If you want to find disused, cavernous industrial buildings in a city, follow the artists. It is standard fare to find arts spaces in industrial areas – factories, warehouses, mills – but in Ardwick, Manchester, there is currently only one. Turn off Hyde Road in the Southeast of the city, just outside the centre, past the petrol station, follow the blue flags on the feet of the railway arches behind a fleet of low-lying, mysterious buildings of a busy industrial estate, and stop at a blue sign reading ‘texture’. texture is a new exhibition space that, at the ripe old age of three months, is already almost halfway through its lifespan. At the end of the year, the occupants of the gallery and the eight studio spaces that also inhabit the building, are being evicted.
‘Being time limited means we can use it as a testing period’, says founder Will Marshall. He explains to me that The Way In Is Not The Whole Way Through is the third of five exhibitions programmed for the space, each of which intends to explore the function of exhibitions in DIY spaces, and their role within the local art scene. In these exhibitions, Marshall has capitalised on the freedom of running such a space, experimenting with curation ways that many larger institutions are not able or bold enough to. By hanging, viewing and talking about work in different ways, the exhibitions so far have played with the format of solo exhibitions and duo shows. An upcoming show will invite three different curators to each develop their own narrative around the same works, probing the idea of the perceived authority of the gallery voice, the concept of ‘truth’ and the perception of galleries as neutral spaces.
Marshall is texture’s curator, artist liaison, instigator, marketer, technician, invigilator and general all-rounder. With a background in fabrication and a history working at some of the region’s most established studios – Bankley Studios and Gallery in Levenshulme, and Paradise Works in Salford – Marshall wanted to found a space that would help address the shortage of grassroots exhibition opportunities in Manchester and, specifically, open up conversations between local and national artists, diversifying the roster of artists shown across the city.
Entering the space you’re led through a corridor-come-tunnel, draped in blue fabric, which opens up into a bright white, compact, cuboid gallery, no more than five meters squared. In contrast to the typical clean gallery space that immediately confronts you, overhead it is a different story. Looking up you see not a sanitised gallery ceiling, but the warehouse architecture within which Marshall has constructed the gallery. By leaving the space’s lid off, as it were, he grounds it, reveals its secrets, hides nothing and honours its heritage as a parcel depot for the former tram network which closed in 1949.
The current exhibition looks at how we engage with exhibitions – the ways in, what information is offered and how it affects the viewing experience. ‘I had to word the invite quite carefully so I didn’t offend them’, Marshall says of contacting the four artists to be part of a show themed around novelty – a concept that can be used either praising originality or dismissively. But Marshall uses it as a tool to investigate whether such a road-in encourages deeper reading or closes conversations by its perceived shallowness. The artists, whose work Marshall knew either from the Manchester scene or Instagram, all have recurring themes of novelty within their work which helps connect to audiences, to hook them and draw them in but, as the title of the show suggests, that is not their whole story. ‘Novelty is a starting point, then people can choose their own paths through the works’, Marshall explains.
Marshall articulates the links to novelty alongside broader readings of the works within the gallery interpretation, which is contained in individual handouts and is purposefully overly long. This is another way for Marshall to experiment with and test exhibition making. After using the concept of novelty as an entry point to the work, Marshall then oversaturates the viewer with the information on these interpretative sheets which run to two or three sides of A4 per work and are printed on thick, high-quality paper which lends a sense of gravitas to them. What does this level of available text do to the viewing experience? On the one hand, because Marshall writes well – his language professional but engaging and his interpretations well considered and articulated – the length doesn’t feel arduous. On the other, such effort being put into the interpretation could make you feel guilty for not digesting it, yet reading the texts potentially takes longer than viewing the work itself. Maybe this could be considered pushing the text to a limit akin to the bombardment of information we are subjected to in contemporary life, or maybe it is just an experiment, the outcome of which I am not sure Marshall has processed yet.
London-based Haydn Albrow produces textural works across sculpture, installation, sound and poetry, inspired by dreams, our interpretation of them and the difficulty in verbalising their sensations and oddities. Albrow often depicts body parts through the grotesque and the humorous to convey what our language can fail to articulate when describing the deeply personal and ethereal experience of dreams. She shows two of her tufting works here. ‘What is it called? Carpet painting?’ a fellow viewer asks, embarrassed in hindsight that he said it out loud despite the astuteness of his analogy. ‘Carpet painting’ is an apt description of how Albrow uses tufting, creating sweeping lines of colour, areas of shading, and well rendered forms by punching yarns through the ground fabric from the back to create a surface pile akin to a rug or carpet. The warmth, cosiness and domesticity of her chosen technique sits at odds with her visuals; the softness tempts you to touch while the dark undertones threaten you not to.
‘Moving to Leytonstone II’ (2025) is in the shape of a window with a billowing curtain, extended arm and two crows reaching beyond its frame to create an irregular shaped outline where the limb, whose owner is hidden by the curtain, seems to thrust forth from the portal of the window into our world, bringing the image alive. Crows are laden with paradoxical symbolism – wisdom, adaptability, the spiritual world, transformation, omens of death and ill-fortune. The mundanity of the title starkly contrasts the ethereal nature of the work itself. It contextualises the imagery, suggesting perhaps the vulnerability of moving house, uncertainty, or inner turmoil that has seeped into Albrow’s dreams. It also nods to Alfred Hitchcock, the legendary film director who was born in Leytonstone in 1899 and whose horror film The Birds (1963) famously features hordes of crows who attack residents of a small town.
