THE STRANGE TALE OFTHE MAN WHO LOVED FAT AND FELT - A few words about Joseph Beuys

 Lehmbruck

STUKA

All smashed up

STEINER

Anthroposophy

Anthropology

Ethnography

FELT AND FAT

All wrapped up 

In a fishing waistcoat

And felt Fedora

Joseph Beuys on Rannoch Moor.
Oil on canvas, 915mm x 1220mm. 2020

Joseph Beuys was born in Krefeld, Germany in 1921 and died a controversial and world famous artist in 1986. Many commentators regard him and his polar opposite, Andy Warhol, as the greatest artists of the second half of the 20th century. With Warhol, however, what you see is what you get, but with Beuys everything is symbolic of something else.

He grew up during the rise to power of the Nazi Party and like most boys of his time had little choice but to join the Hitler Youth. He wanted to be a doctor but in 1940 volunteered for the German air force. He was trained to be a radio operator on Stuka dive bombers and in 1944, while serving in the Crimea, his aircraft was shot down. The pilot was killed but Beuys was thrown out and sustained serious head injuries. He later turned this near death experience into a myth, in which he was found in the snow by Tartar nomads who covered him in fat and wrapped him in felt to keep warm. He would use these materials frequently in his work.

These war experiences left Beuys suffering from anxiety and depression but in 1947 he began to study sculpture at the Academy of Art in the ruined city of Dusseldorf. He also joined the Anthroposophical Society, a break away from Theosophy led by Rudolph Steiner. Beuys thinking was hugely influenced by Steiner and is the key to understanding his work. In 1954 he suffered a serious nervous breakdown and recovered working on a farm owned by brothers who were old school friends. They supported him and purchased much of his early work. By 1961 he had become professor of monumental sculpture at Dusseldorf Academy and was one of Germany's most challenging and controversial artists.

Richard Demarco ran an art gallery in Edinburgh and first came across the work of Joseph Beuys at the 'Documenta' exhibition in Germany in 1968. He was determined to bring him to Scotland so the next time they met he shewed Beuys a collection of tourists post cards of Scotland. According to Demarco, after a long silence as he studied them, Beuys remarked,

"I see the land of Macbeth; so when shall we two meet again? In thunder, lightning or in rain?"

Beuys was hooked.

Staging the 'Strategy Gets Art' exhibition during the 1970 Edinburgh Festival at the college of art was Demarco's greatest coup. Nothing like this had been shown in Britain before. As well as the work of Joseph Beuys there were other Dusseldorf artists, many who had been his students. It was regarded as being threatening, radical, humorous, challenging and controversial. Beuys exhibited 'Pack', a beaten up Volkswagen van followed by a tail of wooden sledges, each carrying felt, fat and a torch strapped to them.

Demarco was keen to show Beuys the Highlands so he took him on a road trip north. They drove up the A82 and stopped at what Demarco considered the 'Celtic Heart of Scotland' and had a frolic on Rannoch Moor. Beuys miraculously produced a lump of gelatin, carved a rough heart shape with a pen knife and stood with it at arms length, squeezing the gelatin as if it was a genuine, pulsating heart. This was the beating heart of 'Celtic, Druidical Scotland', whatever that means.

The Beating Heart
Oil on board. 2020

ICARUS FALLING INTO THE FIRTH OF FORTH with Muirhead Bone sketching the Grand Fleet.

Icarus falling into the Firth of Forth
 with Muirhead Bone sketching the Grand Fleet.

Oil on canvas, 91.5cms. x 120.2cms.   2020

Muirhead Bone and the Grand Fleet

Muirhead Bone was born in Glasgow and qualified as an architect before studying at Glasgow school of Art. He was unusual for his day in depicting city and industrial scenes with a powerful graphic style using both etching and lithography.

In 1901 he moved to London where his career flourished and he became a successful artist. In 1916 he was appointed Britain's first official war artist, partly because the realistic intensity of his work reproduced well in the propaganda publications of the day. His ability as a draughtsman enabled him to take on complex industrial subjects such as gun and shell manufacturing, as well as producing hundreds of behind the lines sketches of the Western Front. During March 1917 he spent three weeks sketching the Grand Fleet in the Firth of Forth. He also served as a war artist in the Second World War.

