Clea van der Grijn

ESSAY 1 of 3
Revealing the Ritual in the Exhibitionary Form
Michael Birchall

Within the canon of western art, artists are often asked to perform civic
duties, by acting as ethnographers or observers of specific moments. In
considering the relationship between Mexican death traditions and the
western idea of mourning, burial and commemoration there are stark differences.
This essay will consider Cléa van der Grijn’s practice in the context of
‘Reconstructing Memory’, occurrences and generating a narrative that builds
upon a set of conditions outlined in Mexico, while intertwining this with a
specific context to build upon a legacy embedded in ritual.

Firstly, I would like to begin by considering the role that ritual plays in art.
Cléa van der Grijn’s exhibition contains an impressive collection of objects,
artefacts and constructed narratives, but crucially these incorporate a set of
ritualistic acts that are embedded within both Mexican Roman Catholic traditions,
and those of other indigenous cultures. In the last fifteen years, artists
have engaged with re-enactment as a divisive means to engage communities,
such as in Jeremy Deller’s well-known performance and video, The Battle Of
Orgreave (2001) which features a re-enactment of the violent clash between
miners and policemen in Yorkshire, during the Miners’ Strike in 1984. His
reconstruction brought former miners and residents together with historical
re-enactment societies who restaged the ‘conflict’, as part of a major public
spectacle. Deller’s work, primarily operated as a cathartic exercise for the local
community, through the process of re-enactment he produced a new interpretation
of a specific context in 1980s Britain. Of course, there is a risk, of this
approach, as it focuses on a specific set of conditions and contexts, and may risk
analysing the formal complexities and interrogative possibilities of art under
the homogenising umbrella of an ameliorative social goal. However, Deller’s
approach avoided this in the ways in which he unified a collective effort, while
at the same time developing a body of work from this subject matter.

However, the task of the artist and indeed that of the ethnographer is to
capture specific moments, which may relate to ritualistic acts, such as those
in religious ceremonies, folk traditions and ceremonial events. In order to
explore and capture these specific elements from one body of work requires a
set of conditions that build upon an element of historical research and narrative.
Thus, in Cléa van der Grijn’s video RECONSTRUCTING MEMORY (2015), we
are able to witness a young girl who encounters a graveyard. The child is able
to navigate the space and pay homage to those deceased who remain interned
in the graves, which she walks upon. Unaffected by the surroundings her
curiosity guides her into the graveyard and she becomes comfortable in these
surroundings. In Mexico, deceased children are known as angelitos (angels)
who are able to pass to the afterlife without needing to pass through purgatory.1
It is unclear whether or not the child is with the living, or the dead, and yet this
does not matter for the viewer. Her presence occupies a specific state of being
in the film that is neither comforting nor distressing to the viewer. The young
girl is in part constructing a narrative; the possibility remains she is returning
to her own grave, or perhaps an imaginary scenario which is constructed from
those who hold on to the memory of her existence.
It becomes crucial to understand this body of work, to consider the role that
death plays in Mexican society. Within visual culture, literature and popular
media, there exists a specific view on death, that is, that all Mexican people
have a special relationship, or rather affinity to this. The Mexican writer,
Octavio Paz, author of ‘The labyrinth of solitude: life and thought in Mexico’,
has observed that there is indeed a specific connection to death that exists only
in Mexican society, he writes:

The word death is not pronounced in New York, in Paris, in London, because
it burns the lips. The Mexican, in contrast, is familiar with death, jokes about
it, caresses it, sleeps with it, celebrates it; it is one of his toys and his most
steadfast love. True, there is perhaps as much fear in his attitude as in that of
others, but at least death is not hidden away: he looks at it face to face, with
impatience, disdain, or irony.... The Mexican’s indifference toward death is fostered
by his indifference toward life. ... It is natural, even desirable, to die, and
the sooner the better. We kill because life-our own or another’s-is of no value.
Life and death are inseparable, and when the former lacks meaning, the latter
becomes equally meaningless. Mexican death is a mirror of Mexican life. And
the Mexican shuts himself away and ignores both of them. Our contempt for
death is not at odds with the cult we have made of it.2

