Getting it in the Head

by Mike McCormack

  In the month before he died a real bitterness entered into Francis. There was a political reason for this bitterness and although I have said I will confine myself to the facts I would like to speculate that the reason for his recurrence was a simple, unbelievable vanity.

  It was the run-up to Easter and this was the year of the seventy-fifth anniversary of the Rising. As we remember, the celebrations this time were contentious. Over twenty years of bloodshed in both nationalist and unionist communities in the north had put paid to any idea of repeating the innocent pageantry and procession which had marked the fiftieth anniversary. In those years the IRA had stepped forward into a political void claiming to be the true heirs to the legacy of 1916. And in those twenty years no one had been able to completely discredit their claim. But now that the commemorations were coming around again a new tactic was devised by those who wanted to deny the historical legitimacy of the IRA. The tactic amounted to a tacit denial that 1916 had ever taken place at all. Prudence, caution and sensitivity was counselled by our revisionists as a pretext for not offending the northern, unionist tradition. Deep down, however, more than a few people suspected that some massive denial was taking place. It was easy to believe so: anguish and embarrassment hung everywhere like a curse. Francis was incensed.

  ‘Have we lost our nerve altogether?’ he raged. ‘Are we that afraid of ourselves that we’re going to allow the birth of our nation be held ransom by a crowd of thugs?’

  And as the time of the commemoration drew near it became obvious that the celebrations would be only a token affair. Francis’ disbelief turned to rage.

  ‘What the hell are we embarrassed for? Can you imagine this sort of thing happening in any other country of the world? Christ, the French or the Americans would never stand for it, and damn right too.’

  But beneath the bluster and anger a deep undercurrent of betrayal was affecting him deeply. And it was this undercurrent which eventually sucked away his health and resolve. On Easter Monday we watched the televized ceremonies from outside Dublin GPO. Despite the presence of the Taoiseach, the president, a few foreign ambassadors and a handful of wheelchaired veterans, the ceremony itself lasted little more than half an hour. It was a craven, threadbare affair. When it ended I knew something vital had been drained from Francis. He seemed paler and sunk even further into his chair if that was possible. His voice came from a long way off.

  ‘Is that it? Is that all there is to show after seventy-five years – embarrassment and a government policy of amnesia?’ His disappointment filled the room like smoke.

  How ludicrous is it to say that it was for these celebrations that Francis had returned? How ludicrous is it to say that the chance to relive his most glamorous moment had proved too big a temptation for his restless soul? Did he have it in mind to step forward and take one last bow even if only in the privacy of his own imagination? Whatever the truth, the fact is that the next day Francis was late in to breakfast. After looking at me, my wife went to his room where she found him dead, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling in the same attitude of repose he had worn on the morning of his first death three years previously. She returned to the kitchen, confirming in a quiet voice what I already knew.

  Now that the great event was upon us we were at a loss as to how we should react. On the one hand a horror had been lifted from us and we were free in all respects to continue with the rest of our lives. We could refer to the whole thing from now on as a mutual nightmare. On the other hand, a death is a death and a family death calls for some form of grieving, particularly so now that the return of our son was obviously impossible. It was this confusion then which dictated that we put grieving on the long finger until some indefinite point in the future when we had it clear in our mind what it was exactly that had gone from us.

  Our reaction then was one of stunned efficiency. We telephoned the hospital and although it was irregular they said they would come and take the corpse away for an autopsy. Two hours later as the corpse was being lifted into the ambulance my wife’s fortitude collapsed. The driver, no doubt meaning well, turned and sympathized with us, told us that death was always a trial but wasn’t it great that someone so old went so peacefully? It was at this point that my wife broke down. She started to pummel the man’s chest and shriek:

  ‘He was my son, my son, do you hear?’

  The driver took an embarrassed step backwards as I tried to restrain her. ‘Death is always a trial,’ he finished lamely.

  Later that evening I went to the hospital to finalize details on the removal of the corpse. I received the autopsy report from a middle-aged man dressed in what looked like butcher’s overalls. He got to the point briskly.

