DO YOU SEE WHAT I DID THERE? BECAUSE I DON'T....
"We know our future lies in working together to build a better Britain. Yes, we may enjoy the odd triumphant jeer at the mewling, puking infants of Remain (And why not? We’ve put up with the quislings for years) but it’s not we who are ‘sabotaging’ the country; quite the reverse. The world is watching and if anything is making us look foolish and unreliable it is the remainers stoking up the fear factor. No wonder they see division; they are largely responsible for it. No wonder they see hate; they are, literally, asking for it. It’s time for the sulky teens to stop bleating about their lives being ruined and start rolling up their sleeves, like grown-ups."
The above comes from a blog post by a Leave the EU fanatic calling himself Battsby. There's certainly something batty going on. He also describes himself as "alt-right", which appears to be the current trendy term for neofascist. So he might be a cunt, but he's a fashionable cunt. And, like almost everyone I've come across on the far right of politics, irony appears to be beyond him.
I didn't edit that paragraph at the top, there's nothing left out or added. He genuinely writes about "working together" in one sentence, and then derides about fifty per cent of the UK population as "Quislings". To further the ironical moment he uses a term for 'traitors' that was used to identify collaborators with the Nazis. As that far right inspiration the Daily Fail might put it, you couldn't make it up, could you?
But apparently we're only 'seeing' hate. There isn't any out there, everyone's friends, and all those reports and statistics proving that hate crime has risen dramatically in England since June are just the bleating of sulky teens.
He's right about one thing though. The world is watching. And laughing. The UK became a laughing stock on 24 June. Now with the world's worst performing currency (and therefore on the brink of massive rises in food prices) and a leadership that is both authoritarian and clueless. They don't want parliamentary scrutiny of their actions, presumably for fear of being found out that they don't have a clue. Even the Tory Chancellor is starting to think so.
OK, it's just one sad blogger I'm quoting, an aging white male with over the top insecurity issues who wants the world to work for him and his ilk alone. The trouble is that people like him now have a voice in government. David Davis, once a staunch defender of parliament, has suddenly decided that imperious works better now he has power, while The Disgraced Liam Fox goes around the planet getting mocked. And then there's Foreign Secretary Johnston (no, I still don't really believe it either....) making sure he upset as many other countries as possible. It's an embarrassing time to have to admit you're British.
In Scotland we do have our Battsby-like characters, although not generally quite so outlandishly Colonel Blimpish. But they are a rarity here and have no traction in our society, as the election results for ukip clearly show. We are, more and more, a different country to England. For my friends down there I sincerely hope you find a way to change course. But as long as you have so many passengers insisting that the iceberg looks interesting, we are going to have to think about when we man the lifeboats.
Monday 17 October 2016
Monday 3 October 2016
Turning myself into .... art?
THE ART OF NARCISSISM
I have a new project to amuse myself with over the next few weeks. It's inspired by two recent events in my life.
The first was visiting the Facing The World exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery, my favourite amongst the city's excellent and varied art houses of art. A collection of self portraits from Rembrandt to the present day, it was striking, intriguing and sometimes disturbing. There were plenty of images that left an impact upon me, but two would return to mind later when the second event hit me.
It was seeing the photo above one morning. Hillary Clinton, US Presidential Candidate, waving to a crowd. All of whom are looking at her on tiny screens while they turn their back on one of the most famous women in the world. Could anything exemplify what's become known as the Selfie Culture any more than this image? A society where many people appear not to believe they've been somewhere, done something, seen someone unless they have a photograph to place themselves in the place, the action, with the person. It's a phenomenon the likes of Nicola Sturgeon has seized on and not only accepted but used to her advantage. It seems Clinton is going the same route.
I take photos of the place the event, the person, but I know I've been behind the lens, I don't need to place myself in the shot to prove it. Maybe it's an age thing, but I confess to being one of those people who winces at the sight of a selfie stick. All the time I have no good reason for doing so, other than another attitude that's stuck in the past... Move on Crawford!
Yet the apparent narcissism of the selfie's predominance is an issue that's discussed seriously in many publications and discussions. It's a significant cultural change, yet another arriving through new technology and the power of interconnectedness, whether deemed beneficial, detrimental or neutral. Is it also art? When does the selfie stop being narcissism and become art? Or can these two things coexist?
So was Rembrandt a narcissist? Lacking the advantages of photography artists frequently painted themselves simply for practice, to improve their technique, to experiment with lighting and poses and expressions. Models were expensive and not always readily available. The selfie of the time was a practical necessity for an artist seeking to improve.
