In Defens: Edinburgh Castle

Edinburgh Castle emerges from the rock, standing proudly above the city, the flags cracking in the stiff wind. It is imposing, formidable, solid and reassuring – depending on which side you stand – but it is certainly not comfortable.

The great halls are draughty; the stairs are steep; the walls are thick; and the windows narrow. As the weather creeps in through the cracks, the views of Edinburgh are wide and expansive but no number of tapestries and rugs can exclude the chill.

The National War Museum of Scotland explores more than 400 years of Scottish military history. War has given rise to extremes of technology and innovation, and revels in pomp and ceremony. Cabinets contain examples of weaponry; guns, daggers, dirks and bayonets. Rituals involve medals and dress uniforms. Paintings and letters capture coloured versions of history – ‘Butcher Cumberland’ and Culloden are frequently mentioned as is the Battle of Dunbar in 1650 at which the English Parliamentarian forces under Oliver Cromwell defeated a Scottish army and enforced military union with England.

Agreed union came about in 1707 but that was far from the end of the skirmishes including the Jacobite rebellions and Bonnie Prince Charlie. The Victorian era romanticised the Highlands (just like the last 50 years have romanticised the Irish Boglands) and all things Celtic, such as the re-emergence of tartan and the preponderance of kilts, which were worn by the army until 1940. A further exhibition, Land Girls and Lumber Jills, shows how the women were involved in military work while remaining at home – planting and reaping harvests to feed the population and provide timber.

A voice-over recording explains that Scotland’s history is military, and that disbanding their armies has been particularly tough. ‘Famous regiments with famous names have been disbanded regardless of their achievements and long service.’ Although The Black Watch are not specifically mentioned, it is hard not to think of them, especially having seen the phenomenal National Theatre of Scotland play of the same name.
 

Pipe bands play as we roam the parapets – the mournful sound drifting down over the city and reinforcing the elegiac effect of this place on the rock. Modern munitions are represented by the crates of fireworks that will be let off later in the weekend to celebrate the end of the festival. We missed the Edinburgh Tattoo by a day. I can’t say that I’m sad about that, being slightly disturbed by the orgiastic parade of military might (I favour John Hegley’s argument here). There is definitely a pent-up feeling of barely restrained anger without an outlet around these walls.

St Margaret’s Chapel provides a quiet place for contemplation, however. The diminutive building is the oldest in Scotland, built for her by her youngest son, King David around 1130. Even this beautiful but spartan building with its stained glass windows commemorating the saint (Margaret was canonised in 1250 for her pious and charitable acts) has not always been used for worship – from the sixteenth to the eighteenth century it was a gunpowder store.
 

The Scottish National War Memorial is within the castle walls at Crown Square – built in 1927 in a somewhat austere art deco style. It was to commemorate the approximately 150,000 Scottish casualties of the First World War in the Hall of Honour. The names of the dead now extend to over 50,000 in the Second World War and the campaigns since 1945 including the Mayan Emergency, the Korean War, Northern Ireland, the Falklands War and the Gulf War. So many dead soldiers; Scotland remembers.
 

A particularly poignant cemetery is for the soldiers’ dogs, so there are gravestones for Tinker and Scamp, and other officer’s pets and regimental mascots. It has been in use since Queen Victoria’s time and is a perfect example of era’s blend of maudlin sentimentality with dignified respect.

A queue announces the whereabouts of the Scottish Crown Jewels (otherwise known as the Honours) and people shuffle through the exhibit which tells their story, anxious to get a glimpse of the crown, sceptre, orb and the seat of kings (and queens), The Stone of Destiny.

Apparently they still have a ceremonial part to play and the Queen symbolically presented them to the opening of the Scottish parliament but, the way things stand at present, no one will ever again wear the Crown of Scotland. No wonder ‘it’s in good nick’ as Him Outdoors says, ‘it’s not been used much’.

In my defens God me defend is the motto of the Royal Coat of Arms of the Kingdom of Scotland, often simply abbreviated in modern English to 'In Defence'. Nowhere is this more pronounced than the capital's castle where the sense of righteous indignation simmers palpably beneath the surface.

