Nor the belated realization that Richard Wright’s abrupt and delicate drawings, at Kelvingrove, are far more powerful in their epigrammatic way than the wall-sized works that won him the Turner Prize.
In Tillmans’ show I saw the night sky over Kilimanjaro in a magnificent photograph that beggars belief, as the stars appear to twinkle in front of the distant peak; a poetic truth in that the mountain came after the stars.
And in the grounds of Charles Rennie Mackintosh’s House for an Art Lover I had the true festival joy of stumbling on something new: Henry Coombes’s coruscatingly zany black-and-white film I Am the Architect, This Is Not Happening, This Is Unacceptable in which architecture fights art to a thrilling soundtrack and overtones of Fritz Lang, Francis Picabia and those Russian constructivists. Hard to say in all the wild invention, but I think art won.
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