Tóraigh na Tóraithe/

Hunt the Hunters

There is a falsehood abroad in the land, whispered from lodge to parlour, that the pursuit of animals for mere sport is somehow an Irish tradition. Let us dispel this notion forthwith.

Like so many colonial relics festering still in the folds of our national fabric, the hunt, when practiced for amusement and not sustenance, is but another hangover from imperial misadventure. It is a scar, a living echo of a time when sovereignty was not only wrested from our people, but from our land, its creatures, and their mythic dignity.

From the tales of the Murdúch to the legend of Oisín and the Hare, our mythological canon is clear: the beasts of the field and the birds of the air are not to be trifled with. They are sovereign beings, possessed of purpose, intelligence, and mystery. In their eyes flicker glimpses of other realms—places our ancestors knew intimately, and modern science now seeks, in hushed tones, to verify.

The Irish worldview has long been rooted in reverence. Reverence for the hawthorn, for the salmon of wisdom, for the stag whose step is both omen and blessing. The beasts of our island are kin, not quarry.

It is in this spirit that this work was conceived, not merely to delight the eye but to unsettle the conscience and subvert the narrative. Through panels wrought in copper, collage, ink and photographic processes most arcane, our native fauna are dressed in the garb of the coloniser: red coats, top hats, monocles. The affect is louche, the gaze knowing.

🦊

They stare out at us, these creatures, and pose a question with neither malice nor mercy:
“How would you like it?”