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‘In 2014, the Glasgow School of Art caught fire. It was a unique building designed by Charles Rennie Macintosh and its loss was spoken of in the language of national tragedy. Pictures of the blaze adorned the front page of every paper and politicians like then First Minister Alex Salmond as well as celebrities like Brad Pitt responded almost instantly, deploying vast resources and guaranteeing financial assistance to the School and the students affected. The Arts School’s prominent place in our national psyche provoked such a broad public response that the incident, in which nobody died or was injured, dominated the headlines for days. But the public response wasn’t that broad. In truth, it was very narrow. The reaction only came from a certain section of the public, who felt connected to the Art School in some way. Most people in Glasgow weren’t bothered. After a few days of constant talk of the fire, its implications and whether the damage was permanent or could be salvaged, some (myself included) began to get irritated by what felt like the disproportionate coverage. Many of us were offended at the amount of time dedicated to this story, not just because we had no real interest in contemporary art, but because we grew up in communities where things burn down all the time. Where schools are bulldozed against our wishes. Where cultural heritage is seized before being turned over to private developers. Where roads are built through our land so that people from the suburbs can drive to places like the Glasgow School of Art without having to wait in offensive traffic queues.
“But it’s the art school,” people cried, implying their interests were universal. “Who gives a toss?” was the uneducated, vulgar response. The perception of the Glasgow School of Art, to those who felt connected to it, was equal to the lack of concern of those who didn’t.’
[Darren McGarvey, Poverty Safari, p. 144-145.]