Orbiting Audrey Reynolds's 'Museum of Nothing', what? Everything? This and that? Or any of a certain range of evolutionary parts: the crispy hunks, the thin clouds, those standby-indicator products of a certain phase of refinement. So, melted and shadowed plasticine sculptures, frayed collages, paintings of collages, bent evening-class ceramics, plinths bearing just the right amount of very little. Or 'Bygones' - painting as wisp, as small wheezed chord. Or 'Early Film', a short movie of a woman in a long skirt (some wasted hint of Edwardian boulevardism there or busy 'independence'). She is or she is not walking a dog (incarnation of the ancillary mode) which is imported as a brief cutaway. So also 'The Audrey Reynolds One Picture Gallery' : exhibitions of single paintings by other artists. Each time, the selected painting is held away from its normal habitat (of other paintings), presenting itself and its terms, around which is organised a minor celebration (tea, cake, a cello improvisation) and the opportunity for a peculiar sort of hard attention. With all this shaping up in the tensed air around the invisible hub (the Museum manifested only in its effects), one might wonder what sort of Nothing is being Instituted.
