My new exhibition ‘Shaped by History’ is now open at the National Photographic Archive at Meeting House Square, Temple Bar.
Author Archive for: gerryandrews
About Gerry Andrews
This author has yet to write their bio.Meanwhile lets just say that we are proud Gerry Andrews contributed a whooping 17 entries.
Entries by Gerry Andrews
My guide and I pitched our tents high above the village of Hwe Lon as darkness fell. The light from camp fires identified the location of the numerous small farm holdings nestled in the valley below. Peace and tranquility descended on the mountain community as it drifted into sleep.
The cold drizzle fell incessantly and the cars whisked by at speed. Joe Doran and his wife Mary, a quiet and gentle couple, were huddled by a campfire. Their home, a small canvas-covered wagon, was parked by the busy roadside on the outskirts of the city. Their donkey grazed in a nearby field and a cat purred on Joe’s lap as he spoke softly about his life.
This sequence of images was captured at Mount Melleray Abbey, County Waterford.
Along the Shannon runs a path paved with my life’s memories.
This sequence of images was captured in Seville, Spain.
He squatted on the cold ground that freezing winters day. He was indifferent to the weather and oblivious to the traffic that passed close by. He was lost in his music, and captivated by the rhythm and melody of the tunes that were his living and his life.
The rain dripped from the brim of his well-worn hat. The pockets of his long tattered coat bulged with his rations for that day. He shuffled from foot to foot in a futile effort to keep the cold at bay. His grubby fingers crushed a Woodbine cigarette as they moved effortlessly over the notes of his battered tin whistle.
The temperatures were sub zero on Buchaille Etive Mor, in the valley of Glenco. The wind chill penetrated my layers of clothing and my fingers froze on the cold chrome of my camera. I had seen this majestic stag on various occasions over a number of days and for me he encapsulated the beauty and the harshness of this rugged landscape.
The ringing of the Church Bells broke the silence of the night as I listened to the soft pitter-patter of rain against the window.
The whistling of the wind and the rustling from the trees were pre dawn indicators of the inclement weather outside my sanctuary. I looked at my watch – my blurry eyes registered the time at 4 am.