The Memorials of Glasgow

A few weeks ago I went to Glasgow.

On our first day we walked to the Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum, pushing through a grey morning in a city that wore it like an old jumper as the rain flickered happily in the air.

I’d never heard of the Glasgow Boys– a group of anti-establishment painters, active in the late 1800s– but an exhibition of their work provided me with a whistle stop tour. Many of the pieces felt tailor made for a sentimental softie such as myself, with sensitive evocations of impossible rural scenes, whispered on to the canvases. They made me think of Thomas Hardy, another favourite of mine who conjured up an imagined past and set about defending it from corruption with vigour.

But the painting that struck me the most was not an idyllic landscape but a portrait. Emerging from a dark sea of paint, that barely hints at a room, is the bright face of Old Tom Morris, who leans on a wooden table and raises a dainty glass to us. The placard tells us that Tom Morris is a ‘local character’ who the artist, S.J. Peploe, painted multiple times. I think the term local character is brilliantly provocative– it animates the mischief and vitality that Peploe had encased in Tom’s frozen expression.

I think the incredible lightness of his portrayal is not only an attempt to reflect his nature but also a philosophical point being made by the artist. Tom represents the veracity of (then-) modern life that fascinated and inspired many of the Glasgow Boys and he is presented as the antidote to the artifice of academic painting of the time. In the wake of his smile, we feel the warmth of chatter down the local and the joy of our friends’ idiosyncrasies. It is a memorial not only to Old Tom Morris, but to the weightlessness afforded by sincerity and the sharp crunch of gravel on the walk home.

With this in mind, as I walked away from Tom’s radiance, I was reminded of a more recent phenomenon that seeks out an unfiltered reality. On TikTok and YouTube and Instagram there are thousands of videos of people featuring ‘ordinary’, often vulnerable, individuals as the basis of their content. Most recently, I have seen videos of street photographers approaching homeless people to take their portrait.

On the one hand, it can seem fairly harmless, or even positive. We can cut through the sanctimonious, hateful bullshit of the media and the widespread ignorance of the social internet and be placed face-(to-screen)-to-face with a person, rather than a contrived and deliberately divisive caricature. They are made real for those who might otherwise dismiss them as an inconvenient and distant artefact. Their humanity is insisted upon and their dehumanisation made much harder– though some people, no doubt, continue to try their best.

But they also become an object for the creator and a tool that ultimately tells a story that they have no control over; a convenience, a fable. A lot of the time accompanying captions and comments show just how easily the individual can sink below the surface of platitudes and life lessons like ‘never judge a book…’ and ‘we are all one human race’. Is it really imbuing someone with dignity to broadcast their life for another’s gain, even if it is under the guise of ‘art’ or ‘creation’? Sometime the artists themselves can see their intended narrative spiral out of control.

An even more contentious version of the same phenomenon is the filming of homeless people being given money or food by the creator. Again, it can be useful to highlight good deeds and humanise a marginalised group, but can we truly be comfortable as an unsuspecting bystander is immortalised, and consumed into a memorial to the harsh realities of our society.

Granted, the question of how Old Tom Morris would feel about being painted if he had know he would be hanging on the walls of the Kelvingrove as a kind of zany embodiment of provincial life seems a bit inconsequential. But for the modern subjects, who are captured in the much more immediate mediums of photography and video, it seems like a very pertinent consideration to make.

The next day we went to see some more literal memorials. The Glasgow Necropolis is a strange place, if I’m honest. The paths wind breathlessly up a hill, lined with dull stones in a multitude of greys. This is the antithesis of Old Tom Morris saluting the passing museum guests. This is a performance, a most silent and still song and dance.

See the tallest column and largest name and think of me, not as I was or ever could be.

There is no truth to discover, really, because we’re forced to accept their story as it is carved before us. The cloud of sorrow barely dampens the shrill ring of wealth that echoes around the extravagant tombs and statues. But the artifice is also fragile. Another group walks a few feet behind us and laughs at some apparent contradiction chiseled into the stone. Like our painting in reverse, the humanity seeps through the facade. Suddenly the desperation is all around, the human tragedy of monuments built to assert the agency of the dead makes the faces of statues cry.

Memorials are for the living, and those who once lived. More is revealed in the way we react to them than to the things themselves or, obviously, by the people and things they memorialise. Each sacred thing takes a piece of each person who spends a while with it, and that is it’s power.

As we left and headed down toward the cathedral, we walked past a headstone torn in half down the middle like Styrofoam. I felt the sting of sadness and shook my head, as though for them but really for me.

Ultimately, we end up as the interpretations of those we surround ourselves with and those who choose to surround us. It is empowering and debilitating all at once but the contradiction persists at a kind of equilibrium. We should give care to our interpretations, and be sceptical of the lenses through which others are portrayed.

–

From a crowded wall at Kelvingrove

Old Tom Morris beams

Towards the muted audience

Those eyes seem glad to see.

–

“Here you see the everyman

I’ve caught and brought to view.

The meting of his dignity

I will entrust to you.”

–

This is Old Tom’s legacy:

One thump of beating heart.

So, did he know the consequence

Of this shallow part

You wrote for him, then silenced

His laugh with tender strokes,

And turned his face to playing ground

For reflection-seeking folks.

–

That is not Tom Morris,

Who’s collapsing into view.

Tom just holds a mirror up

And takes a piece of you.

The View From The Galaxy Bridge

Yesterday I tried to set on paper, something of a place

where I would walk when I was younger,

One that now– looking back– seemed so full of wonder and delight.

