Marie, 17, hugging her neice. Marie taught me just enough words in the Traveller language Cant to know when the others were talking about me. Attending school until the age of 15, Marie eventually dropped out because up until that point she had still not been taught how to read or write. A few weeks later, Marie and her sister Anna dressed me and did my make-up for a hen party for their cousin that we were on our way to. After Anna had completed my look she told me “Now, you’ve been Pavee-pimped!”
I arrived at this house on a Friday to meet the family of a bride-to-be whose wedding I would be photographing that Sunday. The woman in the photograph is that bride’s grandmother- an unwaveringly strong, matriarchal figure of the family. A bit suspicious of me at first, she warmed up to me when I told her how much I loved her butterfly coat. She even let me try it on. About 30 minutes after I took this photograph, this woman’s son, the father of the bride, committed suicide. On Sunday, I found myself not at a wedding, but at a wake.
Father and son, Patrick and Paddy, at their site in Monasterevin. Historically, Irish Travellers have depended on horses as a staple of their livlihood. Their strong affection for horses carries on today, although modern laws limit Travellers’ rights to keep horses. Hiding the horses in various spots around their site, Patrick and Paddy kept two horses- one for each of them to take care of. The horse seen here belongs to the father, Patrick, whose struggle with schitzophrenia is much put to ease in working with the horse. About two weeks later this horse was taken away.
A group of lads playing a coin betting game at the site in Maynooth that I would visit every Friday before Zumba class with some of the girls on the site. They asked if I wanted to play but then one of them wouldn’t let me because he didn’t want to take money from a girl. That day me and the girls stayed in to eat icecream instead of going to Zumba.