by
Gala Baldacci
Moving me back to Edinburgh for my final year of university, my mother and I find ourselves at a loose end early one morning, and so we go to the Scottish National Gallery to see Andy Goldsworthy — Fifty Years, the artist’s largest ever indoor exhibition. It spans two floors and many rooms, bringing Goldsworthy’s passionate response to the outdoors into the cool white expanse of the gallery.
“You know Andy Goldsworthy! They had you look at him in primary school because he’s Northern and makes things out of sticks!” she says. I most certainly do not recall this. But her mind is made up. She is convinced we will experience a shift in perspective. As often seems to be the case, she is right.
Upon entering the building, you are struck by a vast profusion of sheep’s wool tumbling down the stairs, dyed in places to be bright hues of red, green, blue, pink, orange. I immediately understand why my mother was so desperate to come — this is an exhibition of our life.
Like Goldsworthy, my mother was raised in the post-industrial North of England. There is kinship between him and her in the impact of that landscape on one’s very bones. I was brought up the same way.
While some might see a mass of matted wool, still unclean in places and arbitrarily splattered with dye, we immediately visualise where it came from and what it means. The branding of one’s sheep to differentiate from the next farm over, the dark, grainy mud that clots the wool together in places, impressions of a harsh wet winter.
As I climb the stairs I begin to grin.
The pieces are monumental in every sense. The command of each room is invigorating, with walls and rocks and reeds and dirt that tower over you, encircling you like nature.
Each piece takes up space, physically and symbolically, leaving you catching your breath. The beauty of Goldsworthy’s use of the space lies in how many interpretations can be found in each installation, how many lives can be reflected or reconceived through each work.
You will find yourself grappling with the geopolitics of colonialism while staring at a series of white flags dyed with soil, and evaluating the connection between death and earth, staring religion in the face through the complexities of a tree root.
Goldsworthy situates himself as both sculptor and chronicler, carrying his audience through life, love and loss like a stream carries a leaf. Images of his processes dot the space, reminding one not to romanticise him as some lone twig bender on the moors, highlighting that while his practice appears lyrical it is equally rigorous.
Like a farmer, Goldsworthy’s working life is at the mercy of the elements. He is subject, as so many of us are, to the right freeze, the right thaw, the right collapse.
The piece that strikes me the most is entitled ‘Oak Passage’. From the weary and illustrious wooden floor grow dark, twisted branches of oak, a poignant commentary on human intervention. They buckle as they rise and protrude into your space — hostile, winding, impudent.
As you enter the room you feel jumped by them, focussing on their aggressive presence in the space. But as you begin to wander around them your line of vision shifts. The branches are erected either side of a path; the wilderness of them parted like the Red Sea. The path is clear and simple, in contrast to the feral and frightening harshness of its surrounds.
While it may not always be obvious, there is a way through.
Back in the blaring sun and bustle of the street, I find myself both lighter and heavier somehow. While Goldsworthy is an excellent artist to teach to children, his art is a layered and powerful commentary on human connection to the earth, on the fleeting and fragile nature of life. In my mother’s defence, however, a fair bit of it is made from sticks.
Should you find yourself in the vicinity of Edinburgh before November 2nd, I highly recommend a visit. I still find myself catching glimpses of his vision in the trees outside my window and the ways the rain pools along the road. Goldsworthy’s work is dedicated to seeing the world attentively. Marvellously, it has rubbed off on me.
