RAIN in MY BLOOD | Somhairle Macdonald

THE RAIN IN MY BLOOD | Somhairle MacDonald

Through my time as a serious landscape photographer – about 3 years. I have built up strong affinities with many other areas of highland Scotland. Skye in particular. I A’ Chreag Ruaidh was in a long-term relationship with a girl from Kingsburgh (north-end). I think it is obvious that she and her family; indeed the island she comes from mean a great deal to me. Many of the images in this exhibition are from Skye. The sharp and ere is a weight on the rain. And wet to my soul. precipitous turn I refer to at the beginning of the article was the dissolution of this Viscous and oppressive. e rain in my blood. relationship. I stumble, I fall. ere's this one red rock. There is one poem by Norman MacCaig called ‘Memorial'. It is particularly hard Abhainn Comhann. e road is too close. I know where it is. I want it to evaporate. hitting. In fact when I read it first it took me half an hour or so to come to terms with it She found it. e struggle is in this river. all. It gave me butterflies and my emotions boiled over. It is an exquisitely brutal piece of work. Although Norman’s poem is about actual death, the death of a relationship e illustrious triangle looks down on me. I pace the curve follows a similar process of grief and at that time his words hit me like sledgehammer. I do not return its glower. Hidden, that same ditch trips me. I left her in Acharacle. Over and Over. Something was wrong. Careless, single minded. http://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poetry/poems/memorial But this rock! How can something so big. Not here to be found. Something so important I had to confront these images. Just disappear?

Of all the photos and memories tied up in the last 5 years this is perhaps my favourite. The image and the caption (although slightly cryptic) captured a weekend, no: an entire era of my life, which I will always remember with great fondness and love. Despite the heartbreak and the grief, having to work these images into high quality prints, to frame them, to hang them, to live with those memories day in day out was difficult. Like rubbing salt in an open wound. But now with a little distance and time I am happy to be proud of this work, not to treat it with wilful distain or to ignore it as was my instinct in the beginning. I confronted it all and it was cathartic.

You know life is hard, that’s why no one survives. No one knows what is in the future. You can know your past, where you come from and you should embrace it all, the failures and the success. RùmRùm Embrace it all!

Now I am no Norman MacCaig or Somhairle Maclean. But they have given me great The Rain in my Blood strength to face my new outlook. Of all the poets these two men describe the // an exhibition landscape of the highlands far better than I or my photographs will ever be able to. // a record You see landscapes are not something unto themselves. They transcend human notions of time and scale. They are connected to the universe in such profound and // the best years of my life ‽ unfathomable ways that although humans have become very adept at controlling them, understanding them and capturing them. They can never be ours. They ground I would like to preface this article by saying that in August of this year my life our homes, our history, our love, our failings, our dead. We project on to them: not turned a sharp and precipitous corner. A sea-change in my personal life the other way round. They don’t care for us. forced me to re-evaluate both the worth and meaning of my landscape photography; it's emotional power, it's link between memory and experience: I named this exhibition 'The rain in my blood' as a nod to my own family history. Both my ancestry and my future. my parents are from Lochaber. My mother from Caol and my father from Achriabhach in Glen Nevis. His father was a shepherd and walked the land between Stob Bàn and The adventures that spawned these images put simply were some of the Sqùrr a’ Mhàim most of his adult life. He originated from Alligin in Torridon, which in best years of my life. That era of my life is now behind me and this exhibition those days was particularly isolated. Angus MacDonald was a man of few words; he died when I was 10. I can’t say I knew him well. I remember his coarse hands, the made me face that reality, to move on, to keep the memories and I AM SOMHAIRLE... THE FATHER OF SCHMO... experiences as they were; happy, beautiful and fulfilling. AN ARTIST... A PHOTOGRAPHER... way his fingers hung round a cigarette, his tweeds, the smell of him. I remember how Through this process I may have become a poet ‽ A PROUD SCOTTISH HIGHLANDER. he breathed the word ‘aye’. Lochaber and Torridon to me are spiritual centres, in these places my life comes into focus, the reality is often stark, the affinity strong and Firstly... I know my name is hard to say. It's pronounced Sorley it's an ancient Gaelic name. not always comfortable. I can stake an ancestral claim in these lands but I could never posses them. No one ever could. I am an Invernesian living in Glasgow, Scotland and I make pictures. Through my time as a serious landscape photographer – about 3 years. I have built I am a photographer, graphic design, illustrator, videographer and up strong affinities with many other areas of highland Scotland. Skye in particular. I artist. I have been working as a professional image maker since was in a long-term relationship with a girl from Kingsburgh (north-end). I think it is 2001 and my experience is broad and wide ranging. My love of obvious that she and her family; indeed the island she comes from mean a great deal pictures started in early childhood and I was lucky to have a Mother and GrandPa who were exceptionally talented artists and nurtured to me. Many of the images in this exhibition are from Skye. The sharp and and encouraged my talent. My Father was a keen film photographer precipitous turn I refer to at the beginning of the article was the dissolution of this and I learnt the technical facets of photography from him. relationship. As my work spans many mediums and genres it can be difficult to pin down what it is I actualy do... There is one poem by Norman MacCaig called ‘Memorial'. It is particularly hard PUT SIMPLY - I MAKE PICTURES hitting. In fact when I read it first it took me half an hour or so to come to terms with it I do this in various different ways: with pencils, with computers, with all. It gave me butterflies and my emotions boiled over. It is an exquisitely brutal piece paint, cameras. I work with anything that can make or record marks on paper or on screen. I aim to constantly experiment, evolve, to of work. Although Norman’s poem is about actual death, the death of a relationship skew and distort my perceptions to create stand out pieces of visual follows a similar process of grief and at that time his words hit me like sledgehammer. art which convey meaning for myself and my clients. Every project is a chance to try something new, to convey a story, a feeling, an http://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poetry/poems/memorial idea. An opportunity to push my work forward and create something that no one else can.

