Pedan’s paintings would rather be anything but. Their surfaces, rendered on board that looks as if attacked with an angle grinder, betray little. They hang above eye level, as though to discourage close inspection. The gallery, likewise, isn’t like a gallery. Lengths of electrical cabling cross the walls without reason. Crude boxing conceals the radiators and budget light fittings shine directly into the visitors’ eyes.
But a false wall that oddly covers an altar on which a bird abandoned its nest reveals that all this is a shoddy cover-up, a botched renovation in which the builders cut corners before rushing off to their next job. Everything’s a little sub-standard in that way one begrudgingly gets used to but can never truly overlook.
Even the paintings use the pseudo-neutral palette and form of a mid-range interior design catalogue that rejects lasting meaning. But their marks slowly become discernible: a dense forest, a pile of bones, an hourglass turning dust to dust. In this eerie environment, they demand reverence and reward it with stories of death and disaster that resist any rushed renewal.