But the selfie now? The same approach can apply if you want to seriously undertake some portrait photography. But it can be art too. In that exhibition there was an intriguing self portrait photograph by an artist in the 1930s (I have forgotten her name, sadly). The camera is slightly above her and to her left. She is sat down looking relaxed, looking away to the left of the shot, one hand in her lap, the other out of the frame. It was thought the (missing) left hand was holding the pressure bulb used to trigger the remote control to take the picture. Nowadays our cameras have timers, making this kind of shot easier to set up. That thirties photo, so striking in it's composition, is proof of the selfie as art. It said as much about the subject as many of the wonderful paintings on those walls.
So how can you or I turn selfies into an art form? Are there rules to follow? Or is the intent that enables the transformation? My own wee experiment is to take frequent selfies over the next couple of months and see what the results are. To use varied lighting, poses, angles, facial expressions. Rather than my phone I'm going 'old tech'. Well back to 2008, before the selfie exploded into what it is today. Nothing fancy, just a compact Canon, new enough to have reasonable pixel count and lens, old enough to be a break from the social media immediacy of the selfie as we know it today. No photoshopping, no filters, no fancy effects. Flash, tripod and timer are the only conveniences I'll employ.
I have no idea where this is leading me, but I'll be posting the results in December.
I have a new project to amuse myself with over the next few weeks. It's inspired by two recent events in my life.
The first was visiting the Facing The World exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery, my favourite amongst the city's excellent and varied art houses of art. A collection of self portraits from Rembrandt to the present day, it was striking, intriguing and sometimes disturbing. There were plenty of images that left an impact upon me, but two would return to mind later when the second event hit me.
It was seeing the photo above one morning. Hillary Clinton, US Presidential Candidate, waving to a crowd. All of whom are looking at her on tiny screens while they turn their back on one of the most famous women in the world. Could anything exemplify what's become known as the Selfie Culture any more than this image? A society where many people appear not to believe they've been somewhere, done something, seen someone unless they have a photograph to place themselves in the place, the action, with the person. It's a phenomenon the likes of Nicola Sturgeon has seized on and not only accepted but used to her advantage. It seems Clinton is going the same route.
I take photos of the place the event, the person, but I know I've been behind the lens, I don't need to place myself in the shot to prove it. Maybe it's an age thing, but I confess to being one of those people who winces at the sight of a selfie stick. All the time I have no good reason for doing so, other than another attitude that's stuck in the past... Move on Crawford!
Yet the apparent narcissism of the selfie's predominance is an issue that's discussed seriously in many publications and discussions. It's a significant cultural change, yet another arriving through new technology and the power of interconnectedness, whether deemed beneficial, detrimental or neutral. Is it also art? When does the selfie stop being narcissism and become art? Or can these two things coexist?
So was Rembrandt a narcissist? Lacking the advantages of photography artists frequently painted themselves simply for practice, to improve their technique, to experiment with lighting and poses and expressions. Models were expensive and not always readily available. The selfie of the time was a practical necessity for an artist seeking to improve.
But the selfie now? The same approach can apply if you want to seriously undertake some portrait photography. But it can be art too. In that exhibition there was an intriguing self portrait photograph by an artist in the 1930s (I have forgotten her name, sadly). The camera is slightly above her and to her left. She is sat down looking relaxed, looking away to the left of the shot, one hand in her lap, the other out of the frame. It was thought the (missing) left hand was holding the pressure bulb used to trigger the remote control to take the picture. Nowadays our cameras have timers, making this kind of shot easier to set up. That thirties photo, so striking in it's composition, is proof of the selfie as art. It said as much about the subject as many of the wonderful paintings on those walls.
So how can you or I turn selfies into an art form? Are there rules to follow? Or is the intent that enables the transformation? My own wee experiment is to take frequent selfies over the next couple of months and see what the results are. To use varied lighting, poses, angles, facial expressions. Rather than my phone I'm going 'old tech'. Well back to 2008, before the selfie exploded into what it is today. Nothing fancy, just a compact Canon, new enough to have reasonable pixel count and lens, old enough to be a break from the social media immediacy of the selfie as we know it today. No photoshopping, no filters, no fancy effects. Flash, tripod and timer are the only conveniences I'll employ.
I have no idea where this is leading me, but I'll be posting the results in December.
Sunday 2 October 2016
If there's a hard way to do something....
ONE DOWN, TWO TO GO
A few weeks ago I wrote here about the start of the new ice hockey season and the sense of hope that came with it. In it I said that we caps fans weren't a demanding lot. We're loyal, and, knowing how inferior our budget is to the bigger clubs, our hopes and expectations are realistic. I wrote :
"If we could qualify for the knockout stages of the cup; if we could finish in the top eight of the league and have a chance to make it to the Playoffs; and, most importantly, if we can beat old rival Fife Ayers (their misprint, not mine) then we'll consider that a successful season."
