Getting a lift home the other night with Anne, we entered the Crinan wood layby in total darkness. We both noticed the fish lorry pick up van , parked at an odd angle , (almost making it impossible to pass) , "are you going to make it by Anne?", I asked...
"Oh I think so ...", she replied , cheerily. We did scoot through, and I noticed not a soul loading or unloading. Strange, I thought, usually there is visible activity. My neighbour , also returning home at the same time followed behind us , as his beams blasted through Annes' back window.
I was off loaded and thanked Anne for driving me home, ... Earlier that day Louise had phoned to say she would be picking me up at twenty minutes to six, for a meeting in Ardrishaig. With only ten minutes to spare I decided to save her the trouble of driving all the way along the lane to the wagon in pitch darkness.
So I readied myself, and torch (bike light ) in hand, I walked back along lane to wait for her at the corner. To my amazement , I found the Lorrry still there with the empty pile of scallop cages stacked behind it. Parking lights still on it , I approached and as I shone my light at it , a sudden yelling and screaming from within the van met my astonished ears. "Help! let me out, let me out , somebody help me!!... Please somebody...." Much taken aback by this, I decided to yell back, "Ive got a mobile phone, do you want me to call someone??", ...."Just open the fuckin' door will you???", So I did and the poor lad was freed, ... He went on to explain to me that the safety catch on the inside didnt work, he was irate about the boss not fixing it , and a sudden gust of wind had blown the door shut while he was inside.
He was ever grateful , and offered to take me to Ardrishaig , but I told him that Louise would be miffed , if I left and she arrived not finding me. Having been locked up for two hours, he needed to make up for lost time as he was headed for Berwick on Tweed.
Becoming subsequently exasperated, by Louise still not arriving and it now being six fifteen pm, I phoned her on my mobile....
"The meeting isn't for two more weeks", her voice crackled through the ether. So I explained the whole episode to her and we thanked God for the Fishmans sake. The chances of anyone passing on foot in that black November night after 6pm, were slim.
The random chance , of happenstance and misunderstanding in an obscure place, had saved the fishman from spending the night in a refrigerated container vehicle, with several boxes of doomed captive scallops on the shell.
Saturday, 29 November 2008
Thursday, 27 November 2008
Fraser and His Scottish Garden; continued with a nod to Cultural Hallucinations
This years crop of bulbs are still waiting to be planted, but its always the way at this time of year, the right day will come along and you either take the time to do it, or wait for another dry free day.
Nihilism, to slightly change tack here to deal with the cultural hallucinations... the belief that nothing has any value, especially religious and moral principles. You call this cause for hope?
Nothing having any relative value or distinction? How would I discern when to plant my bulbs were this true?
There could be no 'critical analysis' if nihilism is 'hope'. Our 'voice' is; we don't 'take' it anywhere.
The "powers that be",...represent the voice that is. The moment of speech is "taken on", when it is voiced, regardless of whether the context in which we speak is "ours or usurped".
If many feel "dispossession", of feeling at home or 'identity challenged'; then there was no strength of character, fibre, or identity there to begin with.
The "cultural patterns" may be chance, or happenstance, -; yet they are concrete and distinct nevertheless. It is distinction and discrimination , ('that' or 'this'), which makes all the difference and inequality exists, - all things are not equal- there may be a need 'to speak', but it need not always be voiced.
It is enough, that whatever the voice we use is only 'that'. The bulbs still remain unplanted.
CONTEXT: The circumstances that form the setting for an event, statement or idea. The parts that come before and after a word or passage that clarify its meaning. You will have multiple interpretations of which 'context', we 'find ourselves in'... from multiple opinions.
To 'avoid' alone, may possibly imply , opposition; 'what does it mean' and 'whats happening' differ little, as the 'I' persona is inescapable. The ID can cross over with the 'I' alone, when the need is great enough for the 'I' to be subsumed by the ID, however briefly.
The bulbs still remain unplanted.
Nihilism, to slightly change tack here to deal with the cultural hallucinations... the belief that nothing has any value, especially religious and moral principles. You call this cause for hope?
Nothing having any relative value or distinction? How would I discern when to plant my bulbs were this true?
There could be no 'critical analysis' if nihilism is 'hope'. Our 'voice' is; we don't 'take' it anywhere.
The "powers that be",...represent the voice that is. The moment of speech is "taken on", when it is voiced, regardless of whether the context in which we speak is "ours or usurped".
If many feel "dispossession", of feeling at home or 'identity challenged'; then there was no strength of character, fibre, or identity there to begin with.
The "cultural patterns" may be chance, or happenstance, -; yet they are concrete and distinct nevertheless. It is distinction and discrimination , ('that' or 'this'), which makes all the difference and inequality exists, - all things are not equal- there may be a need 'to speak', but it need not always be voiced.
