I did this painting from sketches made outside the Petty’s house in Knockacarn, which is on the other side of a small valley from us. On a south-west windy day we can hear their kids laughing and playing outside which means that when there’s a North East wind they can here me chuntering on about something or other. The view from the Petty’s house is the same as ours but different. For a start the view of the Cahermaccrusheen fields is obscured. Instead there is a big grassy meadow rising up to a ridge where an old cottage still stands.
You can’t always see the Twelve Pins. It’s usually not clear enough. And it’s very rare for the hills to be purple. We used to live about a mile from The Twelve Pins, a big Irish pub in Finsbury Park, North London. Is there a word for the state of finding oneself in the actual physical reality of the name of a pub one used to frequent? (ie. - Crikey, the Marquis of Granby has come for tea. How unexpected!). Possibly there is in German.
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About the artist
New wave wang-eyed pop folk artsee "The Purple Hills of Connemara: View from Pettys Hill, Doolin" on tim bradford's website
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