Richard Long presented a remarkable installation of three new works at the Tate Gallery last autumn, an opportunity afforded to him as a result of receiving the Turner Prize in 1989. Cornish Slate line, Norfolk Flint Circle and White Water Line (all 1990) use natural materials found commonly in Britain. They were specifically conceived for the Tate’s newly restored Duveen Galleries, the chambers of honeyed sandstone that act as the museum’s
central axis.

On entering the first gallery, one is confronted by the exhilarating vista of Cornish Slate Line running the length of the space. It is weighty and solid, stretching like the roadway of an ancient people, tempting one to walk upon it, to follow its mystery. Upon the rotunda floor is Norfolk Flint Circle, made from sad bonelike forms that bring a primeval past into the gallery. The slate and flint pieces are not tampered with, their individual forms determined instead by the haphazard extraction processes of the quarry.

The third piece, White Water Line, made from china clay and water, is poured and splashed upon the floor like a snake or entrails, yet always staying within a rectangular confine. This work graphically illustrates how Long’s geometry imposes an order upon the chaos of naturally occurring form—yet the random shapes are untamed, allowing the materials to speak for themselves. Confronted with these natural substances in simple yet resonant shapes, the visitor is introduced to a purity and tranquility that is rare in the city.

Long’s approach to nature has always been respectful. The sculptures he creates in the landscape are ephemeral and made with local organic materials. Long continues this ecological mode when working in an interior space: here he has shown extreme sensitivity to the spirit of the building and is as respectful as if he were creating works within an area of delicate natural harmony. Just as Long’s walks create poetry within the wild and beautiful places, so he has allowed the architecture of the Duveen Galleries to speak eloquently. Until the recent reorganization of the Tate, the individuality of these galleries was masked, and they were embarrassed and uncomfortable hangars for contemporary art.

Long transforms our reading of the architecture. His works emphasize the references to natural harmony and order found in the idiom of classical architecture. His stock of elemental geometric forms—the circle, rectangle, mound or line—strike deep chords; prehistoric culture and the biomorphism of classicism are merged in collective memory. The building suddenly appears as a landscape: sheer faces of rock, yawning chasms, vast plains. And while the Tate’s architecture soars, Long’s works are defiantly flat upon the floor, gripping it uncompromisingly. They are the earth, they are the starting point of it all, they are the swamps from which everything grew. In this context they are anti-phallic and anti-monumental, eloquent in their reserve and silence.

-Emma Dexter