Tonight we had the chance to see the first of those simple aspirations come true. With the added edge that it was in a match against old rivals Fife Flyers. After a run of four wins in five games the team had got themselves into the position where a win in regulation time would guarantee a place in the knockout stages of the cup. A Caps game that actually had an important outcome, now that's been a rarity over the years!
What we got was a drama of Shakespearean intensity and complexity, and heart stopping tension. Complete with a bit of light relief, courtesy of the Fifers. Caps were 0-1 down after the first period. And a bit of as disaster in the second, with Fife adding a second, us getting one back, but two more Fife goals before the end. Trailing 1-4 was, I confess on the disheartening side. They've managed a few comebacks in recent games, but four goals in twenty minutes was asking a lot. And even if we scored three then won in overtime it wouldn't make that cup place secure.
We're now wondering what Coach Dobron said to the guys before that third period started. They must have been magic words. Two goals in the first three and half minutes, the equaliser four minutes later, and constant pressure on the Fife goal gave us the lead with more than four minutes still on the clock. And another a couple of minutes later just to be on the safe side....
It wasn't always pretty. But it was exciting, impressive, exhilarating, exhausting to watch. There will be a lot of sore throats in Edinburgh tomorrow morning. When our fifth went in a surprising number of Flyers fans started heading for the exit, more following after the sixth. There weren't many left when the buzzer went. They don't do loyalty in Fife, not like Caps fans.
What a night. A three goal deficit turned into a two goal victory. Humiliation for our oldest rivals. And, for once, Caps have qualified for something. The way they are playing this season it won't be the last.
If you live in the Edinburgh area you really, really should come along and give this team a watch. (Fixture list here.) It might not always be quite as drama packed as tonight's occasion, but it certainly won't be dull.
#MonTheCaps
A few weeks ago I wrote here about the start of the new ice hockey season and the sense of hope that came with it. In it I said that we caps fans weren't a demanding lot. We're loyal, and, knowing how inferior our budget is to the bigger clubs, our hopes and expectations are realistic. I wrote :
"If we could qualify for the knockout stages of the cup; if we could finish in the top eight of the league and have a chance to make it to the Playoffs; and, most importantly, if we can beat old rival Fife Ayers (their misprint, not mine) then we'll consider that a successful season."
Tonight we had the chance to see the first of those simple aspirations come true. With the added edge that it was in a match against old rivals Fife Flyers. After a run of four wins in five games the team had got themselves into the position where a win in regulation time would guarantee a place in the knockout stages of the cup. A Caps game that actually had an important outcome, now that's been a rarity over the years!
What we got was a drama of Shakespearean intensity and complexity, and heart stopping tension. Complete with a bit of light relief, courtesy of the Fifers. Caps were 0-1 down after the first period. And a bit of as disaster in the second, with Fife adding a second, us getting one back, but two more Fife goals before the end. Trailing 1-4 was, I confess on the disheartening side. They've managed a few comebacks in recent games, but four goals in twenty minutes was asking a lot. And even if we scored three then won in overtime it wouldn't make that cup place secure.
We're now wondering what Coach Dobron said to the guys before that third period started. They must have been magic words. Two goals in the first three and half minutes, the equaliser four minutes later, and constant pressure on the Fife goal gave us the lead with more than four minutes still on the clock. And another a couple of minutes later just to be on the safe side....
It wasn't always pretty. But it was exciting, impressive, exhilarating, exhausting to watch. There will be a lot of sore throats in Edinburgh tomorrow morning. When our fifth went in a surprising number of Flyers fans started heading for the exit, more following after the sixth. There weren't many left when the buzzer went. They don't do loyalty in Fife, not like Caps fans.
What a night. A three goal deficit turned into a two goal victory. Humiliation for our oldest rivals. And, for once, Caps have qualified for something. The way they are playing this season it won't be the last.
If you live in the Edinburgh area you really, really should come along and give this team a watch. (Fixture list here.) It might not always be quite as drama packed as tonight's occasion, but it certainly won't be dull.
#MonTheCaps
Saturday 1 October 2016
Memory connects
A WALK ALONG PORTY PROM
It's the first of October in Scotland and it's not supposed to be like this. Blue sky, sunshine, warmth, an invitation to take in some sights. So we got a bus to Edinburgh's pretension to be a seaside resort - Portobello. A name that may oversell the charms of the locale - just because we're twinned with Nice doesn't make this the Promenade des Anglais - but which has a special place in the city's affections. If you wanted to go to the beach you went to Porty, and that sentiment links to my own past.
