IN MEMORY OF PAUL DEVLIN, THEATRE MAKER

Words in memory of Paul Devlin.

Magee theatre department, UU, Foyle Arts Building. 26.5.2016

Is mise Dave Duggan. Drámadóir is urscealaí is ea mé.

I'm Dave Duggan. I'm a dramatist and a novelist.

Is mór an onóir agus an pribhléid dom focail cuimhneachán a rá ar son Paul Devlin.

It is a great honour and a privilege to say some words in memory of Paul Devlin.

Mo bhuíochas do Lisa as an cuireadh.

My thanks to Lisa for the invitation.

Words are my business. Paul loved words. Essentially, I want to say and use four of them. Three S words and one F word.

Let's start with the F word. Paul Devlin was my friend. There are many people who were Paul's friends, and very much more: Kate and their fine daughters; Paul's wider family; men and women he grew up with, knocked about with at school and college; worked with, staff and students, here in Magee and elsewhere. Myself and Paul Devlin were friends as theatre makers and as men. There are misconceptions that men don't form friendships. Men do. That men don't share. Men do. That older men (me) and young men (Paul) – (the tragedy of Paul's death is a tragedy of youthfulness) don't become friends. We did. We'd be in the canteen, invariably with a plate of his chips between us, me ngucking them and we'd be talking about making theatre. Often with Adrian to add the seasoning.

Which leads me to the first S word. I quickly realised that Paul knew things. Deeply. That he was wise. That Paul Devlin was a savant. I saw him speak at a conference and was struck by the depth of his knowledge, his felicitous use of language and his humane yet wry take on his work and on the world.

And he did more than know things. He found things. He detected opportunities, airs in the zeitgeist, possibilities in the culture that could be explored by theatre. He was a researcher, yes, but in the fine tradition of unearthing that is the realm of the sleuth. Paul Devlin was a Shamus, the second S word.

I was not long out of hospital, recovering from a critical illness that had almost taken me away, when he asked me to make something about borders. I found a townland name on a map and we went there, to Brishmachree – an anglicisation of the Irish do bhris mo chroí, my heart broke – and I wrote and performed a theatre piece on borders, under his commission and his direction. It was a pleasure to take direction from him in this room/building. And then to perform the work on a June day of near persistent rain, down a muddy lane, where fine mists occluded the ancient sun fort at An Grianán in front of us and the medieval keep of the O'Doherty's beside us, but could not occlude the magic and wonder of Paul Devlin's making.

Thus I find the third S word. Paul Devlin was shaman, a theatre maker of ritual and magic, rooted to our wondrous earth. One of his great shamanistic acts was the theatrical carnival of memory he directed in the department store, Austins of the Diamond. He led students and staff, and he included me, with my writer's kitchen, in a grand theatrical embodiment of living history, remembering and performing, which has particular resonance now that the shop, like Paul's all too short life, has come to an end.

We cannot shirk away from tragedy, in life and in theatre. Tragedy, as a concept and as a reality, as a manifestation of the cruelty of life, was often addressed in conversations Paul and I shared. Is tragedy ever a boon? Never. The boon is living, as Paul Devlin did. As savant, shamus, shaman. And of course, the F word. As friend.

Let us chose our words, then. S words and F words.

L words too. Live. Love.

Míle buíochas. A thousand thanks.

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