Thursday, July 30, 2015

In Celebration of Lughnasadh

STORIES FROM CELTIC WONDER TALES by Ella Young
Photograph by Denise Sallee
© Denise Sallee 2010

(1910 )
from the tale  THE COMING OF LUGH

The Spear was in the lake then. Great clouds of steam rose about it from the black water. Out of the hissing steam Demons of the Air were born. The Demons were great and terrible. There was an icy wind about them. They found their way into Ireland. They took prey there in spite of the De Danaans. They made broad tracks for themselves. The Fomor followed in their tracks. It was then that misfortune came to the De Danaans. The people of the Fomor got the better of the De Danaans. They took the Cauldron of Plenty and the Magic Harp from the Dagda. They made themselves lords and hard rulers over the De Danaans, and they laid Ireland under tribute. They were taking tribute out of it ever and again till Lugh Lauve Fauda came. 'Twas he that broke the power of the Fomor and sent the three sons of Dana for the Spear. They had power to draw it out of the lake. They gave it to Lugh, and it is with him it is now, and 'tis he will set it up again in the middle of Ireland before the end of the world.




 At the Gates of Dawn: A Collection of Writings by Ella Young. Edited by John Matthews & Denise Sallee 

Friday, July 24, 2015

Friday, July 17, 2015

Returning

Photo by Nuala McNulty. Image by Denise Sallee. 
© Denise Sallee 2015
Ella Young is a character in a novel I am writing. It is very exciting to bring her to life in this way. She has influenced my life in so many ways over the last eight years, not least of all by sending me off to live in Ireland for one very precious year.

I no longer live in an old stone cottage on a hill in North Leitrim. Instead, I find myself in a cozy space on a hill in California where the Pacific Ocean stretches before me to the west and to the south the Santa Lucia Mountains roll down to Big Sur.

Hawks and vultures circle above me like dark shadows against the blue sky. Tall pines stand sentry as they sing their ancient songs, their highest branches nodding to me as I walk among the quail and the rabbits and tall grasses of my meadow.

After a life time as a nomad is it possible to grow roots? Do they even want to find a home here?

Sometimes life hands you circumstances that leave you with little room for negotiation. Responsibilities finally outweigh the dream chasing. And perhaps, when the chasing has ceased, there is time to sort through what remains and hold close that which has always been the constant - the unwavering - yearning of my soul.

Thursday, January 29, 2015

Leave of Absence

I am taking a break from this blog as I pursue some new projects (always with Ella at my side).  
The best way to really get to know Ella Young is by reading her words. 


Available on Amazon and through Skylight Press in England.

Saturday, October 18, 2014

Maud Lloyd is at home here...

“I am staying with Maud Lloyd, the artist, in her house at Inch, County Kerry. It is a strong two-story house built of stone and stands on a hill - the only house on the hill, with no other house in sight.  Far below stretches a whole countryside: the great strand of Inch, the Atlantic a-wash on its borders; the sand dunes; the deep inlet of the sea beyond and behind the sand dunes; the range of Macgallicuddy’s Reeks sharp-pointed against the sky. Maud Lloyd is at home here, for she loves to paint whole ranges of mountains, river-inlets, and meadows.“





Ella Young wrote this in her memoirs, Flowering Dusk, about her friend, Maud LLoyd.   She also describes an adventure the two of them had on Iona and it was Maud who painted Ella's portrait which in her later life she donated to the University of California, Berkeley.  This portrait is on the cover of the anthology of Ella's work, edited by John Matthews and myself and published by Skylight Press. 

I have been curious about Maud since "meeting" her in Ella's memoirs. I did a bit of digging around while living in Ireland and found a few notices from Dublin (1903 and 1904) papers of her exhibiting her work.  Recently I once again took up the hunt and now have a better picture of the artist's life.

Maud Young was born in Christchurch,  New Zealand in about 1870.  Her father, James Herbert Lloyd was an Englishman with a family in banking and the stock market, and a lineage that goes back to Edward I.  James seems to have made an attempt in the business world by going into partnership in Christchurch, but that was dissolved in 1863.  He then married Maud's mother, Elizabeth Mary Oakes, who had family ties to Dublin.  This may be what first brought Maud to Ireland.