Paz makes a Cléar assertion that Mexicans embrace death, that it is ‘fostered
by his indifference towards life’; not only is this about blurring the familiar
European distinction between life and death, but more so than this. It could
be said that Mexicans accept death ‘stoically’.3 The close relationship Mexicans
have with death can be seen in their ‘Day of the Dead’ celebratory events, where
death is in fact mocked, it becomes irrelevant and in some ways, they stare
death in the face. However, as Stanley Brandes has observed this has become
part of the national identity, and as such must be challenged.4

The Day of the Dead, and its carnivalesque performances and artistic displays,
using decorated beards, paper cut-outs and plastic toys, confectionery and ultimately
humorous displays on death.5 This celebratory event has become part of
religious belief structure, as it coincides with the Roman Catholic celebration
of All Saints and All Saints Day, widely celebrated throughout the church
all over the world. However, it is known as the Day of the Dead in Mexico,
owing to the specific affinity towards this cultural event in Mexican society.
It is without doubt difficult to build upon a set of rituals and traditions and
generate a new narrative that can be read within the context of the museum
visitor and indeed beyond this.

Therefore, in an exhibitionary form, ‘Reconstructing Memory’ challenges
both a Mexican portrayal of death, and a European one, in that it creates a set
of narratives that tell an intimate portrayal of a fictive character – the young
girl in the film – and the artists own interest in death, following the passing
of a family member. The overwhelming display of objects in the gallery6
transforms the white cube into an experiential space; one where, our own
perceptions of death are actively challenged. While we may become distressed
at the site of child - sized skulls, the reference to the young girl in the
film is a recollection of this, along with her white dress.

1 Stanley Brandes, ‘Is There a Mexican View of Death?’, American Anthropological
Association, Vol. 31, no. 1, March 2003, pp. 127–144.
2 Octavio Paz, Lysander Kemp, and Wolfgang Laade, The labyrinth of solitude: life and
thought in Mexico, (Grove [u.a.]: New York, NY, 1961), . pp. 57–58.
3 Brandes, ‘Is There a Mexican View of Death?’.
4 Ibid
5 Ibid
6 "These objects and artefacts OFRENDA are essential to the celebration of day
of the dead. They are essential to honour the memory of the dead ancestors,
in this case the little girl. They are going to be reconstructed in the form of
an alter. There for each object I have made / formed / found / reconstructed is
considered in relation to the character of the fictional girl." Cléa van der Grijn.


ESSAY 2 of 3

Engaged Process: Temporality, Place & Memory in the work of Cléa van der Grijn
Megan Johnston

Every act of perception, is to some degree an act of creation, and every act of memory
is to some degree an act of imagination.

Dr. Oliver Sacks, Scientist and Writer

The notion that we see with the brain, activating perception and memory,
serves as a useful point of departure in the work by Cléa van der Grijn in
her exhibition Reconstructing Memory. If perception is creation and memory
becomes imagination, the recollections found in our memories, our own
personal responses, are immediately driven to the forefront of our minds and
evoke strong reactions. Far from being just objects, the artefacts, installations,
paintings, and sculpture in Reconstructing Memory provide multiple responses
that are intentionally cathartic, emotive, and sublime, while perceptions
becomes creation and memories drives imagination. This essay looks at the
artist’s process with time and memory as the essence of both place and how
we understand who we are.

For nearly a decade van der Grijn has been interested in the rational, social,
and emotional constructs around death and loss. Her creative process, however,
is non-linear and unregulated. This method of intentionally, creative
permutations facilitate a response that is both intentional and non-defined,
evolving intuitively. The process provides for an interesting tension between
the conceptual and creative process. One reading of van der Grijn’s exhibition
is indeed about death, dying, and memorial. But a deeper reading finds the prioritization
of the creative process—one that is emotive, socially engaged, and
responsive—which allows for a more complex understanding of both
the artist’s oeuvre and the audiences engagement to it.

For van der Grijn, site plays an essential part of the creative process. Site is
represented in the body of work as place—as in the cultures of Ireland, Mexico,
and the USA—as well as locations such as graveyards and jungles. With a direct
connection to site, individual works become objects that bear witness to memories
and installations embody the experience of witnessing. For example, in
Alter Piece (2016), the artist draws out complicated emotive responses from the
viewer through an installation that includes light, sounds, smells, and objects.
Place is not only conceptual or emotive in the artist’s work but it is also a site of
intervention. Audiences feel they are part of the place the artist presents; it is
warm and dark, and sounds are just beyond identification. Vision and smell—
two other strong senses—induce a sensation and memory in us. We question
where we are and what we are doing here?

