THE LADE LIBRARY.

The Lade Library.

I was born in Stirling in 1956 & spent much of my life on my Grandparents' farmhouse, on the field of Bannockburn at Millhall. My Mother's Father was Pit foreman at Polmaise 1 & 2, a coalmine just opposite the house & though it stopped production in the early sixties, I spent many happy years exploring & rummaging among the abandoned buildings, winding gear, railway cuttings, rapidly re-foliating spoil heaps & defunct office blocks full of old files & leatherbound ledgers. A lade ran past the house, supplying the pit with water from the Bannock, while nearby the Pelstream Burn powered a grain mill which dated back some 500 years.

The house itself, being of a considerable age, was full of treasures also; a stone-floored dairy stocked—mysteriously—with a collection of hand-wrought lead crystal shepherd's crooks & a rusted 1314 caltrop unearthed from the garden, two pianos, a hand-operated "washing machine" & wringer, & best of all, a library of sorts in one of the attic rooms. Behind the glass doors of an old wooden bookcase were kept an intriguing array of dusty volumes. Here could be found an almost complete set of "The Harmsworth Self-Educators", "Lost Horizon", ghost stories by M.R. James, "First Stage Heat Engines" & "Mining Regulations-1948", "The Home Doctor", "101 things for a Boy to Make & Do", a four volume set on the life & works of Rabbie Burns. Bibles & Dictionaries with missing covers & ruined spines held together with brittle, yellowed & cracking sellotape. An early "Penguin" edition of "Roget's Thesaurus". "I, Jan Cremer" & John Fowles' "The Magus". Henry Miller's "Sexus", "Nexus" & "Plexus". "Paradise Lost" & numerous bound scores, libretti & piano transcriptions of various operettas & musicals including "My Lucky Valentine", "Brigadoon" & "The White Horse Inn". Bram Stoker's "Dracula"...

Occasionally, on my Saturday walk across the fields to Stirling, I would augment this collection with my own purchases. Sci-Fi mainly but also tiny 2/6d volumes from Methuen's "Little Library of Art", or, "How to paint Clouds in Watercolour", & once, a hardback life of Van Gogh, illustrated with colour plates.

In the 80's when I spent an increasing amount of time there—drawing inspiration from the house & area in my art—I started to incorporate these books in paintings & drawings. The nearby spoil-heap, or "Bing" had always loomed large in my consciousness, whether as a sulphurous adventure playground or as a spontaneously combusting beacon at night, & my initial efforts with these old books seemed to echo it's volcanic, lofty peak. Later I would develop them into arches, columns & leaning towers.

When we left the house for good in '89, for years I would find myself recreating the circumstances of these "Books" paintings. While I kept the bookcase & many of it's contents, I would find myself trawling junk shops from Partick to Doune, being ludicrously overcharged for particularly decrepit old volumes, with which I could transport myself back to this Attic.

Even now I sometimes find myself returning to that most arcane of websites, "Scottish Mining" & immersing myself in events recorded therein, of deaths & injuries, so many fathoms below ground, over the pit's 60-odd functioning years. When walking the now tree-lined route of the Old Polmaise junction, I like to imagine the endless miles of tunnels still there, deep below my feet, forever denied the Moon's beams-- unlit by oil- lamps, sealed off from the Sun & air-gapped by time.

Now, Millhall "Bing" itself-much reduced for landfill- is the opposite of what it once was, being more sylvan crater than infernal peak & what's left of the pit buildings have long been incorporated into a livestock market.

Recently two of my adventurous sisters have been exploring it's interior & perhaps taking their cue from a Long or a Goldsworthy have been constructing a cairn of igneous rocks somewhere in it's centre, tucked away amidst the ash & birch. "Dumyat", a hill visible to the North in the Ochils has a Measurement Point atop it built long ago by our surveyor uncle for the coal board & I like to think of this "reverse cairn" of theirs as it's counterpoint, an Anti-Trigonometric point.

One day, on one of my walks among lades, glades & disused railways, I might even stumble across it.

from "OUTSIDER", by James McDonald 2013.

SELF PORTRAIT.



Oil on Canvas, James McDonald, 2013

 

 
Self Portrait.

The alcoholic ex-jailbird, "Seagrave "Softly" Simpson", in the George Cole/Peter Bowles 80's sitcom, "The Bounder", was a skilled portraitist. Unfortunately-his speciality being counterfeit banknotes-all his subjects ended up looking like The Duke of Wellington.

