When she first starts working as a security guard at the Guggenheim Museum in New York, Bianca Bosker is so bored that she prays someone will touch the art.
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In the penultimate room of Sargent and Fashion at Tate Britain, there’s a small painting that, to me, encapsulates the entire show.
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The publication of Holly Pester’s debut novel is well timed: the tale of one young woman’s precarious experience of subletting comes in the midst of the UK’s cost-of-living crisis.
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The middle story in this compassionate collection follows disparate folk loosely linked by a set of steps.
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Lauren Elkin begins her book about bodily art with a charming ode to the punctuation mark that she in American English calls a ‘slash’ and we in British English call a ‘stroke’.
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Laura Cumming writes about art with a painter’s precision.
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As with all things Ofili, this shimmering Eden is as mystifying as it is hypnotic.
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There’s a lot – a lot of images and a lot of labels – but take your time and you’ll be duly rewarded.
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‘Most of my heroes are monsters, unfortunately,’ Joni Mitchell once said, ‘and they are men.’ The singer-songwriter was able to detach the maker from the made. Should we do the same? Is it ethical? Moral? Even possible?
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First impressions are everything, and the opening room of The Rossettis doesn’t exactly wow.
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The crazy cat lady is a cautionary tale”, writes Rhiannon Lucy Cosslett in her absorbing, often amusing memoir.
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I’m not at all green fingered, but I could stare for hours at Berthe Morisot’s portrait of her sister Edma watering a shrub.
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Did you know that Balzac liked to work in his dressing gown? I didn’t.
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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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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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It’s remarkable, the amount of feeling Alice Neel can generate with a few knuckles.
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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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