Gregory Sholette and Ben Geoghegan in Conversation. August-September 2011.



Commissioned by Tulca 2011 and included in the publication accompanying 'After the Fall'. Curated by Megs Morley.



It many respects it has become something of a cult object reminiscent of a manifesto to be read under the cover of darkness. The myth allows for a knowing frustration with certain ideological positions held in the city to be revealed and the report itself is the answer the question of how to over come them.

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The heat from the radio transmitter was intense enough to dry out the moisture in the room’s thick walls by end of day. The broadcast had been going on for hours. Never so long before, and all about making Galway some sort of autonomous cultural center. Every artist listening shook their collective heads: Seven proposals, seven proposals, what on fuckin’ earth was this about anyway?

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As the sunset disappeared over Galway Bay, in the cover of darkness the presenters draw closer for warmth. In an effort to generate a reverse cross grain ideology, with mumbled thoughts they gather words and begin with ‘Why did he come?’ It’s said, he came to influence policy, before the big European Capital of Culture bid. The city’s internal structure had a flaw; the Visual Arts sector needed TLC and ASAP. In the cross fire; friendly got hit. Collateral damage and the manuscript got lost or was on a floppy zip disk. Before the speed transporters, the hyperdrivers and the timeloopers there was planes, trains and automobiles. Unknown friendly presenters were hard spot and face to face was the medium. Who would have known it was before time. The message, the manifesto is somewhere and everywhere out there. Hard to get a hold of and held waiting for the request of those interested by those with the script as Word Doc.


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A large abandoned building sat edgewise on the bank of the Corrib. The walls closest to the river were covered in plant tendrils and moss. Inside dampness ruled. Up a set of stone steps was a low arched doorway. Up another set of stairs the corridor opened into a larger space, still damp and just visible thanks to a diffused gray light. A folding wood table of the type used for playing cards sat in the center of the space. Tucked beneath the table rested a battered-looking apparatus: a portable radio transmitter. And it was here upon this table and with this knocked-about transmitter that a makeshift radio station came into being, if only now and then. Hurriedly brought out and assembled, its crooked telescoping antennae clipped via an orange automobile jumper to a dull steel cable running up the inside of the building (and probably keeping it from falling down), the electric provided by a muffled generator, and then, with a distorted and crackled pop…

“This is Radio Free Galway coming to you from an undisclosed location …”

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“Now, Live to Air, an interview with Gango Hen, whom allegedly attended the presentation of the seven proposals, some time back.

How did you find out about the presentation Gango?

I heard about it from friends, I don’t remember who exactly now, it came up while I was sipping a pint in the coffin of ambition.

Can you remember anything from the presentation?

On mature recollection I can remember everything as if it was yesterday.

Can you describe the event?

It was in a hotel... or a bar... or a hotel with a bar. The atmosphere was tense, the room was stuffy and I had a hangover, me tongue was gasping for a drop of a hairy dag, I mean I was looking for the hair of the dog. Anyways, I was taking it all in, as in, I was taking in all whom were in the room, when a foreign national took to the stage. Co-members of the audience were quiet, a bit too quiet. The foreign national made this way to the front, he had a polite smile and started his presentation. I wasn't really paying attention to himsell but I did notice twenty minutes in, there was an unhealthy amount of movement in seats. Some took to the bar at the back of the room, so I saw my gap and out I went to order a pint of shout. It was lovely…… The pint of shout. There was talk at the bar something akin to what you might get at mass of a Sunday. Men chatting at the back, unsympathetic to the presentation of spiritual guidance. Then, all of a sudden, there was a bolt of tension across the room. Some, where standing, and of the standers some held fists for waving. I'm not sure exactly of what gripe they processed but the poor man at the podium was not having a good time of it. Fair play to him, but he managed to weathered four questions hurled fast and hard at him in quick time. My new friends at the bar were quiet now, and myself stood in disbelief at the turn of events. It became angry very quickly after the return of answers by yourman. Like a gaggle of wolfs hollering over one another. Himsell left the room followed by some of the fist wavers. Some send off, not marched but ran out.

Right. OK can you tell me anything about the report?

What report?

(Crackling interference contorts the signal)

Are we still live…..?

Through the white noise…

The one which had been presented?
Oh.... no. I mean, ( break in transmission)

I know, yes. There is a report, reportedly, part of it was reprinted in ‘Brochure Two,’ but I never seen it, the full report …

The transmission goes dead

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All guests, especially foreign ones, are expected to wander helplessly into the locally known mine fields of any small community. Packed with explosive social histories, resentments, feuds and gossip the detonation of these buried anti-personnel weapons is anticipated, and not only for the laugh it provides, but also because the blast proves something to those who live there, something about their very existence. Needless to say, no amount of care will save the guest from his or her fate, and in fact the proper visitor knows how to read the signals sent to him by locals regarding where the mines are located and then, dutifully, steer directly into the field without protest.

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Was what they said about him true? Well, no, not all of it, forgivable or not (someone will vouch for this). And yes, he did misspell the name of a certain councilman John Tierney as John Tyranny (maybe his word processor did not pick this up or it inserted the change all by its heartless self).

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With presenters shirking to fit spaces and gaps in various vessels they collectively salvaged, a space for reflection descended on the crew of rafts. Facing out over the lip of the craft; the long front of culture often reforms and reshapes, exhibiting multiple reflections. Critical mass collected on the ground of the parish, regardless of the powerbrokers and civic support systems and went on to produce Adapt, Average, Artisit? First Draft, Enso, 126, Féach, Space Invaders, Rosa Parks, Artspace, Niland and Engage, MART, LORG, Kitchen Collective, Knee-Jerk, Akin, Emerge, Shower of Kunst, and Live@8. The collective led agency for airing voices runs in parallel with the script. Some presenters have fallen and some moved on but they are not forgotten. The maps have been charted in transmissions. Their vision and courage provides the legacy and guidance for the future. The Archive winks and gently laps against the barely sea worthy rafts. This assembly of vessels, cross lashed together as a craft, is going to make it through, down the Corrib passing Radio Free Galway out into the abundant Bay in time for nightfall. Once more to find space amongst the darkness…

The white noise clears and the Radio Free Galway transmission is back …

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“…this is Radio Free Galway and we are breaking and entering the archive –possibly from vents in the floor or some other basement entry point (ha ha) - we are spreading about the city invisibly, and speeding up time and slowing it down and moving it back and forth using a whole assortment of arms and instruments for crawling through different thickness of history including: paddles, flippers, clamps, claws, clips, spines, pins, pinchers, needles, scoops, whips, tails, chips, pincers, needles…its thick stuff full of Rodchenkoplasm and Tatlinoplasm, and Popovaplasm, not to mention a certain azure radiation known as Blue Funk n. Inf., chiefly Brit. A state of great terror…because revolution is history out of place…”



Gregory Sholette is a New York Artist and Writer who was commissioned under the Arts Council Critical Voices programme to create a report on the visual arts in Galway in 2001.