Saturday, November 28, 2020

THE NATIONAL GALLERY: SCOTLAND’S CHAMPION OF RACIAL JUSTICE

Addressing Racism or Creating it?

Of the many reasons to go to an art gallery surely among the more important is, as it always was, to find a space that is separate from the distractions and worries of the everyday world.

In such a place, shared with others who feel likewise, a congenial and contemplative atmosphere is created which allows one’s mind to settle and then best appreciate the interest, craft and especially beauty of the images viewed; or the challenge posed by works so intended. And from this comes the little epiphanies, delights, puzzles and spiritual renewal which art can bring. Beauty and delight can be found everywhere, of course, but can best find deliberate focus in the places dedicated to it. All that is needed, then, for the gallery to work its magic, is that the space is respected for what it is. This respect is the visitor’s responsibility, but takes place under the auspices and protection of the custodians.

In our current age of national mental breakdown and perpetual racial outrage, such a space with its attendant protection is needed more than ever. And for this reason, those who would destroy us, especially target those places of refuge, like our sports venues (see post, Follow, Follow, ….from July) and like our art galleries. And so, visitors to our National Gallery on The Mound find the following reminder of our White guilt and worthlessness, included in a threat to find more of the same hiding within our art. Seeing this sign is like Kryptonite to the art-lover’s soul - as intended!



Here, the source of ancestor pride coverts to shame and the tonic we hope for in visiting the gallery becomes the poison.

Consider the NLP wording, which subtly indicates they would not be pleased to receive criticism- because such would be racist, obviously. Note too, the vagueness of the threat to research: Who is doing what, to what standard with what measurable goal and for whom? And why is the gallery concerned with equality and anti-racism anyway – has it been such a bastion of prejudice, one wonders, for almost its entire existence? Sarcasm doesn’t work here, of course, and the thinking person knows not to bother asking what this waffle means, but the threat is real, as is the destructive power behind it.  And we note the coda – commitment to equality – that justifies anything really, even as it means nothing but subversion of our culture.

This statement gives the appearance of foolishness, but don’t mistake the golems for the master behind it. The intent is evil, for the goal is to create a new Original Sin from which Whitey’s mind will not escape- with the law as a back-up, naturally. Slavery is referenced, but Black people are not the overseers of this plantation.

Meanwhile, in the gallery’s anti-racism research laboratory deep underground, top dollar justice consultants 1 will peer into the souls of our ancestors for alleged offenses against the 21st Century. And they will find them: Any moderately wealthy person from the past would be the beneficiary of family investments in bonds and schemes that linked to the colonies and plantations, either directly or through various mercantile interests - hence racist! Or worse, even family members in the direct employ of our great empire of conquest and trade, or (Oh, the shame!) married into it. And naturally, our ancestors held opinions that were typical for their society's age. Examined thusly, without prejudice, one would find that virtually the gallery's entire collection, indeed even its existence, from its founding, management, bequests, loans and purchases all riddled with wrongthinkers, and ripe for tearing down; or, should we model our displeasure with our ancestor’s wrong opinions in the French fashion, a la Notre Dame.

And why not; why stop there? What about visitors entering the gallery with racist or anti-equality attitudes, shouldn’t they too join the banned art?  And here’s the rub, eventually they will! Returning to the theme of our blog, our children in school are getting brought up with this thinking; haircuts, swimming, cutlery, puddings, exams, keyboards, milk, good manners, reading, etc, etc, etc, are all outed as racist and elitist. The gallery’s commitment will make sense to them, but not go far enough for their well-stoked fire of righteous indignation. Eventually, then, someone will burn it down, we’re asking for it.

There is no end to this: religious art no doubt offends some and invites firstly criticism and eventually machetes. Domestic scenes (a particular favourite of mine) are claimed as demeaning the role of women. Family settings proselytise for the patriarchy. The Dutch masters deny, by their technical brilliance, the equal merit of a tribal shaman's mask. In painting David Hume's portait, Allan Ramsey surely exposes himself as an equal in crimethink - away with both of them! This ride never ends...

I have visited British art galleries all my life, and although have seen works of dubious merit and intentionally subversive garbage, I have never seen or heard tell of works which were intended to (or actually did) offend the sensibilities, or otherwise sought to, demean ethnic others, or any other identity group within our society – indeed, the opposite is the case. Realistically, such art does not exist in public galleries in our country–if it exists at all.

However, the alleged offenses matter little and the truth not at all. For the real intent is not to combat racism and other alleged prejudices, but to create them. A resentment is awakened in ethnic others’ to European excellence in art, then given legitimacy and a weapon of expression. How can this end well for anyone involved?

