Four Oddest Statues in Ireland Part II: I Should Have Stopped at Part I

For Part I of this article, click here.  Just kidding.  Click here.
When I started this two-part piece, I had no idea that the English language had no words for either a “group of statues” or a “statue representing and honoring a historical figure.”  As a result, writing the first part was kind of an annoying experience and the theme was a bit muddier than it should have been. Of course, annoying is a naked word to me without the modifier more in front of it, so naturally I made sure this second part was going to be an even more annoying writing experience for me and, hopefully, reading experience for you.  You see, I have absolutely no passion for, prior experience with, or knowledge of the subjects of the two statues in this entry.  In other words, I’ve no real reason to get excited to have seen them in my past or to write about them in my present.  They’re still odd, though.  Which is why I visited them.  That, and they were on the way to wherever I was going and I had time to kill.  You know, the exact reason you’re here.  Suffice it to say that I’m ruing a bit the decision to start this series.  Or, more accurately, the decision to finish it.  And now that I’ve introduced this article so irresistibly, it’s time to get to these statues.

Ireland is not a square, but in the upper west corner of it is a town with the insult-like name of Sligo.  In that town stands a singular statue:  an effigy of William “The Butler” Yeats, Nobel Prize-winning poet and native son of Sligo and, consequently, Ireland.  It’s the usual story.  Local writes poetry.  Makes good.  Becomes famous.  Wins Nobel Prize for Literature.  Has happened a million times.  Well, maybe 17 so far.  Actually, exactly 17 so far.  And, yeah, effigy might be one of those words I just claimed wasn’t in our language, but I’m not sure.

Anyway, you know what that means.  Somebody’s statue-worthy.  And Yeats’ hometown of Sligo jumped on that bronco, putting a bronze statue of him right in the middle of town, complete with a flaring, flattened chest three times the width of the rest of his body and a suit covered in raised text like somebody might wear in an Eighties music video.

Cool.  Wait.  What?

I don’t have much to say about Sligo itself, and that’s probably good because my entire experience there was pretty much stillborn due to the place where I parked.  It was just a small pay parking lot, but as soon as I exited the car, I was accosted by what I’m pretty sure was a legitimate street urchin.  I could tell this by the way he pissed mid-walk and tried to hustle me out of money.  He couldn’t have been more than six.  Behind him, and taking up most of the parking lot, were a couple of small camper-type mobile homes on blocks where his mother and others sorted through recyclables.  I guess they considered the daily parking charge rent, and I guess they paid that by turning in cast-off copper and other metals.  It felt gypsy-caravanish.

While I simultaneously dealt with the headache of the child, the automatic ticket system, the alien Euro coins that I had to use, and the guilt of having just hid some of our more valuable possession out of sight in the car, we saw other people park their cars in the lot without a glance at the vagrants, so we felt secure enough to leave the car there...but only for a little while.  I know I’m sounding a bit judgmental, but we were strangers in a strange land.  You often have to be careful to the point of cynicism in such circumstances.  Plus, I am judgmental.  Luckily, the statue was only a block away, so I had that small comfort.

Yeats stands on a sidewalk corner in front of a large bank at a busy intersection both for cars and for pedestrians.  It’s not bad real estate if you’re the statue of a dead man who wants to be remembered (although it has been hit by an errant car before), but it’s not the most ideal place to visit a statue if you’re self-conscious.  Normally, though, that wouldn’t matter too much because you don’t have to spend much time with a statue of a person to get it.  You just look it in the face, read its plaque, take a picture, and you’re done.  However, in the case of Yeats, the statue is distorted enough to merit a bit more attention than all that.  In other words, like any biological aberration of humanity, he takes some gawking at.  You see, even though his head, arms, and legs are accurate to the usual standards of humandom, his chest looks like the path of least resistance on a large road kill.  On top of that, every square and round inch of his clothes, including the almost heart-shaped flattened bit, is covered with words of what I assume to be his poetry.  I didn’t read the whole statue, though, so I’m not sure.  Although the idea of walking in circles to read text that wraps around something amuses me.  It also makes me imagine what the world would be like if all our books were cylindrical.  My wrists are tingling strangely just thinking about it.

