A Macdougall In MacKay Country!

Mackay relatives in the USA

2008-08-15T08:03:00.000-07:00

Dear Ruth Macdougall,

In surfing the internet I came upon "A Macdougall in Mackay Country" and just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed reading all about the Island.

My father was born on the island and lived there with his brothers and sisters in the late 1890's and early 1900's. His father was a John Mackay, he was a John Mackay and I am John K. H. Mackay. My mother was a teacher on the island and also in Armadale. My mother was a Mackay before she married my father in San Francisco, California. My father was a merchant marine engineer that sailed through out the world and his ship came to San Francisco and that's when they decided to stay in the United States around 1926.

The picture in the blog is Katie Ann MacQueen, who is my cousin. We visited with many of the relatives last year when we were in the north of Scotland. My aunt Nan Drury who is 97 lives in Edinburgh and she was one of my mother's students when she was teaching on the island. I have a copy of the book "When I Was Young", authored by Timothy Neat. My grandfather is pictured on pages 72,76, and my cousin, Mina Mackay Stevens is pictured on page 62 and then her story on pages 63 - 89.

We love traveling to Scotland and probably have been there ten times over the last thirty years. One of the highlights was going to the island and actually visiting the area that my parents always talked about with wonderful memories and many challenges of living on Island Roan. I am interested in any and all the information I can gather about Island Roan, and would enjoy hearing about yourexperiences associated with the island. Thank you for your sharing your experiences.

Sincerely,

John K. H. Mackay

2007-01-11T08:44:00.000-08:00

Kitty Ann MacQueen pictured above at her home in Norfolk, is one of the last remaining inhabitants of Eilean Nan Ron. In November 2006, she and her family invited me to their home, to document her fascinating memories of life on the island. The two volume DVD set of her stories can be found in the MacKay Country Archives.

2007-01-11T08:42:00.000-08:00

Image: Michael Brookes Roper

The Myth Of Island Roan

2006-11-09T11:05:00.000-08:00

The following text was written for me by a member of the local community after I asked for those involved to offer a personal perspective on the project.

The Myth of Eilean Nan Ron

When we speak of myths we tend to think of the prehistoric or the fictional, the Trojan Horse, the Labours of Hercules, the Lord of the Rings. We instinctively distance ourselves, living in our everyday modern world, from myths and the process of myth making, as if the stories that we tell about the world around us were somehow different, somehow objective truth.

But every community has its myths, and every member of every community is complicit in the production, and reproduction of these myths. You could say that a community is defined by its myths, that a community is nothing more or less than the collection of people who believe a common set of stories, who reverence a certain mythology.

And we are all, for better or worse, members of various overlapping communities, geographical, cultural, political, spiritual, each with its own mythology, its stories, its truths. Because we are not speaking of myths as fictions, but as narratives and fragments of narratives, threads to be spun together to illustrate the past and sustain the present – we are the stories that we believe.

Eilean Nan Ron has such mythic status in Skerray. The island is a constant presence offshore, the one and a half miles of water a physical separation representing almost 70 years, a lifetime, since evacuation. The life of the islanders belongs now to stories rather than memories, and in that transformation has become a rich mythology, which defines the community that tells and retells those stories.

So what does it mean to make art out of this? Firstly, there has to be the recognition that the island itself has become a community artwork, a narrative in progress that grows, evolves, is embellished and edited.

Second, it could be seen as a corrective, a regrounding – see, this rowing, it wasn’t the work of giants or super humans, just a hard but routine part of the daily existence. And why did we all assume that the lamps would have been visible 70 years ago? Has our bright, shiny, electric world colonised our ancestors’ lives too?

And thirdly, and maybe most of all, this art will become a contribution to the work in progress that is the myth of Eilean Nan Ron, another thread to weave in the story of the island, the lassie who rowed to the island, the community that came together to help and watch, and be participants not just in an artwork, but in a myth.

J

Passing Place Exhibition

2006-11-09T10:28:00.000-08:00

Saturday the 14th of October was a beautiful day, much like the day I rowed across to Eilean Nan Ron. Over 70 people from the surrounding communities attended the exhibition and took away with them two posters documenting the project in text and image. It was a perfect end to what was a great experience for me. Everyone that I hoped would come along to the exhibition , came, they left their thoughts and comments in a book which is now all the more important considering the mean spirited and inaccurate manner in which ceratain non participants chose to regard the project( see Am Brattach October and Novemebr issues)I did not respond publicly to the comments published, rather the engagement of the local community was again punctuated by two independent, and wholly supportive letters written by members of local the community. I am very grateful to Rhona and Bazil for taking the time and effort to show their support.

I chose not to show the film in a dark space, rather allowing some of the beautiful, Scottish ambient light to illuminate the space. The video documentation was projected whilst the oars, life jacket and lamps sat in the space.

A second projection displayed a power point of still images taken by myself and members of the Skerray community during my three month residency.
A monitor sitting ontop of the stage played the animations produced by children from local primary schools, whilst a separate monitor showed the video,Liberty Tower, which is also currently showing in Beirut.

The Skenes
Hugh and Jean
Tiegan - Altnaharra Primary School
Bazil
Joe and Babe

Liberty Tower

2006-10-09T14:19:00.000-07:00

During my time as artist inresidence here in Sutherland, many things have happened. It seems a very long time ago that I was waking every day and returning every night to hear of the steady destruction of a country that was my home for a time. Although I did not create a work that overtly connected my residenncy here in the Highlands and my pre occupation with the events in Lebanon, I continued to address the conflict in my own way. Evacuation, passage by sea and distance are themes that connect the works, and both will be shown on the 14th. This video work, named Liberty Tower will also be shown in the exhibition Nafas, which will open in Beirut on Thursday aswell as being part of the blog work, Lebanon These Days.
go to: www.lebanonthesedays.blogspot.com

Liberty Tower, a magnificent twelve story building, where all offices boast spectacular views of the city below.
Ideally located in Hamra, the main city center of Beirut, the Centre is within easy reach of the capital's principal hotels, stores, restaurants, banks and government offices. It is easily accessible with parking facilities within the building and all around it too.

Espace SD and xanadu* are happy to invite you to the opening of

Nafas Beirut
A platform for artists bearing witness

The opening will take place at Espace SD Thursday the 12th of October 2006 at 6pm

Nafas Beirut is a platform for artists, poets, writers and filmmakers to share their work produced during or in reaction to the Israeli siege of Lebanon of Summer 2006. Believing it crucial to highlight these works, Nafas Beirut documents the emotions and experiences, and brings artists and viewers together, historicizing the moment. Nafas Beirut is a platform for these immediate responses through a multimedia exhibition and a month long series of events including, video screenings curated by various organizations and collectives, concerts, an open mike poetry jam, and a lecture on the oil spill.

The exhibition will continue until the 17th of November.
For the schedule of the events, please check http://www.espacesd.com or http://www.xanaduart.com/nafas.html
Espace SD is open everyday except sundays between 3pm and 8pm.

