For the simplicity of its conceptual gesture, Derrien’s series of wall paintings – quite literally fragments of canvas walls covered in what could be domestic paint and framed by white skirting boards – is riven with confusion. No detail is apparent in these works at first glance. Their modest scale and systematic, paired presentation demand close inspection. 

The scrutiny yields reward. Subtle textural differences between the canvases emerge. One wonders if Derrien got his acrylics from Dulux and if he applied them with rollers rather than careful brushstrokes. Before long, the artist has his audience discussing the nature of paint drying out loud.

This is for nothing, however, because the artist forgot that his concept lies in its execution. His frames are shoddy, as though a cut-rate decorator assembled them to order. The wood mouldings are rickety, the canvas edges messy. This may have been intentional, but if so, Derrien’s work is no more than a poor copy of life and therefore redundant. If it’s an oversight, it discredits the whole genre.