Anyway, as a result, what should be a boring statue of a boring-looking man becomes as interesting as it can be.  And I’m for it, and not merely because it’s odd.  I don’t want to rehash what I wrote about in the Oscar Wilde statue part of this series, but the Yeats statue avoids the pitfall of honoring an artist with a mere standing statue.  It actually communicates something legitimate about its subject artist.  Yeats is known for his words.  It’s why he’s famous, why he has a statue, and why we had to read him in literature classes.  Representing him as a page of his own work tells me immediately why this otherwise nondescript, half-bespectacled (they were broken when I visited) man is being honored in carbonite.  Granted, it might not be the most aesthetically interesting statue (he looks like he swallowed some esoteric geometry figure or is dressed up to deliver a singing Valentine), and you could technically honor any writer this way, but at least they aspired.  Plus it got me to visit it, which I probably wouldn’t have done had it been a mere life-accurate representation of him.

Back at the parking lot my car was fine.  I didn’t see the boy again, but I do wish I’d of given him some spare change.  Not because I’m at all tenderhearted; just because I was tired of carrying around all those silly one-dollar Euro coins that clanked in my pockets when I walked because they wouldn’t all fit into my wallet.

I also wish I was into Yeats (the only reason right now that I’m not is that I’ve just not read enough of his work) because not only did I see his statue, I also saw his grave.  Just outside of Sligo is the town of Drumcliff, where Yeats is buried in a small church that looks like it’s straight out of a Caspar David Friedrich painting.  Behind the church and graveyard, Benbulben looms, a mountain that Yeats took inspiration from in his poetry.  It looks like it wants it back, though.  In front of this church is a sculpture honoring Yeats’ work by physically illustrating his poem “He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven.”  It depicts a bald, shirtless man crouching above a blanket engraven with the words of the poem.  Once again, if I knew Yeats’ work, I’d probably understand the significance of this statue better.  And for those of you wondering how this fits into my theories of statues of artists, I guess I’d say that honoring an artist’s work is way cooler than honoring his person.  I think, anyway.  I’m not too sure...that I care.  The graveyard, like the church, is small and Yeats’ grave is easy to find and slightly disappointing when found.

All right.  One to go.  Don’t worry, it’ll be quick.  My experience with the location of the last statue in this series was the exact opposite of Sligo.  That’s not surprising, considering it’s located on the Ring of Kerry, a loop of scenic drive that circuits the Iveragh Peninsula in County Kerry and takes you through gorgeous and varied scenery, including mountains, coasts, country towns, and little herds of sheep with spray-painted arses.

You’ll pass by a few statues and monuments here at there on your course around the ring, but nothing really worth mentioning that I saw.  That is, until about the midpoint, in a nice little town called Waterville at the tip of the peninsula itself.  There at the edge of a town, set against a beautiful backdrop of ocean, you’ll pass a statue of a short man with a bowler hat, a cane, and a weird little stance.  Charlie Chaplin.

Cool.  Wait.  What?

Yes, Charlie Chaplain, silent film comedian and Hollywood (and thus, unfortunately, American) legend.  Charlie Chaplin was not Irish.  He never played an Irish character.  As far as I know (three feet or less), he never even filmed in Ireland.  Charlie Chaplin’s honored with a statue in Waterville for one reason...he vacationed there regularly.  Your timeshare owes you at least a commemorative plaque.  I’m not quite sure what to make of that.  It could be that the populace or decision-makers of Waterville were genuinely honored by his presence.  It could also just be jumping on a celebrity’s coattails.  I’m inclined to choose the latter because I like clichés based on out-dated fashions.

Like I said, I don’t know anything about Chaplin.  I did a little research on him but only found out that had he been born a generation or two later, he’d of probably been arrested for pedophilia.  At least it’s not necropedophilia.  That’s the worst.  The big reason, though, that I don’t know much about his work is that I’m not really into comedy movies.  They always seem to try too hard.  But Chaplin’s movies, or probably more accurately, Chaplin himself, is so universally acclaimed that his work has always been on my list to check out.  Unfortunately, that list is longer than I have a lifespan for and I haven’t gotten to Chaplin yet.  And that’s tragic because my list is alphabetized.  But I consider this photograph of me with his statue to be a future-thinking picture.  If I ever do get to his work and dig it, I’ll be glad I stood with his statue.  If I hate it, it was two minutes out of my life that I don’t really need back.  Plus, now you know that there’s a statue of Charlie Chaplin out on the coast of Ireland for no good reason.  And you should know that.  Regardless, it was still strange to run into him, much like the time I saw a statue of Abraham Lincoln in London.  He never freed their slaves.  And that’s all I have to say about Charlie Chaplin and his Irish statue.

So there you have it.  The four oddest statues in Ireland of a certain sort based on rules that I never clearly delineated.  Let the dissenting e-mails begin.  But let me just say in advance that you’re right and I already agree with you.  And I promise next time to be more interested in my subject matter.