Regina Maris

2006-10-09T14:10:00.000-07:00

REGINA MARIS

Tho' King Canute cannot command
the waves that lave Strathnaver's sand
young Ruth MacDougall has at hand
a motley crew, a humbly band.
Fear HER!

Only joking! I follow with interest your salty progress. All the best. Donny.

A few words from Donny Graham, friend, poet and former collaborator.

exhibition

2006-10-01T09:13:00.000-07:00

16.09.06

2006-09-28T10:26:00.002-07:00

I arrived down at the pier very early on the Saturday morning, a beautiful sunny day, a light wind and calm seas, everything I’d hoped for.

The only other person at the pier was Jean McLain, we sat upon the harbour wall and looked over at the island, enjoying the morning sun and marvelling at my luck. Jean also has a boat and makes regular trips out, both with passengers and to fish. Next arrived Billy, he had been out fishing the night before and was down early to wash all the fish scales off the decks. Then Meg arrived with her camera, to document the whole event right from the beginning. Shortly after, Billy Campbell and his wife Margaret arrived, carrying six gleaming lamps for me to light on the island, the bronze and gold bases of the paraffin lamps were beautiful in the sun light and provided the first photographic subject of the day.

I wasn’t nervous about the row, just happy that the weather was good and after making sure all the cameras were assigned and loaded, it was simply a matter of waiting until 10.30 am. The fine weather together with the level of community engagement in the project, encouraged a large crowd of local people to form on the pier to see me off. It was quite a spectacle and no one I have spoken to, can remember ever seeing so many people in that place. Looking back at the photos and the video, I am surprised that a lot more was going on around me than I was aware of, as I was sitting down in the boat readying positions and focusing cameras.

My departure from the harbour was not as smooth as I had hoped for. On one side of the boat was the harbour wall, whilst on the other was Sinclair’s boat and so getting any kind of leverage with the oars was tricky. Finally Brian came down and took one end of the oar and acted as leverage for me to push away with. After the first two fluid strokes with the oars, a cheer went up from the crowd and I rowed smoothly out the harbour and round the pier. As I began to straighten out the boat for the channel between the rocks, I could hear the sound of a violin, at first I thought it was coming from the radio on board Billie’s boat but realised that it coming from the pier and looking up I could see amongst the waving arms, and hear above the shouts of goodbye, Karen Stevens on her violin. I was quite moved that she had come to see me off and it was the perfect touch to what was a very happy, sunny event.

Billy Macintosh followed at quite a distance behind the boat, followed then by Sinclair with some passengers and two or three other boats. I think that out of anyone I had the best view from my seat: Dave directly in front of me, the small flotilla of boats in the middle distance and the tiny figures of the viewers sanding on top of the pier with Skerray behind.

I can’t say I really remember that much from the row, I know I went at it full tilt and surprised everyone including myself with the speed I went through the water but rowing like that over a prolonged period of time, it’s easy to slip into a trance like state. When I felt the boat going of course, I would automatically re-adjust. By about three quarters of the way there, looking behind myself to keep in line, I did wonder if I would ever arrive.

I am very proud of my parking it has to be said… I don’t think even Dave could have done much better, just the right speed and angle. However, once stationary (or as stationary as you can be at sea), I wasn’t really sure what to do, Dave couldn’t help because he had the camera and the other two boats were keeping well out of it. The boat hook was fairly ineffectual and I was beginning to panic. Then, like an angel descending from Heaven, Jean McLain came down the steep treacherous stairs that lead from the port up to the island. Jean had landed on the island earlier, unseen by anyone, and I’m so glad she did. She took our rope and at last I felt we had really arrived.

On Sinclair’s boat were Meg, Bazil, Norman and Morag. Whilst unloading the safety boat of all my equipment, several of the group stepped on the island for a look around. For Norman and Billy Campbell (who has lived in Skerray for many years) this was their first visit to the island.

Getting all the lamps and tent up onto the island was almost as much work as rowing the boat but my jubilation at arriving postponed any pain I was to feel. Alone at last on the island, I chose a flat patch of grass behind one of the central houses and pitched the tent lent to me by the Macintosh family. I had been given the left over sandwiches from the previous night’s concert and sat for a while in the glorious sun. I couldn’t believe my luck, Island Roan, alone in that weather. I spent the rest of the day taking pictures, making some short videos and choosing the best places to put the lamps. It was only later when I began filling the lamps with paraffin, that it became clear that they were not all up to the job. I had six lamps with me, one of the storm lamps lost its wick during transit and the other was clearly a cheap modern version and its wick too fell down into the paraffin, leaving me with only four lamps. For a while I panicked and desperately tried to retrieve the wick but the sun had started to go down and I had to accept that I would to try with four. Mike Roper (the local photographer who kindly agreed to help me document) and I had already discussed it before the event and decided that if I could get at the very least one well-lit window, then with a little help from Photoshop, we could get a good image.

As the sun went down, the wind on the island whipped up. At seven o’clock Mike and I made first contact, he was on top of one of the many outlook points near Skerray along with a gang of local people: Meg Telfer, Dave Illingworth, Bill Telfer, Brian and Irene McLeod. Between mobile phone calls from the mainland, trying to locate my position on the island, I tried desperately to light the lamps against the wind. I managed to get one Tilley Lamp going and one storm lamp, I put both in the down stairs window of the house on the far left as you look at the island. The group on the mainland could see neither me, nor the lamps. I was wearing a white jumper and trying to wave my arms, which was difficult, as once up in the air, they tended to lock, one small side effect of a 40-minute row. Despite telephoto lenses and more than one pair of binoculars, they couldn’t find me. I continued trying with the other lamps, but one began to leek paraffin and the task of lighting the meths tongs was becoming ever more dangerous as the wind got even stronger. The first Tilley lamps couldn’t take the wind and very soon went out, on the verge of tears and exhausted from my efforts, I had to call it a day.

Though the evening was beautiful, I knew there would be many disappointed viewers on the mainland. Feeling deeply disappointed and frustrated, I took to my tent. The stars all came out and naturally, the wind dropped…

It took me a long time to go to sleep, not so much because it was scary to be alone on the island but because I was desperately trying to think of how I could have done it differently. In hindsight, it was a big task for one person, I knew how to light the lamps and the night before, Billy Campbell had them all cleaned up and glowing, so we knew they should have worked, perhaps it was just fate, in the same way that the weather was almost freakily perfect for the row, like someone was looking after me, the lamps suffered the opposite fate. Perhaps the lights of Island Roan are not supposed to be seen again.

Yet, when we consider that Mike and the others could not see the Tilley lamp that was lit, even with lenses and binoculars, can we be sure that the lights were actually ever seen on the island, there is no record of it, it’s something we assume because electrical light is so bright and can carry so far.

I had been teased by many about the pirate who allegedly lives on the island. However, I was more alarmed by my mobile suddenly going off at intervals during the night, called by concerned locals, who were checking to see if I was ok. I still find it strange that I get reception there but not in Skerray.

