Last of the Sabbatical Vine

Edinburgh in the spring is for lovers .. and lovers of all things cultural ..


Edinburgh is a city of fantasy and creativity, but it never forgets itself – it is built on solid foundations; a history of artists and pioneers, writers and warriors, architects and financiers who brought life to the Scottish dream; a vision of hope rising in the surreal depictions of past revelations of mystical charm and a self-imposed identity of strict determination ..



There are literally dozens of galleries both large and small scattered throughout this picturesque city .. On nearly every corner and down every alley there are renovations taking place to reinvigorate the old world charm of Edinburgh city centre, making fashionable the archaic crumbling facades, providing a focal point for the energy and enthusiasm of an influx of new artists amongst the often surprising and sweeping vistas ..



The National Gallery Complex houses a collection of Scottish masterpieces by the likes of Raeburn and Wilkie, as well as a vast archive of work from artists such as: Raphael, Titian, Rembrandt, Monet and Van Gogh .. The international exhibition currently showing is a comprehensive selection of work from JMW Turner’s Italian paintings ..


Designed as several buildings in Grecian style with Doric and Corinthian columns rising above a severe modernist promenade of restaurants and boutiques, the museums are set against a backdrop of parkland at the base of the ancient stone walls of Edinburgh Castle ..


Traversing The Royal Mile, it’s practically impossible to avoid the melodic wail of bagpipes seemingly spaced at regular intervals .. the high-pitched harmonics pierce the ears along every bustling avenue, pipers squeezing out an identical repertoire of ‘Scotland the Brave’ and ‘A Scottish Soldier’ to the massed tourists who clamber for photos of the men in traditional kilted Highland dress .. No, I didn’t ask what he was wearing under it!



I made my way through the crowded thoroughfare of Princes Street, past hordes of ice cream lovers licking scoops of tutti frutti in the sweltering sunshine, and found an oasis of calm meandering the peaceful scenic river walk toward the Dean Gallery and their outstanding collection of Dada and Surrealist works ..



After a perusal of paintings by 4 post-war Scottish artists, including John Bellany and Wilhemena Barns-Graham, I wandered the grounds and surveyed the sculptures of Sir Eduardo Paolozzi .. Here’s me with my old friend, his bronze Master of the Universe ..


Across the street is the Scottish National Gallery of Modern Art; another magnificent Greek-columned portico temple of art .. Although there was a terrific exhibition of work by Vija Celmins, Andy Warhol and others, I specifically made this journey to view the extensive display of works by Damien Hirst, and was not disappointed ..



The butterfly paintings were awe-inspiring; the dead insects captured in glorious colour against backgrounds of glossy black and flat white .. the pharmaceutical signage of pills and potions printed on back-lit plexiglass, one of his large circular paintings created by dripping paint onto the canvas while it rotated on a spinning wheel – much like a child’s plaything, and of course Away From the Flock, one of the early “animals in formaldehyde” pieces which helped establish Hirst’s reputation as a revolutionary and radical artist whose themes deal with death and the imagination of God ..


It isn’t difficult to imagine that the great creator had a hand in building this fine city, and although the modern street plan was laid out hundreds of years ago there are many dynamic and contemporaneous features that continue to add vibrancy and a sense of growth to this marvellous metropolis ..



Stopping into the Carlton Ritz I quaffed a cocktail and headed out into the gloaming for an evening of musical mayhem at The Jazz Bar – one of my favourite regular haunts in this city of spirits .. or should that be, this spirited city? ..

The sun hasn’t yet set on this empire of imagination .. it still resonates in the theatres and galleries, from the romantic settings shared by loving couples beneath the towering Scott Monument to forceful orators in the halls of the Scottish Assembly, from jugglers and tricksters tempting laughter and remarkable feats of derring-do on the labyrinthine streets to the earthy wooden-floored pubs and chic cosmopolitan shopping arcades ..


In my own time I will return again to this eternal city, knowing that Edinburgh will continue to hold a special sense of wonder for me and its many visitors from all corners of the globe.

By Subscription: Love, Sex and Death

For many years I maintained a subscription to Newsweek and National Geographic magazines. Along with a few “women’s journals”, these periodicals kept me informed on matters of apparent importance long before the internet provided us with a running commentary on every aspect of daily life in the global village.