A bridge, enclosed in windows that looped

all the way ’round and sprung high from the side of a town centre car park.

The heavy steps of mum and dad would shake the floor

and start the tingling in my feet. You were held above a nameless street

as cars and people moved beneath you.

It led to the cinema, with high ceilings

and the mingling smells of treats trapped in the carpet.

The films, of course, were a treat as well,

but on the way back you’d walk across the bridge– a space

between the world you’d just inhabited

and the car ride home again. And there– with the blood

still rushing back to your feet– the thought

floated in the dusty air that maybe it was all real

and that– as you sat fixed in your seat– the world outside

was changing too. And I miss the spring

in those hopeful strides– past the inviting depths of

the school night dusk where you can live

your new-learnt truths.

I can’t go there now, and perhaps its best that I can’t

because I don’t think I really miss the place;

I’m only chasing the enchanting glow

that’s drifting further into the haze. And the more I try

to pull it into view, the edges get softened by my clumsy

hands and failing wits.

But I still cup the flames of that feeling

of crossing the Galaxy bridge.

Stan and Ollie: the ‘beauty’ of sacrifice

The other day I went to see Stan and Ollie, the film about the iconic comedy duo featuring Steve Coogan and John C. Riley. The film is really great: it moves between the light-hearted, almost cartoony set-pieces and its more earnest moments seamlessly— it is nice, if not slightly safe, and a real laugh-and-cry movie. I find John C. Riley incredibly endearing and, for me, he stole the show supported by a slightly more subdued performance from Coogan.

But the scene that I found the most moving was the final scene. *moderate spoilers ahead*. Due to his declining health, Ollie has been unable to perform the duo’s signature dance at the end of their stage show, instead opting to sing a song. But, realising that the end of ‘Laurel and Hardy’ is fast approaching, in their closing show Ollie announces to the surprise of everyone present that they are going to do a little dance. It’s a simple dance that to me isn’t particularly funny or intrinsically special but it is definitely shot beautifully and was very affecting. The camera ignores their audience almost entirely and focuses in on the two performers and their connection on-stage. After the film, I wanted to figure out exactly what is was about that scene that makes it so poignant.

I think the key to this scene is that it embodies one of the main themes of the film: sacrifice. Throughout the film characters are shown to struggle with the sacrifices they make for the sake of art, friendship and marriage and these ideas are all brought to the fore in the film’s climax. For example, the driving force of the plot is the professional sacrifice the two men are making for the sake of their artistic vision. They have agreed to a UK tour in small venues, staying at less than luxurious hotels, to generate interest for a new Robin Hood movie they have conceived. This also coincides with a kind of sacrifice of their egos. They quickly find out that there will be no bell-boys to take their luggage, the theatres will not be full, people will be surprised to hear the two of them are still around. But, rather than preserving their egos, they continue for the sake of their art. All of this while away from their wives, yet another sacrifice willingly made.

Similarly, Stan is shown to kick some of his more indulgent habits– mostly encouraged by his wife Ida– in an attempt to preserve his health. However, it is Ollie who is shown to sacrifice his physical health the most throughout the film. The severely overweight Ollie struggles to keep up with the rigours of the tour, constantly dealing with aches and pains and, of course, being forced to swap dances for songs. But, when it becomes clear that the only way to improve the lacklustre attendance of their shows is to fill their days with publicity events, Ollie agrees and sacrifices his body further. It is during one of these publicity stunts– judging a swimwear competition– that Ollie collapses after suffering a heart attack. The doctors advice is simple, retire immediately to prolong your life– and thus his sacrifice is laid out before him. True to form, Ollie ignores the reccomendation and takes to the stage for the final leg of their tour, ending with this final dance.

The final scene, therefore, seems to be the culmination of this sacrifice and embodies its beauty. Despite his struggling body, he choses to dance– despite the knowledge that their Robin Hood movie will never be made, they dance– despite the toll it takes on their family life, they dance. And they do all this for the sake of the performance. The movie takes the pair’s genius for granted and so this final scene shows them choosing to give the full extent of their gifts to the audience while they still can. The significance of the scene is only heightened by Ollie’s earlier admission that he knew all along that the movie would never be made (something Stan tries to hide from him) and so his continuing commitment to the tour and their act is also to preserve their friendship and partnership, not only to entertain an audience. By the end of the film, both men recognise that their career together is coming to a close and so they make these sacrifices to please each other and to give their relationship the conclusion it deserves.

However, I don’t think this is the full story of sacrifice in the film as, while it is ever-present within the narrative, it is never entirely glorified or even justified. I think that Ollie’s wife, Lucille is the figure who contextualises the sacrifice and illustrates its limits. While I initially felt she was simply a device intended to exacerbate problems in Stan and Ollie’s friendship, she too displays a significant degree of sacrifice. She is away from her husband for long periods, she must give up her anonymity for a life in the public eye and is forced to watch the health of someone she loves deteriorate. As such, we cannot see Ollie’s sacrifices as wholly beautiful and noble as Lucille provides the proof of their consequences. So, when Ollie announces that they will dance on that last night, Lucille watches on filled with anxiety.

But, despite her presence, I still think this final moment is moving. The important thing is that everyone recognises that this is it. Lucille’s worry and suffering shows us that these sacrifices can’t be sustained and they have to stop sooner or later. Therefore it is this recognition that they must stop that makes the final sacrifice all the more poignant– it is their last hurrah and isn’t it worth the shortness of breath, the pain in the chest one last time to recapture the magic.