Time and place are continually complicated through sound in the exhibition,
which is connected by three sound and two video installations bleeding into
each other. Through the films Reconstructing memory (girl) (2015), Reconstructing
Memory (Dusk to dawn) (2015/16), and Reconstructing Memory (Madonna) (2016),
the built environment space become a central expression of the artist’s process.
We see and feel where the artist explores the ideas of death, dying, and
memorial, drawing our own personal experiences within us into the viewing.
The audio work is an oratorical manifestation of the sounds of the jungle,
animals, the cemetery, and the complicated affected sites of dawn and dusk in
Mexico. In other installations the elements of dramatic images of imaginary
characters (one of a reoccurring girl) are combined with heat and darkness
and sensory components such as smell. The interjections of multiple senses
become both salacious and highly intrusive observations of death rituals
yet are also coupled with tender moments and bouts of sadness or empathy
surrounding death. Laughter and celebration can be found too, but with melancholic

The place—in Ireland, Mexico or the United States—serves as the site of process
for van der Grijn. Characters and objects become surrogates for both the
artist and ourselves. The artist’s research into ritual and memorial provides a
critical element to the process—guiding the investigation into the act of creation
and imagination. All of the research sites are remote in this body of work
by van der Grijn; pointedly so. For example, Sayulita is a remote community of
4000 on the west coast of Mexico and the dense jungle of Baha de Banderas, is
not a site of mass genocide or large-scale memorial, but rather a place of normal
lives and of everyday dying. We live here; we die here. The artist observed
rituals we know and undertake, understanding them more as she unpacked
her own response to death. The process then becomes cathartic—for the artist
and for the viewer. Yet because it was created over many years and in three
countries, the work is somewhat separated from the specific time and physical
locations and therefore become disembodied. Importantly, this disjointed
temporality allows for a more profound and conceptual reading of death,
dying and the memorial. In this way, the artworks shown here converge both
time and memory.

In “Matter and Memory” (1896), the philosopher Henri Bergson wrote that
“all sensation is already memory.” Van der Grijn’s work presents experiences
and objects that endlessly slip into the past and back again. The interconnectedness
of time, the place of creation, and the impact of memory facilitate
the creative process for van der Grijn. As we look at the artist’s process with
time as the essence of both place and how we understand who we are, the
altering of time facilitates new readings of what we understand. For example,
our empathy may be heightened, which can, in turn, allow us to engage/
connect with death and objects such as Antique Lace Dress (2014), Water Vessel
(2015), and Antique Carousel Horse (2014). These objects can be read in relation
to both their original site as well as their new context. In museums we often
understand that the objects as codifiers for cultures, a certain time or place.
But in Reconstructing Memory, the artists disconnects to reconnect—objects
are placed in juxtaposed positions. For example, Bell Jars (2015) and Five Frogs
in Victorian Box (2015) subvert historical museological presentations, giving
new meanings to objects and allowing for re-consideration. The most striking
example of upending musological constructs may be the room of 100 small,
child-size skulls in the work of Porcelain Skulls (2016). The nature of the objects
is both extraordinarily moving and shockingly poignant when connected to
the dozens of photographs of children’s graves. But van der Grijn is not into
sensationalism or spectacle; instead she provokes strong emotive gestures. If
we look closely at the series Angels Graves (2015), we can see a date of birth but
often no date of death. In Mexican culture, this means the soul is free to come
and go. With this connection, the audience is stirred into deep contemplation.
Other works such as Marigold Ball (2016) and Room of Marigolds (2016) recall
specific Mexican rituals, but also present for the audiences a site for overwhelming
sensory sublimity. The vastness of the room and the obsession
with the symbol of the marigold provides us with a complicated reading. Over
months the artist has grown, cultivated, and harvested marigolds in a ritualistic
endeavor. But for whom? For us? For those who have passed? For memory?
For art? The delicately constructed balls sit quietly and beautifully as objects but
portend something far more. The process of collecting thousands of flowers
directly connects process, time and memory. They ask us to reflect, to consider,
to remember, to re-remember.

