Alserkal: Art In Dubai

Dubai is the modern-day crossroads of East and West. An eight hour’s flight from two thirds of the globe, it is ideally situated to display a wealth of contemporary art from the Islamic diaspora, as well as Northern European artists. I have written elsewhere of the dichotomy at the heart of art curation in Qatar: a lot of money, but a lack of direction. Direction is thankfully not a problem in Dubai, as all points of the compass lead to this cross-continental city and its artistic enclave Alserkal.

Sited within what my brochure described as the city’s ‘gritty, industrial’ district of Al-Quoz, I reached Alserkal following a 35 minute walk from a brief diversion at the fairly unremarkable Meem Gallery elsewhere in the city. Dubai is not built for walking. Understandable, given the summer heat, when a car’s use is for mobile air conditioning as much as transport. Filled with wide-eyed, cod psychogeographic ideas about using the opportunity to walk between the galleries as an opportunity to experience ‘the real’ Dubai, I was unable to indulge my inner flaneur, focusing too much on leaping between sandbank sidewalks while the real Dubai drove past me in a cascade of battered 4x4s and water trucks. The smell of Al-Quoz was quite something. Walking along 8th street, roughly parallel to the Sheikh bin Zayed road, Dubai’s aorta, oil never left my nostrils. Oil in a host of flavours. Gasoline at filling stations. A tangy must escaping from print factories and bottling plants.

There was no gradual transition into urbanised grot about the space of Alserkal; it was just suddenly there, with the advertising posters and clean graphics on its outside the only real clue that it wasn’t another motor works facility. The block was a grid of warehouse and lock-up spaces which were variously used as galleries, office spaces for design agencies and upmarket, organic coffee stations. Shoreditch on the sand, if you will.

Farhad Ahrarnia – Something For The Touts, The Nuns, The Grocery Clerks And You @ Lawrie Shabibi


Fahrad Ahrarnia. Something For The Touts, The Nuns, The Grocery Clerks And You, No. 17. 2015. Work on cardboard.

Having accumulated a good portion of sand in my shoes, and dodged litter blowing through the air along the road into Al-Quoz, the first gallery I visited appropriately had cardboard, and not canvas, as the medium. The press release heralded Farhard Ahrarnia’s pieces as a recollection of Robert Rauschenberg’s cardboard works, but they lacked Rauschenberg’s structural play, being mostly utilised as a two dimensional surface. Ahrarnia took discarded boxes from the urban centres of Iran and repurposed them as a backdrop for tazhib, a Persian form of gilding typically used to ornament books. Al-Quoz was an appropriate place for them to be displayed, being the engine of Dubai’s manufacturing and packaging. The second half of the exhibition drew upon a different craft; that of khatam, a micro-mosaic technique which requires a methodical collecting of filaments of different materials (ivory, copper, and brass are common) which are cut at the cross-section to reveal the underlying geometric complexity. In Ahrarnia’s version the strips are laid out in dynamic collages, which were often in deliberate homage to pieces by Lissitzky and Malevich. Ahrarnia was very open about his influence from the Russian Modernists, and to see Persian craftwork colluding with the Russian avant-garde was one of many pleasant surprises which Alserkal afforded.

Lawrie Shabibi, Al-Quoz 1, Al Serkal Avenue, Unit 21

Ramtin Zad – Retrospective @ Salsali Private Museum

The Salsali Private Museum was a terrific space, with immaculate lighting piercing through black walls and black ceiling to allow details like the impossibly radiant tail of an acrylic peacock to shine through. There was not a dull piece in this exhibition, with Zad commanding an impressive and consistently penetrative style through painting, drawing, and sculpture.

On the back wall were the most imperious pieces, large canvases with different scenes united by cornucopias of people writhing and melding in forms which approached the botanical. A constant throng shapeshifting from man to beast to flower. Crowds flew on the backs of eagles. Rabbits, bears, humans and deer danced and ate and fucked at the centre of dark woods. Canvases with dramatically flat perspectives sucked me in as vigorously as the intense landscapes of late Van Gogh or Kiefer. Thick brushstrokes depicted crowds of spectre-spectators, their flesh with the slippages of candle wax, all in a carnivalesque turn reminiscent of the recently exhibited James Ensor at the Royal Academy.


Ramtin Zad, Magician. 200×150 cm. Acrylic on canvas. 2015. Courtesy the artist and Salsali Private Musuem.

The paintings touched on places and symbols from Persian folklore which would chime readily with a native viewer (the Damavand mountain, mythological symbol of Iranian pride and resistance, is namechecked in one piece), but less so with ignorant Westerners like myself. That soon, however, became irrelevant: Zad still provided overwhelming sights which packed a punch regardless of prior knowledge. As the press release described, Zad fused a private language of his unconscious with mythological archetypes – not knowing the man or his cultural language that well, I should have felt cut adrift. But I never felt alienated – in the city where simulacra towers rise out of dead ground, I felt alive.

Some paintings had a millennarian air, especially one which had a Moses figure cleaving apart the Red Sea, towering over one of Zad’s distinctive masses of figures. The painting’s title was given as ‘Return of Trump’. An enigmatic one, as the painting seems incredibly timely, though it was actually painted in 2012. I emailed the artist to try and get to the bottom of it, but without a reply my best guess is that the title is a later addition to the piece. Still, at a time when the new American president is keen to roll back rapprochement with Iran and paint it as the international enemy number one again, vibrant Iranian artists like Zad are needed to speak out for his country, and he did so with aplomb.


Ramtin Zad, Peacock. 200x150cm. Acrylic on canvas. 2015. Courtesy the artist and Salsali Private Museum.

How does Zad see himself? A self-portrait at the end of the gallery held a clue, with the artist as a ‘Magician’, levitating from a chair in front of a crowd that mixed people with anthropomorphic animals, or maybe just people wearing masks. Irreverent yet self-confident, it was a profile fitting a man who paints so powerfully despite not being much past thirty.

Salsali Private Museum, Al-Quoz 1, Street 8, Al Serkal Avenue

Bernhard Buhmann – Modern Times @ Carbon 12

Bernhard Buhmann was another ringmaster, conjuring tricksters and jesters of his own, albeit on rigorously portioned canvases. Half of the pictures were figurative paintings constructed from 4×3 square grids. These were the stronger, and just about justified the artist’s claim that the pictures invoked the split of identity facilitated by social media. However, I felt that Buhmann was caught between continuing his usual character shapes and types, and engaging with post-internet art. For what it’s worth, I find Douglas Coupland’s pictures in the latter field to be similar, but much more effective.