Two Plays in Spanish in Edinburgh

Chilean theatre performed in Spanish as part of the Edinburgh Festival – why not? It’s all about multiculturalism after all. The plays have ‘supertitles’ – screens to the side of the stage on which the English translation is projected. Sometimes this can be very distracting – especially when there is a long stream of dialogue which you can’t read fast enough to keep up and you feel you either have to miss some words (I’m sure the translators do anyway), or miss some action. I chose the former, as I figure that actions speak louder than words and with the universality of theatre, this is generally true.

The Man Who Fed Butterflies (Teatro Cinema)
Kings Theatre, Edinburgh
29 August – 4 September 2010

The multi-media production is visually arresting if not emotionally engaging. There are three interwoven stories: an old man who towards the end of his life revitalises an ancient tradition of feeding butterflies with nectar (they are the spirits of dead warriors trying to find their kingdom, apparently); a director makes an epic film about a knight and his lady love; and a woman who has been in a coma for many years after being shot during a police demonstration.

The play blends film and live action in an intriguing manner in which the actors work with each other as well as shadows and projections of themselves. Changing positions and perspectives confuse more than they clarify and the hallucinogenic sound-track enhances the hypnotic ambience. The special effects are probably crude in comparison with cinematic tricks but they form the basis of the show and Teatro Cinema are acclaimed for their innovation.

The Butterfly Effect is often mentioned in relation to Chaos Theory in which it is propounded that small actions such as the beat of a butterfly’s wing may have profound effects such as causing a tidal wave. This may all be a bit much so it’s probably best just to enjoy the illusions and let them wash over you without examining them too closely.

The Man Who Fed Butterflies asks questions about the true potential of the human mind, the nature of acting (one of the actors of the film within a play says, ‘I prefer theatre’ – I think I do too) and the importance of fantasy as an antidote to the harsh realities of life and loneliness. It is easy to admire but not to identify and, as all the characters wear masks their stories are representative rather than real. It makes me think; but it doesn’t make me feel.

Diciembre (Teatro en el Blanco)
Royal Lyceum, Edinburgh
2-4 September 2010

2014 is the new 1984 in Guilllermo Calderon’s play, Diciembre. It’s the predicted dystopia in the near future when the tensions in South America have exploded and Chile is at war with Peru and the Bolivias (which are no longer one country). In December, the season of ‘sad celebrations’, the young soldier Jorge (Jorge Becker) returns on leave to find his older twin sisters both pregnant and both with their ideas for his future.

Paula (Mariana Muñoz) hates with a passion and she rants against the imperialist enemies, desperate for Jorge to return to battle and kill them all. Trini (Trinidad González) is a pacifist who would rather hide and protect her brother; she merely wants love and affection, even if she gets it through sticking her finger into the eye socket of the eyeless army deserters. Jorge plays his sisters off against each other while wanting to know who are the fathers of their unborn babies.

Despite the strong social element the play has both a human and an absurdist feel as the sibling rivalries and political passions break free around the Christmas dinner table like an elaborate tango. Each of the actors plays another character (the drunken auntie; Father Christmas; the rejected lover) which is a heightened version of their more ‘natural’ self.

In many ways, this is a typical Christmas dinner with all the accompanying arguments, drunken relations and revelations, and enhanced festive sentiment. Due to power cuts, the tangle of coloured bulbs that illuminate the spare set of an off-centre table flicker on and off in different configurations like the end of a party that has got out of control.

Teatro en el Blanco have produced a highly charged and dramatic work of black humour. Whether engaging with the domestic dynamics or reflecting on the nature of war (Machu Picchu has been destroyed and ‘civil blood makes civil hands unclean’ indeed), this is a powerful drama even to someone who knows very little about South American politics. The fast-paced dialogue, gradual reveals, quick changes of character and rapid-fire South American Spanish all combine to heighten the challenging. I am left reeling and with feeling of sensuous exhaustion that makes me so glad that it is not Christmas every day.