The Grand Fleet was the greatest congregation of major war vessels the World had ever seen. The pre war naval arms race with Germany had been won by the British and the Grand Fleet, even after war losses, was far stronger at the end of the war than at the beginning, with many new vessels coming into service. The fleet was formed in 1914 and at the outbreak of war was immediately able to sail to it's operational base at Scapa Flow, where it would engage with enemy forces entering the North Sea and support the blockade of Germany.

Scapa, however, was without repair facilities and with the completion of Rosyth Dockyard the fleet moved to the Firth of Forth. The coastline and islands were heavily fortified and mine fields and booms deterred attacks by submarines and small craft.

By the summer of 1918 the years of trench warfare on the western front were over and the Allies were inexorably pushing the German army back. The naval blockade had bitten deeply into German society and it was clear to the military leadership that they had no hope of winning the war .The admirals, however, planned one last, probably suicidal adventure into the English Channel. This was too much for the crews, who mutinied and started the  revolution that forced the Kaiser to abdicate. The fleet made one last voyage, but not the one that was intended. They were led by a British cruiser into the Firth of Forth and passed between the lines of British and allied vessel then anchored in six lines stretching from Kirkcaldy to Aberlady. After surrendering to Admiral Beatty they steamed to Scapa Flow for internment. There they waited as the Allies wrangled over reparations and how severely to punish Germany. Fearing that the fleet would be parceled out to the Allies, in June 1919 the order was given to scuttle. In an act of defiance the flag of the Imperial German Navy was hoisted to the mast head, the sea cocks opened and the ships sank to the bottom. 

There the proud fleet lay until the 1920's when a scrap merchant decided to raise them. This was no easy task but slowly most of the major vessels were brought to the surface. Their upturned hulls were towed to the Firth of Forth, under the Forth Bridge and broken up in the drydocks at Rosyth. A sad, but fitting end to the fleet that was the deranged Kaisers great vanity project.

Icarus

In an ancient time, long before the Roman vessels unloaded their cargoes of red wine, fish sauce and olives for the troops at Cramond lived a great King of Fib. The king had a problem and this is where the story starts to get a bit weird. It should be remembered, however, that the world was very young then and material things had not been fixed and understood as they are today. He had married a young wife but she had turned from him and fallen in love with a beautiful white bull. Such was her passion that she copulated with the beast and begat a son. As can be imagined, this was no ordinary creature, but had the body of a man and the head of a bull, just like his father. If this creature had been a placid herbivore, living on salads, the king might have turned a blind eye, but it had an insatiable lust for human flesh.

The king needed help and he remembered there was a wise man living across the water in the land of Loth. Now Daedalus,(for that was his name) was not only wise but a great maker and inventor. He did not take the old ways for granted but experimented for himself and Nature was his teacher. Having been promised a great reward, he sailed with Icarus, his son and apprentice, to the land of Fib. He listened and wondered at the Kings strange story, then produced a plan.

"We will contain this creature under the ground, where it belongs," he told the King.

"These passages will be so dark and complex that the beast will never find it's way out."

It took years to construct the labyrinth and at the end of every days work they had to follow a thread to find their way out. With the work competed and the beast contained, they waited for their reward. The King, however, either wished to keep such useful workers to himself or was frightened that his dreadful family secret would be spread throughout the world. Daedalus and Icarus were imprisoned in a high tower on the island of Inchkeith.

Of course, Daedalus had no intention of being a prisoner long, but the island had no wood or skins to build a boat. Day after day he would look south from the tower and in fine weather could even see the smudge of smoke from his homestead in the green land of Loth. Every day he watched the seabirds launch themselves from the cliffs, then with a few effortless flaps of their wings, wheel and soar in circles, flying higher and higher in the updraft from the island.

From the honey bee he took the wax comb and from the sea birds collected the feathers. Through the dark days of winter, when the island was battered by storms, they constructed two sets of wings.

"Now listen son," said Daedalus, " If these wings work, don't fly too low in case the feathers grow wet and heavy. And remember, never, never fly too high because the sun will melt the wax."

"Yes Dad, I know. You've told me this a thousand times."

On a fine summer day, with the sea birds soaring above them, they stood trembling on the edge of the tower. It took great courage to jump off but after a few panicky flaps they were caught by the updraft and carried skywards. Round in great circles they soared, climbing higher and higher. When Daedalus looked down and saw the island about the size of  his hand he shouted to Icarus,

"Turn south! This is high enough."

