Flies crawl about in a triptych of glass-fronted cabinets, while in another installation you gradually realise the fragile bottles you’re looking at are full of poisonous gas, lethal to humans. Does this remind you of anyone?
Hamad Butt is the Damien Hirst who got away, the Young British Artist of the 1990s who didn’t win the Turner prize, make millions or lose his youthful talent and turn into a bloated mediocrity. Now he is a cult figure precisely because he is none of those things and can instead be presented as if he was a complete unknown, whose art expresses his queer Pakistani identity rather than being part of a fin-de-siecle art movement of sensation and creepy science. I couldn’t find any reference, even in the moving array of Butt’s working documents on show, to the fact he studied at Goldsmiths alongside Hirst, Collishaw, Wearing and more.
