At Ringsend...

Journey down the side streets and river ways of Dublin, make your way past the hustle and bustle of the financial district, towards the weathered boathouses and rusting depots and you will find a history of Ireland that cannot be seen in any tour-guide book or postcard. Travel down the cobblestone streets that flank the River Liffey. With the skyline to your back, away from the traditional pubs and theaters, soon enough you will be at Ringsend. The vibrantly painted doors and signs, charred by the soot of centuries of passing barges and automobiles will let you know that you have arrived. The wind can be deafening, as there are no cars or droves of people to make a sound.

We were on a photographic expedition to capture a unique undeniable Dublin under the direction of accomplished photographer Fionan O’Connell. We made our way towards Ringsend, passing scrap heaps of metal, large collections of neatly organized propane tanks, and bushels of wire. The scraps drew us in as photographers, metal categorized and neatly placed by their shape or vibrant color; aged by weather and time these objects became something of aesthetic beauty, pages from a storybook of the past.

Rustling could be heard coming from what appeared to be abandoned campers or caravans, the group along with myself attempted to keep our focus to the task at hand. I could see a camper’s door swing open in my peripheral vision. I didn’t need to shift my vision to tell someone was staring at me, a stare that made me feel extremely unwelcome, as if I just infringed on a very private place. I redirected myself to getter a better view of the stranger. It was a middle-aged woman whose face seemed to be as aged and weathered as the scraps outside, her eyes were piercing and her jaw locked. Her clothes were stained and tattered, a green sweat suit with yellow stripes that looked dated. I attempted to break the tension that filled the area.

I held up my camera as a form of diplomacy, hoping that the idea of me taking her photo would become a truce, stopping the cold stares and unwelcoming eyes. “Photo” I yelled across the way, as if not to get to close and make her privacy feel more violated. Her attitude changed with the introduction of my camera into the conversation. She smiled and told me no, which was accompanied by a slight chuckle. The woman shrieked into the camper with horribly loud and angry misdemeanor--quickly retorted by a deep and raspy voice. She then redirected her attention to me and told me we could take photos of her caravan. Although she became my story, I politely accepted, and out of civility I snapped a few shots of the camper. The horrible shriek rang out once again, this time in my general direction. Thinking I broke some code of etiquette, a cold sweat began form on my back, waiting to be approached for a much more direct and personal altercation. Just then a door to another camper door swung open. “You want your picture taken?” The woman shouted to the man now standing in the adjacent camper doorway. He paused, which gave me enough time assess this man who had a face of such character, pain, and sorrow. He obliged me in taking his photo, right in his doorway. He asked me inside, but I declined, and then he pointed to two wooden dinette chairs of no particular or rare beauty. I could tell he was extremely proud of his chairs, so much like the caravan I snapped a few shots out of civility. Feeling as if I had gained some form of trust, I moved closer to the caravans. The man with the features of character grew concerned as I took photos of a bushel of vibrantly colored wire. He attempted to redirect my attention elsewhere through a series of hand gestures and huffs and puffs of urgency.

That was my cue to leave these travelers, a people whom have a rich history in Ireland as being clans of nomadic tinsmiths and beggars. A people who are so engrained into the culture of Ireland that they are considered their own ethnic group, giving them the right which protect their unpopular way of life. These Travelers have traversed the Irish country side and dwelled in cities for several generations, dating back to a time when life in Ireland was tough for all. I was told by a local not to confuse these people with gypsies or beggars, giving me the assumption that these people are deemed more favorable within Irish society. Travelers are as much a part of Ireland’s past and tradition as the city dwellers and farmers from Dublin to Galloway, adding their story to the grand narrative that is the tale of Ireland.

I walked away from Ringsend back towards the skyline and the touristy pubs and inns. The city once again faded back into the Dublin that most of the world sees, a place that has no room for the people of Ringsend.