Bryan Islip's Blog, page 34
May 25, 2012
We are content.
As readers of this blog may remember, we do the lochside walk along from Kirkhill House on most mid-days and throughout the seasons therefore in all kinds of weather.
Clearing away and laundering duties following the departure of our B&B guests having been accomplished to the satisfaction of the lady of the house, we will take a flask of soup or coffee and a lunchbox of sandwiches for a makeshift picnic sitting on the shattered concrete ruins of a WW2 observation post / gun emplacement. Depending on the direction of the wind and condition of the weather we can always find some kind of shelter there.
Our walk is better than any medicine, whatever may ail us. The pressures of what may have happened in the world at large or the world of ourselves and our families - everything is wonderfully put into perspective. This brief exposure to wind and weather together with the exercise of physical and mental muscles and the chance to talk together should we feel like talking - we may return home cold and wet or warm and dry but we always return home feeling better about all things than when starting out an hour or so before.
The day before yesterday was very warm for the Highlands, some eighteen degrees in fact, and without appreciable breeze. There was an ethereal - almost surreal quality about the surrounding ampitheatre of mountains and the blue-mirrored stillness of Loch Ewe. Sheep and lambs lay panting in the field, a lizard scuttled away into the sheltering tangle, occasional small fish leapt into the air from the seawater margins. Our usual friend, the lady seagull finally made her way to us from (presumably) her nest over on the island a mile away. We looked out for the otter we have sometimes observed here, but no luck today. Today was perfect nevertheless.
Yesterday it was even warmer. Hot! And yesterday we saw otters, plural! We had decided to do the rocky mid-day walk we often did with our dogs, the walk we call 'The Caves' along the undercliff past the village of Laide, two or three miles north from here. Half way along we first spotted the two of them, always swimming in close proximity to each other and close enough to us to recognise mother and cub. We weren't sure at first whether they were hunting or playing but concluded we must be witnessing a session of otterly play-training. The pair of them were making their way south close in to the tide line, submerging with looped tails, re-surfacing often with a leap skywards, rolling and nuzzling each other. When they reached the point where we know the rocks, at that stage of the tide underwater, go out to sea in a kind of peninsula they too went out until we could see them no more. Half an hour later and a mile further along the undercliff, as we were sitting eating our sandwiches, 'Look! here they are again,' exclaimed Dee. And so they were, mother and cub unmistakably the ones we had seen earlier. We know the likely location of two or three holt sites along here. We watched them as they came out on to rocks still wet from the retreating tide, messed around, dived back in, progressing ever further south until out of sight.
Everything, they say, is relative. So what, if the boys and girls gambling on companies or currencies down in the Big City are 'making' money or losing it? So what if the Prime Minister is giving or receiving greater and greater insults to or from his political foes? So what if , somewhere in the dusty mountains of Afghanistan a terminally impoverished farmer is growing a crop for which rich people who should know better will pay the dealers enough to feed an entire Afghanistan region for a year?You know about such things and can do nothing to change them.
Right here and right now as the sea birds call and the slow tide laps, this is real, this is Wester-Ross, this is our life. We cannot change it and have no wish to change it. We are content.
Clearing away and laundering duties following the departure of our B&B guests having been accomplished to the satisfaction of the lady of the house, we will take a flask of soup or coffee and a lunchbox of sandwiches for a makeshift picnic sitting on the shattered concrete ruins of a WW2 observation post / gun emplacement. Depending on the direction of the wind and condition of the weather we can always find some kind of shelter there.
Our walk is better than any medicine, whatever may ail us. The pressures of what may have happened in the world at large or the world of ourselves and our families - everything is wonderfully put into perspective. This brief exposure to wind and weather together with the exercise of physical and mental muscles and the chance to talk together should we feel like talking - we may return home cold and wet or warm and dry but we always return home feeling better about all things than when starting out an hour or so before.
The day before yesterday was very warm for the Highlands, some eighteen degrees in fact, and without appreciable breeze. There was an ethereal - almost surreal quality about the surrounding ampitheatre of mountains and the blue-mirrored stillness of Loch Ewe. Sheep and lambs lay panting in the field, a lizard scuttled away into the sheltering tangle, occasional small fish leapt into the air from the seawater margins. Our usual friend, the lady seagull finally made her way to us from (presumably) her nest over on the island a mile away. We looked out for the otter we have sometimes observed here, but no luck today. Today was perfect nevertheless.
