First impressions are everything, and the opening room of The Rossettis doesn’t exactly wow.
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It’s a cold and dark winter’s day in Stockholm, but within the Moderna Museet it appears as though someone has added a filter that’s warm and bright.
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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 early, but the gallery receptionist tells me that Stanley will be right down. Right down from where, I wonder.
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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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My husband doesn’t enjoy peeling oranges. He doesn’t like the little white webs of pith or the way the juice trickles between his fingers and soaks and stains the skin.
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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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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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