The draped cream curtain depicted obscures the view of the person (assumedly) attached to the outstretched arm and the mystery continues – is the arm bringing the crow in or letting it go? Is the person trapped, longing to touch the air outside, or hiding away in their safe space? This mystery is reflected in the tufting itself – it is constructed from the reverse, disconnected from the image being created, with Albrow working from the side from which the person seems to dwell.
Albrow’s second work continues a similar feel and includes some of the same elements – a concealing curtain, a dismembered body part and objects spilling over the rectangular window space. In ‘Take a Seat’ (2025) focus is pulled to a naked, seemingly female form, rendered like a Grecian statue – smooth and muscular – either in uncontrolled freefall or gracefully suspended, motionless. Which of these diametrically opposed readings is correct is unclear, the foreboding nature of the surrounding parts hints an unpleasant environment. An omniscient, craggy hand clutches the red drapes from behind, its attached villain presumably peering out from their hiding place. The background is cold and icy, stormy even, and two chairs join the body in precarity. Are they touching the person, somehow in balance, or are they falling with her? The domesticity of the chairs suggests a homelife in tumult or the loss of perceived stability, while the title adds a sneering sarcasm to the work – ‘take a seat’ it instructs, impossibly, as if the villain is taunting the protagonist. Both works are almost life-sized, bringing an uncanny feeling bolstered by the inclusion of wood to delineate the window frames, jarring against the soft tufts. Elements of the images break the frame, crossing their boundaries and giving fluidity and a sense of motion to the work.
Next is Manchester-based Fleur Yearsley’s large-scale painting ‘I’ve Been Waiting for You All My Life’ (2024). In the middle of a pub stands a ghost, staring straight at you, vacant and motionless. Here the details of novelty – or perhaps more accurately, nostalgia – unfurl slowly. The ‘ghost’ is a rudimentary Halloween costume – the classic bedsheet with two holes cut for eyes, while the Vans shoes poking out of the bottom locate this image in youth. Here the Vans operate not only as a familiar object for many, but they act as a tangible, specific link to a younger version of yourself who likely had a vastly different life which can at first, rightly or wrongly, be considered better or easier than the one you have now. This is the start of a longing for times gone by – a sense of nostalgia.
Despite novelty and nostalgia operating at opposing ends of the spectrum – the former indicative of something new and unfamiliar, and the latter recalling memory – they can also interact to produce a combined experience. In situations like this exhibition, the imagery sparks your sense of nostalgia, whilst the unexpectedness of it mixed with its ‘chronological remoteness’ (the time elapsed since the event or last recalling of the event) lights up the brain in the same way that the unfamiliarity of novelty does. This gives your brain a double hit.
Yearsley’s pub is depicted not through photorealistic details but an amalgamation of boozer checklist items; panelled bar – tick; upholstered four-legged stools that conjure the feeling of sticky velvet – tick; bar mat and taps – tick; mirror above the bar – tick; recognisable spirits (pun intended?) – tick; coloured glass candle holder attempting to bring ‘atmosphere’ – tick. Then the smaller details begin to register. There are two, untouched pints poured but seemingly no one else in the pub unless the other ‘punters’ are all standing ‘behind’ the viewer, also looking on at the figure, all eyes on them? The ghost has no mouth hole to drink through, outside looks grey and stormy from Yearsley’s writhing brushstrokes, and why has she given space to an exit sign, glowing in the mirror? Is the ghost looking at us or the exit, their escape? Now a place so often associated with cheer, community, relaxation and noise has a cloud hanging over it – drained of energy, isolating and downcast, a proverbial tumbleweed passing by.
The two drinks, the candle and the allusion in the title to a relationship all hint to this being a manifestation of the contemporary term ‘ghosting’ – ending a relationship with someone by unexpectedly withdrawing from communication. The figure isn’t playing or dressing up, they’re hiding, embarrassed and rejected, wanting the world to swallow them up and feeling the eyes of the room on them. Here, Yearsley’s slightly naive, simple style of painting plays beautifully into the emotion of the work – as a viewer you are not distracted by minute technical details, instead you’re left free to connect immediately to the person staring out at you, likely reflecting a former you, disappointed and heartbroken.
In stark contrast, the following wall displays two works by Sheffield-based Conor Rogers that, in their diminutive 14.5 x 9cm measurements, pack more detail than many artists could wish to capture in an entire exhibition. Their scale pulls you in, your nose nearly touching the work to truly appreciate what you’re seeing. ‘Spewdents’ (2023) is a tiny, photorealistic acrylic painting of an overturned blue bin outside the front garden wall of a house, contents spewing out, all on a DPD missed delivery slip. The painting is interwoven with the original design of the note, the two planes overlapping and interrupting each other. It is so technically excellent that it is difficult to believe at times it is a painting you’re viewing.