Over the years I have painted portraits intermittently. Some have been commissioned, though most have been purely for my own satisfaction. Auberon Waugh, puffing away on a B&H while tapping away on his typewriter in his Soho Club thought I'd made him look grumpy & like Winston Churchill, while a cheerier Marti Pellow opined: "Whit the .......!!? Ye've made me just like Rabbie Burns!"

Painting 5 or 6 portraits of my Mother over the last few years, the thought occurred to me how rarely we actually look at other peoples' faces, their eyes especially. The eyes are the windows to the soul, but except in the process of portraiture or in the act of lovemaking I can't think of many other occasions when we gaze into them with such intensity.

I've always enjoyed looking at myself in a mirror, though obviously less so in recent years. As you age, the weight of accumulated experience can manifestly change the geography of your face. In a self-portrait such analysis is unavoidable & you can read it's whole sorry history: Eyes remarkably clear & blue-all things considered-if slightly blephiritic. Laughter Lines no laughing matter. A couple of interesting old craters on the tip of my nose-and what's this at it's bridge? A red echo marks the spot where a friendly Glasgow Cabbie's forehead connected with my nose. Mmm, more than a hint of those longitudinal lines that only old folks get, edging upwards along the length of my upper lip (which is itself looking uncharacteristically thin & cruel). I am definitely not keen at all on those downward lines each side of my mouth, which give me a look akin to "Hugo", Michael Redgraves' creepy ventriliquist's dummy in, "Dead of Night". Maybe I should practice smiling more.

My cheekbones are becoming quite prominent, possibly due to tectonic movements below, after years of dental work. There are still tufts of hair atop each that my razor often misses. It's strange, I still subconsciously cleave to some advice my dad gave me on shaving, Circa 1971—" Never shave that high on your face as it only encourages growth". Hair's a funny thing; the more it vanishes from areas you want it to be—such as your head—the more it flourishes elsewhere. Latterly, I've started shaving my ears, & it is a constant struggle to stop my eyebrows joining forces.

I have a gold ring in one ear, handy if I am lost at sea one day & have to pay The Ferryman at some point afterwards. These were all the rage in 1974 & I well remember queuing with a friend outside a gypsy tent near Falkirk to get our ears done. Only I got a piercing, as--on hearing my screams from inside—he did a runner.

My hair is receding, if not vanishing completely around the crown, but I rarely have to see this. Making a last stab at Bohemia & favouring the Servian war crimes suspect look, I've let the remainder grow in the last few years & weighed it down with generous dollops of cheap hair gel. The look of Benign Maseteric Hypertrophy has long vanished from my jaw-line, though it's still awkward to shave the very tip of my chin from the 3 stitches acquired during a Saturday night at Sauchiehall Street's Centre for Contemporary Arts. But shave I must. Where did all that white stubble come from...? I could go on -& on- but, well....you get the picture.

 

 

from, "OUTSIDER", by James McDonald 2013.

SHUTTER PAINTINGS OF THE GALLOWGATE.

Painted shopfront shutters of Glasgow's Gallowgate.

Over the past year or so,painted decorations have started to appear & proliferate on the steel security shutters which--with good reason--practically all the shops & businesses in this area utilize.
Painted,I would imagine,by no more than two or three artists,they vary in style & quality & they all contribute a certain gay cheer to an otherwise drab necessity.Most of them allude,in one way or another--like the one above--to the goods or services available within.
Here is a small selection.

This one,portraying two cheery--but strangely intimidating--celtic types was the first to appear,or at least the first I became aware of.

This mysterious & alluring nude adorns the portal to the Tarot Readers.

Next door,"The Barras Boutique" is decorated with a yellow submarine & jewel motifs.

Linoland features spray-painted depictions of the goods to be found within;vinyls,carpets & linoleums mainly.

A detail of the Linoland shutters.
Linoland as a verdant outcrop upon a jagged sea.

The Clydesdale Bank was the last bank to have an outpost in this area before one hold up too many sent them high-tailing it back to the reality beyond the railway bridge.It's premises are now home to The Potters House Church.
At weekends it's congregants assemble on the street & with guitars,kazoo & tambourines hold revivalist-style services,enjoining passers by & shoppers to join in & praise The Lord.