http://schmo.biz I had to confront these images.

Skye to me now - A Memorial - This is the last photo I took on Skye and I’m not sure when or if I will ever go back. Now I am no Norman MacCaig or Somhairle Maclean. But they have given me great The Rain in my Blood strength to face my new outlook. Of all the poets these two men describe the // an exhibition landscape of the highlands far better than I or my photographs will ever be able to. // a record You see landscapes are not something unto themselves. They transcend human notions of time and scale. They are connected to the universe in such profound and // the best years of my life ‽ unfathomable ways that although humans have become very adept at controlling them, understanding them and capturing them. They can never be ours. They ground I would like to preface this article by saying that in August of this year my life our homes, our history, our love, our failings, our dead. We project on to them: not turned a sharp and precipitous corner. A sea-change in my personal life the other way round. They don’t care for us. forced me to re-evaluate both the worth and meaning of my landscape photography; it's emotional power, it's link between memory and experience: I named this exhibition 'The rain in my blood' as a nod to my own family history. Both my ancestry and my future. my parents are from Lochaber. My mother from Caol and my father from Achriabhach in Glen Nevis. His father was a shepherd and walked the land between Stob Bàn and The adventures that spawned these images put simply were some of the Sqùrr a’ Mhàim most of his adult life. He originated from Alligin in Torridon, which in best years of my life. That era of my life is now behind me and this exhibition those days was particularly isolated. Angus MacDonald was a man of few words; he made me face that reality, to move on, to keep the memories and died when I was 10. I can’t say I knew him well. I remember his coarse hands, the experiences as they were; happy, beautiful and fulfilling. way his fingers hung round a cigarette, his tweeds, the smell of him. I remember how Through this process I may have become a poet ‽ he breathed the word ‘aye’. Lochaber and Torridon to me are spiritual centres, in these places my life comes into focus, the reality is often stark, the affinity strong and not always comfortable. I can stake an ancestral claim in these lands but I could never posses them. No one ever could.

Through my time as a serious landscape photographer – about 3 years. I have built up strong affinities with many other areas of highland Scotland. Skye in particular. I was in a long-term relationship with a girl from Kingsburgh (north-end). I think it is obvious that she and her family; indeed the island she comes from mean a great deal to me. Many of the images in this exhibition are from Skye. The sharp and precipitous turn I refer to at the beginning of the article was the dissolution of this relationship.

There is one poem by Norman MacCaig called ‘Memorial'. It is particularly hard hitting. In fact when I read it first it took me half an hour or so to come to terms with it all. It gave me butterflies and my emotions boiled over. It is an exquisitely brutal piece of work. Although Norman’s poem is about actual death, the death of a relationship follows a similar process of grief and at that time his words hit me like sledgehammer.

http://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poetry/poems/memorial I had to confront these images.