But Icarus had another plan. Filled with the exhilaration of youth and the freedom of flying he soared higher and higher. 

"Come down!" shouted his father, "Icarus, come down!"

Daedalus watched his son disappear into the arching blue of the heavens then turned south. He had tears in his eyes and felt a terrible foreboding.

Overwhelmed by excitement, Icarus felt no apprehension at all till he felt warm wax trickling down his arms.

"Dam!" he thought, "I'll have to go down," but it was far too late. He started a controlled descent but great chunks of feathers started to break off the wings. He lost control and began tumbling.

Poor Icarus! He plunged faster and faster, head over heels. Not only was he plunging through space but his acceleration was such that he was moving forward through Time. If he managed to open his eyes he would have seen his homestead in Loth was now a great, stone city, shrouded in smoke. Another tumble would have revealed an enormous bridge striding confidently across the shiny estuary and below, swinging lazily on their moorings, the gigantic war vessels of an unknown tribe.

 

 

THE QUEEN ON LOCHNAGAR

The Queen on Lochnagar
Oil on canvas bonded to board.
40.6cms  x 56cms, 2020

The last trip I made to Lochnagar was in 2017, which I wrote about in 'At the well of the fox'. What I didn't mention in this account was that while on the summit I met the Queen. I was so stunned by this event, which seemed so out of context that I didn't really know how to deal with it. Instead, I created this little painting in commemoration.

 

Now, you have to understand that I am no royalist. In fact, most of my life I have been a republican. Not one of the militant sort that rant and rave as I don't think who is head of State matters much. The truth was that I was quite concerned by the event. Here was an old lady inexplicably wearing court dress on the snowy summit of a mountain and it was becoming very cold. At first I thought she must have been wandering a bit and a little dottled. She seemed to be completely alone so I considered calling the police and social services to arrange a helicopter. However, I needn't have worried. She was as bright as a button, saying it was a few years since she'd been here and we talked about the tree planting and the ravages of weather. At this one of here ladies in waiting appeared from behind the cairn. By the way she was adjusting her clothing I assumed she'd nipped behind a boulder to have a piddle. Away they went, skipping quit spryly over the boulders.

Now you may ask, what was the Queen doing there, on the summit of Lochnagar?

Well, she owns the whole mountain. I was wandering in her back garden!

   
 

JOHNSON AND BOSWELL ON INCHKEITH, having mistaken the century.

Johnson and Boswell on Inchkeith,
 having mistaken the century.
Oil on canvas, 2020
61cms. x 81cms.

On the 18th of August 1773, Samuel Johnson with his friend and travelling companion James Boswell embarked on their famous journey to the Western Isles. They sailed across the Firth of Forth on the ferry from Leith to Kinghorn, but half way across they landed on the uninhabited island of Inchkeith. There they examined the ruins of an old fort and Johnson "stalked like a giant among the luxuriant thistles and nettles." I assumed this was the only visit they made to the island, until my attention was drawn to another source. A friend, who is a military historian, picked up a box of junk from a car boot sale and one of it's contents was a battered old notebook. To his surprise he discovered this was the diary of Lieutenant Arthur Perkins, Royal Garrison Artillery, A Group, South Battery, Inchkeith.

The keeping of diaries by soldiers in wartime was strictly prohibited but the diary of Lt. Perkins would have provided little military information to an enemy. He was a keen ornithologist and used the diary mostly to record the behavior of ground nesting and migrating birds that landed on the island. This was not the safe haven it had been, or was later to become, for many species of birds. During World War 2 over a thousand men served there and any open space was taken up by hutted accommodation. With over two thousand hob nailed boots clambering over the island the nesting gulls and Eider ducks were pushed to the fringes. However, his position, in the command post of the south battery, looked down on a grassy area next to the shoreline. Here he was able to spend many long hours studying the domestic lives of Cormorants as their large nest lay safely within a barbed wire entanglement. 

He served on Inchkeith till 1943. By this time the threat of invasion or surface attack was minimal and personnel were being selected out for the invasion of Europe. He was transferred to a field artillery unit which was heavily engaged and was seriously wounded. Fortunately he pulled through and survived the war. His passion for the natural world continued and he became an eminent professor of Zoology. His work is seen as influential in the development of modern Ecology. 

