Gut Feelings: Get Wet

I open my eyes to a sting of chlorine, half conscious and sinking. Sunk, to the bottom of Ainslie Park swimming pool, where my feet land on tufted ground. Recoiling to the surface, I add to a mental list of places that shouldn’t have carpets; nightclubs, toilets, nightclub toilets, swimming pools. I emerge through the water, to laughter and screeches that reverberate off spearmint tiles. In the changing rooms, I get dressed too quickly and the fabric clings to damp skin. Dropped costumes solidify the moment they touch the floor, abandoned Speedos exalted to sculptural status, each crease articulated in bronze. An Adidas shoe box opens to display a pair of yellow stained lobsters, glowing like cartoon treasure. A strange tea, obtained from an area of Scotland where you might be offered curry sauce at the chippy. Despite being in the salt and sauce region, I can see Iona out of the window, but the view is pixelated plastic. The smell of Hama beads melting under greaseproof paper lingers and I am in my childhood living room asking my mum if she can put the iron back on. Another shift in consciousness transports me to the exhibition opening, where I recognise the objects like seeing your own house in a dream. Almost familiar but something is strange, like the pincers that emerge from my dinner plate. Before picking up the blue text I am already thinking about layering, of places and people and time. The first sentence mentions multiple worlds, and I know I have been here before. A place is a portal, and D is talking about when this building was Embassy, the artist-run space. He tells a story about catching a rat in a bucket just before the Scottish Arts Council was due to visit, the time period revealed by this detail. I say you’re showing your age, which is a joke because nothing is linear. In the corner, that same bucket is upturned, underneath a smoked haddock wishing well. There’s no rat inside, just a collection of wishes, surrounded by scattered coins that missed the bucket. The ceiling is deep blue, stars stencilled in silver and I am in the bath at my gran’s house. A wooden lighthouse on the wall is surrounded by a flock of tiny lines that mean seagulls. The memory is thick and full of water.

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Get Wet took place at Whitespace Gallery, Edinburgh, 10-15 Oct