A determined reader will always find a place, no matter how tiny, incongruous or even squalid, to enter a private world through the portal of the printed page. This wonderful collection of small black-and-white photographs by the Hungarian-born André Kertesz represents his long study of readers wherever he lived or visited. The earliest (1915) is also the most poignant: three boys squashed on a bench, absorbed by one book, photographed by Kertesz during his time in the Austro-Hungarian army, moving between trenches and towns.

Running to 1980, the exhibition is as compelling as the books being read because Kertesz was a brilliant observer who packed each shot with tantalising detail; his early play with light and shade was a signature.

Parks and beaches were obvious haunts for readers but less visually interesting than the niches used through necessity: a boy sprawling on discarded newspapers in a New York street (1944), a young woman sunbathing on her tiny balcony (1963), a man oblivious of the Manila rubbish tip where he reads (1968) — stolen moments between chores, study and work. But Kertesz couldn’t resist either the elegant woman glancing at Seine-side book stalls in 1927, or the man in New York’s Book Row, reading with a magnifying glass (1959).

As holidays loom, this exhibition is a reminder of the lasting sensuous pleasure of folded paper and a book’s unique capacity to blank out surrounding reality.