It is enough, that whatever the voice we use is only 'that'. The bulbs still remain unplanted.
CONTEXT: The circumstances that form the setting for an event, statement or idea. The parts that come before and after a word or passage that clarify its meaning. You will have multiple interpretations of which 'context', we 'find ourselves in'... from multiple opinions.
To 'avoid' alone, may possibly imply , opposition; 'what does it mean' and 'whats happening' differ little, as the 'I' persona is inescapable. The ID can cross over with the 'I' alone, when the need is great enough for the 'I' to be subsumed by the ID, however briefly.
The bulbs still remain unplanted.
Monday, 24 November 2008
Fraser and His Scottish Garden: The Diaspora in Reverse
On your relentless journey to the lodestar, you may pause for reflection ...Jadis, and renewal , in the ancient garden of the Culdees.
The obscure locale, the numinous tremolo of that subterranean atavistic beat, and the exalted primacy of Chroma struck from the finest chords of eloquent birdsong.
Always , the sound and feel of water, in all its transformative manifestations, and Chroma, predicated on light and darkness and every subtle gradation therein. The sound of wind that is the spirit multitude, 'the great majority' returning Applause.
Golden and green light as a benison to the weary traveller, in both the minds eye and instinctive but sleeping, tribal memory. The very fibre, essence and inviolate core where the crystalline salts of sea and sand, meet the slow dropping silvers of sky born onset.
Two thousand and five hundred years after my initial departure, I have been returning annually, and unwillingly , in the seventh year of the last decade of the second millenium.
I fell once more from a stormy sky;... here you grip your candles fast , as the gales of November buffet your portals and eaves without . Your modest accommodation, your thin walled shelter, embowered in Hazel wands and Alder breaks. And peering wildly , half mad into the stygian blackness of the midnight lagoon, ... start at a sudden gust of stellar blowback, ... a sort of blasting whooshing sound to your startled ears and spinal shiver, with the effect of pushing the smoke and fire the wrong way out of your ingled woodburner.
And there in the centre of your monastic cell , it appears in a rising columnar shaft of billowing smoke and aura.
The ectoplasmic manifestation of your spirit familiar, no, not the Asmodeus of legend , not the rime of any sea blown myrmidon. No never that , nor ghostly wraith in vaprous inchoate incarnate.
It was only the appearance of conscious wonderment, the ID of the EST that is the Homunculi of ones own ignorant psyche.
And so you are careful not to drip any more hot wax onto your brow or onto your book, and marvel at the uncanny conspiracy of the wind and the fire and the smoke, and what skill with which an anthropomorhic form is conjured.
The September 'baby', left with its new family in November, it was chromatically autumnal as befits the colours of the dying season. Only a hint of scarlet lake in its yellowing horizon, on a high pressure day with no wind and few clouds,.... as rare as the rarity it portrayed, and only captured in remnants and fragments of clues to the viewer, who marveled and said, ' Yes , that is how it is... that is how we see it too... , this consolation to the creator , is all we have left beyond a photograph and a memory , and the importance of remembrance is what they take away.
Sylvasque a la Festina was the re iterated elysian chant that Hildegard Von Bingen brought to the gate of an evening, the random eclecticism of the ages, all enveloped and complete in a small jewel box.
A glorified fire lit garden shed of an abode, cached in the greenwood cell of a nearly , ( but not quite ) Miltonic Comun, Hazel, Alder, Bluebell, Comfrey, Nettle, Sorrel, Meadowsweet, Valerian, Rowan, Fireweed, et Dan de Lion, du Saint Sacre de Collis de Maudziss Estee Bagare du Jardinier, Awaaaaaay!
( Here endeth the first Chapitre in the Liosta of Friseil MacIomhair ) ..... Canto deux a suivi
The obscure locale, the numinous tremolo of that subterranean atavistic beat, and the exalted primacy of Chroma struck from the finest chords of eloquent birdsong.
Always , the sound and feel of water, in all its transformative manifestations, and Chroma, predicated on light and darkness and every subtle gradation therein. The sound of wind that is the spirit multitude, 'the great majority' returning Applause.
Golden and green light as a benison to the weary traveller, in both the minds eye and instinctive but sleeping, tribal memory. The very fibre, essence and inviolate core where the crystalline salts of sea and sand, meet the slow dropping silvers of sky born onset.
Two thousand and five hundred years after my initial departure, I have been returning annually, and unwillingly , in the seventh year of the last decade of the second millenium.
I fell once more from a stormy sky;... here you grip your candles fast , as the gales of November buffet your portals and eaves without . Your modest accommodation, your thin walled shelter, embowered in Hazel wands and Alder breaks. And peering wildly , half mad into the stygian blackness of the midnight lagoon, ... start at a sudden gust of stellar blowback, ... a sort of blasting whooshing sound to your startled ears and spinal shiver, with the effect of pushing the smoke and fire the wrong way out of your ingled woodburner.