Extract from the diary of Lieutenant Arthur Perkins for April 1st, 1941.

08.35 hours.

Battery on full alert. Periscope sighted east of island. A Hudson aircraft from Leuchars patrols the shipping lane.

09.15

Stood down. As suspected, false alarm. Naval launch identifies periscope as driftwood.

09.30

Naval launch withdraws. Hudson bombs alleged periscope, sinking, (possibly) offending driftwood. Great glee and cheers, (jeers?) all over island.

15.25

Gunner Ambrose relates a strange story which may yet prove to be an elaborate practical joke. He was on guard duty on the northern side of the battery when he was approached by two men, dressed, as he put it.

"Just like Dick Turpin or actors in Treasure Island. One of them was a massive, fat, sort of cove wearing one of these old fashioned, triangular hats, a big brown great coat and long leather boots. His pall was finer dressed, in white silk stockings and white wig, like those worn by legal types in court."

Naturally, he challenged them. He assumed they were some chaps from another group having a joke but the older character acted up, waving his stick violently in the air and giving him dogs abuse. I would have inclined to think that Ambrose was pulling my leg, or the isolation of this posting had finally got to him and he was hallucinating, but an M.P. (military policeman) arrived on the scene and corroborated his story. He was so concerned about the waving stick and violent expletives that he drew his pistol and was about to arrest them when they suddenly disappeared into thin air.

Although concerned he would be made a laughing stock the M.P. did his duty and informed the Commanding Officer. The C.O. was concerned there had been a breach of perimeter security  so the whole place was thoroughly searched and a naval launch circled the island. The barbed wire was still intact and no one answering their description or any vessel was found. This will be the subject of great hilarity in the Mess tonight.

SHIPYARD, the story of a painting.

Oil on canvas, 81cms. x 64cms.
1967

This painting is a survivor. It is now over fifty years old and was lucky enough not to be committed to the annual bonfire of my student work I had every summer. For many years it languished in the attic but always had some personal value for me. It was a product of a unique experience and for me, a painting in a breakthrough style.

 I started at Duncan of Jordanstone College of Art, Dundee, in 1965. In those days there was a two year general course before specialising in the subject of your choice. I was keen to be a painter. I worked hard but I don't think I was regarded as having more than average promise. The painting school was run by Alberto Morocco and like all the Scottish art schools the course was very traditional. The emphasis was on life drawing, painting and still life. 'Composition', where you could make paintings of your own subject, was the place where aspiring artists could shine. At the end of the second year those of us going into the painting school were told to make a painting over the holidays. There was no specific subject given and the return to college in late September seemed far away. I had no idea what I would do.

As it happened, I was lucky to get a summer job working as a plumbers mate at Burntisland shipyard. The duties were quite simple, just to assist the plumber with another pair of hands, fetch and carry and generally make myself useful. The work was not hard and there was usually some free time when pipes were being prepared or waiting for access to areas where other trades were working. My plumber was tall and gentlemanly and as a tradesman wore a collar and tie, a bunnet on his bald head and a clean brown boiler suite that was belted in the middle. He never swore but had a dry sense of humour.

"Dougie, you know, this ship was designed in Switzerland. I'll let you into a secret. Why don't you go down to the engine room, into the double bottom and find the golden rivet."

He tried all the usual ones like

"Dougie, go to the stores and ask the store man for a long stand." 

If you fell for that one the store man said.

"A long stand? I think there's one somewhere. I'll be back in a minute."

When we were not working in tight, dark corners bolting flanges together I would be out on deck, watching what was going on. Big sections of rusty steel would hang in the air as cranes lowered them to the deck. There was the constant flash of welding and cascades of sparks as burners cut through plates. Although riveting was almost a thing of the past the noise of metal clanging on metal was intense. Then the hooter would blow and in an instant all fell silent. Tea break. As if from nowhere flocks of seagulls circled as men opened their haversacks and unwrapped their pieces. The burners would reduce the pressure of their torches to a yellow flame and play it on blackened syrup tins with a screw of tea leaves in them. The hooter blew, the gulls flew off, the cranes began to swing and the clanging, bashing and flashing continued till dinner time.

