Here they are at the National Gallery, almost all at once, all those modern artists we came here to see, those we have come here to report having seen later.
The tales in the Thamesmead Codex are melded, mashed up, meshed together fragments of the many human stories told to artist Bob and Roberta Smith.
We go to Raphael for idealized beauty. But what if a painting were the opposite of beautiful, and utterly arresting for that very reason?
Goya neatly clothes himself in his own world of fantasy: He will have her in the end. In life, where the climate is much chillier, it was, alas, to be otherwise.
The doomster title of Extinction Beckons at London’s Hayward Gallery had really got me going. Then, almost immediately, things started to go wrong.
These rowdy, carnivalesque capers, and all this wild costuming, are about defiant displays of unreason, at odds with the dreary drone of the “voices of authority.”
The French painter felt he had to rise to the challenge of one question above all things else: What exactly is it to be a modern artist?
Would it be ridiculous to suggest that Freud lacks nobility or generosity, or even that his pessimism reduces him?
Ghenie’s paintings of Marilyn Monroe are a relentless representation of a howling, turbulent tragedy, a face broken into crude sideways slewings and gougings and gorgings of paint.
Parker’s stories bring so many of her works alive, give them meaning, and make us warm to her and to them. Is that a problem?
Can two paintings an entire exhibition make? Yes. Especially when it is a Spaniard called Pablo Picasso squaring up to a Frenchman called Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres.
The Renaissance master was boundlessly ambitious and intimidatingly energetic, charming, good-looking, diplomatic, and utterly opportunistic.