And there in the centre of your monastic cell , it appears in a rising columnar shaft of billowing smoke and aura.
The ectoplasmic manifestation of your spirit familiar, no, not the Asmodeus of legend , not the rime of any sea blown myrmidon. No never that , nor ghostly wraith in vaprous inchoate incarnate.
It was only the appearance of conscious wonderment, the ID of the EST that is the Homunculi of ones own ignorant psyche.
And so you are careful not to drip any more hot wax onto your brow or onto your book, and marvel at the uncanny conspiracy of the wind and the fire and the smoke, and what skill with which an anthropomorhic form is conjured.
The September 'baby', left with its new family in November, it was chromatically autumnal as befits the colours of the dying season. Only a hint of scarlet lake in its yellowing horizon, on a high pressure day with no wind and few clouds,.... as rare as the rarity it portrayed, and only captured in remnants and fragments of clues to the viewer, who marveled and said, ' Yes , that is how it is... that is how we see it too... , this consolation to the creator , is all we have left beyond a photograph and a memory , and the importance of remembrance is what they take away.
Sylvasque a la Festina was the re iterated elysian chant that Hildegard Von Bingen brought to the gate of an evening, the random eclecticism of the ages, all enveloped and complete in a small jewel box.
A glorified fire lit garden shed of an abode, cached in the greenwood cell of a nearly , ( but not quite ) Miltonic Comun, Hazel, Alder, Bluebell, Comfrey, Nettle, Sorrel, Meadowsweet, Valerian, Rowan, Fireweed, et Dan de Lion, du Saint Sacre de Collis de Maudziss Estee Bagare du Jardinier, Awaaaaaay!
( Here endeth the first Chapitre in the Liosta of Friseil MacIomhair ) ..... Canto deux a suivi
Saturday, 22 November 2008
They Will Have Snow by Now in Vieux Saint Lambert; Referencing that Lodestar of Mythic Lore; So Whitehot, it is Blue; Bluestars; the 'lost domain'.
Beautiful in its' precision, and finesse in terms of technique- the painstaking process, thought provoking; the grandeur of scale-., but it was not beautiful in the sense we have come to associate with the superficiality of physical beauty.
Despite the extreme fakery and self deception we partake of in terms of our own, and other peoples bodies; our endless search for elusive beauty in ourselves and others- do we need to be reminded of the cadaverous grotesquerie in both death and decay that awaits us all?
Yes, perhaps, in this instance to contemplate the humanist dynamic in terms of realism outside of 'normative' mannered concerns, so often accepted as fact.... in terms of figurative representation.
The "living deadness" of the frozen motionless figures, not having the reassuring fakery of the mannequin; is perhaps one stimulus that could easily frighten a relatively small five or six year old child. Lifelike deathliness? Is that possible?
In that time of the March fourth , four day blizzard of 1971, The extreme excitement regarding the onset in Novembers past, of those first greylit days of imminent snowfall... that peculiar pungent frosted smell in the air of frozen water; the strange ethereal evenness of light preceding the downfall, silence , forboding , every leaf long blown and lying in discontented beaten heaps about the trunks of oak and ash trees.
Then the first stray crystalline blooms on mitten and sleeve, with their unique beautiful precision and finesse, headlong in a random chaotic matrix that said; infinity...
Wherefore this dashing darting mass? The overture flutes straying in the 'waltz of the snowflakes', and the 'rightness' of that descriptive trope.
Trees, roofs, ( I want to write rooves ), all of manmade structure now etched in a muted clarity as the transformation so enchanting to our childrens eyes and minds commenced. The gathering speed of the crowding flakes, swirling and eddying this way and that, and the snakelike serpentine skating over black tarmac soon to be gone...gone to become a wilderness of white yet again, and deep enough to show us what Terrouxs really looked like in 'les neiges d'antans'of the 1890s'.
The variety chaotic within the formal framework, lending sinuous grace to both what was already graceful and what was not. The madly dancing, curling and swirling sting of updraught and gusty blast, carving the quiffs and drifts of forky tongues on gable clefts and eaves troughs.
The snows of yesteryear are the returned first bulbs and sprouts of spring, these lakes, these drinks and oceans pissed out over centuries, and reformed , refigured in this dazzling mystic whiteness. Yes ,,we children like to taste the snow in our mouths , we feel the blizzardy berserk, ( I want to write 'berszerck' ),... we are engulfed in the cheek stinging storm. We love it , we will not go in , no! not yet! We must encompass the storm , filling our lungs with the foaming ice, seeing our world from every new angle renewed and lunar. Its coming in here! Its coming down the Chimney!, and what is a chimney without snow? Snow to crest its smoky lip. To compete with its smoking maw. Mittens coated matted with congealed pompoms of icy mothballs?? Eyelashes sticking together? Mukluks undubbined beginning to freeze the inside of skisox?
