Anybody want to buy a country? Going for a song . . . beautifully maintained by former owners, all mod cons, ready to move into.
Ah, those innocent days before the euro. Our photo was taken at Collins Barracks where, says the caption, “a new exhibition opened with the official handing over by the Central Bank of the last set of Irish banknotes ever printed”.
It shows Maurice O’Connell, the then governor of the Central Bank, looking distinctly discombobulated – and who wouldn’t – as he is accosted by his own banknotes come to life: “Lady Lavery”, cheerfully waving a tenner, and an outrageously fey “James Joyce”.
To be fair to the actors, they’ve successfully portrayed their characters with minimal props – a shawl, a straw hat and a pair of rimless specs – and zero dialogue. Instead, dialogue is encapsulated within the picture itself: in the contrast between the soberly- suited O’Connell and his thespian companions; and in the gap that opens up, for the viewer, between the “real” subjects and the roles they’re playing.
I mean, when – in “real” life – did you ever see Lady Lavery with such a radiant smile? Not on a banknote, that’s for sure. And here, her open, guileless expression couldn’t be more different from James Joyce’s self-conscious semi-smirk.
As for O’Connell, maybe he really is as camera-shy as this image suggests, for those were the days before the public at large was familiar with the names of the movers and shakers in the financial world, let alone with the often unpalatable details of what they were moving and shaking.
These days, in keeping with the late- capitalist mantra that everything is for sale, you can buy a full set of those discontinued banknotes online for about €140. James Joyce by himself can fetch up to €110. And Lady Lavery – in an earlier incarnation, admittedly, on a 1977 note – will set you back a whopping €1,822. She’s still not smiling – and I’m not even joking.
Arminta Wallace