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The Countess Markievicz confusing armed struggle
with theatrical
posturing (Sean Sexton Collection)
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To mark the centenary of the Easter uprising in
Dublin, the Photographers’ Gallery in London has put on an exhibition focusing
on that historically significant event. There
are about 80 images, including ephemera, drawn from the important collection of
Irish photographs owned by Sean Sexton, who lives at Walthamstow in London. The first part examines early photography in
Ireland in order to emphasise the poor living conditions in the rural south,
and the British military presence, the asymmetric relationship symbolised by an
1861 photograph of Queen Victoria in a carriage surveying her Irish domain. The main section deals with the uprising
itself, the major personalities involved in its leadership, and the immediate
aftermath. The final section looks at
the consequences, the dividend for Sinn Fein despite not having been involved
in the uprising, the political fallout as the struggle for independence gave
rise to partition, and the bloody civil war which followed.
It is clear that photography had long been used not
only as a documentary tool but also to foster a distinctive Irish culture which
was Celtic and Catholic. That could be
achieved overtly – photographs of evictions – or implicitly, in photographs of
archaeological sites that suggested the continuity of a national identity which
pre-dated the presence of outsiders. In
that sense records of the events of 1916 were part of a continuum of
photography as propaganda in the Nationalist cause, though clearly
qualitatively different in their dramatic impact.
The uprising started on 24 April 1916, taking
advantage of British involvement in the European conflict. As one of the information panels put it,
‘England’s engagement in a protracted war provided the perfect cover for a
revolution and resurrected an old adage, “England’s difficulty is Ireland’s
opportunity”.’ Understandably with the
cumbersome technology of the period and wartime censorship, plus the dangers
inherent in standing in an exposed spot, the fighting during the six days of
the uprising itself was largely unphotographed.
Once the rebels had surrendered and the immediate dangers were over,
however, there was a concerted effort to document the damage, which was
extensive, and highlight the ham-fisted treatment of the ringleaders which
appalled a population that had been to a large extent indifferent to the
uprising itself.
The introductory panel refers to the role
photography played after the uprising ‘in evolving a set of archetypes – the
martyr, the hunger-striker, the rebel, the traitor, the spy – which paved the
way for Irish independence and helped to shape the nationalist narratives that
informed the Irish Republic.’ In
particular there was a religious undercurrent underpinning the uprising, notably
the idea of martyrdom for the executed leaders, who achieved fame after death
to an extent they had not had while alive.
The images assisted a political transition from the previous emphasis on
Home Rule by constitutional means to extra-parliamentary Republicanism. The ascendency of Catholic influence in the
movement is displayed in a photograph of a well-dressed group, those at the front
on their knees and Irish flags in evidence, captioned ‘A crowd reciting the
Rosary during the Irish Conference at Downing Street 1922’, reminding any who sought
the establishment of a secular Republic, with Church and State separated, that
they were going to be disappointed, and there are references to the way women
in general were discriminated against in the 1937 Constitution.
In a video interview, curator Luke Dodd consistently
refers to the rebels as insurgents so it is not difficult to see where his
sympathies lie, and this is not an even-handed display – one wall has even been
painted green to set off the photographs of the uprising to better effect. The show couldn’t have been more partisan if
selections from the James Connolly Songbook were playing on a loop. One would be forgiven for thinking when
reading the captions that ‘England’ was united in its desire to exploit the
Irish, ignoring the fact that large sections of the working class in Britain,
both rural and urban, also experienced extreme levels of poverty.
Similarly crude in its analysis, the exhibition
pretends to cover both sides of the religious divide but material dedicated to
Loyalism is fairly sparse, notably a couple of albums commemorating Edward
Carson and the Ulster Volunteers. One might
be forgiven for assuming that the Protestant population outside the industrial
North-East consisted entirely of wealthy landowners, and one certainly won’t
learn anything here about the ethnic cleansing of Protestants from the Free
State. There are 20,000 images in
Sexton’s collection, so this must be a very thin slice of what might have been
shown. It is enough to make the desired
political points, certainly, but a more nuanced context would have been
welcome. That would have gone some way
to reducing the sense, walking round the gallery, that the propaganda
surrounding Easter 1916 in Dublin is still deemed to have currency in 2016 in
London.
The exhibition opened on 22 January and runs until 3
April. I doubt if there are any plans to
transfer it to Belfast.
