The City Art Centre on Market Street is an interesting place to explore conflict. There are some interesting pieces on display but the whole place has the benign quality that this is a space for everyone.
But where there is art there are people and where there are people there is conflict.
Five minute exercise
"You can't take that, sir."
A security guard was suddenly on his shoulder, his hand gently but firmly pressing the bollard back down.
Will smiled, but it was forced; how often was he going to be told that he couldn't do what he wanted?
"It's alright," he said thinly. "I'm opening this room up; it's ready." He tried to release the ribbon, but the guard's grip was firm.
"Has the director said that it's okay?"
"No, but I'll tell her when she arrives; it's my exhibition."
There were a few rooms that were in the process of changing exhibits. One room had red and white tape across the doorway but you could clearly see the detritus beyond, the art had gone but the sculpture stands, the information cards and some general rubbish was strewn about.
In the moment I took this at face value but as it was so easy and even tempting to look in, I now wonder if this was some sort of installation...the art that is left after the "art" has gone. Maybe that's too meta and it was just as it appeared. Though if so, I felt that the staff had done a poor job of clearing the space ready for the next exhibition.
Main task
I am interested in the first female artists to pass through the Glasgow School of Art in the late 19th century.
I first came upon some of them in a hidden corner of the NMS and ever since they have fascinated me. So when I spotted a Mary Buchanan sculpture tucked in amongst the more contemporary fare I was immediately drawn to it.
"La Rêvense" or The Dreamer (1910) is a small bronze statue of a pensive woman in a thoughtful pose with her elbow on her knee and her chin resting on her hand.
For some reason it is classed among the "nudes" of the 1900s, which got me thinking.
The Clothed Nude
"My mother would die of shame!"
Mary inhaled slowly, pursing her lips. "I'm not asking your mother," she said "and no one other than the four of us will ever know."
They were standing in the corridor as rowdy students bustled past them, paint boxes and art cases knocking about their long skirts. Most of the men ignored them and their furtive reverie but the odd "tsk" was uttered at their blocking the passage, or perhaps at their being at the school of art at all.
Jen held her hands up to her crimson cheeks; "I can't, I just can't," she said.
Mary touched her friend's arm. "It's fine," she said; "maybe we can pay someone to sit for us. We should go, we'll be late."
The crowds had thinned out and two young women appeared out of the studio behind them, last to leave but not flustered and together the four friends walked to their lecture on Rococo.
Later they sat in their dingy digs on Hyndland Street.
"Go on Jean," Maggie urged, "you are by far the most Grecian." Dot snorted but Maggie persisted, "she is!"
"She doesn't want to do it, Maggie." Said Mary, stabbing a slice of bread. "And that's that." She held the bread up to the fire, there was a suspect blob of green on the crust and she pushed it firmly into the grate, in an effort to burn off the offensive material or at least for the coal dust to cover it. "We'll pay someone," she said.
"With what?" Dot asked, picking the mould off her own slice of bread before approaching the hearth. "We can barely afford enough coal to toast our supper."
The four women sat, huddled round the meagre blaze as their bread very slowly warmed through, but struggled to toast.
"Maybe we could paint them a picture, or give them a sculpture," offered Jean.
"Who is going to want a nude sculpture of themselves?" Dot said, "other than a prostitute."
The fire crackled in the grate and Mary looked at Maggie, raising her eyebrows, before all four of them started giggling.
"A prostitute would want the money; she knows her worth." Said Mary as the laughter died down. "She's worth more than us."
She slipped her bread off the toasting fork and flipped it over, impaling it once more and exposing the soft side to the fire. The mould was still visible but she could scrape it off now that it had dried out.
"Why do we need a life model anyway?" Jean asked. "I thought art was about depicting emotion, not just form."
"It is, but the men get to do nudes, so why shouldn't we?"
They sat staring into the fire.
"What if I imagine I'm naked," Jean said, sitting up. "What if I'm thinking about being naked, dreaming of it, but am actually clothed? Could you capture that?"
Mary, Maggie and Dot looked at each other; a clothed nude?
Jean started tapping her toast with the butter knife, "the men couldn't do that, could they? They could never depict a woman, imagining herself naked, dreaming of being free of her clothes, of her stays, but all the while appearing meek and pure."
Mary smiled. "No, I don't think that would ever enter their minds." She smiled, "you'll sit then, Jean?"
"Yes I will."
In every session I write something totally new. I never rehash old material and always look for something fresh to inspire me. However, this is the second time I've used real and imagined women from the early days of mixed classes at the Glasgow School of Art and I'm sure it won't be the last.
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