The gallery appears to have been set for a party. Mismatched chairs are scattered through the space – ornate gothic throne, wing-backed recliner, stackable school chair. Each points towards a white window painted on to the wall, into which one of 43 equally miscellaneous paintings has been inserted. These paintings are the other party guests, and you must decide who to sit with.
It is a ragtag bunch, and so I decide to start with the people I recognise. But on my way to meet a portrait by Denzil Forrester of the young Haile Selassie, its surface resembling scuffed and polished stone, I am distracted by the glitter of light from a small work by Andrew Cranston. It comes from a young woman who seems to have been transplanted from Dumbarton into a glamorous late Vuillard, her coat shimmering like the scales of a fish caught by late summer sun. So I take the leather-backed chair in front of it, and become engrossed in its story of a beatnik couple living a tarnished late-summer dream, the woman looking straight out at me, over her seated partner, through a veil of shadow.
