James McKenna

James on his bicycle, moving deliberately through the cars and lorries of our time, to which he hardly seemed to belong

James on his bicycle, moving deliberately through the cars and lorries of our time, to which he hardly seemed to belong. James absorbed, giving his hair a quick double flick of the fingers, or tossing it back with a shake. James directing his Rising Ground theatre group, his masks themselves works of art; more people acting than in the improvised auditorium; falling off the stage with the intensity of his playing . . . I hear him on the phone, that voice gone even quieter, gentler, towards the end: "How're you keeping, Des?" Or he is opening the latches on the shed, to show his latest sculpture, worn green trousers, battered pullover draped over his back; strong fingers fumbling at the lock; unsmiling and somewhere beyond praise; interested, now, in the technicalities of the piece. Genius wonders about the refinements, taking the vision as a datum.

He had little sense of limitations. At a time when the rest of us were struggling within sonnet limits, James was creating epics. His last, magnificent horse and rider towered 16 feet high, though fashioned from individual planks, dowelled together; the work of five years. A recent show featured no fewer than 12 giant figures following a horseman, finally taking over Dublin Castle for the Irish. Astounding.

"That's right" in our kitchen, warming to some comment: a theme developed, sometimes with anger, generally with humour. Rarely an evening but, at the mention of someone, James would suddenly leave the room only to re-enter as the person in question. Not mimicry, really: a recreation, with gesture, expression, and accent. I will never laugh like that again. A reminder, of course, that James was a dramatist too - author of a score of plays and playlets apart from The Scatterin', of which the Times critic wrote that it displayed "the best ear since Sean O'Casey". Did our National Theatre commission anything from James? They lost one of his submitted scripts, even as they were commissioning someone else who had never written a play before.

He picketed then, as he did on O'Connell Bridge at the time of the hunger strikes of 1981 - the denouement of which left him so devastated that he began to question his vision of Ireland. An ideal in which he believed so passionately that he ran twice in the general elections of the late 1970s, on the platform, "Art for the People". I can hear Michael Kane's voice from a loudspeaker urging Ballyfermot to "Vote McKenna, your culture candidate!". James McKenna TD? Alas, no: who could take it seriously? Yet other countries believe in their intellectuals enough to vote some of them into power - and what a catalyst he would have made.

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James standing a round; taking presents out of his shoulder-bag; or buying a painting he didn't want (some left uncollected here) - because one ought to support the artist. He cycled to us from Dublin once, a marble sculpture on the carrier, as a gift - one of many. Commissioned to make something for the Hopkins Summer School, he spent most of the money on the actual limestone and then worked a year creating a monument fit for Pharoah's tomb. James!

James in a rage at the implications of something said or done: some betrayal of the ideal. I have seen him throw a chair in a crowded pub; roar out insults; slice off one corner of a drawing for a "critic"; refuse to shake hands with a friend late (again) for the meeting of the Samhaildanach group we founded; and stalk out my front door for home, at three in the morning. Anger was the other side of reverence - Christ with his whip. Of James's notoriously volatile temper, Blake's comment seems apposite: "Those who restrain desire do so because theirs is weak enough to be restrained." Yet no one was gentler, or led a more austere life.

James singing The Dance of Art or Bunclody with such commitment that it became a sacred moment. James in a mask, reciting As Kingfishers Catch Fire, voice quivering, stunning a multi-national crowd into awe. Yes, awe. James in a pub, surrounded by delighted visitors, talking twenty to the dozen, throwing in a hilarious vignette, enlarging on someone's comment, a virtuoso.

I still laugh remembering his witticisms: "Savonarola/And his fiery Farola." "Stalin was 5 foot two; Hitler, 5 foot four; Saddam is 5 foot five . . . and I'm not all that big myself." (He was five foot four.) The pas de deux we improvised on the banks of the Barrow, in a send-up the ballet ritual: the quivering legs, the mock seriousness, the po-face. O Death, where is thy victory?

Who will lead us in the battle now? Who will energise us by his fierce love of Ireland and his fury over any betrayal of her destiny? Who will challenge, simply by his presence, all the vulgarity and exploitation which surround art more than ever before? Who will remind us of the lack of beauty in our lives - or do more to counter it? Who will make us laugh? Who will be our inspiration? For Christ plays in ten thousand places/Lovely in limbs and lovely in eyes not his.

God bless James, the best human being, the purest spirit, and for many of us, the finest Irish artist of our time. We did not deserve you but your memory will inspire us. And your achievement.