Five years I’ve lived here, and this is my first visit to the Mansfield Traquair Centre. The former Catholic Apostolic Church closed its doors to a dwindling congregation when the last priest died in 1958. After that, the building had other short-lived reinventions, but its decrepitude had begun. A slow decay of fading and peeling, … Continue reading Mrs. Traquair
Five people holding hands and dancing in a circle. Dance (La Danse) is a 1910 painting by Matisse. The bodies are painted red, they dance on a mound of green, the backdrop behind them (sky?) is blue, and they are naked. The colours are vibrant – two primary colours, one secondary – and the simple, primitive style … Continue reading Gotta Dance
I had a secret sleep on the sofa yesterday afternoon. It snuck up on me. One moment I was sitting upright, reading, next moment, my head was melting into my shoulders like wax down a lit candle. I was subsiding and I did not resist the slide. I leaned into it, lay myself and the … Continue reading Day Bed
By the entrance to Edinburgh’s Modern Art Gallery, you will find the first of a series of six Anthony Gormley cast iron sculptures; those well-known life-size male figures that stand straight as soldiers, arms by their side. The peculiar thing about this particular one, however, is that it is buried to its chest, just above … Continue reading What Does It All Mean?
Is there anything new under the sun? Is anything we write or paint or compose truly original, or is every creative act influenced (hopefully for the good) by what has gone before, so that what we produced has been re-learned, repeated, tweaked? Apparently whenever W.H. Auden read something in a book that he liked or … Continue reading Good Enough to Steal
I was indulging in my favourite pastime of the season, which is to moan about the short, dark days, when A. modified my melancholy. ‘The darkness gives you more time to be creative,’ she suggested, ‘for example, I’m feeling a jumper coming on.’ A. is a knitter. ‘New pattern or new wool?’ I asked. Maybe … Continue reading Homemade
I stood on the edge of a carpet of decaying roses in the middle of July of this year, which was, I think, around six weeks after they had been laid down. What amazed me was how long the flowers were lasting; that is to say, how they were still offering something to be enjoyed … Continue reading Decay
I went to see the Tuner Prize shortlist (the annual award for visual artists) in 2013, the year the exhibition was in Derry. At one of the installations I was given £1 for engaging in a conversation about what constitutes ‘progress’. The payment was part of the art. Really?! Although I claimed my pound, I remained sceptical. I … Continue reading Endless Art
Yesterday, I was the recipient of a cheeky wink. It was lobbed to me as I was disembarking the train at York in a distracted flurry, trying hard not to forget my trail of accoutrements that, over two and a half hours, I had liberally deposited above me (on the rack), beside me (on the … Continue reading Wink
Auden, Barrett-Browning, Cope, Dickinson, Eliot, Frost, Gallagher, Heaney, Ibsen, Jamie, Kinnell, Larkin, Mahon, Neruda, Owen, Plath, Qabbani, Rossetti, St Vincent Millay, Thomas, Updike, Vaughan, Wordsworth, Xenokleides, Yeats, Zephaniah. Who is your favourite? Feel free to reach beyond the 26 I’ve offered you; I was just playing the alphabet game, and, in doing so, left out … Continue reading Advent
My Edinburgh Press 