Art
at The Scottish Parliament
There exists a principle known across the world as percent for art.
It is enshrined in the laws of most European countries, and across
the cities and states of North America. It means that every public
building project is obliged to commit at least 1% of its budget to
art. If this law applied in Scotland (and it should), the budget for
art in the Scottish Parliament would stand now at £4.3 million.
But of course, it doesnt. This particular building project managed
to turn the country against adventurous architecture. If architecture
was under fire, art had no chance of support. Besieged MSPs popped
their heads above the parapet just long enough to throw a token £250,000
at their disappointed art consultants, before retreating in consternation.
Admittedly there are art galleries for whom £250,000 would make
all the difference, but they arent charged with creating a collection,
from scratch, of the best of Scotlands established talent. Moreover
they havent got endless swathes of bare concrete wall to fill.
The consultants came up with dozens of modestly-sized photographs,
along with a modest quantity of more physically substantial artworks.
However, in a building of such remarkable ambition and flamboyance,
modesty is lost. Contemporary Scottish art is more than capable of
meeting the challenge, but only if money can be found.
The biggest gaping hole is Paolozzi. It seems almost unthinkable that
a public building of this importance does not boast a monumental bronze
by the Leith-born artist, either inside or out. Six of the artists
woodcuts are a good start, but not good enough. Paolozzis bulky,
fragmented metal figures would make a perfect complement to this raw,
multi-facetted building. Perhaps if the Presiding Officer speaks nicely
to Sir Timothy he can borrow one.
Despite the budgetary holes, there are some real triumphs to be found
around the walls of the parliament. John Bellany has gifted one of
his superb early paintings, depicting the uncompromising harshness
of the North East fishing industry. Like a superstar at a party, it
charges the space around it with its own stern aura. This is a life
of salt in open wounds and of death at sea. The central cluster of
black-clad figures, presumably fishmongers, might as well be a cabal
of hard-core presbyterian ministers plotting a denunciation. Menace
and hardship are all around.
Another highlight, on a monumental scale, is Glen Onwins specially
commissioned diptych, Mossers, Rebels and Wolves, Heather Forest (Coral)
Tree. Two huge box frames contain dead heather, poking out of black
salty wax on the left, and stark red on the right. Life and death
are mixed, scorched earth and comforting peat both evoked by the black-painted
heather.
The red suggests bloodshed, to which the title refers (quoting General
Monk, who burned the forests at Aberfoyle in 1654 to purge them of
anti-union rebels and wolves). At night the protruding branches must
be quite spooky, and during the day they serve as a stern social and
environmental warning to MSPs as they approach Committee Room Five.
Callum Innes chose a wall for his painting which is different from
all the others. His is inside Queensbury House, where the plaster
board only partially covers the old rubble walls of that historic
building. His exposed painting where paint is washed off with
dripping turpentine is mounted on the exposed rubble wall,
like a perfect artistic partner to the stripped structure.
The photographs, by a range of highly respected artists including
Thomas Joshua Cooper, are less successful in this context, particularly
those whose only source of light is at ankle-height. Perhaps predictably,
there is an over-preponderance of Scottish mountains in the mist,
and even more of choppy seas. But gratifyingly, none are sentimentalised.
I cant think now of a single land or seascape which isnt
cold and hostile, like the walls to which they are attached.
Niall Hendrie was commissioned early on to document the building of
the parliament, and his selection of colour photographs is utterly
seductive. Going far beyond documentary, they are as close to painting
as photography can get, finding soft pastel surfaces and razor-sharp
contours in places where most of us would fail to notice anything.
In this idiosyncratic environment, the relationship between the works
of art and their surroundings is impossible to ignore, and in fact
reveals a lot about the building. The two tapestries and the row of
silk banners, for instance, are completely at home on the raw concrete
walls, just as they would be on the cold stone of a medieval castle.
They perform the same functions too, warming up the look and feel
of the vast hall and tower. The overall effect of the architecture
is breathtaking, but at times, close up, it can feel like an intimidating
fortress. The right art, in the right places, should soften the blow
without compromising Miralless intentions.
Does this collection of work say something about us as a nation? I
think it does. It shuns flamboyance and embraces restraint. It seeks
out harsh environments, both environmental and industrial, and it
reaches right up to the boundaries to stare into infinity. It also
says were stingy when it comes to art. That bit, at least, can
be fixed.
Catrìona
Black, Sunday Herald 26.09.04