at the National Museum of Scotland
1 Dec 2011–29 Jan 2012
1 26 treasures: an introduction
The Old Boy
Museums are about objects, each carrying within it a multitude of meanings. Often, we are only able to share one account, one perspective, one story, while others remain hidden, unexplored, untold. So, while the 26 writers involved in this project faced the challenge of using exactly 62 words, they also had the freedom to reveal secrets, make connections, tell a new story.
From the South he came. With eon-long steps He strode, Purposefully. Setting down the basecourse, Headed for Cape Wrath.
Our 26 treasures span Scotland’s story, from its geological roots to its technological future, taking in iconic objects and hidden gems along the way. Each one is transformed by the writer paired with it, brought to life through a fresh pair of eyes. We hope the treasures, the writers and their words inspire you to make your own connections with Scotland’s history. Claire Allan National Museums Scotland
Erupting in fury, he Rained icy torrents of fire and steam; Collided with continents. She rose to meet him, Strength for strength; A shimmer ‘gainst a spark. Melding in undulating Folds of white and pink, He cleaved to the rock.
Janette Currie
2 Westlothiana lizziae: ‘Lizzie was here.’ Dinnae daeve me wi braggarts, Bletherumskites. Tongues that’d clip cloots, Clish-ma-claver, Gibble-gabble, girns, grumphs. Skinnie-ma-Lizzie, never said a word, the wee cratur. Slithered on stumpy legs frae a lochan (in a wee crater), Put her fit doon,
Don’t bother me with boasts, careless talk, idle tittle-tattle, arrogant nonsense, moans and groans. I prefer the style of ‘Thin Lizzie’, who never even spoke. Though a tiny creature, with stubby legs, she’s a vital link in our evolutionary story. Despite a lack of art or artifice she’s left an enduring mark on Scotland that makes me reflect. I’m proud of her.
stampit her mark. Nae art, nae kiddin, yet her truith abides for aye. ‘Lizzie was here.’ In this land. Heezes ma hert, the wee scone.
Aimee Chalmers
O TR EC EAS URED R
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Here’s my distant death: who will behold yours?
SO
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And if upsucked from Pictish ooze, two million tides hence, to face your many questions, I raise now only one.
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Spirals of Power
I finally meet my maker, silent among the arena crowd. Once exiled northward, his hands will petrify me - and my merciful lioness - into a monument fiercely muscular, in the custom of this cursed Rome.
IF
T
R
SH
E IS
LY
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IN IN C TY
Behold my death
K
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Collette Davis
Stephen Potts
5 Faodail Na lorg mi gun a bhith sealltainn de dh’fhaodail Ri rannsachadh mun eilean cheangailt’ a thèid Ri tìde na shaothair – Cha chuach gu dìreach no ceòlan A thug Fionghan bho Dhùn nan Gall Ulaidh no na seòid Is na bh’ ann de mhaoin-airgid na cruinne na broinn Ach peirceall muc-mhara bhon Chuan Lochlannach a-nall Air a thasgadh an ciste naomh fon làr.
Waiftreasuregoodsfoundbychance what i thighcrutchwomanoffspringtraceconsequencesoughtfound without Shetlandshowlooking as waiftreasuregoodsfoundbychance ransackresearchexploring aroundabout the tied island which into weatherseasonlifetidehourtime gobecomes a diseasedmanpunishertidalislandbirthpainsouvre – not a hollowcuckoococklecapcoilcurlpailquaichbowl juststraighthonestuprightexactly or humdrumfaintmusiclittlebell which Finian brought over from NorthernforeignersDonegalfort in darlingtreasuretroveUlster or the heroesrewardpathjewels and the richesmoneysilver wealthlovehoard of alltheroundPictworld in its bellywombside but the abdomencornerjawbone of a sealwhaleporpoise from the Norsewigeonmarauders deceitpackharbourocean pledgetreasureburied in a sacredsaint caketreasurecoffinkist under the centregroundfloorearth Rody Gorman
6
7 Hilton of Cadboll
Waiting
What these symbols mean is unclear: the language of that time is lost - just as our language will be lost too. But it still speaks to us, this stone, across more than a thousand years; and for a moment we are part of that mounted hunting party, with dogs at the feet of our horses and trumpets sounding. Listen; hear them.
Berserker: “I’m bored – what are we waiting for?” King:
“Till the time is right.”
Queen:
“Don’t listen to him – he can never make up his mind.”
Berserker: “But we’ve been waiting so long…” King: “You lead the charge, then.” Berserker: “Will you follow?”
Alexander McCall Smith
Queen:
“Ha – I’ve never seen him get off his bum!”
