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.

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.

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.

It’s a fact that the Courtauld has reopened to the public following a three-year, £57m makeover, but I can’t help thinking about fiction.

There is a myth, writes Alice Hattrick in their new book, Ill Feelings, that to be ill is to hide, “that to be inexplicably ill and dependent on the care and support of others is a choice, a way of getting out of what you don’t want to do, a choice that clever, deceitful young women make for themselves”.

When Heather Phillipson was invited to fill Tate Britain’s Duveen Galleries, the artist behind the spoiled swirl of whipped cream on Trafalgar Square’s Fourth Plinth felt simultaneously daunted and excited.

About a quarter of the way through Eliza Clark’s debut novel Boy Parts, the protagonist, Irina, describes her ability as a photographer. “I could train a camera on a man and look at him like a man looks at a woman; boys, too, could be objects of desire.”