Titim Icarus - The Fall of Icarus
Titim Icarus
Katrina Quille
Ina cuid shaothar maolaithe sonraíoch, cuireann Quille iallach orainn amharc síos ar antalamh ó airde neamhchinntithe (idir grianagus tonn). Ina cuid péintéireachta dethaoidí trá, scrúdaíonnan t-ealaíonóir i ndáiríre doimhne na tanúlachta lasmuighagus laistigh araon. Mar atá sa bhás agus sa bhreith, tá a patrún féin ag an taoideagus ní thig linn a bheith ag dréim le níos mó. Is í an cuar nathairín atá tarraingtheaige ón tulra go bun na spéire a hanatamaíocht. Ach tá iomairí beaga istigh idireatarthu. Agus, macasamhail an tsaoil, is cosúil go ritheann sí go díreach ar feadhseal, go dtionaíonn sí go tobann agus ansin go ritheann sí go díreach arís. Castarbac eile ina bealach a thugann uirthi tiontú arís agus ansin ritheann sí díreachathuair go dtí sa deireadh go dtéann sí as amharc ar imeall an chanbháis. Bhí afhios againn go raibh sruth taoide sna cainéil thirime seo dornán uaireanta ó shinagus anois níl fágtha ach scáileanna spéire atá ag athrú i gcónaí, sna poilllathacha os ár gcoinne.B’fhéidir gurbh é an dóigh a bhfaigheann muid an aithnecheart ar rud ná fríd a éaga.
- Sliocht tógtha as aiste bunaidh le John Cunningham.
The Fall of Icarus
Katrina Quille
Quille forces us to gaze down upon the ground from an undetermined height (between sun and wave), in her remarkable, understated paintings. In reality, the artist’s paintings of ebbed tides, explore both outer shallow and inner depth. In death as in birth, the tide has its pattern, and we can only hope for as much. Its anatomy is the serpentine curve that she has drawn from the foreground to the horizon. But internally it is made up of slight ridges. And much like life, it runs seemingly straight for a while, turning abruptly then runs smoothly again. Then meets another obstacle, again is turned and again runs smoothly, until it is swept across the canvas to where it can no longer be seen. Hours before we knew the tide flowed through these dry channels, and now all that is left are the reflections of the ever-changing sky, in the silting puddles in front of us. Perhaps, part of the way we truly come to know something is through its death.
- Excerpt taken from original essay by John Cunningham.