It was my mother-in-law who first got me hooked on my regular fix of global politics and international environmental and cultural issues. Way back in 1982, when she was already 70 years of age, and I a mere boy by comparison, she inaugurated my first Washington Christmas with two annually renewed subscriptions to the world outside the rural estate she called home. It was comfortable in the country, sitting by the fireplace with the snow falling over the river and icicles glistening on the bare branches of the maple, birch and oak trees that grew proudly outside the picture window, and I quietly hoped it would last forever. However, this idealised pax-Americana was an ocean away from my financially deprived culturally rich roots, and light years from my introduction to the bizarre world of door-to-door magazine sales.

Several years earlier I was living in my parents’ house in Philadelphia with my high school sweetheart, studying drama at a private college and generally living high and fast on a small trust fund. It was the beginning of another long, hot, humid East coast summer of barbeques and pool parties, and I was bored. Sitting in the sunny kitchen leafing through the morning paper, I came across an advertisement offering “travel, accommodation, good pay and benefits” for young people who were willing to devote their lives to learning the art of direct sales. I rang the number and spoke to a pleasant woman who arranged an interview at a suite in an upmarket downtown hotel. I arrived and was asked a series of simple questions – mainly with the aim of determining that I was unattached and available to leave within days.

Returning home I told my girlfriend Lara what I was doing, and when I was leaving. Naturally she was upset and confused, but I was sure life on the road was going to be a great adventure. Picked up in a minibus along with several other new recruits we were driven to a motel near a steel town in the industrial heartland of Pennsylvania. Although I was then unaware of it, Lara had also contacted the agency, arranged her own interview, and was already sequestered in one of the girls’ rooms at the motel.

On arrival I was introduced to the ‘sales crew’ and assigned my ‘personal friend’, Todd, who was to teach me the tricks of the trade over the next couple weeks. I shared a room with him and two other guys about the same age. There were a dozen or more rooms occupied by about 40 young people, boys and girls, and half a dozen older ‘team leaders’ responsible for driving us to and from our designated sales areas. There were a few basic rules. Everybody had to chalk up at least one magazine subscription a day – preferably cash in hand, no drugs, alcohol on designated nights out only, and group members stay together at all times – that is; everyone must have their ‘personal friend’ with them always and not associate with ‘outsiders’.

Over the next few days I learned the routine. We got up at 7am, showered and climbed into our team vans to be driven from one small working class town to another to sell magazine subscriptions door to door till about 7pm. We would breakfast and lunch together, and then regroup at the motel in the evening to hand in our takings for the day. There were no days off. We moved from motel to motel every few days as we journeyed the old highway routes from town to town. We carried little pamphlets illustrating the literature we sold and our role as community youth sales experts. We used high-pressure tactics and expected a signature on the dotted line as quickly as possible. There were many doors to knock and always more householders to separate from their cash with our mocking guarantee that their purchase would drop into their mailbox as promised.

It wasn’t long before I realised that the magazines would never arrive for these customers of our insistent fraud. For every 30 dollars of subscriptions in cash we were paid 10 dollars, for check or credit card orders we were given 5 dollars. With the money held in escrow we were paid an allowance at the end of the week. This regime never varied and I quickly got the hang of it. We could do as we liked for dinner and spent the evenings socialising within our sex-segregated groups. Team leaders enforced the lights out curfew at 11pm.

During this time Todd showed me photographs of the exciting places he had been over the past year, including Christmas and New Year at a swank Las Vegas hotel, Easter at the parade in New York and a week on the Florida beaches over the summer. When I asked if he ever saw his family he replied with the same verbatim response as the others I questioned: it’s more fun to be in Vegas with a wad of cash than some dirt-poor town in some obscure part of the country. I began to suspect that none of these other youngsters had any reason to return ‘home’. I had travelled widely before joining this sales sect, but could see the attraction of this on-the-road lifestyle to many a disadvantaged youngster.

Unfortunately, it was also discovered that Lara and I knew each other when I had seen her on the motel parking lot and managed to sneak a quick chat; that was against the rules. She was hurriedly packed and driven from the motel; I was allowed to say a brief goodbye and she told me she was going to her friend Mia’s house.

