill that ring-a-ring’s around my wrist, scratching poppies on my skin; they complement the silk, whose rash of flowering trees bedeck my shoulders to the hem: brown stems of blues and pinks and leaves that rustle without wind

in ten pins time he’ll mistake her face for mine, its blues and pinks, and all my green, no longer hidden, instead wrapped around my punctured chest, for we are cut from silk the same: same eyes, same cheeks, same name—woman.

But ten pins time I still remain, my virgin hands choked in frilly fetters while her dirt lined fingernails do; if I had a basin I could shed my silken skin, slip underneath a gown I’d choose.

dance in dirty working fingers, ten spindles made of bone; a woman knelt in deference, the blues of our quiet eyes catching glimpses as the tailor works at my behind; perhaps work blossom her cheeks, or moves her chest so her green bodice rises, as I think of ways to slip her underneath.

The tailor labours at my hips with a pin for every minute, careful not to pierce his train lest he should make his woven child into a tutor bonnet or a liripipe; ten pins time the tailor takes to grope his child into existence; I plan ten pins time for my escape— take her grubby hands upon the floor between my own nails clean, trick our bodies into weaving, slide out from underneath the first of bundles I must bear;

Mantua, c. 1730s 5

Poetry

A Public History Rachel Hasson As we approach a new year, I have been thinking of all that I will leave behind here, In the past, That very word in itself, strikes me with emotion, unrelenting.

As someone who likes to write, No, as a writer, And as someone who studies history, The past is a concept not unfamiliar to me.

If we take a step back, To something more simple, Or seemingly so about the past, We may find ourselves in Public history.

As we enter a new room of a museum, we enter a new world, Well, an old world, A world that we would otherwise not be walking through, And never in their footsteps, But here, we can, We can through depictions and facts and imaginings, Almost touch the past To some, this may seem nonchalant Why focus on the past when we are living in the now?

In museums of art, of history, In objects, illustrations, exhibits, Are where we find our answers.

Truly there is no such experience as beautiful as gaining knowledge, Inviting perspective, And seeing things for more than what they present as.

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Poetry

The Skipping Rope, George William Russel (1867-1935)

The Skipping Rope Rian Connolly The villagers must’ve likened us to fairy folk casting a spell We pranced in circles, chanted silly rhymes Under Slieve Donard’s shadow and the rising full moon Kissing our faces and the sand with its glow In turns we skipped faster and jumped higher with each swing of our rope Excitement was racing through our blood and into our dizzy minds It numbed the pain from the sharp stones and broken seashells And the troubles we had left at home But soon those troubles crept up on us with each searing jab beneath our feet Time seemed to speed up again as we grew tired Our heartbeats died down with our laughter Until we could hear nothing but the Irish Sea crashing beyond the sand dunes The light of the moon illuminated our path back to the village But it didn’t have the same intangible warmth as it did earlier We treaded back along the beaten track with sore feet, but to no dissatisfaction I lay in bed that night, promising myself that I would never forget our dance under the moon

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Poetry

William Conor (1881-1968) Picture House Queue (1930-34) (Shankill Road, Belfast) © The Estate of William Conor

Poem on Picture House Queue Hannah Gallagher The painting used to hang up in the hallway of our old house, A print of the William Conor painting.

I was a child, and so were they.

I remember studying it closely, The happy faces rendered in browns and oranges.

One of them looked shyly up at the painter, confused by who he was.

They are from another world, One that doesn’t exist anymore.

I can still go to a matinee.

I can escape from life for an hour and a half, And come out, dazed, into the still bright world.

And they stay there, in the oil paint, Forever excited in the picture house queue.

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Poetry

Robert Henri (b. 1863) Cottages, Achill Island, Co. Mayo 1913

Achill Island Ciaran O’Sullivan Does he suffer from the Same nostalgia, as I do?

Endless bogland, Sheep barricading the roads.

Disappearing and reappearing beaches.

And, does he, like Gráinne Mhaol, Yearn for an Atlantic view.

For a whipping wind Which leaves salt upon the tongue.

The Minaun looms large, Over our island, Like a moment of solace.

It protects us from the storm.

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Poetry

Brigit, Our Idol Rose Winter

(I) She has old hands that look lined from here.

I am standing here hoping that she looks at me looking at her hands.

