William Wiley’s sensibility has always had what might be called a ragged edge. It can be seen in his work as a web of cardiographic lines that pervades an image and peels away its veneer. This edge is an expression of consciousness, but not of continuity. Like a perceptual trip-wire, it affirms the vitality of each succeeding moment. There are no points A to Z, just islands of imagery lost among rivers of interstices. All of Wiley’s art is assembled from the shards of a consciousness that dies and regenerates with each stroke of the pen.

With these 13 steel assemblages, Wiley has upped the voltage