The faithful used to be greeted with some derision & laughter from the drinkers across the road in Bairds Bar,until--after one stabbing too many--it too was forced to call "last orders" for the last time.The wooden-panelled exterior of this popular watering hole is decorated with depictions of local "Barras" Traders & Characters.

Not a shutter,but a colourful "Modern Art" fresco in the Barras.

A Barras shutter displaying a rich patina of time & tide

The Spartan,minimalist shutter of "Barras Art and Design" Cafe.Reminiscent,I feel,of an early Frank Stella.

 A sparkling diamond pattern.

Sometimes a change of use in shop premises can result in odd juxtapositions.

As here,where the inscrutable,sphinx-like features of King Tutankhamen--which once graced one of the many gold traders stores--stare out from the Barbers across into "Tracey's Snacks",possibly yearning for a delicious roll on scrambled eggs.

The vibrant,Fauvist semi-abstractions of "Kidz Count" child day-care centre.

Young Lovers enjoy a cup of tea in the cosmopolitan ambience of "The Rumbling Tum" Cafe.
I can personally recommend their pie & beans.

Or,indeed,their hot coffee & muffins as represented here in this giant still life.

Again,not strictly a shutter painting.
But what a weird thing.What does it mean?Baffling & crazilly reminiscent of a Joan Eardley street wean,or one of John Byrne's wonderfully spiky pen & ink self portraits.

ACCIDENTAL ABSTRACTS.

I probably have the same relationship with abstract painting as the late John Entwistle had with Heavy Metal.The party-loving Who bassist once said that he loved playing brain-damaging Heavy Metal music on the side but, in the main, couldn't bear to listen to it.
Similarly I've often been jealous of Artists who have successfully managed to carve out a career throwing around great dollops of lumpen oil paint hither & thither with palette knife,trowel,brush or fingers.It must be so satisfying being a Willem de Kooning,a Jan Cremer or--dispensing with painting implements altogether & dribbling the Dulux directly from the pot----a Jackson Pollock.Why,I once knew a girl who sustained an entire ex-hospital wing studio complex from the proceeds of writhing around naked on giant canvases while covered in gloss paints!
I've often been jealous of this.The directness,the primal vivacity,the sheer demented joy of abusing a canvas with pigment,brush & blade until it begs for mercy--until it lies beaten & broken in a corner,a riot of self-indulgent rage signifying absolutely nothing,begging,"Enough,James,no more,enough!"Alas,it's probably an overcrowded market,& getting folks to shell out for one's precision-engineered daubs can be difficult enough at times without suddenly changing direction mid-career.
I did try it seriously,once.Over a period of a few years I amassed a small collection of abstractions.They started off as little more than glorified wooden pallete offcuts which I elaborated periodically with surplus oil paint,linseed oil & Spectragel medium.Eventually I made other additions as the mood took me;panel pins,screws,wee copper hinges,woodcut blocks & so on.I became more adventurous & started to introduce  other elements into my modestly proportioned & increasingly oleaginous creations;hair,fingernail clippings...teeth that my tooth-fairy had rejected.....
Increasingly,I started to believe that these were among my finest works.For hours on end I would look at them,examining them......diagnosing them.Eventually,like staring into a fire,I started to see  pictures in them.
Enjoying a cigarette & a large pink gin,I would caress their encrusted accretions of oil & alkyd for ages & like a Jazz Musician think up the most ornate & meaningless titles for them.It was most satisfying.
My only real mistake was in exhibiting them.
Hung separately & away from my "real work" & very modestly priced--a carton of "Gold Leaf" tobacco each--I well remember my dear Mother rushing her friend Lily away from them with the words,"No,no,those are someone else's--Jim's paintings are over here!"
The things I am illustrating here are of naturally occurring abstracts from in & around my studio & have come into being over many years.Since watching a late-night Open University programme on Combinatronics in the 80's I have been aware of & interested in patterns formed through repeated habits,actions & movements & these objects show such an effect.
For instance,above is illustrated my main studio work surface.Left behind by the Studio's previous occupant--the renowned Artist,Lesley Banks-- it is of solid wood beams & is 42"x30".Random patterns & incisions have formed over the last 20-odd years.In it's surface are the jumbled echoes & fading traces of of numberless paintings.There are visible signs yet, of oil & acrylic,ink,sweat,gold & silver leaf.Strawberry jam & Gesso,PVA & Pencil.

