Walead Beshty

Most artists are lucky if they have one good idea; Walead Beshty, on the evidence of his London solo debut, has had at least two and a half. The UK-born, LA-based artist's killer move is showcased in a series of his cracked-in-transit glass cubes placed on the Fed-Ex boxes they travelled in. Effectively collaborations between Beshty, a transcontinental courier and the hand of chance, the works seem less concerned with the historical passage of the minimalist artwork than with turning sculpture into a kind of amber, preserving traces of its movement through the world.

The same is true of Beshty's optically luscious photograms, whose cascades of magenta, orange, purple and blue translucent strips reference modernist photography, but seem to have been produced by randomly curling and folding the undeveloped photographic paper (magnets have also been involved).The viewer is likely to fall for this continual mix of the formal and chaotic, which makes Beshty's work primarily a meditation on reception and the relation of accident to meaning.

There was, you'll remember, half of another good idea: that's his Fed-Exed unwrapped copper cubes, busy with scratches, scuffs, fingerprints and attached tracking documents. Then there's a quartet of tombstone-like accretions of pulped photographs: early-Baldessari redux, really. Disregarding that - and an unsympathetically busy hang - Beshty here offers a coolly authoritative demonstration of prowess, one in which a frosty outlook is balanced by sensuous aesthetics.