Moira Jeffrey

In Alan Dimmick’s photographs people make art, form bands, fall in love, tie their hair into new styles and drink beer from the bottle. They go to the beach, watch the seagulls watching them, and fall over on the sand. Children play their own mysterious, inexplicable games. Generations link hands. The tower blocks of Glasgow loom solid and implacable only to slump, horribly, like wounded bodies. Lichen grows over stone. The machair blooms in springtime. Nothing remains fixed.

Jacqueline Donachie

Art has many essences. One of the rarest is the joy of being alive, a sumptuous wonder about the way people look, how they dress and pose themselves in public, fantasizing out loud, being bouquets of our strange, strange relation to life, each other, and this passing moment.

Ross Sinclair

Imagine you are living in the late 1970s. Let’s settle on 1978 for argument’s sake. Computers don’t exist. Digital culture is simply science fiction. The world wide web is just a nightmare in the fevered imagination of the arachnophobe. Jim Callaghan leads a popular Labour Government. This is about to change. Soon there will be a new kind of politician in 10 Downing Street; Scotland shudders. The first fixed and failed devolution referendum is still a year away.

Francis McKee

Imagine you are living in the late 1970s. Let’s settle on 1978 for argument’s sake. Computers don’t exist. Digital culture is simply science fiction. The world wide web is just a nightmare in the fevered imagination of the arachnophobe. Jim Callaghan leads a popular Labour Government. This is about to change. Soon there will be a new kind of politician in 10 Downing Street; Scotland shudders. The first fixed and failed devolution referendum is still a year away.