Paul Anthony Gibbons from Oughterard – on the outskirts of civilisation – was born in 1989 at a tender age. His long held fascination with Irish myth, history and culture led him to a B.A. (honours) in Heritage Studies. An aspiring and active short-story writer, director, playwright and graphic novelist Paul has been spurred since a young age by an unquenchable imagination and a dangerous curiosity.
Galatea come to life
By Paul Anthony Gibbons
It started in a blur, a beautiful, bewitching blur, as she came out of the sun in a green silk dress, running. Loose tresses of golden brown hair cascading past elegant neck and rounded shoulder. I stood mesmerised. Clear, snow-white skin – marble-like – lightly tinted with soft pink: Galatea come to life. Suddenly, the purest of smiles eclipsed the world as she threw a carefree look behind her, coming back with a giggle. Slowing, her eyes – emerald and shining – burst through the formless shadows moving about the market place.
I lingered, unaware of why I was there and heedless to why I should ever leave. I watched her flow through the crowds, meandering from stall to stall, revelling in the kitsch patterns and delicate articles which surrounded her. She floated up to a stand selling prints out of roughly constructed wooden crates. The peddler looked on, bored and life-weary, as she flicked through the colour-drenched artwork of Monet and Burne-Jones.
“Just these two please” she said while extending a graceful hand and sprouting a beguiling smile. Instantly, the man was roused, even smiled and as she walked away with a cute wave of fluttering fingers, the man remained, invigorated.
Her drifting ramble was trailed with double-takes, secret glances, even sustained stares; yet she continued, day-dreaming and content. It seemed as if she was not so much unaware of her own beauty as unconcerned with it. Her smile always came spontaneously, from the pink fullness of her delicately pursed lips which conjured up images of some Jane Austen heroine: sweet-natured but strong-willed, elegant and refined, yet nonetheless complex. Her large almond eyes had a story to tell. A story I would never know.
She came towards me, running the fingers of her hand along the sun-warmed, wrought-iron fence while investigated some dream-like, poppy-laden field. I prepared myself, waiting for her to lift her soft chin and supply me with even the most fleeting glance.
Unexpectedly she awoke from her musings by some sudden realisation. Placing the prints under her arm she rushed in my direction. And it ended in a daze, a dazzling, delightful dream, as she dashed past, dress-flowing, like a watercolour in the rain.
The Galway Review 