Peter Doig: No Foreign Lands, Scottish National Gallery, Edinburgh, review Elsewhere, though, the paint is generally hazy and thin, sometimes to the point of disappearance. In one memorably gigantic picture, Man Dressed as Bat (2007), a spectral presence with outstretched wings (part carnival performer, part obi sorcerer) occupies some immaterial dimension like a half-lit nightmare slowly appearing before our eyes. In Black Curtain (Towards Monkey Island) (2004), Doig paints a translucent curtain quivering before a sea view as though it is a metaphor for his new fluid, gauzy style. The image has the diaphanous texture of a dream. Sea Moss (2004) is the pictorial equivalent of a ghost town: drained of colour, which has bled into the support, it consists of nothing but a few delicate grey-brown strokes representing palm trees in a landscape, like a wistful, half-remembered approximation of another painting altogether. Everything feels liquid and woozy, full of clammy drips and sodden passages like pools of sweat, as though the paint has not yet dried - indeed, Doig was still working on the most recent pictures just days before the press view. Since seeing this exhibition, I have caught myself thinking about it a lot. It contains paintings that I loathe because of their aggressive flatness, or because of their clashing colours that grate like fingernails on a blackboard. But Doig is an artist who takes risks: in Red Boat (Imaginary Boys) (2004), for instance, he uses matt silver paint for the sky above the jungle - an unexpected but brilliant expression of noonday heat. Often he is in dialogue with the Post-Impressionist and Modernist greats: Gauguin, obviously (sometimes in a tongue-in-cheek way), but also Matisse, whose Bathers with a Turtle (1907-08), with its banded background, unsettling atmosphere, and monumental scale, has clearly become a touchstone for Doig. I left the Scottish National Gallery convinced that, like his illustrious forebears, Doig is a serious painter, capable of darkly powerful visual poetry that lingers in the imagination. Until Nov 3.