There is more charm to this work. The bin depicted is blue, used in Sheffield for recycling paper, like the paper slip it is painted upon. The document is both real and used – dog-eared and creased, the words ‘blue bin’ written on it in chunky black felt tip, contrasting the delicate image. There is a tiny Costa coffee cup, recognisable by the burgundy branding and the font of the ‘A’, and autumnal leaves are scattered all over the note, turning the red background of the slip into the pavement of the scene. In his interpretation, Marshall suggests the red and blue in ‘Spewdents’ are potential references to political issues such as community breakdown, urban disrepair, council mismanagement and budget cuts. He also observes the role of missed delivery slips in maintaining a semblance of neighbourly communication, many of us now only knocking on the next door with one in our hand.
‘Twinkle Toes’ (2024) places us in a polar opposite scene – a closed, intimate space. On the front cover of an A-Z map of Sheffield, Rogers has painted the internal view from the driver’s seat of a car. A woman sits just out of sight, but her legs extend up the dashboard, her bare feet propped comfortably, providing a ledge on which to balance the book she is reading. The title presumably refers to either a nickname for the passenger or the lightness with which this couple traverse the country. Other than a glimpse of green in the wing mirror, there is nothing beyond the car – out of the windows is the original front cover design which gives the feeling of an enclosed bubble, a couple in their own world perhaps, completely comfortable, one reading and one listening to Talksport, just visible on the central console. The work is relatable because of the subjects’ anonymity and the almost universal experience of the liminal space of a car.
Drawing on books is usually seen as sacrilege, something we’re told not to do from a young age. Is it okay here because the paper map is now an all but redundant artefact of days gone by, long surpassed in contemporary culture by digital maps that sync to traffic reports and make it impossible to lose your place on the map, or a whole page? But there is a fondness and a tactility to physical maps, memories of them tucked into the pockets on the back of the car’s front seats or down by the handbrake. These memories, along with those of the dust from the car sweets tin or the action of unwinding a window to get some air, ping us back to that time and the journeys that were often more memorable than the destination. Here the map encapsulates a quirk of nostalgia where, though the object itself has been surpassed in technical terms, there comes a yearning for the soul and memories attached to previous, analogue incarnations. Think the vinyl comeback, Instax cameras and the resurgence of board games.
The technical skill of these delicate works satisfies another purpose aside from aesthetic appreciation. The time and effort put into them monumentalises the everyday moments they capture, elevating scenes that pass us by daily, and immortalising aspects of life we might not consider worthy of such treatment. They also extend the lifespan of objects that would otherwise soon become detritus, imbuing them with value. The novelty of their scale and materials might draw you in but then they whisper: find joy in the everyday.
Katrina Cowling’s ‘Morning boys, how’s the water?’ (2025) is a rudimentary kinetic sculpture installed on a shelf, featuring a cocktail umbrella, a pipe cleaner with a bell, and a fish lure which wobbles as each bobs up and down on a separate, spindly spike. The structure is made from debris collected from Cowling’s studio whilst the three stars of the show are bits of tat that, removed from their usual context and placed on a pedestal in this way, glow with a silliness that the art world needs more of sometimes. It shudders and stops on a whim and sometimes needs a nudge to reset, growing weary throughout the day and needing a recharge. The metaphors for human lives, or humankind as a whole, are palpable and make for quite a tense watch as you will the machine to succeed.
This is a work of dichotomies – the fun objects are trapped in a cycle of repetition which makes them both joyful and sad, the movement is uniform yet erratic, a fish with no water, a bell with only an occasional ring, a cocktail umbrella with no cocktail, a party with no music. The tongue-in-cheek title reads like a line uttered by one of the work’s obscure characters. The materials are recognisable and childlike, reminiscent of school projects. They foster images of play and early creation but are bolstered by the addition of movement which is key to the work’s charisma. Similarly to Rogers, Cowling turns the mundane into art, questioning ‘value’ and resisting elitism. ‘Fun’ should be one of the highest compliments but instead it is often considered disparaging, despite society revisiting objects whose role is to invoke enjoyable memories from the past.
Arguably Marshall’s use of novelty as a test subject for how audiences engage with art may be lost on many casual gallery visitors but, unfortunately for them, few general viewers are likely to happen across texture. ‘Unfortunate’ because Marshall’s experimental and questioning nature, not afraid to test curatorial norms or work with ‘low art’ concepts such as novelty, has, here, resulted in an exhibition much more likely to resonate with the public at large than many that can be seen at larger institutions who have teams of people working to make their projects ‘accessible’. Using the interplay between novelty and nostalgia, the new and the old, unfamiliar and familiar, exploratory and established, Marshall and the four artists have provided hooks into the work and opened possible channels for discussion both within and beyond the exhibition – a noble aim for any gallery.
The Way In Is Not The Whole Way Through, texture, 29 August – 20 September, free, viewing by appointment, contact info@texturemcr.com
Laura Biddle is a curator and writer based in Manchester and currently working at Tate Liverpool.
This review is an independent commission from Corridor8, funded by Substack subscriptions and donations.
Published 09.09.2025 by Jazmine Linklater in Reviews
3,233 words