This woman who we know as friend, wisdom giver, maker of golden thread, apparently she will become saintly in time to come.

Not just in word but in deed, in the circles that people will trace around their homes in honour of the past that is still our now, and her now.

They will do a strange dance across the country in the coldest days of the year.

All to prove they know her story.

But the thread still runs through her aged hands for now, waxen and thick.

Here is a thing that surprised us when the time came.

On Imbolc eve in time to come, there becomes a tradition to treat girls the same as men, as if it is a departure from the normal.

Not as if.

It is. ( II ) I will give her old hands.

I am sick of the image of saint, of woman.

As young and smooth and unlined.

With infinite energy.

My own hands grow furrowed, so my heroine will share in them.

People forget somehow that with the signs of age come accomplishments, knowing things.

The things that we wait for in our youths.

The things we wanted to know and were scared of too.

It Was Brigit Wove the First Cloth In Ireland (1918) Anne Marjorie Robinson (1858-1924)

They paint saints and mothers out of the female form, unblemished and unreal.

As if the years wouldn’t have taken their dues.

It is an offence, in my eyes, to paint the women younger than they would have been to have done what they have.

I will remake the image of saint, then, of woman.

So, yes, her hands will be old

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Poetry

Carrying Potatoes (1939) (near Ballyclare, Co. Antrim) William Conor © The Estate of William Conor

Iompraímid Prátaí Rebecca Lynas Content. Some may say blissful Concerned only with today’s harvest.

A brisk walk up the mossy bank Bringing home the winnings.

The breeze whispered in my ears And the over-hanging branches swayed in its song Step after step, the basket lulling idly between us On the return home.

Halt. The wind’s wail reminded us of the urgency The emerald isle’s silence disturbed by the faint sound of infection.

We were so unaware of the emergency present in the setting sun, As the failing light closed in around us.

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Museum Labels

Rita Duffy (b. 1959) The Big Fight, 1989 © courtesy of Rita Duffy

Big Fight Ciaran O’Sullivan A timely reminder of the grotesque nature of violence.

A bloody mess smeared across the ancient canvas, the two men were locked tooth and nail. Sweat hung in the air. With a breath of indignation, St. Patrick watched on.

Had he driven all the snakes out?

As if in reply, the crowd hissed. He scoured the faces, old and young. It didn’t seem to matter.

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Museum Labels

George Hackney Photo Rian Connolly Hope you don’t mind getting frog spawn in your underpants to capture this one! When Belfast man George Hackney was sent off to the frontline in 1915 he took his camera to war with him. And as a result he became known locally for his candid photography documenting life in the trenches with his fellow comrades (don’t worry, nothing about bad hygiene and living conditions as you’d probably expect from the movies). Furthermore when he was en route to the Western Front with his Battalion in July 1915 he snapped this curious but cute little house in a lily pond in Golders Green Park, London. One can only assume the true function of having a house with a moat, for a public park doesn’t offer a lot of cover for one seeking refuge from the German Forces. Perhaps its inhabitant, either a species of water-dwelling poultry or amphibian, was going for a ‘Wind in the Willows’ vibe and wanted to make like Mr Toad? Or it is highly likely to be a Wendy house, for JM Barrie’s Peter Pan was also a hugely popular publication amongst children at the time. Either way, the real mystery is how the pond house stays afloat. Aliens? Time travel? …Time-Travelling Aliens?

Photographic Print (July 1915) George Hackney

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Museum Labels

Westwood Corset Rebecca Lynas Talk about history repeating itself. This 1990 Vivienne Westwood piece is almost an exact replica of a bodice adorned by a woman of the 1700s. The gold panelling and the emblem of the Boucher painting creates a modern interpretation of the grandeur and opulence of eighteenth century fashion. Extravagant as it was, the fashion of this time was restrictive for women, used to display them as hopeful wives and mothers. Westwood’s piece revokes the idea of constricting fashion designed by the patriarchy and uses 1990s feminist culture to rewrite its meaning. Indeed, a modern woman in a corset does not have the same connotations as an eighteenth century woman; she is powerful, emancipated and owns her own bank account.

Boucher Corset (1990) Vivienne Westwood

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Museum Labels

Art

Leaving Home Sarah Kennedy Sold into the European export market c1890 and written from the point of view of the statue leaving Japan:

Ivory Statue Toshimasa

Wanders I away from home The ship is waiting, alone I go.

