Portrait of the young artist as a Tweed Prick Oil on canvas, 600 x 800 mm. 2022 I am not, never have been or ever will be a dedicated follower of fashion. The song by the Kinks said it all. That said, I have to admit I can still remember what I was wearing on the day I started at Dundee College of Art. This was because I was still a chrysalis, dressed mostly by my mum. I was wearing a striped shirt, narrow woolen tie, cardigan, sports jacket and fawn cavalry twill trousers. On my feet I wore suede Hush Puppy shoes. Under clothes consisted of string vest and pants. This was my choice as it was the type worn in 1953 on Mount Everest and I felt they had special, possibly mystical powers. This was perfectly normal in 1965 but art students weren't meant to be normal. Looking round the college canteen my gaze fell on a corner occupied by a group of final year students. This was the age of minimalist skirts and coloured tights. The girls looked wonderfully long legged, elegant and for me, unapproachably mature. The guys dressed in paint spattered jeans and wooly jumpers, with the occasional ex-army leather jerkin. They were silent and contemplative, drawing deeply on cigarettes or stroking luxuriant beards which I could never hope to grow. These, I thought, were real artists. Everything that could be said had been said. It was obvious that they were thinking deep thoughts. On that first day I felt I was dressed like an office worker and as a new boy stood out like a sore thumb. Instead of transforming into a colourful butterfly, which was the way male fashion was going at the time, it was necessary to metamorphose into a drab moth. Jeans were essential and wooly, polo neck jumpers, easily obtainable from workwear and army surplus shops. Of course, I kept wearing the string vest. On top of this ensemble, I threw an old U.S. Marines parka of Korean war vintage. It only took a few weeks to transform from a raw schoolboy to a seemingly confident art student. All the jeans needed was a suitable application of randomly spattered daubs of paint. I was happy like this for a year or so, but at the start of the new autumn term my sartorial complacency was given a rude shock. Into the studio strode my friend, John Kirkwood. He was resplendent in several yards of brown, tweed suite. He had been working over the holidays and invested in some clothes. "Wow! The suite looks fantastic. Where did you get it?" "It was in the sale at Jaegers on Princess Street. It wasn't too expensive." I have to admit I coveted this suite. However, as it would be nearly a year before I could earn any money again, I had to practice delayed gratification, a form of virtuous behavior now out of fashion. Oil on board, 458mm x 610mm. 2022 |
Wednesday 7 December 2022
TWEED PRICKS
Wednesday 7 September 2022
HAME TOON
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Burntisland from Dodhead Ink on paper Private collection |
The Old Ferry Pier, Pettycur Oil on canvas, 50cms x 70cms |
Fishermen's Huts, Pettycur Oil on board, 46cms x 61cms |
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The old slipways, Abden Ink and watercolour on paper |
Tuesday 7 June 2022
GETTING WISDOM
Getting Wisdom Oil on board. 305mm x 410mm |
I hung my head in shame.
"Stand up! Hold out you're hands!" The taws zipped through the air with a suddenness of a lightening strike and connected with my flesh. I'd never been belted before. The pain was excruciating and I had to bite my lip to prevent a sob as tears ran down my face. I was eleven years old. The humiliation of being branded a failure was almost as bad as the pain.
"You children have all passed your Eleven Plus exam and are the top ten per cent of the population," announced the Rector of Kirkcaldy High School on our first day. Our innocent faces beamed with pleasure at the thought of enlightened Academia but this was the harsh reality.
"That will teach you to learn your French Vocabulary. You'll get this every time you forget a word. This applies to all you boys." He strutted about in front of the class a demented martinet. His eyes flashed and his grey moustache bristled. He obviously enjoyed it. He was the GRIME
The fearsome reputation of the Grime had filtered down to us and strong, mature men still wince at his memory. None of the stories we'd heard prepared us for this blitzkrieg of violence and French verbs. I began to live in terror of Monday mornings when we had a double period of French. In those days I still believed in God and in the crush of pupils surging inexorably upstairs I'd pray with fervent intensity;
"Oh God! Dear God!
Protect me this day in my darkest hour of need.
May I be able to answer all the questions correctly
and be spared humiliation and the belt.
Make me invisible to him
so his terror passes over me,
or let him have an illness or accident
so he cannot attend school.
Please God! Please God! Please God!
