OF ALL the ancient exhibits in the National Museum of Ireland, the most evocative - arguably - are the signs displaying its opening hours, writes FRANK MCNALLY
These are not widely appreciated. In fact, the Minister for Culture himself is a critic, suggesting the times should be expanded. But Mr Brennan has clearly missed the post-modernist genius of the concept. For in its efforts to preserve Ireland's past, the museum succeeds nowhere better than in having a 38-hour week.
Standing outside its locked gates after 5pm on a weekday, before 2pm on Sunday, or any time on Monday, whatever frustration one feels initially is lessened by a powerful sense of being transported back to pre-boom Ireland.
That was a country where, for example, banks closed for lunch, rather than risk pesky customers coming in during their breaks. Where Bewley's cafés took a half-day every Saturday. And where the only 24-hour business in Dublin was Jury's Coffee Dock (which opened for 23 hours, if I remember correctly: they closed for cleaning at 4am).
It all seems impossibly quaint now. But as soon as you find yourself denied entry to the National Museum, that world comes alive again. Suddenly the Berlin Wall is still up. Nobody has heard of global warming yet. And some people think Charlie Haughey can save Ireland, if only he's let.
Then, before you know it, you feel grateful to the museum, rather than resentful. It has reminded where the country came from, which is its basic function. That lesson learned, you make a mental note of the opening hours, so that you might even get in the next time and see the rest of the exhibition.
Of course, the National Museum does not have a monopoly on this brilliant concept. Other museums deploy versions of it too. Indeed, the Irish Museum of Modern Art's version is strikingly similar. Unfortunately, although the latter's 43-hour week could be considered an abstract installation piece, it doesn't work quite as well in the context of modern art. I'm not saying IMMA should be open 24/7, but I think that might be a better general direction for it go. The Guggenheim Bilbao's critically acclaimed 60-hour week may provide a useful model.
NOT LONG ago, my Dublin neighbourhood still featured what locals prided themselves on thinking was the worst corner shop in Ireland. I was a regular customer, which required a lot of effort, because for most of its existence the shop's business hours were more restrictive than any museum's. It only opened when the owners could be reasonably confident that everyone in the area had left for work. And they were usually careful to close again before we got back.
Despite this, somehow, its shelves were always depleted. Apart from the lack of queues, it was like a Russian grocery during the last days of Communism. There were daily shortages of even basic foodstuffs. And the Soviet bloc feel extended to the products it did stock, which were sometimes of worryingly obscure brands. Even before there were Eastern Europeans here who wanted to buy familiar products, the shop carried boxes of washing powder and other things that appeared to have fallen off a lorry in Gdansk.
It was anti-convenience store, really; and in spite of myself, I had a certain affection for it. But it was not long for this world. And sure enough, the axe finally fell two years ago, when the opening hours were reduced marginally (to zero) and a sign saying "closed for refurbishment" appeared in the window. In keeping with its old sense of urgency, however, nothing has happened to the building since, apart from some yellowing of the "refurbishment" sign. And walking past the shop this week, it gave me an idea for a new national museum, or perhaps just a new wing of the old one.
What I envisage is a building that would house a collection of great Irish failures. Things that must have seemed a good idea one, but never quite worked (and yes, it would be central to the concept that the museum would have very short opening hours).
Among the first exhibits would be those kiosks that have just quietly disappeared from Dublin's Grattan Bridge (see last week's Property supplement), having failed to recreate the Left Bank bookstalls of Paris. The Floozie in the Jacuzzi would go in too. As would every other doomed public art project, back to the "Tomb of the Unknown Gurrier". The Government's e-voting machines would have a room to themselves: perhaps stacked up in great lines, like China's terracotta soldiers. Going further back, Guinness Light would be a major exhibit. And so on.
My local corner shop would be a whimsical addition. If the curators act quickly, they can still acquire it whole, and have it lovingly reassembled in the museum. It would be like Francis Bacon's studio - without the clutter, obviously. And apart from its novelty appeal for children, the shop might also have educational value, hinting at the Ireland that existed before there was a Centra on every street.
The museum's pièce de résistance would be the Millennium Clock, mounted in a water feature (Liffey water, naturally) outside. The numbers on it would be hard to read, of course. But they would be just visible from a distance. And as people peered through the railings and made out the time, it would confirm what they already suspected: that the bloody museum was closed again.