I met with Sylvia and Cat and at the National Portrait Gallery to explore emotions as a theme. It will not be the last time we delve into emotions as it is a bottomless pit of inspiration, variety and fodder for writing.
I felt a bit lacklustre today to be honest and when we met in the gallery cafe beforehand it turned out that we were all hungry, tired and needing more than just a brownie and a kick up the backside. But after mountains of their excellent salads, gallons of caffeine and several cakes between us and, of course, a right good chin wag, we embarked (quite late) on the writing session.
If you've never been to the Scottish National Portrait Gallery on Queen Street in Edinburgh I would highly recommend it (and not just it's cafe). It is in a lovely 1889 red stone building that the buses and trams sail by with little fanfare. It is never really busy, which is a shame really, but makes for a pleasant few hours wandering it's many halls.
Five minute exercise
To get us in the mood for emotions I tried something different, getting everyone to pull from the hat an emotion and a level of emotion, from neutral to extreme. I, of course pulled level one (little or no emotion) and shame. Can you feel little or no shame? It was my game and pride comes...well you know the rest.
Gemma looked up as she pushed the door to the gallery open. I watched her drop the bag on the Romanesque tiled floor and stepped towards her in two giant strides.
She recoiled as I was suddenly in her face, pale and breathing heavily. The light caught her face, the still wet cheeks showing her recent tears.
"I sold it," she mumbled, her words sucking the air out of the gallery. I knew what she had done, sacrificed, but felt almost nothing. I should have trusted her.
Numb is a level of emotion, I told myself (and Sylvia and Cat) and as always they were kindness itself.
Main task
Up until a decade ago the SNPG didn't have total domain over the site on Queen Street, the Scottish Society of Antiquaries had more than half the building. But they moved and the portraiture was allowed to spread and lay claim. With millions of pounds in grants over the intervening years (£30m sticks in my head, but I might have made that up) the space is now full but not crowded with everything from Henry Raeburn and Allan Ramsay to Billy Connolly and Ken Currie's Three Oncologists (creepy and compelling in equal measure). There is a decidedly (perhaps overwhelmingly) Scottish leaning but in the years following the expansion the definition of "Scottish" has grown and it's not all white Scotsmen on the walls.
Having said that, I did go for a white Scotsman painting a white "Scotsman", by lineage if not geographical birth, but I wouldn't die on that hill if some rampant Jacobite were to tackle me.
I always try to go to places I don't know, to artwork I've not seen and be caught unawares so I can discover something new (to me) and work at figuring it out, engaging with whatever it is. However, I love the Portrait Gallery, I love the frieze in the entrance gallery, I love the photographs and the murals, the Potteresque library and the portraits in miniature kept in leather blanketed cases. There is much there that I was drawn to without going looking for it and rather than resist that temptation I gave into it and headed for the top floor.
I have studied the Jacobites for a long time and am most interested in the ordinary men and women of that time, the people who risked much, sacrificed more and in many cases lost everything. Not the elite who had the luxury of ideology, the financial backing of their lands and people, and the get-out clause of exile in a foreign land. However, there are no real portraits of these people and many of the mysteries that surround them are forever lost.
The lost portrait of Charles Stuart however, rediscovered in 2014 by Bendor Grosvenor (the art historian who debunked the previous and classically martial portrait of the "Bonnie Prince" as being of his brother, Henry), has pride of place at the SNPG. The story of this portrait, its painter, its subject (no pun intended) and the circumstances of its creation are well worth exploring. As is the other "lost portrait" of Charles Stuart by Rosalba Carriera, rediscovered in 2019 by Peter Pininski (supposedly Charles' descendant).
But enough of the glamorous world of art history (there was fizz, canapés and even cocktail dresses at the unveiling of the Carriera painting at the NMS...very different to the musty suits and weak coffee vibes at most history events) and back to the quiet red gallery that houses the Jacobite portraiture right at the top of the SNPG.
The streets were chaotic. Allan Ramsay picked his way through the crowds of ladies gossiping of Charles Stuart's arrival in the city, tradesmen hawking their hats and shoes, cloth, meat, vegetables and pots and pans; there were sedan chairs and their carriers, horses and riders, and even pigs snuffling in the gutters.
He reached his studio in a quiet corner of the Lawnmarket and wended his way up the many stairs from the close to the top floor. He removed his wig, slipped off his coat, wrapped his head in a turban and donned his painting shirt. He inhaled the peace and picked up his brushes.
It was several hours later when the boy burst through the door. "Mr Ramsay, come quickly," he spluttered, his red face betraying the flights of stairs to the top of the townhouse that housed the studio.
"Hmph," Ramsay sighed, putting his brush in the water pot. "What now, John?" But the youngster was bent over, rasping and fighting the urge to heave.
"Please sir," he wheezed, his eyes wide, his expression almost frozen in panic in spite of his exertion.
Ramsay cocked his head to one side; this boy worked at his lending library. He was a young scholar under Prof. Wolfson, not an errand boy. Why has he been sent to fetch me? The artist wondered.
"Sir, please," John implored him, waving a scrap of paper in his hand. Ramsay moved to take it but it slipped from the boy's grasp and fluttered to the floor. It was lost for several seconds in the sheets and rags of the studio floor.
John dropped to the ground and began sifting through the detritus, his hands scrabbling to find the note, his panic giving way to fear.
Ramsay took the boy's hands in his own, paint stained and rough, and spoke calmly. "All is well, John, just tell me what Professor Wolfson wants.
John snatched his hands back, sweat pouring from his brow. "It's not from the professor," he gulped. "It's from the palace!"
Fifteen minutes later, Allan Ramsay, bewigged, with his good blue coat on and his least stained shoes, strode down the Canongate.
St Giles Cathedral was chiming far behind him, the irregular beat matching his heartbeat, and he clutched his inlaid paint case. The handle slipped in his clammy grasp. In his other hand he held the note bidding him to "come to the Palace of Holyroodhouse as soon as possible in order to take his Royal Highness's picture."
He swallowed, took a breath and tried to think of the correct form of address...for a prince.
Lisa Williams of the Edinburgh Caribbean society (edincarib) runs tours of the hidden black history of the Edinburgh. These are rich, varied and often difficult stories that are barely mentioned let alone represented in the city's memorials and landmarks. I had been talking about her over lunch and as we came back together in the central gallery afterwards to share our writing and experiences she was there with a tour group. Sharing and engaging with them about people who walked the same streets as us and who's voices we have neglected for centuries.
The Portrait Gallery is a space where these stories should be told. The faces on the frieze are overwhelmingly white and 95% male but yet the gallery itself is more representative of 21st Century portraiture. Hopefully it will start to fill in the gaps it has missed in previous centuries too.
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