Duncan Campbell’s film “Falls Burns Malone Fiddles” draws out the processes whereby people do nothing and something happens. It is a sort of aesthetization of everyday existence visible in the hairstyles, the fashions and aspirations of the moment…
As TART was conceived to exist for no more than 3-4 years (our first show was in 2004 our last, 2008), the website I designed has become the space’s primary archive.
Anne’s work reached new heights at the beginning of the year with a stunning, commissioned exhibition for the Mills College Art Museum.
With screens set amongst paper rock sculptures, Colvin’s newly commissioned three-channel video installation A Granite Note creates a haunting call and response refrain using abstracted visual and sonic fragments of boats, flowers and pipers that extend and shrink the chasm between time and image.
Just back from our annual trip home to see family, friends and for Anne to do some networking in preparation for her CCA residency in Glasgow this Fall.
This photograph was taken shortly before my father traveled to Los Angeles as a young man with his uncle who had been posted there by the Foreign Office. Also in the frame are my grandparents, my uncle, and my grandfather’s beloved gun dog Tosh.
Warlocks and witches in a dance:
Nae cotillon, brent new frae France,
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels,
Put life and mettle in their heels.
A winnock-bunker in the east,
There sat auld Nick, in shape o’ beast;
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large,
To gie them music was his charge:
He screw’d the pipes and gart them skirl,
Till roof and rafters a’ did dirl. –
Coffins stood round, like open presses,
That shaw’d the Dead in their last dresses;
And (by some devilish cantraip sleight)
Each in its cauld hand held a light.
By which heroic Tam was able
To note upon the haly table,
A murderer’s banes, in gibbet-airns;
Twa span-lang, wee, unchristened bairns;
A thief, new-cutted frae a rape,
Wi’ his last gasp his gabudid gape;
Five tomahawks, wi’ blude red-rusted:
Five scimitars, wi’ murder crusted;
A garter which a babe had strangled:
A knife, a father’s throat had mangled.
Whom his ain son of life bereft,
The grey-hairs yet stack to the heft;
Wi’ mair of horrible and awfu’,
Which even to name wad be unlawfu’.
Three lawyers tongues, turned inside oot,
Wi’ lies, seamed like a beggars clout,
Three priests hearts, rotten, black as muck,
Lay stinkin, vile in every neuk.