King:
“I will come … when the time is right…”
V Campbell
8
9 An old lady reminisces with pipes and with drums
The candlelight hardened Burnished ladies a-bed Bold gentlemen pardoned The servants have fled My eyesight is dimming A rustle, a gasp Staccato no longer, I’ve plucked of my last
the art of breaking free
your team you and yours the sense of coming home
Locked, stringless and silent The glories all gone Glass casing lists round me Arpeggios done Forlorn on my journey No passion to tell Roving life force an echo Empty frame a mere shell
absent friends and new arrivals
Scotland Cheers
forest floor to mountain peak wilderness our seas our skies
Sara Sheridan
with beers whisky water wine
forming our own shared vessels minding all that went before
spirited leaders believers and doubters
healing heroes and hidden helpers
Elspeth Murray
10
11 The Maiden tae her Maister
The Dewars of Coigrich to their Petitioners
Pit yir face atween ma knees. Ach noo, dinna greet. Daith is but a blink, And yir name fae the leet.
Aye, you streamed to us through valleys and ages, heads bowing at this glimpse of heaven; silver reflecting in your eyes. Your calloused hands trembled. Water, you sought, charged by the dip of crystal.
D’ye mind me, yir ain lass? Aik, iron, leid, And a cauld, keen tung Tae sned yir silly heid.
And we prescribed – the Archibalds, Alexanders, Donalds, Malises – ‘a stoup-ful for staggers in the herd; an affusion for louping-ill; an immersion for the black garget on Blossom’s udder.’
Steek yir een ticht, And guess whit I will gie: A kiss – and that is mair Nor ye ever gied tae me.
greet: cry leet: list aik: oak leid: lead sned: cut off steek yir een: close your eyes
James Robertson
Linda Cracknell
12
13 The better to see you with, my dear Come closer, I won’t bite. My teeth aren’t what they used to be when the preacher’s words hurricaned across the keening Ayrshire hillsides. Never mind my gashed sockets and spiked feathers lashed with blood-red stitches. I aim to disguise, not terrorise. Once my beard flamed bright; now it’s a patched up shadow. My colours have faded but the minister’s conviction still blazes.
Fiona Thompson
REST IN PIECES HERE LIE JOHN NAPIER’S BONES THAT MARVELLOUS SON OF FIBONACCI SPRUNG FROM BOSNIA, AN OTTOMAN WHOSE PERSIAN AND IRAQI ROOTS SLIPPED HINDU LATTICES TRUE SCOT DOWN TO THE BOOTS A MIND WHOSE PROBLEMS BROKEN INTO PARTS MADE SLOW ROUTES QUICK AND STILL INCLUDED HATING CATHOLICS SOMEHOW THE TRUTH EVADES SUCH REPETITIONS AND ALL OUR SUMS CANNOT RESOLVE WITHOUT WE MASTER LONG DIVISION
A.J. McIntosh
14
15 “I have a cunning plan,” said William Paterson
Authority? What Authority?
Empty like the Whimsical Projector’s boasts? Climb inside. See? I’m filled with the hopes of a nation, ferocious underdog pride, dreams of independence, bought for £5 and £5 and £5 eked out by the battle-scarred, the wind-blistered and the work-weary poor. I overflow with patriotism – and greed. Admire my mechanism, intricate as betrayal.
Never mind the name. I’m not a rule or a command. Never mind these dry crackled pages and old ink. I’m a story. I’m alive. I’m garish, full of myself. I’m dark, hidden, buried deep, my brightness kept from the light. I kept my secret and my promise. That what belonged would never leave. Scotland’s honour. Made new again.
Cast iron, like his promises, I stink of blood.
Lee Randall
David Manderson
16
17 Serf’s Collar
A nice cup of tea and a chat?
Contemplating escape, a rasp on hasp, scores on the skin, jagged saw teeth rocking at the neck, might be more bearable to a Highlander than being branded a perpetuall servent.
Hundreds of years of teatime talk I’ve heard, Union, Holyrood, the Bonnie Prince… I hoped Enlightenment would help, But no. Like the waves in the Firth, When I dazzled at Leith, The same themes Wash back and forth across the china: Westminster, Nats and Union again… Year after year I listen, Flawless, beautiful, bored, Wishing that time would change the teatime chat.
What manner of man was ‘Areskin’ the owner of mines and men, who saw a collar not just inscribed, but decorated, for Alexander Steuart, named his serf, his tame beast, his debtor.
Vivien Jones
Sarah Burnett
18
19 Aria da Capo (soprano) - Prince Charles Edward Stuart discovered in a wood, set to an air by Mr Handel. A hero prince must eat, So in this tranquil Hibernian grove, Where ardent thistles provide my guard, I shall dine with this ingenious gift. A golden act of faith sent from Edina to Rome, Recognition of all my princely worth, This tribute will I honour by my great deeds. I shall not fail my subjects!
Overheard, American visitor to the museum 26.11.1870 “Shucks! Wind this bison’s pouch up the wrong way fingers blown off. The right way – Drover’s gold galore. Bet no cowboy ‘long the Chisholm Trail carries suuuutch a safe. Guess those Scots rustlers were wilder than the Cherokee. Each side crooked ‘nough to sleep on a corkscrew. Dang sure of one thing: the wealth of both nations was built on beef.”
