Being Emily (20 page)

I DIDNAE EXPECT
the light festival to be up to much. Glasgow’s always putting on festivals but Edinburgh always manages to dae it bigger and better; there’s something feels haund-knitted about the way we dae things. Mibbe all the folk that know how tae run them get snapped up by Edinburgh and we get left with the has-beens. Mibbe it’s because Glaswegians cannae seem to go anywhere without leaving trails of sweetie wrappers and fast-food packages lying around behind them. Or that we don’t know how tae dress. Or talk. Or something. Anyhow I’d no been that fussed about gaun tae the festival. But that night I found mysel round at my da’s trying to persuade him and the twins to come.

What is it anyway, hen?

They’ve lit up all these buildings in the toon so you can walk
round and look at them. There’s exhibits as well, wi sound and motion
and that. And a café in the City Halls
.

Nae answer.

It’s free
.

I thought that might get my da interested but he said,
Sounds
a bit arty for me
.

Da, it’s just a chance tae walk about and see the architecture of
Glasgow in a different way. You’re the one always gaun on about how
we don’t appreciate wur ain buildings in this city, keep knocking
them doon
.

I resisted the temptation, never very far away, to add that he had almost contributed to the destruction of one of Glasgow’s buildings.

He turned tae Mona and Rona.
What d’yous think, girls?
D’yous want to go? Take the wee one tae see the lights?

Don’t be daft, it’s baltic the night
, said Mona.
Anyhow we’re
taking her in tae see the Christmas lights in George Square next
week
.

You could see them the night
.

Aye but the shops’ll be shut
.

That’s the idea, so you can go and see the buildings
.

Naa. Why don’t you phone Janice – sounds like the kind of thing
her and Angie will be intae
.

But Angie and Janice were gaun tae a party. I’d either have to go on my ain or sit around watching
The X Factor
.

I’ll see yous the morra, okay
.

Fine
, said my da, turning the volume up.
Mind you wrap up
warm, now
.

It was as if the city had been reborn. Families, couples, people on their ain, all just walking, looking round them, laughing and pointing out the illuminations. Cars had been rerouted
and, insteidy the hum of traffic, voices rang out intae the cold air. It was wonderful, what they’d done. Some buildings changed colours as you watched, others had a detail lit up, something you’d never normally notice. My da was right about folk in Glasgow – we never see what’s round us. So much of the beauty of the buildings is high up and we’re scurrying about at ground level, looking intae shops, heiding tae work. Like insects. But the Victorians who built Glasgow were proud of their city, wanted all the fancy stuff – columns and capitals, statues and gold leaf. I snapped away with my camera, hoping that at least some of the effect would come out with the flash, though I didnae hold out much hope. Then I turned the corner of the street that led along to GoMA. The front was all lit up in fluorescent green and they’d roofed the spaces on either side with tiny star-lights. I laughed out loud when I seen it, then felt stupid in case folk around thought I was mad.

The big event of the festival was about tae start and I made my way up the steep hill beside Strathclyde Uni, following the crowds to the viewing area on a piece of wasteground. There was a group of oldies at one side of me, and they moaned about how it was supposed tae start at eight o’clock and how come they never had any seats. I squeezed past them, stood at the back, high up so I could see better.

Doon below, at the bottom of the hill, was the contraption. You couldnae call it anything else – it was like something fae an auld Frankenstein movie, a machine made out of bits of metal and parts of engines, kind of like a train with big funnels. Even at this distance, it was enormous.

It began. Noises, at first like wee toots, then louder. A guy in a fluorescent suit, some kind of safety thing, was climbing around on it, twiddling stuff. By controlling the flame he
could make different tones come out the funnels. He played tunes on them, turned the flames different colours. Fireworks went aff in time with the music, colours and sounds in rhythm and harmony, the guy running round the installation working it, calibrating everything. Like a DJ works the decks, works the crowd, samples and puts the music thegether, so this guy done with the light, the music, the machinery – everything working as one. Amazing.

