Abigail O'Brien

HOW much of an accident can it be that the winner of an art competition sponsored by an ice cream company has produced work almost…

HOW much of an accident can it be that the winner of an art competition sponsored by an ice cream company has produced work almost entirely in shades of pink and white? The big, glossy colour photographs scattered around the gallery for Abigail O'Brien's first solo exhibition feature various objects, from pink and white baby baths to glistening silver spoons, which have a slyly corporate feel.

Perhaps this is because O'Brien seems to have discovered that by aping stiffly posed, commercial photography, she offers herself a new kind of anonymity, a hidden door through which to make an escape. Even given that O'Brien's current style is about, rapping on surfaces, it, is surprising the extent to which Baptism is conducted through echoes.

The brown, graduated backdrop that appears in most of the photographs seems to make reference to certain traditions of still life painting, while an image featuring an arrangement of greeting cards offers another whistle stop history of art lesson. A towel hanging over a table edge suggests the challenge that drapery once posed, a challenge now rendered meaningless as a manifestation of advanced technique by the camera.

All this re staging falls somewhere short of making its points. Despite a certain amount of reiteration, the show remains cautiously vacant. This kind of slipperiness has been apparent in O'Brien's work before.

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In Baptism, however, the stealth bomber sheerness which could often be taken for silent assurance, comes off as evasiveness: a quality which chimes unhappily with this show's bold suggestion of rich semiotic creaminess.