Ian Humphreys

Ian Humphreys (61) is a painter. Born in Hertfordshire, England, he has lived on Heir Island, west Cork, since 2005. Being on the island is hugely inspirational for his work. It also provides him with the necessary solitude

Iget up around 8am. I have a light breakfast and then I go for a walk for half an hour. I live on Heir Island in west Cork. The aim of the walk is to clear the head.

I try not to think about anything, and I just enjoy the day. I walk along the strand, basically following the coast and climbing over ditches. I go the same way every day. I’d be looking at the difference in the day. You see how the land is formed.

You get these huge rocks, which are very exposed to the elements. You can see thousands of years of wear and tear by the elements.

Then the light changes, and, in a second, you get this really strange feeling of things being there forever and yet changing; subtle changes like moss growing on the rocks; and then huge changes, like when you get a storm after a really sunny, splitting-the-stones day.

You are taking all that in. But I’m not looking at it thinking, ‘I’ll paint that’ or, ‘I’ll copy that’. You just absorb it. People made walls, and then nature slowly reclaims them again. This has been going on for hundreds of years. There is this feeling that people used to live there and now they are gone. But I try to tune in to their lives, loves and laughter. There is a beautiful serenity about it. The walk helps me to focus.

Sometimes I get nervous before I go to the studio, because I know what I’ve just seen in nature and it’s going to give me a level that I’m striving towards. Instantly, you know that you’ve got rubbish and that you’ve got to move [up a level]. My work would be considered abstract. I have an exhibition which runs all summer at Liss Ard Estate in Skibbereen.

I don’t really work on an easel. It’s a big studio, and the paintings are always left on the wall. They are very large. My paintings are not derivative, but the equivalent of what I’ve just been walking through. Hopefully it can absorb what is outside, so when you look at the painting, you get the feeling and the aura of the place.

I’ve lived here since 2005. Heir Island is a beautiful island, only a mile-and-a-half long. There are 24 people who live on it all year round, and there are only about nine original indigenous Heir islanders who were born and bred here. My neighbours, Sean and Rose Harte, are lovely. He is a retired lobster fisherman, and they are the last couple born on the island, living their married life here full-time. I might call in and have a libation with them at the end of the day, and a chat. And sometimes we go out fishing together.

I don’t spend a lot of time with other artists. I much prefer to talk to fishermen and farmers. I empathise with their work ethic, and I admire their honesty. They look at my paintings and tell me that there is a lot of work in them, but they don’t get it at all. They are polite. We have a laugh.

I go and get most of my shopping, but I can get stuff delivered, too. Fields SuperValu in Skibbereen come two days a week in the winter and three days a week in the summer. They deliver the food over in a boat, and the postman comes three times a week. But it’s a very short crossing. You could swim it. I’ve swum it many times, but I’ve got my open boat too, and I use that.

There are 12 houses lived in all year round, and there are about another 30 holiday homes. In the summer, it gets quite busy. You see people from Baltimore sailing school, so the beach is often full. And there are regular ferries. There is a bread school and yoga classes; all sorts of things that I have nothing to do with.

I work alone all day long, and I like that. I like to visit cities like London or New York, but I couldn’t live there. And if I did, my paintings would be totally different. I love island living. Growing up in England, I spent a lot of time on little islands around the River Thames — canoeing around them and camping on them. Many years later, when I discovered Heir Island, it was like a grown-up version of them.

When I was a little boy, my mother used to give us paper and tell us to draw. This was how she entertained us on rainy days. I drew my toy train in perspective. When my father came home and saw it, he was amazed. He told me that I was an artist. At school, it was the only thing I could do. A friend’s father worked restoring paintings and making frames. His son didn’t like art, but he knew that I was interested.

Every week, he would drop me to the National Gallery. He’d give me a sketch book and pencils, and tell me to sketch the masters. Then I’d get a taxi to his workshop with the five pounds he had given me. I got a real kick-start with that man’s help. He was a German Jew who came to England during the war.

I always wanted to be an artist. I had all sorts of horrendous jobs on building sites and fibreglass factories, but finally I was able to earn a living from art alone.

In the evenings, I cook a meal, and then I might go back into the studio. I look at what I’ve done, but after I’ve had a glass of wine I wouldn’t dare touch a painting, in the same way that you wouldn’t drive a car.

My work still challenges me, and I like that. If you knew what you were doing, you’d stop. It’s like if you are going to be a mountaineer, you don’t live in Holland. There’s something magical about living on an island. It’s is perfect for me. I couldn’t live where there are social distractions. I’m not interested in going out. I’ve got to be in the studio. In conversation with Ciara Dwyer

“The fishermen tell me that there is a lot of work in my paintings, but they don’t get them”