The raw fabrics of Kunath’s paintings are stained and sprayed with garish colour and then overdrawn or silkscreened with cartoon imagery, a familiar graphic effect which he manipulates skillfully. Kunath is a collector of the abject, the faded, the obsolete, whether it is the illustrative clichés of his painting, or the arrangements of 70s knick-knacks, horror figurines and cheesy LPs in his still life photographs. These relics are intended to generate pathos or unease, but they are finally too fashionably retro: they look like hipster accessories. Similarly, the emotive phrases Kunath inscribes on his objects – ‘I remember your face’, ‘My love will not let you down’ – register as more irony laid upon irony, rhetoric issuing from nobody and addressed to nobody.

In the back room a single bed with a soiled mattress is angled to face a TV screen

showing a video of a man in a baggy snowman suit and bowler hat, carrying a suitcase and clambering among desert canyons. A piano tinkles away mournfully in the background. Finally he casts away the suitcase in exasperation. The conjunction

of image and music in the dark room has a genuine wistfulness, but it is difficult to

empathise with the predicament of the snowman Sisyphus when he is just another

‘floating signifier’