Impressionists Gardens

Impressionist Gardens
Royal Scottish Academy Building
31 July - 17 October 2010
  

The Impressionists were interested in the pleasure of the here and now, and to them gardens symbolised relaxation, recreation, innocence and light. They were inspired by Corot’s sun-dappled canvases, capturing the effect of light through the trees, the details of raindrops on roses in Simon Saint-Jean’s The Gardener Girl (1837) and Delacroix – his casually arranged arrays of dahlias and other cut blooms are the spiritual forebears of Monet’s and Gustave Caillebotte’s paintings of dahlias growing in their gardens at Argenteuil and Petit-Gennevilliers.

I love Spring (1804) by Jean-François Bony: the painting of spring flowers relegates the statue of a warrior goddess in the background to a secondary role. The focus is on the foreground lilacs, hollyhocks, roses, poppies, delphiniums, striped parrot tulips – the very flowers of my wedding bouquet.


Still life can be stylishly scruffy - Flowers in a Vase by Pierre-Auguste Renoir

Gardens and flowers were not formal constructs. Pierre Auguste Renoir’s Flowers in a Vase (1866) is a reminder of a stroll in the fields – wild flowers (corn poppies; chamomile; ragwort; cornflowers; rampion; wild parsley and Spanish broom) are stuffed into an earthenware vase. More prosaic vegetables are admired in A Flemish Kitchen Garden (1864) by Henri de Braekeleer where giant cabbages provide colour and a subtle poetry in the harvesting in the kitchen garden.

Gardens were outdoor studios; places in which to capture the effects of sun, shade and seclusion. They could be the theatre of fashion or tranquil meditation. Thomas Couturés’ The Reading (1860) depicts a lady engrossed in a book and oblivious to her surroundings. Charles-François Daubigny was commissioned by Napoleon III to paint The Cascade at Saint-Cloud (1865) which is a grand, formal work but, once again, the historic monuments are relegated to the background. Similarly, John Singer Sargent takes a thoroughly Impressionist delight in the incidents of modern life in The Luxembourg Gardens at Twilight (1879) which features children sailing their boats despite the lateness of the hour, and a well-dressed couple strolling at the centre.

Contemplative colour in Frederick Childe Hassam's Geraniums

Gardens are for sewing, playing croquet, quiet contemplation and drinking tea. And there is always room for colour. Frederick Childe Hassam painted red geraniums, watering cans and his fair wife engaged in embroidery in Geraniums (1888-9). James Tissot tinged his autumn leaves around the reflective pool with sadness in Holyday (1876). Gustave Caillebotte kept flowers in dedicated beds in his garden (unlike Monet’s mixtures) allowing him to paint studies of nasturtiums and, my favourite, Daisies (1892). Edouard Manet’s The House at Rueil (1882) is also grouped in this collection.

Napoleon III’s ambitious programme of parks and gardens was continued by the Third Republic which came to power in 1871. The new and revamped gardens provided perfect opportunities for the Impressionists to paint ‘en plein air’ but Monet and the other Impressionists preferred the city’s old, historic gardens with spreading trees and natural features. Léon Frederic’s The Fragrant Air (1894) depicts an innocent child sniffing ephemeral blooms redolent of death and mortality.


Lotus Lillies by Charles Courtenay Curran - the object of his affections

Charles Courtney Curran’s Lotus Lillies (1888) is a sublime painting of his bride, Grace Winthrop, haloed by a green parasol as she floats in a boat across Lake Erie in Ohio. She is the finest of the lotus blossoms (symbols of purity and tranquillity) and the clear object of Curran’s veneration.


Skaters in Frederiksberg Gardens - Paul Gaughin

Also included here is Paul Gauguin’s Skaters in Frederksberg Gardens (1884) – a striking action portrait in which the vivid reds and greens of the fallen leaves emphasise the coldness of the ice, in stark contrast to his more familiar sun-drenched views of Tahiti.

James Ensor’s The Garden of the Rousseau Family (1885) and Charles François Daubigny’s Orchard in Blossom (1874) highlight kitchen and vegetable gardens with no ostensible aesthetic purpose, but the abstract design of flat zones of green bisected by paths and walls offers visual impact. Arthur Melville’s A Cabbage Garden (1877) and Alfred Sisley’s The Fields (1874) share the same theme – the latter’s market gardens full of rows of vegetable crops mature with the seasons, while the old spreading tree in the corner indicates continuity.

