I started working in film in 2016, though, like most who work in film, I had my favourites that drew me in long before then, like Labyrinth (1986), The Lord of the Rings (2001-3), Alien (1979). All those worlds were so filled with depth and purpose – so textured and believable, you could almost smell the air. Teams of people create worlds and make audiences contemplate, escape, and maybe even see something truer about themselves. I wanted to be part of that; I wanted to create.

I began in graphic design for advertising and newspapers for a few years. Then, I accidentally found myself working in film in Los Angeles. I was creating posters, props, fake brands, and signage that needed to look like it had existed for decades – all the things developed for a film to make the world believable. I won’t lie: it was technical, fast, and sometimes soulless. Then I discovered scenic art. Hand-painting effects that give sets their breath of life brought me a huge sense of accomplishment. A single glaze, a fake rust patch, the texture of soot where a character would naturally brush against a wall. It all felt like storytelling through surfaces.

Over the years, I worked in almost every role across the art department. That full-circle experience shaped how I approach design, not as hierarchy but as orchestra. When I art direct or design a set, I feel like I’m composing a melody; drawing, drafting, researching, and guiding construction and scenic teams to bring an imagined world into being. There’s something poetic in the translation – a line on tracing paper becomes a wall, becomes a shadow, becomes emotion.

Working across every department also kept me humble. You quickly learn that no vision survives without the painters, plasterers, dressers, buyers, or runners. These are the people who built the worlds that raised me, and I’ve always carried the deepest respect for that collective craft. My job as an art director, as I see it, is not to impose but to conduct, to make sure every note of someone’s skill is heard, and to make other people’s lives easier.

Not every production has been glamorous. I can’t even remember them all: the long nights, the endless coffee, the weather, the horrible producers. Some sets collapse in my memory into a blur of sawdust and deadlines. But a few remain luminous.

One of my favourites was a small production produced by Keith O’Grady. It wasn’t a career maker or something that would let me retire early, but the experience itself was beautiful. When a production understands its limitations and respects its crew, you feel it in the final work. Everyone’s energy aligns; the world you’re building becomes cohesive because it was built on care.

Then there’s the one I still brag about – my pièce de résistance, as far as my younger self is concerned – a motion simulator attraction called Millennium Falcon at Star Wars: Galaxy’s Edge in Disneyland, California. I was part of a small team of scenics that brought the life-size ship and its environment to life. It was hard going, miserable at times, and physically demanding, but we were all so proud. Standing beneath the hull, hand-painting panels and weathering metal that would soon be touched by thousands of visitors every day, I felt that rare mix of exhaustion and wonder that makes this line of work addictive. You’re painting mythology on a one-to-one scale.

Film work is transient; you live in months, sometimes weeks. But the lessons stick. You learn speed, precision, diplomacy, and the ability to find beauty under fluorescent lights at 2am. You learn that every day is a school day. Between productions, I’ve always kept those muscles active through my own practice: Illustration, stained glass, interior and set design for local projects. Each discipline feeds the other. Glass teaches me light and patience, and film teaches me rhythm and problem-solving.

Scenic work, in particular, taught me to love imperfection: the crack in the plaster, the way grime settles unevenly on a wall, how mould looks in a damp room. Those ‘flaws’ are the fingerprints of life, and I chase the same feeling in my artwork now. Whether I’m painting on glass or designing a space, I think about how light will travel, how a viewer will move through the world I’m shaping.

I’m drawn to working-class materials, to Americana, to things that feel lived-in and unpretentious. Maybe that’s why set work always felt like home; there’s no separation between hand and idea. You’re literally making something solid out of thin air. Even the most fantastical world still needs screws, paint, and people who know how to build.

Art directing taught me that collaboration is its own art form. You learn to read people as much as drawings: who is silently fixing problems, who’s losing light, who needs to be heard? The best days on set aren’t when something looks perfect; they’re when everyone on the floor feels like part of a single creative heartbeat. Those feelings are unmatched.

In the years since, I’ve been folding those values into my own projects back home in Ireland, from stained glass panels that evoke feeling in the lighting, to interior spaces designed like living sets, to anti-fascist or feminist imagery that reclaims the visual language of power and spectacle. I’m fascinated by how design can make ideology visible; how a space can signal inclusion or resistance, simply through materials and light. How design is used to translate the world around us.

Right now, I’m developing a series of glass works inspired by medieval symbolism and contemporary politics, exploring the meaning of the word ‘illumination’. I want to merge the devotional aura of stained glass with the immediacy of film; light as message, surface as world-building.

Looking ahead, I’m interested in how art direction can evolve outside of film – including how we can protect it from the inevitable impacts of AI – into community installations, markets, and public art that carry the same cinematic logic of world-making. After years of building other people’s stories, I’m now building my own, smaller perhaps, but with the same belief that spaces can make people feel something real.

At its heart, art direction is about care, for the story, surfaces, and the people who build the illusion with you. Whether it’s a galaxy far away or a corner shop in Belfast, the goal is the same: make it feel true.

Aíne Lynn-McEvoy is a multidisciplinary artist and designer whose work reflects contemporary culture through bold illustration, glass, and scenic art grounded in material process and place.

ainelynnmcevoy.com

rustycarrot.com

@rustycarrot

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Having graduated with a Fine Art painting diploma in the late 90s, I returned to education in 2004, studying Youth Arts at Maynooth University. The course, aimed at working creatively with young people outside of the mainstream education system, would affect my life immeasurably. On the course, I met theatre-maker Louise Lowe and the two of us would work together on our end of year project, Tumbledowntown (2005). The project saw us collaborate with 26 young people from Ballymun in a local abandoned flat across an entire summer. We worked across theatre and visual art, exploring the young people’s attitude to their area. This interdisciplinary college project was funded through a Breaking Ground Per Cent for Art commission, and was shown as part of Dublin Fringe Festival 2005, winning the Spirit of the Fringe Award.

I returned to Fine Art Painting, graduating in 2010 with a master’s degree from NCAD. While there, Louise and I continued to work together and in 2009, decided to form ANU. ANU is a multidisciplinary production company that presents award winning theatre, visual art and socially engaged artworks in offsite contexts. We place the audience at the very centre of each work creating an immersive, live experience in which audiences have agency and proximity to the mesmeric worlds we create. Together, we’ve created over 50 seminal works, public art commissions, gallery installations, and museum interpretations growing a national and global reputation for excellence.

My practice is multidisciplinary and has evolved across set design, visual art, and socially engaged artworks. These disciplines are always in orbit of each other, linked and informing the other. Part of this is a keen interest in history, archives, space and place, and social and cultural issues. I’m drawn to the spaces between disciplines and subjects. My work is predominantly made as offsite, large-scale, multi-room, immersive installations.

The designing and building of an immersive environment outside of the traditional theatre space has two main roles, for me. Firstly, it needs to support the performers through the construction and curation of their world. For each immersive show, I create a space to support, chart and provide a backdrop for the performers. This begins very early through conversations with the director, and evolves as the piece develops with the cast and creative team, eventually finding a finished form during rehearsals.

