Mark Corfield-Moore’s new show at Goldsmiths CCA is strange. (I’m presuming here, but…) It seems that the weaving threads are pre-coloured in order that they come together to form each resultant text/image only once a sequence of sessions at the loom has commenced. And even then, they do so without re-working or further over-stitching. The variables of tension, accuracy, movement (etc) inherent in the process means that while the text/image arrives fully legible, it also feels as if it is clinging on to semblance by a whisper.

This is, of course, a good thing. Made more so because the relation of text and image (arriving amid one another in this stuttering of (pre-)design and (later) facture - a kind of bilocation-in-time) is itself only faintly suggestive, if pushed (in that EM Forster way). Instead remaining hesitatingly resistant to subservience (of image to text, or vice versa). The texts seem confidently quotidian to the point of pop-poetry, allowing the images to soar, loosed from their index into a semiotic exchange.

The images are light-filled and dreamy (without losing all possibilities for occasional shadowy malevolence). They, like the texts are odd, but each in a different way. They both riff with different facets of the everyday. The images have the free-wheeling laissez-faire charm of doodling; the texts indulge the market-stall surrealism of proper nouns or brand names or barely formed metaphors. Together, they flirt and spark ‘as if’ they might ignite one another (and so consume any mystery, or sustained joy), but this spark is stranger still. It’s more like a kind of static electricity which is charged through closeness, and then jolts pleasantly and unexpectedly upon any attempt to reach out and touch, to connect.