This smaller work surface is of chipboard & has been in use by me since around 1987.It originally formed part of a custom built plinth for an exhibition of George Wylie Sculptures in the old Glasgow Print Studio Gallery in Ingram Street.Bearing it's original grey finish on the reverse,this side shows the accumulated effects of being used as a surface for cutting,drawing,etching & above all,painting over all these many years.
I feel in this,it's current incarnation,it has the look of a Malevich about it.

Spirited out of Larbert's Commercial Hotel & into the back of a waiting Mini,this table(top) has served me well in the 30 years I have owned it.
Strangely,although beat-up old second hand work tables are ten a penny,finding one of the perfect height--such as this iron-legged one--isn't so easy.I have to be able to cross my legs,comfortably,& this table has always accompanied me,whether on my Summer Sojourns at my Bonnybridge Studio by the Canal,in my Cumbernauld eyrie or in my spare bedroom in Camelon's old Co-Op
There are less signs of obvious activity on it's surface due to their normally being one of the previous two boards on top of it.

The top of a small wooden stool which I picked up at The Barras who knows when.
This object serves mainly as something to put my feet up on when I am reclining in the orange PVC vintage 60's "Barbarella" lounger that I acquired from Peter Howson's Studio at the start of the nineties.
With a relaxing cup of "Punjani" tea there is no better way to contemplate/admire my own Paintings!

A truly sublime piece.
Not mine,I hasten to add,but borrowed from my picture framer upstairs,the inestimable Douglas Bennie.
Weighing a ton,this relatively small wooden board shows the effects of having been used as a work surface for year after year,performing exactly the same function: here,applying white gesso to wooden picture mouldings.
The accumulated layers have built up unthinkingly,again & again to form this Ben Nicholson-like pebble-dash construction.For some strange reason it puts me in mind of the sort of Art that Fred Flintstone or his neighbour Barney Rubble might hang in their prehistoric houses.Here,on the front, it is in white...

....and here--on the reverse of the panel--it is in Black.
Look closely into the gessoed low-relief peaks & valleys of each & it is just possible to discern the ghosts of innumerable picture frames.

 Illustrated above is one of my many makeshift wooden oil palettes.As you can see,I tend not to spend a fortune on these,each one being generally offcuts of MDF or hardboard found kicking about the studio.For acrylics I tend to use metal baking trays from the numerous £ shops nearby.
It's a funny thing,but my actual "colour palette"--the tubes of paint that I employ--tends to be very limited.This habit springs from a list I was given before starting Art College specifying which tubes of gouache I was required to own for the course--red,spectrum yellow,prussian blue & white.Primary colours,the very bare bones of mixing all other colours.To this day I have hardly deviated from this basic selection.

A small abstract painting from my brief foray into the genre,"Bracelet of Teeth",2010-11.

Finally,& perhaps inevitably,a piece of driftwood.
Washed up near Hopetoun House on the shores of the Forth,I think this might  once  have been a plasterer's "palette".
As is often the case with such Objets Trouve this is an attractive thing as it stands--worn away by time & tide--but I have to confess that I am pondering making painted additions of my own.For some reason I can envision a  series of small oil portraits over this surface--possibly Great Britons through the ages,from Boudicea & King Arthur to Lord Curzon & Baroness Thatcher.

SELLERS OF WOOD.

Woodcraft Industries,The Gallowgate.
This is what all shops used to be like.Situated at the Barras,on London Road,"Woodcraft" under the ownership of "Big Jim" provides an invaluable service to the area & for visitors an unforgettable shopping experience.If you are looking for DIY materials & tools,laser-cut/handcrafted fireside surrounds,made to order artists stretchers or whether you just desire wood--this is the place to come.
From the outside the shop appears small,but on entering you realise just how tiny it is-- every square inch is taken up --floor to ceiling-- with all the joinery materials,tools & accoutrements you could possibly need.And it has wood.Lots of it ,in every variety,shape & size you could ever need--plywood,softwood battens ,perforated hardboards,MDF sheets stacked high,finely turned poles & just at the entrance-- tied up in string--bargain bundles of offcuts for a few pounds.All the cutting is done in-house to your specifications & this frenetic sawing & chopping results in a fine patina of wood dust which settles over the entire shop, it's contents--door handles,chicken wire,adhesive door signs,bags of nails & panel pins,padlocks,hasps & staples,patterned formica sheets,aromatic wood stains,hammers,buckets,brooms-- &, if you wait there long enough,your very self.