The second role essential to my off-site design is to support the audience’s experience of that world. This world is perceived in full immersive 360 degrees, and is required in order to engage the audience at all times, from the smallest prop to the largest set piece. The design of the environment is required to be as seamless as possible, to ensure that audiences are always immersed in the moment of the performance. I endeavour to create spaces where the audience cannot see the join between the physical building and my set design. Paradoxically, I know that the designed space is successful when the audience fails to notice that it has been designed. When this happens, my designs support both the viewing audience and the viewed performer simultaneously.

THE MONTO CYCLE: The Beginning of a Design Practice

From 2010 to 2014, I made World’s End Lane (2010), Laundry (2011), The Boys of Foley Street (2012), and Vardo (2014) with ANU. Known as the ‘Monto Cycle’, it explored four key moments over the last century of The Monto, a quarter square-mile of Dublin’s North Inner City and, at one time, Europe’s largest red light district. Across the four works, I created installations, videos, and sound pieces that were encountered and experienced alongside the live performance.

As part of The Boys of Foley Street, I turned a flat in Liberty House (since demolished) into a fully furnished 1970s flat. This creative intervention was done to support the performers, the performance, and the audience experience and saw my practice begin to include immersive design, although I still viewed it through an art installation lens.

THESE ROOMS: A Gear Change

In 2016, ANU and CoisCéim Dance Theatre collaborated on a project responding to a lost history of eyewitness accounts of the execution of 15 men by the British Army during the Easter Rising in a row of ten houses on North King Street. These Rooms was an immersive live performance and installation project that cross-pollinated contemporary dance, visual art, and theatre.

Working across a four-storey building in close proximity to the location of the original event, I designed and installed 22 fully immersive installation spaces. I worked closely with the team to build an immersive world in which dance, theatre, and visual art could exist in balance. Folding time and space, we set our work in 1966, giving us distance from the original 1916 event and our own 2016 centenary commemoration, which was in full swing at the time.

The audience journeyed through the building, encountering hyper-real and hyper-surreal spaces. Engaging with this lost history, I created a space that thrust the row of ten houses into one host building. I always felt that the ten houses had incrementally disappeared over time, along with their story. My design reflected this, as I pushed rooms and structures into and up against each other, as if the building was consuming itself.  

This project felt like a gear-change in scale and ambition, as a strong personal visual language was beginning to form. Something was happening, something was evolving, and this was a really important moment for my work, as it brought all the facets of my practice into focus.

HAMMAM: Immersive Design

Hammam (2023) at the Abbey Theatre co-designed with Maree Kearns brought ANU’s creative response to the Decade of Centenaries to a close after a staggering 22 projects since 2013. Responding to the final moments of the Battle of Dublin during the Irish Civil War, audiences were invited to traverse the depths of the destroyed buildings of O’Connell Street. I designed and placed these ruins on the stage, the auditorium, and backstage areas of the Peacock Theatre itself. Playing with space and structure, I folded buildings and rooms on top of one another. Walking through a door could bring you to the Hammam Turkish Bath or into the Hotel Granville bedroom or to a temporary field hospital. 

Using insurance records held at the Irish Architectural Archive, I was able to ascertain what had been lost in the destruction and to design accordingly. Again, I created a totally immersive site for our performance. My intervention in the building was incredibly complex, overlaying an orthodox theatre floorplan with a much more unusual and complicated layout where non-public areas, such as the greenroom, were transformed and intersected the playing space. I wanted regular visitors of the Peacock Theatre not to know where they were at any moment; to change their perception of a really familiar place, enabling them total immersion in the space, narrative, and performance.

Upcoming work

ANU has been invited by the National Archives to respond to the 1926 census (the first census of the newly formed Irish Free State). The result is an ambitious, immersive, site-specific production, premiering next summer inside the National Archives’ new state-of-the-art repository, before the return of 350,000 archive boxes, due to be housed there. This extraordinary portrait of a nation at a crossroads becomes the launchpad for FRAMING THE NATION, a bold new multi-year cycle exploring the moments that forged modern Ireland.

We’ve also been working with the Drumcondra-based organisation ChildVision on a socially engaged art project examining contemporary urban design and the impact on people with disability. I have concluded a series of workshops and am at present collating the information into an artwork, also to be presented in 2026.

Owen Boss is a designer and visual artist based in Dublin. In 2009 he co-founded ANU and is the Co-Artistic Director. 

owenbossdesign.com

anuproductions.ie

@owen.boss

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I have always been an artist. Born into an Irish-Greek American family, culture and identity were always layered. Growing up between different cultures gave me this sense that nothing has just one meaning. That’s definitely shaped my creative approach and design sensibility. That mix gave me a deep curiosity for symbolism, history, and storytelling, which naturally found its way into my jewellery.

Art was always encouraged in our home. My mother would often have us gather around a bowl of fruit to practice still life drawing – not just to draw, but to observe. As an introverted middle child, it was easy to go unnoticed amidst the chaos of a busy household. Art became my escape – a safe space where I could live in my imagination for as long as I wanted to, making sense of emotions I didn’t yet have the language for. Long before I knew I wanted to be a jeweller, I was creating little emotional landscapes with my hands – small gifts for people I cared about. This experience taught me the true value and power in what it means to make someone feel seen.

When I was around seven, I found colourful thread in our sewing box and thought to make a simple loom with a plank of wood and two nails. I spent hours weaving friendship bracelets for my seven best friends. The next day at school, everyone wanted one. Soon I was taking orders, restocking and charging €2 each (or €3 if they wanted beads). It makes me laugh now, because looking back, the signs were always there. That probably was my first jewellery business. I just loved creating something that others would wear and cherish.

When I first applied to NCAD, I didn’t get in – it turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me. It led me to the portfolio course at Bray Institute of Further Education, which profoundly shaped how I work and approach creativity. It was the first time I truly began to explore process, material, and concept in a way that felt personal, laying the foundation for how I think as a maker. The second time I applied, I was accepted into the Jewellery and Metalwork course at NCAD, and that’s when things really started to gain momentum. Afterward, I set up my own studio and built myself a jeweller’s bench so I could continue honing my skills while apprenticing at Da Capo Goldsmiths – all in preparation for the intensive training at the Design & Crafts Council of Ireland in Kilkenny. This is where I created my portfolio of different works and where a whole new world opened up for me to see what was possible in metal.

I’ve always been drawn to movement and pure form – how a curve flows, how it catches the light. The S-curve shows up a lot in my work without me even realising it at first. I find inspiration in unexpected places – ancient artefacts, mythology, architecture, even car design – but I like reinterpreting those things through a contemporary lens.

I’m also fascinated by the shared symbolism between different cultures and religions – how things that seem separate can mirror each other. I’m more interested in what connects us than what divides us, and that curiosity shows up in the way I approach form, meaning, and material.