One afternoon, when things seemed slack, I skived off and went to look for a pall who was an engineer. I knew there was a big push going on in the engine room  and to get there I had to go down though the decks of the engine trunking .This was open to the sky and as I descended the steel companion ways there was an outbreak of shouting and laughter above me. Sparks had set fire to an awning and blackened canvas drifted down as men pulled it down and stamped the flames out. I stared down into the depths at the top of an enormous diesel engine. The three cylinders were open and I could see one of them held a person. I could only see the top of his head but recognized Richard. He was standing in the giant cylinder pot with a small square of abrasive, rubbing it smooth. I shouted above the din,

"Richard! How do you get all the good jobs?"

He looked up with the expression of a martyred Saint. There was nothing to be said.

Laying deck service pipes in a straight line was easy, but it was not all like this. In difficult sections, like the bow, there were no straight lines at all. A template had to be tacked together, using thin strips of wood then carefully carried to the plumbers shop where the workshop team took over. The template was laid on a large metal bed, perforated with holes and steel pegs inserted at every bend. A suitable pipe was filled with sand, (to stop it buckling) heated red hot and placed on the bed. A cable attached to a winch bent the pipe round the steel peg. This could be done several times, till the pipe was true to the template.

For me, all this was a visual feast. Every day the hulls in the stocks changed colour as the red leaders rolled on different layers of paint. They reminded me of giant Rothko paintings, which at that time  I'd only seen in books. I've seen a lot of Rothko's since and for me the ships hulls were much better. I thought of taking in a sketch book and doing some surreptitious drawing, but my senses were over awed and I hadn't learnt yet to be selective. I was also frightened of the ribbing I'd get being seen to be an artist. The word had spread, however, that I was an art student.

One day I was high on the superstructure when a young welder came up to me.

"Whit dae ye dae?"

"I'm an art student."

"Aye, a ken that, but whit exactly dae ye dae?"

"I study drawing and painting."

"Aye, but whit dae ye paint? Dae ye ever paint lassies?"

"Oh aye, we have to do life drawing and life painting."

"Life drawing, whits that?"

"Oh, just drawing the human figure."

"An these lassies, dae they hae ony claithes on?"

"Nope! Not a stitch."

"Totally naked, nae nickers or onything?"

"Nude"

"Naked nude? Fuck me!"

"Actually, it's really boring."

"AW JIMMY, THIS BOYS GONNAE DRAW US A BIG NUDE!"

When I left the shipyard to go back to college the sights, smells, sounds and even the taste of rusty metal and red lead went with me. I was bursting with sensations.

I arrived in Dundee a few days before college was due to start. I'd rented an old flat in St. Peters Street, part of the 'Twilight Zone' that was soon to be demolished. Things were, to say the least, basic, but it was cheap and only a hole in the wall where I could come back to sleep. There was a little box room with an easel so I quickly stretched a canvas and primed it with emulsion paint, which dried quickly. I had no problem about subject matter as my head was full of shipyard. I painted quite spontaneously with no preparation and it was still wet when I took it into college.

A tutor came into the studio to see what everyone had done and give us a crit. This was Dennis Buchan, one of the younger members of staff. Usually he lit a fag and drew heavily on it while he pondered the work. When he saw my painting, however, he cried out,

"Wow! Who did this? Where did that come from?"

He seemed genuinely surprised. I was pleased with this response and painted a longer version, looking down on two vessels. This was accepted for the Scottish Young Contemporaries exhibition held at the Richard Demarco Gallery in Edinburgh and sold for £25, which seemed like a lot of money. Unfortunately, at this time I lacked the confidence to sign my work so I had to take my box of paints to Edinburgh and make a signature, a lesson I've never forgotten. That painting disappeared from my life, but a few years ago I found it online in an auction house in Glasgow. The title was given as Dundee Shipyard and attributed to one Douglas Stannus Gray, (1890 - 1959), whose work is completely different from mine and died seven years before it was painted. Whoever bought it got a bargain, for it went for only £170.

It was years later that I found that Stanley Spencer had served as a war artist on the Clyde and made a remarkable and unparalleled record of ship building. When I viewed these paintings in the 1980 exhibition at the Royal Academy it was as if I was back in Burntisland. All that was missing was the noise and I could remember that. Sadly, the yard which had built 310 ships and worked for over fifty years failed two years after my summer there. The ship that I worked on, the Ohrmazd, was financed by the British Government for Pakistan. There were endless changes and wrangling over equipment, so that the contract over ran. This incurred severe financial penalties which the company couldn't pay and closed in 1969.