Andy Collins’s paintings manufacture a hermetically sealed aesthetic, offering a deceptive brand of pop. In Untitled, benign-toned colour fields sit with antiseptic perfection, their plastic forms fade in and out of soft-porn focus, pulsating from the contoured motif. In hand-rendering the trappings of superficial attraction, Collins serves up clinical beauty with a fine strategic awareness. Fluctuating between the mechanical and biological, Collins evokes an unsettling hybrid: a calculating and corporate detachment born of the most intimate sentiment.