After stepping away for a while, I came back to jewellery with a more internal focus. I’m thinking more about symbolism, change, and how objects can hold memory or emotion. The newer pieces are quieter, more reflective and focused on the balance of feminine and masculine energy, and creating space for personal connection.

One of the most personal pieces I’ve made is The Ouroboros Necklace. It was created as part of a cultural collaboration with the National Museum of Ireland, and I’m grateful that it was later acquired for the permanent collections. It was inspired by a Japanese dragon wrapped around a flower vase in their collection – echoing the Ouroboros, the serpent eating its own tail – which represents renewal, cycles, and transformation. When I made this piece, I was reflecting on how destruction and rebirth are intertwined, how we become who we’re meant to be not in spite of endings, but because of them, and holding space for change and growth. My work often carries movement, symbolism, or quiet gestures of personal evolution –sometimes mechanical, sometimes emotional.

The Autobox and Headlight Ring came from my love of classic car design – all those curves, mechanics, and moving parts. I was curious about how to bring that sense of motion into jewellery. So I fitted ball bearings, kinetic elements, and reflections of light into my work. It was a way to explore engineering in a small, tactile form, while still make something wearable and unexpected.

The Ribboned Torc is a bit of a play on words – it nods to Ireland’s ancient, anticlastic ribbon torc jewellery. I reimagined it with the movement of a flowing ribbon. Part of it was also inspired by the winding roads of the Monaco Grand Prix race track, so it blends heritage with speed. I love when a piece brings together opposites – old and new, speed and stillness, soft and strong.

The Apex Brooch is all about the S-curve, it’s minimal, restrained, and intentional. It’s named after the apex: the most dramatic and dangerous point of the racetrack. The Lou Ruvo Necklace was inspired by this building in Las Vegas, Nevada – the Lou Ruvo Center for Brain Health. Its curves are surreal and disorienting, and I wanted to translate that feeling into metal. It really pushed me, both technically and creatively, like a meditation on fluidity and distortion.

Each of these pieces holds something personal for me, though not always in an obvious way. They offered to me, as a maker, an exploration, a question, or a feeling resolved through metal.

I’m currently developing a new body of work that is more philosophical and symbolic. It speaks to memory, identity, and how we evolve through experience, with pieces designed to feel like personal relics or modern talismans. The pace of this new work is slower, more intentional. I’m giving more space to silence, intuition, and meaning.

Technically, I’m excited to incorporate more stone setting in my work. I also want to deepen my connection to traditional goldsmithing while continuing to develop my own voice. I see this next chapter as a synthesis of everything I’ve explored so far. In the long term, I’d love to explore how jewellery can become a medium for storytelling, healing, and connection. Whether rooted in the ancient past or grounded in the now, I want my work to be evocative – something that invites reflection.

As I continue to evolve my practice, I’m excited to be exhibiting at Milano Jewellery Week  during 18-20 October 2025. My work will be shown as part of Artistar Jewels at Palazzo Bovara, a curated exhibition that brings together emerging and established artists in contemporary jewellery. It’s a significant opportunity to share my work internationally and to represent Irish craft within a broader global conversation. I look forward to sharing this new chapter of work, and connecting with others through it.

Siobháin O’Sullivan is an Irish-Greek/American designer goldsmith. She blends symbolism, movement and storytelling to create evocative, contemporary wearable art.

@sosgoldsmith

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I began my career studying at GMIT (now ATU) in Galway and finished up in 2000 with a degree in Fine Art Painting. I then moved to Vietnam to work as the art and music Project Coordinator for The Christina Noble Children’s Foundation for six years. By the time I arrived back home to Ireland, the recession was in full swing, and I had to find a way to make art while earning a living. I worked in galleries and studios but found myself wanting to make my own art. I started doing small illustrations and patterns, printing images to work with on jewellery. I found myself cutting shapes from thick card and making designs that were almost shrine-like and celebrated iconic people of our time. I’ve now spent the past 13 years working on my designs and have managed to carve a unique creative voice in Dublin. My work features bright colours, highlighting patterns and themes of nature.

I work from a small studio at the back of my home where I spend time cutting and preparing various shapes for my designs. I create my own unique and recognisable shapes and like to try out new patterns, I never make two pieces the same. Sometimes I will work with a specific design in mind or certain colours that a client requests, but most of the time I will work on a design and then find the image to suit each design. I work on commission pieces quite a lot, and have made pieces of people’s family members who have passed (I prefer using old images for this). I sometimes do pets as well, and have even made someone’s beloved dog so they could wear him down the aisle! But most of my commissions are of well-known people, modern icons or people who inspire. I’ve gotten everyone from Isabella Blow to Margaret Atwood, George Michael to Mary Robison, David Attenborough to Eric Cantona and so many of Dolly Parton, Sinéad O’Connor, Bowie and Grace Jones.

My process is meticulous, and I work small. I cut with a Stanley knife after I have decided what shape I will use. I then paint the background in acrylic, after which I draw and paint my design. I then add the image, paint the back and finish with the lacquer. I chain each piece and photograph them for my website. Over the years I have been in many shops, including the National Gallery’s gift shop. My work is quite slow and meticulous, and often by the time I add the shop commission the prices are too high, so I prefer to sell on my website. I have gathered a great following over the years, which continues to expand. A lot of work and self-promotion goes into this, but thankfully I have gorgeous friends who love to dress up and model for me. It’s a lot of work for a very basic income, but I adore what I do. I treat every piece like a small canvas and the joy people get from their pieces gives me a great buzz.

My work is often political in nature and celebrates strong and inspiring humans. I am motivated by the good of humanity and aim to elevate others in my work, to celebrate those who have achieved great goals in their lives.

I have worked a lot with Síle na Gig images, celebrating the female anatomy and the vulva, and other images that celebrate women and the feminine. These themes have become more popular over the years, amid a surge of celebrating Irishness, and it’s been nice to have had my finger on the pulse of these issues. I found myself channelling the inspiration in the ether into my art, in a way that allows people to wear their values and celebrate their political and personal ideologies, as well as their passions through my jewellery.

Recently, I have done a lot of work around Palestine. For my whole life, I have been aware of the history of Palestine and the ongoing atrocities; a lot of my work has become a comment on Palestine. I’ve made pieces with images of Palestinian themes from olive branches to the Palestinian flag or of people of Palestine, usually vintage images. I’ve managed to fundraise around €13,000 over the past few years through selling my work, jewellery and clothing at events and markets. I believe in joy as a form of resistance, and that giving over your joy to those who seek to oppress is a way to lose our humanity and ability to love. Those who are shut down from their joy are those who can cause such horrors in humanity. So right now, that is at the forefront of my work.

Over the years, my practice has expanded from mainly jewellery design to include illustration. My sister Sorcha and I started a project two and a half years ago working on the idea of celebrating notable Irish women. We recently illustrated a self-published book of poems, titled Womná, honouring an array of well-known women who changed the face of Ireland. Their stories are told through often funny and thought-provoking poems with impactful iconic illustrations that celebrate their power.