I got up with the sun the next morning, exhausted and the Macintosh family came to collect me at around 9am.

Mikes picture of me rowing towards the island, made the front cover of the Northern Times, fame!

Feeling a bit guilty that I hadn’t managed to complete my project, I was greatly heartened by the response I received from local people the next day in Skerray who had really enjoyed the rowing event and were only disappointed for me that the lamps hadn’t worked. Sinclair even challenged me to row his boat, which is enormous compared to the one I was rowing, but happily will give me another chance to get behind the oars.

I am now compiling the enormous amount of documentation I have and deciding how I will present it all in the community hall on the 14th of October.

Island Row, Saturday the 16th of September

2006-09-20T02:40:00.000-07:00

Brian's boat

2006-09-20T02:22:00.000-07:00

Trial Run

2006-09-19T11:17:00.001-07:00

On Friday the 15th I went down to the harbour with Brian for a final trial run, he negotiated the route out of the port which was the trickiest part of the journey and after rowing a little way we swapped so that I could get used to the newly adjusted Humbly bands, they are shorter and made from newer rope. It’s easy to tell when you’ve made a good stroke, the motion of the boat through the water is surer, it flows better and the sound the oars make against the wood is different. Brian informs me that the piece of wood that sits protectively on the rim of the boat surrounding the pin and humbly band is called a Ruth or Rooth. I have contacted the Gaelic Village, am biale, to learn more of the names given to the different parts of these Shetland boats.

After rowing back in and successfully parking the boat, Brian and Dave swapped over. I had become used to the boat during my turn with Brian and so was able to leave the port myself. I had been a little worried about this part of the journey as I was aware that on the day, I would be observed by a crowd and my manoeuvring would be under scrutiny.

Dave was quietly surprised at my technique and remarked on how he was apparently redundant, the training paid off.

It was a beautiful day, fairly calm seas and sunny, I could have rowed all the way to the island easily but wanted to leave that pleasure till Saturday, and as the weather looked set to continue till the next day, I was really looking forward to it.

Back at the harbour, we met Sinclair, a local man who is only at home on the sea. Sinclair is the nephew of Hector, whose name is on the plaque of two lost sailors that is framed against the harbour wall. Sinclair never wears a life jacket, but equally, he never goes out to sea alone. His mother was born on Island Roan and so I asked if he would like to join us in his own boat for the crossing, which he graciously accepted astride his tractor.

That night, Karen Steven played at the Skerray Community Hall. She is an immensely talented fiddle player and has recently released a CD of her work. The CD is a fundraiser for Aberdeen neurosurgical Ward where she was treated for a brain haemorrhage. It was a great evening and rather apt as Karen’s grandmother is Mina MacKay Steven, who was featured in Timothy Neat’s book, ‘When We Were Young’. She was born and raised on Island Roan.

I left early to get a good nights sleep before the event.

Humbly bands

2006-09-13T15:38:00.000-07:00

Today, Dave, Brian and I went down to the harbour to check out the boat again. On Sunday I had joined both men as they put the boat in the water for the first time in quite a while. I was allowed a turn around the bay with Dave but it didn’t last long. The oars are attached using ‘’humbly bands’’, which are basically just ropes, which pass through a wooden pin, which then slots into the side of the boat. The oars I am used to, are not attached using this method and whilst they don’t allow for feathering, they are much more stable. After rowing for a short time in the bay, the first humbly band broke, Dave was able to mend it to a fashion, just long enough for us to run aground…Dave, after some strenuous back rowing was able to free us from the sand and seaweed, but then broke the second humbly band and we were essentially marooned in the bay. Fortunately the water was like a millpond and Brian was close at hand with a very long rope to haul us in.

I like to think that I broke the humbly band as a result of my massive, newly acquired strength since training began, not the fact that the ropes were at least ten years old and completely rotten. The short trip highlighted a few small problems with the boat, all of which, Dave was able to fix, masterfully.

Today we gathered again at the harbour, for a test run with the new ropes and strengthened oar, but despite blue skies, the South Westerly wind was quite strong and it was decided that to go out on the water in that wind would diminish rather than bolster my confidence before the big day. I don’t think I had properly appreciated the effect the wind can have on rowing conditions and I just hope that Saturday is calm and has but a gentle breeze, fingers crossed.

Everything is in place for Saturday, I have my tent, lamps, all camera positions are manned and I am strangely calm about it all. On Friday evening there will be a ceilidh in Skerray Community Hall, with which, there is a lovely connection. The main performer on this occasion will be Karen Steven, whose grandmother, Mina Mac Kay Stevens, lived on the island and was featured in Timothy Neat’s book, ‘’When I was Young’’.

I have only recently found out that Mina’s sister, Nan MacKay, is the aunt of my Uncle’s partner. Sadly Mina died last year and as a result Nan has been spurred on to record her own stories and anecdotes from her time spent on the island. Nan visited the island last week whilst visiting the area, unfortunately I was in Glasgow at the time but we have arranged that I will visit her sometime in October to film her telling her stories. The material will of course be given to the MacKay Country archives.

I am excited about Saturday but as the time draws nearer, I am a little worried about staying overnight on the island alone. However, I draw comfort from Jon Holingdale’s assurances that I don’t need to worry too much about the overnight stay on the island, a) because by the time I get there and have that huge adrenalin buzz and then run around illuminating...I'll be completely knackered and will sleep like a baby, and b) in any case its very rare for the polar bears to arrive before mid-October…

I hope he’s right about the polar bears…

2006-09-13T09:08:00.002-07:00

Dave Illingworth and Brian Mcleod at Skerray harbour as they fine tune the boat.

Stop Motion Animation Workshops

2006-09-13T03:26:00.000-07:00

Images from three, two day workshops in Stop motion animation with Altnaharra, Farr and Tongue Primary School. The films will be shown in an exhibition on the 14th of October, along with my own work in Skerray Community Hall.

2006-09-13T03:11:00.000-07:00

''The Gruffalo''
Produced, animated and filmed by Altnaharra Primary School

2006-09-13T03:03:00.000-07:00

''The Witch's Romance''
Produced, animated and filmed by Primary Seven
Farr Primary School

2006-09-13T02:41:00.000-07:00

''A Bag Of Gold On Island Roan''
Produced, animated and filmed by Primary Four
Tongue Primary School

2006-09-11T11:14:00.000-07:00

On the 16th of September there will be no rain, only blue skies and clam sea!!!

2006-09-05T20:42:00.000-07:00

So, September the 16th is the day. Probably leaving around 10.30am. It should take roughly 1.5 hrs to row to Eilean Nan Ron.

I have recruited a full crew from the local community of Skerray:

Camera people: Dave Illingworth, Billy Campbell and Celia.
Safety boat: Billie Macintosh
Nighttime documentation of the lights: Photographer, Mike Roper
Providing boat: Brian Macleod

So far I also have the use of six lamps: two from Celia, two from Billie Macintosh, who is also lending me a tent, and two from Billy Campbell. Ideally I would like a few more but six is a good start.

