
The "House of Pictures" suite, for instance, features a black-hatted, orange-haired girl seen purposefully from the back, always in the same hunched-over pose. In each case, she wears a belted black coat, and her garish spiky hair is the focal point. In three instances she stands in front of a framed painting, but her head bends down ward, a portrait of withdrawal or grief, even if yet can't see her face. She is staring at the floor--or at nothing--rather than the art, as enclosed in her thoughts as she is in her coat and the composition. Another series centers around the repeated figure of a child, presented in different states of being. Balancing like an apparition on the high, webbed branches of a tree, sometimes closer, sometimes farther away, this elusive young girl is either whited out, blackened into a sooty silhouette or delicately delineated. The question is: is she appearing or disappearing? Another curious sequence, "Gasthof," is based on a dapper 19th-century military man and his older, prosperous-looking, top-hatted companion.
Mostly, though, Doig's subjects are landscapes with a few figures, including scenes from his parents' Canadian farm; a suffer emerging from a smeared and patterned sea; a solitary long-haired, bearded man (the late rock singer Berry Oakley) edged by a ruddy penumbra, seated in a canoe; and a brushily sketched hunter with his dog. Other works are more tropical, reflecting Doig's Caribbean connection, airily depicting houses, beaches, boats, fishermen, palm trees; two show a striding half-naked man, a latter-day Robinson Crusoe, dragging a bundle the title is Pelican--through the sand. Doig uses personal snapshots, newspaper photos, stills from movies, album covers and other found images as source materials. Slightly off-key, off-color, his haunted images and their implicit narratives--intimations of Hollywood B movies with an indie twist--elliptically interrogate the sites of fiction.
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