This was the place where my granny and auntie would take me to go to 'the shows'. AKA the penny arcade, the slot machines, the one armed bandits (none of this effete push-button nonsense back then, it was proper lever pulling....). And everything cost a penny. (That's 1d of course.) The building remains, still has the same function, but I suspect they'd charge me a lot more than even 1p to have a go.
But whilst a lot of Porty remains the same, much has changed too. The beach is cleaner for a start (helped greatly by EU quality standards, just sayin') and the choice of eating places has improved greatly on the main drag. The most dramatic differences are at the western end, once dominated by the power station, and the neighbouring outdoor, and unheated, swimming pool, both long gone and replaced by some unremarkable housing. Progress we call it.
Today the prom was busy. Dogs, bikes, kids, joggers and strollers like ourselves. Not so many on the beach though. For some it was even possible to imagine yourself all alone.
Walking along we were tempted by the offers on the blackboard of this old van.
As former 2CV owners we have a soft spot for those corrugated H Vans, evocative of rural France. Indeed it was good to see a similar vehicle in Blefast just a couple of weeks ago.
My eye was caught by the 'spicy veg haggis sausage roll', a nomenclature so weighted down with internal contradictions that it begged to be tasted. But first a seat in the sun in the Community Garden, another feature that definitely had no place in the early sixties, then back to find.... a sticker saying they'd run out of my comestible of choice. Such are life's minor disappointments.
So we wandered up the slope, seeking an alternative, and on the way passed another link to our Ugly Duckling days, but with a whiff more elegance to it's bearing. Maigret comes to Porty.
My cravings were satisfied by a veggie haggis and fried egg roll (Porty isn't about sophistication), and my memory stirred by a window where this painting took me back to the icy salt water and the wave machine that the pool was famed for.
There was even some amusement to be had for the naming of this shop, less naff than most puns of it's type.
And even waiting for the bus jogged the grey cells back over a few decades. My dad worked out of Portobello,Police Station for several years, and it remains the most attractive looking cop shop I've seen. Well, outside at least.
An afternoon that was enjoyable in itself, but enhanced by the connections to and memories of the past.
I'm getting old, ain't I?
It's the first of October in Scotland and it's not supposed to be like this. Blue sky, sunshine, warmth, an invitation to take in some sights. So we got a bus to Edinburgh's pretension to be a seaside resort - Portobello. A name that may oversell the charms of the locale - just because we're twinned with Nice doesn't make this the Promenade des Anglais - but which has a special place in the city's affections. If you wanted to go to the beach you went to Porty, and that sentiment links to my own past.
This was the place where my granny and auntie would take me to go to 'the shows'. AKA the penny arcade, the slot machines, the one armed bandits (none of this effete push-button nonsense back then, it was proper lever pulling....). And everything cost a penny. (That's 1d of course.) The building remains, still has the same function, but I suspect they'd charge me a lot more than even 1p to have a go.
But whilst a lot of Porty remains the same, much has changed too. The beach is cleaner for a start (helped greatly by EU quality standards, just sayin') and the choice of eating places has improved greatly on the main drag. The most dramatic differences are at the western end, once dominated by the power station, and the neighbouring outdoor, and unheated, swimming pool, both long gone and replaced by some unremarkable housing. Progress we call it.
Today the prom was busy. Dogs, bikes, kids, joggers and strollers like ourselves. Not so many on the beach though. For some it was even possible to imagine yourself all alone.
Walking along we were tempted by the offers on the blackboard of this old van.
As former 2CV owners we have a soft spot for those corrugated H Vans, evocative of rural France. Indeed it was good to see a similar vehicle in Blefast just a couple of weeks ago.
My eye was caught by the 'spicy veg haggis sausage roll', a nomenclature so weighted down with internal contradictions that it begged to be tasted. But first a seat in the sun in the Community Garden, another feature that definitely had no place in the early sixties, then back to find.... a sticker saying they'd run out of my comestible of choice. Such are life's minor disappointments.
So we wandered up the slope, seeking an alternative, and on the way passed another link to our Ugly Duckling days, but with a whiff more elegance to it's bearing. Maigret comes to Porty.
My cravings were satisfied by a veggie haggis and fried egg roll (Porty isn't about sophistication), and my memory stirred by a window where this painting took me back to the icy salt water and the wave machine that the pool was famed for.
There was even some amusement to be had for the naming of this shop, less naff than most puns of it's type.
And even waiting for the bus jogged the grey cells back over a few decades. My dad worked out of Portobello,Police Station for several years, and it remains the most attractive looking cop shop I've seen. Well, outside at least.
An afternoon that was enjoyable in itself, but enhanced by the connections to and memories of the past.
I'm getting old, ain't I?
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