In order to fathom these changes, it is imperative to realize the singularity of the Northern Ireland conflict and the shape it has taken in the cities. Belfast in particular is a homogeneous city. No apparent differences that could account for the conflict that tore the place apart for so many years reveal themselves to the untrained eye.

Yet, although segregated, the Protestant and Catholic areas of the city are intertwined so closely that the issue of demarcation becomes essential, and one’s orientation in this territory – crucial. The boundaries between Catholic and Protestant neighborhoods are defined in various ways; the most conspicuous is the “peace walls” erected throughout the city. Murals depicting the factions’ respective symbols and heroes, or historical events that support their cause have demarcation functions as well. The same is true of subtler signs, such as a flag, a ribbon, curbs painted with the colors of each faction – red, blue and white for a Protestant area; green, white and orange for Catholic. But in such a closely-knit urban fabric, nothing can replace common knowledge. The majority of borderlines that crisscross the city are invisible. Even today, nearly seven years after the signing of the Good Friday agreement, there are spots – barely noticeable – that demarcate clear-cut territorial boundaries without any apparent sign. There are street crossings or sidewalks where, during certain hours of the day, no one walks. Streets in which pedestrians dare not cross to the other side, but keep walking on “their” side. These are the invisible borders, the seams where the Northern Ireland conflict is still very much alive. There might be a primordial fear of losing one’s way in Belfast, of taking the wrong turn and turning up at the wrong place at the wrong time. Moving through the city is tantamount to negotiating space and territories. This may account for the widespread allusions to the city, its streets, pathways and alleys found in Northern Irish art. Engagement in this subject matter is essentially political, not in the sense of endorsing one side of the conflict, but rather in terms of acknowledging and striving to depict a given political reality.

John Duncan’s photographic works record the subtle changes that have taken place in the city and the efforts to develop and cultivate areas formerly battered and conflict-ridden. His works document the policies of instant and artificial “pacification” of Belfast City as manifested in real-estate development and landscaping. The shadows of the past, segregation and symbols of violence, however, always surface beyond the facade of prosperity and renovation: July bonfires, painted sidewalks and loyalist murals interrupt the serenity of real-estate development.

The images in Mary McIntyre’s photographs maintain a constant dialogue with the Romantics, touching upon the sublime as expressed by the human presence in the landscape. In her nocturnal vistas, however, we the spectators are invited to venture into dark and endless paths leading into the unknown. Whether depicting beautiful “English gardens” or railway tracks, always seen at night, these works bear an uncanny, threatening character.

Dan Shipsides literally takes us to a different dimension, exploring the idea of movement in space. An accomplished rock-climber, Shipsides dedicated many of his works to this activity, often performing, documenting or describing climbs. His video works in the show were shot during a previous visit to Israel and they address issues common to both Israel and Northern Ireland. Green Line Sisyphus is an incessant loop featuring the artist climbing a boulder near the invisible Green Line separating Israel from the West Bank. This is not a vertical climb, but rather a round one, an endless, hopeless circling of the rock. Temporary Viewpoint is a journey through Israel and the West Bank. In a voiceover, the geo-political situation is analyzed by an English-speaking Irish-accented narrator.

Interested in urban culture and the way popular knowledge re-creates a city, Aisling O’Beirn builds cardboard models of Belfast’s urban complexes representing the invisible architectures of conflict. Rather than showing walls or clear-cut borders, her models embody signifiers of tension as shaped over the years. Two defiant cranes in a shipyard that came to symbolize sectarian employment policies; two ponds in a park, one bordering on a Protestant neighborhood, another – on a Catholic, with a larger pond serving as a buffer zone; a river or a highway interchange that separate (or possibly connect) rival neighborhoods. These models and their explanatory texts attempt to disclose these architectures of conflict as they grow, develop and gain meaning throughout the generations.

On the other hand, when Miriam de Búrca shoots her video installation Go Home in a no-man’s-land enclave between two “peace walls,” the location is clear. The artist deliberates between two roads, and cannot make up her mind which way to go – which way is “home”.

