Not everyone likes Issy Wood’s paintings. Her brother, says the 29-year-old artist, recently asked her not to give him any more work. “He said he’d rather have a computer game,” she tells me, when we meet at her London studio. The space is large and top-lit, filled with shelves of shiny tchotchkes and stacked with copious completed canvases; there is a small jungle of plants and a couple of sofas. I find a spot on one of these, while Wood opts to sit at a significant social distance opposite me, on an office chair in the middle of the room, rolling an occasional skinny cigarette.