Yet as we move in and out of memories and experiences, the artist’s hand is
still present. Van der Grijn guides us through a cacophony of senses to arrive
at both the bold and direct series of Marigold Fields (2016) paintings and documentary-
like photographs. Large, somewhat abstract paintings may be a direct,
personal response to the body of work by van der Grijn. She holds onto the
memories invested in her by both her Irish and Mexican experiences (lived
and learned). And like many contemporary artists, van der Grijn has elected
not to focus on one medium to represent her 10-year investigations. Rather,
the sculptures, photographs, installations, collaborative sounds, and video
works are all connected with the thread of this research leading ultimately, to
the paintings. Van der Grijn says, “It wouldn’t happen the other way around”.
And it is through these juxtapositions that we are reminded where the memory,
at least for these works, began. This combination realigns the viewer back
into the art of perception, acts of creation and imagination.

All of the work shown in Reconstructing Memory has been intentionally created
with others. As acts of conviviality and reciprocity, van der Grijn gathers others
in this creative work. Working through the touchstone of losing a brother
at a young age, van der Grijn asks others to become part of the process. This
engaged process was carried out in Sayulita with locals taking part in films
and making sugar skulls and inviting the artist’s family to join in Day of the
Dead ceremonies. It occurred in Sligo, as the artist garnered local support for
the growing, cultivation and harvesting of marigolds. The artistic process then
becomes a tool for connection.

The notion of bearing witness, that is the compassionate presence of being in a
place and time and observing, is important in this body of work. Van der Grijn
is bearing witness to place and time; death and dying; memorial and shrine,
but she is also asking more of us as audiences. She is asking us to remember,
to create, and to imagine as part of the viewing process.

As we walk through the exhibition, we can understand the artist’s process
with time and memory. We see the essence of place. And we bring our own
memories to bear hopefully understanding better who we are. In that way,
Reconstructing Memory is a relational body of work in that the work is really
only understood by experiencing it. This engagement with other people and
places, with memory and death, with ritual and remembering is intentional.
Through this process van der Grijn has created a physical and conceptual tether
between artist and art, artworks and viewers, and memory and imagination.


ESSAY 3 of 3

Film, painting and installation work by Cléa van der Grijn, 2016
Catherine Marshall

In Cléa van der Grijn’s short film ‘Re-constructing Memory’, a child, wanders
along a shadowy road at evening, into a graveyard, where she stops at a grave
and picks up the toys she finds there. Given all that we now know about the
things that disrupt such pictures of innocence we might be forgiven for
fearing some evil, but there is something reassuring about her quaint but
purposeful appearance. In her demure little Victorian dress, she is like a
person from an earlier time. And, indeed that is exactly what she is. The film
was inspired by the Mexican Day of the Dead rituals which are as much about
celebrating the afterlife of dead loved ones as about mourning their loss. Van
der Grijn was particularly drawn to modern Mexico’s “Día de los Inocentes” (Day
of the Innocents) or “Día de los Angelitos” (Day of the Little Angels), held each
November, on which dead children are commemorated.

Death rituals are especially poignant when the person they relate to is a child,
because the shortness of the lived opportunity intensifies those questions we
all have about the meaning of life. But the Mexican rituals are open-ended;
children’s graves there record their date of birth only, allowing for a further
development of the child’s spirit in the afterlife, when s/he can return to their
grave, pick up their old toys and interact again with the places and among the
memories that were part of their worldly lives. Those lives continue to have
active meaning as long as there are people to remember them.

Modern culture attempts to deny death, by never mentioning it, inventing
other words for it, removing it from immediate experience and inserting an
obsession with youth and the eternally healthy body into our consciousness
instead. Woody Allen’s facetious remark that he is not afraid of death, he just
doesn’t want to be there when it happens, serves only to remind us of how
pervasive the fear of death actually is, regardless of how much we try to ignore
it. In Mexico there is a different attitude. Like communities in rural Ireland
half a century ago, Mexicans continue to mark death as an ever-present and
even, positive experience. Cléa van der Grijn is determined to remind us of
what death really means and to suggest how it might be approached. Instead
of pretending it doesn’t exist until it, inevitably, happens, she reminds us
of the importance of death as part of the framework of our mortal, human
lives. In re-enacting the imagined return of the child’s spirit, and in her
wider project to participate actively in the Mexican rituals (held on the feast
of All Souls, just like the Irish feast of Samhain or Hallow E’en) van der Grijn
embraces death as a part of life, while the concentration on a child’s death
further reminds us of birth, and the short span we have between those two
commonplace but significant markers. It is by accepting these framing markers,
van der Grijn says, that we begin to gain some appreciation of the life that
they circumscribe. For her, that active participation meant travelling with her
own family to Mexico in 2015 so that they could all take part in the Day of the
Dead in the village of Sayulita. Perhaps even more tellingly, it also meant a
long period of preparation, in which she engaged her Irish family, friends and
neighbours in growing marigolds, from seed to maturity, living surrounded
by their pungent odour, allowing thousands of flower heads to dry on racks in
the sunshine, before shaping them into objects that could be used as part of
the ritual events, three thousand miles away.

