Bloighean Blogging

Ooh err. On Blogger's recommentdation I've converted my blog to beta, whatever that means, and can't read any comments now. I expect the RSS feed will convey them into my inbox, but typically any so-called upgrade brings with it further inconvenience. Vorsprung durch Technik, as Bert would say.

I've also decided to use a bigger font, as I find myself peering at my own thing with increasing difficulty. I suspect some of you are no spring chickens yourselves, so I expect there'll be a collective sigh of relief around my myopic aficionados. It also means I don't have to write so much.


Yesterday evening I was invited to an exhibition of paintings by the Scottish artist Calum Colvin. The paintings were mostly on the same subject: Ossian, or Oisein to give him his true name, a mythical 3rd century Gaelic poet. Ossian, it appears, was not necessarily one person, but more like Homer, a composite of many anonymous bards, who were merged together for purposes of poetic convenience. A bit like myself, readers. The gathering was a select group of the Scottish elite of Brussels, who in the true spirit of the Committee of the Regions behave like they've already devolved into Home Rule (In your dreams, Jock).

We were entertained by a trio of young Hebridean ladies who played plaintive laments on two fiddles and a harp, before the hordes of culture vultures descended on the buffet like, well, vultures. I managed to grab a few morsels of Scottish cheese served with a teaspoon (?) and a minuscule hors d'oeuvre of raw chopped Scottish beef with chopped green pepper. Delicious but a bit pretentious, particularly since one of the themes of the pictures was (and I quote) "the absurdity of debates about social class and virtue". I like a posh cocktail party as much as the next girl, but frankly some haggis and neeps would have gone down better. Or a guid fish supper.

The paintings were rather dark and dramatic, and I certainly wouldn't want one on my parlour wall. I listened with a pained expression (indistinguishable from intense concentration) as it was explained to me how the artist constructs a collage of objects representing Scotland ancient and modern, photographs them, then destroys the evidence and displays the photograph. It's all about "unresolved conflict and perpetual despair". I could hear Harold's ghost whispering in my left ear: "Tell him to get a flippin' job!"

The leaflet was in English and Gaelic and contained whole chunks of text that would qualify for Pseuds Corner of Private Eye. I was intrigued by the sub-title on the Gaelic cover page, "Bloighean de Sheann Bhardachd" which sounds to me like he was a very early blogger. I'm sure Sam from the Western Isles will confirm my guess was accurate.

I must say as ethnic evenings go, it was a bit up itself. Not a kilt to be seen. Scotland's got frightfully self-conscious lately. Nothing wrong with a bit of sporran-waggling and caber-tossing. I had more fun a few months back watching a football match on TV with the Brussels Celtic Supporters Club. Full of unresolved conflict and perpetual despair, I wandered home pondering the absurdity of debates about social class and virtue. Especially virtue. It was the kind of evening when you really feel the need to stop for a doner kebab on the way home.