Saturday nights were why we worked all week. We returned to the motel, settled the accounts and collected our ‘pay’. We were free till noon on Sunday, freedom being the operative word. Everyone would change into their best clothes and meet in the motel car park to decide where to go. The team leaders had already scouted the area to find the local hotspots and would drop us off at various places requested, although being under house rules to stay together we all managed to end up at the same discothèque later in the night – when the boys and girls were allowed to mingle and where the real fun started.

On Saturday night my roommates and I went for a meal and a beer at the local steak house, then made our way to the nightclub. After a couple mixed drinks and a few casual dances I was approached by one of the prettiest girls I had ever seen and asked to slow dance. As we shuffled around the dimly lit boards she put her head on my shoulder and said, “it’s only my second week, but next weekend we can sleep together if you want.” “Yeah, that would be great,” I replied none too convincingly. I sauntered casually and coolly back to the table and not wanting any trouble immediately told my ‘personal friend’ about her suggestion.

Once again Todd spelled out the rules, now that I had encountered a new situation and needed guidance. Boys had to be accompanied by their ‘personal friend’ for the first two weeks and were not allowed to have sex before that introduction time was over, for girls it was three weeks – but then Saturday night sex was positively encouraged. A regular night of drinking and dancing followed by casual sex between group members was seen as a perk of the job. However, relationships were against the rules and couples were not permitted; no one was allowed to have sex with the same partner twice in a month in order to prevent close unions and disruption to the group ethic. The permissive society had strict rules to govern its freedoms.

I was in awe at this unusual revelation, while simultaneously intrigued. As each passing hour unveiled a new experience my free-spirited lifestyle at home began to appear more conservative and traditional than I had previously thought. Back at the motel, Todd and the others paired off with their chosen Saturday night partners and disappeared into the cheap double-bedded rooms. I was left to contemplate the week. I felt homesick; I missed my girlfriend and wanted to see to a familiar friendly face. I wandered outside the parameters of the motel compound and began walking along the stretch of dark, deserted highway trying to regain a piece of seemingly lost sanity.

I spent the next two hours walking the eight miles from the isolated town to Mia’s house in the lovely upper-middle-class suburban estate just north of the Delaware border. It was about four in the morning when I arrived at the sweeping sloped yard which led up to her family’s front door. This was in the days before cell phones and text messages and I did what every teenager would have done, I tossed pebbles from the gravelled driveway at the bedroom window. It wasn’t long before Mia and then Lara peered through the curtains at this lonely boy standing in the back garden as her Romeo beneath the balcony of discontent.

Lara hurriedly dressed and met me outside, where we sat under a leafy elm and talked until the early morning light cast a gallant shadow across the lawn. We were young, foolish, in love and missing each other terribly. We both wanted to go back to my parents’ house and enjoy our usual summer frivolities. We wanted to be together. I rested my aching feet on the cool dewy grass and then began the eight-mile trek back to the motel to return unnoticed at a quiet 8 o’clock on Sunday morning. I packed and left, dropping my magazine sales pamphlet on the dressing table as the others slept. Lara and I went back to our boring but peaceful bliss in the sprawling ‘burbs of the city of brotherly love and rediscovered the happiness of real friendship amongst people we knew and trusted.


My mother-in-law is now 97 years old and patiently lying on her deathbed awaiting a call from her lord – a God she served unfailingly through life and who is now keeping her hanging on through years of slow and painful deterioration. She no longer responds to the warm, loving touch of her family. There have been many changes to my life and the world about us since that late-night far-away proclamation of undying love; some of them I read about over the years as the weekly magazines dropped through the door, others were discovered through personal experience. I have come to realise that however far we travel, love and hope is all we can cling to in times of uncertainty. It has been a long and difficult journey, with many a bump and hill to climb and obstacles to manoeuvre. However, my mother-in-law has reached the end of her road and encountered the final door. For her there is nothing left to buy or sell; she awaits the delivery of her ultimate good news – a hope she subscribed to all her life. I only pray that for this woman who helped educate me into the meaning of home by showing me the world outside, it arrives as promised.

