Zhu Jia has an extremely sensual approach to painting, capturing the light, for example, as it bounces off flesh, the pinkish hue of the onset of sunburn, or the lush greens of London’s gardens, both private and public, and seemingly always verdant however grey the skies. There’s always a sense of alienation, that the artist is a stranger in a strange land, whether it comes about as a result of anxiety caused by the invisible barriers of language and culture, or, more fundamentally that Zhu Jia’s true language is visual (as demonstrated by his painting) rather than verbal is something about which we are left to guess. And yet there’s also a sense of optimism here. Despite the sense of awkwardness and alienation, painting after painting, picnic after picnic, conversation after conversation, Zhu Jia continues to turn up.