One must admire Frith Street. This gallery loves its artists forever, as though it were oblivious to the contemporary’s ever-changing favours. Its static roster ages with the building and with the money that funds the endeavour.

But one may also sigh at the same gallery’s run of dull, barely distinguishable exhibitions. It’s Singh’s turn this summer, though her expensively framed pictures could have been the work of at least three other Frith Street Gallery artists. None of them would have made this work any better, or any worse. None would have made it new, either.