Nevill Johnson: Paint the smell of grass - Eoin O'Brien

1. I and my wife prepared a picnic for an afternoon on the shores of Lough
Neagh.
2. John Luke scraped with a razor blade and polished with silk cloth a gesso
panel, preparing to lay thereon an imprimatura or glaze of Ivory Black
and Terre Verte.
3. The bones of Clegbert Chutz lay quiet in his grave in Morganza,
Louisiana.
4. The ruins and the people of Hiroshima lay steaming and screaming in the
evening sun. Colonel Paul Tebbitts, illustrating that strange paradox of
submission to aggression enacted by all soldiers, had fulfilled his duty.
Having centred his aircraft over the city he signalled release of the
9,000 lb bomb. It burst with the heat and blast of twenty thousand tons
of Tri-Nitro – Toluene above the living day – the scrubbing typing
teaching eating nappy-changing day. 97,000people were blistered and
destroyed, 10,000 died later of cancer and radiation sickness.
August 9th A second bomb named ‘big boy’ was dropped on Nagasaki.
It was inevitable that the South of Ireland would soon beckon as a haven from the turmoil of
post-war Belfast, a broken marriage and the ever-present demon of doubt: “All artists are subject
to periods of doubt, however, and I was no exception. It came suddenly; the painting was rubbish
I felt, however well received; these silent surreal wastelands, these mute bones and raven skies –
who was I addressing? Of what relevance
these Arcadian shores to a world of
blackmail and bombs? In despair I ravaged
the housekeeping pot and caught the train
for Dublin. I had to see Victor, to have his
assurance – though God knows he couldn’t
really help me. He provided lunch, brandy,
money, warmth and flattery. I thanked him
and left. But the brandy soon evaporated
and the cigar became sour in my mouth.
My song was a squeak I thought, my world
a pretty place but gutless and unmanned. I
was insulated, uncommitted – a touchline
aesthete.”
122 Nevill Johnson l Paint the Smell of Grass
Off St. Stephens Green
In Dublin “I closed one eye to make a friend – and found plenty.” Here his painting flourished.
In 1946 Waddington encouraged Johnson to paint full time, offering him a retainer, and a regular
allowance. He blended readily in the agreeable social milieu of the ‘largest village in Europe’. The
good dinners and cigars in Jammet’s – courtesy of Victor Waddington – were relished, at least
initially. This temporary security allowed Johnson time to reflect to read more and to ponder his
future. The work of Samuel Beckett is a constant refrain in Johnson’s writings and he told me many
years later that Beckett was an ever-present source of encouragement to him. We find a remarkable
similarity in the artistic mission that each imposed upon themselves: “Right now I lay on the bed
smoking, thinking over the day’s talk; of the creature who had enquired of me not only what sort
of painting I made but why I painted. How answer that in words? Might as well measure distance
with a thermometer – or pitch with a footrule. And that fellow reading Roland Barthes – who was
this he quoted? Angelus Silesius (never heard of him). ‘The eye by which I see God is the same eye
by which he sees me’ . . . rum thought.” How similar these sentiments are to those of another artist
struggling to find the meaning and the means of artistic expression:
A Personal Memoir l Eoin O’Brien 123