Not a trace of grief did my father show As he took his money to pay to the debts he owed.

I was taken aboard with my baskets heavy, A gift from my father, forever to carry.

The journey was slow as I lay below, Wondering what land these strangers called home.

My sorrow did grow as we sailed even further, But I find on my basket, the mark of a carver.

A little red crest, it’s all I have left A sign for me and clear to see, So I am reminded and all may know, That distant land I loved so long ago.

(Perspective change) His expression never changes His smile is always sad.

He stares out through eyes of ivory, Thinking of the life he used to have.

He never lets his baskets down, And holds to his chest, the little red crest Of the place he once loved best.

It has been years since I returned from sea, And I wonder if there is somewhere else, My lonely man would rather be.

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Museum Labels

Pincushion Alicia Lagan

As light as a feather, the delicate beads used to embroider this pincushion were chosen carefully in one of Tyrone’s most remote farmhouses. The wife of a reclusive farmer and mother to 7, the unnamed maker of this treasure lives on through her intricate design and the story that accompanies it. Legend has it, that in the summer of 1898, she would sit by her kitchen window, evening after evening. Her children scattered and her husband astray, she had but one companion. The small bird sat on the branch of a berry tree, enveloped in shades of green, blue and red; his presence softened her solitude. Relishing in his quiet company, she thought she should keep him and his amity forever. With beads, thread and sawdust, she did just that, and now he can be shared with the world.

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Blog Posts

Travel and my Pursuit of Museums, Heritage, and Culture Jordan Deering I am sure we can all agree that 2020 has not been the year of travel, adventure and wanderlust that many of us had anticipated. It has proved challenging in so many different ways and for those of us who are globetrotters at heart, we have been left yearning to grab our suitcases, catch a flight, and explore the road not yet travelled.

They always say there are two types of travellers; the holiday makers and the thrill seekers; those that like to go abroad, relax on a beach and sunbathe 90% of the time and those that are non-stop sight-seers, cultural experiencers, and go everywhere kind of travellers. I would most definitely fall into the latter category of travellers; up at the crack of dawn and home well into the early hours of the following morning so I could cram as much into the day as humanly possible!

Not only has the pandemic halted much of international travel for leisure, but it has also impacted the likes of museum goers, with the general public and tourists being restricted entry to exhibitions for a large proportion of the year. These lockdown experiences have made me realise how culturally important these institutions are, as well as and how much I miss visiting them.

For me, travel and visiting museums go hand in hand. I love the whole process of picking which country I am going to

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Blog Posts

visit next, booking the accommodation and flights, and then immediately after seeing what the city has to offer in terms of enriching my cultural experience while there. From the Louvre Museum in Paris and the Vatican Museums in Vatican City, to The Perlan Museum in Iceland, every institution has something to offer and are dedicated to the presentation of historical and cultural information regarding the place it is situated and the people who have lived there.

I was lucky enough to have got away at the beginning of the year before the pandemic caused a national lockdown.

Early February, I had the pleasure of visiting Vienna, a city truly like no other! Austria’s capital, which is situated east on the Danube River, is steeped in artistic and intellectual heritage. This legacy was shaped by residents including Mozart, Beethoven and Sigmund Freud, and I felt like a royal visiting many of its wonderful Imperial palaces such as Belvedere Palace, The Hofburg, and Schönbrunn Palace. I got so much out of Vienna as

it had so much to offer. Even after all of my royal visits to the palaces, I still made enough time to pack in a visit to the Museum of Natural History Vienna, one of the most important natural history museums in the world. Not only are the artefacts within the museums so important, but the history of the museum itself and how it came to be is just as fascinating in its own right.

It honestly seems like only yesterday I was walking around bustling streets, eating in loud restaurants and apologising for squeezing into a space to look at an interesting artefact. One thing for sure is that I cannot wait for the moment when the all clear is given to return safely to the museum. I will most definitely be making sure to spend plenty of time appreciating each and every item on display! With the promise of a vaccine in the next coming months, one can only hope that 2021 will be filled with travel, culture, and lots of exhibitions to explore!

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Back to the Future

through the door, heaving their suitcases, filling the room with hot air.

You look for a latched window to cool down, but there’s not even a porthole with which you could see the sea.

There’s only an unfamiliar unsteadiness as the ship rocks beneath you. It makes your stomach churn.

