Eva Rothschild

Things seem on the verge of falling apart in Rothschild's show: the way her branching sculpture of stiffly plaited leather unravels at its ends, for instance, its loose strands dangling dismally; or the slab of slick black Perspex mounted on a wall, its multiple metal frames seeming to twist, drunkenly, out of kilter. Throughout, the atmosphere is one of struggling to maintain poise and control. (GC)