"Ah,Mr McDonald! Come in!"

I've been a regular customer here since first renting my studio nearby in 1986.To this day I still sweep out my dingy cell using the very same broom that I bought here back in '87.One day,I suppose,it will break & I will then have to wrestle with that old philosophy chestnut concerning the exact nature & identity of a fully re-constituted broom.But until that sad,far-off day,the broom in question still works as good as the day I bought it!
I also still use the same saw I bought here in '87 but it is,admittedly--like me ,I suppose--getting a wee bit squeeky & I should maybe think about treating myself to a new one.Over the years I have also bought most of the small wooden panels that I paint on,sizing them first with the PVA based wood glues that "Woodcraft" also stocks.Often,on a whim,while exiting the shop,I will stop & select a bargain bundle of oddly-shaped offcuts--the random nature & shape of these often spark an idea for a new painting or construction/collage.My own favourite effort of mine,in recent years--"Hinged Pandora"--was made using two such mis-matched offcuts stuck together with the addition of two brass hinges.It's funny how you can be inspired by the actual materials you use.For larger paintings they have also built--to my fumbling & scribbled diagrams--innumerable,expertly finished wooden stretchers & laboriously hand-sawn circular versions from thick MDF.Jim has often helped me out in other ways:once,the respected gallery owner,Cyril Gerber was due to visit my studio to select some pieces for a high-profile exhibition.Panic--the pictures were in a storeroom,the door was locked,I couldn't get in & he was due in 20 minutes! No problem--Jim lent me a fireman's axe of Jack Torrance proportions,& after a few minutes of frenzied chopping & hewing I was in!
Though his assistant Bill has long gone & Barbara serves there now only occasionally,Jim is ably assisted these days by skilled Glaswegian Poet & Wordsmith,Anthony "Tony" Browne.Overall,things haven't changed much  over the years.Such reassuring retail constancy is an increasing rarity these days--if you are in the area & you need wood or anything to do with "DIY" then pay them a visit!

"Hinged Pandora"  James McDonald 2011

Coming soon:"Party Times:Adult Fun Shop"

“JOUISSANCE”

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OVERSIZED GRIDS.

OVERSIZED GRIDS
Drawing from Life.

Looking back now,it's a wonder the oddness of the situation wasn't apparent to me at the time.
The year is 1989 & I am sat in my wee studio working with my 3^rd life model in as many weeks.He is sitting, cross-legged, on a table in front of me & like his predecessors is entirely naked.Separating us is a large sheet of clear Perspex approximately seven feet square on which is described in permanent marker,a regular six inch grid.Between scribbling away on an equivalent grid on my drawing board I am squinting at him through my one,unpatched eye.If he is finding this unusual ,or at all out of the ordinary, he certainly isn't showing it.Sportingly he has even brought along a gaily coloured silk dressing gown.

I had been brought to this bizarre pass by a steadily building obsession for pictorial accuracy & fidelity in my representations of the naked human form.To wit,realistic & convincing nudes.
Wishing to avoid a reliance on photography I had read up a bit on other pictorial aids to accurate drawing—the plumblines & clinical marking techniques of Sir William Coldstream( later taken to perversely alluring levels of pedantry by his pupil Euan Uglow),primitive Camera Obscurae & Lucidae &some renaissance theories & systems concerning scale & perspective.Specifically,I had been intrigued by one old sixteenth century woodcut showing a Methuselah-like artist looking through a giant grid of strings to better portray a generously proportioned young lady at the other side.It looked feasible.Strangely, I Had been using much smaller vertical grids for years in my still lifes but until now had never seen the possibility of interposing one between me & an actual person.I set to work making one.
Life drawing isn't easy.I like to think I have long been capable of a sensitive touch in the representation of tone & form—the filling in,as it were-- but precise dimensions & proportions are hard work.I can just about manage still-lifes—after all,collections of inanimate objects & such like aren't going to go anywhere as you are drawing them,fall asleep,do their knitting or demand more money—but with living people,often naked,there are just too many imponderables & variables.Temperature & fatigue cause constant changes in their posture & appearance.Plus,it takes me ages to draw anything & life models charge by the hour.I can just about manage a presentable quick impression but a forensically accurate nude drawing fit for painting was a different matter.Life drawing is actually one of those skills that can be effectively taught, with a relatively clear set of rules that can be profitably learned.Many people have told me it must be great to be so "gifted",but really,most of what skill I have was learned in mandatory life drawing classes at Edinburgh College of Art.They were often a chore at the time,but –along with one particularly arcane thirty minute exercise involving colour,which I might return to—they were the most useful lesson of my five and a half years in Edinburgh.