Yesterday it was even warmer. Hot! And yesterday we saw otters, plural! We had decided to do the rocky mid-day walk we often did with our dogs, the walk we call 'The Caves' along the undercliff past the village of Laide, two or three miles north from here. Half way along we first spotted the two of them, always swimming in close proximity to each other and close enough to us to recognise mother and cub. We weren't sure at first whether they were hunting or playing but concluded we must be witnessing a session of otterly play-training. The pair of them were making their way south close in to the tide line, submerging with looped tails, re-surfacing often with a leap skywards, rolling and nuzzling each other. When they reached the point where we know the rocks, at that stage of the tide underwater, go out to sea in a kind of peninsula they too went out until we could see them no more. Half an hour later and a mile further along the undercliff, as we were sitting eating our sandwiches, 'Look! here they are again,' exclaimed Dee. And so they were, mother and cub unmistakably the ones we had seen earlier. We know the likely location of two or three holt sites along here. We watched them as they came out on to rocks still wet from the retreating tide, messed around, dived back in, progressing ever further south until out of sight.
Everything, they say, is relative. So what, if the boys and girls gambling on companies or currencies down in the Big City are 'making' money or losing it? So what if the Prime Minister is giving or receiving greater and greater insults to or from his political foes? So what if , somewhere in the dusty mountains of Afghanistan a terminally impoverished farmer is growing a crop for which rich people who should know better will pay the dealers enough to feed an entire Afghanistan region for a year?You know about such things and can do nothing to change them.
Right here and right now as the sea birds call and the slow tide laps, this is real, this is Wester-Ross, this is our life. We cannot change it and have no wish to change it. We are content.
May 16, 2012
Life's a gamble
My father was a senior civil servant, also a
dedicated betting man. He owed greyhounds at the White City and we lived
in Newmarket - 'Headquarters' as the racing folk knew it. He would entertain
trainers and jockeys at home. I remember in particular one guy, one of the few
truly professional gamblers. It was said he was able to recognise any of the
2000 horses then in training on the early morning gallops without benefit of
saddle cloth. He was never without his trusty stop watch.
Father told me this fellow took a team up to Ayr in Scotland to
bet on one horse at certain odds, say 9/4. In the event they could only obtain
2/1, at best, so he brought everyone home without placing a bet or even watching
the race. The horse won. One time, when home from school I overheard this man
giving my dad a tip on a horse called Palestine so I got myself into the Silver
Ring and put all my savings on it. Of course it lost.
It was also said that on race days in Newmarket you
could get yourself a pint at lunchtime in the Rising Sun on the High Street and if you
listened carefully enough could overhear an insider tip (stable boys etc) on
almost every horse in a given race. 'Chicken one day, feathers the next' was the
saying.
Dad had a secret system supported by reams of
beautifully codified historical results etc. He would bet on the third favourite
in any non-handicap horse race with twelve or more runners. Dad didn't leave much behind, barring
memories. Good on him, I'm sure he is resting in peace.
dedicated betting man. He owed greyhounds at the White City and we lived
in Newmarket - 'Headquarters' as the racing folk knew it. He would entertain
trainers and jockeys at home. I remember in particular one guy, one of the few
truly professional gamblers. It was said he was able to recognise any of the
2000 horses then in training on the early morning gallops without benefit of
saddle cloth. He was never without his trusty stop watch.
Father told me this fellow took a team up to Ayr in Scotland to
bet on one horse at certain odds, say 9/4. In the event they could only obtain
2/1, at best, so he brought everyone home without placing a bet or even watching
the race. The horse won. One time, when home from school I overheard this man
giving my dad a tip on a horse called Palestine so I got myself into the Silver
Ring and put all my savings on it. Of course it lost.
It was also said that on race days in Newmarket you
could get yourself a pint at lunchtime in the Rising Sun on the High Street and if you
listened carefully enough could overhear an insider tip (stable boys etc) on
almost every horse in a given race. 'Chicken one day, feathers the next' was the
saying.
