Clay animation, or claymation as it is commonly referred to, for me instinctively conjures images of Wallace and Gromit. Cuddly, quirky characters whose comedic traits are enhanced by the clunky childlike style inherent to the medium they work in. It is probably rather ignorant going straight for such a mainstream example, but I doubt I’m the only one.

I was nevertheless equally ignorant as I was lured towards the Camden Arts Centre by the mesmerising images from Nathalie Djubery’s exhibition A World Of Glass. For starters I assumed it would be in Camden. It is not and I still don’t know why it has given its self such a misleading title. It is actually a little unassuming building plonked by Finchley road tube station. Secondly, there was much more to the exhibition than the misshapen glass like objects that I found so pretty.

After poking around the gift shop on the way in-it’s so nice when museums do that, so you don’t feel less cultured for wanting to look around the gift shop first; not that I’d need to, I’d already overcome the intelligence hurdle of finding a museum pretending to be somewhere it wasn’t- I ventured toward the first exhibition room.

A soundscape of tinkling glass and percussion filled the room and encouraged a pensive, quiet atmosphere. This was not an exhibition where you chatted about what you though of the work whilst you were there and tried to sound pretentious, you experienced it. You also experienced it standing up, so after a few moments I began to wander.

The promotion pictures really did do the exhibit justice. In a darkened room, tables of illuminated glass like objects looked surreal and made me feel less silly for wanting to see them simply for their strangely beautiful aesthetic. It quickly transpired that they were part of the set taken from the claymation films that were playing at either end of the studio; designed to make the whole exhibition feel modestly immersive.

At first glance Natalie Djurbery’s short clay animated films seem to portray the inherent playfulness I imagined (the first image I saw was of a bull tottering around a shop full of glass), but you don’t have to watch for long before realising that the artist is merely playing upon our natural assumptions about the medium to convey her real message.

As the museum suggests, Djurbery’s films resemble folk or fairytales, but without any moral judgement. They do, however, use this genre to explore dark and crude themes of suffering, depression and violence using humans and animals. The content of each of the stories was shocking and, at times, bizarre enough; but their combination with the tranquil dim environment transformed any gut reaction into something more pensive. The effect was strangely jarring and definitely uncomfortable, as though I was somehow complicit in the twisted taboos shown on the screen.

The work I feel was important to see. It broke and built barriers between person, screen, self, other, human and animal. It showed the possibilities of claymation as a serious artform; its crudeness effectively conveyed the animalistic forces that drove the characters and its childlike nature added a level of philosophical thought to Djurberg’s portrayal of the human condition.

To summarise, I did not completely enjoy it, I’m glad I didn’t and I don’t think I was supposed to.