Mull's visceral still-lifes of dust, grease, hair, rock salt, and mirror shards look like they were sucked out of a sewer drain and spewed across his studio floor. Because he scatters faceted glass beads and gold medallions on this chaotic terrain, it?s hard not to think of Lucas Samaras, but Bruce Conner?s grungy assemblages and Cindy Sherman?s vomit-flecked landscapes also help set the stage for Mull?s mess. It?s not entirely surprising, then, to find something exhilarating and alluring about this head-on collision of the abject and the (semi)precious; Mull revels in his materials with such abandon and assurance that backing off is not an option.