Isolde Brielmaier’s book I Am Sparkling illustrates how Parekh’s studio became a place for sitters to assert their agency in a changing world.
The uncanny painting by artist Jamie Coreth has prompted speculations of a Dorian Gray-style bargain and drawn comparisons to Madame Tussauds’s wax figures.
For New Mexico-based artist Frank Blazquez, portraiture was the way out of a crippling opiate addiction.
An exhibition at the Getty unleashes the dynamic character of Holbein’s portraits in ways I’ve never seen before.
Saldamando portrays people isolated at home, waiting out a public health crisis.
When looking at images from the golden age of Sudanese photography, I was reminded to listen as much as look.
It is perhaps no surprise that Wiley’s oeuvre is a favorite among curators seeking to inject new relevance into their collection of European masters.
rafa esparaza’s paintings insist upon the rightful presence of brown, Black, and queer bodies in the white cube of the gallery.
“The Black Index” at UC Irvine pursues knottier narratives of self-representation.
Hyperallergic has a few suggestions.
Prachakul paints friends and acquaintances who, like the artist, are part of the Asian diaspora.
With the possible exception of Howard Hodgkin, not a single English abstract artist has attained anything comparable to the status achieved by Lucien Freud or David Hockney.