8 minute read
With A Flourish
from 2024 RCSI Alumni Magazine
by RCSI
The Association of Medical and Dental Graduates commissioned a spectacular stained glass piece, as a gift to RCSI. The making of Floreat is an interesting story. Antonia Hart reports
In the foyer of the Library, on the second floor of 26 York Street, glows a gift to the Royal College of Surgeons in Ireland from the Association of Medical and Dental Graduates: a stained glass piece, commissioned by the Association from George Walsh. RCSI had a number of stained glass windows already, including a couple from the Harry Clarke Studios, and a trio in the Albert Theatre depicting the history of medicine and surgery, which are also the work of George Walsh.
In 1960, the Association presented a window of the College crest, which is in the President’s Office in 123 St Stephen’s Green. While the new building at 26 York Street was in development, well before the pandemic lockdowns which began in Ireland in early 2020, the Association began turning over the idea of giving another gift of stained glass. The idea, says committee member Amanda Browne (Class of 1994, FRCSI (Ophth)), was to celebrate RCSI, its leadership and achievements locally and internationally, and to honour the connection maintained between it and its graduates. “We wanted a more contemporary piece, to reflect the university in modern times, we wanted to take the traditional from 123 St Stephen’s Green and bring it to the modern building at 26 York Street.”
Browne knew that it would have to be a special artist to take on the project, someone capable and experienced who could develop this contemporary concept. “I started researching, and I came across George, and knew he was the perfect t. I didn’t realise at the time (or perhaps I knew it but it was buried somewhere), that he had already done the RCSI Albert Theatre commission, a stunningly beautiful piece, years ago. But when we put it together, it just made it seem even more right that he should be the one to do this piece. It was a magical fit.”
That the university already had windows from the Harry Clarke Studios meant another lovely link with George Walsh, because George was apprenticed to his father, the stained glass artist George Stephen Walsh, who in turn had been apprenticed to Harry Clarke.
“My father joined Clarke’s, and Clarke sent him to the School of Art to learn anatomy.” This was the Dublin Metropolitan School of Art, later the National College of Art, no the National College of Art and Design. Clarke himself had studied there, and was on the teaching staff. "he was sent there, and he was apprenticed to Clarke, and he worked for Clarke, but do you listen? Of course you don't listen." George Jr. must have listened a bit: later, when his family had moved the family north, to bring a more contemporary influence to the work of the Clokey studio in Belfast, he began his own apprenticeship, which would last for seven years. The family’s next move was to Wisconsin. “I finished my apprenticeship there in the Conrad Pickel studio, where my father loved the work, but he couldn’t take the climate. So we moved back to Ireland, and he started a studio.”
In Ireland, stained glass has traditionally been associated with ecclesiastical buildings, but church building is in decline, and glass panels, walls, windows, installations, and rooflights can be so beautiful that there is a movement towards encouraging architects to incorporate them into secular buildings, both private and public. In a Victorian or Edwardian house, you often see a stained glass fanlight, sidelight, or even a rooflight, and at certain times of the day colour floods into the house, an animation that is an intrinsic part of its atmosphere. The Edwardians, Walsh points out, really thought about these things. In this instance, Walsh’s work did not form part of the architects’ original concept for the building, but it sits beautifully at its heart, still, and yet interacting with the structure. The particular combination of glass walls, doors, and windows which surround it mean it is reflected at differing heights, angles, and intensity on all sides. Everything changes as the light of day and seasons do.
Made in two halves, held within metal frames, it represents the process of the acquisition and transfer of knowledge, in a depiction wonderfully specific to the university, from the motto of the Association, Floreat sodalitas ruat res, and the serpent of Aesculapius, to the hint of the barber-surgeon’s pole. Ribbons of colours stream through the piece, sometimes cutting straight diagonals, sometimes swirling, and they don’t only bring movement and vivid beauty. Their colours also represent the various flags of the 97 nations represented in the university. Political significance aside, flags themselves can often be visually unappealing, and rather literal: here, the colours of the flags are delicately represented. You will spot a little Irish tricolor and a gentle curve of shamrock.
The work is packed with layers of meaning and references, but there’s no fun in Easter eggs if you’re alerted to them, so you’ll just have to hunt them out without clues, and ponder the importance of the hibiscus flower, and the significance of the dates tucked out of sight. All these elements were worked out through a process documented in pages of exploratory sketches George Walsh made along the way. While the shape and composition clearly changed, it’s also possible to trace the constants: the fusion of two parts coming together to make a whole, the transition from darkness into the light of knowledge, the serpent. Initially the tree of knowledge was a key element, at another point it was a more abstract piece, eventually it came into its current form. It’s a huge amount of work, which Walsh says was made enjoyable by the ease of communication, the exchange of ideas, the good humour and the trust that characterised the relationship between him and Browne.
“We get on like a house on fire,” he says of Browne. “So it was great working together, and that makes a huge difference.” Browne agrees that the relationship was key to getting the concept fully developed. “George has such a wealth of experience, and his guidance was so important. We outlined what we wanted, but he put it all together and came up with the final piece, which was in the end so much more than we had wanted. I wouldn’t change an ounce of it, not an ounce.”
Once the design was completed and agreed, Walsh drew the whole thing out at life size and began cutting the glass elements. Meanwhile, Brian Byrne, himself a sculptor at Church Art Metals, made the metal frame and he fitted it in situ. French, English, and German glass is manufactured in colour, so the artist selects from a huge range, and then may add some colour themselves. Walsh explains how in this instance the additions were a black oxide for detail, and a small amount of yellow stain, brushed on and red. “With the pieces of glass laid out on the light table, you can assess whether you need more ring, or readjusting. It’s reasonably simple.” This seems entirely improbable, but Walsh points out that it’s been the same technique for over a hundred years. How does the technique differ from what his father taught him, and from what Harry Clarke taught his father?
“Very little, in terms of manufacture. Clarke’s work is so detailed, and it’s been painted and acided [which is like etching, removing the top layer of colour]. The more modern style is similar, painted the same way, but instead of having lead around it, it’s laminated on the glass with a resin, which gives it a lighter, more contemporary look than leading, which immediately dates it. But it really hasn’t changed much.” Layering glass in appliqué enables the artist to build up differing depths across the piece, and a striking element of this commission is the use of projecting pieces. As you move around, these act like tiny coloured windows, through which you glimpse the changed colour of another piece. e pro le is low, meaning the glass is sturdy, minimising the risk of damage should someone investigate it too energetically.
Ecclesiastical stained glass is usually seen at a distance, and high up, but it is quite different to experience a piece at such close quarters. e glass in churches can o en be dusty and dirty, with colours occluded, and custodians nervous of cleaning it: cathedral windows in France might gather 500 years’ worth of dirt before cleaning and restoration makes them radiant again. The colours now at the centre of 26 York Street won’t deteriorate, they won’t fade or change, but will remain constant over the many lifetimes to come. And the message of the piece will remain constant too. We gain knowledge, we give knowledge back, we bridge the gap between the known and the unknown. Floreat is literally a brilliant gift. ■