Bernhard Buhmann, Mister D. 200x130cm. Oil on canvas. 2016. Courtesy the artist and Carbon 12 gallery.

Likewise, though the abstract paintings which constituted the other half of Buhmann’s show weren’t bad, and were a commendable effort at trying on a different hat, they lacked the freewheeling charm of his early paintings. Buhmann’s art seems to be self-consciously receding to straighter and crisper lines, and I missed the steampunk world of aeronautics and harlequins and from his prior output. Modern Times treads much of the same territory as his previous show The Pretenders, but cannot say it as well as The Pretenders did, that show being the chrysalis of Buhmann’s career so far. Those paintings, loosely based on circus performers assembled out of bright colours and animal faces and disproportionate body parts, made the more nuanced, yet more impactful, statement on identity.

Carbon 12, Unit 37, Alserkal Avenue, Street 8, Al-Quoz 1

Safwan Dahoul – Miniatures @ Ayyam Gallery

A dark room away from the glare of the Dubai sun was the ideal setting for Safwan Dahoul’s haunting dream visions. A continuation of his long-running Dream series, Miniatures was a departure in form, transferring his pictures to a smaller scale. The gallery trumped up these miniatures as being like storyboards, and this was true to an extent, but the comparison faltered through giving too much preference to film. This wasn’t some incomplete or deficient work, waiting to be built up into something more. These were intimately rendered vignettes where the physical size of the pieces were crucial to their claustrophobic feel.


Safwan Dahoul, Dream 139. 10x10cm. Acrylic on wood. 2016. Courtesy the artist and Ayyam Gallery.

Dahoul has stated that his Dreamer, though she is a woman, is a version of himself. But that undersells his ability to capture something inherent to female experience. One of the most affecting sights I saw in Alserkal was a triptych in the corner of this exhibition, focusing on the dreamer’s belly: first with a close-up of it, then a close-up which revealed a foetus inside, then finally the woman’s belly with her arms crossed in front of it. It could have been in protection, in enchantment, in memory, or something else entirely, but each interpretation held a new well of feeling. It’s the exhibition in microcosm: symbolic, elusive, and all the more powerful for it. With such small paintings, Dahoul left elusive and allusive pointers to what’s happening in his native Syria, like the triptych where his dream-protagonist appeared to dissolve before the viewer’s eyes. These miniatures were paintings as portholes,  with passing glimpses into portals of a female psyche. I felt distinctly like a voyeur, with the dreamer’s expression impassive through it all. Visually, Dahoul’s dreamer looked European, French even, with a close-cropped bob of black hair. But hung closely together, and with a distinct narrative edge making a viewer less likely to contemplate in front of them, the vignettes could have been a comment on the passage, upheaval and suffering of Syria’s refugees.

It is worth mentioning that while Dahoul is conversant with early 20th century artists’ investigation of dreams, and shares traits with Picasso in his manipulation of the female form, dreams are traditionally important in Arabic culture. Medieval Arab cultures composed volumes and volumes of ‘dreambooks’, encyclopedias designed to be used to unlock the symbolism of objects which presented themselves in dreams. And unlike the self-contained, diagnostic dreams of Freudian psychoanalysis, these dreambooks had a divinatory role, where they revealed something hidden yet imminent in the world, instead of the dreamer’s anxieties. For a series that is based around dreams and unreal worlds, it had an oblique yet incisive analysis of Dahoul’s native country, particularly since the Year Zero of 2011. Even on a purely conceptual basis, the questions loomed large: with the horror happening in Syria, who is to say that reality is less surreal than a dream? Are we collectively daydreaming through humanitarian crisis?


Safwan Dahoul, Dream 120. 13x13cm. Acrylic on wood. 2016.

Having worked on his Dream series since 1987, Dahoul ought to be commended for having pursued a singular vision so successfully for so long. But he does so much more than that, weaving a subtle wider commentary throughout the works.

Ayyam Gallery, Units 11-12 Al Serkal Avenue, Street 8, Al-Quoz 1

Thaier Helal – Landmarks II @ Ayyam Gallery

Just over the other side of the road was an exhibition of Dahoul’s compatriot, Thaier Helal. For all that a Western observer might wring their hands about the difficulty at representing the chaos of the world, those problems pale in comparison to those faced by Syrian artists, who must try to come to terms with the displacement, devastation, and death incurred by the ongoing Civil War. Thaier Helel’s latest effort is more oblique than his 2012 exhibition In Army We Trust, which pilfered the iconography of the Syrian army. Helal looked deep within the earth for Landmarks II, representing the cartography of his native land through mixed media on canvas. His pieces were as much sculptural as they are pictorial, with layers of crust and sediment erupting from the canvas. Grit, glue, sand and salt layered with paint in a process depicted in an illuminating video on display at the exhibition, which hit the perfect middle ground between academic over-explanation and brevity.


Thaier Helal, Sand. 190cm diameter. Mixed media on canvas. 2016.

The works were powerful, and not in a handwavy spiritual sense. They weren’t idly romantic visitations, in a way that English art at times of war very often is; they were hard, concrete, and did a solid job of deferring to nature as the supreme authority in Syria’s fate, the judge of what will emerge through decay or rebirth.

Ayyam Gallery, Units 11-12 Al Serkal Avenue, Street 8, Al-Quoz 1


Nick Brandt – Inherit The Dust @ Custot Gallery


Nick Brandt, Underpass With Elephants. 2015. Photo credit: Nick Brandt. Courtesy Custot Gallery Dubai.

As with Safwan Dahoul, Nick Brandt presented a body of work which was part of a long-running series, but could still be enjoyed in its own right. Brandt took monumental photographs of animals he snapped for earlier projects, and cleverly choreographed enormous prints of those around the urban sprawl of East Africa. Elephants loomed out of factories and landfills; zebras stood on railway lines. They were all shaded with Brandt’s distinctive monochrome, a technique which made the pictures, and the people and animals within them, look like preemptive memorials.

The pictures were all the more effective from being shot on location, rather than edited in post-production, thanks to the chance encounters of elements in the photograph. So a family of elephants propped up beneath an underpass were viewed with awe by homeless children, and the zebra originally photographed by a lake had his surroundings seamlessly overlaid with those of a fetid waterway surrounding a factory. A chimpanzee appeared to mournfully examine the wreckage of a landfill.

