O Captain My Captain is the title of a poem by Walt Whitman it was the basis of work concerning images of my father, Edward Ryan, also called Ted
One of the earliest was this collage and crayon, me as a dapper two year old on the steps of St Paul's Cathedral with dad holding Elaine, my eldest sister in the background.
It's not an event I remember but there I am....
I can’t remember standing by the van having my photograph taken although I can remember the van, a cream Standard with “Ted Ryan and Son, 34 Victoria Street, Fish Fruit and Poultry, licensed dealer in game” written on the side.
The van was part of the fish business, my grandfathers business and dad worked for him. Deliveries were made in the van or fish boxes collected from Merthyr railway station.
There was a metal tray in the back as it had to carry fish boxes and the tray stopped the water from the ice in the boxes rotting the floor of the van.
It didn’t stop it smelling of fish though.
During school holidays I would go on deliveries with him or the other drivers that worked for them
I spent time with dad in the shop in Victoria Street on a Thursday afternoon, half day closing,
I assume we, the children, sat in the back to go to church I can only remember years later sitting in the back of a Morris Minor, our next van, to go for days out; I assume we did the same in the Standard.
My father never owned a car until about 1979 when the fish business closed and he moved to a shop on Brecon Road.
Much of the earlier work based on the words of the poem were in colour with chosen images of dad and the Beacons he so loved.
O Captain My Captain - words by Walt Whitman and
images of my father and me
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our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weathered every rack,
the prize we sought is won,
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The port is near, the bells I hear,
the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel,
the vessel grim and daring;
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But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
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O Captain! my Captain!
rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up--for you the flag is flung
for you the bugle trills,
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For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths
for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass,
their eager faces turning;
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Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You've fallen cold and dead.
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My Captain does not answer,
his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm,
he has no pulse nor will;
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The ship is anchored safe and sound,
its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip the victor ship
comes in with object won;
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Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
all images © Ted Ryan 2012
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