DOUGLAS GORDON
Confessions of
Gordon
A number of works of fiction have been written to coincide with Gordon’s exhibitions. We reproduce extracts from short stories by two leading authors.
IAN RANKIN Instead of an introductory essay in the catalogue to accompany Douglas Gordon’s show in Edinburgh this winter, Ian Rankin has written a short story, entitled Sinner: Justified. Here, we reproduce an extract. Gordon lived in Dean Village. next to the Water of Leith. His walks along the river had always seemed enchanted. the city hovering somewhere above him. But by nightfall it had become a place of shadows and assignations. and he would no longer walk there unless accompanied by his tour-party. Edinburgh had always seemed two cities to him — New Town and ()Id; liast lind and West: Hibs and Hearts: town and gown: haves and have-nots. The thesis he was supposed to be writing had as its theme the aftershock of (‘ulloden. But his tutor had made the mistake of mentioning ‘the (‘aledonian antisyzygy". leading him down a side-road where he started to explore the Scottish psyche. that apparent need to be ‘where extremes meet'. As a yotmg man. the novelist Stevenson would sneak ottt of his stuffy middle-class home in the New Town and head for the stews on the other side of Princes Street. where he could rub shoulders with cut— throats. drunks and whores. Later. the figure of Jekyll would reflect his creator. Scratch the veneer. and the face of Hyde began to emerge. lidinburgh: city of night. So douce and proper in daytime . . . Superhumanatural is published by the National Galleries of Scotland. Ian Rankin’s new Rebus novel, The Naming of the Dead, is out now
ANDREW O’HAGAN
In the catalogue for Gordon’s Hayward Gallery exhibition in 2002, an anonymous story was published, entitled Ghost: The Private Confessions of Douglas Gordon. The true author was O’Hagan. Here is an extract.
Clyde
1 think I have been here before. The great verbs of the sea come down the (‘lyde in a swell of memory. and now we are together. dark and placid. travelling over the last great sounds of the night. under the bridges. over the salmon— abandoned water. the river deepened by
linlightened men. dockyards frozen. the river (‘lyde in the black watch of this evening tender and wordless and slow. and out there. beyond the banks and the ring roads. yellow sodium burns at the heart of loneliness.
We move up the river in an open barge. sending torchlight over the black rivulets and inspecting the currents. looking out for the dead. liven at this hour smoke billows from the Polmadie furnace —— there is always work to be done in a city of work and be done — but otherwise the (‘lyde is a universe of half-forgotten experience: the ghosts of former happiness crowd in their holiday guise at the Broomielaw. waiting for steamers long departed: leaving (‘entral Station. trains scrape and squeal over the bridge with empty carriages and no drivers: and there. past (iovan. past lbrox. sirens blare over the empty yards. and all together forty thousand sharp intakes of breath pass over the vacant football field. a memory of life blown over the houses and settling now over the dark (‘lyde water that carries us forward to all the truth and rewards of time.
‘ln the middle of life. we're in death.‘ said the man. The dog sniffed at the edges of the barge and poked its snout in the river. The man‘s bald head glistened under the moon and the city slept at his back.
'I see.‘ 1 said. ‘we are floating here on quotation. Is this all the art we can muster tonight? Are you taking me to a bad place'."
‘No.’ he said. ‘there are no bad places in the world. only the bad places in men‘s heatts.’
‘And who are you‘."
'l‘m the sayer of new things.~
‘Not likely. We are on a metaphorical river. We are bound by the already-said. are we not'.’ Is this a bloody game'.’ Are any of these words our own'."
‘l)oug|asf he said. ‘This is not a metaphorical river. This is the river (‘Iydcf
The barge passed under the lirskine Bridge and blue light could be seen glowering from the tops of the towerblocks. The man rolled a cigarette and when he licked the paper his tongue was red and his teeth crooked. lle puffed the cigarette and put a cold hand on my shoulder. ‘You have done well.‘ he said. 'but I fear now for the protection of your criminal mentality. You have operated with ctmning since this river ran to a
CV6 ry [ililc‘ YOU think ofmc.
small port ~ you remember your first appearance'.’ You brought St Mungo‘s chapel to the ground.‘
'I don‘t remember anything.‘
‘You may not. You have been ill-apparent. even to yourself:
‘Where are my friends'."
'You have no friends. Illusion is your friend.”
The man lifted his heavy-seeming arm and pointed out towards the bank of the river: his finger was long and the nail black. The dog leaned over the edge of the barge and barked at the shore. ‘You see.’ said the man. 'you see you are being watched from the bank.’
I saw him immediately. Jimbo Park. Hit-ken no. i felt none of my former affection for the young man on the bank with his camera raised: in the moonlight his dark hair had all the lustre of life about it. he bared his white teeth with concentration. I looked into the bald man‘s dreadful eyes. 'lle has been following tne all my life.‘ I said.
‘.\'o.' said the man.
‘lt is the truth.. I said. and I believed it was so.
22 THE LIST 1‘) Oct —2 Nov 2006