When scale is so important, occasionally it can be difficult to appreciate finer details, particularly in the smaller works, having got used to large prints which aimed to impress a reaction upon the viewer instantaneously. But the smaller works had their charms too, like the photograph which showed a ranger crouching by two dispossessed elephant tusks so that his body shape resembled the elephant’s head. It’s always tempting to divorce aesthetic impact from social conscience, to think that the ivory tower of art is apolitical and amoral. But ivory is hardly apolitical, as Brandt’s tusks remind us. It was a mark of the exhibitions in Alserkal to marry those artistic and political tendencies, sometimes held as contradictory in Western art. Yet it is difficult to imagine that, if we were to undergo something as catastrophic as the Civil War which has afflicted Safwan Dahoul and Thaier Helal’s homeland, for example, we would feel the same way.

Custot Gallery, Alserkal Avenue, Unit 84, Street 6A, Al-Quoz 1.

Abderrazzak Sahli – Tolerance And Peace

Yesterday Is Tomorrow’s Memory: Modern Art From North Africa @ Elmarsa Gallery

I technically entered Elmarsa in error, as the gallery was in the process of transitioning between exhibitions. But, true to Alserkal’s openness, the staff were perfectly happy for me to amble around their work-in-progress space and get almost two whole exhibitions for the price of one…which was still free, as all of these gallery spaces were.

Downstairs, a posthumous retrospective of Abderrazzak Sahli was being dismantled. As with Farhad Ahrarnia, the twin influences of Islamic abstract art and the Russian avant-garde were held in parallel. In contrast to the abrupt angles and shapes of Malevich and Lissitzky, Sahli’s canvases danced with fluid forms which were much more vibrant and cartoony. Think Miami, not Moscow. Some of the more neon shaded paintings could be screenshots from the intro credits to an early 1990s kids’ TV show. But the title of Tolerance And Peace alerted the viewer to Sahli’s high-minded intentions. He said that his work ‘[translated] diversity’ and that the ‘clutter of objects’ in it was ‘nothing but a representation of the crowd’. For Sahli the crowd is a heterogeneous dance, diverse underneath uniformity, like sand under a microscope. His later works vibrated and shimmered like the most aquatic Paul Klee paintings.


Abderrazzak Sahli, Untitled. 120x120cm. Acrylic on canvas. 1993. Courtesy Elmarsa Gallery.

Against the rainbows casting out across the gallery, some austere works stood out, consisting of white shapes against a black background which had the concentrated intensity of Matisse’s cut-outs. Without colour, the focus could switch to Sahli’s use of shape. As ever, the danger to read too much into abstract painting looms large, but the overwhelming impression, at least, was of tumbling leaves, crescent moons, and dynamic human forms, arms outstretched. It certainly felt crowded, even in the austere pieces, and it made an interesting counterpart to Ramtin Zad’s wild, fleshy brush strokes when painting his pile-ons of spectators, as Sahli came off as much more confident and celebratory of gatherings of things and people.

Though this exhibition focused on Sahli’s paintings, there was dialogue with his sculptural work, and some of his paintings communicated ideas which were also realised by him in three dimensions. The abundance of works which consisted of frames-within-frames evoked the image of the illuminated manuscript; the decorated word. Similarly, the cut-out style of the austere works made overtures to a specifically Arabic architectural form: Mashrabiya latticework. Used in windows and dressing screens, it’s a type of wood design where the wood is peppered with small holes which allow light and air pass through, but maintain privacy as one cannot be clearly seen through them. It’s often used in screens which would allow women to undress behind when indoors. Abstracted from a design context, and shot through with Sahli’s distinctive colours and rhythmic shapes, the door motif is, in the coloured works, made sexy with suggestions of glimpses and teases. In the austere ones, there is a more concentrated focus on illumination from darkness or ignorance, or freedom from tyranny.


Nejib Belkhodja, Abstraction Numero 64. 99x64cm. Oil on canvas. 1964. Courtesy Elmarsa Gallery.

Mashrabiya can be found all over the medina squares of North African cities, which was in turn the structural motif toyed with by Nejib Belkhodja in the group exhibition upstairs, Yesterday Is Tomorrow’s Memory, a ‘greatest hits’ collection of post-War artists from the Maghreb. The clarity of line and colour in his work is staggering, especially considering it predated digital art – from a distance, you could mistake one of his paintings for a QR code. I had a sense that among the North African artists, there was a willingness to embrace structure and form within abstract expressionism which would be anathema to some of the more self-directed North Americans. I felt that the Abstract Expressionism exhibition, just finished at the Royal Academy, was striking enough, but even in a shed on the outskirts of Dubai, artists from Tunisia, Morocco, Algeria et al more than held their own against Pollock and co in Burlington House’s grand halls. 

There is something of Franz Kline’s enigmatic calligraphy in Rachid Koraichi’s etchings and sculpture, but of course the latter artist has a solidified relationship with Arabic text and symbol, whereas Kline’s relies on vagueness in his brushstrokes. Not to say that Kline is a worse or less educated painter (far from it), but it’s worth pointing out that the African artists’ manipulation of text went beyond source material into something essential to their identity and self-expression. Nja Mahdaoui made pure art out of calligraphy; Khaled Ben Slimane fused it with pottery. At the other end of the scale, Aly Ben Salem’s Le Jardin d’Eden was an outpouring of Oriental life and colour to make Henri Rousseau’s head spin, depicting two alluring women spangled together in a torrent of flowers, reeds, birds, forged by daring tones of blue and black. To make another overwrought comparison to a Western artist, it was a painting which made Klimt look impoverished. It was sheer magic, and any attempt to make a weedy critical comment was dashed by the saucily insouciant expression in the central figures’ eyes.


Aly Ben Salem, Le Jardin d’Eden. 74x52cm. Gouache on paper. 1950. Courtesy Elmarsa Gallery. Please note this picture has been unintentionally cropped.

The deep reds and oranges of Emna Masmoudi and Asma M’Naoaur burned with the Mediterranean sun, the Rothko to the Pollockian intensity of lines bedecking  Mahjoub Ben Bella’s art. Elmarsa should be applauded  for including Masmoudi and M’Naoaur, as they represented the more recent vanguard of women in North African painting. If there was one downside to the overall experience at Alserkal, the relative paucity of women was one. But then again, that’s a criticism which has been made of abstract expressionism all over the world: that it is, to put it bluntly, a load of cock waving.

Yesterday Is Tomorrow’s Memory dipped a toe in the water for a colourful, thoughtful, and still fertile art scene and has allowed me to uncover even more artists from Tunisia and countries north of the Sahara which were not represented, and find out their communication with artists from Arabia, the Levant and beyond. Viewing it in close proximity to the Royal Academy’s Abstract Expressionism show was a convenient coincidence, but the wealth of Maghreb art more than matched those lofty standards.

