Ure is notoriously quiet about her paintings and at best is likely to make light of, or simply dismiss, serious questions about what she makes. This is reasonable, as it may not be useful — or even possible — to divide the paintings into grammatically significant parts, or to provide syntax for the ingredients of the painting into a particular semantic role. But some equivalent of the babble of language is rendered as a complicated constellation of blots that coalesce into an image.

The paintings demand time to be looked at. Images come in to focus but then disperse, which somehow opens up a space where what is not there seems to appear. Repetition is apparent through the evidence of small, concentrated acts and these serve to underscore and emphasise, but also to undo. Nothing seems to be fixed, or declared with certainty. Pigments range from exuberant pinks and greens through to a deathly palour too difficult to name. Even the omnipresent colour is tongue-tied.