London Lives

London is teeming with culture, and last week I had the pleasure of accompanying a special friend to peruse the galleries .. share a cappuccino in a lovely street cafe ..stroll along the Embankment and down Tooley Street past the old dungeon .. spend a bit of time carousing around the slowly revolving Millennium Wheel and past the reproduction of Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre ..



Yes, I played the visiting tourist in the capital city I lived in for 6 years through the 90s .. It was a time of personal growth and discovery – attending university, writing and honing my performance poetry skills on the Soho to Deptford circuit, regularly attending gigs at the 100 Club and dancing to Latin beats in Camden Lock .. I loved my life in London during those heady days of Britpop, YBAs and endless tube delays ..


The brief layover this past week included sipping wine on top of Tate Modern after admiring Rodin’s ‘Kiss’ and visiting the National Portrait Gallery to view the Gerhard Richter exhibition .. It was a joy to return for this extraordinary, yet ultimately bland collection of paintings .. including this excellent small portrait of the artist’s daughter ‘Ella’ ..



According to the NPG website introduction, Richter has said, “I don't think the painter need either see or know the sitter. A portrait must not express anything of the sitter's 'soul', essence or character. Nor must a painter 'see' a sitter in any specific, personal way” Intentionally blurring the image, Richter asserts no new idea and does not distract the viewer by imposing meaning on his subject. He avoids explanation and reason – leaving us with a subject and object based on formless feature, forcing the viewer into an investigation of elements of style and an examination of the relationship between photograph as evidence and painting as composition and content ..



In the painting “Helga Matura with her Fiancé” (below) we see a stark contrast between the woman and the man in the painting .. she appears composed, adult and confident, he presents as a young and reticent child, almost cowering beneath the feminine stature of his bride-to-be .. but, what does this tell us about the people in the painting – or of the photograph which was the source object? Is it all a misleading experiment in vague imagery designed to create tension and unease? We don’t know these people – and we know no more about them after seeing the painting ..



This ‘imprecise representation’ denies the spectator an involvement with the image. This distance between subject and observer creates a space where any interpretation of meaning is possible, yet ideas and narratives are impossible to validate. It is that very expression of intent Richter wants to escape .. As he was quoted as saying in The Independent, 2nd March 2009, "The intention: to invent nothing – no idea, no composition, no object, no form – and to receive everything: composition, object, form, idea... By painting from photographs I was relieved of the need to choose or construct a subject."



A particular subject chosen especially for their public persona is revealed in this painting of Gilbert and George from 1975. Interestingly, one of the most precise figures of his early work in this show. This work is more definable and attempts to juxtapose the identities of the individuals with their collaborative work as one creative entity. It works because we know the subjects, and we can understand the point, or meaning of the representation ..



That said, I would rather have been seeing a Gilbert and George exhibit .. Richter left me disinterested and uninvolved. His work is vague and nondescript with its fashionable apathetic mannerism. The portraits intentionally say little about their subjects, and that lack of communication of ideas and purpose creates nothing new for the audience. Technically, there are many better painters, and his disengagement with meaning flies in the face of human instinct and depth of thought ..


I hope to return to this fabulous city soon – for poetry and dinner with old friends .. but for now, it’s back to Scotland and another capital that awaits ..

photos of Richter paintings: NPG, London

http://www.npg.org.uk:8080/richter/index.htm

Signs, Shrines, Towers and Tributes

As mere mortals occupying a brief moment in the history of the earth, collectively and individually we search for significance in the shapes of the natural world about us ..

Symbols and signs that exhibit distinct geometric patterns, whether real or imagined, are a necessary part of our interpretation of revelation and social construction .. In the National Museum of Scotland, Edinburgh, this ancient stone shares etchings that I use in my own work - yes, I designed this piece long before I saw the rough-hewn Pictish rock ..

Leaving our mark and creating relevance from observed forms imposes our thoughts and dreams of permanence on this transitory existence ..



The Lionesque shape that is Arthur’s Seat has inspired many artists to draw on this familiar form to suggest a strong, brave warrior trait in the ‘Scottish character’ .. Yes, possibly an out-moded way of defining identity, but most people still assign specific stereotypical traits to ‘national character’ ..