Elmarsa Gallery, Unit 23, Alserkal Avenue, Al-Quoz 1

After Elmarsa, I walked out of the last warehouse into a nondescript gravel car park, and my visit was over. Compared to Dubai’s more well-known (and more central) sights, Alserkal is modest and quiet. Yet the voices it contains needs to be heard. I visited Dubai the week that the new  American president signed an executive order limiting travel to his country from Iran, Iraq, Somalia, Libya, Sudan, Syria, and Yemen. It goes beyond saying how short-sighted, narrow-minded, and plain callous that was, and it is hard not to feel pessimistic about how the Arabic world at large will be demonised into super-villainy over the next four years. Cross-cultural communication with the Arabic world is now more vital than ever, and art has a role to play in that. It may be the case that the artists are barred from travelling to their own opening nights (as happened to Thaier Helal in London), but their work has the ability to talk to us when they are silenced.



Luc Tuymans – Intolerance, exhibition at ALRIWAQ, Doha

Qatar is a country which rarely looks back, preferring to enjoy the prospect of its future. A combination of a traditionally peripatetic Bedouin population and restarts of infrastructure mean that little of the past is actually visible in its capital Doha. The Sheraton hotel, one of the first towers built in the city, looks like an alien ziggurat from another epoch but was only built in 1979. It seems an odd venue then, to host Luc Tuymans, a Belgian artist whose preoccupation is history and its remembrance.

In 2009 Tuymans toured with an exhibition entitled Against The Day, a name shared with a novel by Thomas Pynchon published three years earlier. That doff-capping is a hint to the deeper thematic considerations they share with evaluating the past, though Tuymans’ brushstrokes are often banal and indistinct, in contrast to the searing maximalism of Pynchon’s prose. Consider their diverging responses to 9/11. In 2014 Pynchon released Bleeding Edge, resplendent with typically colourful allusions to conspiracy theories, paranoia and allusions to the deadwood of early millennium popular culture, cf. the ‘Rachel’ haircut. Tuymans got into trouble for his responses to 9/11, a time of gratuitous soul-searching and hand-wringing across the arts, as he made conceptual meta-responses to the event. Firstly there was an enormous, banal still life he exhibited at the Documenta in 2002. Tuymans’ painting called into question the very capabilities of the art form, particularly when accessing the event in emotionally raw short-term memory.  And then a year later he painted one of his masterpieces, Mayhem, which features in this exhibition. Mayhem almost looks like a still life, with barrels and tyre piles dotted across the canvas, but the ramps towards the left of the picture seem reminiscent of the skeleton of a plane: its fuselage, and wings outspread. The turning point of this century is not presented with gravitas, but via a dance of suggestion. Its panoramic perspective also puts me in mind of a famous painting by a Low Countries cousin of Tuymans’; Hieronymous Bosch’s The Garden of Earthly Delights. Whereas that triptych is read as a narrative with a code to decipher, Tuymans suspends a moment in time and leaves these fundamental outlines – an aeroplane, a cross, a prone man with a gun – ready to be ‘coloured in’ by those who choose how history is remembered.

Indeed, Tuymans’ technique shares qualities between the act of applying paint to canvas and the act of remembering. His paintings have a washed out, watercolour-like quality and favour dull sheen rather than particular detail. He presents images from the worst of (in)humanity, Nazism and Belgian imperialism, but with a deadpan functionality which raises the question of whether those acts anything remarkable to them at all – whether what we might call ‘evil’ is in fact a species norm. He experimented with film-making for a period in the 1980s, and the skills he picked up from that are obvious: he is one of the best painters at cropping, of framing the subject (particularly faces) in a confrontational close-up. Commissioned especially for this exhibition, The Arena I-VI tries to integrate the inherent advantage cinema possesses over painting: the ability to view the same scene from multiple angles. The details of what are painted in that cycle are indistinct, but there is a feeling of aggression and ritual, perhaps a similar depiction of mood from the uprisings and displacement this decade in the Middle East and Africa as he initially did with 9/11 in Mayhem. Tuymans’ art is amoral, it shows humanity for what it is. If we murder and mutilate each other, then that is what we are. Art does not dig us out of the killing fields but shows us how deep the holes go.

One of the delights in his recent output is a series shown off in the exhibition Corporate in 2010, some of which are displayed here. These are thoughtful and hilarious pieces, which alternate between ribbing at the omnipresent tedium of corporate culture a la The Stanley Parable, and aggressively lit, overexposed pieces which recall Francis Bacon’s infernal popes. There have been many attempts to critique such a concept not just in art, but in all fields, and yet few of them make such an impression as these. Given that many of Tuymans’ paintings are of the seemingly innocuous bureaucrats who facilitated the worst convulsions of the 20th century, this is unsurprising.

Not even domestic four walls hold safety in Tuymans’ hands. His interiors have a quiet Hopperesque terror to them which arises from perspectives askew, where walls appear more suddenly than you realise and Tuymans’ cropping places objects in such a way that you feel things are being concealed from your view. The artist has described how ‘most of my imagery has the quality of the silence before the storm’, and his interiors are the best example of that. That washed out, filtered quality means that his paintings are different from most works in that they are a reconstruction, rather than a construction. The paintings have committed themselves to a memorial interpretation before the viewer has the privilege to do so. Some paintings ripple off the canvas, because of a vibrant use of colour or because of dynamic impasto. But Tuymans’ appear to recede even further into the wall, as if concealed behind a layer of atmospheric dust.

For all that is worth praising in the significant collection Qatar has acquired for this exhibition, it is a failure. Doha has imported the materials necessary for a great show but despite the curatorial assistance of Lynne Cooke it is disappointing because there is no organisation to it at all – rooms seem to be arranged with random times and styles. For an artist as wide-ranging as Tuymans, this isn’t good enough. Moreover, while it is my personal preference to have text accompanying each painting in the gallery rather than a handful in a leaflet, the exhibition has very little information on the artist, his upbringing, his education, his collaborations, his nationality – quite something given how much a role knowledge of the past has in his work, given how much a simple prod can reveal a painting depicting something bland to be dripping in historical connotations – a prod I fear unenlightened spectators don’t receive. At the back of the gallery there is an impressive collection of preliminary sketches, but there is no elaboration on how these are worked up into the final pieces, or how the artist’s compositional process can be understood. While in Doha I also visited the wonderful Museum of Islamic Art, a delicately arranged selection of artifacts which presents Islamic art in all its differing styles, from Moorish Spain to Persia. That museum, without patronisation, holds your hand through surprises within what we might think familiar, and is a real asset to the growing city in promoting its native culture. ALRIWAQ on the other hand, seems happy to pay for the work and then sit on its walls. One of the few tidbits the leaflet does provide is to describe Tuymans as one of the most important figures in the revival of figurative painting, but that has no bearing on what is actually displayed. The architecture and design of the gallery is fine, and is impressively decorated on the outside according to who is exhibited within. Unfortunately, the staff seem entirely distant from the artwork.