No problem, but its getting harder to lift our knees to make it over to the fort. The effort is great, because everything is slowed down by this natural occurrence. Vehicular traffic and ourselves in particular , but enough of it will allow us to jump from the roof, into a ten foot drift of the freezing fluff.
The endurance is easier when you know you'll eventually be in by the fire with hot cocoa and rye bread, toasted. And when those wet longjohns come off, those rosy thighs stung red and raw by the windchilled frost alone!
And outside, the blue of evening , less blue if it keeps snowing , as it does , when it did for four days straight. To come to a country where the weather crews speak in terms of 'snowshowers', I have to laugh and think back to the snows of days gone by, where the term 'shower', couldnt remotely describe the epiphanies of chaotic nordic onslaught, that we hoped would last forever.
And it did , and does last forever imprinted , etched and tomed in the annals of melting firefrost, the infinite lodestars of our progenitor, this light , this white fire , these bluestars....scattered all over the land.
Despite the extreme fakery and self deception we partake of in terms of our own, and other peoples bodies; our endless search for elusive beauty in ourselves and others- do we need to be reminded of the cadaverous grotesquerie in both death and decay that awaits us all?
Yes, perhaps, in this instance to contemplate the humanist dynamic in terms of realism outside of 'normative' mannered concerns, so often accepted as fact.... in terms of figurative representation.
The "living deadness" of the frozen motionless figures, not having the reassuring fakery of the mannequin; is perhaps one stimulus that could easily frighten a relatively small five or six year old child. Lifelike deathliness? Is that possible?
In that time of the March fourth , four day blizzard of 1971, The extreme excitement regarding the onset in Novembers past, of those first greylit days of imminent snowfall... that peculiar pungent frosted smell in the air of frozen water; the strange ethereal evenness of light preceding the downfall, silence , forboding , every leaf long blown and lying in discontented beaten heaps about the trunks of oak and ash trees.
Then the first stray crystalline blooms on mitten and sleeve, with their unique beautiful precision and finesse, headlong in a random chaotic matrix that said; infinity...
Wherefore this dashing darting mass? The overture flutes straying in the 'waltz of the snowflakes', and the 'rightness' of that descriptive trope.
Trees, roofs, ( I want to write rooves ), all of manmade structure now etched in a muted clarity as the transformation so enchanting to our childrens eyes and minds commenced. The gathering speed of the crowding flakes, swirling and eddying this way and that, and the snakelike serpentine skating over black tarmac soon to be gone...gone to become a wilderness of white yet again, and deep enough to show us what Terrouxs really looked like in 'les neiges d'antans'of the 1890s'.
The variety chaotic within the formal framework, lending sinuous grace to both what was already graceful and what was not. The madly dancing, curling and swirling sting of updraught and gusty blast, carving the quiffs and drifts of forky tongues on gable clefts and eaves troughs.
The snows of yesteryear are the returned first bulbs and sprouts of spring, these lakes, these drinks and oceans pissed out over centuries, and reformed , refigured in this dazzling mystic whiteness. Yes ,,we children like to taste the snow in our mouths , we feel the blizzardy berserk, ( I want to write 'berszerck' ),... we are engulfed in the cheek stinging storm. We love it , we will not go in , no! not yet! We must encompass the storm , filling our lungs with the foaming ice, seeing our world from every new angle renewed and lunar. Its coming in here! Its coming down the Chimney!, and what is a chimney without snow? Snow to crest its smoky lip. To compete with its smoking maw. Mittens coated matted with congealed pompoms of icy mothballs?? Eyelashes sticking together? Mukluks undubbined beginning to freeze the inside of skisox?
No problem, but its getting harder to lift our knees to make it over to the fort. The effort is great, because everything is slowed down by this natural occurrence. Vehicular traffic and ourselves in particular , but enough of it will allow us to jump from the roof, into a ten foot drift of the freezing fluff.
The endurance is easier when you know you'll eventually be in by the fire with hot cocoa and rye bread, toasted. And when those wet longjohns come off, those rosy thighs stung red and raw by the windchilled frost alone!
And outside, the blue of evening , less blue if it keeps snowing , as it does , when it did for four days straight. To come to a country where the weather crews speak in terms of 'snowshowers', I have to laugh and think back to the snows of days gone by, where the term 'shower', couldnt remotely describe the epiphanies of chaotic nordic onslaught, that we hoped would last forever.
And it did , and does last forever imprinted , etched and tomed in the annals of melting firefrost, the infinite lodestars of our progenitor, this light , this white fire , these bluestars....scattered all over the land.
The Green Mist Debate: Follow the Path with Resolve , to the House of Bluestars
November, the month of introspection , and the guttering candle at midnight; going back over older texts of eight years gone by, ...written for the third annual Daffodil day from an initial draft of the year 2000, and second tale in 'Tales from the Wagon , Crinan Wood'.