In fact the ‘national character’ is exactly that – a politically reinforced sense of shared attributes that artificially bind a disparate group of people to develop allegiance to a creed ..


Ever since Ruth Benedict and other anthropologists approached this area of study for the US military during WW2 .. anthropology suffered a setback in universal acceptance of objectivity and the research into shared traits was denigrated as potentially racist and presumptive ..
.. however, we all recognise certain ‘home truths’ in regional culture, and exploit those similarities brought about by collective history to maintain links with the past ..


We design crests and shields to commemorate battles and other historical events .. we sculpt statues to honour heroic figures and manufacture flags to symbolise unified territories while perpetuating and propagating knowledge of a cohesive identity .. I carry this particular clan crest on my key ring – the family motto in Latin “pro libertate” translates as ‘for freedom’, or ‘liberty’ .. and has always been a significant feature of my own personality ..


We create headstones as burial markers to acknowledge the presence of a previous life and give notice that life has a beginning and a definite ending .. like this gravestone that carries an inscription for my grandmother and grandad who now occupy the same space high on a hill in the largest municipal cemetery in the UK .. I found it interesting that the woman who maintained the records was chilled by the thought of me driving to the furthest boundaries of the burial park at dusk - to wander amongst so many dead ancestors as the gloaming approached .. I told her I was only going to visit my gran ..


We build tombs to stand for all time as recognition of the importance of remembrance, giving weight to shape in a hopeful gesture of the connectedness of eternity, and we pass along these memories in the vain hope that succeeding generations will consider our lives as having had some value ..


On 11th September 1297, the Scots under the command of William ‘Guardian of Scotland’ Wallace, defeated the English army at the Battle of Stirling Bridge .. helping to shape the destiny of this land, instilling a sense of loyalty and character into tribal factions, and giving reason to others to memorialise and celebrate his life ..


Thomas Rochead designed the National Monument to William Wallace at Abbey Craig in the Bridge of Allan, Stirlingshire in 1861 .. this magnificent and unique Victorian Gothic sandstone structure is over 220 feet high .. needless to say the view from the ‘crown’ is one of the finest in the world .. you can see the likeness of Wallace sculpted by DW Stevenson on the corner ..



On November 30th (St Andrew’s day) 1893, a replica bronze by Stevenson of his statue of the great liberationist was presented to the city of Baltimore by William Wallace Spence .. I took my dad to see it when he visited Maryland .. the iconic image, 17 feet tall excluding pedestal, was placed on a hill overlooking the lake in Druid Park ..


One of the greatest and most symbolic of natural phenomena, a signifier of death and rebirth – a covenant of new beginnings and hope, can frequently be witnessed in ‘God’s Own Country’ ..


I captured this exemplar rainbow recently, over the town of Greenock in the west of Scotland, as the morning mist lifted to reveal a dark past creeping from the shadows with the promise of a brighter future .. a history and culture I share, and a dream I look forward to helping make real ..

Winters in Mallorca

A whole host of exciting celebrations and interesting events during the months of January and February welcome the visitor to the Balearic Island of Mallorca .. As an occasional off-season resident familiar to the island, I am fortunate enough to have a lovely place to stay with a stunning view toward the marina at Puerto de Alcudia ..


However, I am not the first traveller to have spent ‘A Winter in Mallorca’ – as George Sand (pseudonym of Aurore Dupin, Baroness Dudevant) and her children stayed there for several months from 1838-39 with her companion and lover Frederic Chopin .. subsequently writing the classic, if somewhat critical and ethnocentric book about their trials and tribulations during those less comfortable days at the monastery in Valldemosa ..


Thanks to friends and associates in the area, I have had the opportunity to witness several of the most fascinating traditions – especially frightful is witching night in Sa Pobla, where the locals dance round bonfires till the wee hours dressed as ‘El Diablo’ and Sant Antoni – the ascetic of the desert, and patron saint of farm animals who, like the Christ, faced his own demons in the dry parched landscape of the wilderness .. The ‘night of the devils’ fiesta was first documented in Sa Pobla during the 14th century .. Watch a video ~~~~>


A unique tradition to celebrate the feast of Saint Antoni on 17th January occurs annually in the Port of Pollença, a few kilometres along the coast from Alcudia ..