Rebecca Jane McMonagle The human mind is a time machine.

Often it will move backwards and forwards, through points in our past, like a train along well-worn tracks.

You uncross your legs and place your booted feet firmly on the wellpolished floor, but it does little to stop the swaying; the residual bitter smell of tar, most likely from the cleaner which made the floor glisten, adds to your discomfort. You pinch your nose.

There are stops we visit often—happy birthdays, holidays, nice nights spent with friends and family—and some stops we know like the back of our hand, like every classroom, hall and toilet on the walk from Art to French, in a school we haven’t been inside in years.

The man above you leans over his bunk. You look up at his face, like a bulbous tomato dangling from a vine, ready to be picked. He hasn’t even removed his boots or cap, and he extends his dirty hand towards you by way of an introduction.

Some stops are covered in thick fog that will clear if we give it time, and others inaccessible due to cracked rails or fallen trees. There are some stops we might only choose to glimpse at through the window, and others we pass with our eyes closed and our express tickets clutched tight.

You look up, releasing your nostrils to take his hand in yours. Then he calls hello to the woman on the berth opposite. She hangs her coat on one of four hooks adjacent to the mirror on the wall, then quickly attends to her suitcase. It is full to the brim with clothes and tins, perhaps filled with butter biscuits or jellies, and on top of her clean pants you see a bible, knitting needles and a yarn of wool.

These are the stops of our past, born from experience and preserved in memory.

But our time machines are not limited to personal experience.

Imagine:

Your few possessions rattle off one another as you pull your small wicker suitcase towards you. You take from it a brochure and leaf through the pages to escape your growing sea sickness.

You flick past the first and second class inventory, until you come to a photo that looks exactly like your room. It has a mirror and four bunks, with a red and white blanket spread out over each. The shared cabin is

You yelp as needles of straw escape through your mattress, pricking your backside as you sit down; you are sitting on your assigned bunk—the bottom berth in a room of four.

Outside this room of white walls you hear footsteps—heels clicking on the wooden floor, fast patters of tiny feet, and talking and laughing as others find their rooms. Three more people enter 19

Blog Posts your home for the next week or so, transporting you and your bunk mates to your shared dream.

The year is 1911. You’re on your way to America.

The human mind is a time machine, built from experience and fuelled by our imagination.

As you read you can feel two eyes on a puffy red face boring through the back of your skull.

Stories make our time machine run best. We can find stories anywhere—in books, videogames and movies; within buildings whose walls would tell tales if they had mouths; in the ancient artefacts displayed in museum cases; and within the stories which make up our lives.

The man above you asks if you have any soap. You check your berth—no soap—only one pillow (also straw, according to your brochure) and one cotton blanket, which rests at the foot of the bed. You consult the inventory on the brochure for any mention of toiletries, to no avail.

There is a story to be imagined for everything—from an Ikea lampshade to a 17th century seal-top spoon. And it’s this ability to invent which allows us to build new stops anywhere along the tracks—backwards to a cabin on a white star liner, or forwards to a cruise ship in space.

You open your suitcase. You pull out your single bar of soap, wrapped in grease proof paper. The man’s black embedded fingernails reach out towards the soap. You want to give it to him, but a fear that it might not be returned grips you.

As you run your fingers over the paper wrap, you stroke tenderly the writing noting where it was made; the same place where you were made.

So let our time machines travel forward, past the uncertainty of the present and the challenges of our recent past, to stops where we have sculpted our own visions of the future.

Let ourselves go there, from time to time, to seek refuge or motivation, as the present works to catch up.

You know you may not see it again.

It’s a chance you are willing to take.

You place the soap in the man’s palm, and he takes it without a word.

The ship rumbles and with a jolt of motion your nausea returns. You remove your scuffed tawny Oxfords, lie down, then unfurl the blankets around you. The heavy sheet envelopes you tightly, like the hugs from your family on the dock. You look down at the blanket, its pattern now revealed; on it is a cluster of red flowers embroidered on white, and in the middle there are three words printed in bold. They read:

The human mind is a time machine.

The human mind is a hope machine.

RMS Majestic 3rd Class cabin, 1922.

From the Paul Lauden Brown collection.

WHITE STAR LINER 20

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Quests in Quarantine

Alicia Lagan

their own. So what I’m wondering is, just how did people cope, when spending so much time alone with themselves or in close quarters with others?

