LONDON.- Marco Sanges cordially invites his viewers to enter his extraordinary worlds. A fantastic storyteller, this artist creates cinematic sequences from his photographs. As we peer through the silvered lens, distortion suggests all is meaningless, that nothing has purpose. Within such surreal walls, logical arguments fall into nonsense, eloquent speech collapses into gobbledegook- and the inevitable outcome will be silence. As a result, Sanges’ players are trapped in cruelly endless mimes, menaced relentlessly by incomprehensible outside forces. Aghast, afraid, astonished, they gesture helplessly from the other side of their screens, enormously exaggerated.

Marco Sanges’ works are peopled by uncanny, larger than life characters. His untidy troupe of old money and sugar daddies wear powdered wigs and brylcremed toupees at jaunty angles. From lavish opium dens, gentlemen peer out suspiciously through tobacco-smoked monocles. They pose blindfolded and androgynous, morbidly fat or incredibly thin with ribs like spiral staircases. Tulle-skirted girls wilt in velvet chairs waiting for the end- resigned to the fact that it is probably already written. With regal noses and cupid’s bows, stooping drag queens wear fox furs attached by teeth to tail. Tall ladies politely face the wall, small ones run amok under madly darkened eyebrows.

Darkly enchanting, these photographs are touching in their depiction of human frailty and strength. Once the metaphysical rug is whipped out from under your feet, you are forced to come to a conclusion, make your own mistakes and see the funny side. Suddenly, you too are part of the picture, rooted to the spot, wildly gesturing and making peculiar faces. Afterwards you might scratch your head and wonder what just happened, but Sanges is a magician, an unhinged puppet master with a camera. As you step back out into the June afternoon, come rain or shine you may feel you’ve a touch of sunstroke- but it’s only your mind playing tricks on you again.