If it was in London, New York or Berlin, Edinburgh's new contemporary art gallery, Doggerfisher, wouldn't make headlines. But in Scotland, where an art scene flourishes without a network of commercial galleries supporting work other than painting, it is causing something of a stir.
Doggerfisher (founded by former art critic Susanna Beaumont) is a compact space occupying a former tyre garage. Even the post- industrial feel to the place marks this out as something new in Edinburgh, where the commercial scene is more New Town genteel.
The garage - part of it is remains unconverted and you can still imagine it, all greasy grime and Pirelli calendars - makes perfect sense as a setting for Jonathan Owen's work. To say that an artist explores themes of masculinity, as Owen certainly does, sets up expectations (something extreme, brutal, in crisis, probably with some football in the mix) that he thoroughly, though delicately, confounds.
The first piece you see is Lads, a wall-painting of figures in combat gear and masks. They look like soldiers but are larking about, looking in pockets, bending demonstratively as if to suggest high spirits. It could be late on a Saturday night, spilling out of a club, but the outfits (based on one of those handbooks on what to do and wear under nuclear attack) have a menacing quality to them to, as if the mood could quickly turn.
I Don't Usually Do This is by contrast elegant and enigmatic, though as always with Owen there is a hidden, quiet punch to the work. It's a series of blue line drawings of hands - maybe an artist's study, you first think, or a panel of sign language. Then you see that whatever the hands are doing or holding has been left out of the picture, and the piece begins to work like a puzzle. At some point it hits you that these are pornographic gestures, that fingers are pushing into orifices we don't see. It's hard not to let out a yelp when you realise what's going on.
Owen loves these moments of surprise, and they shape a series of works featuring deeply ornate filigree-style cut-outs from men's magazines and books (pornography, car manuals, martial arts), the most gorgeous of which is Halo. You admire the craft of it and then suddenly spot a penis, a cheeky nipple in the detail. As always, though, the shock follows moments of hugely engaging puzzlement. The yelp is part pleasure, part horror.
Until June 17. Details: 0131-558 7110.
