The grandiloquence of the Fitz is sometimes quite overbearing — the air seems almost threateningly congealed by oil glaze and velveteen wallpaper. In such an environment one might not expect to find much sympathy for the concerns of the Young British Artists — Mat Collishaw and the Chapman brothers among them. Yet these artists are, somewhat improbably, currently featured in a small exhibition of prints.

Collishaw’s work is perhaps most striking: glistening smearings of macabre colour on a deep black. It turns out that these have been produced through close up photography of squashed butterflies and moths - killed, apparently, when Collishaw was cleaning out his house. There’s something indulgently garish about them, a luxuriant slap of shininess that, according to the glib adjacent white sticker, encourages us to “dwell on mortality”. The prints are entitled ‘Insecticide’.

Jake and Dinos Chapman’s printed offerings were more muted, but essentially unsurprising. Plenty of schoolboy swastikas, one of them lovingly assembled from severed fingers. The series was entitled ‘Disasters of War’, a title they’ve used before, echoing the famous prints by Goya. Often little more than doodles, these images were — perhaps knowingly — generally insignificant.

Hughie O’Donoghue’s work was more impressive, though sadly only through comparison. His series of four images, ‘Postcards from Milan’, are unflinchingly textural in their depiction of the skin of corpses, strung up alongside Mussolini in Milan in 1945. Jane Dixon’s grey photographic cityscapes were also enticing, but on closer inspection they disappointed in a dull kind of way which I can’t quite put my finger on.

And the rest, unfortunately, was quite forgettable. Mark Quinn’s inkjet prints looked like fishtanks. Paul Morrison’s screenprints reminded me of the Natural History Museum.

Instead, why not wander out at this point and take a look round the other contemporary galleries beyond the stairwell. There are some real gems in here. A wonderfully mud-coloured ‘Primrose Hill’ by Auerbach, for example, or the stunning rusted tabletop sculpture by Anthony Caro, which is easily better than all of the Afterlife prints put together.

In summary then, Afterlife is a rather disappointing exhibition of not very much in particular.