Dad had a secret system supported by reams of
beautifully codified historical results etc. He would bet on the third favourite
in any non-handicap horse race with twelve or more runners. Dad didn't leave much behind, barring
memories. Good on him, I'm sure he is resting in peace.
Getting in bed with Ulysses
When you read novels mainly last thing at night, as do I, you can tell (yourself) how good is the current book by your state of anticipation when ascending the stairs to go to bed.
My current read is causing me lots and lots of pleasing anticipation. I at first had trouble understanding the thing - as much trouble, indeed, as I had many years ago when I began and then aborted my first attempt at James Joyce's Ulysses. But the deeper I get into it the more marvellous it is.
I have often said that novels appeal to their readers on two levels: the story on the one hand and the way the story is actually written (the language and construction) on the other.
Now, as I am only half way through what is by any standards a weighty tome I cannot comment fully on the Ulysses story itself except to say that it seems of only marginal interest. However, Joyce's writing is of massive importance. As Mr Bloom makes his way around Dublin his stream of consciousness is presented to the reader in words and phrases of great and timeless beauty. Time after time I come across a passage that moves and amazes me to the point where I simply have to go back and re-read it, occasionally even out aloud.
A few years ago I read James' brother Stanislaus Joyce's biography, My Brother's Keeper. Here's an extract ... one I included as a lead-in to my volume of short stories, Twenty Bites.
‘My brother never cared a rap who
read him. I think he wrote to make things clear to himself. ‘Why publish,
then?’ it might be asked. Well, the expression of our ideas and impressions,
even when intended for ourselves, becomes clearer when addressed to others.’
Stanislaus Joyce
My Brother’s Keeper
Yes, sometimes the words mean more, much more than the story and can make things clearer for the reader as well as the writer. We all want to understand the great fundamental questions of our own and everything else's existence. Great fiction, written as perfectly as the very few like James Joyce can write it, gets us closer to the truths than any amount of non-fiction or scholarly opinion.
That's what I think anyway. Can't wait to get upstairs to bed - with James Joyce and Lionel Bloom.
My current read is causing me lots and lots of pleasing anticipation. I at first had trouble understanding the thing - as much trouble, indeed, as I had many years ago when I began and then aborted my first attempt at James Joyce's Ulysses. But the deeper I get into it the more marvellous it is.
I have often said that novels appeal to their readers on two levels: the story on the one hand and the way the story is actually written (the language and construction) on the other.
Now, as I am only half way through what is by any standards a weighty tome I cannot comment fully on the Ulysses story itself except to say that it seems of only marginal interest. However, Joyce's writing is of massive importance. As Mr Bloom makes his way around Dublin his stream of consciousness is presented to the reader in words and phrases of great and timeless beauty. Time after time I come across a passage that moves and amazes me to the point where I simply have to go back and re-read it, occasionally even out aloud.
A few years ago I read James' brother Stanislaus Joyce's biography, My Brother's Keeper. Here's an extract ... one I included as a lead-in to my volume of short stories, Twenty Bites.
‘My brother never cared a rap who
read him. I think he wrote to make things clear to himself. ‘Why publish,
then?’ it might be asked. Well, the expression of our ideas and impressions,
even when intended for ourselves, becomes clearer when addressed to others.’
Stanislaus Joyce
My Brother’s Keeper
Yes, sometimes the words mean more, much more than the story and can make things clearer for the reader as well as the writer. We all want to understand the great fundamental questions of our own and everything else's existence. Great fiction, written as perfectly as the very few like James Joyce can write it, gets us closer to the truths than any amount of non-fiction or scholarly opinion.
That's what I think anyway. Can't wait to get upstairs to bed - with James Joyce and Lionel Bloom.
May 14, 2012
Old photos, Ayr and Rabbie Burns
Not long ago we were sorting out one of our many boxes of old photos.'This won't take long', I said. Fatal mistake. For hour after hour we were immersed in 'that was when' memorabilia - both Delia's and my own. All our yesterdays ...
Of such absorbing interest were not only the people and places of the photos but the vintage cameras with which they were taken. This particular one featured yours truly in the summer of 1954 at the pitch and putt course in Ayr. My very first trip north of the border. I and my first wife had entrained there from York for a holiday. At the time I was still serving with the Royal Air Force - National Service gas turbine mechanic, SAC, seven one treble o three one: sir!