Marigolds, living or dead but preserved (given an afterlife), are central to
van der Grijn’s project, as they are in Dia de los Inocentes or Dia de los Angelitos
celebrations. Known in Mexico as cempasuchil or flowers of the dead, they
symbolically light the way back for the spirits of the deceased for their annual
festivities, which involve household altars, graveyard picnics and family reunions.
They are also associated in many cultures as well as in Mexico, with health
benefits and fragility, - like life itself. For van der Grijn, the process of growing
them in the north-west of Ireland, far from the heat and sunshine of South
America or Africa where they originated thousands of years ago, was itself an
act of dedication to life, which was then enhanced by the scent and the flowers’
own abundant colour and by the involvement of all the friends who engaged
with her in the growing and drying processes.

The marigolds, with their blazing golden colour seem the very antithesis of
death. They are modest flowers, and relatively easy to grow, but their very
ordinariness becomes a potent symbol of transformation in Cléa van der
Grijn’s use of them. Above all the flowers, like us, are organic, they grow and
die. Some even have an afterlife in the form of dried flower arrangements
and in the Day of the Dead ornaments that the artist and her Mexican cohorts
make. Massed or magnified they also provide the basis of a series of abstract
paintings by van der Grijn, each one of which is large enough to envelope
the viewer in its golden glow, or alternately, presented on a smaller scale but
cumulatively, as a series of thirty wooden tiles (The artist likes series, she is
also showing a series of thirty photographs), which have been toughened and
hardened, and seem designed to last forever. Our frail human bodies may not
endure, they seem to say, but we can be comforted for eternity by this warmth
and radiance.

Death is not a new theme in van der Grijn’s work. Momentous in 2008 (large
fomat photographs and film stills based on maternal loss) was the first show
which dealt directly with loss and death. For her solo exhibition Ambivalence
in 2013 she produced a body of work that was more pointedly about her own
death. The show included, Death Mask, her portrait in polished bronze, cast,
like a death mask, from a plaster mould, and another work, Mayo man, which
combined bronze-castings of a head and feet, arranged at each end of a coffinshaped
bench, the length of the void in between symbolising his absent body.

By tantalisingly offering the viewer a place to sit, in the empty space, h/she is
implicated in this meditation on death and invited to make it their familiar.
The sombre, black catalogue that accompanied that exhibition bore no words
on its cover or spine, but carried a challenging self-portrait, gouged into its
inky surface. In its powerful understatement it connects the viewer immediately
to Thomas Hardy’s poem ‘In Time of Wind and Rain’. In it Hardy conjures
up a series of lively and celebratory word pictures only to shut all the gaiety
and family conviviality down, abruptly, with a single, devastating, graveyard
line, ’Down their carved names the raindrops plough’.

For an earlier exhibition, Chanced, the artist had concentrated on loss and
emptiness, in a series of wonderful paintings into which no trace of sentimentality
was allowed to intrude. Instead of her later exploration of the impact
of death on the living, whether human, animal or insect, Chanced forced an
encounter with the void, either as the dark tunnel from which we don’t return
but the end of which is not visible, or the unimaginable bottom of the cliff
face. Many artists have grappled with the power of death over our lives, some
emphasising its macabre mockery of the living, like Goya or earlier artists such
as Albrecht Durer and Hieronymous Bosch, others matter-of-factly squaring
up to it, as Marina Abramovic does, busily scrubbing gristle and grime from
the bony sockets of a skeleton, or Kathy Prendergast, less dramatically, weaving
silver, black and golden hair from three generations of her family together to
make a spool of life. Van der Grijn takes all of those positions on board, and in
her most recent body of work, in Mexico, widens her focus on death and life
to see what we can learn from folk cultures. Instead of Abramovic, or Goya or
Prendergast, it is Gauguin’s famous painting Where do we come from?, What are
we doing?, Where are we Going? (1897, Boston Museum of Fine Art) that offers the
closest parallels to this work. Although their work is very different, they share
an appreciation of age-old rituals, the exotic, primitive societies that continue
to value them, and the essential questions at the heart of existence.

