Free things to do in London this weekend

In the spirit of new year, new you, Deptford’s Castor has done some spring cleaning, built a big plywood box and stuck a load of art in it. It’s like a giant plan chest tipped on its side. You pull out the drawers to display the works, a few at a time. It’s a canny device, swerving the conventional, tired group show, where whoever shouts the loudest controls the room, and where you mentally calculate how much time you need to spend with any artist who isn’t your mate. It also makes you interact with the pieces in unusual, role-playing ways. If you’re the one pulling out the drawers, you’re put into the role of curator, doing the big reveal. If you’re sitting on the bench out front, you’re the critic or the collector. It’s like KidZania. For art. Like any bunch of stuff you shove in a drawer, some of the pieces fare better than others. So Grace Woodcock’s big earmuff-headphoney things look great against all the industrial-chic ply, while an intense, small, dark painting by Gareth Cadwallader gets a bit lost. But the best panels are really good. Nick Paton’s ceramic plaques with their odd protrusions, Amanda Moström’s spray-painted pants and Rafal Zajko’s cast of a vaguely medical-looking vent all cluster around Sara Anstis’s eccentric painting ‘Beets’ (it does have some beets in it), to everyone’s mutual benefit. Best of all, though, it’s fun, and a lot of the work is fun too. Because there’s an activity involved in seeing the art, it loses its chilly gallery mystique. It

In possibly the most Jordan Wolfson move ever, the American artist has made a new work that might physically injure you if you get too close. Made up of spinning LED filaments – halfway between a cooling fan and a weed whacker – the whirling strands in front of you spit out endless holographic images, but they could slice off your hand too if you’re not careful. The installation’s no less threatening from further away. The fans sync and unsync, displaying visions of animated love hearts and puppies, robot experiments, American police cars and 9/11 rescuers. Words come crashing down and split apart: ‘artists’, ‘friends’, ‘racists’, ‘anxiety’, ‘stress’. The fans hum loudly. It’s a tense, uncomfortable room. Wolfson has blended memes, animation and contemporary angst about police surveillance, callout culture and the AI singularity into one, big, coagulated mess. It’s nihilistic and negative. In a world that looks to art and artists for meaning, rebellion and progress in the face of growing right-wing extremism and a dying planet, this art is actively saying ‘so fucking what?’. He's showing you what it would be like to not care, to shrug at virtue signalling and identity and data and the media. He's showing you that nothing changes anyway. The other works here are pictures of Wolfson as a child mounted on big brass plaques. He’s elevating his own cute childhood to the level of renaissance sainthood. Because he can. Wolfson’s art might not be helpful, useful, or worthy, and