THE RAIN IN MY BLOOD | Somhairle MacDonald

Taken on the same night pointing towards Rum. It’s mad to think I’ve never been to Rum when so many of my photos are of it. I will be visiting Rum and Eigg as soon as I can and maybe on the small isles I can rediscover my muse. Now I am no Norman MacCaig or Somhairle Maclean. But they have given me great The Rain in my Blood strength to face my new outlook. Of all the poets these two men describe the // an exhibition landscape of the highlands far better than I or my photographs will ever be able to. // a record You see landscapes are not something unto themselves. They transcend human notions of time and scale. They are connected to the universe in such profound and // the best years of my life ‽ unfathomable ways that although humans have become very adept at controlling them, understanding them and capturing them. They can never be ours. They ground I would like to preface this article by saying that in August of this year my life our homes, our history, our love, our failings, our dead. We project on to them: not turned a sharp and precipitous corner. A sea-change in my personal life the other way round. They don’t care for us. forced me to re-evaluate both the worth and meaning of my landscape photography; it's emotional power, it's link between memory and experience: I named this exhibition 'The rain in my blood' as a nod to my own family history. Both my ancestry and my future. my parents are from Lochaber. My mother from Caol and my father from Achriabhach in Glen Nevis. His father was a shepherd and walked the land between Stob Bàn and The adventures that spawned these images put simply were some of the Sqùrr a’ Mhàim most of his adult life. He originated from Alligin in Torridon, which in best years of my life. That era of my life is now behind me and this exhibition those days was particularly isolated. Angus MacDonald was a man of few words; he made me face that reality, to move on, to keep the memories and died when I was 10. I can’t say I knew him well. I remember his coarse hands, the experiences as they were; happy, beautiful and fulfilling. way his fingers hung round a cigarette, his tweeds, the smell of him. I remember how Through this process I may have become a poet ‽ he breathed the word ‘aye’. Lochaber and Torridon to me are spiritual centres, in these places my life comes into focus, the reality is often stark, the affinity strong and not always comfortable. I can stake an ancestral claim in these lands but I could never posses them. No one ever could.

http://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poetry/poems/memorial I had to confront these images.

THE RAIN IN MY BLOOD | Somhairle MacDonald

An Camus Darach.

A place of great peace, of welcoming shelter and acres of golden sand.

I took this one whilst on holiday in Mallaig. We had ventured up for Fèis na Mara, for the craic, for the ' Federation of a disco pimp! We experienced this odd all day sunset whilst walking off a hangover. It was beautiful, peaceful and I felt at home. Deeply in love with my Girlfriend, my friends, with music and my country.

You know lots of people go to spain of greece for their holidays but if you ask me... I'd recommend Mallaig. THE RAIN IN MY BLOOD | Somhairle MacDonald

'Bhruidhinn mi ri mo mhàthair an seo' - Loch Assynt

The last image i want to show is called ‘I spoke to my mother here’. This picture was taken right at the zenith of emotional break down. It was a stunning clear summers evening in Sutherland and there was enough wind to keep the midges off you. I wandered the shore of Loch Assynt for hours not even shure what, why or how to do anything remotely approaching photography. I eventually found this big square rock, my back to the sunset. I sat there in the shadow and I spoke to my Mother. My Mother; Jean Patricia Scott MacDonald died of a brain tumour in 2012. I wear her chain round my neck and often clasp it in my teeth as a comfort. I was at a low ebb and my Mother was still there for me on the shore of Loch Assynt. She told me what to do and I am still trying to do that. If it had not been for my Mothers enduring encouragement and talent I would never have pursued the arts like I have and I most certainly would not have the strength to feel comfortable in expressing myself as I have in this article.

Gràdh Sìorruidh!

Somhairle MacDonald THE RAIN IN MY BLOOD | Somhairle MacDonald

Out of the collection of photos, which constitute the exhibition, I have the photos mean so much more to me than they ever could to a ‘customer’ but like all also produced a 2018 calendar. This is my first foray into good art they should mean something to everyone. And that is my aim, to convey mass-producing my images and I’m happy to report that thus far it some meaning of my own so someone else can create a meaning unto themselves. seems to be going well. I sold quite a lot of prints last year and this seemed like the next logical step in getting images on peoples walls. The Rain in my Blood – will run at The Ceilidh Place in Ullapool till the 1st of January at I consider it an honour in this digital age that people buy calendars which point the band croft no five - in which I play bass - will raise the roof and and prints. That they will live with your work day in day out and probably auction off what’s left of the exhibition in a drunken melee. It will be hopefully glean some happiness from what you have created. Sure monumental and pivotal moment in this new chapter of life.