The show is billed as a ‘retrospective’, but gives no account of Tuymans’ development. If anything, this exhibition is proof of how much a coherent narrative and careful hand is needed in curating, rather than just letting the paintings sit there. There are so many possibilities with Tuymans – for using contextual materials, for making you question your perception of media images, but the experience just felt lacking, either due to a lack of knowledge or interest from the people behind it. I’m hoping that this experience was just a one-off, and having done some research Sheikh Hassan has been an absolute pioneer at the Mathaf Museum of Modern Art in promoting works which have lacked a traditional audience in the Middle East. Admittedly while in the past Tuymans has said ‘for a show in a gallery, there must be a mental vacuum space where the show is conceptualized’, suggesting that he prefers a minimal approach, this show is simply too big, too haphazard, and too confusing for any viewer to conceptualize on their own.

ALRIWAQ, Al Corniche St, Doha, Qatar.


The art in Spain falls mainly on the brain

During the summer, I took a fortnight trip to Andalucia – my first time in mainland Spain. Andalucia is well-known for its gorgeous mountains and lakes, but it has its fair share of splendid galleries too. Here are my thoughts on the ones I managed to visit.


Carmen Thyssen Gallery

Romantic, impassioned, emotive. Carmen Thyssen are sensitively aware of the reputation which Spanish culture has in the mind of the Anglophone world, and they explain succinctly why it is the case in some helpful accompanying literature – discussing the role of the Grand Tour in helping shape popular imagination, distilled through an itinerant aristocracy. Carmen Thyssen’s prerogative is to get the spectator to consider Spanish art, particularly of the 19th century, as on a par with its more academized cousins in Spain and France; looking at large nuanced portrayals of social interactions, rather than just stereotypically Romantic paintings.

Rarely have I seen a picture jump off the canvas from its immediate surroundings as much as I have with A Confraternity In Procession, and its authorship provides a big hint to why: it is painted by a Frenchman, Alfred Dehodencq, who specialised in Orientalist scenes. Here Carmen Thyssen provide an image of Andalusia understood by an outsider, which is what their collection aims to question. The confraternity light up candles, but the painter’s gaze is clearly fixated by their black clothing which dominates palette and perspective. The sombre tone and the ambiguous origin of the procession, coming as much from the mouth of Hell as any discernible route through Seville, attests to the Orientalist temptation of exotic sin far more than more sycophantic religious works do.


Alfred Dehodencq – A Confraternity In Procession Along Calle Génova, Seville, 1851, oil on canvas, 11.5 x 161.5cm

For evidence of how Spanish artists could be masters of realism and subtle emotive detail in contrast to the popular perception, one needs look no further than Ricardo Lopez Cabrera’s Newlyweds. An example of the Sevillian genre scene he made his name for, each figure in the painting speaks of a thousand emotions underneath. Immediately catching the eye is the matriarchal figure in the middle, toppling as she prepares a toast to the happy couple, while the relaxed priest makes a knowing glance to the new husband and wife. The parents of the bride react with differing degrees of embarrassment in the background. I found it hard to believe on first looking how accurately Cabrera managed to catch the ‘types’ that exist in any kind of al fresco social gathering – look at the two young women immediately in front of you, who regard the scene with varying amounts of curiosity, or the tell-tale eyes of the soldier who tries to avoid the attentions of the woman by his side, looking at another, closer to the foreground. The bride sits, head bowed, between domesticity behind her and flighty independence in front.

Ricardo López Cabrera - Newlyweds, 1905, oil on canvas, 58.4 x 78.7cm.

Ricardo López Cabrera – Newlyweds, 1905, oil on canvas, 58.4 x 78.7cm.

An oft-repeated adjective to describe a canvas is ‘dizzying’, but Dance At A Country Inn is up there with the works of Bridget Riley as one deserving of such a descriptor, with a wonky perspective and a central figure turning her head around with the uncanniness of a monster from Bronzino’s Allegory With Venus And Cupid. The slope in perspective to the left of the canvas gives the impression that the painting is a snapshot of a scene rapidly rotating;, that without the viewer’s intervention it would carry on, sweeping all along with it. Geographically distant but chronologically close to Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights, there is a similarity in both works’ ability to imbue a static scene with a sense of restlessness:

Rafael Benjuma - Dance At A Country Inn, 1850, oil on canvas, 46 x 65cm.

Rafael Benjuma – Dance At A Country Inn, 1850, oil on canvas, 46 x 65cm.

“One end, indeed, reflected splendidly both light and heat from ranks of immense pewter dishes, interspersed with silver jugs and tankards, towering row after row, on a vast oak dresser, to the very roof.  The latter had never been under-drawn: its entire anatomy lay bare to an inquiring eye, except where a frame of wood laden with oatcakes and clusters of legs of beef, mutton, and ham, concealed it.  Above the chimney were sundry villainous old guns, and a couple of horse-pistols: and, by way of ornament, three gaudily-painted canisters disposed along its ledge.”

Spanish painters can match their European counterparts for pictographic detail and subtly suggestive brushstrokes, but with an undercurrent of energy and violence. The central dancer is caught mid-step, but the falling away of the man on the viewer’s left gives the impression of the aftermath of a punch. Shady characters haunt the edges of the work, which the tambourine player and her male accomplice appear to be magnetically attracted to. The cross-beam encompassing the scene ensures that religion is impressed upon your mind and forces you to consider the scene in the context of it. Coupled with the resemblance to Bronzino, you can detect the transposition of allegorical materials into an ostensibly naturalistic scene.

For all of Carmen Thyssen’s attempts to recalibrate my understanding of Spanish art, my eye was drawn above all to a painting which seemed to confirm certain pre-existing stereotypes, or at least show a synthesis between something unique to Spanish culture with a broader European pictorial tradition. An Interrupted Banquet by Juan José Clavero has elements of both. So in this picture a civic scene loses detail towards the left of the canvas where a dark, pastel-like visage of a bull, the symbol of Andalusia, is running loose. A problem particular to southern Spain, but the fragility of life and imminence of disaster in ostensibly secure settings is universal.