I became aware of someone standing closer than a stranger would of. Jas. Out the corner of my eye I could see him. We never spoke or moved, just stood there watching, listening, experiencing, side by side.

The final part was a huge explosion of colours that zoomed and swooped intae the sky, accompanied by loud bangs and shrieks. A moment’s silence then the crowd started tae move. Jas and I stood – I think neither of us was quite sure what to dae. Then I heard the voice of wanny the auld guys.

Well, that wasnae up tae much, was it?

Naw
, says the auld dolly next tae him.
Nothing much really
happened
.

I looked at Jas and we both burst out laughing.

He came closer, whispered in my ear.
True enough, no much
happened. Just twenty minutes of explosions, sound, lights, fireworks
all in synchronicity. Wonder where they’ve come fae – Beirut?

I whispered back.
And they could of been at hame watching
‘Celebrity Come Dancing’
.

We started to walk doon the hill thegether, part of the massive crowd of folk. It was cauld, but sharp and fresh, and I was wrapped up well so I didnae mind the nip on my cheeks.

It’s weird how lighting makes such a difference tae the buildings
.

I feel like I’m no in Glasgow
, said Jas.
Naa, that’s no right – it
looks different, but it feels like Glasgow underneath
.

I walked beside him in silence for a moment. It did feel the same even though everything else had changed.

Must be the smell. No ‘Glasgow’s Miles Better’ but ‘Glasgow Smells
Different’
.

Jas laughed.
Aye, like the subway. My da always went on and on
about that. How when they done it up in the seventies it never smelled
the same afterwards. I used to think he was such a saddo
.

We reached the junction of Ingram Street and stood, hovering. Jas had on a thin jacket and his haunds were in his pockets. I had a leaflet with a plan of the light installations and Jas nodded at it.
Can I see?

He placed his finger on the map.
Look, we’re here
. He moved so we were staunding side by side under a streetlight, wanny they new ones that casts a natural light instead of the eerie orange glow that makes your face look blue.
That’s this corner
. His elbow touched my side, muffled by layers of fleece.
And
there’s something along here
. He bent his heid and the side of it touched my forehead, just as it had in the library that first time we kissed. Then he straightened and pointed alang the street.

The Ramshorn Kirk is stark and gloomy, in keeping with the rows of solemn gravestones ranged at the back. But tonight the garden was starred with light, bushes and trees sprinkled wi glitter. As we walked round, the lights changed colours. You’d move towards one and it suddenly leapt at you. The lights washed over the trees; as one set went aff another went on, waves sweeping fae blue tae green tae pink.

A wee girl skipped along the path in fronty us, hauding her daddy’s haund.
We’re in fairyland!

Aye, hen
.

Jas said softly,
Fiona, look up
.

Usually the city sky has a cloudy cover which muffles the starlight. But tonight it was a vault studded by stars with a perfect crescent moon like a sliver of ice, riding high in the darkness.

They’d set up a café in the Candleriggs but Jas and me drifted towards the west end. At the junction of Byres Road we stood, Jas cupping his haunds over his mouth and blowing on them.

You gaun back tae Aberdeen the morra?

I think I’ll hang on and get the early train back on Monday
.

Oh – right
.

He nodded, looked round.
Got time for a hot chocolate?

So what’s Aberdeen like?

Baltic
.

Worse than the night?

That’s what caught me out. Glasgow always seems warm by comparison
so I never put on enough layers
.

Global warming
.

I guess. But it was great for the festival – too cold to rain
.

Having a festival outside in Glasgow in November is really brave.
Or stupid
.

It was brilliant but
. He stirred the froth of his coffee.
So
how’s your work, Fiona?

Dunno. Hard tae say really
.

Ma said you won a prize. It was in the free paper – she reads it
from cover to cover, says it’s the only way you ever find out what’s
happening in Glasgow
.

