Life of George
Years ago, my good lady arranged delivery of a much discussed filing cabinet; it should have proved a time to recall in the flicker of Yule logs, contented munchkins all agog on our arthritic knees.
Halcyon days of wantonly sliding drawers back and forth to reveal multi-coloured folders ordered in a Mondrian palette. A pillar-box red filing cabinet to conceal some fugitive pieces. One with four minimalist A4 drawers atop; balanced by two bijou Saab-silent, sliding compartments beneath. ‘If smothered in chocolate, you’d lick it to the metal,’ as some might say.
Two days later, a puffing guy dumps a cardboard flat-pack containing a Google of parts requiring a degree in patience, plus languages, to comprend enclosed instructions. Three screws and two miscellaneous washers still rattle around in the temperamental bottom drawer. It’s on castors, rolls like a gurney and flat, institutional grey in colour, mirroring some unedited cadavers within.
This mythic red filing cabinet came to mind on the 25th December last, when an unwrapped bouquet of tissue paper revealed a mug with writing on. (A gift from an adult by the way). It detailed, with illustrations, ‘How To Make Tea’ and ‘How To Make Coffee’. The only instruction it got right was how to fill a kettle. Cups with writing on are dafter than ones with the handle on the inside; or, even crazier, on the left. ‘Add coffee granules into cup and pour boiling water over’, it instructs. No hint of a Gaggia Accademia (PhD in physics needed) or a simple cafetiere. Undead baristas are birlin’ in their grains.
Cups can slip the grasp of soapy Marigolds because there’s only fugitive tea bags to bear witness from a saucer marked ‘Tea bags’. They’re never really unwanted, these things we wouldn’t choose for ourselves; they’re just inaccurate.
I resolve to be more adult and let it drop, after removing the castors; they’re always handy.
George Chalmers
Islay’s Scotland
A New Year outing to the Perthshire woods
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Glasgow’s art lovers
are seeing only
half the picture
Barney MacFarlane
There’s a momentous rumbling underground. That’ll be Tom Honeyman. Birling. The esteemed director of Glasgow’s art gallery placed the city firmly on the international culture map during his tenure from 1939 until 1954.
Dr Honeyman was acutely aware of the London-centric endurance of the British art establishment, having spent several years as an art dealer in the UK capital. And as such, he knew that a big show would draw in the punters, as witnessed by the long queues when he brought a Van Gogh exhibition to Kelvingrove.
An earlier Glasgow-Van Gogh connection, of course, came in the shape of Alex Reid (1854-1928), the Glaswegian art dealer whose portrait, fiery red hair, beard – and, indeed, matching wall – was painted by the Dutchman. Honeyman worked for Reid’s firm Reid and Lefevre in St James’s in London before returning to his native city to take the reins at the Art Gallery. So how did the city lose its grip?
Glasgow art lovers allowed themselves just a little expectation that following Kelvingrove Museum and Art Gallery’s renovation – and subsequent promises – a few good touring exhibitions might stop off there.
Trumpeted – not too strong a word, I think – was the announcement that, included in the vast refurbishment works, would be a new basement area, large enough to accommodate art shows.
Well, we got Harry Benson’s photies, marvellous black and white social histories as they were, yet not bountiful and leaving us begging for more. Then the Glasgow Boys show arrived in 2010 and at last Glasgow, unaided by the munificence festooned by the government on Edinburgh’s halls of culture, could take its place once more at the international arts table.
The ‘Boys’ exhibition proved to be a fabulous attraction both internationally and for domestic interest. Hardly a day went by when there was not a coach or two in the Kelvingrove car park, its drivers lingering and chatting while their paying – yes paying – customers thrilled to the pictures of Guthrie, Walton, Hornel, Crawhall, Melville, Henry, Lavery (Irish, but who was caring?) et al.
The show, deemed a resounding success by its curators and visitors – and, indeed, the council – was snapped up in a slightly reduced form by the Royal Academy of Arts in London where it ran for three months to consistently favourable reviews.
I emigrated to London and am able to view as much art as I can find the
time for. Yet there is one show here, roundly lauded so far, that ought to
be travelling to Glasgow – but ain’t.
