So a couple of years ago, when I first went to Edinburgh Scotland, I found this painting. It’s called,”St Bride”, and it depicts a pair of angels carrying away the Saint to witness the birth of Christ. Painted by John Duncan, “St. Bride” combines the artistic realism of the times (the early1900s) with the striking stylistic imagery of Celtic culture. All that guidebook stuff aside, this is probably the most sensory painting I’ve ever seen. When I’m standing in front of it, I feel the gold glowing and the water lapping. I feel like I am a part of it, and that its warm wind is all about me. “St Bride” struck me as an unexpected friend when I first met it in 2019. In my most recent trip to Scotland, I crawled all over the museum to find it again, and it gave me such a great feeling of peace and joy when I finally stumbled into the right room. I sat in front of it for probably over an hour, glorying in its warm, late-afternoon glow all over again. For me, this painting does what I think art is mean to do: transport you up to something higher than yourself and instill the feeling in your soul that you really belong there. While I was sitting in front of the painting, I wrote a poem about it. Here it is.

Standing in front of “St Bride” in the National Gallery

The warm wind rustled their 

Kaleidoscope feathers. The blush

Of the sunset glowed their faces and mine

And below us all, an otter crested bravely

The mild lapping water of the Hebrides sea.

Through gold flavoured sunlight

Our party winged softly

As far below us the earth slid away

But not so far that I couldn’t feel ocean

Spray on my gold curls and Iona’s dark shores.

One angel looked back 

To ensure my sound sleeping

One looked ahead 

To make straight the way.

Their hands like the breezes, held me above

The blue lapping waters of the Hebrides sea.

The clouds spun out sunshine

The gulls wove a song

And that dear old otter, why

He led the way

As we drifted and drifted 

Over mild purple ocean

Breaking its glass depths gently for me.

The angels’ rich garments

Rustle in the mild winds

Their ‘broidered moving pictures

Are moving for me

Their dress and their feathers

Rustle like heaven

Like the winds and the waters of the Hebrides sea

The water laps gently

The sun shines pink warmly

But its all just a painting

Still in front of me

But for an instant, by 

Angel’s hands and

 Bright gold still glowing

I was the girl flying

O’er the Hebrides sea.

Image at top: “St. Bride” by John Duncan