Unfortunately God seemed to be permanently engaged elsewhere. The petty fears of an eleven year old boy seem inconsequential compared to the vast horrors of the universe. The Grime would ask questions round the class,
"What is the meaning of this? How do you say that?" till he came to us dunderheads in the front few rows and the systematic violence began.
"Clelland! Stand up!" Whack! Whack! Whack!
"Gray! Your just down from the trees!" Whack! Whack! Whack!
"You took it like a man" said Hoss in the playground after one vicious belting.
"Look at this" I said and held out my hands. He'd been a bit off target and hit my wrists which were bruised purple and swollen.
"The bastard" said Hoss, "The bastard."
All this was beyond rational thought and in the realm of terror. On Monday mornings I started to feel ill and complain of headaches
"Douglas, we'll have to take you to the doctor if this goes on."
"Where's the pain?" asked the doctor.
"Round here," I said indicating generally my forehead and face.
"It may be his sinuses" suggested the doctor, "I'll arrange for an X-Ray."
All this meant time off school and I was happy.
I was taken into a room with a large X-Ray machine.
"Sit down and press your face against these cross lines." The radiographer retreated and there was a buzz as I was X-Rayed.
"There's nothing on the X-Rays," said the doctor. "How do you feel now?"
"Much the same. Not too bad."
One day the Grime made an announcement.
"Right! This is a class exam. I want you all to do well in this. I'm going to walk round and look at your papers and if I see one mistake you'll get one of the belt, two mistakes two of the belt and so on. Do you understand!"
He was crystal clear. We were dumbstruck.
Towards the end of the period he started at the back of the class looking over shoulders.
"That's spelt wrong! Stand up!" Whack!
"Look! Two mistakes. There and there!" Whack! Whack!
He came to Baker who was one of the top pupils.
"Baker! Stand up! You've made a mistake."
The class turned round to watch this unaccustomed event. Baker blanched white as his chair scraped back and he held out his shaking hands. He'd never been belted before.
Whack!
"That was a stupid mistake. You should have known better," roared the Grime. Then he came to the front row where we sat trembling in terror waiting for the beating of our lives. He looked at my paper.
"If I belted you for every mistake I'd kill you." Then he left us alone.
The dark days of winter passed and if there wasn't a thawing of the Grime he realised that some of us were a lost cause and not worth the aggravation. As Spring passed into Summer and the days stretched out it was the tradition for each class to organise an evening bus trip.
"Any idea where we should go?" asked Kinninmonth.
"Isn't it a bit late? Most classes have had their trips organized for months."
"It's more a matter of who'll go with us, I bet the best teachers have been nabbed by other classes."
A few days later my heart sank when I heard the news. We had a bus and the only teacher who wasn't booked up - the Grime.
The Grime sat beside the French student at the front of the bus. We were subdued all the way to Alva but disgorged a chaotic rabble. I thought I'd explore Alva Glen but others with more energy than brains took to the slopes and rolled boulders down the steep hill. There was moaning about why we had come to this boring place then a frantic hunt for the fish and chip shop where we loaded up with suppers and bottles of lemonade. It was on the road back that Baker displayed a perfect sense of timing. Everyone who travels by bus realises that the long back seat, although coveted by small boys, suffers the greatest movement. Baker was sitting there with his palls guzzling greasy fish and slugging back a big bottle of pink lemonade. Just before Burntisland he began to go green. As we approached a roundabout he staggered forward to the front of the bus with his hand over his mouth.
"Please Sir! Please Sir! I think I'm going to be AAAAArgh" The bus lurched as he projected the full contents of his bloated stomach over the head of the Grime, his jacket and trousers and cascading onto the blouse and skirt of the unfortunate French student.
"Pull in driver! Pull in!"
The coach pulled over to the verge and the Grime got out. The whole class pressed their faces against the windows watching him trying to wipe the spew off with a hanky. His head was decorated with flakes of undigested haddock and big, greasy chips .Oh joy, sweet joy!
Wednesday 30 March 2022
WAITING FOR A WHALE TO DIE
Waiting for a whale to die. 510mm x 635mm. Oil on canvas, 2008 |
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Photos from the Fife Free Press, January 31st, 2008 The distinctive jaw of the Sperm Whale can be seen against the green and white stripes of the crane. |
Wednesday 2 March 2022
THE NORTHERN NINCOMPOOP A homage to L.S. Lowry
Homage to L.S. Lowry Oil on board, 500mm x 425mm 2007/19 |