A couple of dozen pages into Nicole Flattery’s poised debut novel, the protagonist, seventeen-year-old Mae, is riding the escalators in a department store.
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Lucie Rie’s ceramic buttons belong in a sweet shop.
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A woman’s work is never done, but come June it will be publicly celebrated.
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It’s not often an exhibition makes me feel uneasy, but a press officer from the Hayward Gallery has just appeared and I’ve jumped out of my skin.
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An artist should avoid falling in love with another artist – at least according to Marina Abramović, who in the 1970s gave us her great manifesto for life and art.
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It’s remarkable, the amount of feeling Alice Neel can generate with a few knuckles.
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“They don’t let you smoke here, which is annoying,” Sarah Lucas not quite whispers. Still, as she shrugs on her coat, a bulky thing that swallows her whole, she slips her hands into her pockets and pulls out a tin of tobacco.
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Pity the fellow who follows Donatello — or so I thought, after kicking off my week at the V&A’s standout show. I needn’t have worried. Peter Doig’s art pulsates in a world of its own.
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Florence has come to the V&A.
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‘I don’t see why the love between a mother and son should be any different from other kinds of love. Why shouldn’t we be allowed to stop loving each other? Why shouldn’t we be allowed to break up?’
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Tony Tetro’s memoir starts with a bang – or, rather, a bust.
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Jeppe Hein sits down and produces some paper and a tin of watercolours. We’re going to do a quick painting exercise, the Copenhagen- and Berlin-based Danish artist tells me, and invites me to choose a colour.
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Somaya Critchlow knows that we’re supposed to be moving away from making images of naked female bodies. But her paintings express the appeal of stripping a figure bare.
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It is our ability to see a single thing in various ways that Lily Le Brun celebrates in Looking to Sea: Britain Through the Eyes of its Artists.
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The characters in Lynette Yiadom-Boakye’s compelling portraits have been waiting for us.
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Ann Coxon’s grandmother was always knitting. At home in rural Derbyshire, where she raised not only her own children but also evacuees taken in by the family during the Second World War, she was forever making and mending.
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We all know nature is balm for the soul, and this show is remarkably soothing.
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The story of modernist art is crowded with women — or rather, it’s crowded with images of women depicted by men.
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It’s the kind of cobbled courtyard you might dream up if asked to imagine the perfect Parisian apartment building.
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This sprawling show offers a heady mix of surprise, disgust and delight.
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