Many people know me for my political passion almost as much as for my art. This works for me, as I believe art and politics should go hand in hand, even if the messages are subliminal or abstract. I will continue to make my jewellery and make pieces that inspire me and celebrate people who make an impact. I enjoy coming up with different shapes and designs, and I look forward to seeing where my work takes me. I believe there is a movement of soul-driven, humanitarians who care about our future and who wear my jewellery. I hope to continue the message in my art going forward; to be more bright, expressive and free in fashion, to celebrate the good people of this world, to celebrate boldness and to continue to ‘Make Art Not War.’

Kiki Na Art is the artist name for Dublin-born jewellery designer and artist Ciarna Pham. Ciarna works from her home studio in Dublin, where she makes small bespoke and one-of-a-kind art pieces that are worn as jewellery.

kikinaart.com
@kiki_na_art

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I didn’t set out to become a jeweller. My formal training was in furniture making, a discipline rooted in precision, patience, and an appreciation for materials in three-dimensions. However, somewhere along the way, my fascination with small-scale detail overtook my love of large-scale form. Jewellery found me, and I’ve been working with metal and loving it ever since.

One of the early sparks for my creative thinking came from an unlikely place: architecture. I remember seeing the work of Iraqi-British architect Zaha Hadid for the first time and being completely struck by the flow and geometry in her designs. Her forms seem both mathematical and organic, strict and fluid. That duality became something I chased in my own work, using strong lines while always trying to inject something emotional or storied into the structure.

Before retraining through the Design & Crafts Council of Ireland’s jewellery and goldsmithing programme in Kilkenny, I began building a business designing contemporary jewellery, with a particular focus on cufflinks. These weren’t just decorative objects; they were small-scale vessels for storytelling. I started incorporating contextual materials into each pair, such as wood from old whiskey barrels, bronze from salvaged Rolls Royce jet engines, and pieces of meteorite. The idea was to embed memory and meaning into something wearable, tactile, and quietly expressive.

Much of my work begins with a simple saw frame. Whether I’m creating a custom piece or guiding a student through their first project, it almost always starts there. From the first piercing cut to the final polish, the process is hands-on. I use traditional fabrication techniques, occasionally mixing in modern tools like 3D printers or laser engravers, but to me, they’re all just another tool on the bench.

I now work from a well-equipped studio, more comprehensive than I ever imagined when I first started. But the tools are just part of the picture, what really drives me is the steady pursuit of new skills. Recently, I’ve been focusing on micro pavé stone setting, where every movement needs to be deliberate and exact. Currently, I’m returning to engraving, exploring how the cut line and texture can change the mood of a piece. There’s always something new to chase, and that momentum is what keeps me coming back to the bench.

Within a few years, my work was being stocked by over 20 retailers, both nationally and abroad. But as the business side of things grew, so did a deeper urge. I didn’t just want to make jewellery; I wanted to share the making. That instinct led me into teaching, and ten years later, education has become not just part of my practice, but the heart of it.

I now run The School of Jewellery Ireland, a vibrant, purpose-led school that welcomes over 70 students each week. It is based in Dublin city centre, and the ethos is simple: to make jewellery education accessible, hands-on, and encouraging. No gatekeeping, no elitism, just solid training, shared openly. What makes the community unique is the diversity of our students. Some arrive with no creative background at all. Others come from adjacent practices, such as architecture, ceramics, or graphic design and bring fresh ways of thinking about form and function. In many ways, they mirror my own unorthodox entry into jewellery. That perspective allows me to meet students where they are, and help them build the technical confidence needed to launch their own creative careers, or at least pursue a creative passion on the side.

I’ve taught everyone from complete beginners to emerging professionals refining their skills, and each class reminds me how much jewellery resonates when people get the chance to explore it for themselves. I think what people connect with is that jewellery making involves thinking through your hands. There’s no substitute for the feeling of your first clean saw pierce, or the moment a soldered joint turns seamless. I love being there for those moments, and seeing them multiply. The school has grown organically, fuelled by word of mouth, an honest social media presence, and a commitment to quality. Each class is a little ecosystem of energy, creativity, and laughter – a reminder that the joy of making is often best when shared.

Although teaching takes up the bulk of my time these days, my own work at the bench is still evolving. More recently, I’ve started developing a new body of work using a ceramic composite that allows for rich colour and pattern to be integrated directly into the jewellery. It’s a material that opens the door to intricate, geometric designs, reflecting those early architectural inspirations, while offering something fresh and contemporary in terms of texture and colour.

Working with a composite brings its own technical challenges, but it’s also creatively freeing. The patterns are precise but playful, and I’m interested in how they sit alongside more traditional metals. This new direction has been a quiet but satisfying return to solo making, and a reminder that even after years of teaching, I’m still learning.

Looking forward, I’m focusing on bringing the school’s hands-on, supportive approach to an online format. I am currently developing a series of video-led classes that will allow students to learn foundational skills, such as saw piercing and soldering, from wherever they are and at their own pace. The goal is to make high-quality jewellery education more accessible, especially to those who can’t attend in person but still want to build meaningful skills at the bench. Alongside that, I’m also in the early stages of launching a new podcast, Mallet & Mandrel, where I’ll be interviewing jewellers, designers, and educators across the industry. It’s an opportunity to have honest conversations about the craft, creativity, and the often winding path that brings people into jewellery. Very few of us take the straight route.

Jewellery has always been about more than just adornment. It’s about connection and expression. Whether I’m soldering a hinge, guiding a student through their first bezel setting, or laying out plans for a new online course, that ethos remains the same. We’re all creating something, whether that be a piece, a skill, or a new beginning – it’s the most exciting work there is.

Paul Coyne is a jewellery designer, educator, and owner of The School of Jewellery Ireland, based in Dublin city centre.

theschoolofjewellery.ie

@theschoolofjewellery.ie

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What comes to mind when people hear the phrase ‘comic book artist’? Over the years, I’ve heard a surprising range of answers. I’ve had to explain more times than I can count that I’m not an animator, I don’t work on The Dandy or The Beano, and yes, being a comic book artist is absolutely a real job.

What we actually are is something quite simple, and very specific: visual storytellers, in the truest sense of the word. Whether it’s working for the giants like Marvel or DC, or with smaller or regional publications, our job is to tell stories – page by page, panel by panel, in the worlds of superheroes, science fiction, fantasy, and adventure. And we do it at a fast pace: a brand-new issue, every four weeks, ready to hit the stands.

It’s a job you have to love doing. I mean really love. You wake up each morning excited to work, but that energy has to come from a deep place. Comics take an incredible amount of time and a serious level of skill-based learning; it’s not something you can fake your way through. Breaking in is hard, but I’m glad to say that it’s becoming more and more common for Irish artists to make it into the upper levels of the industry. There are more of us working for Marvel and DC now than ever before.

So, what does making a comic actually involve? Each issue typically runs to about 20 pages. Once I’m handed a script from the editorial team, my role shifts entirely. I become the director. It’s now my job to bring all the tools I have – pacing, layout, acting, design – to tell the story in the most effective, impactful, and exciting way possible.