I would not have recognised that (over) confident looking young man had it not been for the suit, custom made by Alexanders in York as I recall. The dark glasses? Shades quite clearly of my idol, James Dean. How thin I was. My first boss referred to me when making his customary speech on the occasion of the company's annual dinner. 'Methinks he hath that lean and hungry look,' he said, quoting W.S.'s Julius Caesar. How right he was.
As usual in those days we had barely enough money to pay our (separate rooms!) boarding house in Ayr and our food and drink. Fortunately it was very warm for we ran out of cash and spent the last night huddled up in the sand dunes down on the beach. Very uncomfortable and, by the standards of today very innocent! Lack of funds never seemed to be all that important and certainly did not mar our holiday.
One event I do recall being able to afford, however, was our visit to Burns' cottage in Alloway. As I said in my yesterday blog, tracks that cross and criss-cross ...
You may notice in the photograph what appears to be the background ghost of a gasometer! No idea how this happened or indeed where was the gasometer in question. Almost certainly York. Anyway, a double exposure I suppose.
May 13, 2012
Tracks and lives
I see our lives as mousetracks through the long grasses on a great plain. Weaving hither and thither, crossing and re-crossing, always of course with a start point on another's track and always with an ending, most often with other tracks starting out from our own along the way.
Yesterday we were glad to welcome new arrivals to our Kirkhill B&B. They'd not previously been to this area, in fact we'd never met before.In the evening I was able to obtain seats for them in Aultbea Village Hall. There we listened to talks on Russian Convoy matters; specifically the 'export' of a complete R.A.F. wing of Hurricanes fighter planes when Stalin came in on our side in 1941 and secondly the famous Enigma code-breaking machine at Bletchley Park. Our lady guest was especially interested. Her father, recently passed away, had served in the war on convoy duties and in fact had brought with her his wartime autobiography. This morning Dee and I were both very interested to read it. When Dee finished she looked up, wide-eyed. 'This is amazing,' she said. Why? Well, this is the note she wrote. She's left it for our guests when they come down for their breakfasts ....
"I do believe that our fathers were serving on HMS Duke of York at the same time. I
was born December 1944 and I was presented with a Teddy Bear on which was
stitched a small piece of material with the words ‘ To Delia Mary from the
Officers and Men of HMS Duke of York’ Reading through your Dad’s story I am
sure they were both on the ship at the same time. At that time my Dad was
Gunnery Officer.
However your Dad was born in 1925 whereas mine was born in
1908. He joined the Royal Navy as a 14 year old boy."
As I say, tracks .... crossing, criss-crossing ...
May 12, 2012
It's an ENIGMA
A few days ago I posted a blog entitled 'Echoes of War' - which is also the title of my painting and poem about the convoys of ships setting off from here in Loch Ewe for Archangerl and Murmansk in World War Two.
Last evening we were present in a packed Aultbea village hall for a couple of talks. The first was delivered - and right ably - by an eminent ex-RAF officer, latterly diplomat based in Moscow. His subject was the little known export of an entire wing of Hurricane fighter planes c/w pilots and ground crews to Murmansk in 1941. The other talk was given by an eminent historian, his subject being Bletchley Park and the fabulous ENIGMA coding / de-coding machine.
In between these two gentlemen I had been invited to recite my own 'Echoes of War' plus the verse of a couple of anonymous sailor / poets, participants both on those incredibly fraught Arctic convoys. The invitation was truly an honour which I was very glad to accept.
In thinking about what I could say in my preamble I asked myself why it might be that wartime so often produces such a wealth of poetry, some of it being amongst the finest ever composed and lots of it the heartfelt words of folk I suppose like myself who would never have described themselves in ordinary times as poets.
I wondered about the connection .. Going back a question; what is poetry; what is war? We saw the cheefulness of troops marching off to probable death, pilots fresh out from England stumbling around playing games in Arctic snowfields. I myself remember as a young boy those days of rationing, death and destruction. They seemed so, well, so fundamentally happy.