  ‘A thrombosis. Your father was killed when his blood flow was hindered by a foreign object coming to rest on his cardiovascular system.’

  He held out a small, shapeless mass and placed it in my hand. It was surprisingly heavy and its true shape was barely discernible.

  ‘A bullet,’ the coroner confirmed simply. ‘A very ancient one too, he must have carried it in him for the most part of his life because nowhere on his body can I find any scar tissue.’ The note of amazement was obvious in his voice. ‘In fact, but for the bullet, there is no reason to believe that he would not have gone on living another fifty years. He was in amazingly good shape.’

  So this was how he’d died. The coroner’s report on Francis’ first death stated that he had died from a deterioration of his whole organism; old age in other words. There had never been any mention of a bullet anywhere. Walking from the hospital I was aware that I was still clutching it in my hand. I threw it in the nearest bin, I wanted nothing more to do with it.

  So this is how it ends, the physical substance of the horror passing on but leaving in its wake the pure essence of the problem itself. There is absolutely no doubt but that Francis existed. But who was he? Was he my father or my son? How could he be both at the same time? Is it possible that in some way I could have had a hand in the birth of my own father? If he was my son how could he have so resembled my father? All these questions and there is no doubt but that they are the real residue of the last six months. My mind is a whirl.

  But now, even though it is just over two days since he has died I can sense an idea taking shape in my wife. On the night of his death as I held her in our bed she spoke quietly.

  ‘John, maybe we could start again. Maybe we could try for another child.’

  I had an immediate sensation of falling, the feeling of some unyielding surface rushing up to meet me at a terrific speed. I shut my eyes and clenched my teeth till my temples ached. I eventually managed to speak.

  ‘We’ll see,’ I said. ‘We’ll see.’

  But I don’t know. I’ve got to get this sorted out before I can have another child. I keep wondering to myself, how can a man bring a child into the world when he hasn’t a clue who he is himself?

  My first contact with Thomas Crumlesh was in 1984 when he exhibited with a small artists’ collective in the Temple Bar area of the city. His was one of the many fringe exhibitions hoping to draw the attention of the international buyers who were in Dublin for the official Rosc Exhibition at the Guinness Hop Store. It was July, just four months after Thomas had been expelled from the National College of Art and Design for persevering with work that, in the opinion of his tutors, dealt obscenely and obsessively with themes of gratuitous violence.

  His exhibition, Notes Towards an Autobiography, had been hanging less than three days and already word had got out and excited quite a bit of outraged comment. It consisted of four box frames with black silk backgrounds on which were mounted his left lung, the thumb of his left hand, his right ear and the middle toe of his left foot. Crumlesh was present also and easily recognizable – he was standing by the invigilator’s desk with his head and left hand swathed in white and not-too-clean bandages. He was deathly pale and carrying himself delicately; like most young bohemians he was badly in need of a shave. After I got ov
er my initial shock I ventured a few words of congratulations, more by way of curiosity than from any heartfelt belief in his work’s merit. He surprised me with a lavish smile and a resolute handshake, contradicting completely his frail appearance. This was my first experience of the central paradox in his personality – the palpably gruesome nature of his work set against his unfailing good spirits and optimism. He surprised me further by telling me in conspiratorial tones that he planned to leave the country that very evening. Some criticism of his work had found its way into the national press and already a few people with placards had picketed the exhibition. He had even heard word that the police were pressing for warrants to arrest him under the obscenity laws. He confided further that what really worried him was that he might fall foul of Ireland’s notoriously lax committal laws; he quoted an impressive array of statistics on secondary committals in the Republic.

  I ended that encounter by buying his lung. His enthusiasm and verve convinced me of its worth and his whole appearance told me that he was in need of the money. Before I left he outlined the programme of work he had laid out for himself – a programme that would take him up to 1992, the year he hoped to retire. I offered to check his wounds – his bandages looked like they had not been changed in a few days. He declined the offer saying that he did not have the time, he needed to cash the cheque and he was afraid of missing the ferry to Holyhead. We shook hands before parting and I did not expect to see him ever again.