One of the most unforgettable experiences I’ve had in this job was after I signed an exclusive contract with Marvel. As part of it, I was flown over to Marvel’s headquarters in NYC for a pure storytelling workshop with some of the biggest creative minds in the industry. We spent five days inside the Marvel offices just breaking down how to translate scripts into visual storytelling. No distractions, no deadlines, just an intense focus on the craft. It was like getting to peek under the hood of the engine that makes comics run, and it was thrilling.

People often ask me if everything’s done on computers now. The answer really depends on the artist. Some artists work entirely digitally, others stick with traditional methods, and many use a combination of both. There are big upsides to each approach. Working traditionally, for instance, means you’ve got original pages that you can sell, and that’s a huge plus when you’ve drawn on big titles like Star Wars or Spider-Man. But digital also gives you speed, flexibility, and less clean-up. Everyone finds the workflow that suits them best.

With the popularity of comics, original pages have become very collectable, especially over the last twenty years. I have some originals from some of my own favourite artists, and every once and a while I’ll work traditionally if I think the piece will be wanted, especially for covers.

For me, comics mean everything. I’ve worked in all kinds of art-related industries over the years, but this is the one I connect with the most. It’s the one that gives me the greatest reward and the most satisfaction. It’s also, strangely, a very meditative job. I usually start my day around nine in the morning, sit down with a page of script in front of me, and then spend the day drawing. A lot of that time is spent in a kind of zen state, completely absorbed. Hours pass without me noticing. That’s been my daily routine for close to two decades now: wake up, draw, finish the day’s work. The fewer interruptions, the better.

Looking back over my career, there are a few projects that stand out. Two titles, above all the others, really shaped my time in comics: Spider-Man and Star Wars. When I first broke into Marvel, I got the rare chance to do a long-extended run on a single character, Spider-Man 2099. That was a massive milestone. Just this week, my collaborator on the project, Peter David, sadly passed away. It’s made me reflect a lot on that time, and honestly, all I can remember is how surreal and exciting it was. I couldn’t believe I was actually working on something so iconic. Every page felt like a dream job. I hope every young artist gets to experience that moment where a lifelong goal becomes a reality and you go from “someday” to “I’m actually doing this”. Those were really special years for me.

One of the other incredible parts of this job is how public facing it is. You’re out there. Your work is seen, loved, debated, critiqued, collected. You get to meet fans face to face. I’ve done signings at New York Comic-Con, Cork Comic Expo, and countless places in between. No matter where I go, someone hands me a Spider-Man comic to sign. It’s a reminder that you’re part of something much, much bigger than yourself. That means a lot to me, and it always will.

In more recent years, I’ve been working in the Star Wars universe. The process there is a little different. It’s very tied into the films and broader franchise plans. But that’s what also makes it such a thrill. You feel like you’re contributing to a much larger galaxy, and getting to peek behind the curtain of that world was unforgettable. Just last year, they released a lightsaber based on a character called Ren who I designed. If you’d told me when I was a kid that would happen someday, I wouldn’t have believed it for a second.

Lately, I’ve also moved into the world of creator-owned comics. That means the characters and stories I’m working on now are mine. I co-own them with my collaborators, and that changes everything. When you work for Marvel or DC, you’re helping to carry a legacy. When you work on creator-owned books, you’re starting one. It’s a big leap for readers too, because they’re discovering something totally new. It’s been incredible to see our book, The Shrouded College, take off. Now it’s being developed for television by Seth MacFarlane and Universal. I can’t wait to see how it gets adapted for the screen.

But maybe the most rewarding part of this whole journey is the impact it’s had on younger artists. I’ve lost count of how many portfolios and drawings I’ve been handed by kids who dream of one day drawing Spider-Man. And now that I’ve been in the industry for a while, I’ve seen some of those kids grow up, hone their skills, and break in, some of them in a big way. That’s the real full circle moment. Knowing that something you did helped inspire someone else to follow this path. That’s powerful. That’s why we do it.

So, yeah. When people ask what a comic book artist really is, we’re essentially storytellers. And if you love storytelling, there’s no better job in the world.

Will Sliney, Artist on Spider-Man and Star Wars, Creator and presenter of Draw With Will on Sky, Storytellers on RTE and director of Droid Academy.

@will_sliney

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I was one of those annoying kids who knew from early on that they wanted to be an artist when they grew up. That knowledge transformed, got lost along the way, and came back in style plenty of times as I got older. But some kind of drive has always been there, and it has made me who I am today: an annoying adult who’s still trying to be an artist.

After drawing anime, cartoons, and fan-art as a kid, a persistent depression, powered by being othered as an immigrant with gender dysphoria, made me go on a long, soul-searching process that got me so far away from drawing you would think I had no creative bone left in me. Fan-art simply wasn’t cutting it anymore, and I didn’t know one could do such a thing as write or draw about one’s own life or make cartoons about adult issues.

However, something in me was still interested in the craft enough to save my lunch money to buy comics. After some time, I came across comics that were different enough from the usual selection to get me hooked. They weren’t about superheroes; they were about sad teenagers living on the outskirts of society. There was nothing ecstatic about them and they were more real than the other media I was consuming at the time. I was a teenager, and I was sad all the time. What else did I need? It took me some more time to actually get into making my own though.

My first ever comic was the longest one-shot I’ve ever written – it was called La Chiamata (The Calling). It was 224 pages long and, for some inexplicable reason, it got published in 2018 by BeccoGiallo Editore without too much hassle. I’m glad it got the reception it did, and I’m particularly happy with how critics spotted that its ending didn’t tie up all loose ends. I’m still unbelievably proud of the efforts I put into that book and of the fact that it got nominated for some awards (and won one of them).

Getting La Chiamata published gave me enough credibility to start a career as a book illustrator, and while I would still draw my own stories, I ended up illustrating other people’s more often than my own – I never said no to a gig. From Matteo Marino’s I segreti di David Lynch to Alberto Rosa’s La Regina di New York, from Sacerdotesse, imperatrici e regine della musica by Clarice Trombella to Pinguini Tattici Nucleari a fumetti by Lorenzo LaNeve, I took it all in – and this doesn’t even include self published magazines, or one shot illustrations.

All of a sudden it felt like things were looking up, as if at some point I’d be able to get a stable flow of cash to live on my own. Unfortunately, Italy isn’t that kind, especially to families of immigrants with children who have ‘gender issues’. I had to move back in with my parents, who didn’t have much money either. I got a day job, and all the side gigs I could find, to help keep everyone afloat.

That’s when I started writing a new story that I tried to submit to La Maison des Auteurs in Angouleme, France, thinking that was going to be my ticket out of the country. What powered me at that point was desperation more than ambition. It’s easy to see now all of the flaws that story had, but I kept on thinking:“If only I could get out of here.” La Maison rejected the pitch. I bought a ticket to Ireland, where I knew I could reassess my skills and try to get into animation. The day after the end of my contract as a store clerk, I was on a plane. It’s been almost six years and I’ve never looked back. It’s by sheer luck and happy coincidences that I got here and am still here today.

