Fireworks

There are times and places in our lives of such an intense significance that, instead of fading in our memories, they take on an almost mythical character. With every year that passes, and with every retelling of the story (either to ourselves or to others), the narrative is reinforced, until one wonders how accurate this memory can be. And yet, it's just about possible to recall an echo of those moments and be reassured that yes, this did in fact happen.

I have no doubt you can think of such a time in your own life. For me, I cannot think of a clearer example of this than the sequence of events taking place in August 2019.

Having moved to Edinburgh on the 30th of August 2018, this summer was my first experience of the Edinburgh Festivals and all of their associated wonders. My first time fighting my way through a Royal Mile thronged with tourists; my first time drinking Tennent's out of a plastic cup; my first time standing on Middle Meadow Walk and feeling like endless opportunities lay around me - the posters, the noise, the late summer sky. Have I set the scene? Against this backdrop, my Master's at Edinburgh College of Art was coming to an end, culminating in an exhibition that I'd spent weeks preparing for.

Also on this course was a certain Sarah S., who turned out to be not only extremely knowledgeable about painting walls and framing artwork, but also up for going for a drink after each day spent working on the exhibition. I was very taken by, even jealous of, Sarah's clear familiarity with Edinburgh and the Fringe, accrued over the last decade. Sarah nonchalantly introduced me to revelation after revelation: eating dumplings in George Sq. Gardens, picnic-ing on the Meadows, and the BBC tent, of course. The BBC tent was described to me as an oasis - a lesser-known venue away from the crowds, situated in the grounds of George Heriot's school, with a direct view of the castle.

I had walked past George Heriot's countless times on my way to ECA, and entering through the gate between the tall hedges felt as though I was being admitted into a secret club. The BBC had some sort of agreement with George Heriot's to install a venue on their grounds - comprising a stage, a bar, and a large (plastic? glass?) covering overhead. Throughout the next week, we came here to watch a Slam Poetry Competition. I truly believe anything at all could have been performed there and it would not have mattered - the various acts all blurred together, simply providing an excuse for Sarah and I to sit there night after night, next to each other.

Sarah's many friends were also flocking to the BBC tent, so involuntarily, I soon met them. In my memory - and this may be the rose-tinted glasses of nostalgia - everyone was on top form in this sacred place; charming, silly, downright riotous. The nights went on, endless rounds of drinks at the picnic tables, in the deck chairs, sheltering from the August rain. During one of those evenings, Sarah and I found ourselves squished at a table next to each other and, finally, for the first time, I held her hand under the table. In that moment, the fireworks went off over the castle. It is a scene so ludicrously romantic that no fiction writer would dare write it, and yet here I was, living it.

It is easy now to look back at that week in the BBC tent and identify it as a pivot point - my life on the cusp of something, about to divide in a "before" and "after". So much was still to come, but that week, of course, I had no idea. I'm not saying things were exclusively perfect and amazing from this week onwards. 2020 and 2021 were lonely and difficult times for me - I think that this contrast has furthered the romanticisation of the summer of 2019 in my head. Also central to the myth-making is that we truly can never return to the scene of the crime.

What no one could have guessed that week is that it would be not only my first experience of the BBC tent, but also the last, ever. The deal between George Heriots and the BBC was not renewed when the Festival returned after lockdown and no true successor has turned up. Year after year, Sarah and I return to the Festival to remember how it all started - we eat dumplings in George Square, maybe drink a pint of Tennent's. It is not the same as it was and it can never be like that again.

The BBC tent was just a moment in time: for the first time ever, we were together, and I think that's special. I find it touching to imagine us all there, in many ways a snapshot of a "before" - before we all became friends, before Sarah and I were a couple, before this and that person met, before those two got their cat, before this person moved, before anyone got married, before anyone had kids, before...

So yes, I'm actively furthering the myth-making here by drawing the scene. I have immortalised this moment so that I can look back and appreciate the strange turns that life takes. You can go for a drink with a girl and your entire life can change.

I created this illustration last year as a wedding present for two of our friends, who got married in and lived for a long time in Edinburgh - thought I'd share it here now since it's the appropriate time of year!

Unfortunately I failed to take a picture of the printed and framed artwork, so you'll have to believe me when I say it looked nice in real life!

The artwork started as a pencil sketch that was coloured digitally. The fireworks are coloured pencil which I also scanned (and then recoloured digitally).

See you in George Square some time,

L x