BMDO
Oct 15  -  Nov 02, 2025

REQUEST CATALOGUE;

"The World’s Smallest Pony"
Exhibition 

World’s Smallest Horse, BMDO’s sophomore solo exhibition at Oigåll Projects, treats space as an emotional medium shaped as much by disjointed memory as by material. The soft hum of dealership air-con, The Whole Circus, and the melancholy of dumbed-down Rothkos and half-remembered González-Torres’. Commercial drip trays go Frankenstein on USM, festoons get their glow-up, and tapestries imagined as paintings return to furniture.

The works lean on atmosphere more than narrative, resisting neutrality in favour of richness, texture and human presence.

The collection is not bound to a single material, category of object or fixed aesthetic, yet remains unmistakably BMDO in its material handling. It leans into the chaos yet resolves into a strangely unified experience. Less sanitised, more stained and sticky.

Motifs recognisably BMDO recur throughout: minimal but sharp repurposing of found objects and materials, tapestries, and handmade, almost naïve qualities carry through with precision. Colour and line are crucial here, gestural interventions that push objects toward abstraction, where furniture edges into painting and painting edges into spectacle.

Ben Aitken 
Sep 18 - Oct 05, 2025

REQUEST CATALOGUE;

A series of Small paintings.
Exhibition

Ben Aitken paints like a collector of contradictions: banal and grotesque, comic and unbearable, ordinary and utterly unreal. His portraits hover at the edge of recognition. Ted, Joni, Joe, Fritzl, Ozzy, a kid from Mysterious Skin, even a dispirited man in a hotdog suit, figures bound less by likeness than by the shared absurdity of being human.

The paintings are confrontations, not tributes. Aitken approaches each subject with equal parts irreverence and gravity: the “quiet confrontation” of Ted’s blackened face; Joe from You Were Never Really Here, hollowed by violence; Fritzl’s banal eyes, which would be merely eerie if not weighted by horror; Ozzy, theatrical and excessive, death always at his shoulder. Even the hotdog, dressed for performance yet wholly unimpressed, becomes a synthesis of the whole: ridiculous, evil, joyous, ambiguous, unbearable.

Aitken’s canvas is not just a stage for portraiture but for the performance of looking itself. Every image carries the echo of what came before. Screen roles, tabloid headlines, crimes, clichés, the theatre of celebrity and shame. The stillness of his works is deceptive; they are charged with the excess of cultural memory, shadows thick with the absurdities and offences of living.

What emerges is a strange human chorus, a tragicomedy in fragments. Aitken holds together the joy, the banality, the mystery, and the violence of being alive, only to suggest that none of it quite adds up. The human condition, dressed up and ridiculous, is no less unbearable.