Wool’s convoluted lines – in bent copper-plated steel, scrawled enamel, oil, or silkscreen – encourage the belief that, despite life’s difficulties, what starts at A will make it to B and, eventually, somehow back to A again. These trajectories resemble Brownian molecular motion, as unpredictable as they are vital. Wool’s gestural compositions intrigue with their promise of inevitability, despite, alas, lacking pictorial originality qua works of art.

To name the frustration of this oeuvre is thus to make an embarrassing admission. Wool’s 2D projections are too many and reveal that their topographic trajectory is wholly predetermined. In three dimensions, the sculptural jumbles are too solid as they pass C and D to pretend that they have been part of some great discovery. There’s no room for the eye, then, no way to follow the line.