Nobody saw the surreptitious removal of the huge reedbed from the banks of the old canal..
Nobody saw or cared, or felt, but everyone had opinions.
Even the workers, who carried out their duties unquestioningly, remained unaware of its meaning; (beyond a job), or its' effect,- as they seemed to perform their tasks in a soporific daze.
Nobody saw the glowing greenish light; which took the form of a serpentine mist; lit up from within-,..slowly make its' way along the surface, and (also) beneath the limpid black waters of the canal on starless November nights.
Nobody had seen, nobody knew, no one had heard.... Sometimes the mist would rise into an amorphous column of phosphorescent smoke, ( tho it wasn't smoke ).... of a colour, some might call 'chartreuse', 'vert de vessie',or, 'verde celeste'....while others might call it -Simple Green-.
On occasion, as was its wont, in the darkest loneliest part of the night, the mist would seem to cease in its amorphous tonality; leave the water, and move about the garden , THE GARDEN,... striking various 'attitudes', as if to appear a simulacrum; a glowing imitation of whatever form took its obscure fancy.- Shape Shifting.
One minute it was standing by a garden rake, and would then vaguely take on the shape of that implement; next it would swirl about the roots of a shrub or hazel tree and assume the shape of that shrub or tree-; this went on for what seemed an age.
Very rarely, the mist would seem to take on the ' human form divine' ; yet, just before it seemed that it might even SPEAK!... well it gave up, and tumbled down into itself again, hugging the ground in a reluctant slow moving cloud, ; shapeless once more.-
Then returning to the black water from whence it came, would disappear beneath the surface, via a small gently gurgling whirlpool.-
Nobody saw , or knew, or heard, ........everyone however, had opinions.
Nobody saw the surreptitious removal of the huge reedbed from the banks of the old canal..
Nobody saw or cared, or felt, but everyone had opinions.
Even the workers, who carried out their duties unquestioningly, remained unaware of its meaning; (beyond a job), or its' effect,- as they seemed to perform their tasks in a soporific daze.
Nobody saw the glowing greenish light; which took the form of a serpentine mist; lit up from within-,..slowly make its' way along the surface, and (also) beneath the limpid black waters of the canal on starless November nights.
Nobody had seen, nobody knew, no one had heard.... Sometimes the mist would rise into an amorphous column of phosphorescent smoke, ( tho it wasn't smoke ).... of a colour, some might call 'chartreuse', 'vert de vessie',or, 'verde celeste'....while others might call it -Simple Green-.
On occasion, as was its wont, in the darkest loneliest part of the night, the mist would seem to cease in its amorphous tonality; leave the water, and move about the garden , THE GARDEN,... striking various 'attitudes', as if to appear a simulacrum; a glowing imitation of whatever form took its obscure fancy.- Shape Shifting.
One minute it was standing by a garden rake, and would then vaguely take on the shape of that implement; next it would swirl about the roots of a shrub or hazel tree and assume the shape of that shrub or tree-; this went on for what seemed an age.
Very rarely, the mist would seem to take on the ' human form divine' ; yet, just before it seemed that it might even SPEAK!... well it gave up, and tumbled down into itself again, hugging the ground in a reluctant slow moving cloud, ; shapeless once more.-
Then returning to the black water from whence it came, would disappear beneath the surface, via a small gently gurgling whirlpool.-
Nobody saw , or knew, or heard, ........everyone however, had opinions.
Tuesday, 4 November 2008
Draft: Minutes, An AGM and Ordinary Meeting
ARTMAP ARGYLL
MINUTES OF AGM AND ORDINARY
MEETING
GREY GULL ARDRISHAIG: MONDAY 3 NOVEMBER 2008. 7.00 PM
CHAIR: CLARE MCNIVEN
MINUTES OFFICER: FRASER MACIVER
PRESENT: Libby Anderson, Rebecca Barnett,Susan Berry,Kirsty Brady,Lesley Burr, Melanie Chmielewska, Alexander Hamilton,Polly Hamilton,Karen Liversedge,Fraser MacIver,Wilma MacKenzie, Clare McNiven,SianMacQueen,Louise Oppenheimer, Rebecca Pine, Norman Rea, Lizzie Rose, Jane Smith, Ann Thomas, Jane Walker.
APOLOGIES: Morag Docherty, Stuart Herd, Richard Kennedy,Kathleen Russell, Robert Walker.
AGENDA:
The Chair, Clare McNiven opened the AGM , by setting out the agenda suggesting that the contents of the AGM be covered first and the ordinary meeting second. All present concurred with this.
The Chair went on to say, that as this was ArtMaps first Annual General Meeting, there were no previous minutes to be read.
