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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“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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