another place

[A cop-out, related piece(see 'a start') - one I prepared earlier!]

I found a place that is calming and exciting, intimate and challenging. Evidently, I found an extraordinary place, though not the place I sought.

For days beforehand, I had imagined the colourful, theatrical sights, the musical sounds, the happy throngs, the carnival atmosphere. I knew the Edinburgh Festival street theatre would inspire the first assignment of my writing course.

But, on the anticipated day, I found myself in a dark, gothic cityscape; where torrential rainwater cascaded down steep cobbles and black granite rocks. Few people were braving the elements of that early morning. Those who did scurried headlong, clutching umbrellas like weapons; not smiling, nor music-making nor dancing in the streets.

To escape the ‘great outdoors’, I grudgingly approached the National Gallery of Scotland, a grand, imposing building, housing still, hushed, empty places – no carnival atmosphere. But inside this forbidding palace there are intimate, welcoming spaces with narrow, spiral staircases and warm-red walls that gently envelop us small persons wandering amongst vast artwork. Lifelike and abstract portraits vie for my attention, challenge me to be mindful of them, to look at them for a second, third, fourth time, startled by streams of new discoveries. Memories of my own familiar world are altered and enriched as I am caught in instants of other lives. Centuries, lifestyles, power, gender, age and race do not come between us.

I envy a 17th century Dutch boy, totally absorbed in the moment as he blows on a firebrand to light a candle, captivated by the brilliant flame in an intense darkness. An 18th century French boy is an acute reminder of a contrasting childhood experience; he is a boy with a lesson book, so clearly wishing he was elsewhere. A 19th century farm labourer’s daughter stands up straight, alone in a cabbage field, looking so directly at the viewer, at me, that I feel I know her or that she is me. A 1979 portrait of a contemporary icon is in a very different style; it is a loud and bold picture, but equally empathetic and moving as she is immediately recognizable and, despite the bright image, there is a strong, unnerving sense of a troubled life and sadness.

Time flies in this spellbinding ambience. I hurry to see one last portrait, “Rev Robert Walker skating on Duddington Loch” at the turn of the 19th century, a gallery highlight. The Reverend seems in no way troubled or distracted like other subjects who gripped me. He, according to expert skaters, is performing a difficult and sophisticated manoeuvre, but appears serene, refined and pleased with himself in a wild, inhospitable landscape. I leave this gem of a gallery with this reassuring image; as the sliding exit doors open, a row of glass-etched images of the skater glide effortlessly before me. I feel uplifted by my unexpected experience and by the dazzling sunshine now flooding through a break in the clouds.