For ethnic others’ driven to slow anger by our apparent endless racism, which even resides in that art which we believe to be the highest expression of our aesthetic. And for us older palefaces, lost and confused in a miasma of gas-lighting and lies, anti-white smears and psychological warfare. Our refuges breached and our erstwhile protectors, in fact, a fifth column – who, we note, will be pleased to receive information which supports their work. Such overwhelming self-righteousness is nicely balanced by their betrayal of our art and the fragile public space in which it lives.

 The great paradox about all this is that if there really was White prejudice, none of this could have happened.

What think ye?


1. Such Racism Researchers should have due recognition: I recommend a National Art Zero-tolerance Initiative uniform and accoutrements, perhaps this could be abbreviated to an acronym to better fit onto their armbands. They could also do in-house checks for potential staff apostasy as kind of internal police, perhaps modelled on a certain European pattern of recent memory. For such checks they would be issued sidearms; a Luger would be a good choice.

2. I have read fairly recently (last five years) of two examples of exhibition artworks that were explicitly racist. These featured, and arguably promoted, the genocide of White people; their alleged intent was a riposte to White privilege. They were not UK based.

Art which promotes identity pride, or celebrates it, is of course a commonplace in which we as native Whites happily partake. With one exception. 



Sunday, November 15, 2020

Saint Margaret


Margaret: Scotland's saintly queen.
Honouring the one, by remembering the other.


Metaphors, similes, analogies

in abundance dance happily

around her one little person.

And so, let’s begin thusly;

 

chubby as a cherub

and equally sweet faced

the eyes a placid pond, calming

brown as chocolate buttons

 

straight-forward manner

practical, willing and, above all,

uncomplaining;  Yes, Sir to any request

and right away on the job

 

like a miniature classroom version

of the best sergeant

in the regiment, although

much gentler, obviously!

 

An A student at living life

from another better age, inevitably

she struggles with book work

even simple adding

 

is like calculus to her, and I hope

I reassure her with the truth

about the lessons; in the scheme

of things, they don’t matter so much

 

and in time the cogs will align.

Still I worry that her can-do vim

turns to frustration and

turning inward wounds her

 

for the life she should have

of building child by child

our nation’s future of

her earthy, yet saintly, stock

 

she cannot understand this

that she holds best that which

passing shows the greatness

of her soul, not found in lessons.

 

Saint Margaret, it’s really me

who learns from you but

on this day, of  your namesake’s

crossing, find the favour returned.

 

Let me show you how to do

this sum by analogy that fits

your character; you and me

together re-building the world:

 

Here’s the spade, you dig.

I’ll bag the soil.


NB. Saint Margaret's feast day is the 16th November; the day of her death in 1093.


And what a eulogy!: 

A precious pearl saw the light in Hungary, and lived at the court of the Confessor, a School of Holiness. Torn from homeland, you embrace another. You became Queen and Mother, the glory of Scots. Your Queen's crown, a crown of Charity. Your way, the Royal Way of the Cross...Once, mere men, placed crowns upon your head. But I, Innocent, Peter's successor, Servant of Christ, now place upon your head, the greatest crown of all, sainthood. - The Oration of Canonisation by Innocent IV from 1250 


Sunday, November 8, 2020

Armistice memorial for Pte. D. Watson

 

THE LAST BREAKFAST


Mr Watson ordered breakfast

this morning in French.

Oh no, there must be a mistake,

he doesn’t speak French!

No, he spoke good French. I did

a Higher in it. We had a

good conversation before

the drugs took him away.

 

Christ, he kept that hidden!

True to his Edwardian upbringing

modest to the end, never moaned

patiently waiting on the sun he

ay claimed would be along in time

broken at just 70 by all the

troubles of the century.

And now, we mounted final

 

guard around his bed while

we waited on him stepping

over to the ‘other quarters’.

Right at that last moment

before the bullet that didn’t get you

finally got you I like to think

you were with your old mates

you told me off

 

in some estaminet ordering

eggs and chips in French

for the last time; it was

always the last time for

some of them - young Lt. Cowan

training to be the lawyer

he never became. Tam, Don’t...!

you told him, and you’d no

 

sooner said it when he was

killed right there on the fire-step.

It was a mad wicked thing,

but I never met finer people-

that’s how life balances itself.

All those fine fellows who

got the wrong ticket home

just one now was waiting

 

to join their ranks perhaps

the finest of them all although

you would have strongly objected

to the compliment but knowing

something of life myself now

I stand by it

fraternal, hard-working

kind considerate appreciative

 

of daily blessings uncomplaining

while the cancer bayoneted

you over and over

I was only a boy without

the words to shape my

understanding of the sheer immensity

of your decency

and so now, Danny, old soldier

 

Grandad, over fifty years

after your final roll call, I salute

you and your kind and see you

with Jack and Pat easily

in my mind’s eye, loosening your belt,

taking off your tammy and

waiting to be offered a seat.


Excuse moi, Madame, pouvons nous avoir quelque chose a manger?