I was surprised Mrs Kaur mentioned me to Jas.

I got to show my work in a London gallery
.

Cool
.

I guess
.

I mean you should be winning prizes and all that – just they
don’t always go to the right folk
.

I’m no sure they got it right with me – I’m trying tae get this
thing finished the noo and it’s driving me mad
.

Divine discontent. Who was it, Michelangelo or someone said that
– the artist is never satisfied with their work
.

It’s no just that, but. See the installation the night—

Jas put doon his cup and turned to me and it was the old Jas – animated, like when he used tae talk about Shelley or photography.
It’s awesome how the guy made everything work
thegether – light, sound, technology – like an old car that needs tae
be coaxed into life by someone who knows it. There’s always a risk
something’ll go wrong and it’ll fall flat. He has to be in tune with
it, be with it – every time he does it, it’ll be different
.

And no just because the audience is different
. I stared at the bottom of the mug where the remains of the chocolate had solidified.

What you thinking, Fiona?

Wish I could dae something like that
.

Why not?

Don’t be daft
.

I mean it. You can dae anything … if you really want to enough
.

I looked at him.
What about you, Jas? D’you still keep up your
art?

Never really have time. I mean I still take photies but it’s no the
same. It’s just a way of remembering
.

Jas walked me back to the flat where we said goodbye casually, like pals who would see each other around.

I couldnae sleep but tossed and turned then finally got up, wrapped in a blanket, and looked out the windae. Stared across at the bit of wasteground with its fringe of scabby trees
and bushes. A frozen puddle of water glowed blue and violet in the lights fae the streetlamps. I kept thinking about the light installations, the way they had made the city a different and lovely place.

My wee boxes were nearly ready for the end of term show and there was only a couple of weeks left. I’d nae clear sense of how I could take the half-formed ideas and feelings that had arisen inside me tonight, use them to make something better. It seemed too big somehow, like trying tae keep a tiger inside a pillowcase.

I went back tae bed, blanket still wrapped round me like a shroud. I shut my eyes and kept gaun over and over in my heid every detail I could remember of the light show. I knew I should relax, try to let go so I could sleep but every time I did an image of Jas came over me and I must not think of him.

IT WAS CRAP
. Everyone else said it was good but to me, smouldering with all these ideas about art being alive, being about change and risk, it was static, dull, predictable.

A row of shoe boxes, the interior of each done out like a pensioner’s living room, with beige carpet and wallpaper. I’d tried real wallpaper but the pattern was too big in proportion to the room so I’d used lining paper, painted neat regency stripes and faint geometric patterns on it. The furniture was made out of matchboxes and bits of plastic. I’d upholstered chairs in scraps of fabric, crocheted tiny antimacassars and tablecloths, used washing up liquid tops for cups. Each room had a TV made fae a matchbox, and on each was a different image: a football match, a garden, a woman’s face, an advert for washing powder. There was no one in the rooms.

The only bit I really liked was the hedges which ran along the outside of each room, like one of those hauf-doors they have in stables. Some were in thick luxurious wool, others funky yarn wi glitter or ribbons woven through it – I’d even knitted one out of wire. I’d struggled for ages with a title, a sure sign that there was something unclear about the work. Eventually I called it ‘Hedging’.

We were having what was called a peer-group assessment session by a group of students in my class, supervised by the tutor. Because I’d had the exhibition in London folk expected something special from me and I think he was disappointed. But they’re no supposed tae be judgemental – their role, as it says in the handbook, is to lead each student to the development of their unique talents, to nurture and bring out the inherent qualities of each piece of work, rather than using alien criteria.

Very low-key compared to your other work, isn’t it?

I guess
.

Anyone else like to comment?

I like the hedges
, said Mihaila.
So suburban. It’s neat – something
which is meant to give the householder privacy actually reveals
them to the viewer
.