“My alarm goes off. She marched into my room, as she had done every day for the past 62 days.

I lay there for another few moments.

But what am I doing? I have Love Island Australia to watch. Why else would I wake up today?”

Coping mechanisms are a part of life.

They may not be strikingly obvious, but everyone has a way to get through.

Although how we spent our days in lockdown may appear dull and terribly ordinary, there’s one thing we can’t forget. We are living through history, and every habit, every instant, every pastime, is a moment to be immortalised both in memory and in print.

I know you’re tired of hearing the word ‘unprecedented’. But that’s exactly what it is.

This year has been un…no, I won’t use that word. It has been unforgettable.

When the coronavirus pandemic spread across the world in early 2020, we watched the news in horror. But that’s the thing – we didn’t think it would go further than the news. In Northern Ireland, similar sentiments spread across the counties. “It’ll never come to us”, “It’ll never happen to me.” So, with that outlook, many people went about their daily lives… only to be rudely interrupted.

So that’s exactly what I’ll do, and I hope many others will do the same.

No Snapchat Memories: Just Real Ones Almost every day, a Snapchat memory mockingly reminds me of the life I led in 2019. Almost every day, I see that exactly a year ago I was having fun, seeing friends, seeing family, going on nights out, and maybe even going on holiday. If someone travelled back in time to 2019 and told me what 2020 would hold, I would have panicked and began to mourn my social life.

For me, this interruption came in early March. When I found out that someone in my family was sick, I didn’t think much of it. Little did I know, that weekend trip home from my student house in the Holylands would be the last one for some time.

First came isolation, then came lockdown…and then lockdown, and lockdown, and more lockdown.

But the opposite became reality. I did not mourn for anything, but instead, was thankful for the time that I got to spend with my family, and myself. I am not saying this year has been without its horrible pitfalls – but a mixture of coping mechanisms and realizations has made me so incredibly glad that 2020 was exactly the way it was.

By absolutely no means were any of my experiences unique. Millions of people across the globe found themselves in a similar position; stuck at home, stuck with family, stuck on

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Blog Posts My 21st birthday was spent with my family in my garden, instead of in Limelight. My days with friends were spent on socially distanced walks in the countryside, instead of in our student house. Learning to throw my plans to the wind and to appreciate the tiniest things is something about 2020 that I’ll never forget.

As extensions of my family, my dog and cats transformed my lockdown experience. They provided friendship in every moment of uncertainty; they joined me in adventures in the fields surrounding my home; they helped me connect with nature and the true spirit of living when everything we knew about life was stripped away.

The First Day: March 2020

Each intricacy, each memory, each and every moment of comfort provided by these creatures added a sense of stability to minutes, days, and months of instability.

Some days were darker.

I lay down in the backseat of the car.

It’s been 7 hours, I think.

Coping mechanisms are just a part of life. In our world of technology and connection, a crisis forced us to connect in old and new ways. Our days at home threw us back into the past, merging our advanced ways of being with primitive instincts; our days at home propelled us into the future, into a new way of being, merging our old selves with the difficult realities we learned along the way.

It’s so cold. I zip up my fleece and put the hood up. It’s my blanket for the night that didn’t really feel like a night at all.

Time had stopped, I swear. I was in that car for simultaneously 10 minutes and 10 hours.

Some had been waiting even longer. 11 cars sat in this dystopian queue, waiting desperately for news about the health of themselves and their loved ones. Coronavirus had been in Northern Ireland for mere days, and the unknown was the scariest part.

As the ominous trees around us merged into dark figures, the tiniest things meant everything once again.

Creatures and Companionship When the world entered lockdown in 2020, one coping mechanism flooded social media and camera rolls far and wide. Images of pets – dogs, cats, goats, the list is endless – became a symbol of companionship during a time of fear.

Magic, rustling through the scattered leaves, followed me. And magic is exactly what she is.

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Lesbians and the Easter Rising Hannah Gallagher Constance Markievicz told a crowd in 1913 that there were three great movements in Ireland, the national movement, the women’s movement and the industrial movement, ‘all fighting the same fight, for the extension of human liberty’. She could not have said it at the time, but there was another fight as well, the beginning of a gay rights movement.

Markievicz’s own sister, Eva GoreBooth, was in a relationship with another woman, Esther Roper, who was a suffragist and social justice campaigner.