Poetry, I concluded, must be heavily distilled human emotion in words. War, I thought, is heavily distilled human emotion in action. The connection therefore is emotion, emotion released. But not by any means negative emotion. It really is an enigma, isn't it?
Last evening we were present in a packed Aultbea village hall for a couple of talks. The first was delivered - and right ably - by an eminent ex-RAF officer, latterly diplomat based in Moscow. His subject was the little known export of an entire wing of Hurricane fighter planes c/w pilots and ground crews to Murmansk in 1941. The other talk was given by an eminent historian, his subject being Bletchley Park and the fabulous ENIGMA coding / de-coding machine.
In between these two gentlemen I had been invited to recite my own 'Echoes of War' plus the verse of a couple of anonymous sailor / poets, participants both on those incredibly fraught Arctic convoys. The invitation was truly an honour which I was very glad to accept.
In thinking about what I could say in my preamble I asked myself why it might be that wartime so often produces such a wealth of poetry, some of it being amongst the finest ever composed and lots of it the heartfelt words of folk I suppose like myself who would never have described themselves in ordinary times as poets.
I wondered about the connection .. Going back a question; what is poetry; what is war? We saw the cheefulness of troops marching off to probable death, pilots fresh out from England stumbling around playing games in Arctic snowfields. I myself remember as a young boy those days of rationing, death and destruction. They seemed so, well, so fundamentally happy.
Poetry, I concluded, must be heavily distilled human emotion in words. War, I thought, is heavily distilled human emotion in action. The connection therefore is emotion, emotion released. But not by any means negative emotion. It really is an enigma, isn't it?
May 11, 2012
Going with fiction
No long ago I contacted Population Matters (aka The Population Trust) with a suggestion that they might like to review my novel 'Going with Gabriel'. I wondered why the books reviewed in their magazine all seemed to be non-fiction - learned tomes rehashing the same facts and figures, mostly coming to the same conclusions. Death and destruction unless ... but unless what, exactly?
Of course the number of humans being born, living longer, demanding more etc is a very sensitive subject. But if those who care about this world and the place in it for humanity (I consider myself one of those who does care) merely issue warnings but avoid presenting their ideas of real solutions, however difficult, it's all so much hot air.
My argument was and is that fiction has often in the past produced more righting of wrongs than all the dire warnings put together. Think of Charles Dickens' effect on London life, think of John Steinberg's effect on immigrant maltreatment in the south west of America. Think of Neville Shute's 'On The Beach' in regards to nuclear warfare. I won't get into the effect of William Shakespeare's fiction on the way we all live today, the way we all think and speak, for as dear and near to my heart as it is, this is a massively complex subject. Above all perhaps, think of the Holy Bible with its crossover fiction/nonfiction and its so powerful parables - pure storytelling.
Jonathan Gottchall in The Boston Globe (April 29 2012) writes a quite brilliant article headed; "Why fiction is good for you". With alogolgies to him for I have not sought his permission, I will quote perhaps two percent of it ...
"The research shows that fiction does mould us. The more deeply we are cast under a story's spell , the more potent its influence. In fact fiction seems to be more effective at changing beliefs than non-fiction, which is designed to persuade through argument and evidence. Studies show that when we read non-fiction, we read with our shields up. We are critical and sceptical. But when we are absorbed in a story we drop our intellectual guard. We are moved emotionally and this seems to make us rubbery and easy to shape.
But perhaps the most impressive finding is just how fiction shapes us: mainly for the better, not for the worse. Fiction enhances our ability to understand other people; it promotes a deep morality that cuts across religious and political beliefs. More peculiarly, fiction's happy endings seem to warp our sense of reality. They make us believe in a lie: that the world is more just than it actually is. But believing that lie has important effects for society - and it may even help explain why humans tell stories in the first place."
Going with Gabriel tells a story; a powerful one and written as well as I can write. There are several interlocking themes but the prime one is that of population growth / consumer expectation. My novel however does not simply present the problem in what I fervently believe is a sympathetic, acceptable, easily digestible way. Perhaps it provides an answer.
Of course the number of humans being born, living longer, demanding more etc is a very sensitive subject. But if those who care about this world and the place in it for humanity (I consider myself one of those who does care) merely issue warnings but avoid presenting their ideas of real solutions, however difficult, it's all so much hot air.