Directly after Maud was born the family returned to London.  At least the mother and children returned because Maud's sister Edith was born there in 1872.  At this point I lost track of the family until the 1881 census for England that shows Maud and her sister living in London with Maud's paternal grandfather, James Farmer Lloyd. There is no trace of her parents and her older brother is listed in the census as a student at Oundle School in Northamptonshire.  Maud's parents seem to have dropped off their children and taken a runner.  Perhaps her mother died and her father did what he felt was best for them.  I have yet to discover this mystery. In any case, I think that Maud's unmarried aunt, Julia Lloyd, raised the two sisters. She leaves her estate to Maud and Edith when she dies in 1920. It is this probate record that informs me of Maud's full and legal name:  Georgina Frances Maud Mary Theresa Lloyd.

So Maud grew up and was educated in London. She came from a family of wealth and privilege and in the 1901 census for England she is listed as an "Artist - Sculptor" and Edith is listed as a "Musical Composer."  The Royal Hibernian Academy of Arts, Index of Exhibitors 1826 -1979, Volume II  (compiled by Stewart, Ann M., 1986) has a list of the paintings of Maud Lloyd that they showed.  The earliest exhibit was in 1887 and her address is given at the family home in West Kensington, London.  The two paintings,   A Lonely Home, Ireland  and Evening, Ireland  tell us that by 1887 Maud was already painting in Ireland. She may have been staying with her mother's family or she may have been on her own. 

In 1910, Maud has one painting listed in the catalog for an exhibit in Cork. The work is entitled Dalkey Rocks.  In 1912 she exhibited at the Royal Hibernian Academy a painting entitled  Portrait of Mademoiselle X  and I believe this is the portrait mentioned above of Ella Young.  Maud was known for her landscapes, not her portraits, and Ella's face is not in view.

This image is entitled The Old Village but I do not know its date.  It is the only example of her landscapes I have seen and was included in an auction this past July. 

Maud exhibited frequently with another woman, Elsie O'Keefe, and helped to erect her friend's tombstone when she died in 1948.  I have a feeling I will soon be exploring this artist, as well.

The 1911 census for Ireland, lists Maud as living on her own in Dublin - in St. Stephen's Green. She lists her occupation as "Artist."  

In 1912, Maud was arrested in Dublin for breaking windows as part of a demonstration demanding the vote for women. Maud served a 6 months prison sentence for her action in the name of women's suffrage.  As related by Maria Luddy in the Irish Times

   "Irish suffragists engaged in a militant campaign from June 1912, involving breaking windows in government buildings, and heckling at meetings..When the war ended [World War I], Home Rule for Ireland was on the statute book and in 1918 the British parliament, arguably because of womens war work, granted partial suffrage, confined to those over thirty with a property qualification, to women throughout the United Kingdom."

 Ella Young does not refer to dates in her memoir so it is hard to know exactly when Maud was living on Inch. But I have a feeling that she may have moved there soon after her prison term was over. In any case, she and Ella had adventures together, in Ireland and in Scotland. Based upon letters from Ella to other artists and writers I am quite certain she was very encouraging of Maud's art. Ella would leave for the United States in 1925 and her portrait by Maud came with her.

Maud died while living in an inn near Perth.  Was she only visiting or had she taken up residence there and, if so, why?  And what happened to all her paintings?



