The first time I came across Andrew McPhail’s work was during the arduous selections process last autumn with Hamilton Artists Inc. Somehow, in the midst of what can be a truly mind-numbing experience, I found myself completely riveted by these images of vaguely biomorphic shapes made entirely out of band-aids. Initially, it was simply the repetitive, obsessive labour of a basic sphere that caught my attention, but the progression of sculptures that sprout ambiguous appendages from rounded origins won me completely with their creepy analogues to flesh.

As such, I made a point of seeing McPhail’s recent solo exhibition at Transit Gallery a couple months back, featuring his colourful drawings of strung lights. They’re certainly what I would call a departure from the band-aid sculptures, with a completely different sensibility, but that vigorous quality of execution remains as strong as ever.

The repetitious labour here, combined with the liveliness of the drawings themselves, made for enjoyable enough viewing, but I was plenty glad to see that the works he had on show at the Cambridge Galleries: Preston space this past two months was made of far toothier stuff. For starters, those wonderfully evocative band-aids were back in the mix with the display of ‘all my little failures’, a sweeping second-skin that both conceals and reveals the rather scary mannequin standing in for McPhail’s own body - the garment is more accurately presented in his performances in which McPhail himself is bearing its burden. The relationship to human flesh remains as strong as ever, but in this case the function of the band-aid itself as an emblem of hurt and healing is heightened; moreover, ‘all my little failures’ reminds me more fully of the object’s defensive properties - I pretty much only ever use a band-aid to keep crap from getting into my cuts rather than to ‘promote healing’ or some such rubbish.

As an added bonus, I found another reason to love Andrew McPhail’s work in his ‘429 synonyms for homosexual’, which despite its misleading title is a gorgeous bit of sculpture. The derogative ‘poof’ is not one I’ve really heard much this side of the pond (unless I’ve been watching too much Life on Mars again) but is an effective choice here given the qualities of the hair extensions McPhail uses to render the word on the gallery wall. The tinsel-bright blonde pushes the work towards the realm of magical illusions and quirky disappearing acts, defiantly away from hate speech towards something that is wonderful to behold, especially in its trailing terminus along the floor, glowing but filled with pathos.

It was a close thing, getting out to Cambridge in time to catch this show, and I did leave it to the last minute, but better late than never. Andrew McPhail is definitely one I’ll be keeping an eye open for in the future.

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