As well as practicing on Modsary Lochen, I will be taking to the sea in a test run early next week with Brian. Understandably he sounds a little worried about his boat, but hopefully by that time I will have the technique down and will be able to put his mind at rest. Jon Hollingdale would have liked to have volunteered for filming but can’t make it, so has offered me the use of his professional rowing machine, complete with mirror, (so I can practice my brave, young thing faces for the camera) any time I like.

Thank you to all these people for volunteering their help, hopefully the weather won’t let us down and it all goes to plan.

In between preparing for the expedition, I have been leading Stop Motion Animation workshops with local Primary School children, the last of which will be tomorrow and Thursday with Altnaharra Primary School.

I have already led the workshop with the four Primary Four pupils at Tongue and the six Primary Seven pupils from Farr. The workshops have produced great results. Stop animation is a very time consuming method of animation but the results are fascinating and really caught the imagination of all the pupils involved. Despite the relatively short time of two days in which to develop a story from beginning to end, we achieved a lot. The students were extremely enthusiastic and responsive, this is reflected in the scope and imagination of the work, all of which was their own. The pupils began by choosing together, a story from the local area, and then transferred the story onto storyboards. The next step was to design and make a stage set for the story as well as choosing appropriate objects and props to aid us in the following day’s filming. The small groups allowed each pupil a chance to have a go at both animating and operating the equipment used in recording, and over the course of the two days, the pupils naturally assumed their preferred roles within the process, in what were two wholly collaborative works. The soundtrack for the Farr animation was provided by one of the Primary Seven girls, who is a very accomplished young bag- pipe player. The entire school provided the soundtrack for the Tongue animation as they performed the Gaelic song, Gleann –Gollaidh, written by Rob Donn. The final, edited version of the animations will be presented to each school and I intend to show the animations at my end of residency exhibition in October.

Ladies who row.

2006-08-25T14:17:00.000-07:00

I like this photo very much but there are two things wrong with it...can you tell what they are?
Leave your answers in the comments box below and the first right answer wins a humbly band.

SOS

2006-08-25T14:07:00.000-07:00

Again, collaborating with post mistress Marlyn and the friendly post men of Skerray, I have sent the following letter out to the people of Skerray and Borgie:

Dear community of Skerray

I am approaching the mid way point of my time as artist in residence here in Skerray.
The past month 7 weeks have been full of stories, meetings and midges and I have enjoyed it all. As I round off my research into the area I remain committed to developing a work that will both communicate the sentiment and culture of the area whilst opening up a new dialogue between island and mainland, past and present.

Some of you may already be aware that I am planning a crossing to Eilean Nan Ron by rowing boat. I intend to row the boat myself and am now in training under the tutelage and guidance of Bill Telfer, you may have seen me rowing up and down Modsary Lochen or rather zig zagging up and down in a boat, kindly lent to me by Borgie Lodge whilst I practice. Brian Mc Leod has also kindly agreed to lend me his boat for the actual event.

My left arms a bit weak and I have a tendency to dig too deep when placing the oar in the water but I reckon I can do it. I will be studying the tidal index and long range forecast, and will be announcing a date for the crossing soon (weather permitting). At this stage, the 16th or 17th of September look good.

The women of the island regularly rowed back and forth along the two- mile stretch of water between the Port at Skerray and Island Roan, they were skilled oarsmen and it is my intention to physically map the distance between the two ports, whilst simultaneously undertaking a test of endurance that seeks to reference the strength and capability of the island’s women. On arriving at the island I intend to stay there for the night and conduct a night-time illumination of the houses that will hopefully be visible from the mainland.

I cannot complete this project without the help of the community. I would like to invite anyone interested in volunteering to help me film the act, to please come forward. I need three people to film: one person from the boat, another from the safety boat and a third from on top of the hill that over looks the port at Skerray, I will provide all equipment and guidance on how to use the cameras. I would also like someone who has good knowledge of the crossing and a boat, to join me and serve as safety boat, otherwise I may go sailing off into the sunset, never to be seen again…

Finally, I would like to invite you all to sponsor the lighting of a window in any one of the houses on the island, by lending me your lamps. Once I have chosen a date for the crossing I will let you all know and would love to see you at the coast as I set about my expedition!!

Many Thanks, Ruth Macdougall

Please contact me in any of the following ways:
E-mail: ruthmacdougall@hotmail.com
Tel: 01641 561 249 (evening telephone number)
Mob: 07788520752
Or just drop by the studio at Jimson’s croft, I’m now working from the archive room as it’s warmer!

Rowing is easy!!!

2006-08-22T03:25:00.000-07:00

Plain Sailing

2006-08-21T09:15:00.000-07:00

On Sunday I had my first rowing lesson with Bill up on Modsary Lochen. I have the use of one of Borgie Lodge’s rowing boats, which are usually used by their guests for fishing expeditions. Bill is one of the local postmen and my indoor bowling mentor. I reckon I didn’t do too badly, I am a little heavy on the right oar as I am naturally right handed, and I am digging too deeply with the oars, which in return requires a larger than normal effort to then raise them and bring them backwards. However, I believe that given enough training on the rowing machine in Bettyhill fitness suite and at least 100 press ups a day, I will be in physical shape to complete my proposed endeavour. To row to Eilean Nan Ron from the harbour at Skerray. Having crossed the water in choppy and calm conditions, I am in under no illusions as to the difficulty of this task, particularly considering my diminutive stature and my lack of seaman ship. My arms are not aching yet but I know they will. My back hurts, reminding me of the last large outdoor performance to camera which I undertook, ‘’Bearing Witness’’ 2004 In which I carried a 15 foot flagpole to the summit of a 1000ft Volcanic Plug named Dumgoyne, everyday for one week. I feel sure that the tinges I occasionally suffer in my back are due to permanent spinal damage I inflicted upon myself during the course of this work. Rowing to Eilean Nan Ron will not be easy, but I have found in cases such as this, that physical pain can be surmounted where the mental will is strong enough. The women of the island regularly rowed back and forth along the two- mile stretch of water between the two ports, they were skilled oarsmen and in one of my favourite stories about the islanders, they are acknowledged as such:

‘’Every summer the duchess would come up the coast in the yacht Catania, anchor off shore and come in on the steam pinnace. One year the pinnace went aground on shallow rocks covered in dulse. Because it was summer there were only women, children and old men on the island, so the women went out to re-float the pinnace- they were highly skilled oarsmen. The duchess rewarded the success of the mission with dresses for every woman on the island. A tailor was sent over, each woman was measured and each chose the pattern and material they wanted. The dresses lasted for years and then got remodelled into kilts for the children.’’