My argument was and is that fiction has often in the past produced more righting of wrongs than all the dire warnings put together. Think of Charles Dickens' effect on London life, think of John Steinberg's effect on immigrant maltreatment in the south west of America. Think of Neville Shute's 'On The Beach' in regards to nuclear warfare. I won't get into the effect of William Shakespeare's fiction on the way we all live today, the way we all think and speak, for as dear and near to my heart as it is, this is a massively complex subject. Above all perhaps, think of the Holy Bible with its crossover fiction/nonfiction and its so powerful parables - pure storytelling.
Jonathan Gottchall in The Boston Globe (April 29 2012) writes a quite brilliant article headed; "Why fiction is good for you". With alogolgies to him for I have not sought his permission, I will quote perhaps two percent of it ...
"The research shows that fiction does mould us. The more deeply we are cast under a story's spell , the more potent its influence. In fact fiction seems to be more effective at changing beliefs than non-fiction, which is designed to persuade through argument and evidence. Studies show that when we read non-fiction, we read with our shields up. We are critical and sceptical. But when we are absorbed in a story we drop our intellectual guard. We are moved emotionally and this seems to make us rubbery and easy to shape.
But perhaps the most impressive finding is just how fiction shapes us: mainly for the better, not for the worse. Fiction enhances our ability to understand other people; it promotes a deep morality that cuts across religious and political beliefs. More peculiarly, fiction's happy endings seem to warp our sense of reality. They make us believe in a lie: that the world is more just than it actually is. But believing that lie has important effects for society - and it may even help explain why humans tell stories in the first place."
Going with Gabriel tells a story; a powerful one and written as well as I can write. There are several interlocking themes but the prime one is that of population growth / consumer expectation. My novel however does not simply present the problem in what I fervently believe is a sympathetic, acceptable, easily digestible way. Perhaps it provides an answer.
May 8, 2012
A letter to my sister
My lovely sister Maureen wrote to me, saying amongst other stuff that two of her sons had been made redundant of late. I don't think she'll mind my sharing my response with you ...
"Yes indeed, M, life does continue
'interesting'!
Although our B&B and our P&P micro
businesses continue to do OK, even up here there is much talk of recession as
visitor numbers fall and for many the stuff of ordinary life becomes less
affordable.
It pleasures me not that I have been forecasting
this for fifteen years. For me the old Mr Micawber adage was always
incontestible. (Earn one pound, spend one penny less ... happiness ... one penny
more, result misery', etc) The only thing in a capitalist society built for sure
out of borrowings is the usurer's (banker's) fortune.
I actually wrote a blog in March (I think) 2008
about the 'recession' being not a 'recession' or even a 'depression' but more of
a 'positive realignment' - negative growth being signs that the good medicine is
working. I'm afraid that the sins of the West have to be expunged from western
society by this negative growth and that negative growth hurts many people whose
lives have been built in all innocence upon the expectation that things will
always keep going and growing. Which of course we all know is the exact opposite
of the first law of nature!. (What goes up must come down.) The alternative to
this negative growth is the final breakdown of our capitalist society with all
the chaos, anarchy and real pain not to say extinction that this would cause.
There's a huge difference between coming down and collapsing.
The people in power know this very very well But
where is the politician who has the balls to tell the painful truth and to
legislate against our feral consumption? Our Westminster system - which by the
way is quite the opposite of a democracy as the Greeks invented it -
unfortunately makes such a visionary leader (the only leaders whole populations
will ever really follow) into an impossibility.
Back to reality ... glad you could read my latest
chapters of The Book. Am writing chaper seven / eight right now ... and it is
Hogmanay in Aberloch!
"Yes indeed, M, life does continue
'interesting'!
Although our B&B and our P&P micro
businesses continue to do OK, even up here there is much talk of recession as
visitor numbers fall and for many the stuff of ordinary life becomes less
affordable.
It pleasures me not that I have been forecasting
this for fifteen years. For me the old Mr Micawber adage was always
incontestible. (Earn one pound, spend one penny less ... happiness ... one penny
more, result misery', etc) The only thing in a capitalist society built for sure
out of borrowings is the usurer's (banker's) fortune.