Early in the morning, after the Beneïdes – a blessing of the animals, a small fleet of fishing boats heads around Cap de Formentor where they locate and chop down an enormous fir tree (a very tall pine – which they call the Pi de Sant Antoni) and after stripping it of all but the highest branches, lash it to a boat and haul it back to the port, where it is hoisted up onto the dock .. the tree is then handed over to the young men of the town who ceremoniously drag it through town ..


The event takes several hours and is accompanied by much revelry and dancing with songs and music provided by the local Xeremiers: musical troupes that consist of bagpipes (which they claim to have invented), hand-held percussion drums called ximbombades and whistles ..


A main feature of the procession is the drinking of copious amounts of Tunel Herbes, a sweet alcohol that I was, only on this occasion, liberally adding to my frequent cups of coffee ..


After much mirth and merriment we arrived through the church to the main square Plaça Vella, where everyone partakes of a traditional lunch of pa amb oli, arrengades i vi (Mallorquin for bread with olive oil, herrings and wine) ..


The tree is then raised to a stupendously eerie height of 20 metres .. The young men of the town then compete to get to the top, where a bag of sweets and money awaits – it is a difficult task and many brave souls try and fail, either by losing their nerve, sliding back down exhausted or more often, being dragged off the tree by their friends and fellow climbers .. however the one conquistador who finally achieves the feat gains the bragging rights to remind everyone for the next year who got to the top of the Pi Antoni ..


December heralds the annual parade of giants through Alcudia – the old town proper on the hill, with its Roman ruins, Moorish walls and fabulous Sunday market ..


The family-friendly event marks a social revolution and commemorates the handing over rule of the town from royalty to landed gentry and elected officials .. here we see giants representing each of the traditional trades and craftspeople of the region as they march through the streets demanding the right to determine their own laws and be compensated with fair economic exchange for their learned skills ..


Accompanied once again by the Xeremiers in local costume and colours, the giants proceed through the narrow streets, past boutiques and cafes that fill with locals and tourists as they swarm en masse toward the main square .. (rather like the newly-established Derby Quad event which you can see by scrolling down to the next page)


Eventually, the giants arrive at the Town Hall to stage their re-enacted protest and claim the right of self-governance – here represented by the giant mayor and his wife .. after the obligatory speeches by the actual prominent figures of the town council there is more song and dance before everyone descends on the plaza restaurants for lunch ..


January 5th sees a colourful flotilla of boats that announce the arrival of the Three Kings in the Port of Alcudia – marking the visit of the Magi, the astrologers from the East who followed the North Star to find the young Jesus and bestow gifts upon this ‘chosen one’ ..


However, the most enjoyable days out are often in simply discovering the natural scenery of the island .. one of my favourite regions can just be seen in this picture as the ‘twin plateaus’ of a massive cloister of peaks ..


I often looked upon this mountain at sunrise from the north terrace of the penthouse I stayed in one recent winter in Mallorca, and considered scaling the heights ..


The Tramuntana Mountains range across the northern coast and have stunning and seemingly inaccessible peaks and valleys where through the strenuous effort of climbing and hiking one is rewarded with panoramic views of the beautiful island, and can gaze down upon the tourist towns famous for their magnificent beaches and hedonistic nightlife ..


Although getting back to the apartment on the beach at the end of the day was always a treat .. sharing with friends the sunsets and sunrises, caliente pan and cheese, a bottle of roja vin and a cool evening on the terrace ..

HeART of Scotland

As some of you may be aware, I have been in Scotland recently, with the implicit intention of moving to the West Coast – yes, it’s time again for a change. I’ve never lived in any place for more than six years, and I have been residing in Derby for 5 years now .. my internal clock is ticking with an anxious fury .. and I miss having a calming sea view .. no, it isn’t always cloudy, really ..


While in the area, I have been familiarising myself with Glasgow – Europe’s first ‘City of Culture’ .. naturally that includes visiting Kelvingrove Museum and Art Gallery .. an enormous and magnificent example of elaborate Victorian architecture, incorporating style from Spanish Baroque, especially the towers which were based on the church of Santiago de Compostela – originally opened with great fanfare in 1902, it was actually visited by the ‘Grandmother of Europe' herself ..
The Museum was designed in the pre-automobile-congested age and was intended to be approached from the path through the park, so this is actually the rear of the building ..


