Meisenberg’s paintings are either the product of a conspiracy or documents of a conspiracy theory.
The party slumps into a half-voiced political complaint and never recovers. This is what happens when instead of living culture, we ‘celebrate’ it.
Tilson’s styled self-portraits are an affectation that will take many years of practice to pay off.
The exhibition feels like a lecture on climate change sponsored by the designers of The Line, Saudi Arabia’s dystopian plan for a 110-mile linear city in the desert.
There’s a group, but they’re as indistinct as the faces of Jesus that regularly appear to people on slices of toast.
Looking at Xie’s portraits is a little like wearing a virtual reality headset over only one eye.
There’s little for the eye to hang on and none of the punk culture of Relph’s earlier practice emerges from the works.
A twee aesthetics native to a grandmother’s mantlepiece collection of tourist souvenirs and devotional figurines.
These images are perfectly charming even to a viewer possessed of a cold anthropological eye. The troubling part is in realising just how far ‘outside’ the ideas are.
For the abundance of material, there simply aren’t enough ideas in the exhibition to go around these Mayfair interiors.
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