Taking a shortcut through the Princes Street Gardens, we arrive at the refurbished Scottish National Portrait Gallery. The august building stands proud before us, a shrine to famous Scots across history.
Red lanterns hanging from the ceiling lend an otherworldly glow to the Great Hall as we pass between high arches. Looking up, we are astounded by a frieze by 19th-century artist William Hole, wrapping around the entire first-floor balustrade.
Painted in a spirit fresco style, Scottish icons parade in reverse chronological order, beginning with 19th century author Thomas Carlyle and ending with the Stone Age man. Between them: Robert Burns and Bonnie Prince Charlie, the tragic Mary Queen of Scots, explorers and artists, inventors and poets.
One hundred and fifty-five figures, one hundred and fifty-five portraits. Each costumed according to their own time. A procession of time, frozen in time.
And over each person’s head, their name painted in capital letters. Imagine if we, too, had to walk around with our names emblazoned in fiery gold, hanging above us like a label. A sentence, a judgement. We should all give thanks for what little anonymity we possess.
We observe, unobserved ourselves and grateful for that.
Makes me wonder why we often need a change before we see the world with new eyes. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could do that anyway, every single day, with a fresh view of all that surrounds us? How we would marvel at the miracles – small and large, dramatic and under-appreciated – that are our blessings each and every moment of our lives.
We turn 360 degrees and back again, wandering through history thanks to this gleaming gold mural, this fresco of frescoes.
I wonder about their lives. I wonder about their stories. The lives of Scots, the stories of lives.
Gordon Lish gave this advice to fellow writer Amy Hempel once: “Wear your heart on the page, and people will read to find out how you solved being alive.”
I imagine it’s obvious: We live by trying, of course. By keeping at it and never giving up. That’s how we stay alive.
This is how stories are made. This is why stories are shared. We want to know how they did it, how you did it, and why. I know I do.