A hundred years ago, camera technology was in a state of transition, changing from the large, tripod-based plate cameras to smaller, portable, hand-held cameras. Photojournalism as we know it today had not yet evolved. So, when researching images for an illustrated book on the events of Easter 1916, there was a problem. There were studio portraits of the protagonists. Whether an Irish Volunteer or a British soldier, everyone seemed to have had their portrait done in a studio. There was a great number of photographs of the damage in and around Sackville Street after the fighting there during Easter Week. Many of these were included in a plethora of booklets published in the months following the Rising. There were also many photographs taken towards the end or just after Easter Week which showed British soldiers manning barricades – most of these were obviously posed.
As I found when researching an earlier book on the Irish Civil War, The Green Divide, there were big advances in camera portability by 1922 (and photojournalism had also evolved). Thus an extensive archive of photographs was available. There were dramatic photographs of such events as the shelling of the Four Courts in June 1922, and the subsequent conflict across the country. The Free State government had an effective attitude to propaganda. Embedded photographers produced the images as seen from the Government point-of-view. Given the peripatetic existence of the anti-Treaty IRA, few images are available of these from the Civil War.
Thus it was in Dublin in Easter 1916. There were no photographers with the republican forces in the outposts around the city (understandable, given the confusion over the countermanding order). There was one exception. A photographic chemist, Joseph Cripps, had joined the garrison of the GPO and worked in the medical field. He took some images of volunteers in the GPO. Studio portraits they are not. However, they capture the ad hoc nature of the republican forces, ordinary men, who set out to secure freedom for Ireland, for ideals and not monetary gain. It also illustrates the eclectic assortment of weapons available.
So, to illustrate a book like this, I also resorted to any available illustration of action. There were some in the archives, including the Army magazine, An t-Óglach, on the 10th anniversary in 1926 (notably the sketches by Charles Saurin). There were some dramatic illustrations in the contemporary booklets of 1916. Photographs of artefacts (documents, letters, and, of course weapons like the Howth Mauser) added to the mix. I also took present-day photographs of places where action had taken place (including gaining access to difficult-to-get-to places such as the roofs of the Royal College of Surgeons and City Hall) to give more context to the events.
When it came to the executions in Kilmainham, of course those by their nature were closed events – no photographer was present. I managed to secure two illustrations of James Connolly being shot. One (courtesy of the Military Archives) was a basic sketch on brown paper, but no less chilling. It depicts Connolly on the chair, and it is probably quite accurate, as it was done by Major Heathcote, who presided over the executions. The other image is an impressionistic version, a poster in aid of a prisoners’ dependents fund produced in October 1916 in New York. It shows the execution squad in Ruritanian-style uniforms. Connolly is in the chair, against a distant background of a thatched cottage and green landscape. A postcard, completed soon after Easter Week, showed what one might refer to as a generic execution scene of one of the leaders. It was fairly basic. There is a bigger version of this in oils in the National Museum, but in poor condition and the oils had cracked. I requested my wife, Veronica, to do a version in watercolour, and she succeeded in producing an impressionistic image of the execution squad, the officer and the Capuchin priest at dawn in the Stonebreaker’s Yard.
No colour photography existed in the Ireland of 1916. As mentioned, I used illustrations of events of the week, some of which were in colour. For the 16 men executed, I decided to do them honour by commissioning a professional firm specialising in that technique to colourise their portraits.
We are blessed with the archives that exist in Dublin. Collected therein is a wealth of sources dealing with Ireland’s struggle for independence. The Military Archives stands out for its collection. It built on the Bureau of Military History collection during the 1950s (particularly the witness statements of survivors of the War of Independence). Recently it has also carried out sterling work on classifying and digitising the Military Pensions. Both the Military Archives and the Capuchin Archives, containing a large archive of republican material collected by Capuchin priests during the 1916-23 period, stand out by being extremely helpful to a wandering researcher.
By contrast, some large institutions across the water, which possess unique images of Ireland’s struggle, were unbending in the charging of large fees for permission to reproduce the image (a sensitive subject when one is including over 500 images). In one case, I had to refrain from using an image that is worth seeing in Ireland, from a historical perspective: it showed separation women gathered outside Aungier Street Post Office, to collect their allowance there, because the GPO had been destroyed – a great image, capturing the pathos of the situation. I declined because of the inordinate fee that was demanded by that particular British institution. The Imperial War Museum in London, by contrast, was a pleasure to deal with. Their collection is digitised and it was easy to obtain images – I sourced an image of the German naval ensign from the ‘Aud’ from them.
Images which stand out include: the 17th-century book that was “shot” during Easter Week, still in Marsh’s Library; the record (very poignant) of the decision by the Provisional Government to surrender, written by Pearse on the rough cardboard of most likely the back of a picture frame, all that was available in No 16 Moore Street. Then there was the iconic image of Pearse surrendering, with nurse Elizabeth O’Farrell at his side. Many versions exist, most of which have been heavily altered (including the airbrushing out of O’Farrell’s feet). I obtained an original print from the National Library. It was of poor quality and very small, but I managed to improve it, without altering any detail.
Many of the actions in Easter Week were complex. The South Dublin Union was, at the time, almost a small town, and there was action across the whole area. The events around North King Street were equally complex, with rebel outposts along Church Street, and repeated British charges to clear them out. The sad retreat by the 1916 garrison including the republican leadership into that Via Dolorosa, Moore Street, was complicated, starting with the heroic charge by the O’Rahilly. For all of the actions of the outposts, I had to deconstruct the action, hour by hour, by outpost and military action. Using as reference maps of Dublin as it was in 1916, I painstakingly produced a series of maps which detailed the events, in an effort to explain what happened in each location. I had to be conscious of changes of names. As an obvious example, Sackville Street was the name in 1916 for the (later) O’Connell Street. But O’Connell (previously Carlisle) Bridge was indeed the name in use during 1916.
Patience, continual trawling through archives, all enabled me to select over 550 images that allowed me to tell the story of 1916 (the origins, the week itself, and the aftermath) in my illustrated book, Courage Boys, We are Winning.
Michael Barry, author and historian, lives in Dublin. His recent books include The Green Divide, an Illustrated History of the Irish Civil War and Courage Boys, We are Winning, an Illustrated History of the 1916 Rising