It is my intention to physically map the distance between the two ports, whilst simultaneously undertaking a test of endurance, referencing both the strength and capability of the women of the island from the past, in a form of sea passage rarely used now. I will of course be taking a safety boat and will be wearing a life jacket. I hope to have recruited a film crew by the chosen date, someone to film me in the boat, from the safety boat and from the top of the hillside on the main land, where both ports can easily be seen in the same frame.
On arriving at the island I intend to stay there that night, conducting an illumination of the houses, which will hopefully be visible from the mainland. I am going to contact the local community through a very effective system that I use with Bill, I print out my message to the local community and he puts a copy in with every houses delivery of mail (this way I am sure that everyone knows) I am going to ask for volunteers to film the act (I may be able to pay them a little) and I am going to ask if any of the local community would like to sponsor the illumination of the windows, by lending me their lamps. The documentation of the act along with the textual piece, which I am still working on, will form an installation that I will show towards the end of the residency in the community hall. Tomorrow I am going to get hold of the tidal maps and a long term weather forecast in order to pre empt which day will offer optimum conditions. The equinox is in roughly 4-5 weeks, so I hope to have it completed before then.

Two images from a video piece, Liberty Tower, which I am working on, are now on a blog page called lebanonthesedays.blogspot.com, set up by a Lebanese friend of mine, who is also an artist. The page offers people from everywhere, a space to express how they think and feel through text and image, these days as the conflict in Lebanon continues. It has offered me a way to address the conflict in a manner, which I can share with my friends in Beirut, and whilst it isn’t nearly enough, at the very least this shared participation, resists the temptation to veer towards the cynical.

I have also been filming the bowling in Skerray community hall, my one and only social event up here. Looking back over previous blog publications, my project has changed course little by little each time, I think finally this act will form all the things that I have been edging towards, addressing both past and present, mainland and island, story telling and communication over distances. However, it will probably have evolved again by next week, so watch this space. Ciao ciao.

Lotte Blog

2006-08-21T08:44:00.001-07:00

I have neglected my blog duties and missed a week. Oops, but what an interesting week it was. On Tuesday the 7th Joanne and I went to visit Deirdre in Tarbet, a truly beautiful place, possibly the loveliest place I have been in Scotland. Dramatic outcrops of rocks amongst tightly packed, undulating hills, interspersed with lochens. After an unsettled start, Deirdre seems to have landed on her feet, good for her!
We spent the evening in her quaint little house, drinking Ronnie’s very unusual wine (smelt a little like sherry but we drank it none the less) and discussing the residency. The next day we went to Lotty Globb's home, a fabulous, studio, home, sculpture, garden, or should I say estate. She has what I’m sure most people aspire to or at least what most artists aspire to. A totally individual home, a work of art in itself, in the most romantic and dramatic of settings. Each window framing its own kinetic work of art, never the same twice. Numerous studios sprawled throughout the estate, permeated by her ceramic creations, both inside and out.

Today I met her ex partner, Dave Illingworth. He is both a sculptor and watch maker. He invited me in the warmest and most animated manner into his home, with an enthusiasm and obvious love for his work, which reminded me of the generosity of the best artists I have ever met and of the type of artist/person I wish to be.

Sometimes, some days are just all about meeting people. Today I also met with the new head mistress of Farr, Melvich and Tongue and I have some settled dates for my workshops, which puts my mind at rest. I look forward to them, to enjoying the children and their infinite unpredictability and inventiveness, but above all escaping my own head, which at the best of times, is far too worried and serious.

My parents have just left after visiting for the weekend, they had a rough trip home, they decided to take the road home via Helmsdale, unfortunately a truck in front of them was overturned with a load full of sheep, all of which were killed. They had to turn back and take another route. They enjoyed their time, I don’t think it was what they expected, the large distances between places, the scattered communities. Since their visit I feel more sure of how it is I want to carry on. Video works documenting the community toady with the texts that I want to write. Marlin also seems happy for me to relocate into the Archive space, a wholly underused part of Jimson’s croft, but much warmer and easier to work in than my studio at present.

It seems that the rest of August will be a wash out. I will go home for my birthday and see my family. The cease-fire has lasted its first day and I hope for my friend’s sake that it continues.

Just in case you were wondering, the sand castle competition was great. It stayed dry and at least 12 sand sculptures were entered, including a mermaid and a very cute Nessie. I chose an outsider as the winner to avoid retribution.

Story Telling

2006-08-21T08:37:00.000-07:00

Story Telling In Progress

Sand castle adjudicator, Miss Ruth Macdougall.
Indeed I have been invited to adjudicate at the sand castle competition on Farr beach as part of this year's Bettyhill Gala. What an honour, not to mention responsibility. Organised by the aptly named Ranger, Paul Castle with whom five others and I roamed the countryside around Skerray on Thursday of last week, learning the names of numerous wildflowers, discovering orchids and beasties whilst competing with the gathering mist of the ocean. Only a few hours earlier I had taken to the sea once again with Billie for a trip round Eilean Nan Ron with my video camera. The sea that day was deadly calm, perfect for spotting the dorsal fin of a basking shark or orca. Sadly we saw neither. I had expected to see one as they have been spotted on several occasions in the area recently. I even found a large dead seal on the beach. It’s body was intact but the head was missing completely, Billie thought that it could have been an orca although sometimes seals are shot round here when they are deemed to be threatening a catch of fish. Entirely legal for the fisherman but sad for the seals.

After getting nothing done last week I had a lot of work to catch up on this week. During my second week here I had decided on the suggestion of Meg to organise a story telling event for Saturday the 29th . I called the evening Story Telling in Progress and invited the skilled storyteller Essie Stewart to attend in the hope that she might share some of her stories from the area with me. She arrived on Friday evening and stayed with me for the weekend. I was unsure how the evening would unfold. Despite the fame of people in these parts for the oral tradition of story telling and the numerous notices I have put up encouraging people to come by my studio and talk to me, I have found that people are quite shy, and I hoped that an informal evening would allow them to relax and create an atmosphere in which they felt less self conscious about speaking to me. At the very least I hoped it would be an enjoyable social event for the local people, which indeed it turned out to be. Around 25 people came along, a perfect number for the size of space. I felt it best just to play the evening by ear. Great storytelling requires the right mood and spontaneity. So, I began the evening by introducing myself and the work, I told a story from the Lebanon and then opened it up to the floor and anyone who had a story they wanted to tell. As it happened after a brief discussion between everyone gathered, it seemed people were far happier just to chat, drink and look at the work, and as the evening wore on, the stories began to emerge. Everyone has a story. I had asked people from the local community to write me a short story relating their first voyage from the port at Skerray. I have so far received two. The first from the Post Mistress Marlyn and the second from Eloise, they are both beautiful stories and receiving them was like Christmas, two wonderful gifts that I can pass on in turn. Marlyn’s story told of the day they took the last sheep from Eilean Nan Ron back to the mainland, a hair-raising trip, marking her first taste of Whisky. Eloise story told of her first trip with Billie two weeks ago to Eilean Roan and Eilean Neave, beautifully written and accompanied by a rock she had collected as her visual.