Seamus Harahan zooms in and out of apparently insignificant events in the street life of inner Belfast and border neighborhoods, blending a suggestive and aleatory soundtrack into his video footage. However poetic and intimate the scene, our reading of Harahan’s works is constantly informed by our perception of the political reality.

Peter Richard’s photographs, made with large pin-hole cameras, show a series of memorials. In a society battered by conflict and haunted by history, “memorials,” he says, “express choices made between what will be forgotten and what remembered – and by whom. In the particular circumstances of Belfast, memorials invariably serve to dramatize difference and heighten tension. From city centre monument to the murals and gardens of local communities, memorials that are sacred to one, may appear sacrilegious to another.” As the drama is heightened by the strong polarization of the print, we see no difference between an official war monument, a memorial to victims of armed struggle, and an ad-hoc memento to a traffic accident victim.

Ian Charlesworth goes further in questioning political affiliation practices. He appropriates the widespread scribbling of the proscribed paramilitary group initials (UVF – Ulster Voluntary Force) as it is commonly seen, burned with cheap lighters in public toilets throughout Northern Ireland. Using the same “technique” he burns endless arabesques on Perspex sheets mounted on neat light-boxes in an art gallery. In this way, notations of a private, anti-heroic and confessional nature find their way into the public sphere.

The issue of political identity and heroism is also central to Moira McIver’s Portrait, Diary, Biography – a series of works exploring representations of individuals in local history and folklore. McIver takes the figure of Betsy Gray, who participated in a 1798 rebellion against British rule and was killed alongside her brother and lover. In a conflict rooted in the Middle Ages, historical facts are often recruited to serve this side or the other, functioning as identity-forming agents and legitimizing the different claims. Gray’s persona – a Protestant by birth who fought alongside Catholics, has been increasingly fictionalized, and is being re-vindicated by both bands as their own.
A similar process of heroization is the subject of Susan MacWilliam’s Kuda Bux, echoing another figure whose relevance depends mainly on the beholder’s belief. Kuda Bux was an Indian mystic made famous during the 1930s and 1940s by his vaudeville demonstrations of eyeless sight. The installation is an open set referring to the theatrical character of his performances as well as to their intimate, domestic nature, represented in the TV set showing the video re-enactment of Bux’s feats. This is the only “interior” scene in the show, and while it does not touch upon a quintessential “Belfast” subject, it likewise addresses themes such as heroes, blindness and belief, albeit of another kind.

There is strength inherent in all these artists’ work. It springs from a twofold consciousness: that of creating from an inevitable political situation, and conceding that the situation will impose a given interpretation on the work. It is in this respect that we can find an affinity of sorts between art from Northern Ireland and Israeli art. Artists in these places of conflict have no choice but to confront the situation and play with the different possibilities available. As stated by Declan McGonagle elsewhere in this catalogue, “there is no aesthetic hiding place in Northern Ireland for art which is worthy of the name.” But while not searching for pure “aesthetics,” artists in Belfast also abstain from touching upon the overtly political, instead showing a detached and matter-of-fact image of the local scene, leaving “political” interpretation to the viewer.

In such a politically charged atmosphere, it comes as no surprise that an exhibition in Israel would produce some debate and second thoughts among Northern Ireland artists. I want to acknowledge this fact and express my gratitude to the artists who perceived this show as a challenge rather than a trap. Together with them, I want to thank Colette Norwood and Sarah Jones from the British Council in Northern Ireland, who, with great professionalism, produced and coordinated this exhibition, and Hugh Mulholland, who helped me find my own Belfast “road map.” Thanks are also due to Dalia Levin, Director of the Herzliya Museum of Contemporary Art, who offered this exhibition a venue, and to Tal Yahas, who helped materialize it in its last stages. Finally, I wish to thank Ruth Ur from the British Council in Israel. With her, I share the conviction that both Northern Ireland and Israeli artists can find in each other a mirror of their own creative experience.

Sergio Edelsztein

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