Olga Chernysheva

Olga Chernysheva, born 1962, grew up in time for perestroika; this unbuckling of the Soviet belt, usually translated as 'restructuring', literally means 'to build across', and that is what Chernysheva tries to do. Her work traverses disciplines - there are watercolours, photographs and videos - but its movement is also a quest. Loosely speaking, there is modern Russia's view of itself and there is the world's view of Russia. Chernysheva appears to be trying to build a place where the twain can meet.

That place is not particularly orderly. The 'Cactus Seller' mans a stall in a natural history museum, and 32 lightboxes intersperse photographs of him with skeletons, starfish and stuffed birds. The unifying features are the beautiful tiled floor, the unnatural light within the monochrome images that quietly acknowledges their status on a lightbox and the sheer weirdness of a locale both exotic and mundane. The cactus seller may purvey spiky desert plants inside a museum, but he's still a stallholder like a million others.

A few of those millions turn up in tiny, delicate watercolours that skilfully capture the sellers' resignation. There is a clear link between these vendors and the poodle videoed jumping over a stick - an occupation as frivolous as the dog's clipped coat, and as bleakly repetitive as working life.

Most striking of these studies in the service industries are her large-format photographs of guards. The brutal blurring of their surroundings is as poignant as the eyes, usually raised but excavated of hope. Russia is surely not a hopeless place, but Chernysheva has chosen to portray people whose inner lightbox seems to have been switched off. One guard, eyes shut, looks less like a supplicant than a would-be suicide on the ledge. It's not a nuanced view of a complicated country. But it's not one that requires translation, either.