Being surrounded by so much text and stories, I have decided to write a short story or a novella perhaps, using stories gathered not only here but also from the Lebanon. I hope to accompany the book with a video work to be projected at a site yet to be decided. I have also been contacted by one of my friends in Lebanon who has initiated a project based on our daily lives as we each observe and respond to this conflict, both in Lebanon and from afar. I am happy to be doing this, as she pointed out in her e-mail, to continue working together is in itself a form of resistance.

Things just keep getting worse there, Qana.. Yvette produced a painting in response to the last massacre there in 1996, I imagine she must be preparing the next canvas. I really despair for them. For a moment it seemed as though Blair would call for an immediate cease-fire, but today it seems he has returned to obediently following the Americans. The International community… has let everybody down and at times like these it is easy to be cynical, after all, cynicism is the most accessible version of happiness. However, in order to resist such apathetic thoughts, there is one quote I always try to remember:

‘’The main interest in work and life is to become someone that you were not in the beginning. If you knew when you began a book what you would say at the end, do you think you would have the courage to write it? What is true of writing and of a love relationship is also true for life. The game is only worthwhile insofar as we don’t know what will be the end’’.

Michel Foucault

I’m looking forward to beginning my story in earnest.

I have also been invited to submit one of my pictures for the front cover of next month’s an magazine (an art information magazine) hopefully my picture will be of adequate resolution for them. Tomorrow is bowling in the community hall, I missed last weeks but am ready to return! Ciao ciao.

Paradise Lost

2006-08-21T08:34:00.000-07:00

Paradise Lost: Robert Fisk's elegy for Beirut
Elegant buildings lie in ruins. The heady scent of gardenias gives way to the acrid stench of bombed-out oil installations. And everywhere terrified people are scrambling to get out of a city that seems tragically doomed to chaos and destruction. As Beirut - 'the Paris of the East' - is defiled yet again, Robert Fisk, a resident for 30 years, asks: how much more punishment can it take? Published: 19 July 2006

In the year 551, the magnificent, wealthy city of Berytus -headquarters of the imperial East Mediterranean Roman fleet - was struck by a massive earthquake. In its aftermath, the sea withdrew several miles and the survivors - ancestors of the present-day Lebanese - walked out on the sands to loot the long-sunken merchant ships revealed in front of them.
That was when a tidal wall higher than a tsunami returned to swamp the city and kill them all. So savagely was the old Beirut damaged that the Emperor Justinian sent gold from Constantinople as compensation to every family left alive.

Some cities seem forever doomed. When the Crusaders arrived at Beirut on their way to Jerusalem in the 11th century, they slaughtered every man, woman and child in the city. In the First World War, Ottoman Beirut suffered a terrible famine; the Turkish army had commandeered all the grain and the Allied powers blockaded the coast. I still have some ancient postcards I bought here 30 years ago of stick-like children standing in an orphanage, naked and abandoned.

An American woman living in Beirut in 1916 described how she "passed women and children lying by the roadside with closed eyes and ghastly, pale faces. It was a common thing to find people searching the garbage heaps for orange peel, old bones or other refuse, and eating them greedily when found. Everywhere women could be seen seeking eatable weeds among the grass along the roads..."

How does this happen to Beirut? For 30 years, I've watched this place die and then rise from the grave and then die again, its apartment blocks pitted with so many bullets they looked like Irish lace, its people massacring each other.

I lived here through 15 years of civil war that took 150,000 lives, and two Israeli invasions and years of Israeli bombardments that cost the lives of a further 20,000 of its people. I have seen them armless, legless, headless, knifed, bombed and splashed across the walls of houses. Yet they are a fine, educated, moral people whose generosity amazes every foreigner, whose gentleness puts any Westerner to shame, and whose suffering we almost always ignore.

They look like us, the people of Beirut. They have light-coloured skin and speak beautiful English and French. They travel the world. Their women are gorgeous and their food exquisite. But what are we saying of their fate today as the Israelis - in some of their cruellest attackson this city and the surrounding countryside - tear them from their homes, bomb them on river bridges, cut them off from food and water and electricity? We say that they started this latest war, and we compare their appalling casualties - 240 in all of Lebanon by last night - with Israel's 24 dead, as if the figures are the same.
And then, most disgraceful of all, we leave the Lebanese to their fate like a diseased people and spend our time evacuating our precious foreigners while tut-tutting about Israel's "disproportionate" response to the capture of its soldiers by Hizbollah.

I walked through the deserted city centre of Beirut yesterday and it reminded more than ever of a film lot, a place of dreams too beautiful to last, a phoenix from the ashes of civil war whose plumage was so brightly coloured that it blinded its own people. This part of the city - once a Dresden of ruins - was rebuilt by Rafiq Hariri, the prime minister who was murdered scarcely a mile away on 14 February last year.
The wreckage of that bomb blast, an awful precursor to the present war in which his inheritance is being vandalised by the Israelis, still stands beside the Mediterranean, waiting for the last UN investigator to look for clues to the assassination - an investigator who has long ago abandoned this besieged city for the safety of Cyprus.
At the empty Etoile restaurant - best snails and cappuccino in Beirut, where Hariri once dined Jacques Chirac - I sat on the pavement and watched the parliamentary guard still patrolling the façade of the French-built emporium that houses what is left of Lebanon's democracy. So many of these streets were built by Parisians under the French mandate and they have been exquisitely restored, their mock Arabian doorways bejewelled with marble Roman columns dug from the ancient Via Maxima a few metres away.

Hariri loved this place and, taking Chirac for a beer one day, he caught sight of me sitting at a table. "Ah Robert, come over here," he roared and then turned to Chirac like a cat that was about to eat a canary. "I want to introduce you, Jacques, to the reporter who said I couldn't rebuild Beirut!"

And now it is being un-built. The Martyr Rafiq Hariri International Airport has been attacked three times by the Israelis, its glistening halls and shopping malls vibrating to the missiles that thunder into the runways and fuel depots. Hariri's wonderful transnational highway viaduct has been broken by Israeli bombers. Most of his motorway bridges have been destroyed. The Roman-style lighthouse has been smashed by a missile from an Apache helicopter. Only this small jewel of a restaurant in the centre of Beirut has been spared. So far.
It is the slums of Haret Hreik and Ghobeiri and Shiyah that have been levelled and "rubble-ised" and pounded to dust, sending a quarter of a million Shia Muslims to seek sanctuary in schools and abandoned parks across the city. Here, indeed, was the headquarters of Hizbollah, another of those "centres of world terror" which the West keeps discovering in Muslim lands. Here lived Sayed Hassan Nasrallah, the Party of God's leader, a ruthless, caustic, calculating man; and Sayad Mohamed Fadlallah, among the wisest and most eloquent of clerics; and many of Hizbollah's top military planners - including, no doubt, the men who planned over many months the capture of the two Israeli soldiers last Wednesday.