ITEM 1.TREASURERS REPORT:
Sian MacQueen presented a complete and comprehensive written breakdown of all expenditures to date, and a complete balance sheet detailing in figures the Income, Ependiture and Closing Current Balance of £692.59.
At this point ,Clare asked the assembled company if they had any queries for Sian regarding the treasurers report. There were none, and the meeting agreed generally that it was clear and concise. Louise Oppenheimer thanked Sian personally for producing the report which was reiterated by Clare and the company in general.
ITEM 2. ELECTION OF OFFICE BEARERS:
CHAIR: The election of office bearers for ArtmapArgyll began with Sian MacQueen proposing Lesley Burr for the office of Chair. This was seconded by Lizzie Rose. Clare asked Lesley if she would accept this post , and Lesley agreed to take the post for one year.
The subject of a Vice Chair was then raised, and it was generally felt that this would be useful in the instance of the acting Chair being absent. Wilma MacKenzie proposed Alex Hamilton as vice Chair and this was seconded by Karen Liversedge. Alex agreed to being Vice Chair when necessary.
TREASURER: Lizzie Rose proposed Clare McNiven as Treasurer, and this was seconded by Jane Walker. Clare accepted this post.
MEMBERSHIP SECRETARY: Lesley Burr proposes Sian MacQueen be secretary in charge of membership. This office was discussed informally , and the motion was seconded by Louise among others concurring, and Sian accepted this post. Given the enormity of the job and working in tandem with the appointed secretary.
SECRETARY: Fraser MacIver proposed Jane Walker for the position of Secretary, Jane declined this motion as she had too many other obligations, and Fraser then proposed Louise Oppenheimer, informally for the same post. This was then reinforced formally , by Clare and Sian, who mutually proposed Louise wholeheartedly, this was seconded by Lizzie Rose. Louise accepted the office of secretary.
MINUTES SECRETARIES/OFFICERS: Clare felt that two minute secretaries would be necessary. While Fraser felt that minute taking should be performed by multiple members on a rolling alternate basis, he would be happy to take minutes in turn with one, but preferably more various members. Sian proposed Fraser as one of the minute secretaries, this was seconded by Louise. Fraser accepts this post. Sian then went on to propose Karen Liversedge as another candidate for minute secretary. This was seconded by Lizzie Rose, (a dab hand at seconding by now)...Karen accepts the post for minute secretary working alternately with Fraser.
MINUTES OF AGM AND ORDINARY
MEETING
GREY GULL ARDRISHAIG: MONDAY 3 NOVEMBER 2008. 7.00 PM
CHAIR: CLARE MCNIVEN
MINUTES OFFICER: FRASER MACIVER
PRESENT: Libby Anderson, Rebecca Barnett,Susan Berry,Kirsty Brady,Lesley Burr, Melanie Chmielewska, Alexander Hamilton,Polly Hamilton,Karen Liversedge,Fraser MacIver,Wilma MacKenzie, Clare McNiven,SianMacQueen,Louise Oppenheimer, Rebecca Pine, Norman Rea, Lizzie Rose, Jane Smith, Ann Thomas, Jane Walker.
APOLOGIES: Morag Docherty, Stuart Herd, Richard Kennedy,Kathleen Russell, Robert Walker.
AGENDA:
The Chair, Clare McNiven opened the AGM , by setting out the agenda suggesting that the contents of the AGM be covered first and the ordinary meeting second. All present concurred with this.
The Chair went on to say, that as this was ArtMaps first Annual General Meeting, there were no previous minutes to be read.
ITEM 1.TREASURERS REPORT:
Sian MacQueen presented a complete and comprehensive written breakdown of all expenditures to date, and a complete balance sheet detailing in figures the Income, Ependiture and Closing Current Balance of £692.59.
At this point ,Clare asked the assembled company if they had any queries for Sian regarding the treasurers report. There were none, and the meeting agreed generally that it was clear and concise. Louise Oppenheimer thanked Sian personally for producing the report which was reiterated by Clare and the company in general.
ITEM 2. ELECTION OF OFFICE BEARERS:
CHAIR: The election of office bearers for ArtmapArgyll began with Sian MacQueen proposing Lesley Burr for the office of Chair. This was seconded by Lizzie Rose. Clare asked Lesley if she would accept this post , and Lesley agreed to take the post for one year.
The subject of a Vice Chair was then raised, and it was generally felt that this would be useful in the instance of the acting Chair being absent. Wilma MacKenzie proposed Alex Hamilton as vice Chair and this was seconded by Karen Liversedge. Alex agreed to being Vice Chair when necessary.
TREASURER: Lizzie Rose proposed Clare McNiven as Treasurer, and this was seconded by Jane Walker. Clare accepted this post.