The drawing classes at Edinburgh took place a few hours in the morning & a couple of nights 'til nine.There must have been twenty or so students,& after setting up the pose with the model,checking props & heating etc the teacher or teachers would wander around each easel ,occasionally making whispered comments & suggestions to each student.It was all very serious—quiet,intense concentration,only the odd rustle of paper,rasp of charcoal or lip-smacking "putt-putt" of putty on paper breaking the silence.

It's a strange thing,being just out of school & having a beautiful,naked woman being plonked down in front of you for your scrutiny & study.You really want to look at them--well,obviously,you have to look at them,that being the whole point--but you don't want to be seen to be looking at them too....enthusiastically.

One horrible class lingers in my mind from this time.I can't remember who the tutor was. Blackadder,Callendar....David Evans?Maybe it was Elspeth Lamb.Whoever it was must have been of a sadistic bent that day.Appearing from behind the curtain,& surveying us all with damp,rheumy eyes was this old bloke in his fifties.He was fitted out in one of those standard white cotton modelling thongs which hardly anybody suits.Apart from that & a brightly coloured, velvet jesters/harlequin hat with jingle bells he was entirely naked.Oh,& curly-toed "Alladin" style velvet slippers.With jingle bells.He was handed a long wooden pole adorned at one end with the likeness of "Mr. Punch".Once in position he had to stand like that for hours.To his credit he carried out his duties with aplomb,barely moving,even as certain students collapsed in fits of giggles behind their easels.However,to this day,I have never seen such a look of resigned sadness in a man's eyes.

I don't know how people can do nude modelling--I certainly couldn't.

Except,now I think about it,to my horror....I did.

It was over a period of 3 years in the mid-nineties & I wanted to explore my inner-soul,to exercise a little self-analysis,purge the spirit as it were.I physically reflected myself in multiples (glass phials,mirrored globes lightbulbs etc.) spread over three uniformly sized oils on panel.I still regard them quite highly as vaguely cubist,abstracted confections & they all found themselves in worthy collections but to think about their execution now I get the shivers.The mirrored globes & twisted glass phials obviously distort the reflected images,bending,fracturing & magnifying everything,but sometimes you can't distort certain features enough.

Of course,an ability to draw accurately from life is an advantage to an artist both as an aid to painting & as an end in itself,exercising the brain in such a way being most beneficial.However,it is by no means essential.That consumate painter,Steven Cambell never let deficiencies in the draughtsmanship department get in the way of being a great Artist,;sheer force of will & reckless painterly vivacity enabling him to realise his rich,baroque confections.Likewise,the internationally successful painter & playboy,Jack Vettriano has never let an almost complete inability to draw be any impediment to executing on canvas his much desired, steamy,cinematic concoctions.And why should he,having access to photomechanical aids that have been around in one form or another for at least 500 years?The fine Spanish realist painter,Roberto Gonzalez-Fernandez once remarked to me that he was unconcerned over criticisms about working from photographs,maintaining that his ends justified the means--that the idea behind the picture,the concept,was all that mattered.

Me? Well,the perspex grid experiments lasted for a few months in 1989 & were certainly interesting,but as you can probably see from the examples shown here were imperfect & proportionally flawed,though I think they do have some nice features.They came to an abrupt end,as you can probably guess,when the inevitable happened--one day,the entire,hastilly sellotaped & precariously balanced structure collapsed.Fortunately,it fell forward,banging me about the head,& not the infinitely-patient girl on the other side.

