Art is Ephemeral

In 2018, I decided to cease the frequency of entries on this blog, and also closed my diary after 26 years of journalling. I had my reasons, but the planet had other ideas and, in 2020, the so-called unprecedented events led me to re-open my diary, and to write several additional pieces that would re-open this turret window too. 

Amusingly the year began with my discovery of the Antony Gormley sculptures on the Water of Leith being replaced incorrectly reported in a local newsletter, the Broughton Spurtle. It was an example of the ephemeral nature of art, but also of how art galleries can get things very wrong. My sequence of photographs/poems was testament to the artist’s original intention, despite his subsequent change of mind – so the National Gallery of Scotland (I maintain) erroneously claims. 

When the pandemic kicked in, my next project was about the ephemeral presence of the abandoned shopping trolley. It has been interesting to see how many lockdown projects are now coming to fruition. Books, films, and other artforms that were either written during those strange days, or contain a flavour of the darkness many felt at the time. 

It seemed that post-COVID work being produced just as we emerged from the lockdowns had a “too soon” tag, as if it was a distasteful joke or because people hadn’t yet been able to process the trauma. 

Last year I exhibited 26 Trolleys twice, and people seemed more willing or ready to reflect on the collective experience which hit us all so differently. Perhaps it’s just reminiscence – we’re all prone to nostalgia, even over the difficult times, ironically. Maybe it’s about remembering, as each trolley picture is accompanied by a study reflecting on different aspects of the lockdown, much of which we may have forgotten. It’s not just art that’s ephemeral; the brain cells are pretty transient too. 

But art, with all its lies and misrepresentations and complexities, is meant to reflect the human condition, to help us contemplate our position in society, and create an understanding of how we co-exist among our fellow people. 

A couple of years ago I visited a friend in a row of streets local to me known as The Colonies. I won’t go into the social history or architecture of this interesting area, but for the last 20 years there has been a mini festival in which many of the artists and artisans who live in these curious rows of houses open their homes to the public, to show and sell their work. 

This friend, who I knew through music circles, lived in one of the upper colony flats, accessible via steep steps, but he also had some of his artwork – large, dreamy watercolours with folky themes and mellifluous floating patterns (much like his music) – displayed in the lower garden. 

Given the Colony of Artists festival is held in September, Edinburgh weather is unpredictable, so there was a sign telling visitors not to worry if it rained on these pictures: “Art is ephemeral” he declared. 

If art is a mirror to the soul; it therefore tells a greater truth of life’s brief spark. 

I have spoken before of the short-lived nature of friendship, so it seems natural that my project from nearly ten years ago that charted a new friendship has changed tack. 26 Doors between My House and Yours was a reflection on friendship, journeys, and the symbolism of doors. It remains a statement of truth, even though the original friendship took a different course, and many of the doors have been replaced, painted over, or removed altogether. 

A phone box kiosk in the original sequence which (ironically) lacked a door is now no more, and what

happened to the friendship that predicated this sequence of picture-poems I will leave to the imagination of the reader. Humans love anniversaries, appending to insignificant days the insignificance of one, or five, or ten years’ mind, as if the passage of time helps us makes sense. Last year I showed 26 Trolleys in a phone box as part of Art Walk Porty, who celebrate their tenth festival this year. 

Colony of Artists are celebrating their 20th anniversary, and I’m delighted therefore to be part of this weekend where I’ll have a ‘retrospective’ of Walking on the Water, 26 Doors 2016-2015, and my 2020 work which, five years on, feels a long time since. We keep a minute of silence every year to commemorate those who died in the war, then carry on fighting just as before. That is how my 26 Trolleys sequence ends, without apology. 

Too soon? I don’t think so.