The Artist’s Garden at Eagny (1898) by Camille Pissarro shows his wife planting seeds. The leaves and flowers shine like jewels while the house behind implies the family for whom she is preparing this food. The Portrait of Karl Nordstrein (1882) by Christian Krohg of a pointed-bearded gentleman standing at a window looking out at a market garden draws our gaze from across the room. We want to see what he’s looking at.


The Cote des Boeufs at L'Hermitage by Camille Pissarro

Is winter the hardest season to paint, with its suggestion of bleak hibernation? Alfred Sisley’s subtle harmony of restrained colouring integrates the snow into the scene as a natural part of the design in Winter at Louveciennes (1867). The scudding clouds, fresh breeze and tall poplars enhance the motionless figures of The Côte des Boeufs at L’Hermitage (1877) by Camille Pissarro.

Apparently Impressionism begins again with a completely new phase in the 1890s. Henri Martin offers Garden in the Sun (1913) in which sunlight from outside floods in like a powerful unrestrained tide of pink, yellow and cream. In The Pergola (1912-13) shows the last fruits of summer as Marie Enger adds a hint of autumn chill through grapes and red and golden gourds surrounded by withering vine leaves.

Bright colours return to the fore with Theo van Rysselberghe’s Fountain in the Park of Sans Souci near Postdam (1903). Clearly heavily influenced by Seurat’s pointillism, the technique of contrasted dots or flecks of colour display the refraction of a fountain into rainbow droplets by the afternoon sun. In The Rainbow (1896) we are invited to see a pristine garden through the eyes of his wife and son. Spring bulbs, reddish-brown flower pots, shimmering perblossom, red and blue outfits, and the red roof and blue sky combine to echo the colours of the rainbow, creating a larger harmony.

Gustav Klimt's Italian Garden Landscape illuminates the room

In the final room it is as though the best have been saved until last. Gustav Klimt’s Rosebushes Under Trees (1904) and Italian Garden Landscape (1913) are sumptuously rich and decorative with varied textual brushwork that illuminates the room. Vincent Van Gogh is represented by The Garden with Path (1888) and Undergrowth (1889).

The Garden with Path - Vincent Van Gogh

The first is a rich variety of jabs, zigzags and short stabbing strokes to evoke the flowers, vegetables and olive trees as they shimmer in the hot southern sun. The second was painted in the grounds of the sanatorium to which he admitted himself. The grasp of the ivy on the oak represents the grip of mental illness on his mind, but the glimpses of sunlight between the shadows suggest hopes of better health.

Naturally, there couldn’t be an exhibition of Impressionist Gardens without the inclusion of Monet’s water lily pond, and there is a shining section of wall that displays some stunning examples. Him Outdoors sighs, ‘He really was the master, wasn’t he?’


Saving the best until last - Claude Monet's The Water Lily Pond, 1904

The largest retrospective of Monet's art since 1980 opens in his home country with an exhibition in Paris this month - expected to break all gallery attendence records. With the excessive wishy-washy reproductions it is sometimes easy to overlook the man's artistic genius (a sentiment felt especially by the French who until now have regarded arguably their most famous painter as one who created daubs for American tourists); until you stand in front of one of his canvases and feel overwhelmed by light and colour.

Displays of art can often leave you satiated as you emerge from some stuffy museum, but this invigorating exhibition is like a breath of fresh air.

The Writers' Museum

The writers’ museum on Lawnmarket houses an inspiring little exhibition focussing on Sir Walter Scott, Robert Burns and Robert Louis Stevenson. Sir Walter Scott is the author of Ivanhoe, one of only two books I have ever started and not finished – the other one was The Hobbit – but we won’t hold that against him.

I admire the small rooms with their oak and mahogany doors and panelling, red or green or purple walls (they’re colour-themed), the artefacts, portraits, oil paintings, lithographs and the authors’ desks themselves! 