  Our paths crossed again two years later. I was in London, attending a symposium on trauma and phantom pains in amputees at the Royal College of Surgeons. By chance, in a Crouch End pub, I picked up a flyer advertising the upcoming festival of Irish culture and music in Finsbury Park. Near the bottom of a list of rock bands and comedians was mention of a small exhibition of avant-garde work to be shown at a tiny gallery in Birchington Road. Thomas’ name was mentioned second from the bottom. When I eventually found the gallery it was nothing more than two rooms knocked together on the third floor over a Chinese restaurant. Among the second-rate paintings and sculptures Thomas’ work was not difficult to recognize. It stood in the middle of the floor, mounted on a black metal stand, a single human arm stripped of skin and musculature leaning at an obtuse angle to the floor. The bleached bones of the hand were closed in a half fist and the whole thing looked like the arm of some nightmare robot. As I approached it the arm jerked into life, the fingers contracted completely and the thumb bone stood vertical. It looked eerily like a ghost hitching a lift: from some passing phantom car. It was untitled but carried a price of two thousand pounds.

  Thomas entered the room and recognized me instantly. I attempted to shake hands – an embarrassing blunder since I had to withdraw my right hand when I saw the stump near his shoulder. As before, he was in good spirits and he entered quickly into a detailed explanation of what he called his ‘technique’. He had bleached the bone in an acid formula of his own devising to give it its luminous whiteness and then wired it to electrical switches concealed beneath the carpet which would be unwittingly activated by the viewer whenever he got within a certain radius – he admitted borrowing this subterfuge from the work of Jean Tinguely. He then circled the arm and put it through its motions, four in all. Firstly, a snake pose that turned the palm downwards from the elbow and extended the fingers fearsomely, then the hitching gesture, then a foppish, disowning gesture that swivelled the forearm at the elbow and threw the hand forward, palm upwards, and lastly and most comically an ‘up yours’ middle finger gesture that faced the viewer head on. He grinned like a child when I expressed my genuine admiration. I had no doubt but that I was looking at a postmodern masterpiece. I little suspected at the time that this piece would enter into the popular imagery of the late twentieth century, reaching iconic status through exposure on album covers, T-shirts and posters. I only regretted at the time that I had not the means to acquire it.

  But Thomas was not without worries. He confided that he had found it extremely difficult to find a surgeon who would carry out the amputations, he had to be extremely careful to whom he even voiced the idea – the terror of committal again. It had taken him three months to track down an ex-army medic with shellshock who had been discharged from the parachute regiment after the Falklands War to where he ran a covert abortion clinic in Holloway. In a fugue of anaesthesia and marijuana Thomas had undergone his operation, a traumatic affair that had left him so pained and unnerved he doubted he would be able to undergo the experience again. This fright had put his life’s work in jeopardy, he pointed out. He was looking me straight in the eye as he said this; I sensed that he was putting me on the spot. Then he came out straight with his request. What I need is a skilled surgeon I can rely on, not some strung-out psycho. He spoke evenly, without the least hint of hysteria in his voice. He will of course be paid, he added coyly. I told him that I needed time to think on it – it was an unusual request. He nodded his agreement, he understood fully the difficulties of his request and he would not blame me if I refused him outright. We shook hands before we parted and I promised to contact him the following day after I had given his request some thought.

  In fact I had little to think about. I very quickly resolved my fundamental dilemma: the healing ethic of my craft set against the demands of Thomas’ talents. One parting glance at the arm convinced me that I had encountered a fiercely committed genius who it seemed to me had already made a crucial contribution to the imagery of the late twentieth century. It was obvious to me that I had an obligation to put my skills at his disposal; the century could not be denied his singular vision on grounds of arbitrary scruples. My problem was how exactly I was to make my skills available. That evening in my hotel room I gave the problem much thought and I returned the following day with my plans.

