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O’Connell
Street in Dublin is packed at the best of times. There
is no such thing as an uninterrupted walk through
it. Sidestepping others walking towards us and being
stopped in our tracks by the less fleet footed going
in the same direction but merely inches ahead, is
common place amongst the thronging crowds. And there
is always the inevitable stampede of two hoofed beings
blinded by their urgency to get across the road before
a mass of mechanised machinery in a ‘no mood
for turning’ charge comes hurtling at the first
signal of green from the traffic lights. There is
still a green light by the way - the peace process
has not yet managed to impose something more neutral
on us.
Bad
as it normally is, matters have been even worse as
of late due to building work being carried out on
the construction of the Spire. Hoardings cover a large
part of the street forcing the already congested pedestrians
into even more cramped conditions making all the more
intense the battle for foot room.
On
seeing the Spire it is hard to conceive of something
less attractive, more incomprehensible. Perhaps we
are viewed by the architects as being so aesthetically
challenged that our existential need for beauty can
be sated by having us gaze on something big and shiny.
Britain’s obscene Angel of The North at least
has something in terms of artistry associated with
it. But this silver nothingness jutting into our skies
is both blank and bland: an above ground time capsule
to be opened centuries from now - which will lead
those who ’discover’ it to conclude that
that we Irish had nothing, thought nothing and bequeathed
nothing. After we have long since been nuked, poisoned
or mutated into unintelligible deformities, and unable
to protest otherwise future folklore may describe
the Spire as being of ancient Greek origin, and
considered wholly consistent with the culture of our
time - a tribute to the God of Virility around which
hoards of naked priests danced chanting ‘boys’.
Perhaps the Dublin government fuelled on the bizarre
political equivalent of viagra feels it has to proclaim
its truncated territory’s virility by planting
this erect silver member in the centre of its capital.
A nation long screwed by its politicians being given
the monument those same politicians felt it deserved.
There
is an argument to be made that the only sense of real
artistry to visit the spot where the Spire now stands
in the last 195 years came courtesy of Liam Sutcliffe
who blew up Nelson's Pillar there in 1966. Placed
outside the GPO, at 120 metres in height, it dwarfs
the building where the first claim to Irish nationhood
of the twentieth century was staked with the blood
of so many Irish citizens. Is this all that the inheritors
and chief beneficiaries of their sacrifice have to
offer? Not being a patron of the arts the thoughts
that come to mind were simplistic. But it struck me
that it is the type of architecture that sits comfortably
with the peace process - shallow but large and central
enough to monitor us like a panopticon. Placed outside
the GPO it says to those who wanted the British to
leave, ‘up yours - this is your reward for your
efforts. Dublin 4 rules’. Now what if the money
used to put the thing where it is had have been given
to CORI to enhance its ability to fight poverty. But
that would be to give the finger to the rich and the
powerful - and knowing the calibre of our political
leaders, they would rather give the finger to us.
Like the useless Kim Jong-il they prefer to squander
the country’s money on things amusing to themselves
rather than what is necessary to to the eradication
of destitution.
The
Spire's architect, Mr Ian Ritchie, aware of the criticisms
said, ‘I've heard all the arguments about the
waste of money’. By way of a palliative he promises
a Spire industry. We are supposed to console ourselves
with the promise that ‘Dublin City Council is
expected to raise millions of euro from the sale of
miniature models of the Spire when the copyright for
the structure transfers from the architect to the
local authority.’ Perhaps more shall be sold
in sex shops than anywhere else, a sign that we have
indeed moved on from De Valera‘s Ireland of comely
maidens.
Ultimately,
it could be put to some educational value for young
people if some graffiti artists were to write along
it ‘use a condom’. It would hardly be out
of place. Better that than the young beginning to
think it is just a big heroin needle promoting the
capital's drugs culture.
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