Up the spiral staircase in Lady Stair’s House (the uneven steps are deliberately so to betray an intruder who might stumble on an unfamiliar pattern) is a copy of the Ballantyne press (built in 1790) – one of the presses on which Scott’s Waverley novels were printed. The boxes of wooden letters neatly filed in trays are a wonder to behold, like some highly precocious and privileged child’s educational toys.

Robert Burns (1759-1796) was born into a struggling family and was acutely aware of social distinctions. As a farmer he began writing poetry as ‘some kind of counterpoise’ to his circumstances.

He admits, ‘For my own part I never had the least thought or inclination of turning poet till I got heartily in love and then Rhyme and Song were in a manner, the spontaneous language of my heart.’

He wrote Ae Fond Kiss for Clarinda as well as many patriotic poems to Scotland, and sniffed somewhat caustically, ‘Those who think that composing a Scotch song is a trifling business, let them try.’

Robert Louis Stevenson, on the other hand, wrote that ‘to travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive.’ He obviously had more romantic methods of voyaging than being cramped in a metal tube for 36hours. He circumnavigated the world gathering experiences for later novels.

‘I travel not to go anywhere but to go. I travel for travel’s sake. The great affair is to move: to fell the needs and hitches of our life more nearly; to come down off this featherbed of civilisation, and find the globe granite underfoot and strewn with cutting flints.’

Fit for a Queen: The Palace of Holyrood House

The Palace of Holyrood House is the official residence in Scotland of Her Majesty the Queen. It has also been home to many famous royal residents including Mary Queen of Scots and Bonnie Prince Charlie.

An audio-guide with a beautiful voice accompanies the tour, which explains the finer points of design as you go around the building. The forecourt and quadrangle are overlooked by the Salisbury Crags and it is here that every summer the Queen is symbolically presented with the keys to the city: it soon becomes apparent that there is a lot of symbolism built into these walls.


Detail on the fountain in the forecourt of Holyrood House

Queen Elizabeth II enjoys the Ceremony of the Key at Holyrood Palace 

  

Incidentally, isn't it good that we haven't got so many martyrs in this country. All it would take is one nutter... Look how close she is to those bayonets! Not for our Queen the safety of a bullet-proof Mercedes rather than a walk-a-bout.

 

The palace is built in the classical style with each floor representing a different architectural period – Doric, Ionic, and (on the top floor where the royal apartments are) Corinthian design – which gives balance, symmetry and a sense of proportion. Charles II rebuilt the palace with a team of architects based on the design of Versailles (the residence of his cousin, Louis XIV – many things were influenced by the French in this era, despite our outward hostilities towards them).

The palace is full of tapestries, portraits and processional rooms, each more elaborate than the other as you approach the king. It all begins with the Great Stair and ends with the King’s Bedchamber where the most privileged guests were met. The effect is meant to be increasingly daunting and I’m sure it was if you were approaching with a request that might terminate in your head being removed from your body.

The Dining Room features a Jubilee gift of silver – a dinner set of 3,000 pieces laid for 20 people (the table will seat between 30 and four people, removing or adding leaves as necessary). Presiding over all is a portrait of Bonnie Prince Charlie and, on the opposite wall, one of George IV, both wearing tartan.
 
Bonnie Prince Charlie had the support of the Scottish clans but was defeated by ‘Butcher’ Cumberland at the Battle of Culloden in 1745; thereafter the use of Gallic language and the wearing of tartan were strictly forbidden. So it was highly symbolic when George IV wore tartan in his portrait of 1820 proving the unification of England and Scotland and the acceptability of wearing tartan again.

The Throne Room is decorated with portraits of the Stewarts, red carpets, coats of arms and two thrones. This was the Guard Room in the time of Charles II where access to the monarchy was strictly controlled. Now it is where the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh hold their formal functions. Next in line is the Evening Drawing Room used by the Queen for state entertaining (this is where she met the Pope).

A portrait of the Queen Mother painted by Sir William Hutchinson has pride of place in this room. Everything else comes from the decorative pallet of Queen Victoria who first came to Scotland in 1837. She fell in love with Highlands but didn’t like the Palace so had tapestries and furnishings sent up from Windsor Castle.