But did the tens of thousands of poor who live here deserve this act of mass punishment? For a country that boasts of its pin-point accuracy - a doubtful notion in any case, but that's not the issue - what does this act of destruction tell us about Israel? Or about ourselves?

In a modern building in an undamaged part of Beirut, I come, quite by chance, across a well known and prominent Hizbollah figure, open-neck white shirt, dark suit, clean shoes. "We will go on if we have to for days or weeks or months or..." And he counts these awful statistics off on the fingers of his left hand. "Believe me, we have bigger surprises still to come for the Israelis - much bigger, you will see. Then we will get our prisoners and it will take just a few small concessions."
I walk outside, feeling as if I have been beaten over the head. Over the wall opposite there is purple bougainvillaea and white jasmine and a swamp of gardenias. The Lebanese love flowers, their colour and scent, and Beirut is draped in trees and bushes that smell like paradise.
As for the huddled masses from the powder of the bombed-out southern slums of Haret Hreik, I found hundreds of them yesterday, sitting under trees and lying on the parched grass beside an ancient fountain donated to the city of Beirut by the Ottoman Sultan Abdul-Hamid. How empires fall.

Far away, across the Mediterranean, two American helicopters from the USS Iwo Jima could be seen, heading through the mist and smoke towards the US embassy bunker complex at Awkar to evacuate more citizens of the American Empire. There was not a word from that same empire to help the people lying in the park, to offer them food or medical aid.
And across them all has spread a dark grey smoke that works its way through the entire city, the fires of oil terminals and burning buildings turning into a cocktail of sulphurous air that moves below our doors and through our windows. I smell it when I wake in the morning. Half the people of Beirut are coughing in this filth,breathing their own destruction as they contemplate their dead.
The anger that any human soul should feel at such suffering and loss was expressed so well by Lebanon's greatest poet, the mystic Khalil Gibran, when he wrote of the half million Lebanese who died in the 1916 famine, most of them residents of Beirut:

My people died of hunger, and he who
Did not perish from starvation was
Butchered with the sword;
They perished from hunger
In a land rich with milk and honey.
They died because the vipers and
Sons of vipers spat out poison into
The space where the Holy Cedars and
The roses and the jasmine breathe
Their fragrance.
And the sword continues to cut its way through Beirut. When part of an aircraft - perhaps the wing-tip of an F-16 hit by a missile, although the Israelis deny this - came streaking out of the sky over the eastern suburbs at the weekend, I raced to the scene to find a partly decapitated driver in his car and three Lebanese soldiers from the army's logistics unit. These are the tough, brave non-combat soldiers of Kfar Chim, who have been mending power and water lines these past six days to keep Beirut alive.

I knew one of them. "Hello Robert, be quick because I think the Israelis will bomb again but we'll show you everything we can." And they took me through the fires to show me what they could of the wreckage, standing around me to protect me.

And a few hours later, the Israelis did come back, as the men of the small logistics unit were going to bed, and they bombed the barracks and killed 10 soldiers, including those three kind men who looked after me amid the fires of Kfar Chim.

And why? Be sure - the Israelis know what they are hitting. That's why they killed nine soldiers near Tripoli when they bombed the military radio antennas. But a logistics unit? Men whose sole job was to mend electricity lines? And then it dawns on me. Beirut is to die. It is to be starved of electricity now that the power station in Jiyeh is on fire. No one is to be allowed to keep Beirut alive. So those poor men had to be liquidated.

Beirutis are tough people and are not easily moved. But at the end of last week, many of them were overcome by a photograph in their daily papers of a small girl, discarded like a broken flower in a field near Ter Harfa, her feet curled up, her hand resting on her torn blue pyjamas, her eyes - beneath long, soft hair - closed, turned away from the camera. She had been another "terrorist" target of Israel and several people, myself among them, saw a frightening similarity between this picture and the photograph of a Polish girl lying dead in a field beside her weeping sister in 1939.

I go home and flick through my files, old pictures of the Israeli invasion of 1982. There are more photographs of dead children, of broken bridges. "Israelis Threaten to Storm Beirut", says one headline. "Israelis Retaliate". "Lebanon At War". "Beirut Under Siege". "Massacre at Sabra and Chatila".

Yes, how easily we forget these earlier slaughters. Up to 1,700 Palestinians were butchered at Sabra and Chatila by Israel's proxy Christian militia allies in September of 1982 while Israeli troops - as they later testified to Israel's own court of inquiry - watched the killings. I was there. I stopped counting the corpses when I reached 100. Many of the women had been raped before being knifed or shot.
Yet when I was fleeing the bombing of Ghobeiri with my driver Abed last week, we swept right past the entrance of the camp, the very spot where I saw the first murdered Palestinians. And we did not think of them. We did not remember them. They were dead in Beirut and we were trying to stay alive in Beirut, as I have been trying to stay alive here for 30 years.

I am back on the sea coast when my mobile phone rings. It is an Israeli woman calling me from the United States, the author of a fine novel about the Palestinians. "Robert, please take care," she says. "I am so, so sorry about what is being done to the Lebanese. It is unforgivable. I pray for the Lebanese people, and the Palestinians, and the Israelis." I thank her for her thoughtfulness and the graceful, generous way she condemned this slaughter.
Then, on my balcony - a glance to check the location of the Israeli gunboat far out in the sea-smog - I find older clippings. This is from an English paper in 1840, when Beirut was a great Ottoman city. "Beyrouth" was the dateline. "Anarchy is now the order of the day, our properties and personal safety are endangered, no satisfaction can be obtained, and crimes are committed with impunity. Several Europeans have quitted their houses and suspended their affairs, in order to find protection in more peaceable countries."

On my dining-room wall, I remember, there is a hand-painted lithograph of French troops arriving in Beirut in 1842 to protect the Christian Maronites from the Druze. They are camping in the Jardin des Pins, which will later become the site of the French embassy where, only a few hours ago, I saw French men and women registering for their evacuation. And outside the window, I hear again the whisper of Israeli jets, hidden behind the smoke that now drifts 20 miles out to sea.
Fairouz, the most popular of Lebanese singers, was to have performed at this year's Baalbek festival, cancelled now like all Lebanon's festivals of music, dance, theatre and painting. One of her most popular songs is dedicated to her native city:

To Beirut - peace to Beirut with all my heart
And kisses - to the sea and clouds,
To the rock of a city that looks like an old sailor's face.
From the soul of her people she makes wine,
From their sweat, she makes bread and jasmine.
So how did it come to taste of smoke and fire?

One Good Blog Deserves Another

2006-08-21T08:32:00.000-07:00

Today whilst on line, I came across a blog written by the Lebanese artist Walid Raad whom I’d met in November of last year after a talk he gave in the CCA. Working in video and performance, he is also the founder of the Atlas Group a foundation set up between Beirut and New York. His blog, whilst beginning in his own words, was finished with an elegy to Beirut written by Robert Fisk. I have also attached this elegy, which I would also like to be read by anyone who is taking the time to read this blog. The elegy says everything.