MEMBERSHIP SECRETARY: Lesley Burr proposes Sian MacQueen be secretary in charge of membership. This office was discussed informally , and the motion was seconded by Louise among others concurring, and Sian accepted this post. Given the enormity of the job and working in tandem with the appointed secretary.
SECRETARY: Fraser MacIver proposed Jane Walker for the position of Secretary, Jane declined this motion as she had too many other obligations, and Fraser then proposed Louise Oppenheimer, informally for the same post. This was then reinforced formally , by Clare and Sian, who mutually proposed Louise wholeheartedly, this was seconded by Lizzie Rose. Louise accepted the office of secretary.
MINUTES SECRETARIES/OFFICERS: Clare felt that two minute secretaries would be necessary. While Fraser felt that minute taking should be performed by multiple members on a rolling alternate basis, he would be happy to take minutes in turn with one, but preferably more various members. Sian proposed Fraser as one of the minute secretaries, this was seconded by Louise. Fraser accepts this post. Sian then went on to propose Karen Liversedge as another candidate for minute secretary. This was seconded by Lizzie Rose, (a dab hand at seconding by now)...Karen accepts the post for minute secretary working alternately with Fraser.
Re Your Crusade to Create Polemic: Art Epistolary
Dear Mac,
Thanks for taking the trouble to send me your prints and the precis for the Fergusson Award...plus my annotations, re;Hirst. Great News! But Mac, ... why stop there?? Why don't you apply for the Turner Prize as well?? You might get shortlisted at the very least-, and I'm told that shortlisting is even better than winning, because you then get some kudos for being part of it , while not having to suffer the total media dissection, (vivisection), of yourself and your work.
I read with interest the Hughes article; he is bang on re: Hirst , and the general mercantile, high end hype, pretention and widget commodification of the London and (international) art mafia. He certainly goes for the jugular, I've got one of his books on Goya, and i've always liked his confident prose style and astute observations of the visual arts in general.
Anyway, I'm in broad agreement with the general thrust of your crusade, but I have a few reservations about your perceptions of the so called "literal" and the so called "abstract", In effect, the danger that may be lurking in your syntax of a confusion between (surface style) or appearance, and (content or substance)...i.e. meaning, philosophy, narrative, content.
I strongly disagree that "Bellini, Durer,Rembrandt,Gericault and Ingres" are, as you say, "too literal" ; because I still assert that all visual 2d and 3d art (including photography)- is an abstraction from so called "reality" or the so called "literal", regardless of the particular surface style or superficial appearance of any work of 'art', including your "own style" or my "own style".
It is the collision of the perceptions of content, subject, meaning-(outside of the physicality) of a work.....on the part of both the artist and the viewing or critical audience of any particular historic period or
age, (and its manifestation therein), that holds a particular fascination for myself as a peripheral philosophe, lateral semiotician, and amateur, psychologist,sociologist, anthropologist, stroke, slash, add to that list (attentive listener and observer).... dare I run on? to add professional art practitioner and art educator?
Witness for example, the application of a strict canon of representational forms prescribed in the ancient Egyptian bas reliefs, tomb paintings and sculpture (before), the singular blip in the proceedings with the advent of the 'so called' Amarna 'style', of Akenaton and his mono-deist solar worship of Amun Ra......A real break with a precedent dogma in both concept, (religion) and 'style' or 'surface' approach to art-but ultimately, as oppressive and tedious as our own weariness with the stagnation a la Hirst, Emin,Starling- and their foisting of a prescriptive (almost purely concept based ethos), (but not entirely), now broadly stamped on the academies, markets and minds in the international "artworld".
Liking or not liking a particular style or surface look or appearance of a work is subjective, and comes down to any individuals personal taste or aesthetic awareness, or otherwise,- and is ultimately arbitrary in any historical period; random , and uncanny.
One can liken it to the sentiments all of us have experienced over the passage of years when looking back over old albums of changing clothing, fashions, over any number of decades and being appalled at (for example), flared bellbottoms, livid stripes, and mutton chop sideburns in the early 1970s, or( for that matter), protruding satin codpieces and big lacy neck ruffs for blokes in the late 1500s???
In the same vein, take wallpaper for example, we've all stripped off old wallcoverings to find other designs beneath that either make us ask, "what were they thinking??, to think this looked good!?", . And sometimes, we look back and think, 'gee, I prefer that earliest chosen layer of paper and the way it looks.... why did they ever get rid of it??'
Sorry to digress Mac, i'm just trying to illustrate that old saw known to the Romans, 'Degustibus non disputandum', there really is no accounting for taste.
However, don't think for a minute that I'm not on your side, just because we may disagree, doesn't mean I don't back your crusade 100%. I do back it , and I endorse it . The content, subject and narrative critique inherent in your themed ATTACK print is clear and BANG ON! And in the same breath , I can add that I admire your courage while not necessarily liking the aesthetic look of the thing. The substance , the heartfelt core is plainly there, and this is enough for me , the genuine approach is key , coupled with my personal knowledge of your working practice and long history in the field of printmaking.