  I found Thomas in high spirits. The lead singer of a famous heavy metal band had just bought the arm and Thomas was celebrating with champagne, drinking it from a mug, trying to get the feel of his new-found wealth, as he laconically put it. He poured me a similar mug when I declared my intention to help him. I explained my plan quickly. Before every operation he should forward to me exact details of what he needed, then give me two weeks to put in place the necessary logistics and paperwork at the clinic where I worked. I believed I would be able to perform two operations a year without arousing suspicion. He thanked me profusely, pumping my left hand with his, telling me he could rest easy now that his future was secure. In a magniloquent moment that was not without truth he assured me that I had made a friend for life.

  He contacted me for the first time in November of that year telling me that he planned to exhibit a piece during the Paris Biennale. He needed six ribs removed: when would be the most convenient time for me? I wrote in reply that I had pencilled in the operation for Christmas Eve and that he could stay with me over the festive season and into the New Year while he recovered. The operation itself, an elaborate thoracotomy carried out in the witching hour of Christmas Eve, was a complete success and when, on New Year’s Day, I presented him with the bundle of curved, washed bones he was thrilled; it was good to be back at work, he said.

  It was during these days of convalescence that our relationship moved onto a more intimate footing. Mostly they were days of silence, days spent reading or listening to music in the conservatory that looked out over Howth to the sea beyond. Sometimes a whole day would go by without any word passing between us. Neither of us was awkward in this. The looming, inexorable conclusion of his art ridiculed any attempts at a deeper enquiry into each other’s past. He simply gave me his trust and I gave him his bones and internal organs. That was enough for both of us.

  On the third of January he returned to London, he wanted to get to work as quickly as possible. Five months later he sent me a photograph from a gallery in Paris, a black and white close-up of a piece called The Bonemobile, an abstract, lantern-shaped structure suspended by wire. His letter informed me that although the piece had excited the inevitable outrage among the mor
e hide-bound critics it had also generated some appreciative but furtive praise. Nevertheless, he doubted that any buyer would rise to the fifty thousand Franc price tag he had placed upon it. He understood the fear of a buyer ruining his reputation by buying into what some were already calling apocalyptic voyeurism. Still, he lived in hope.

  That was the first of twelve operations I performed on Thomas between 1986 and 1992. In all I removed twenty-three bones and four internal organs, eighteen inches of his digestive tract, seven teeth, four toes, his left eye and his right leg. He exhibited work on the fringe of most major European art festivals, narrowly escaping arrest in several countries and jumping bail in four. In his lifetime he sold eight pieces worth a total of fifty thousand pounds, by no means riches, but enough to fund his Spartan existence.

  Inevitably, by 1989 his work had taken a toll on his body. After the removal of a section of digestive tract in 1988 his body slumped badly and following the amputation of his right leg in 1989 he spent his remaining years in a wheelchair. Despite this his spirits never sank nor did his courage fail him; he was undoubtedly sustained by the tentative acclaim that greeted his work in avant-garde circles. For the first time also he was being sought out for interviews. He declined them all, pointing out simply that the spoken word was not his medium.

  His deterioration could not go on indefinitely. In March 1992 he wrote telling me he planned to exhibit his final piece at the Kassel Documenta. He travelled to Dublin the following month and spent a week at my house where he outlined the procedure I was to follow after the operation. On the night of the tenth, after shaking hands with appropriate solemnity for the last time, I administered him a massive dose of morphine, a euthanasia injection. He died painlessly within four minutes. Then, following his instructions, I removed his remaining left arm and head – messy, dispiriting work. I then boiled the flesh from the arm and skull in a huge bath and using a solution of bleach and furniture polish brought the bone to a luminous whiteness. I fixed the skull in the hand and set the whole thing on a wall mount; Alas, Poor Thomas he had told me to call it. Then I sent it to Kassel at the end of the month, Thomas already having informed the gallery as to the kind of work they were to expect. In critical terms it was his most successful piece and when Kiefer singled him out as the genius specific to the jaded tenor of this brutal and fantastic century his reputation was cemented. This last piece sold for twenty-five thousand Deutschmarks.