As one could easily predict, I kept on making comics while working in animation in Ireland; quick strips online aside, I tried to get my comic The Unloved published in the United States and in Europe to no avail, which led to self-publishing. It’s still one of the projects that’s closest to my heart, even if it may never go anywhere. I got in contact with Irish Comics, started making some work for them like That’s the craic and published my first webseries Welcome to the Shibari Dojo, but the peak of it all was illustrating Under pressure, Davide Costa’s story for Loud – an anthology of feminist stories made by the collective against harassment in comics, Moleste, of which I’m one of the original founders. Not only did it manage to win a Boscarato Award, but it got published in the States by Dark Horse. I have rarely been happier of my contribution to a collective job. Thank God it was during this time that I got myself an iPad and a more powerful computer – there’s not enough I could say that would manage to summarise how much easier they made my life!

Before the digital times, I was a huge fan of watercolours and ink pen brushes. Poverty led me to adopt other mechanisms; I got myself the cheapest Wacom tablet I could find and worked off a 6GB RAM laptop for as long as I could. I kept it until I relocated to Ireland and got better equipment – at that point, my machine was barely functioning. But for the comics I make, which are very sketchy and rough, it managed to do the job. I’ve got to thank my first gig at Brown Bag for introducing me to better laptops and gear in general – I can’t imagine not working off a Cintiq and my 64 GB RAM computer when times get rough!

Comics and cartoons were huge reasons why I decided to be an artist. I just wanted to draw and tell stories as interesting as those I grew up with. Animation was expensive, however, and it usually takes the kind of power that can only be achieved by a team. There was no way my folks could afford to send me to university, and it felt completely out of reach. Nowadays, after having completed many comics, illustrated books, and an online webcomic, I’m all the more invested in telling my stories, both in comics and animation. As far as animated shorts go, I started with a horror short about my life called nostalgia, went through an awkward attempt at a longer film with there’s a light and ended up with another go, a short about Borderline Personality Disorder that managed to get in so many festivals I will never thank the selectors enough for believing in me, even though I’m just a person making limited animation with very limited resources. As my last project, see you soon, touched yet another nice subject, which is trans people and alcoholism, I’m getting ready to expand my horizon and manage to tell more than just one story at once. However, at the moment, after transitioning and starting my own life, more than anything, I’m just happy with who I am and what I’m doing. That’s plenty for me.

Eli (Elisa Beli Borrelli) is a trans non binary creator born and raised in Italy, originally from Albania. They make animated shorts, comics, illustrations and way too many unfunny jokes.

@elisabeliborrelli

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I have been working as an illustrator full-time for about 30 years. I have had short periods of nothing happening, but thankfully those have been few, and I have been busy working all the time and can now make a decent living from it. I started out in Children’s Book Illustration, as you do, but it always bothered me how the older readers grew, the fewer illustrations appeared. I was always asking: “Why is this a thing? What’s wrong with grown-ups having picture books?”

While working on various paid projects, books, magazines, album covers, and maps, I started working on a personal project, based on the nerdy love life of Nobel Laureate, and noted sex-pest, William Butler Yeats. I had heard from the President of the Yeats Society, Stella Mew, how Yeats had proposed to his muse, Maud Gonne, no less than four times, and was rejected each time. Undeterred, he waited for her daughter to grow up and then proposed to her.

This was a story that needed to be told, but in a funny way. Nobody had seemed to have made Yeats funny before, so I was pretty nervous. I started this as a series of limited-edition prints, which made their way into an exhibition called ‘Yeats in Love’, first shown in Sligo and then nationwide. It turned out to be more successful than I had ever imagined. I did not get excommunicated from Sligo, with my car set on fire; rather, the Yeats Society enjoyed the jokes.

Sometime later, I was chatting with the commissioning editor of New Island Books, who suggested I make a book out of the ‘Yeats in Love’ series. Because I was not in any position to adequately write a biography of Yeats to accompany the images, I instead did some deep-digging and found many quotes by his contemporaries – some charming, some unbelievably bitchy.

Yeats in Love was published in 2014 and sold out the first edition quickly, which led to a second edition. It was noticed by Tom Foley, the, then, United States Ambassador to Ireland, who became a mentor and great supporter of my work, especially in helping me with my terrible grammar. New Island Books were also very supportive of me in my quest to bring picture books to grown-ups, and we produced some more: What if..?, a book about historical what-ifs, and Another Fine Mess, which explores peculiar and amusing ways to die.

The fourth book was published in 2023, and was my very first, nervous step into the genre of graphic novels. I had an idea for a book that emerged during my research for Yeats in Love: that the great Irish writers of yesteryear were really horrible and mean and bitchy about each other. Also not one single woman seems to be widely celebrated amongst them.

I made a suggestion to Edwin Higel at New Island, who agreed there was a story there. After several false starts, I decided I would develop it as a graphic novel. It seemed to make perfect sense, as it involved almost entirely visual gags. The whole thing took place in the gorgeous surroundings of the National Library of Ireland, and, according to people who know about these things, graphic novels are big now.

My former job as an art director for film and television suddenly made a bit of a comeback; I started by laying out the basic shots, as one would with a storyboard. I wrote it out like a film script, which made things a lot easier and avoided having to go into big descriptive passages. Also, it was quite workmanlike and easy to break up into sections. It had a beginning, middle and (finally) an end, so I was all set.

At this point I was still working on paper with pen and ink, which meant this project took an extraordinary amount of time to execute. With the exception of the holy grail for illustrators, the Christmas RTÉ Guide cover, I had to clear my desk and turn down all other work to get this done. My office was so cold at night I had to construct a spare desk in the sitting room, so I could do a few pages in the warmth and occasionally say hello to my family. It was that intense.

After weeks of agonising, I decided on a title for the graphic novel – The Late Night Writers Club – and made a promise to myself that I would never, for as long as I lived, draw James Joyce again. We published the book in August 2023, and it was well-received by reviewers and readers. In 2024, I was approached by The National Library about acquisition of all the original illustrations, notes, script, scribbles, drafts, mistakes and Post-its. I was happy to oblige and the whole collection can now be viewed in the National Library Archive.

As luck would have it, the library at Trinity College Dublin also spoke to me about acquiring the originals and ephemera of Yeats in Love. I decided to donate those in memory of my mother, who worked in Trinity back in the day – they can also be seen in the Long Room by appointment. It was such an honour and a thrill to be immortalised in two of our finest institutions.

I was so wrecked after The Late Night Writers Club that I decided to take a break from most of the commissions I had been booked to do. I am at present doing occasional work for Sligo County Council on their unique illustrated walking maps, ‘Sligo Walks’, which show walkers a realistic idea of what the walk looks and feels like, rather than the somewhat sterile ordnance survey maps. It’s a real pleasure to work on those and is a big change from being stuck in the office all the time. I think I have a book or two left to do, but there is no immediate rush. I’m enjoying the time off with my dogs and my walks, and generally catching up on things after 18 months of non-stop grafting.