Entry prices are worth mentioning here: a full-priced adult ticket at Kelvingrove was a fiver, whereas even for a much-reduced exhibition at the RA, the equivalent ticket cost more than twice that. So, after this glorious Glasgow triumph, we might have hoped for a follow-up.
Previously we had Kylie Minogue. If you’re a fan of hers – or an obscure rock band called AC-DC, whose school uniform-wearing singer apparently had some connection with Glasgow as a nipper – then these cultural pinnacles are designed for you. Or how about a self-portrait by Jack Hoggan – sorry, Vettriano? Yes, A self-portrait, a single one. Get along there fast before it dies of loneliness.
On the other hand, if you expected Glasgow to stick out its paw and grab one of the great touring shows – art, yes art…it’s only a wee word but full of import – then you’d be forlorn. The pulling power of art is palpable and why people flock to cities like Florence and Rome. What, you thought they went to chuck coins in a big, fancy fountain or perhaps wave at a bloke dressed in white up on a balcony? No way.
I must declare an interest here: an interest in art, that is. I emigrated to London and am able to view as much art as I can find the time for. Yet there is one show here, roundly lauded so far, that ought to be travelling to Glasgow – but ain’t.
The Group of Seven’s ‘Painting Canada’ exhibition at Dulwich Picture Gallery, which ends its run on Sunday, should be heading for Scotland, given our association with Canada and its landscape so evocative of our own. The Canadian movement began in the early part of the 20th century, around the same time as the Scottish colourists, and their wilderness landscapes, many of which are dotted with silver birches – the most common native tree in Scotland – would find a deep resonance within the Scottish psyche.
If only Scots were allowed to see them. Instead the exhibition is off to Norway where one or two of the Canadian group had an awareness of Edvard (‘The Scream’) Munch and wished to discover more about the art scene there.
Dulwich, the first purpose-built public art gallery in Britain, is a well-known and revered institution whose permanent collection would be the envy of any museum. Yet its setting is suburban, with travel there time-consuming – but still it pulls in some great shows.
Often enough, too, a famous work belonging to Glasgow museums – or Glasgow Life, as the organisation has been quaintly renamed – will
appear on loan to big exhibitions.
To be fair to Kelvingrove, its permanent collection is also one to be proud of, yet the way it is now presented, post refurb, with low-level captions for the kiddies to read (as if), panders rather to the populist, though thankfully not the extremes of the new Transport Museum. Don’t get me started on that.
A couple of years back Dulwich exhibited a host of self-portraits from the Uffizi in Florence. A whole show of some of the most important self-portraits ever painted. Does one discern a little tinnitus in the Kelvingrove high heid yins, pace Vettriano?
Often enough, too, a famous work belonging to Glasgow museums – or Glasgow Life, as the organisation has been quaintly renamed – will appear on loan to big exhibitions. The RA’s autumn blockbuster, ‘Degas and the Ballet’, had at least two Glasgow pictures that I noticed. And a couple of years ago a Glasgow-owned painting was on show at the Toulouse-Lautrec exhibition at Tate Britain.
So what about the quid pro quo? What have we got Toulouse? (Sorry, I couldn’t resist that.)
Meanwhile, Glasgow still puffs out its chest in that familiar ‘wha’s like us’ pose, its art lovers seemingly happy enough, however, to take the 44-mile trip to Edinburgh to enjoy the newly reopened Scottish National Portrait Gallery following its £17.6 million revamp, a figure Glasgow can only salivate over.
Next thing you know they’ll be renaming the RSAMD the Royal Conservatoire of Scotland.
Oh, they did already? Funny that…I and many others still call it the Athenaeum.
The PR mob have got their fingers on it, as with everything these days. Showing commercial interests in an exaggeratedly favourable lustre is one thing – and I must confess to some endeavour in that sector – but public bodies ought to be allowed to shine in their own light. Or otherwise. So with a nod at – in place of ‘to’ – Dr Honeyman, the unfortunate message might be: Spin on that, Tom.
Barney MacFarlane is a former journalist, now involved in PR
and freelance editing
