At South London Gallery, fragments of wood and debris are scattered across the walls and floor of the main space. Two heaped, pyramidal forms rise on either side, their near-symmetry suggesting twin catastrophes or the aftermath of a singular, overwhelming force—like a river gouging a valley through a landscape. The two masses loom over the viewer, facing one another like opposing forces far larger than ourselves having a conversation over our heads. Today, they look like governments.
As in the rest of Drew’s oeuvre, the nature of the catastrophe remains elusive, but its pervasive presence is undeniable. Yet, in the same breath, Drew creates triangles and squares—forms that feel familiar, graspable—nothing disastrous about simple shapes. Packaging chaos in comprehensible chunks recalls the news cycle: a headline or news alert is never hard to understand, yet the relentless churn envelops and exhausts us.
Drew creates a space where meaning is not imposed but invited to unfold. There is a tension here between freedom and defeat, a recognition that sometimes it is only through surrender—accepting ruin and exhaustion—that one can begin to dust oneself off, to move forward.
In this email exchange, the artist talks material histories and metamorphosis.