A hero prince must eat... (da capo)
Harriet Smart
Stuart Delves
20
21 A DECENT BURIAL
Jonet addresses the Kirk
by
You want repentance? Stick your fingers Down my gullet Haul it out I’ll stand here In this sack Till kingdom come
Ronnie Mackintosh INT. EDINBURGH ROOM/1835 – NIGHT By lamplight the BOY plays with his shiny, new, wooden soldiers. At the table, his FATHER
Your pursed lips My thickening belly Your scalding looks My swollen breasts Your unclean thoughts
cuts into another small block of wood. The Boy’s MOTHER smiles at them, and with care, lays an old, battle-weary Infantryman, its paint long-since faded, against a swatch. Beneath the table,
Tell me Old crow Who’s the sinner?
their half-packed trunk, labelled THE MARGARET BOGLE
If it’s wrong To love then I swear on All that’s holy I’ll be faithful To my wrong Amen
LEITH / NEW YORK
Jamie Jauncey
22
23 Escaping the Selvedge
Victoria Cross
Takes a special kind to go another kind to stay here
Kilmaluag Kirkibol Scourie Borve “Their appearance was truly appalling
Nowhere do such patriots so embrace the leaving of the place
Scerrymains Portree Duntulm Scullam and their grief on being rejected
Going because peat is not gold, aye, hame can be gye feckless cauld
Achnahannait Bundalloch Hungladder Uig most painful to witness.”
quotation from the shipping records of the Highland and Islands Emigration Society found on the Scottish Archive Network (www.scan.org.uk)
Kate Tough
B B B B C C
A G A R A L D E R ALISON ALLAN ALLAN ASHCROFT ASPDEN ASPIN B E A R D W O O D ELL BELL BLACK BLACK BLACK BLICK O R T H W I C K B O W D L E R B R A N N A N R E N N A N B R O W N B R O W N B R Y D E N U C H A N B U T T E R W O R T H C A L L AG H A N A R L I N G C A R R O L L C E R V I C H A N D L E R HERRY CHISHOLM CLIFFORD CLUNIE C O C K B U R N CONNOR CORCORAN COYLE CRERAR CUNNINGHAM DAG G ER DA LY DAV I D S O N DAV I E DAVIS DAVITT DICKSON DIXON D O N A L D S O N DONNISON DRAISEY DREW DUFF DUFF DUFFIELD DUIRS DUNBAR ELLIOT FAIRGRIEVE... & 1 5 2 M O R E JF Derry
24
25 Sea-Change: The Cry of the Drag Chain
Mary Barbour’s rattle
you’re so eager to be gone fly open–armed down the slipway to the careless sea suffer your sea-change joyously go where I can’t follow you don’t know what I see there beyond the smooth, safe harbour the rich–and–strange that calls to you I dread its fade, its knell hear me over the cheering don’t go …
Can you hear it yet? The rioty past of its hand–waxed handle Rattety, rattety Crank turns, wood aligns, sound alarms Rattety, rattety Mary’s army, holding the fort, with the men off fighting
don’t go …
Rattety, rattety
don’t go …
Sounding the rattle, they ratted on bailiffs Rata–tat–tat intent on evictions from trench–dreamed hearth–sides Rattety, rattety! the Govan artillery Joan Lennon
Ratta–ratta–tatt! the echo back.
Christine Finn
26 Hand for the Future i have no past. i was never buried lost or treasured. i will never sew a suit pluck a string stroke a cheek but nor will i lift a gun chain a slave flinch in pain. i am here as a message to the future, selected and collected to speak about the present. Will the future understand? That’s out of my hands.
Lucy Harland
Object 1 Lewisian Gneiss 2 Westlothiana lizziae 3 Towie ball 4 Cramond lioness 5 St Ninian’s Isle treasure 6 Hilton of Cadboll stone 7 Lewis Chessmen 8 Queen Mary harp 9 Bute mazer 10 The Maiden 11 Coigrich 12 Alexander Peden’s mask and wig 13 Napier’s bones 14 Darien chest 15 Instrument of Authority 16 Serf’s collar 17 The King’s prize at Leith 18 Prince Charles Edward Stuart’s travelling canteen 19 Sporran clasp with four concealed pistols 20 Gown of repentance 21 Arthur’s Seat miniature coffins 22 Suit of Ross tartan 23 Daniel Laidlaw’s Victoria Cross 24 Drag chains for BAE ship 25 Govan rent strike rattle 26 Bionic hand
Writer Janette Currie Aimee Chalmers Collette Davis Stephen Potts Rody Gorman Alexander McCall Smith V Campbell Sara Sheridan Elspeth Murray James Robertson Linda Cracknell Fiona Thompson A.J. McIntosh Lee Randall David Manderson Vivien Jones Sarah Burnett Harriet Smart Stuart Delves Jamie Jauncey Ronnie Mackintosh Kate Tough JF Derry Joan Lennon Christine Finn Lucy Harland
A unique journey through Scotland’s history
Thanks to Sara Sheridan and Jamie Jauncey for their endless enthusiasm and drive on behalf of writer’s collective 26 Thanks to all of our writers for their words, their creativity and passion for the project Thanks to everyone at National Museums Scotland who has helped bring the project to life
For more about the wider 26 Treasures project visit www.26treasures.com ©National Museums Scotland
National Museums Scotland Scottish Charity, No. SC 011130
www.nms.ac.uk/26treasures