Matt Coyle’s art began as dense thickets of line work, panels saturated with glare and black. Lately he’s felt the pull of the void, rendering infinite fields of tiny conflict like an atomic view of his mental landscape. Cosplay battles swirl at the feet of prosaic icons, violence at the pinprick scale. Charles Bonnet once described the experience of his blind grandfather overwhelmed with vibrant micro hallucinations – tiny people, distorted faces, costumed figures, buzzing with deformed energy and purpose. Without the distraction of the real, the void fills with another layer of reality: we see these agents at work in dreams and disorder, weaving an air chrysalis in 1Q84, or driving the shrieking breakdown of Mulholland Dr. Violence, too, in the succulents exuded from grotesque ceramics and statuary, their cheery bathos incinerated to black. Diseased, febrile colour taints and flecks the monochrome, a warning of disorder and virulent growth. The tableaux and polite bouquets of representational art are not to be trusted.