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I Live Here Now

I Live Here Now

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The sun was setting in streaks of dirty pink behind the darkening, almost immobile, figure of the sniper, who presided like the ultimate viewpoint, the watcher, a shape of awe and fear, over the proceedings.

Among them, I suppose, was the book that I had watched the woman reading one early sleepless morning at the end of the summer, when the sun still rose early. I used to be always on the move, making regular 400 mile journeys by slow British trains to teach in London, at least once a month, on journeys to Russia, or even Siberia, involving arduous visa filling, and then the rushing about every school holiday to visit friends and relatives in Europe, England, Ireland.To think of this multiplied endlessly — all the rooms, all the sad belongings — shoes, clothes, pictures, chairs and tables, scattered and crumbled.

I walked there in the rain, warm yellow of birch and plane leaves, acid yellow of high vis jackets of the police guarding the barrier. The discovery of Liza Dimbleby’s drawings were a first step in creating my own walking/drawing practice. She lectures at art schools and universities in Scotland and England and teaches on the Drawing Year, a postgraduate programme at the Royal Drawing School, London. He came to draw here in his eighties, making drawings day after day, for several years, sitting on a bench among the plane trees, with coloured pencils. The professor even allowed me a moment’s nostalgia for the Soviet produced three and five litre glass jars that were such a ubiquitous detail of my Moscow year — thick blue-green glass vessels packed with pickled cabbage, or marrows, or mushrooms become slimy and viscous, too large or many for the fridge, they sat out in rows on frosted balconies, in easy reach of the kitchen table.It is set back from the path, in the middle of the grass, facing into the sun and the resplendent flickering willow.

And yet she always addressed me by my full name and surname when writing to me privately about things that I had written, making me feel that this name was also my own. As we joined the main road through the power station we found a bush so thick with fruit that we stopped for a last plunder. We reached the car at dusk, hauled the branches into the boot and drove back to Glasgow in the dark. I thought it was someone she knew, but it turns out the clip was widely circulated at the start of the war. She has exhibited in joint and group shows at the Centre for Recent Drawing (C4RD), Artspace Gallery and the Royal Academy in London and in Glasgow Project Room, Transmission and Mansfield Gallery, Glasgow; she has also shown work in Russia and in France: at the Echomusée, Paris and at the Universities of Lyons and Cergy-Pontoise in collaboration with the Banlieue Network.Over the weekend, mindful of its magic powers, but above all of its taste, we helped ourselves to as much as we politely could of the glowing jam, spooning it over the grainy white cheese, the sour cream and black bread, and stirring it into our black tea, or rather, sipping the tea through a large spoon of the jam in the traditional way.

Suddenly my life when I was their age is in full ruck and flow, with night streets and lights and traffic smells alive and moving through me — the Archway road, Kentish Town, all the people and all the walking, here to here to here. I hung them up — they were not quite wide enough and there was a gap between the ragged end of the curtains and the bottom of the window, for windows tend to be higher in Scottish flats than in London houses. We look down at the settlement beneath us as we climb, and across the sea to the indigo shape of Sligo before us, and at the fiddlers in front leading the way. As I watched the television Remembrance ceremony on Sunday morning I was thinking of writing something to do with war for my Letter from Glasgow. There were also some great ideas for developing symbolic sensory walk prompt cards which were shuffled and ‘drawn’ during a walk.I wanted to develop a way of drawing that captured my sensory and visual experiences as I moved through the landscape. An old philosopher I knew in Moscow told me that his name was from the Ukrainian for tailor, Sukach, from the more archaic sukno, cloth. There has always seemed to me to be something friendly, comforting about moss, its springy, water saturated gentleness — so I did not feel threatened by this mass occupation of the pavement, although it was strange.



  • Fruugo ID: 258392218-563234582
  • EAN: 764486781913
  • Sold by: Fruugo

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