In the Day of the Dead works, van der Grijn has moved on from those earlier
and more private encounters with loss and the physical reality of death itself
to an exploration of memory. In the Mexican folk rituals, family members
seek to entice the spirits of their loved ones back to the family altar or the
graveyard by surrounding them with the things that were once familiar to
them, the things that the living think were of greatest significance to the dead
one. For van der Grijn that quest becomes bound up with identity, with how
we are perceived by our friends and communities. Did our friends really know
us, is the persona the world picks up of us the one we recognise or want to
project? Among the ‘toys’ left on the grave for the little girl in the film Sayulita
are two glass eyes, exact replicas of van der Grijn’s own eyes. The eyes are
often said to be the mirror of the soul, but they are the first part of the body to
decompose. For a visual artist, the eyes are especially important. Van der Grijn
was Cléar that, ‘I wanted her, the girl, to be able to see. It was really important
that she could see. For whatever reason, this is important to me. It is part of
the reconstructing of memory. Of giving the child the opportunity to really
see and perhaps make changes before she returns the following year?’ By giving
the child her own eyes, van der Grijn tangibly accepts her own demise, but
also endows the child with her own history of seeing and constructing a world
through her vision.

The final question then is not about death itself but about how we will be
remembered. If the afterlife is confined to how we live on in the memories of
those close to us, how do we want that to be? Unless we accept death and prepare
for it, how can we have any guarantee that we will be remembered for those
things that mattered to us in life? If we could come back would we recognise
ourselves in the memorabilia that our friends and families have preserved of
us? Did we communicate those things that really define us? Did our lives mean
what we wanted them to mean?

An installation, in this show, that combines beautifully conserved objects from
the past, well –worn and much-used items, such as old toys, a hairbrush, an antique
Aztec ceramic bowl, damaged, but its cracks carefully filled with gleaming,
golden resin, a fairground horse, battered but still enchanting, personal items of
various kinds, shapes and materials are lovingly gathered together to form the
altar gifts for the dead. Colourful and pungent- smelling Marigold or sugared
decorations are placed among them and the whole assemblage is watched over
by a bucolic plaster statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary. In a second short film
piece, a circle of 100 children’s skulls, made from gleaming white porcelain form
a perfect circle on the floor of a darkened room. They are lit by flickering candles,
symbolic of the vigils held to entice the spirits. Does religion offer any comfort
now, or in the insistence on its conventional platitudes, can our spirits recognize
themselves? Van der Grijn doesn’t tell us. She simply reminds us of those
powerful, escapist symbols. Do they or the gathered tokens of our lives locate us,
identify us? Michael Hartnett finishes his poem to the dead Irish woman with a
series of possibilities. Are we like her?
She was a summer dance at the crossroads,
She was a card game where a nose is broken,
She was a song that nobody sings,
She was a house ransacked by soldiers,
She was a language seldom spoken,
She was a child’s purse, full of useless things2.
Cléa van der Grijn worked in a hospice as an artist in residence for four years. The
experience confirmed her view that we must not shy away from death, but rather
see it as a reminder of the importance of living, while we still have the chance.
‘Death is not dark’, she told an RTE reporter for the series Works in 2014, but ‘It
is important to me that it is beautiful’. Over a decade she has worked her way
through a concern with the physical decay and loss of death to an imaginative
look at life as seen from beyond the grave. How we will be remembered will
depend on how we have lived and how well we are known and understood.
Philip Larkin understood that well when he said, ’What will survive of us is love’3.
Based on this body of work, we know that Cléa van der Grijn, the artist, will
be remembered for her commitment to a process that involved growing, collecting,
shaping, making, painting, sculpting, filming, for craftsmanship of a
very high order, and all of those finely tuned skills used in the service of beauty,
truth and courage.

1 Michael Hartnett, Death of an Irishwoman, from Windharp,ed., Niall McMonagle, 2015. P .85.
2 Hartnett, op cit.
3 Philip Larkin, ‘An Arundel Tomb’, from The Whitsun Weddings, 1964, p 45.