Here we see the cavernous West Wing with its juxtaposed ‘natural life’ and ‘Spitfire’ exhibits forcing a recontextualisation of the human role in our eternally evolving world of extinct creatures and creations ..


One of the main attractions of the Gallery is Salvador Dali’s ‘Christ of St John of the Cross’ .. this imposing and exciting piece is placed at the end of a long corridor, drawing visitors toward it high above the main gallery ..


Here’s a pic from the Museum website that shows more detail ..


In this picture it is possible to see the damage unfortunately inflicted by an apparently less-than-impressed knife-wielding visitor in 1961 ..


Alongside such luminaries as Monet, Pissaro, Gauguin, Seurat, Cezanne, Matisse and Renoir is the ‘Portrait of Alexander Reid’ by Vincent Van Gogh .. which, in my occasionally less than humble opinion was the stand-out piece in the ‘French Impressionist’ collection (apparently it qualifies for having been painted while the artist was staying in France) .. Although I am not a great admirer of representational art, the swirling of colour around the left eye is remarkable – who else of the period would have thought to include short sharp brushstrokes of green, red, orange, lilac and blue to create an overall effect of natural light and shadow on the face of his London art dealer? .. apologies, as no photo can do the work justice ..


The ‘Expression’ area of the East Wing is home to the hanging heads of Sophie Cave – the designer who installed these fun, flamboyant and frightening pieces following refurbishment of the building in 2006 ..


One of the places I have been visiting regularly, due to possible future commitments, is Glasgow University .. I was fortunate enough to attend a conference and interview with French philosopher Alain Badiou ..
Here, one of the towers of the historic buildings rises high above Kelvingrove Park ..


I will be updating as regularly as I can while I take my sabbatical in Scotland .. I have been offered a temporary position in a lovely little town along the coast, and look forward to a summer of peaceful contemplation, designing a new art collection, writing for publication and research for my expected return to graduate studies .. The future may be uncertain, but from my current perspective it looks like it will be filled with adventure, cultural highs, exciting new places to visit and interesting people to meet ..

Old Knows Penultimate Exhibit

This weekend sees the penultimate event at Old Knows Studios in Nottingham .. I am honoured to have been part of this terrific collective of artists for even a short time ..

Stay tuned for information about the Cold War show being exhibited at Deda in Derby next year .. and about the final event showing at Old Knows, 'Closure' .. http://www.oldknows.co.uk

The Lady's Secret Garden

My Hogmanay trip to Scotland has been quite an interesting venture .. I am staying at my mother’s house, with this fabulous view of the highest town hall tower in the UK and a stunning view over the River Clyde ..

Additionally, I have been doing a bit of research on the family history and visiting the site of the castle I once lived in .. unfortunately it was torn down in the mid-eighties due to disrepair and squatters having moved in, only to be replaced by rather bland apartments .. However, as the entire area was once owned by a gentleman named Robert Wallace, the street still carries reminders of an era of the landed gentry of ancestry ..


I am fascinated by the local history, and the man who once ruled over these lands was a devoted husband who lost his wife too soon .. In life she refused to enter the magnificent castle he had built, instead preferring to live and receive guests in the smaller, but still grand manor house perched precariously on the edge of the cliff ..

Following her death her husband had a series of elevated landscaped gardens built between the house she refused to leave and her crypt high on the hillside above .. Although even then overgrown with brambles and briars, I had played in the woods behind the house when I was a child ..

Returning recently, I investigated the story behind the final resting place of this obviously important individual by first trying to re-locate the ancient tomb .. However I met with no success, and so visited the regional planning department for a discussion on the development of the area which is now becoming an overflow suburb for wealthy commuters ..

One of the town planners who himself lived in the seaside community assured me no such mausoleum existed on the plans and they had not seen it during the many preparatory excavations .. There had been several ‘holes in the wall’ although they had been filled in when the area was developed for residential zoning, so I was told .. I visited the local library to research the property deeds and after several dead ends and cul-de-sacs encountered an intriguing story of broken hearts, lost loves and secret gardens ..