Juan José Garate Clavero - An Interrupted Banquet, ?, oil on canvas, 49 x 78 cm

Juan José Garate Clavero – An Interrupted Banquet, ?, oil on canvas, 49 x 78 cm

The temporary exhibition running when I visited Carmen Thyssen was Summer Days, a collection of artworks from all over the Western Hemisphere, cataloging depictions of leisure days at the beach. Helpfully included were examples of beachwear from the turn of the 20th century. The highlight was the marquee piece used in most of the exhibition’s advertising: Edward Hopper’s The ‘Martha Mckeen’ of Wellfleet. The exhibition also showed off the works of one of the Spanish painters who really left an impression on me; Joaquin Sorolla, a builder of coastal scenes through striking washes of colour, where the rocks are just as fluid as the sea. His favoured subjects at the beach are children, and he frequently positions them to the edge of the canvas which helps create that organic feel and makes you less attuned to the painter’s compositional gaze, focusing more on the children’s dignity on the sand.

A final note to mention about Carmen Thyssen, one true of many museums in this list but particularly in their case, and that is how well-constructed their website is. There is scarcely a single painting which does not possess a sizeable yet intriguing blurb. Carmen Thyssen is a museum with a clear project and a significant passion for it, and I loved visiting it. if you are in Malaga, a visit is a necessity.

Carmen Thyssen Museum, Calle Compañía, 29008 Malaga, Spain

Picasso Museum

The Picasso Museum in Malaga is probably always doomed to be a best-of-the-rest selection, unable to compete with the museums dedicated to him in Barcelona and Paris, but for an artist like Picasso, perhaps the most versatile to have ever lived, breadth can trump depth. From the early naturalism of Olga Khokhlova with a Mantilla to the lyrical works of his 90s via experiments with blue paint and sculpture, the museum in Malaga has a selection from all periods of Picasso’s career and has a more conceptual approach to textual accompaniment than Carmen Thyssen – but just as exciting. Directly printed on the walls are quotations taken from Picasso via Andre Malraux, with thought-provoking statements which claim a canvas should ‘bristle with razor blades’ and my personal favourite, how art ‘is not the application of a canon of beauty but what the instinct and the brain can conceive beyond any canon’

Picasso’s sculpture is less known than his painting, but his work with clay is known even less so. A ceramic still life in the museum owes a debt to the platos de engano, a particularly Spanish form of pottery which consists of trompe l’oeil arrangements of fruit which are in fact fake, which Picasso takes to another level by removing even the illusion of three dimensions by carving the fruit directly onto the bowl. Other pieces to stand out were Bather and Woman and Child. The former features fluid overlapping whirls which ensure we cannot know the bather from the bath. The latter lacks the melancholic beauty of its Blue Period equivalent, but conjures a universal admiration for motherhood in its gigantism, both in terms of its emotional massiveness and the changes it makes to a woman’s body; so rarely seen in art history. In short, while an enjoyable excursion, this Picasso museum falls short in some important areas: it cannot rival the collections held elsewhere, it lacks the star quality of his top-tier works, and it does not have the requisite pieces to elaborate on how the artist was actually inspired by growing up in Malaga. Having said that, the quotations provided from Picasso which adorn the walls are that rare thing: a textual addition which acts in tandem with the art on display, never hectoring an interpretation onto you or intruding onto your contemplation of the object in front of you. Nevertheless, you leave the gallery feeling educated and challenged.

Louise Bourgeois: I Have Been To Hell And Back

One of the few artists since Picasso who can rival him for longevity and versatility of material is Louise Bourgeois, and her work, deeply rooted in particularly female feelings of shame and confession, was an intriguing counterpoint to Picasso’s brash brushstrokes. Offering an extensive collection of works, the exhibition represented the largest retrospective of her work held in Spain to date. There could have been danger of boredom when organising the breadth of two artist’s collections, but the variety of pieces on show keeps things interesting, especially as her biography is compressed into a photographic timeline in the first room.

My personal highlights of the exhibition were her Cell pieces (more on these later), metal or wooden cages surrounding a tableaux of her sculptures offering a direct route into the artist’s vulnerable core. The gallery has ample space to play with, which allowed the pieces to hum with grace, whether dangling from the ceiling or sprouting from the floor. As an arachnophobe, I’d deliberately avoided Bourgeois’ gigantic spider sculptures for some time, but plucked up the courage to scan past the one placed in the atrium – if you do worry about that sort of thing, you should be alright. A quick thought on that note  – when trigger warnings first came onto my radar at university, I had the instinctive reaction that most people do: I balked from them, assuming that they represented a clampdown on freedom of expression. Yet in Louise Bourgeois the hypocrisy of that position is mind-numbingly obvious. Without going into too many details, her work touches on potentially upsetting and triggering themes. The experience needed for those triggers is something I am much less likely to have (being a self-identifying man), to the point that I almost don’t have to think about them. Yet I would ignore all that, while desperately appealing for some prior warning whenever I am about to come across a spider. If you’ve ever played an RPG you’ll understand this, as giant versions of them are oddly the norm regardless of the fantasy universe you’re in. I still find it hard to reconcile the two thoughts in my mind, and would appreciate input on it. Should I be allowed the luxury of a warning against looking at something which instinctively fills me full of adrenaline? Or is that shock, the artist’s pre-empting of my hormonal reaction a statement that needs to be heard without a muffle?

Museo Picasso Malaga, Palacio de Buenavista, Calle San Agustin, 8, 29015 Malaga, Spain


Centro José Guerrero

Soleded Sevilla: Variations On A Line

I didn’t stop as long in the Jose Guerrero as I did in the other galleries of my trip, so I can only offer a short comment here – and that is, how the naturalized American and abstract expressionist Soleded Sevilla drew on the influences of Moorish geometry in her own compositions. Much of the American school was concentrated on creating a new visual language for moods that disconnected from the bourgeois society, but in Soledad’s case, surrounded by Granada old town, the influence is obvious and respectfully drawn from in lattices and volumes.

Centro Jose Guerrero, Calle Oficios, 8, 18001 Granada, Spain


Museum Of Fine Arts

One of the hallmark attractions of Seville, the Museum Of Fine Arts was something of a disappointment. The space offers a tremendous opportunity, but is ruined by poor design decisions. Cavernous spaces of the old church have their contemplative mood pierced by unnecessary videos running from televisions which are not hidden well enough. Art galleries in Spain are also designed a little too efficiently, as they force a linear progression through the gallery and don’t offer much chance for digressive browsing.

