Kevin Kavanagh is proud to present Green Like Now, a solo exhibition of new paintings by Kathy Tynan. Kathy Tynan has been shortlisted for this year’s Hennessey-Craig Scholarship, which will open a group show in the Royal Hibernian Academy on the same evening. We would like to invite you to join us for both exhibitions, beginning in Kevin Kavanagh Gallery for an earlier than usual opening of 5-7pm and following onto the RHA afterwards.

From Wednesday 11 to Sunday 15 September, Green Like Now will be transformed into a set for Pretty Feelings, a new play by Isadora Epstein written in response to Tynan’s paintings, performed by Epstein, Conor Lumsden and Ruan van Vliet. This will be part of The Dublin Fringe Festival. Booking is required so for show times and tickets please contact the Dublin Fringe box office https://www.fringefest.com/festival/whats-on/pretty-feelings

On Culture Night, Friday 20th September the gallery will host a musical performance by Sinéad Onóra Kennedy at 8pm.

It was finally now. It was simply now. It was like this: the country was at 11:00 A.M. Superficially like a green yard of the most delicate superficiality. Green, green- green is a yard. Between myself and that green, the water of the air. The green water of the air. I see everything through a full glass. And nothing is to be heard. In the rest of the house the shadows are all swollen. Ripe superficiality. It is 11:00 A.M. in Brazil. It is now. That means exactly now. Now is time swollen to its limit. 11:00 A.M has no depth. 11:00 A.M. is full of eleven hours up to the brim of the green glass. Time quivers like a stationary balloon. The air is fertile and wheezing. Until, with a national anthem, the tolling of 11:30 cuts the balloon’s restraining ropes. And suddenly we’ll all reach noon. Which will be green like now.

Extracted from Clarice Lispector’s The Passion According to G.H.

Earthing
a poem by Karina Tynan

It’s a faint groundedness,
Hard to reach not to mind touch.

Sometimes almost found
In the turn of an autumn day

When the promise of evening
Has a feeling of shelter in it

And familiarity.
The music of the news on the telly,

Maybe something frying, always the usual
Nothing special like salad or pine nuts.

A very faint groundedness like the memory
Of a love that never took shape.