The Morning Drawing Room, on the other hand, was decorated by the Comte d’Artois who hid out here after the French Revolution to escape his creditors. Being in the precinct of the abbey (with its own laws and dungeons; the oldest police force in the world, which is still on duty whenever the Queen is in residence) meant that debtors couldn’t be arrested. The new devolved Scottish executive was also appointed here, which may or may not be symbolic.



The formal attire of the Royal Company of Archers

Next, the King’s Ante Chamber was the most important waiting room in the world. It is seventeenth century in its appearance with its oak panelling and a view of the surrounding Palace Gardens and Queen’s Park (where a Royal Garden Party is held on the 1st of July for 8,000 guests, presided over by the royal company of archers – the Queen’s royal bodyguards who now perform merely ceremonial duties).

The King’s Bedchamber (with its plaster ceiling depicting images from classical mythology and four-poster bed) was only seen by the most privileged of visitors. The bed itself wasn’t used for sleeping but followed a French precedent to use it for state business – another peculiar (and indolent) French tradition. The next-door King’s closet was used as a private study and contains the most beautiful harp, piano, and green-embroidered chairs and curtains.



The Great Gallery is a long hall comprising one quarter of the building, now used for state occasions and investitures. Charles II commissioned a series of paintings of Scottish kings to assert the right of the Stewarts to rule Scotland. The portraits line the walls and they all look oddly alike, and they were hacked as revenge for Bonnie Prince Charlie trying to claim the British throne after his defeat at Falkirk in 1746. It’s always interesting to see the profound and unsettling affect that art can have.

A fantastic Bog Oak Chair is made (as you might expect) from oak submerged in a Northern Ireland bog for thousands of years. The throne-like design was first revealed at the Great Exhibition of 1851 and it features a twisted back and lion’s head arms carved from wood which is hard, brittle and difficult to work. It’s probably not all that comfortable either.

In the Queen’s Lobby you can see the green velvet robe of the Order of the Thistle – the highest order of chivalry in Scotland (established in 1687 by James VII). Its English equivalent is The Most Noble Order of the Garter. The primary emblem is the thistle, being the national flower of Scotland, but they also get to wear all sorts of paraphernalia as part of their costume: a green mantle lined with white taffeta and tied with green and gold tassels; a black velvet hat plumed with white feathers; a gold collar depicting thistles and sprigs of rue; a gold enamelled St Andrew badge. The motto of this illustrious order is ‘Nemo me impune lacessit’ translated from the Latin as ‘No one provokes me with impunity’ which you can just imagine accompanied by the swish of a glove striking the face with bristling indignation.

The tour then moves to the Queen’s Antechamber in the tower where Mary Queen of Scots was imprisoned. The Queen’s Bedchamber (previously the private rooms of Lord Darnley) maintains the low light, heavy tapestries, imposing portraits and spiral staircases with stone walls that make the place seem even gloomier.

Mary had grown up in magnificent French renaissance palaces so this was a big change. Darnley (Mary’s second husband) was jealous of Rizzio (her advisor) and thought Rizzio would interfere with his chances of becoming king, so Darnley stabbed him 15 times in the outer chamber (which sounds quite painful).
 
Darnley himself was dead (killed by the Earl of Bothwell) less than a year later. Mary then married Bothwell which was so unpopular that she was forced to abdicate in favour of her son. She fled to England where she sought help from her cousin Elizabeth I but was imprisoned for 19 years and then tried and executed for treason aged 45.
 
The room contains various artefacts such as a portrait of Mary by Francois Chie in which you can see the pale complexion for which she was famed. The Darnley jewel which he had made for his mother has complex signs and symbols which are indecipherable to us but more obvious to people back then.

There is also in a display case the Holyrood ordinal – the rules for the conduct of the abbey. The abbey itself can be seen from the window, was named after a fragment of the cross, and was the inspiration for Mendelssohn’s Scottish Symphony.

The gardens are neat and impressive with a few wild corners where you can imagine the young princes straying after kicking their football into the flowerbeds. It’s a fascinating combination of history, tradition, ceremony and domesticity.



This amazing image is by Mark Tisdale - check out more of his photography at www.marktisdalephotography.com