Along with my young friends, we ‘discovered’ the tomb by crawling through a hole in the wall along a small dirt path that was built to shelter the area from curiosity-seekers and retain the boundaries of the hunting grounds. At that time we had no idea who was buried in the mossy grave, however it was a place which I often wondered about while I spent many years abroad ..


Once again, I returned to the windswept cliffs and this time found the old dirt track .. I made my way into the forest that remained untouched and searched for the elusive tomb .. Imagine my delight when I stepped into a shady clearing in the thick woods high above the stormy bay to be surprised by the sight of the extraordinary hidden tomb tucked away in this magical playground of my youth ..

Having kept itself hidden from observation by diggers, builders, surveyors and residents, the geometrically perfect crypt was revealed to me as though awaiting my return all these years later .. Interestingly, the smaller and less significant tomb he had made for himself alongside hers was designed in the shape of the central piece of the ‘Darwin meets Noah’ sculpture I originally created about 10 years later, which you can see on this page ..

After a survey of the archetypal form and its wondrous façade, a lingering gaze out to sea from the heights of the hilltop and a couple quick snaps of the tomb for posterity, I took my place in the nearby tree, with it’s curved seat shaped as a swing for those who would share a moment in contemplation with the lady of the manor ..

Although the elegantly walled structure has seen its share of vandalism and impropriety, the woman who gave her time in life to the locals is resting peacefully within to this day ..


And her memory lives on with me, while my own spirit still wanders among these magnificent wave-battered boulders .. the place where I skipped stones and climbed along the seafront .. as a young lad growing up in such magnificent surroundings I was gifted with a sense of the quest for history and adventure that has stayed with me ..

Up & Coming Website Now On-Line

After much anticipation and subdued fanfare, the Up & Coming website is on-line .. here you can browse the artists and musicians who were involved in the exhibition at Liverpool's Contemporary Urban Centre in July 2007 ..

Here's what they said about me ..

"Wallace’s interests include diamonds, nanotubes and interpreting the geometry of rainbows. Psychedelics and algebraic formula mingle contributing to an informed synergism within his art; a mosaic of possibilities, a pastiche of ancient symbols, a genetic tableau of function.

Utilising acrylic, fabrics, metal and foam, and traditional skills – drawing, sewing, welding and sculpting, Wallace attempts to evoke the past while acknowledging the present, to suggest the possibility of a future based on a shared knowledge of signs; sacred and profane."

I am listed in the U-Z section, and am very pleased to have been involved in this terrific show .. many thanks to Crawley and Ali and all those who arranged and took part in the exhibit at this fabulous new Novas Scarman gallery and community arts centre across from the Albert Dock in the Capital of Culture. Go on have a look ..

http://www.upandcoming.org/

Christmas Island at Big Blue

Island life came to Derby this past weekend with the bang of Christmas crackers .. it was a shame we lost our video artist for the evening, but hey, I did enjoy making the palm tree for the mini-set behind the performers ..


This wasn't only a poetry gig for me, which would have made the experience more enjoyable personally, rather it was something I had to do - something I had wanted to do in various forms for many years but never got around to - writing this piece as both personal undertaking and an attempt to create a composite image of the generation that witnessed these events ..

Since my dad passed away the Xmas on Christmas Island poem became more a response to my own feelings about him and a tribute perhaps, to my father and the other men and their families who were involved in the first British Hydrogen bomb tests of the late 50s, and so became more than a documentary video of an historic event .. but I still wanted to keep an element of lightness, of simplicity about it ..

Due to it's personal nature and my own emotional response, the piece was late in coming to fruition, including visits to various sites, leafing through old maps, trawling video and pictoral evidence of the events, as well as digging up memories on the sandy beaches of my youth - I have printed only a few excerpts here from the longer narrative .. but I hope I have managed to express some of the multiple facets of this complex and unresolved issue in this personal performance poetry piece ..

Naturally, a Big Thank You to all those who made an appearance .. both in front of the mic, and as part of the audience .. it was good to see a few new faces as well as the usual terrific audience of Derby poets and promenaders.