The saving grace of this museum is its strong collection of pieces by Francisco de Zubaran, who was commissioned to produce works for monasteries in Seville in the 17th century and has had a lasting relationship with the city since. Known for a distinct style of tenebrism, his works are more austere than Caravaggio’s chiaroscuro as he tends to depict solitary figures, and his blackness is almost impenetrable to the extent that backdrop materials which Caravaggio favoured, like curtains and tables, are non-existent. The sight of religious figures in moments of despair against a colourless abyss is redolent of Beckett’s most pared-down plays, a comparison not entirely arbitrary as the painter is offered a shout-out in Beckett’s 1932 story ‘Sedendo Et Quiescendo’.

Francisco de Zurbaran - Dying Christ On Crucifix, 1630/40, oil on canvas, 255 x 193 cm.

Francisco de Zurbaran – Dying Christ On Crucifix, 1630/40, oil on canvas, 255 x 193 cm.

There, the author surrogate Belacqua Shuah compares himself to the ‘Zurbaran Saint Onan’ in a reference to his Peeping Tom predilections. His best paintings of saints in meditation are to be found in Madrid and London, but for the price of admission, the Seville Museum Of Fine Arts is justified on his works alone.

Their collection of 20th century pieces is small, but one painting stands out; Rafael Martinez Diaz’s Ninas Porbes (Poor Girls). Little details of perspective are just ever so slightly wrong. The girl immediately facing you has her eyes set askew, meaning you cannot fully empathise with her situation as you never get to totally meet her gaze. The chair is slightly too big for the table. The room itself is made to feel even smaller than it actually is. I am not Catholic – I didn’t grow up in a Catholic country, nor a Catholic family. So I can’t try to predict how someone of that background would respond to the bulk of the museum. But I can give you my personal response, and that is how the muted tones of grey and sepia of this painting, the resigned expressions of the girls’ faces, the ironic evocation of the miracle of the loaves and the fishes on the table, made far more of an impression on me than the tiring excursion through Virgin Marys, explosions of colour, and acts of magic respectively. In much the same way that a Giorgio Morandi still life can reveal more about loneliness and fear than an aloof and overworked self-portrait, subtlety is key. But subtlety does not equal difficulty, at least not by my definition. Unpicking the pity behind Martinez Diaz’s painting is only as difficult as the act of engaging in empathy with the people portrayed. Being able to unpick finer details of a sparse painting is a cipher for being able to understand someone else’s imaginative space and, if necessary, being able to help them.

Museum of Fine Arts of Seville, Pl. del Museo, 9, 410001 Sevilla, Spain

Andalusian Centre For Contemporary Art

Tucked away in a neglected part of the city on the south side of the Guadalquivir, the Andalusian Center for Contemporary Art was the perfect ending to what had been a surprising and challenging trip. Housed in an oversized space on a dusty south bank, the comparisons with the Tate Modern are obvious. What lifted the gallery over so many I have visited is that they did not blankly give you a historical building in the hope that its prettiness would win you over; it used the building’s history (firstly a monastery, then a pottery factory) at all times in their exhibitions, and often in ways which targeted particular historical narratives.

This was most pronounced in an exhibition entitled The Present In The Past which, quite simply, used the geography and history of the gallery space in a more thoughtful way than I have ever seen before, though many have tried. The accompanying leaflet’s extensive borrowing from Andreas Huyssen is unnecessary as the exhibition says so much in its own right. Areas of the monastery which were historically forbidden to women had explicitly feminist artworks placed within them, including Martha Rosler’s video Semiotics of the Kitchen, in which the artist alphabetically progresses through kitchen equipment, raising them to camera and violently mimicking their action. Continuing this theme, Louise Bourgeois made a reappearance as one of her cells, Arch of Hysteria, was reassembled in the monastery’s former sacristy, the rooms where vestments would be stored. The appropriateness to house a Bourgeois there is uncanny, given her prominent motif of the spider as the nurturing mother, weaving as her own mother, and the makers of vestments, did. I was lucky enough to be in the gallery at an awkward time for most people on a Sunday, meaning that sacristy was completely empty, but the experience of slowly finding the centre of Bourgeois’ cell on my own was one of the most moving experiences I’ve had in a museum, trapped in there with the artist’s ghosts and a surrounding wall preventing me from being distracted by anything else.

As well as the religious history of the site, its significance in manufacturing pottery is recognised and dissected. The refectory holds several examples of pottery found at the site, in addition to a piece by Valeriano Lopez where ceramics are shattered, playing on how the Spanish word for ‘granada’ can mean a hand grenade or a pomegranate, the original motif on the Fajalauza plates. I found it a striking move to exhibit both Lopez’ conceptual piece with the carefully preserved specimens in the same room, as their proximity made me consider which is the most accurate representation of history: an entropic tendency towards chaos and disorder, or as a model for craft and harmony we should learn from. This is an exhibition which encourages you to think and gives you the material to do so: the quotations given from cultural scholars feel incisive and curious, not elitist.

It also made me feel, which is why I want to give the works by Jose Manuel Broto a mention. Surrounded by statues of saints, their deep splotches of red hum with energy; with the blood of the slaughtered bull, with the burgundy of Rioja, with the dye of the crucifixion. I’ve been perhaps unfairly cynical about Catholic art up to this point, because Broto’s works show me the conceptual connection between my own favour to works that are powerful through lyrical abstractions, and puts forward the point that the images of saints work in the same way, with washes of deep feeling, to believers, by making me see them afresh. Curating at its finest.

Maria Canas: Laughter In The Dark

Maria Canas’ exhibition was similarly concerned with the theme of chronology, and was just as diverse in its use of materials, even though there was only one artist behind it. She also has the now-familiar Spanish artist’s interest in the image, though her focus is on the mass produced image behind film, television and its dispersal on the internet. The order in which you pass by rooms could have been rethought, as the marquee video Spain Is Pain was the first thing you saw, which might help grab the time and attention of those who would lack the energy in later rooms, but the trade-off was to make everything else seem like an after-thought following such an overarching statement. Which might help explain the hoarse quality of Canas’ other pieces, trying to recapture an energy that is not always present.

Spain Is Pain was a rollicking tour through parts of Seville which the tourist would ordinarily miss, particularly the gypsy slums of the city which are ignored by the authorities while flamenco dancers perform a baile down the Avenida de la Constitución in its Disneyland equivalent. The rapid fire style held onto inquisitiveness about its subject matter, which is absent in the admittedly hilarious Holy Thriller video where a Holy Week band plays a tribute to the departed pop singer Michael Jackson. Many of Canas’ works share this latter pieces’ trait of holding up something for you to condemn without ever really explaining beyond an insistence on anger in the first instance – a bit like the psychology of the bully.

