A Secret Date | A Guest Post by Sinead Kelleher
'I kissed my husband goodbye and, as far as everyone knew, headed out the door for work.'
As you may know, I recently had a new baby. As such, I’ve cut down slightly on my workload, thanks to some incredibly talented writers who have lent me their skills for a series of guest posts.
Today’s, by Sinead Kelleher, is an evocative look at the importance of dedicating time and space to oneself. Sinéad is a teacher and mother of five living in Co Laois. She mainly writes poetry about life and motherhood, with an occasional fictional piece. You can subscribe to her Substack here.
I woke to the buzzing of my alarm, silencing it before it woke one of the small humans, or the one larger one, occupying my bed. Almost immediately I felt the butterflies rise in my stomach. Today was the day.
At the kitchen table I wrote my morning pages, brimming with excitement, the longing dripping from every word. Doing my best to keep my composure I completed the daily tasks: lunches, nappies, water bottles, homework folders, matching socks and winter garments.
When all the children were ready and settled in front of the television, I started to get myself dressed. My carefully selected outfit lay on the stool in the wardrobe – a fine knit, faux leather skirt, barely black tights and over-the-knee boots. Professional enough to be a work outfit, but perfect for a day date. I applied my make-up, an extra spritz of perfume, kissed my husband goodbye and, as far as everyone knew, headed out the door for work.
By now, I was abuzz with delight. With a 20oz coffee and the adrenaline of a perfectly kept secret flowing through my veins I made my way to Kilkenny.
My heart thumped as at 9.30am my phone rang: Husband. I declined the call, lest he realise I wasn’t in my classroom, instead ensconced in my car on a secret, sordid little adventure. I arrived early, parking in Dunnes Stores car park. I strolled around the shop, passing time until 10am. Google Maps brought me over the river, down a lane and there I was.
Self-conscious at first, I ran to the bathroom. Fixing my hair, reapplying my lipstick, taking a deep breath. I was here. I was committed. I walked to reception.
“Is it your first time?”
“Ah, yes. My first time here.”
“Well let me show you where to start. Are you out for the day or on a tour?”
“I’m actually on an Artist Date, ah, with myself. And it’s a secret, so it’s more like an affair really.”
Without missing a beat, this complete overshare – uncomfortable laughter and all – was accepted with delight.
“Well, let me take you through to the Digital Gallery. It’s a reel showing the house before it was renovated.”
I was advised on what route to take and what I would see, then left in my own company to soak up the beauty. I sat alone on the bench in the dark room in a state of pure ecstasy. This was living.
After watching the reel – a beautiful, artistic piece, showing the house in a liminal state, using open doorways, windows and light to tell its story – I set about exploring the gallery.
The Butler and O’Malley collections upstairs were a delight. Pretty watercolours detailing the estate gardens leading in to darker, shadowy prints, paintings and sculptures. I was engrossed, gorging on the beauty, allowing my creative soul to be filled with the offerings of the artists.
When eventually I descended the stairs heading for the main gallery I was almost floating above the hardwood floors. Reunited with my tour guide, I was gifted the reference sheet for the exhibition. Not the norm, as I was informed, a nod to a fellow creative type.
The space – a stark, brilliant, white, room adorned with artworks from Ciara Roche’s exhibition, honeymoon. This was why I was here. When I first decided to take myself out on an artistic adventure I sought guidance from experts on the subject, namely the members of
’s Death is Coming group.Aoife Herrity, an artistic authority, sent me the link to the Butler Gallery and I knew it was fate.
I won’t detail the paintings, but I will tell you that the depth of emotion I felt as I walked among them was overwhelming.
Such is the power of Roche’s work that, as I stared into the scene of The Front Room, I’m sure I saw a raindrop land on a windowpane, as sure as I am that I saw a curtain billow in the breeze of Venue Bedroom.
As I gazed at each painting, I felt the presence of the people who lived there, but were curiously absent from each piece.
Claire Keegan described it beautifully: “There’s no fear of crowds or any form of overcrowding in these works, not a citizen to be seen – and yet, despite this, it sometimes feels all too peopled…”
Claire has written an accompaniment – a review of sorts I suppose – that sums up my exact experience of the exhibition more succinctly and beautifully than I could ever hope to achieve. So I’ll move on, but not before I implore you to visit, to experience the work for yourself.
I was once again recalled to reality when another frantic phone call from Himself had to be answered. I should explain that he was going away for the weekend, a trip with the boys across the pond to soak up, well, alcohol.
The back and forth of wife and husband at a time like this is trivial, but necessary: “Where are my socks?” “I bought a new bag.” “Will you send me pictures of the kids?” “I’ll do a voice note for saying goodnight.”
I sat, then, in the café, having bought myself a new notebook (one must mark a significant trip with the purchase of a notebook). I drank coffee, wrote some words, looked out the window at a pair of cats that surveyed the world from an apartment across the way. After one more walk around the exhibition I thanked my guide profusely, promising a return visit as soon as I could arrange it.
As I walked through the gates, shouts and laughter of children filled the air to my right. I smiled to myself as I thought about the responsibilities I had shirked to serve my own creative whims. The bell rang out as I crossed the river, calling the laughing children from their games.
With less than an hour before I had to get back into my car I was at a loss as to how to fill my time, but a pop-up gallery upstairs in Dunnes proved an unexpected dalliance. I saw these beautiful pieces, and then myself.
I idled around the streets, a person most un-used to idling. I saw myself in every mother, in every bustling shopper, in every purposeful walker, and I knew what they saw, and felt, as I idled by. One last, longing look at the river and I headed for home, stopping to make another quick phone call “on my lunch break” to say my goodbyes.
I returned to an empty house, my cup more full than it has been for a long time.
I was meant to stumble across this post this evening. I have an unexpected offer for the baby to be minded tomorrow and wanted to do something purposeful but not practical (the urge to be productive is strong). Butler Gallery is a 10 minute spin from my home. Might even buy a new notebook …:.: