The weather for the past couple of days has been atrocious for the time of year. Heavy rain has been accompanied by strong, cold winds. The forecast for today was for a continuation of the deluge and high winds. So, at last night’s curry, it we decided to have a day indoors and absorb some culture in the metropolis of Glasgow. Yet, when we left home it was dry, and the sun had been shining earlier. But, by the time we made Glasgow, the rain had started. It was to stay with us for the day though, mercifully, the wind stayed away.
Appropriately, we gathered ‘frae a’ the airts the win’ can blaw’ in the Glasgow Concert Hall. Our cultural leader for the day, Peter, suggested that we visit the Burns exhibition in the Mitchell Library and, on our way there, take in the Art School. And who are we to argue with such a cultured person as Peter.
We came out the Killermont Street entrance and turned left for Renfrew Street. The architecture of the city was examined and commented on as we wandered along Renfrew Street in the rain. The mixture of splendid old Victorian buildings was contrasted with the concrete ones of modern times. This brought out the Luddite in Davie and we were treated to a rant. ‘If oor David ever designs an abomination like that I’ll disown him’, was what we thought was the end of the tirade. But it would resurface occasionally, though in a milder form from now on.
While we had to agree with Davie on some of the Eastern Block-style, utilitarian, grey concrete of the nineteen-sixties, there were some admirable examples of glass and concrete architecture to see. And we saw it through the steady rain.
Then we came to the Rennie Mackintosh designed Glasgow School of Art. This was new territory for all but Peter and Robert who studied here more years ago than they care to remember. Yet, the building hadn’t changed in all these years. We admired it from the outside but we were all keen to see the inside. Peter led us in.
The interior of the building was what the writer would expect of Mackintosh - dark wood and elongated rectangles, a mix of Art Nouveau and Modernism. A flight of stairs bedecked with the busts of long dead directors led us up to the exhibition space on the first floor. The present exhibition was the art on a collection of Tarot cards. It might have been Davie who said, ‘There’s a limit to the number of Tarot cards you can look at. And after the first hundred or so, most of us agreed. Johnny was completely underwhelmed.
Johnny was underwhelmed but not so Peter and Robert. Half way round the exhibit a young lady in tight jeans and a close-fitting, green T-shirt approached them. (Even if the scribe hadn’t noticed such things as tight jeans and T-shirts, it was brought to his attention.) The young woman turned out to be a former pupil who was keen to show her teachers that she was following in their artistic footsteps. Their conversation lasted for some time with Paul joining in, having also recognised a former pupil. The others waited patiently. And waited. And waited. There is also a limit to the number of Rennie Mackintosh rectangles you can look at.
The exhibition space at the top of the stairs is the only part of the school open to the public but there were tempting glimpses of another Rennie Mackintosh world through the glass-panelled doors. We would have liked to have seen more of the school but were restricted to the small public space. So we sat and waited. And waited.
Eventually the conversation finished and the two artists, flushed with the thought that their teaching had inspired another dauber of paint, joined us. So did Paul.
Back on Renfrew Street, we turned left and approached Charing Cross. A footbridge would carry us over the busy cross and motorway. Halfway across the bridge our leader had us stopped while he pointed out the flat where he spent his student days. We duly admired it, had a photo taken and walked on to the Mitchell Library.
The Mitchell was running an exhibition on Burns for the Homecoming two-fiftieth anniversary of the poet’s birth. The library is known as a great depository of Burnsiana and some of it was in display cases at the doors. This was examined in great detail by the Burns enthusiasts. And even those with a moderate knowledge of the poet had their knowledge increased. This was an interesting part of the exhibit.
But the main display was a collection of artwork themed on Burns. This was far superior to the Tarot cards of the Art School and elicited a fair variety of comment from the Ooters. Not everybody agreed on what was good, bad or indifferent, though some works got more comment than others. One thing we were all agreed on was the Tracy Emin cartoon. The general feeling on Ms Emin was far from complimentary. ‘A crude, untalented woman hiding behind a pretentiousness purporting to be art’ was the consensus. And this wasn’t just our opinion. On the way out Davie asked the caretaker for his views on the cartoon. ‘Loada shite’, responded the wee bloke, getting right to the nub with characteristic Glasgowness and emphasising the ‘shite’.
But there was some superb art on display and the exhibition was well worth the visit. Well done, Peter, for the suggestion.
Before we left the Mitchell, Johnny would have his photo for the records. There is a policy of ‘No photography’ in the building. ‘But’, said the caretaker seeing the disappointment on Johnny’s face, ‘if I was to walk away and didn’t see you, you could do anything’. Johnny had his record shot.
Lunch was calling when we left the library and Davie had the perfect place in mind, a place that offered cheap steak pie and real ale. We came by Woodlands Terrace, Park Circus, Kelvingrove Park and University Avenue to the Tennents Bar in Byres Road. Whether the food was really good or we were hungry enough to eat anything it would be hard to say but the steak pie and chips went down a treat. Not quite so the real ale. The Dark Island proved a disappointment and most switched to Deuchars for the second glass. But the company, as usual was good and the meal hour passed in jovial banter.
But Jimmy and Peter had appointments to keep and had to leave the company to return home by the fifteen-fifteen bus. So we parted, they for the underground and we for the Hunterian Museum.
Appropriately, we gathered ‘frae a’ the airts the win’ can blaw’ in the Glasgow Concert Hall. Our cultural leader for the day, Peter, suggested that we visit the Burns exhibition in the Mitchell Library and, on our way there, take in the Art School. And who are we to argue with such a cultured person as Peter.
We came out the Killermont Street entrance and turned left for Renfrew Street. The architecture of the city was examined and commented on as we wandered along Renfrew Street in the rain. The mixture of splendid old Victorian buildings was contrasted with the concrete ones of modern times. This brought out the Luddite in Davie and we were treated to a rant. ‘If oor David ever designs an abomination like that I’ll disown him’, was what we thought was the end of the tirade. But it would resurface occasionally, though in a milder form from now on.
While we had to agree with Davie on some of the Eastern Block-style, utilitarian, grey concrete of the nineteen-sixties, there were some admirable examples of glass and concrete architecture to see. And we saw it through the steady rain.
Then we came to the Rennie Mackintosh designed Glasgow School of Art. This was new territory for all but Peter and Robert who studied here more years ago than they care to remember. Yet, the building hadn’t changed in all these years. We admired it from the outside but we were all keen to see the inside. Peter led us in.
The interior of the building was what the writer would expect of Mackintosh - dark wood and elongated rectangles, a mix of Art Nouveau and Modernism. A flight of stairs bedecked with the busts of long dead directors led us up to the exhibition space on the first floor. The present exhibition was the art on a collection of Tarot cards. It might have been Davie who said, ‘There’s a limit to the number of Tarot cards you can look at. And after the first hundred or so, most of us agreed. Johnny was completely underwhelmed.
Johnny was underwhelmed but not so Peter and Robert. Half way round the exhibit a young lady in tight jeans and a close-fitting, green T-shirt approached them. (Even if the scribe hadn’t noticed such things as tight jeans and T-shirts, it was brought to his attention.) The young woman turned out to be a former pupil who was keen to show her teachers that she was following in their artistic footsteps. Their conversation lasted for some time with Paul joining in, having also recognised a former pupil. The others waited patiently. And waited. And waited. There is also a limit to the number of Rennie Mackintosh rectangles you can look at.
The exhibition space at the top of the stairs is the only part of the school open to the public but there were tempting glimpses of another Rennie Mackintosh world through the glass-panelled doors. We would have liked to have seen more of the school but were restricted to the small public space. So we sat and waited. And waited.
Eventually the conversation finished and the two artists, flushed with the thought that their teaching had inspired another dauber of paint, joined us. So did Paul.
Back on Renfrew Street, we turned left and approached Charing Cross. A footbridge would carry us over the busy cross and motorway. Halfway across the bridge our leader had us stopped while he pointed out the flat where he spent his student days. We duly admired it, had a photo taken and walked on to the Mitchell Library.
The Mitchell was running an exhibition on Burns for the Homecoming two-fiftieth anniversary of the poet’s birth. The library is known as a great depository of Burnsiana and some of it was in display cases at the doors. This was examined in great detail by the Burns enthusiasts. And even those with a moderate knowledge of the poet had their knowledge increased. This was an interesting part of the exhibit.
But the main display was a collection of artwork themed on Burns. This was far superior to the Tarot cards of the Art School and elicited a fair variety of comment from the Ooters. Not everybody agreed on what was good, bad or indifferent, though some works got more comment than others. One thing we were all agreed on was the Tracy Emin cartoon. The general feeling on Ms Emin was far from complimentary. ‘A crude, untalented woman hiding behind a pretentiousness purporting to be art’ was the consensus. And this wasn’t just our opinion. On the way out Davie asked the caretaker for his views on the cartoon. ‘Loada shite’, responded the wee bloke, getting right to the nub with characteristic Glasgowness and emphasising the ‘shite’.
But there was some superb art on display and the exhibition was well worth the visit. Well done, Peter, for the suggestion.
Before we left the Mitchell, Johnny would have his photo for the records. There is a policy of ‘No photography’ in the building. ‘But’, said the caretaker seeing the disappointment on Johnny’s face, ‘if I was to walk away and didn’t see you, you could do anything’. Johnny had his record shot.
Lunch was calling when we left the library and Davie had the perfect place in mind, a place that offered cheap steak pie and real ale. We came by Woodlands Terrace, Park Circus, Kelvingrove Park and University Avenue to the Tennents Bar in Byres Road. Whether the food was really good or we were hungry enough to eat anything it would be hard to say but the steak pie and chips went down a treat. Not quite so the real ale. The Dark Island proved a disappointment and most switched to Deuchars for the second glass. But the company, as usual was good and the meal hour passed in jovial banter.
But Jimmy and Peter had appointments to keep and had to leave the company to return home by the fifteen-fifteen bus. So we parted, they for the underground and we for the Hunterian Museum.
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