In memory of Darragh

I do hope Darragh’s family won’t mind me expressing my feelings about him. But writing has always been a sound mechanism to organise my feelings and thoughts. Those two tandem riders, interchangeable at any given time. I loved Darragh Mulrooney. I’ve known him for what felt like forever, but was realistically, about 2006/7. He was part of a set of friends who I’d see throughout the year at fabulous (and occasionally pretty riotous) parties. I genuinely can’t remember our first meeting. But I remember all the others somehow. Fragments of time. Like sunlight on water. I remember of course, enduringly, how tall and handsome he was. 6”2, big, brown almond eyes, slanted cheekbones, lithe like a ballet dancer, his beauty almost slightly otherworldly and feline, the way I imagine Pharaohs to have looked. His voice low and soft, with the energy of a coiled copper spring. But I remember most of all his energy; like the surface of a lake. All smooth and languid, calm and with a very palpable sense of great depth. Not a body of water for people to errantly splash in. This lake of great beauty bore signs. It was quietly and politely closed to those not capable of navigating any complexity. I was always delighted to see him. We joked how we’d find each other in the cacophony and the craziness and sit and *actually* talk. Not small stuff, but how we were we? What *was* happening? I would reveal much, feeling very instinctively safe. Darragh would reveal everything and nothing all at once, a terribly skilful illusionist. I called him ‘Action Darragh’ because seeing him was normally proceeded by seeing him on Facebook skydiving or something equally glamorous and filled with a perilous edge. That was always met with a self deprecating giggle. He always struck me as a proper ‘grown-up’ and I found him incredibly impressive in all senses. It was always a highlight to squeeze him and find a few moments in the shade of his considerable cool. Our friendship became closer over the last few years and was such a gift to me. Darragh asked me to pose for him somewhere back in summer 2019. No hard sell required; I promised him I trusted him and his vision implicitly and barring my usual modelling ‘hard limits’, I was all his. He was a pleasure to work with. We remarked on our ability to shorthand, to speak without speaking, comfortably share a silence, give each other just the right amount of space and the subsequent ease of it all as surprising, yet with reflection, a fete complete. We wished we’d worked creatively and closely ages ago. We wished we’d connected like that ages ago. It felt like the proverbial easy chair; albeit one very freshly upholstered in a dynamic silk. Fuschia and green. The process was collaborative, but with Darragh at the helm, the results were always brilliant. Interesting. Dynamic. Fresh. He was so very talented. I loved the process; getting nude and slipping into a velvet lined paddling pool in a studio in Brixton, or having my legs painted gold so I could pose stridently on a window ledge is a novelty not lost on even me, with my beautifully odd life. Needless to say, I loved the shots. No mean feat in itself, frankly. Many shoots followed with success and hilarity (we chemically burned my waist once, the gold paint we’d used on a prop was a little strong!) but it was always a complete hoot. I just loved being In his company. Little old me. In the cool of his shade. I so wish we could’ve spent more time. Created more together. That he could have realised all the vastness of his potential. That we all could have had more time to explore and navigate. In amongst the huddles of love at times like this, these thoughts shout loudly. But loudest of all is that I wish so much he’d have been happy. Been able to be happy and well once more. I wish. I wish. I wish. His work populates my website. I am so proud it is there. Where I am, his work will always be. Permanent beams of his brilliance. But for me, most of all, they will act much as the man himself. And I will always feel fortunate to, just for a while, have been allowed the privilege; little old me, of being in the cool of his shade.