I appreciate this so far sounds like falling into the ‘shrieking creative woman’ archetype, but I loved If The Bull Is Raging, Give Him Cows: another piece critical of Spain but with a defiant feminist spin too. When Canas’ focus is on a narrower target, she is more likely to strike, whether it is her adopted city or in a piece of gender commentary. It falls down when she engages in very half-hearted state-of-the-world-ism. Unfortunately that was the driving force behind The Trilling Hand, a video piece which is as lazy in its concept as its execution, a compilation of short videos (Vine length) which illustrated technology in dumb ways, e.g. a young child thinking a magazine is a faulty tablet because the pictures on it do not move. I have written before about the Fletcher/Carroll gallery in Fitzrovia, London, and one of the reasons it is my favourite gallery is because its central artistic project is my biggest unsolved question: the effect of technology on humanity. In their exhibitions, they frequently surprise me by showing me technologies, behaviours, forms, interactions I had never considered. In essence, it performs the function of great art: to present the familiar to you as if experienced for the first time. Maria Canas has no engagement with technology at all. The criticisms she makes of it being distracting, childish, selfish, are not new or unique because they are the criticisms made of all technologies throughout history. The tablet for her could be the television, or the radio, or anything else. An exhibition like Mary Ramsden’s Swipe from last year gives you a form – the smartphone – and makes you challenge your engagement with it by presenting it in a different context, which is what the gallery space can achieve. Canas didn’t use The Trilling Hand to tease out uncertainties in the world, she used it as a mouthpiece to express her fixed views. More effective than the video is a heap of technological junk left in a corner of the room, demonstrating to you the extensive shadow left by devices we all own, and would rather forget.

Still, I warmed to Canas again with the final work in her work, which lended its name to the exhibition, Laughter In The Dark. Television screens surrounded the viewer on all sides in an imitation of the womb while they played footage of inspiration female figures from cinema. The intent behind the piece was just as strong as her others, but the resultant tone was more of deference and gratitude than acid-tongued fury.

Jose Ramon Sierra: Zigzag

Finally, there was a wing dedicated to works by the artist and figurehead of the old monastery’s renovation into a gallery: one Jose Ramon Sierra. A dense display, most impressive of all were the canvases which broke their frames to incorporate found materials and worked them into 3 dimensions, turning the painting underneath into just one part of a sculptural collage. The exhibition was also bold in not segregating his design pieces from his artistic ones. An open-minded approach to housing the artist’s work which embodied the generous and engaging heart of the gallery he helped found, and the country of his birth.

Centro Andaluz de Arte Contemporaneo, Avenida Americo Vespucio, 2, 41092 Sevilla, Spain

Ryan Hewett – Untitled, exhibition at The Unit London


“And so I am: then crushing penury

Persuades me I was better when a king;

Then am I king’d again: and by and by

Think that I am unking’d by Bolingbroke,

And straight am nothing: but whate’er I be,

Nor I nor any man that but man is

With nothing shall be pleased, till he be eased

With being nothing.” – Richard II, William Shakespeare – Richard II.

 ‘Unking’ is one of Shakespeare’s most memorable neologisms, strikingly direct in the midst of a winding monologue by the title character at the end of Richard II. The idea of leaving an art show untitled is a common enough trope to make one roll one’s eyes, but in Ryan Hewett’s new exhibition at The Unit London, the elusive name is a cunning move, when thought about as antonymic to what is ‘titled’ – his bold, impasto portraits of notable figures removes their constructed iconographies; they untitle them.

 In the course of writing this review and opening up my word processor, my attention was brought to another definition of untitled, one which is rapidly becoming the default one; the untitled computer file. To be untitled in the digital age is to be synonymous with being unfinished. Fitting then, it should dub an exhibition where the paintings are completed by the viewer. The individual pieces are only known by their initials, so there is a guessing game to take part in, but also the nature of the colourful, abstract pieces means you’re not so much presented with a face but one emerges according to how you are prepared to see it. Faces are not presented, rather, they bloom from collisions of colour. The picture of Jesus is the best bridge for this, what with the history of seeing pictures of Christ in random shapes (Perhaps Unit London could look into loaning it to the newest Turin Shroud display). More recently, iconography has been de rigueur since Shepard Fairey’s ‘Hope’ portrait of Barack Obama in 2008, and this makes the show as relevant as it could have ever been. Hewett manages to maintain an admirable distance from essentialising his subjects; the blotches of colour smeared across the canvas could easily be made by the defacer rather than the portraitist (many of the paintings are built from oil and spray). It gives the artist freedom from putting his entire weight behind simple criticism of approval of the person portrayed.

'J.C', Ryan Hewett. 2015. Oil and spray on canvas. 130x120cm.

‘J.C’, Ryan Hewett. 2015. Oil and spray on canvas. 130x120cm.

Hewett’s style combines the aggressive, thickly applied technique running through Bacon, Freud and Auerbach with traces of abstract expressionism. Using the latter’s example of subconsciously inferred patterns ties with the artist’s expressed intent, which is to avoid ‘instant commentaries’ on notable figures, in favour of more ‘reflection’ to the (often random and unpredictable) effects that they cause on wider society, not allowing obsession with image and personality to dictate our interpretation and interaction with the world.  Using a less bounded palette of colours and shapes gives the impression of collision, of the portrait not standing statically but being impacted upon the canvas, showing the diaspora of consequences that the subjects’ existence and their actions brings forth. The exhibition groups heroes with villains, black with white (particularly important given the artist’s native country’s history with race – after all, what is a ‘natural’ skin tone?), something assisted by Unit London’s clever use of space. The gallery building is a gutted former Adidas shop, meaning that old cupboards and fitting rooms have been appropriated as little discovery spaces which offer a more private glimpse of a piece, and help break up the often routine circuit of going around an exhibition. There are some visual gags to enjoy as well; Barack Obama and Vladimir Putin keep each other company on the stairs, each providing inspiration for fanatical worship in their native land, and fanatical hatred in the other’s.

'B.H.O', Ryan Hewett. 2015. Oil and spray on canvas. 92 x 85cm.

‘B.H.O’, Ryan Hewett. 2015. Oil and spray on canvas. 92 x 85cm.

 All in all, an exhibition worth visiting and an upcoming gallery to keep an eye on. Since their Modern Portraiture show last year, The Unit London have made a name for themselves in that field, shaking up a form which is still sometimes considered to be quite stale.  To sell out the paintings weeks in advance is no mean feat. What’s more, their effusive embrace of social media, paired with the genial atmosphere of the opening night, suggests a bright future ahead. I await what they have planned for the rest of 2015 with great anticipation.

The Unit London, 9 Earlham Street, London, WC2H 9LL. Nearest Tube: Covent GardenExhibition runs until 24th May.