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Untitled - Damien Meade

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can crop in tightly on slurred, frontal faces and we think of particular types of<br />

photographic portraits: of mugshots. Allen posits his phantasmic landscapes against real<br />

ones; Housley has a larger history of art on his knowingly buckling shoulders...<br />

These artists - or their works, at least - are typically a thousand miles from home.<br />

Painting too is a long way down the road from where it began; and living practitioners<br />

can’t easily discard its starting point and interim stages. So each of these images inserts<br />

itself into a wider image-flow, and it is primarily when they do that their stories - or<br />

their sedulous muteness - are loosed. And if that’s true of their interaction with images<br />

that are not here, so it is in Murcia, with those that are: which is why this show is<br />

crisscrossed with conduits, discursive trajectories. These paintings are unstable, leaky<br />

things, nudged into gregariousness, jostling or whispering across the walls; waiting for<br />

our take, waiting on each other and our memories of the vast archives of art. They’ve<br />

found themselves on foreign shores, and they’re all - in one sense or another - from<br />

London. Naturally they’re going to be convivial: if not forever, then at least for the<br />

moment.<br />

Martin Herbert<br />

13

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