“Imagine you’re on a bike, as opposed to a car, a train, or a plane,” says Tschabalala Self. “Imagine how the world appears, how quickly and easily you’re able to move through it.”
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On a tabletop is a round water jug, an ochre highlight on its belly. A plain cloth has been thrown over the table, white on wood.
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When I think of Kamila Shamsie’s Home Fire, I picture a pot boiling on a hob, the water level rising until it spills over the lip and onto the stove.
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Some exhibitions grab you with both hands. Very Private? is one of them, which is fitting, given all the grappling, clutching and caressing taking place on the walls.
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When Eileen Agar was ten, she and her family travelled from Argentina to England, “accompanied by a cow and an orchestra to provide them with fresh milk and music”.
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Zoë Buckman’s uterus has been doing the rounds on social media. The Brooklyn-based artist made the kinetic sculpture in the run-up to the 2016 US election, amid conversations about contraception, abortion and rape.
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There’s still some way to go until the gender imbalance is totally redressed, but The Story of Art Without Men, which describes how women achieved artistic excellence against colossal odds, has firmly cracked open the canon.
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There’s a reason why some writers leave their books in a drawer for a while after finishing the first draft. Space away from something—away from anything, really—lets you see it with fresh eyes.
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A woman with wide eyes and long, slender fingers lies naked in a field. She’s on her side, legs bent at the knee, head propped up in the crook of her arm, a makeshift pillow.
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In Edvard Munch’s House in Moonlight (1893-95), a man in a hat has come to meet a woman in a white apron: his shadow falls at the woman’s feet; hers is folded like a jacket over the stone wall, her face and upper body obscured.
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It is the 2030s and Ramsgate is mostly inhabited by women; the third and fourth waves of a new virus have killed a disproportionate number of men.
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As a child, Caroline Walker spent hours holed up in a kitchen cupboard in her family home in Dunfermline, Scotland, drawing pictures of women.
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Cressida Connolly’s new novel begins with a couple of endings.
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I’ve always had a thing for Paris. Not necessarily Paris today, but the City of Light as captured in the 19th-century by the writers and other artists who would have rubbed shoulders in its café-concerts and galleries with Caillebotte.
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Emilie Pine writes about the big things and the little things: friendship, love, fertility, grief; waking, showering, catching the bus.
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The first time I saw her, I didn’t make it past her face. My eyes caught on her jagged fringe, brushed to a sheen, and her flushed cheeks, an entirely different shade from her porcelain neck and chest.
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In Wreck, artist Tom de Freston asks the reader the same question (“Is it all lost?“) that he asked himself in March 2020, when his studio caught fire and the blaze consumed a career’s worth of work.
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Enter the exhibition and you might feel as if you’ve walked in on a conversation. Sixteen of the thirty-five surviving self-portraits painted in Van Gogh’s final four years, beginning when he was thirty-three, are hung at the same height across two rooms.
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Sometimes you have to look back in order to move forward. Today several young artists are dipping into old art forms both to situate themselves within the canon and to start new conversations.
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They say a picture is worth a thousand words. For Alicia Eggert, the opposite is true. The Dallas-based artist thinks in terms of ideas and messages rather than images.
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