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Each time I see an exhibition by Adam Cullen I get the uncomfortable feeling that it is going to be the last one. Not because he has exhausted his repertoire of theoretical excursions into the edifice of modern art, but because his entry point is always at the finishing line. In his latest show, Class, Cullen has shifted the goal posts again.
There is no way to pull the show together visually or conceptually. One apprehends its complex appearance but, at the same time, there is an overwhelming sense that it refers to only one thing: that is simply that it refers away from itself. The show is a conglomeration of paintings, drawings and objects. At first glance there appears to be something for everyone, but it's a fun fair for one-more canal than carnival. The fun begins with Minority Group, a series of blue patterned porcelain trays. Hung vertically, one after the other, the trays seem somehow self-supporting. The white calico handles either side hang ready but do not offer any real potential for support. Cullen 's preoccupation with sickness and its therapy is evident here, but his concern goes beyond providing temporary, symptomatic relief. The work acts instead as a type of prophylactic agent, attempting to apprehend the absent spaces which exist prior to sickness and after its alleviation. The trays are like souvenirs of the promise of a cure, the flaccid handles signalling the ultimate impossibility of this.
While Cullen's drawings on corporate stationery are particularly captivating - displaying his talent for gestural expression, as well as his faith in the impossibility of description - the most significant and successful works in the show are the paintings