In the backrooms with Donald Duck

There’s a corner of the internet that’s fixated with the constant evolution of a strange, online fiction. A marriage of some of the obsessions of cyberspace: liminal space, creepypasta, and gaming culture. At the intersection of this Venn diagram is The Backrooms; an endless maze of seemingly empty rooms and corridors. But every now and then, if – as the first, anonymous post about The Backrooms said – you noclip out of reality in the wrong place, you might find a Backroom with something terrifying lurking behind one of its countless doors.

When confronted with the vast, surreal sight of an enormous inflatable Donald Duck with the face of the artist Simeon Barclay printed on it, the first thing I thought of was The Backrooms, and the complex, almost violent relationship that Barclay’s work (currently exhibited at Gathering and Workplace) has with space and the things that might have fallen between the cracks, waiting for a chance to escape. Whether it’s the unsettling spectacle of the giant PVC duck, or the ominous, endless drone of the air pump that keeps it inflated, Pebble (2023) is a piece that will always draw you towards it, with a strange sense of dread that comes from getting closer to it, as if making contact with it will take you somewhere from which there’s no escape.

Space works that way across both the spaces housing ‘At Home, Everywhere and Nowhere’; it takes what feels familiar and turns it into something strange and uncanny. Whether it’s the soft textures and innocent memories of plush toys in contrast with the unmoving intensity of the metal frames that suspend them, or a cardboard cutout of a police officer in the basement of Gathering that just might be creeping closer to you whenever you turn your back, Barclay’s work finds a way under the skin in a way that keeps you staring, out of fear of what happens when you might look away.

In the basement of Workplace hangs reversed neon text- ecneconni teews lleweraf – which is occasionally plunged into darkness as a soundscape of drones, thundering bass, and ominous strings slowly build up in layers. This feels like the soundtrack to a horror film, as if something ancient is being invoked. A metal fence – with the accompanying warning just outside the room asking me not to move around the sides of the piece – is the only thing keeping this thing locked away. But as with all great horror, there’s a temptation to flaunt these warnings; to move around the sides of the fence, and get closer to this unsettling, compelling image.

The same experience, the same uncertainty between edging closer and looking away, becomes overwhelming when I step into Solomon Garçon’s strange, spare show at Studio Voltaire and a low, endless drone works its way into my ears. Sub/Spoof (2023) is a speaker hidden by wood – the same place where the boiler used to be in the gallery, reaching a haunted hand through time – with its sly name winking at the relationship between ominous drones and horror cinema. This sound sets the tone for Garçon’s ARMS, a strange collection of phantasmal images that worm their way under the skin.

In the centre of the room is 4’33 (2023), a collection of miniature resin chairs. Named for the experimental John Cage composition, it creates a stark awareness of how my body occupies the space, creating the strange feeling that this collection of tiny chairs might be home to a legion of ghosts looking out at me, laughing at the way I’m compelled by Sub/Spoof, at the way the drone seems to slow my movements or interfere with my balance.

In ARMS, the body exists in a liminal space; present and not all at once. Whether that’s the body bag of Crypt (2023), with a few protrusions that seem human at first but, on closer inspection, might belong to something more sinister. Like Barclay’s cardboard cutout, there’s a sense of dread that comes from turning your back on Crypt; maybe the bass is so loud because it’ll stop you from hearing the bodybag unzipping, or the footsteps of whatever it might be holding. ARMS even includes some ‘invisible’ pieces of work, which don’t appear listed. One of them is a plastic bag, fashioned to possibly hold a body – the bottom is fashioned to look like feet.

Both Garçon and Barclay challenge expectations; taking what once seemed natural – about space, about our bodies – and distorting these ideas. What was once solid material, or flesh and blood, suddenly becomes something else, something uncertain that lingers in between this world and some strange, darker one that lies beyond.