Less has always been more in the strain of benignly human minimalism that emerged as a wryly self-effacing alternative to the bombast of so much 1990s Brit Art. Indeed, in their own quiet way, Ceal Floyer’s life-sized projected light switch or her dustbin bag full of air, along with Martin Creed’s crumpled sphere of A4 paper and wall-mounted blob of Blu-tac, can be said to form just as potent a set of symbols for the late 20th century as Damien Hirst’s shark or Marc Quinn’s blood head. At the Lisson Gallery (until 29 June) Floyer continues to extract the extraordinary from the mundane while never betraying the actuality of her materials. Bird-shaped stickers used to warn the real feathered variety off plate glass windows are overlaid until they blot out the window itself; felt tip pens exquisitely drain their contents onto blotting paper; or a group of everyday objects are selected according to their ability to fit into a circle template—new meanings enter when the most banal elements are pushed to illogically logical conclusions.
Originally appeared in The Art Newspaper as 'Ceal Floyer'