Kilmainham Gaol with her girlfriend, Madeline ffrench-Mullen. Kathleen and Madeline lived together for the rest of their lives.

As I read more about the Easter Rising, I discovered a huge number of women who loved women who took part, with some even participating in the Rising with their girlfriends.

Margaret Skinnider was a maths teacher who was born in Glasgow. She learned to shoot in a rifle club set up by the British, to train women in case Britain was invaded. She smuggled bomb making equipment to Ireland before the rising. During the rising, she worked as a sniper and a message runner. While delivering messages on her bicycle, she often dressed in the uniform of Na Fianna, the Irish nationalist version of the boy scouts.

She was seriously injured, being shot three times. She met her partner, Nora O’Keefe, in 1917 in New York, and they lived together until O’Keefe’s death in 1962. Skinnider would spend much of the rest of her life fighting for the rights of women teachers.

Who were these women? And how do they manage to bring together many of the major movements of early twentieth century Ireland?

Dr Kathleen Lynn is one of the better known women of the Rising. She was the daughter of a Church of Ireland clergyman, and her experiences growing up in Ireland after the Great Famine made her interested in the conditions of the working class. She joined the Irish Citizen Army, and was chief medical officer during the Rising.

After the Rising she was imprisoned in

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Blog Posts Elizabeth O’Farrell took part in the Rising as a nurse, and is known for going with Patrick Pearse to surrender to the British army. In the famous picture of his surrender, Elizabeth O’Farrell’s feet and skirt are just visible.

Julia Grennan, who was with O’Farrell in the GPO, wrote of her fear, seeing Elizabeth go out into the bombarded city. Julia Grennan and Elizabeth O’Farrell were lovers, and they lived together for over thirty years, and were eventually buried in the same grave.

Perhaps these women were even more interested in the suffrage movement because they had no men in their household, and therefore no representation. Maybe they saw a free Ireland as an opportunity to have a country that had more equality for women. The sexuality of these women was an open secret, the groups that they associated with probably knew about their relationships, but their sexuality is rarely included when telling the stories of these women.

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Blog Posts

People, Art, & 2020 Taught Me How to Live.

Paul McFerran

Well folks, we made it out of the gauntlet that was 2020 and whilst 2021 has already swung some mighty curveballs our way, I think we’ll make it through. I’ve struggled with anxiety, self-esteem, and self-worth, which made for a rough cocktail even before we dove into a literal pandemic. If at the very least, it has given me plenty of time to reflect with myself. I moved to Glasgow in late 2019, and I was meandering in another new city, attempting to pursue a life I could be proud of, and the key word here is attempted because boy, I was burning out even then. Then on March 20th, 2020, we entered a national lockdown.

I was fortunate enough to return home for a time and spend those early days with loved ones, before being thrusted back in the world of hospitality late May. I found myself in Glasgow on my own, a whole city at my doorstep and only a few rooms to spend it in. Small moments added up to inform myself how best to continue in life. The people that I care for and care for me, the art I consumed and the act of enduring 2020 has taught me a lot.

These are a few of the places where I learned those lessons.

feeds daily, as if we were in a refreshed Billy Joel number. Somehow, I felt connected to a world we were all becoming isolated from. We saw the world boil over and bore witness to the harshest realities in the wake of the tragic deaths of Breonna Taylor, George Floyd & Elijah McClain, only to name a few. These incidents caused a union of people to say ‘enough.’

People united to stand for justice under the banner of Black Lives Matter and were met with ignorance, anger, and apathy. Since that summer, people continue to fight bravely under that banner. Still, people have tried and continue to reach out with empathy on a global scale, and it reminds us of the power we have as individuals and a collective, to give breath to the conversations that matter.

Between every news article and event, we filled our time with whatever we could. Two videogames bookended my 2020 experience, Animal Crossing and Hades. Following the Lockdown announcement, we closed-up shop early and I returned home disillusioned. Animal Crossing structured my routine in those early days of lockdown. It was a brilliant way to capture the community we pined

We faced a constant stream of life altering news that popped-up on our

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Blog Posts

for by virtually hopping on a plane and visiting a friend’s island. As the year progressed however, lockdown became more and more difficult.