Monday, September 29, 2014

A Trip to Tara with Ella Young

From Ella Young's memoirs:

Source: http://www.neheleniapatterns.com/english/fw230.html
    It is an expedition to Tara of the Kings that is dashing along the road from Dublin. It consists of two autos. The leading one, a bright yellow roadster flying two Sinn Fein flags, is piloted by the Countess Markievicz. At top speed it ricochets from bump to bump of a road made for horse vehicles. The expedition was organized by Gavin Arthur whose Irish ancestry claimed him as soon as he set foot in the country.  The second car belongs to him. His young and brilliant wife, Charlotte, is at the wheel repeating, bump for bump, the career of the yellow car in front. Beside her sits the young poet, Lyle Donaghy, somewhat pensive and a little sullen...The back seat holds Gavin and myself. We are exchanging views on Irish history and legend, with pauses to remonstrate with Charlotte on the pace of the car and the frequency of the bumps. Charlotte is unsympathetic...The car in front, every now and then, lets out a joyous blast of its motor-horn; sunshine flecks the road with tree-shadow; the rich pasture land in green undulations  whirls by. Consoled, placated, well-advised we progress from bump to bump...
    [At Tara] We fell to talking of the Stone of Destiny, the Lia Fail, in ancient times one of the Royal Treasures of Tara. On this Stone, according to an old chronicle, the high-kings of Ireland took the oath to their people. When a true and destined king stood with both feet upon the Stone it gave out a deep sound of approval. It roared. Where is the Lia Fail? Tradition, trustworthy or untrustworthy, maintained that Scottish kings borrowed the stone...until Edward the First of England raided Scotland and took the Stone to London. There it was fastened into the Coronation Chair, and English kings were crowned on it...
    “If we could get that Stone,” said the Countess, “the Royal Sovereignty might come back to Ireland.”
    ...I  thought, as I listened, of raids planned by Maud Gonne and Emer Moloney. I called to mind a day, years ago, when I chanced into AE’s house and found AE and Yeats discussing plans for the kidnapping of the Stone. Yeats had a bunch of grapes in his hand, and between mouthfuls detailed an elaborate plan of action. AE was a bit doubtful of its success. I was more than doubtful (we had not then young captains of the Irish Republican Army to rely on). I said if the Stone possessed the Royal Sovereignty, we might, if we could make a strong enough spiritual centre, occultly transport that power to Ireland. The Stone must follow...
    I watched the shadows lengthen on the ruined and desecrated ridges that marked the palace-sites of Tara...Tara must keep many memories, but I could not surprise one...Grass renews itself. The dream that held Ireland’s lovers, renews itself. From ruin and disaster it struggles back to the light: it burgeons a-fresh...
    I knew that I would never visit Tara again.


From: Flowering Dusk: Things Remembered Accurately and Inaccurately by Ella Young. Longmans, Green and Co., 1945.

Saturday, September 6, 2014

"The world is my bone-cave, I shall not want..."

In 1971, American writer John Gardner (1934-1982) published his novel Grendel based upon the Beowulf tale and told in the voice of the monster.  I am still reading this book - or perhaps savoring it in some strange way.  Gardner was a professor of medieval literature at the University of Southern Illinois. As it should be -  this is a dark and disturbing novel. 
Illustration by J.R. Skelton, 1908.

The book and I found each other on the discard shelf of the Carmel, California public library.  Discarded. Unwanted. The book had not been checked out for quite some time. Reason enough to be rid of it. I understand the process though I often question the choices made.  And this novel in particular - discarded and unwanted though well-read. Coffee stains that do not hinder the read; smudged fingerprints marking the time when we cherished such writing.  Dark and disturbing, indeed, as a reflection of the decline of our culture.

I share a moment in the novel:

"It's good at first to be out in the night, naked to the cold mechanics of the stars.  Space hurls outward, falconswift, mounting like an irreversible injustice, a final disease. The cold night air is reality at last: indifferent to me as a stone face carved on a high cliff wall to show that the world is abandoned. So childhood too feels good at first, before one happens to notice the terrible sameness, age after age. I lie there resting in the steaming grass, the old lake hissing and gurgling behind me, whispering patterns of words my sanity resists. At last, heavy as an ice-capped mountain, I rise and work my way to the inner wall, beginning of wolfslopes, the edge of my realm. I stand in the high wind balanced, blackening the night with my stench, gazing down to cliffs that fall away to cliffs, and once again I am unaware of my potential: I could die. I cackle with rage and suck in breath."