Last month I spent an afternoon moving between a couple of smaller galleries in East London and then the big rooms at Tate. The contrast is always useful. In the smaller spaces you see artists testing materials that still feel a bit raw. In the larger ones everything has been refined until the process almost disappears.

My own work sits somewhere in between. The shuffle is chaotic. The final assembly is careful. I lay the cards in the exact order they fell, so any visual rhythm that appears is accidental. Sometimes it looks balanced. Sometimes a run of face cards or a cluster of one suit creates a weight that I wouldn’t have planned. I leave it.

Collectors who buy the pieces often say they like that the thing on the wall is literally one moment that can never be repeated. Gallerists tend to notice the same thing when they are thinking about group shows — the work is self-contained, it has a clear conceptual anchor (the unrepeatable permutation), and it photographs well enough that the texture still reads online.

I don’t pretend this is the only way to make art in London right now. Plenty of strong painting is happening. But when I walk the shows I keep noticing how many people respond to objects that still feel like objects rather than images of objects. Real cards, real thickness, real edges. That physical fact seems to cut through.

If you’re a curator putting together a show that needs something with both concept and material presence, the boards are here in West London. Happy to show the process if you’re around.