Take heart, good onya! best of luck! I hope you win, and until next time , a fond ADIEU. BLUESTARS
Thanks for taking the trouble to send me your prints and the precis for the Fergusson Award...plus my annotations, re;Hirst. Great News! But Mac, ... why stop there?? Why don't you apply for the Turner Prize as well?? You might get shortlisted at the very least-, and I'm told that shortlisting is even better than winning, because you then get some kudos for being part of it , while not having to suffer the total media dissection, (vivisection), of yourself and your work.
I read with interest the Hughes article; he is bang on re: Hirst , and the general mercantile, high end hype, pretention and widget commodification of the London and (international) art mafia. He certainly goes for the jugular, I've got one of his books on Goya, and i've always liked his confident prose style and astute observations of the visual arts in general.
Anyway, I'm in broad agreement with the general thrust of your crusade, but I have a few reservations about your perceptions of the so called "literal" and the so called "abstract", In effect, the danger that may be lurking in your syntax of a confusion between (surface style) or appearance, and (content or substance)...i.e. meaning, philosophy, narrative, content.
I strongly disagree that "Bellini, Durer,Rembrandt,Gericault and Ingres" are, as you say, "too literal" ; because I still assert that all visual 2d and 3d art (including photography)- is an abstraction from so called "reality" or the so called "literal", regardless of the particular surface style or superficial appearance of any work of 'art', including your "own style" or my "own style".
It is the collision of the perceptions of content, subject, meaning-(outside of the physicality) of a work.....on the part of both the artist and the viewing or critical audience of any particular historic period or
age, (and its manifestation therein), that holds a particular fascination for myself as a peripheral philosophe, lateral semiotician, and amateur, psychologist,sociologist, anthropologist, stroke, slash, add to that list (attentive listener and observer).... dare I run on? to add professional art practitioner and art educator?
Witness for example, the application of a strict canon of representational forms prescribed in the ancient Egyptian bas reliefs, tomb paintings and sculpture (before), the singular blip in the proceedings with the advent of the 'so called' Amarna 'style', of Akenaton and his mono-deist solar worship of Amun Ra......A real break with a precedent dogma in both concept, (religion) and 'style' or 'surface' approach to art-but ultimately, as oppressive and tedious as our own weariness with the stagnation a la Hirst, Emin,Starling- and their foisting of a prescriptive (almost purely concept based ethos), (but not entirely), now broadly stamped on the academies, markets and minds in the international "artworld".
Liking or not liking a particular style or surface look or appearance of a work is subjective, and comes down to any individuals personal taste or aesthetic awareness, or otherwise,- and is ultimately arbitrary in any historical period; random , and uncanny.
One can liken it to the sentiments all of us have experienced over the passage of years when looking back over old albums of changing clothing, fashions, over any number of decades and being appalled at (for example), flared bellbottoms, livid stripes, and mutton chop sideburns in the early 1970s, or( for that matter), protruding satin codpieces and big lacy neck ruffs for blokes in the late 1500s???
In the same vein, take wallpaper for example, we've all stripped off old wallcoverings to find other designs beneath that either make us ask, "what were they thinking??, to think this looked good!?", . And sometimes, we look back and think, 'gee, I prefer that earliest chosen layer of paper and the way it looks.... why did they ever get rid of it??'
Sorry to digress Mac, i'm just trying to illustrate that old saw known to the Romans, 'Degustibus non disputandum', there really is no accounting for taste.
However, don't think for a minute that I'm not on your side, just because we may disagree, doesn't mean I don't back your crusade 100%. I do back it , and I endorse it . The content, subject and narrative critique inherent in your themed ATTACK print is clear and BANG ON! And in the same breath , I can add that I admire your courage while not necessarily liking the aesthetic look of the thing. The substance , the heartfelt core is plainly there, and this is enough for me , the genuine approach is key , coupled with my personal knowledge of your working practice and long history in the field of printmaking.
Take heart, good onya! best of luck! I hope you win, and until next time , a fond ADIEU. BLUESTARS
Saturday, 1 November 2008
No Pre-Draft capacity, Bluestars TimeBurn
Very little time again today, just once Im going to hit the keys on the next post with at least some semblance of more or less than an inchoate diatribe, shortening days , so little time , and while its still faster than longhand , the sitting in front of screen without even getting away to do the usual, and the necessary ....has a lot to do with my general lack of easy access to diffusion.
I apologize Col, lack of real composure means I'll wish you well and sign off again until next post , sad to be delivering a whole lot of nothing in this draft, draught? do I need spellcheck?
I apologize Col, lack of real composure means I'll wish you well and sign off again until next post , sad to be delivering a whole lot of nothing in this draft, draught? do I need spellcheck?
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