After years of resisting, in 2024 I gave in and bought an iPad, an Apple Pencil Pro, and the app, Procreate. The paper-like screen changed the whole process for me. I had hated the feeling of drawing on glass, but this product changed that. I’m having a great time experimenting and trying new things. I realise I could have made life a lot easier, had I created the book on the iPad, but I have no regrets – there is an archive of actual paper with art on it, which can be seen and held and looked at by anyone.

As a senior, I watch how things are going with AI, copyright problems, plagiarism and straight-up theft, and am pretty sad for young illustrators starting out. It must be really hard. I do think there is a place in society for real, human-made creativity, but society needs to remind itself about that, because once it’s gone, it will be hard to get it back.

Annie West is an illustrator and writer based in Sligo. She has spent all of her working life in the creative industries, including graphic design, film and TV art directing, and as a graphic novelist.

anniewest.com

@anniewestdotcom

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ST. DIABHAL DISCUSSES THEIR PRACTICE AND WORK IN THE CONTEXT OF MODERN MYTHOLOGY, HISTORY, AND A NEW CELTIC REVIVAL.

Evolution of Practice

I’ve always drawn to art, for as long as I can remember. Art was the one thing I truly loved and felt I could excel at. I wasn’t the most academic in school, but art was the subject I poured my energy into. It was the one area where I felt confident, and it showed – I earned an A in art for my Leaving Cert, which really highlighted where my focus lay. After school, I pursued a PLC course in Kilkenny before moving on to study at the Limerick School of Art & Design (LSAD).

In college, I continued to draw, but early on, many of my tutors advised me to move away from this style of art, thinking it wasn’t the most interesting path. I then shifted towards photography and lens-based media, working a lot with video and photography. This opened up a new passion for styling and creating characters, often using myself and my friends as subjects. However, the themes of folklore, witchcraft, and even online character creation continued to emerge in my work.

These themes, I believe, have deep roots in my childhood. I spent a lot of time playing with dolls, which was something I kept to myself, as I was quite ashamed of it at the time. But as I grew older and became more comfortable with my identity, especially as a gay man, I realised that these characters I created were an important part of my personal journey. In a way, my art today is still about creating these imaginary figures, transforming them into something meaningful.

Over time, my practice has evolved significantly. I’ve experimented with various styles, but I’ve now reached a place where I feel that I’ve successfully merged all of my interests – my love of folklore and myth, alongside my passion for fashion and pop culture – into one cohesive artistic vision.

History, Folklore, and Mythology

Irish history, folklore, and mythology are at the heart of my artistic practice. Growing up, I was captivated by the mysticism of these stories. They added an enchanting element to everyday life, transforming the mundane into something extraordinary. As a child, I often retreated into my own imagination, creating worlds full of creatures and characters. This became a form of escape, allowing me to sit for hours drawing and painting the myths that fascinated me.

Living in rural Ireland, I was surrounded by stories passed down from my grandparents about fairies, ancient spirits, and other mystical beings. My family would often take us on day trips to ancient castles and woods, which fuelled my imagination. I would envision gods, goddesses, and otherworldly figures inhabiting the ruins and landscapes around me.

As a child of my generation, I was drawn to the mythology of other cultures – Egyptian and Greek myths, along with magical worlds in movies like Harry Potter. In a way, Irish folklore felt almost embarrassing to embrace, reduced to symbols like leprechauns and shamrocks. But as I grew older, I began to delve deeper into our native folklore, shifting my perspective from seeing it as something outdated to something vibrant and meaningful. I was amazed by its richness and complexity, and I realised that there is so much to discover. Even today, I feel as though I’ve only scratched the surface, with years of exploration ahead of me.

Ancient Myths for Today

In the early days of my work, I didn’t have a set style – I found myself bouncing from one interest to the next. But over time, I’ve developed a consistent theme in my art, which mostly stems from research into folklore. My long-haired characters, for example, are inspired by the Banshee, known for her long hair that she would comb endlessly. I’ve also drawn inspiration from the gold jewellery found in archaeological sites across Ireland and other Gaelic regions. But for me, the goal has been to reimagine these ancient artefacts in a contemporary context.

I wanted to see what would happen if an Instagram influencer had travelled back in time, posing atop the Hill of Tara, decked out in ancient torcs and brooches. This idea of blending ancient history with modern-day aesthetics fascinates me – what would our traditions look like if they hadn’t been lost or overlooked, but rather evolved alongside us?

The colours I use are often inspired by nature and the Irish tricolour. The flag’s palette of green, orange, and white has been a foundational colour scheme in my work. I gravitate towards these natural tones, such as greens, oranges, browns, and golds. However, I also enjoy adding pops of neon here and there, which is a little nod to my school days, when I would cover my notebooks in sketches with bright highlighters.

Having spent half of my life in the countryside and now living in the city, I feel like I have a unique perspective on urban life. Limerick is my new home, and it’s where I began the journey that has shaped my work today. I’ve always known I wanted to move to the city because I didn’t fully feel like myself in the country. But now, at this stage of my life, I’ve developed a deep love for both rural and urban life.

What I want to convey through my work is that there’s culture to be found in both rural and urban settings. Limerick itself is a blend of the old and new, which mirrors my work. I try to mix the modern elements of the city with the ancient traditions to show how our heritage can evolve and thrive in today’s world, without being lost in time.

A New Celtic Revival

I’d like to think that I’m contributing to a modern Celtic revival, as that’s definitely a goal of mine – to reimagine the stories and characters of the past that could otherwise be lost to time. These ancient figures and myths often remain in their original settings, not given new life in our contemporary world. Through my work, I want to highlight that Irish culture is not only important but also cool – as cringey as it might sound. Our mythology is a vast, never-ending pool of stories that anyone can explore, if they’re interested.

It’s inspiring to see so many other artists embracing this movement as well. Artists are taking symbols like the Claddagh design and turning them into modern icons of Irish fashion, moving beyond their association with tourist shops and souvenirs. I think it’s essential to celebrate the positive aspects of our history, while of course, not ignoring the more challenging parts. Irish artists today are doing a great job of balancing this, and I’m proud to be part of that conversation.

Merch and the Contemporary Artist

I’ve always had a love for fashion, and it was definitely a driving force in my work, especially in my earlier years, when I focused a lot on fashion illustration. So, it felt almost inevitable that I would eventually explore the world of merchandise. I wanted to find a way to bring my art to life and make it wearable, allowing people to own a piece of my work in a practical way. I also love seeing how people style my merch – it’s exciting to see how others interpret my designs.

I do believe that merch has become an important necessity for artists today. It provides an outlet to sell work on a larger scale than a single art piece would. Being a self-employed artist is challenging enough, but merch gives artists the chance to create something beautiful that people can wear, while also supporting the artist’s practice financially.