I actually wrote a blog in March (I think) 2008
about the 'recession' being not a 'recession' or even a 'depression' but more of
a 'positive realignment' - negative growth being signs that the good medicine is
working. I'm afraid that the sins of the West have to be expunged from western
society by this negative growth and that negative growth hurts many people whose
lives have been built in all innocence upon the expectation that things will
always keep going and growing. Which of course we all know is the exact opposite
of the first law of nature!. (What goes up must come down.) The alternative to
this negative growth is the final breakdown of our capitalist society with all
the chaos, anarchy and real pain not to say extinction that this would cause.
There's a huge difference between coming down and collapsing.
The people in power know this very very well But
where is the politician who has the balls to tell the painful truth and to
legislate against our feral consumption? Our Westminster system - which by the
way is quite the opposite of a democracy as the Greeks invented it -
unfortunately makes such a visionary leader (the only leaders whole populations
will ever really follow) into an impossibility.
Back to reality ... glad you could read my latest
chapters of The Book. Am writing chaper seven / eight right now ... and it is
Hogmanay in Aberloch!
May 5, 2012
Echoes of War
"Echoes of War - Loch Ewe"
I painted this picture in 2004: pastels on granulated cork board. I forget who bought the original, somebody local I think, but the subject proved too much for my usual tourist cards and prints clients. So we soon stopped reproducing it.
This was before the upsurge on memorial interest, before the erection of the monument now standing pretty well where I stood to sketch this picture.
But next week, 7-12 May, is locally a special week of events highlighting 'WW11 and the Arctic Convoys' - fundraising for the Russian Arctic Convoy Museum Project. Lots of exciting and interesting events associated with those darkest of days from 21st August 1941 when the first of the convoys set sail from here, bound for Archangel. This whole area was garrisoned off by the military so most of the memorabilia has perforce to be narrative or through rare, sub-legal photography. The organisers have done a truly remarkable job, as this coming week will amply demonstrate.
Anyway I've dig out my small, unrequested contribution. Pictures and Poems I call my micro business. This is the poem to go with the picture ...
Echoes of
War
Where Loch
Ewe opens up to Mother
Sea,
at Cove,
still stand these crumbling testaments
to world
war two, to all those brave-heart men
who faced the
elements and the enemy
In groups
of fragile ships they left these shores,
last sight,
this wounded rock of Wester Ross;
to leave behind
the crying of the gulls as they
sailed
north to Russia
and the Arctic wars
Although this place of peace now holds scant trace
of what had come to pass those years before
and rust away as may the swords
we shall recall the poet’s words:
We shall
remember them
long after all the blood and all the bedlam;
long after time has healed the wounds
of heart and rock, and all war's echoes fade away.
Bryan Islip
January 2004
May 4, 2012
Eating, drinking, loving, painting
Here's a picture in oils I painted a few years ago for a local cafe. Canvas size 30 x 40 cms. It hangs on my office wall now - unsold at £550. I look at it often, and at its companion picture ('White wine - have an apple') and at a third picture, ('A glass of port at tThe Blueprint Cafe'), and the fourth of this series ('Touching hands, drinking coffee').
Something about eating and loving? Probably. Very difficult to sit opposite one of the opposite gender being well served good provender without being filled with tender thoughts and warm feelings as well as with the satisfying taste of food and wine. And oh, that electric touch of the fingers, the knee, the foot! Accidental of course, or on purpose as the case may be.
There is something about wet oil paint: the feel of it on the brush; the way it sits on the canvas retaining its shape and texture, its brilliant shine; just the sheer look of it when squeezed from the tube on the palette and when mixed there to colour match your vision.
The use of oil-bound paint to create your very own version (some might say imitation) of things created by Man or greater things by God. Thinking about it I can almost taste it.
However for 'painting' Scottish Highlands landscapes I almost always employ pastels. Totally different experience. Pure pigment rubbed off the stick on to ultrafinegranukated cork paperboard, colour mixed on the sheet by finger tips. Simply luscious! See this ... one of my favourite favourites in pastel ... whoops! Actually this is not a Highlands landscape, it's called 'Dawn Waters' and thereby hangs a serious tale, not for nere, now. However I hope you get the picture!
