Charlotte Becket

Kinetic art always seems a bit try-hard: after all, in a gallery it's the viewer who is supposed to move - and be moved - not the sculpture. Charlotte Becket knows this and uses the fact to instil in her mechanical artworks a sense of pathos that addresses not only the failings of kinetic art but also a wider sense of life's mutability. Which, of course, makes her daft art machines resolutely successful.

In Crisp's ground floor space Becket's black, wall-mounted, plastic-covered sculptures move furtively, like shifting rock formations, simple mechanisms within occasionally causing them to coalesce into vaguely symmetrical forms. Squeeze up the spiral staircase and you'll see a tangle of plastic strapping strung between two walls. It seems perpetually to be in the process of pulling itself apart, or should that be putting itself back together? Finally, a larger, floor-based version of the first sculpture appears to want to reveal its bottom - the movement is not without strain, or comedy.

As far as her kinetic art forbears are concerned, Becket has much more in common with Pol Bury and his nervy, twitching nests than with Jean Tinguely's clattering machines. She also revisits and adds a psychological dimension to Cubism's idea of the endlessly fractured world and brings it up to date via the post-minimalism of, say, Lynda Benglis.

The fashionable exterior of some of these sculptures - their shiny, faceted surfaces resemble geometric style statements by the likes of Marcel Ostertag or Alexander McQueen - only serves to ramp up the inadequacies they flaunt. Perfection crumples, becoming shapeless, ungainly, a heap. Know the feeling?