Since then,apart from three days spent in London's Science Museum drawing antiquated adding machines & the occasional portraits,I've pretty much given up on Life Drawing as an end in itself.
It's ironic really.Even now,after thirty-odd years as an artist & not getting any younger, I still get folk making jealous insinuations;"must be great huvin'your job,eh? Paintin' naked wimmin a' day.How on Earth d'ye manage tae.....y'know....keep yer brush steady? Eh? HEHEHE...." To which impertinence I can now—alas—honestly reply that,"I don't really look at the steady stream of refined,elegant,statuesque,intelligent,caring, but above all, nude Amazonian Beauties that I paint,day in-day out....I AM TOO BUSY WORKING.Now bugger off,& let me finish  my Pale Ale in peace".

All Life Drawings illustrated here by James McDonald,1989.

“I SEE KEN DODD DIED TODAY....”

"I SEE KEN DODD DIED...."

The annual "Forth Valley Open Studios" is almost upon us,starting this weekend,when Art Studios & Workshops in & around Stirlingshire open up their doors to the public.Here in Larbert & Stenhousemuir there are more of these than you might imagine—from the Delta Studios in Lochlands,featuring a variety of artist's studios,workshops & gallery,at one end,to Barbara Davidson's long-established Pottery at the other.In between is Mark Lancaster's evocative Photography in Burnhead Road & of course,at Larbert Cross itself,Marjory Simes' "Wee Larbert Art Group".
If your treating yourself to what promises to be an entertaining & informative promenade 'round these colourful events,why not rest your weary feet & enjoy a refreshing cuppa--or perhaps something a little stiffer-- at Larbert's "Commercial Hotel",sat betwixt them all at Larbert Cross itself.
Here I must confess to an interest,having been a regular at this fine establishment since around the age of 15.Family-run & Family-friendly,The Commercial was once,in the nineteenth century—as the "White Hart Inn"—one of around half a dozen such hostelries at the cross & about old Stirling Road,but is now the sole survivor.It's history goes back much further than that,though,& it is recorded that our national bard himself,Rabbie Burns,stopped her for a few ales en route from Carron Iron Works to the tombs of The Bruces.These fine funerary memorials can still be seen today,in the tranquil churchyard of Old Larbert Church,just opposite the hotel.

It's history might go back even further.Nineteenth century excavations in the adjoining field uncovered ancient Roman Amphorae & broken glass vessels indicating the presence on the site of an old Roman Pub or "Thermopolium",probably serving wayfarers & troops on the nearby river crossing & road from the 2nd century AD.It's an amazing thought,but it is quite possible that Emperor Antoninus Pius stopped here for a beer & some Larks tongues in Honey while supervising the construction of the great wall that bears his name & exists to this day just a mile South of here!

Emperor Antoninus Pius.

Later,another noted regular was James Finlayson,known to generations of silver-screen lovers from his many appearances in the classic comedies of Laurel & Hardy.Finlayson was born opposite the Commercial in an old tenement block—long vanished--& is remembered as having enjoyed a drink or two here,prior to departing for Hollywood & the New World.It has often puzzled me as to why there is not a more visible recognition of one of Larbert's most famous sons.I have long envisioned a grand bronze sculpture of "Fin",in the classical tradition,erected by the cross itself,& pointing hither & thither,confusedly.Maybe something by the likes of Alexander Stoddart?
In the event I made my own modest contribution,some years back,when the new owner acquired a small canvas of mine portraying Finlayson in a characteristic pose.Along with many other interesting pictures it can be seen there to this day.

