Rob Gallagher

Unforecast snowfalls and natural gas shortages be damned; the temperature in Poppy Sebire's temporary HQ last night was approaching sauna level as gallery-goers spilled out onto the Piccadilly Arcade. The scrum made it kind of hard to actually see Rolph's work properly, but was, in other respects, informative: who knew, for example, that his palette harmonised so beautifully with the hues of the sorts of overcoats menopausal women wear to SW1 openings?

Inside the gallery four large paintings were on show. Each comprised an arrangement of tangles and smudges, wedges, shards and polygons interspersed with fragments of collage and set against a galactic blue background. All were, additionally, covered by panels of corrugated triple wall polycarbonate sheeting (of the sort, apparently, used to construct conservatories) onto which Rolph also paints. Downstairs, meanwhile, there were a number of drawings plus a couple of smaller canvases sans layers of sheer plastic.

Rolph has spoken of his debt to philosopher Henri Bergson, whose attitude to time has been the basis for all manner of highfalutin pontification about flows and flux, events and becomings. Rolph's practice, largely improvisatory, substantiates the claim of influence; there's an undeniable dynamism to the canvases, even if this sometimes makes them seem more akin to macro-scale doodlings than resolved compositions.

Their wealth of detail and incident also means they're best served by prolonged and active viewing. The amount of bodies in the room left anyone wanting to get a good look at the paintings with no choice but to bob and crane, peeking from oblique angles and snatching glimpses, but this is, in a sense, what the work demands.

Coming across as weirdly neutered and static in photos, their depth-effect and the way the plastic differentially warps the shapes and tones beneath it means Rolph's paintings are best appreciated by a mobile spectator - a very Bergsonian proposition. Up close, shapes obfuscated by the sheeting reveal themselves to be photos of Rococo bureaux, sledding toddlers or flamenco dancers, images from engineering textbooks or bits of wrapping paper.

This madcap cosmic pluralism eventually gets a little wearing, like being cornered at a party by a maniacally enthused astrophysicist. Perhaps the temperature was to blame for my creeping sense of claustrophobia, but all the laser beams and go-faster stripes left me feeling that a few attempts at dropping the tempo or varying the mood mightn't have gone amiss; there's only so much ravishing one can take after all.

Danny Rolph's exhibition 'Automatic Shoes' is on at Poppy Sebire Gallery, Piccadilly Arcade, SW1Y 6NH from 14th January - 20th February. For more information click here.