The Black Pool #4

Dublin through the eyes of a French illustrator ...

By: John Mahon

The Black Pool #4

Dublin Boys Don't Cry

24th October 2016

Faustine Mary is a French illustrator living in Dublin since late last year.  We thought it could be fun to send her out to the streets with her fresh French eyes and draw what she sees.  Her resulting series of drawings for us, which she dubbed The Black Pool, were brilliant (see here, here and here). 

She went walkabout once again, this time with her eyes trained on Irish lads. Results below with a poem to boot!

See more of Faustine’s graphic design and sketch books. Click here to go to the poem at the bottom of this page.


Irish Boys Don't Cry

By Faustine Mary

At the corner of Ivar Street, he decides to stop, and lights the half cigarette with his pale hands. The clouds are dark and low. He leans on the old brick wall, like he used to do when he was a child. It is Tuesday. Tuesday and this fog, again. In a fast movement, he scratches the purple graze on his forehead, bloody trophy from the fight of last weekend. Or the one before. Through the insolent black lock of hair that cuts his young face in two, he observes in silent the anonymous passersby.

The two McHart brothers, giggling. Miss Lawlor, hardly dragging her skinny body between the street lamps. Liam and his white german shepherd, straight and mute. Far off, the engine of a Mini Cooper roars and tails off in a mechanic whisper.

He watches the time through the broken screen of his black phone. Five past midday. The rendez-vous, soon. He hesitates under his hood, trembling because of the cold day of October. His look wanders within the yellow autumn leaves. While his thoughts gallop in circle, his small porcelain teeth, in disorder, bite nervously the pink flesh of his sulky lips. The smoke he spits brushes his ivory neck, strokes his little angry god profile, and flies up to the electric cables. The ashes float in the air as thousands of tiny white stars, like suspended at his uncertainty. Slowly, they come back down and land of the satin of his navy blue tracksuit. The white stripes of the trouser wave from his ankles to the top of his thighs, and become distorted at the place where the rounded curve of his bum flattens against the stone of the wall. Unconsciously, he taps with his foot the rusty gutter behind him. The time stretches in a silent minute. Something is waiting to be done.

Then, with a gesture that mixes the arrogance and the doubt, he throws his dog end on the dirty pavement, sinks his hands in his holed pockets, and vanishes in a second.

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