More recently,notable guests have included,"The Damned"—proto punk/goth rockers—for whom the Commercial is the hotel of choice when touring,the rooms being both cosy,modestly priced & with all modern conveniences.Their hotel bedroom-smashing days long behind them,I fondly recall enjoying a few post-gig beers with Captain Sensible & the rest of the band,discussing—for some reason—anti-depressants,long into the wee hours.
When I first started drinking here,it was all a bit different;being the early seventies,it was all a bit more Spartan,more masculine--ladies being quite infrequent visitors.Maybe just as well.
"Big Sandy" was the owner at this time,which would be around 1971.He was a ruddy complexioned,rotund bearded character—like one of those serious-biscuit-faced folkies from the Corries,or Dubliners.He was OK with us youngsters,though.After having pissed himself laughing at our attempts to falsify our dates of birth he was quite happy to serve us as many half-pints of Ushers as we could manage.Often he could be found,slumped imperiously behind his bar,flanked by his two faithful,drooling hounds.On one occasion,with a drink in him,he surprised everyone in the bar,by—for no apparent reason—pulling out his not insubstantially proportioned penis & slamming it,sausage-like, onto the bar.With a large kitchen knife in his other hand he challenged his customers: "If any o' ye's can beat Mr Pego here, then get it oot an' I'll chop it off!" Unsurprisingly,there were no takers,& his wife soon appeared,to beat him about the head & hurry him away.
Later in the seventies,the bar could get unexpectedly lively,as young lady-nurses from the nearby Bellsdyke Psychiatric Hospital descended on the pub on a Friday night.Briefly released from their onerous duties & with their spirits charged-- to a near nymphomaniacal level --with a cocktail of vodka/diluting orange shots & babycham, theywere like a wild,Amazon horde.On nights like this,The Commercial was no place to go for a quiet read of the paper by the fire, nursing a Fowlers Wee Heavy.
I could go on,but thankfully,things have long since settled down & the days of people falling asleep beneath the pool table—or,indeed,on it-- are a thing of the past.Under it's current owner,young Mr Risk,the hotel is quietly thriving,people from afar being attracted by the Commercial's mix of fine ales & wines,warm welcoming ambience & friendly service & attention from management & staff alike.Sunday &Tuesday nights are especially recommended if wit & humorous repartee is your thing.
Just one thing.Should "Mein Host",apropos of nothing,casually mention to you:"I see Ken Dodd died today",do not ,under any circumstance,respond with a query.

NEW YORK GIANTESSES.

Franz Gertsch
Museum of Modern Art,New York June 1990.
I was in New York to participate in the exhibition,"New Scottish Prints", at The Mary Ryan Gallery.After taking part in a ruinous interview with an American Print magazine in the morning,I made my way to the Museum of Modern Art. "MoMA" has a lot of "Trophy" Art & there is  much in the way of overblown abstraction.Still nursing a fuzzy hangover from a night in the "Kit-Kat" Club & wandering,I found myself in one of the side galleries where a temporary exhibition was running.
Over the past 30 years I must have seen--or at least attended--many hundreds of art exhibitions,remarkably few of which linger in my mind.However,this collection of wood-engravings by the Swiss Artist,Frans Gertsch,has never strayed far from my recollection.It was perfect in so many ways.
The show consisted of a series of giant prints(8x6 feet),each portraying a single,elegant & enigmatic, female head.In my experience,most contemporary woodcuts & engravings--certainly on this scale-- seem to take their cue from their expressionist counterparts in Weimar Germany,being rough-hewn & looking as if they've been carved out using an axe.These,on the other hand,had been worked on using the smallest of woodcutting tools;the subtlest half-tone gradations being meticulously picked  out inch by inch over the entire 48 square feet of the wood block.In terms of finesse,each image was like The Royal Mail's "Barrington" Edition but bigger--much bigger.

Each impression was printed by hand ,using optical lenses to rub the back of each sheet of specially commissioned  paper from the Japanese specialist Iwano Heizoburo.Sometimes it would take an entire day for Gertsch & his assistants to make just one impression.The finished blocks were each printed in variable editions, each in different--although essentially monochromatic--colourways & variations.
Visually & as an aesthetic experience,the effect of being in a room full of these gargantuan beauties is hard to describe.I've read various encomia to the works of Mark Rothko & the cumulative effect of being immersed in his abstractions.Though I've never quite seen the point of Rothko,being "immersed" in Gertsch's monolithic prints had a similar effect on me.Talk about "eyes following you round the room"--here there was no escape from multiple,silvery hued Natascha's & kittenishly probing Doris's.Looming over you from every line-of- sight, these intaglio'd leviathans eyed you inscrutably from all angles.
This ability to produce multiple copies,or more accurately,"impressions" of your image,is one of the most satisfying facets of  printmaking.One can spend weeks or possibly years labouring over a metal etching plate or woodblock,honing,proofing & otherwise fine-tuning it.It can be a long & arduous process.However at the end of it you have an object,microscopically sculpted in low-relief,which can then be very quickly inked up & printed with normally little effort.Risks can be taken with chromatics & tonalities during the printing, in the full knowledge that if it goes wrong....Hey,you can always bin it & print another one.Having printed many editions myself,I know there are few things more artistically satisfying than seeing a long-worked image in multiple;pristine & stretched out in front of you.
Sometimes quantity--& this show was the finest demonstration of this I have ever seen--definitely does have a quality all of it's own.