|Isle of Harris mixed media on paper 24cm x 16cm www.rob-miller.org |
Wednesday, 18 August 2010
Thursday, 12 August 2010
Isle Of Harris
60 cm x 90 cm
mixed media on canvas
Stulabahl is a low lying mountain in the middle of the Isle of Harris. Its composed of the oldest rocks in Europe which have been scraped by ice and worn by the relentless Atlantic winds; this makes a great subject to paint. The sheets of rocks survive as do the occasional pile of stones which are all that appears to be left in the spaces where the remnants of the villages and towns folk failed to make a living, of woodland little is left though once the birch was a proud specimen, as told in the "wood of Hallaig" in the great poem by the Gaelic poet Sorley Maclean. This were unbelievable hard times for the islanders, a failure to make a living means a failure to live, and how this relates to the emotions and endeavours of man then to secure enough food I know not, I can only guess at the abject feeling of the consequence of failure, so much so that it is inconceivable today in 2010 when people with little intellect and great access to education get by illiterately with 11 kids all fed by a welfare state, to even consider the same things and know sufferings.
For this reason I've also added a "you tube" Russian balled, it seems to me that here in Europe peoples have suffered similar fates and adventures with society as we know it, serviced by the collaboration a thin veneer of the pain that lies beneath
‘Time, the deer, is in the Wood of Hallaig.’
The window is nailed and boarded
through which I saw the West
and my love is at the Burn of Hallaig,
a birch tree, and she has always been
between Inver and Milk Hollow,
here and there about Baile-chuirn:
she is a birch, a hazel,
a straight slender young rowan.
In Screapadal of my people,
where Norman and Big Hector were,
their daughters and their sons are a wood
going up beside the stream.
Proud tonight the pine cocks
crowing on the top of Cnoc an Ra,
straight their backs in the moonlight –
they are not the wood I love.
I will wait for the birch wood
until it comes up by the Cairn,
until the whole ridge from Beinn na Lice
will be under its shade.
If it does not, I will go down to Hallaig,
to the sabbath of the dead,
where the people are frequenting,
every single generation gone.
They are still in Hallaig,
MacLeans and MacLeods,
all who were there in the time of Mac Gille Chaluim:
the dead have been seen alive
‘Tha tìm, am fiadh, an Coille Hallaig.’
Saturday, 7 August 2010
|Ise of Harris Hebrides revisited|
The croft now deserted
61 cm x 91 cm
Acrylic on canvas
"Island at the edge of the world - home to the Vikings for centuries and the Lord of the Isles dominion. Every visitor to this magical place leaves the land as it was but takes away experiences and visions. For some there are personal transformations. The Isle of Harris is the living heart of Gaeldom. Gaelic is in daily use at work and in the home. English is of course used with equal fluency.
There is a great attraction in the soft sounds of spoken English from the native Gaelic speaker, but to hear the melodious language itself spoken in Harris, with the ancient Harris accent, convinces that this historic tongue was created for poetry and music. And so it is still. The artistic cultures of Harris have survived enormous pressure over the last two centuries to delight us today."
Coel na mara guest house What to do in the Hebrides http://www.ceolnamara.com/attractions.html