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As an image he's
sharp, eloquent,
supremely ambiguous.
The tricephalic Nordic God.
Filmmaker, Falconer, Serial Confessor.
Author of ten novels
where he keeps
reopening the crypt,
high on cadaverine,
spaced on photographic
emulsion, curator of his
own mythology.
As Iain Sinclair put it:
"He passes through border
posts without leaving a
trace. He cruises with
wealthy Arabs in stretch
limousines. He brandishes
letters from Philip on
Windsor Castle stationery.
And when the net closes
in he vanishes.
Appearing, years later,
out of the high arctic
or the desert to reinvent his own legend."
He's always
just ahead of the
war zone, on the
edge of the frame,
at the dead
center of the
cyclone.
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