I had hoped this new week would signify the shift from reading and researching into doing and making. However, I could not have anticipated these events and must take the time to reconsider and re align. My year in Beirut at the age of seventeen, was my first big adventure in life, my discovery, and territory, and nothing can touch it. My sister was safely evacuated with my niece and nephew but dear friends and family remain. This past week, as my sister put it, has been ‘’stomach churning’’ .The worry, sadness and onslaught of vivid memories were compounded by a phone call from her, after she finally returned home. She told me that Yvette had been asking all about me, and after asking what I planned to do post Mackay Country residence, reminded my sister that I always have a home in Beirut. I already owe Yvette so much. Without her support, faith and foresight in my ability, I doubt I would be where I am now. I am loyal to Lebanon and have never felt the need more strongly to express my political sensibilities through my practice. However, I have never been one to make overtly political work and as I have stated time and again in my personal statements:

‘’ I have learned to reconcile my political sensibilities with the personal perspective with which I approach my work, allowing the innately poetic aesthetic of my work to convey its own political message. ‘’

I am here in the privileged position of artist in residence for Mackay Country and yet I must address the devastating situation in Lebanon. In an effort to discover how I can address both, I have begun to investigate the idea of simultaneity as discussed in Fernando J. Rosenberg’s book, The Avant Garde and Geopolitics in Latin America, ’’ one might say that simultaneity is a way to understand what appears to be nonsynchronous, that is about coping spatially with a lag. The simultaneity of the radically different.’’

It is true that there are oblique connections between the two contexts: the ancient clearances in the Highlands and the movement of the Lebanese, northwards and to the mountains, also the voluntary evacuation of Eilean Nan Ron and that of the foreigners from Lebanon. I must do more research.

Incidentally, my friend, Nayla, in Beirut, sent me an e-mail today. Attached were a set of photographs taken recently of little Israeli girls. The girls are pictured signing missiles destined for Lebanon, (clearly being encouraged), in an Israeli munitions base. Their words read, ‘’from Israel with love’’…. What chance have they got?

Eilean Nan Ron

2006-08-21T08:29:00.000-07:00

My project is based on local history as told through the story telling and bardic tradition of the area. Before arriving here I knew little of Eilean Nan Ron but have since found myself completely seduced by the stories that surround the island and its inhabitants. Ideas of territory, Utopia and its impossibility have emerged time and again in my work and there is certainly an element of the Utopian in the stories that I have heard surrounding the Island. Over the next three months I am committed to developing a work that will both communicate the sentiment and culture of the area whilst opening up a new dialogue between island and mainland, past and present.

I have already been here for two weeks now and have spent most of my time meeting people from the local community, all of whom have been very welcoming and supportive, but as my intentions for the project become clearer, I have decided to organise my first small event. On the 29th of July, I will be hosting an evening called’’ Story Telling in Progress’’, an opportunity for the local community see what I have been up to, opening up a space for discussion in an informal atmosphere which will hopefully encourage the locals to share more of their stories about the area and the Island with each other, and myself.

I have invited Essie Stewart, a character well known in these parts not only for the skill with which she tells stories but also as one of the ‘’Summer Walkers’’ (as they come to be known) who with her family would spend the summer months of her youth travelling through the Highlands, selling their wares and skills and sharing story, song and poetry as they went. It should be a good evening and presents me with a short term date to work towards.

So far my research has all been text based but over the next two weeks I hope to open up the stories I have collected so far into visual form.

Earlier this week I made my first visit to the island. Looking out at the island from the main land, it is a sad image, somewhat like a ghost ship moored not so far away with the empty houses staring back. After the evacuation of the island, the houses were apparently quite habitable for a long time, some still having furniture and sugar left behind by the final occupants of the nine traditional croft houses. However, the houses have been claimed by the elements and the motley crew of feral sheep that live on the island have filled the two best houses with sheep dung. The other seven houses sit crumbling.

Billie a local crofter and boatman took me over on the boat along with some foreign visitors keen to do some fishing. As he left me at 12 noon, he said he would return for me after 6pm and well, he would try and remember me. I hoped he was kidding. So I spent 6 hours wandering the island, investigating the houses and small port that is a sympathetic collaboration between natural rock and early 19th century masonry.

I saw a seal! Nearly got eaten by two rather large birds in a Hitchcockesque stand off at the back of the island and when Billie finally did come to get me, we went for a trip around the island going into one of the caves only accessible by boat. As the sea was quite choppy that day, we couldn’t venture into any others. Not being much of a seafarer, the strength and size of the waves as we chugged around the island were quite alarming, bit of a roller coaster really, but fun. I’m looking forward to my next trip back.

Live happenings documented on camera have formed the body of my work over the past few years and it looks set to continue that way. I am envisaging a large projection work on the island, visible from the mainland. I have worked on one similar piece back in 2002 when I projected a film I made whilst resident in one of the huts on Carbeth Estate, onto an 8ft by 8ft screen, which floated on the estate’s derelict, outdoor swimming pool. In this case, as with my last large out door work, ‘’Bearing Witness’’ 2004, I would invite the audience to view the work through a lens, either a telescope or set of binoculars.

One of my favourite books, a novella by the Argentine writer, Adolfo Bioy Casares, holds many similar ideas for me as are contained within my interpretation of the island through its stories. In the book, The Invention of Morel, the main character, an unnamed man, flees to an uninhabited island escaping the authorities for an unknown crime. The island has several buildings on it and for a long time he believes himself to be alone. Then suddenly figures appear around the main building on the island. He observes the figures not hallucinations but real people he believes. They wear antiquated clothes from a time long gone. A woman sits alone at the same place every day and slowly becomes the object of the fugitive’s affections. (Forgive me if I get some of the details wrong, I haven’t read it for a while). He falls in love with her and sits out of sight, nearby her each day. Finally he realises that this daily ritual is wrong, she is unaware, and she can’t see him. He discovers after investigating the main building that she is the product of a projector invented by Morel. A projection machine so powerful as to make the viewer believe the images are real. The projections are shown in an effort to catch a perfect time for all eternity. She is, as all the figures are, just a projection. The lonely fugitive is left to wonder about her existence, is she still alive, dead, where is she now and why did they leave?

The literal parallels between the book and island are obvious: Eilean’s first inhabitant is said to have been a fugitive pirate shunned by society to live on the island and then there are the empty buildings. However, what I find most fascinating are the ideas of projection and romance held within this tiny island, and the affection it evokes in people who have no direct link with its past. When we look out at the island, the distance we feel over the waves is not only geographical but also a sense of distance through time. A time lost and with it a tiny society almost Utopian in its blissful isolation, so near and yet so far away.

At this point these are still ideas but mental images clear enough for me to continue with. The logistics of making a projection on the island are still tricky enough for it not to happen but a lot can happen in two months so I am not putting all my eggs in one basket yet.

Will write again next week, ciao ciao.