Hades released in December and paralleled the harshness of 2020. You play as Zagreus, the son of Hades, who attempts to escape the underworld, however upon each death you return to the beginning, only to fight your way through once more. It is in this inescapable hellscape, I was reminded of our lockdowns and found catharsis in tangibly fighting my way through.

sitting in a diner on Christmas Eve, talking about life, addiction, loss.’

(Which to be fair, sounds like a major social event to me right now.) It celebrates that we are here, that we are struggling onward and living. The two laugh and cry in the face of it all, they endure despite it all, and because of it all.

I lost myself in the worlds created by Frank Herbert & Haruki Murakami, in the photography of Vivian Maeir, and the art of Johannes Vermeer, while I yearned for experiences outside my doors. I was fortunate enough to join Ulster Museum’s Reimagine, Remake, Replay where I joined digital classrooms led by talented and skillful teachers. Through RRR I was able to apply these lessons I had learned, and I was met with reinforcement that has been indispensably encouraging. I was burning out over this past year and 2020 taught me to be a little more resilient, and a little more sardonic. It reminded me to follow those passions and to enjoy where I am today, while I’m serving up flat whites for regulars and pursuing whatever is ahead of me.

It reminded me to share the good I have, to let go of shame, and to believe in the process. To witness both, the bigger picture and the smaller day by day. To have mercy on ourselves and enjoy the time we have with people, art and reflection. They can teach us to be better, to ourselves and each other.

By the end of the year, I caught up with probably too many tv shows.

Middleditch & Schwartz, Succession, and Seinfeld were highlights on my small screen; however, it was the first of Euphoria’s Specials, Trouble Don’t Last Always, that struck a particular chord with me, nearing 2020’s close.

Now, all you cool cats out there have either bought into Euphoria’s hype or let that train roll-out without you, but I wholeheartedly implore you to grab a ticket for this episode. Two characters, Rue and Ali, converse in an Edward Hopper-styled diner about mental health, addiction, and the meaning of life. They find meaning in what they have gone through and what they can teach each other, as they grow and attempt to become stronger, healthier people. It boldly proposes how to live life, by seeing the romance in the moments we can. It declares to look at those smaller details: ‘Believe in the poetry. The value of two people

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Contributors

Jordan Mae Deering MA History graduate and heritage enthusiast - has a love for all things historical and a passion for working in the public history sector. Also a lover of travel, chocolate, and cats.

Ciaran O’Sullivan - A lacklustre Mathematician searching for a brighter flame.

My name is Sinead Cameron, I graduated from Queen’s University with a degree in architecture in 2019.

Since then I have been trying to develop my skills in other creative fields, and have exhibited my sculptural work as part of a group exhibition in Platform arts Belfast in October 2019.

Sarah Kennedy - I was surprised at how much I learnt on the programme and the weekly writing challenges have really improved my writing. It’s been great to connect with other young people and explore the different forms of writing associated with museums!

Rose Winter is a final year literature student based in Belfast, but has moved around her whole life. Her favourite things in life are good books, sunny winter days and spending time with her dog whenever she can. At the moment she is really enjoying exploring her shifting relationship with the city of Belfast through poetry and short stories.

Alicia Lagan - I’m a 21 year old Masters student at Queen’s University Belfast, and I found that this programme was a perfect escape from both my course work and the madness of 2020. I love both History and English and RRR provided a perfect combination of both!

Rebecca Lynas - I have recently graduated from Queen’s University in Drama. With the consequences of the recent pandemic, the RRR course has helped keep art in my life and has inspired my creativity.

Hannah Gallagher is a 25 year old Victorian seamstress/museum enthusiast/ghost story writer, who loves most things old, dead and weird.

Rian Connolly is a 22 year old film graduate of Queen’s University, Belfast. When she isn’t watching movies or pursuing creative writing she is probably drawing or painting and struggling to wrap up her Wattpad fanfic of nearly five years. (She also recommends The Queen’s Gambit on Netflix!)

Rachel Hasson is a Second year English and History Student who is learning how to fall in love with writing again.

Rebecca Jane McMonagle - I am a Chemical Engineering Graduate working in Fintech, with a love for reading and writing fiction and poetry. I play violin in the Belfast based Irish Video Game Orchestra (IVGO).

Paul McFerran - I’m from Dunloy but I’m local to where I am now.

I write occasionally and I sell people coffee.

(Please Hire Me)

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Museum Map

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