Yeah
, added Paul.
And there’s no one in the house, only a TV
on. More of that urban alienation stuff you did with the Barbies
.

All very positive
. The tutor smiled like a primary teacher whose class had performed well in front of an inspector.
But,
if I might suggest something? Your little knitted chairs and furniture?

Uhhuh
.

I can see what you’re doing, of course
.

I’m glad someone can.

But they’re so neatly made that they’re in danger of eclipsing the
irony rather than pointing it up
.

How d’you mean?

If you make them a bit rougher round the edges, do them with
less precision, then we can see them as art rather than something a
real granny might make for her grandchild’s doll’s house. D’you see
what I mean?

Knitting is only art when it’s done badly?

He laughed.
Have I walked into some hornet’s nest of feminist
reclamation of craft, Fiona?

I just don’t see what you’re getting at. I don’t think this is my
best work – mibbe it’s something I need to dae on the way to something
better – but I really don’t see how knitting badly will give it
more artistic credentials
.

Actually, Fiona, I wrote a monograph on this very subject – the
relationship between art and craft. I’ll lend you the book if you like
but the gist of it, as I’m sure you’ll know anyway, is that for craft
to be art it must be done with a knowing, self-referential eye. Your
granny making a tapestry chair cover patterned with the Mona Lisa
because she thinks it’s nice is not art, but an artist using the Mona
Lisa as an iconic reference in her own work is
.

I knew I’d pissed him aff but I was so mad.

I’m sorry
, I said.
I didnae mean to be rude
.

It’s good to get angry at criticism, Fiona, all part of the healthy
debate and dialogue which keeps art alive. Have a think about what
I’ve said and we’ll meet again in January. I liked what you said
about this being a step on the way to a bigger and better project. I
like your honesty, I think it’s part of what makes your art so vibrant.
Now, let’s look at your sculpture, Jason
.

I was mad, but no at what he’d said. I was mad at myself, mad that this crap I’d produced was even being taken seriously. My granny used tae crochet chair covers, knit clothes for dolls – it was her taught me tae knit. Chair covers and dolls’ clothes were leisure pursuits to her; during the time
her ain family were growing up she’d had tae spend hours knitting jumpers for her man and her weans – Mammy, Janice and the two older brothers who’d emigrated tae Canada years ago. There was nothing ironic or self-referential about her arthritic fingers flying over the stitches, one eye on
Coronation
Street
. The wee covers the tutor thought I’d made too perfect were pathetic compared to what my granny could dae wi her eyes shut. As for the cardboard boxes that served as houses, my grandpa would of made them in wood with beautifully dovetailed joins. Even my daddy made us a doll’s house when we were wee – out of a kit just – he wasnae the craftsman my grandpa had been but he’d laboured for hours over it, painted and wallpapered it, even redecorated it when the twins spilled juice all doon the walls.

Patrick and me used tae spend hours playing with that house, moving the wee dolls in and out, sitting them round the table for their meals, putting them tae bed at night. My da never thought it was right for Patrick to play with it, used tae try to get him away.
Come and have a wee kickabout in the
back court, son
. But Patrick wasnae interested and only the twins ever wanted to play footie. I wondered how much of a disappointment we were tae my da. Clearly Patric wasnae the son he’d expected to bond with, but then we werenae his ideal daughters either. I was too weird, too arty, and for all he loved wee Grace it was hard on a man so deep-doon conventional to have a daughter pregnant at fifteen.

It was easier for Mammy. She could accept us for who we were, seemed tae understaund who needed a bit of freedom and who needed to be kept on a tight rope, knew when she should speak and when tae let us be. Mibbe that’s part of being a mother, no a father, or mibbe it was just her nature. And I’ll never know cause I cannae ever ask her now. Somehow
her dying has robbed me, no just of the times I’ve had with her but of times to come, when I could talk to her like an adult. But then look at what Da had lost. Mibbe we were too hard on him after all.