For my first portrait of 2022, I decided to choose a face mask of some kind and turned to the Horniman Museum in London. It has several rather wonderful options, and I was tempted by this fantastic bear mask made out of conifer wood, from Slovakia, used in Fašiangy (carnival) celebrations. It’s beautifully made, with lovely textures and what seems to be quite specific imagery, but in the end, I went for a different, less outwardly impressive direction.

I say less outwardly impressive because this impromptu mask made out of a flour bag is the sort of thing that easily goes under the radar. It is a rather ‘nothing’ object in many ways (does it even qualify as a full object, flimsy and crumpled as it is?). It is not as beautiful as the Slovakian bear mask, and some might even say it is a little disturbing, all crumples, stains, and scrawled features – which means it served its purpose well, as we will see below.

It was collected in Co. Wicklow, Ireland, in 1956, and there are several in the museum from the same place and time – see this even simpler one made out of a piece of cloth, with eye holes so round I wonder how they were made, and this one made out of wheat sacking with tufts of wool sewn on to resemble facial hair. But this one caught my attention especially; the more I looked at its uneven, jagged little holes, its black eyebrows and nose, and its printed reverse, the more I came to find it surprisingly beautiful.

In fact, taken out of context like this, and from a certain angle, I was struck by how much the mask looked like a combination of various art movements and styles. This got me thinking about which of its features were responsible for this resemblance, and about what certain artists might seek to express or capture with their work. The mask is interesting to me because it is bursting with humanness, stories, and context – it also doesn’t hurt that I am unfailingly captivated by wrinkles, lines, and discolouration, on fabric or on skin.

I was reminded, too, of the Egyptian linen and cord ball (see Portrait no. 4). I remarked on the similarity between them in the way the organic fabric holds traces of actions and the passing of time, triggering an almost visceral reaction that is layered and moving.

Halloween, or Oíche Shamhna (pronounced, approximately, ee-hyeh how-nuh – the ‘how’ rhyming with cow), has been celebrated in Ireland (as well as in Scotland and other Gaelic parts of the world, under similar or different names) for centuries. I looked for more details about Oíche Shamhna in Ireland and specifically Wicklow, and found this interesting resource  written by Jonny Dillon, an archivist at Ireland’s National Folklore Collection, in which he describes the traditions in the area:

“It was customary on Halloween for bands of youths to group together and call to houses in the locality. In the more southerly portion of Wicklow, these groups were known as the ‘Vizards’, or ‘Juggies’. They travelled in disguise, wearing masks, old clothes or rags, and on calling upon a house the frightening troupe would enter, playing music on whistles and melodeons, and dancing, while entreating the occupants of the house to ‘help the Halloween party’. In Kilpeddar, in east Wicklow, it was customary for those present to throw up pennies, apples and nuts for the group after they had finished their music and dancing, and each would have to rush to compete to see who could gather the greatest spoils, before traipsing off to the next house.” [Jonny Dillon]

On the same page, Dillon goes on to describe the games that were played after supper, including “‘bobbing’ or ‘ducking’ for apples or coins in a basin of water” (you can see children doing just that in these photographs from the 1950s-60s in Ireland) but also the game where children attempted to bite an apple hanging from a string – in Dunlavin, West Wicklow it came with a particularly good twist: “an apple, along with a bar of soap, were both suspended from the ceiling before being sent spinning around together; the unfortunate contestant hoping to bite apple, and avoid soap.”

I was also curious about the flour mills that appear on the bag. The reverse [see here] says

Household Flour
W.P.&R. Odlum Ltd
14 lbs
Leinster Flour Mills

W.P.&R. Odlum Ltd is now known as Odlums and is a household name in Ireland, still specialising in flour and baking products. The Leinster Flour Mills buildings that we see on the design were recently put on the market; according to the article, the mills were operating until around 1990. For other nosy parkers, a house attached to the mills, called Mill House, was also put up for sale a few years ago – there is more information about the Odlum family tree here.

I think what I most like about this is that it is the opposite of precious and that it is a record of the playing itself, as with many handmade and repurposed objects. The photographs and the details provided by folklorists like Dillon help to imagine the context in which it was used. You can also take a look at the National Museum of Ireland collection (see below on the page for photos of masks of this kind), and further information about Oíche Shamhna and Samhain (November 1st).

My children looked at the hole lower down – ‘What is that one? Was it an accident?’ We wondered whether perhaps they miscalculated the height of the mouth and did not hold the mask up to their face before cutting, as has happened to us more than once. We all agree they did a great job with the overall ghoulishness of the face, far more effective than any store-bought or more ‘finished’ mask.

I imagine the child or children who made this mask, their excitement in asking for something that they could repurpose. They sat somewhere, drawing on the features, adding some patches of colour to the cheeks and nose, cutting the holes, perhaps laughing and/or possibly getting frustrated in the process, and hurrying to get it finished for the fun to start.