Public figures across the world have been setting dangerous precedents. Obama and Lindsay Roy proved anything is possible. George Dubya and Gordon Brown did the unthinkable and nationalised banks. Peter Burt and George Matthewson threw their banking reputations on the line to stop the merger of Lloyds TSB and HBOS.
After a period of inertia in some high places, there’s been rethink and radical action aplenty. All of which leaves the classic excuses for inactivity -- “ae been” and “o’er hard” -- looking gey thin.
To be fair to the National Galleries of Scotland, neither reason is offered for displaying their striking Scottish material in a cramped, dinghy basement whilst the main, bright, entrance level floor is stocked with nice but unmemorable Dutch, German and Italian paintings.
Apparently, it’s not that there’s nae will to get our art and our history out of the cellar, it’s just there’s nae cash. Sadly this excuse for inaction will grow arms and legs as the credit crunch tightens – at exactly the time we need better information about the historic state of Scotland.
Why is the current debate about the shabby state of Princes St not informed by the sight of its fabulous vista two centuries ago when the RSA was being constructed? Might the renovation of the Grassmarket not benefit from a glimpse of its early representation in the painting of the Porteus Riot? While critics debate film portrayals of Mary Queen of Scots, might her fabulous Return to Edinburgh after Darnley’s murder not deserve pole position upstairs?
Folk from East and West Kilbride might welcome easy access to their namesake, John Duncan’s Bride – a seminal portrait of the figure known as the midwife of Christ. Currently, it’s barely visible in a gloomy corridor beside Phoebe Traquair’s murals -- hung on a grey felt wallcovering more scuffed and covered in felt balls than an old School noticeboard. Stand back to take in the dimensions of the artist’s intent and you walk into another large painting – equally unviewable on the facing corridor wall. The skating Minister made famous by Holyrood’s first Christmas Card is thrown away on a tight corner and though there’s space to view Hornel’s picture of white-capped girls playing on a flower-decked forest floor, the escapist mood is destroyed by the line of fluorescent lights pile-driving through the image in reflection.Click here to read more.
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