Ancient pieces of art tell a tale more vividly than any selfie

THE end of the long summer holidays is nigh. Soon, the empty roads will revert to their normal state of chaos and congestion. Soon, the laughter and merriment will give way to a void filled only with deafening silence.

That is why we are making the best of these last days before the normal routine resumes. And what better way to do so than with a trip to the newly refurbished National Gallery of Ireland. What better way to bring children back to reality than exposing them to a world of colour, light and shade.

Apart from the fact that a visit to the gallery is totally free, it is also a wondrous way to pass the hours. For, as you stroll from room to room, you move in the company of ghosts. Each painting is a portal through which absent generations speak to the senses.

What I found most curious was the reaction of the Snapchat generation to these ancient images. This is a digital-free zone devoid of pixels. It is a place where solid materials shine with pure beauty.

These images do not flicker and fade; neither can they be distorted or deleted. They stand as a permanent revelation of life in all its vividness.

That they cause people to ponder, gaze and weep is because they whisper the secrets of a forgotten world.

For a generation brought up on Instagram and Snapchat, the quiet, sombre nature of these images represents a culture shock. I saw many young people taking photos of the paintings with their phones. It was as though, to make sense of them, they had to find a way of digitalising each image.

Turning to our eldest, I said: ‘What you see here is the Snapchat of the 18th century.’

He looked at me quizzically, which was my cue to enter lecture mode. ‘This is how moments were captured down the centuries – moments which are just as vivid and real to us as they were to the artist. You think the selfie is a recent invention, but isn’t every self-portrait a selfie?’

The wonder of such ancient selfies is that they refuse to compromise for the sake of vanity. Unlike a photograph, a portrait is not simply a representation. It is a revelation of the soul and character of that person.

As you ponder a portrait, it seems to say: ‘Look at me as I stand ever before you. In gazing deeply on me, you gaze into the depths of time. I offer you a vision of life as it was; I allow you to touch your roots and origins.’

You can’t airbrush a portrait because most artists don’t strive for manufactured perfection. As a chronicler of the ages, the artist reaches for what is unique to each subject. That is why every wrinkle, quirk and blemish is dramatised across the canvas.

If every brushstroke matters, it is because each testifies to the life of someone who refuses to die. A stunning example is that of The Fisherman’s Mother by Irish artist Helen Mabel Trevor. It was painted in 1893 and hangs with timeless dignity in the National Gallery.

As you stare at the old woman with her cane and Rosary beads, you find that she stares back at you. Her weathered face is animated by a faint smile that reveals a living soul. In the wrinkles and lines of that old woman, in her symbols of infirmity and faith, we see beyond this world into one where poverty was no obstacle to belief and certainty.

To look at The Fisherman’s Mother is to learn more about 19th-century Ireland than you could from any book.

For through her you can stand amid immortal shadows. You can step right into her world because the subject of any painting possesses a living presence.

LOOK behind the image and you will see only canvas. But look at her and you will find yourself sitting with someone who sees the world from a place beyond yours. You will see a look of love that cannot fade because this is a woman as she was and always will be.

So often, we stare at the surface of our world for answers to our deepest questions.

One old woman invites us to search beyond the surface for the meaning of mysteries.

‘Fear not,’ she says, ‘for in me you will find what you are seeking’.

You smile, and she smiles back. A single tear drops to the floor.

Mystery solved.