Statue of limitations – An Irishman’s Diary about Dublin monuments, famous and otherwise

Remember “Molly Malone Day”? No, nor did I, until I was passing the statue of the buxom Dublin fishmonger the other night, and a fragment of overheard tour-guide commentary set me reading about her again.

A large group of visitors had gathered around the sculpture and was hanging on the guide’s every word. He had his arm draped around Molly and, to judge from the audience’s laughter, was a bit of a character.

Unfortunately for my attempts to eavesdrop, he was also German. So the only word I could make out was “syphilis”, although that got a laugh too.

This brought back vague memories of a time when Molly, rather than being a fictionalised version of a real-life type, was considered an historical figure. It started in 1980s, like the statue itself, when somebody unearthed records for a Mary Malone (what were the chances of that in Dublin?) who had lived between 1663 and 1699, and might have sold fish.

From there, other biographical details were filled in – apparently excavated from between the lines of the ballad. Chief among these were that she had supplemented her day job with night work, selling goods for which she didn’t need a wheelbarrow. And that the “fever” from which she died was most likely a euphemism for another occupational hazard.

The backstory was in place by the time the statue was unveiled for the city’s millennium. It only remained for the lord mayor, Ben Briscoe, to declare June 13th, the date on which the real-life Mary had expired, would henceforth be “Molly Malone Day”.

Of course the story was without serious foundation. For one thing, the ballad didn’t appear for two centuries after the person who had supposedly inspired it.

And speaking of foundations, the suspicion was that the historical Molly (who was buried in Fishamble Street) had been recruited as part of the campaign against the destruction of Wood Quay, before going viral and infecting even the city fathers.

That at least was the theory of Sean Murphy, a genealogist and academic who researched the history and who appears to have had the last word on it, except for tour-guides.

As for Molly’s Day, it must have expired even more quickly than Arthur’s. But the statue – much criticised at the time, not least for the size of its bosoms – can only be judged a success, if not artistically then with tourists. It was made for the age of the selfie. Of all the statues they could pose with, it’s the backdrop by which most visitors now announce they’re in Dublin.

It also features in an excellent little book I received recently, The Complete Guide to the Statues and Sculptures of Dublin City, by Neal Doherty. But so do many other less famous monuments, including ones I either didn't know about or have passed many times without a glance.

An example is the Louie Bennett and Helen Chevenix memorial, which is hidden away in St Stephen’s Green – although unlike most monuments, that one has a practical purpose, being a bench. In sitting on it, you can also appreciate one of the Green’s other little-known attractions, a garden for the blind.

Included in Doherty’s book too is of Dublin’s sadder monuments, which had hitherto passed me by, or I it. Located at a road junction in the north inner city, it’s called simply “Home”, and features a gilded bronze torch in a limestone doorway.

But the story behind it, and in it, is one of loss and pain. Before the monument was created, locals had taken to erecting a Christmas tree on the spot every year, decorated with a silver star for each young person from area who had died from heroin.

By the year 2000, there were 124 stars. But although it was a touching memorial, it was also a temporary one, taken away each January. So it was decided to erect something permanent, and public funding was made available.

The winning design, from a shortlist of six, was chosen not by art experts but by the local bereaved. And they also had an even more personal input. When artist Leo Higgins was smelting the metal, relatives were invited to bring mementoes to cast into the mix.

This revived an old tradition of church-bell making whereby a congregation brought keepsakes to add to the metal, so that the bell’s ringing would have personal resonance. In the case of the sculpture, families added their children’s holy communion medals, toys, and photographs to the flame. It’s a very touching story, albeit one tourists are unlikely to hear.

@FrankmcnallyIT