Immram

The word “Immram” is the old Irish word for "journey". It’s also the name of a kind of stories in Irish literature about a hero’s sea voyage to the Otherworld, a place usually located on the westernmost islands of Ireland. My Immram project is a journey to the Otherworld, to my own Otherworld. It’s a journey between past and present, between truth and fantasy, between paganism and Christianity. It is my winter journey to an ancient, hostile island in the west of Ireland, where all sorts of beliefs are permeable. It is the fragility of man in the face of nature. **** Exposed to a furious wind, to a roaring ocean, an island, several, like specks in the belly of the sea, set themselves up as a symbol, as a myth of the Atlantic culture. A salty mist hides its contours, while the majestic waves prevent the traveller from observing this unique stone wasteland. The Height of the waves, they say, is the name of the largest island and huge were the waves that the locals rode on board their rudimentary curraghs made from leather and log. These sailors, reckless as well as fearful, entrusted their safety to their ignorance. Without being able to swim, they said, the rough sea will make you stay at home. But even the calm sea is always hungry and devours those who challenge it, those who jump into it. They say that in order to identify the corpses, they wore thick woollen sweaters with unique patterns that each family knitted. The island appears abrupt, rugged, stony, wildly beautiful, imbued with mystery and doom. The landscape does not encourage settlement, and yet these stones, these walls were not alone for a long time. This rocky desert saw forests that became fuel to soothe the long and whistling winter nights. The land ended up detaching from the ground and erosion took possession of all. The people survived by lifting stones, building labyrinth walls and creating life, land, soil again, with mosses, lichens, sand, dung, and algae. The January mist envelops my first impressions. The sun, on a whim, plays with my gaze. Now it perches on a rock, then it lights up a small pasture. The wind howls, and as it crosses the walls I have the feeling of hearing the sobs of a thousand banshees. During all my wandering, I do not see a single soul, except a aloof horse or this gentleman with agile gait, like a wild animal, that rents me a bicycle in the harbour, only to fade away soon afterwards, perhaps to adopt the form of a sheepdog that, diligently, accompanies me to the fort that dominates the island from above. From there a mosaic of stone terraces and some distinguished spectres: Yeats, Synge, O’Flaherty, Shackleton or Saint Enda.