Up Coming

Right now, my main focus is continuing to develop the world I’ve created. I want to bring it more to life, and I feel that animation is where my passion lies at the moment. I’m largely self-taught in animation, and while it’s more challenging than working with still images, it’s a medium I’m really excited to explore further. So, for me, the goal is to continue honing my skills in animation and push myself in that direction.

I’ve also been working on creating a set of tarot cards, and I plan to release a physical deck soon that people can use. Tarot has fascinated me for a long time, and I feel that it fits so naturally with the themes of mythology and the occult that are central to my work. My mind often races with ideas, so it’s sometimes hard to focus on just one thing, but I think I’ll keep exploring new ventures and see what resonates with me and my audience the most.

St. Diabhal is a visual artist whose work investigates Irish history and folklore and the strong role of masculinity and female empowerment within these stories.

@st.diabhal

diabhal666.bigcartel.com

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BEBHINN EILISH DISCUSSES HER WORK AND PRACTICE IN THE CONTEXT OF MODERN MYTHOLOGY, HISTORY, AND A NEW CELTIC REVIVAL.

Evolution of Practice

I’ve always been an artist, of course not professionally, but ever since I was young, I have struggled to identify myself beyond being a creative. Thankfully, as a child, my mam nurtured my artistic ability, and, more importantly, never doubted my talent.

I got my degree in Graphic Design, and learned very valuable skills that enhance my practice. I’m very happy to be a self-taught artist; had I studied fine art, my practice could have evolved in a completely different way.

Although I always considered myself an artist, I didn’t get started as a painter until 2021 when I lost my mam. I was an unemployed recent graduate, amidst the pandemic, and had been my mam’s carer for years. I had lost my forever muse – the greatest love I’d ever known, and the only way I could begin to process and move through the grief was to paint. Over the last four years, my style, subject matter, skillset, and materials have changed countless times, and although they will continue to evolve, I finally feel like I have my vision as an artist. Over the last two years, my themes have stayed consistent: grief and death, cultural taboos surrounding women and the female body, myths and folklore, symbolism and iconography, and a lot of personal talismans. I have also ventured into silversmithing and performance art, and it has been interesting to see how my work translates across these mediums.

History, Folklore, and Mythology

Since I was young, I have loved Ireland’s folklore, mythology, and history. Tales of Ireland’s past, both mythological and factual, were read to me by my mam. She had a keen interest in Irish history and named me after Bé Binn inion Urchadh – the mother of Brian Boru, High King of Ireland. These stories ultimately ignited a curiosity in me that continues to grow. I love how storytelling allows us to connect with and enter a realm beyond our own. This is something I try to emulate in my work.

The symbolism in ancient Irish motifs, alongside the intricate and deeply fascinating customs surrounding death in prehistoric Ireland, are most influential to my practice, as they are deeply rooted in grief.

Ancient Myths for Today

In Irish folklore, a lot of these characters are written about in great detail, but not all are visually imagined to accompany these stories. I like the idea, just like when reading a book, that the reader builds an image of the characters and space in their minds eye – that’s what I enjoy doing with folklore.

Folklore has and always will inspire both creatives and admirers. I think the interplay between past tales and contemporary art is extremely interesting and valuable, and will undoubtedly remain a catalyst for many artists for years to come.

I’d also like to mention how influential and inspirational Irish mythological figures can be on contemporary audiences. There’s an excellent piece written by Sharon Blackie for the Irish Times in 2019, on how Irish myth and folklore can inspire women to fight for ecological change, centred around one of my favourites, the Cailleach – a divine hag who fights the exploitation of the animals and the land.

A New Celtic Revival

I’d like to think I’m amongst the many artists who are preserving our cultural heritage, by helping to ensure the continuation and appreciation of these rich cultural traditions. I have definitely connected many with Irish folklore by sharing my work on social media, particularly from my last ‘Inktober’ series, where I depicted four Irish mythical beasts, each week for the month of October. During this series, someone online asked if I had created these characters and stories – I only wish I was that genius. However, this has inspired me to consider what mythological beasts I would invent for the world today – perhaps the seed for a future project.

Women, History, and Myth

There are many reasons why I love Irish folklore, but most important to me is its portrayal of strange, strong, and terrifying women. In pre-Christian Ireland, the divine female almost entirely dominates these stories. Female gods and mythical beings show a culture where women were central to society, in positions of power, and were regarded as the essence of all life, like the goddess Danú – the mother goddess of all Celtic gods and of the Tuatha De Danann (an ancient, magical people of Ireland). These powerful women, such as Danú, and devious tricksters like the Púca, are muses for my work.

I feel that women in Irish folklore are depicted more honestly than in myths of other cultures I’ve familiarised myself with. They show women to be morally complex, and often speak to the darker side of femininity: the repressed power, their surfacing rage, and the repercussions that has on the environment. I am a big fan of the many acts of retribution in Irish folklore, like Macha cursing the men of Ulster with harrowing pains of childbirth in their hour of need as punishment for making her race with horses while pregnant. Or the Dearg Due rising from the dead to suck the life from every man to do her wrong. These folktales bring a consciousness to the many attributes and skills of the great might of the feminine.

Merch and the Contemporary Artist

I’ve been really enjoying seeing other creatives express themselves in a way that invites, particularly new, audiences into the world of Irish design, but as an artist who primarily works as a painter, I have conflicting views on the topic – beyond environmental and consumerism concerns.

Merch is a great way for artists to diversify their income streams and stay financially sustainable. I’ve done it myself to stabilise my income, but I wish I didn’t have to depend on, or even consider these things. It’s beautiful and exciting – practically a walking promo of your work – and I’m honoured people like my work enough to wear it, but it can also feel a little underwhelming. My dream as an artist is to sustain myself through traditional revenue streams, like selling original paintings and prints, but unfortunately it’s not that simple. I feel forced to consider these avenues just to fund my work and feed myself. I don’t want to sound pessimistic, and I do love merch objectively, but sometimes it just feels like I am focusing too much on the marketability of my work, rather than what I want to create, and that just doesn’t sit right with me.

Coming Up

I am working on several different projects at the moment, some I’ve had on the back burner for years, and others I’ve been developing alongside. I think the reason I split my time between different projects that involve different mediums is to keep myself interested; if one is making me overwhelmed, I can easily switch to another, temporarily. A lot of my work is also very personal and I have to put myself in a place of emotional discomfort in order to pull from the source, so being able to refocus my energy elsewhere for a while is ideal. An example of this is my ongoing, and unseen, body of work entitled ‘I died with you’, which is an exploration of my own identity and self-discovery in my journey through grief after losing my mam. This body of work incorporates a lot of traditional ancient Irish motifs and is heavily influenced by practices surrounding death in Irish prehistory. I am also working on my ‘Etheric’ tarot deck, paper clay sculptures, and I’ve recently started jewellery school – I can’t wait to share what I’ve made.

Bebhinn Eilish is an artist and designer with an interest in grief, feminism, and Irish mythology.

@bebhinn_eilish

bebhinneilish.com

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