Pedrosa’s curation seems to suggest that the external application of our own internal concepts and abstractions of anthropology, ethnicity and nationality are, when examined, as foreign to ourselves as they are to others. Is it fetishistic? A little bit. Does it still treat Eurocentrism as the default? Bien sûr. Can we all pat ourselves on the back over our seven-euro affogatos for being such good and philosophically-minded international denizens? Certainly. But it’s precisely this lens that gives this year's event such a strong sense of critical self-awareness. writes Victoria Comstock-Kershaw. Dana Awartani, Come, let me heal your wounds. Let me mend your broken bones, 2024. Image courtesy of Marco Zorzanello Earlier this month, Anish Kapoor slammed Brazilian curator Adriano Pedrosa’s title for this year's Venice Biennale: Foreigners Everywhere. “I live in Venice and see signs all over the city saying Foreigners Everywhere. Despite the, no doubt, good intentions of Adriano Pedrosa to subvert the language of racist fear and hate, these words in fact echo the language of nationalist neo-fascism.” Similarly, waves of well-meaning dilettantes have carefully wagged their fingers at the unwashed masses for their contribution to the city sinking due to climate change (from the comfort of their private jets and gondoliers, natürlich). There are plenty of things to simultaneously fear and loathe about the Biennale: the social and philosophical hypocrisy, the dilettantish attempts at intellect, the blatant lack of critical thinking, the axiomatic levels of money laundering, the lack of smoking areas. It is, in many ways, the very worst of what the art world can offer. However, it is also the very best. Unlike Kapoor, who apparently doesn’t understand the second degré, my original objection to Pedrosa’s title came from his conflation of immigrant and queer experiences. Coming from London, where the oversaturated majority of press releases now obligatorily include something about the artists sexuality and/or ethnic origins, I worried that this would be another Whitney Biennial-esque attempt at uplifting marginalised voices for clout and perceived progressiveness rather than for authentic engagement or interest with their works. But, as pointed out by Ben Davies, “centering the marginalised” – the promotion and furtherance of art made by those considered outside of society (although, one could argue, gays and foreigners have been making the best and most celebrated art since the Romans decided what a ‘foreigner’ was) - is now the primary language of contemporary institutional authority.  Foreigners Everywhere simultaneously embraces and satirises this shift while espousing the fundamentals of what any good art show should be about: reflection. Archie Moore, kith and kin, 2024. Image courtesy of Andrea Rossetii. In an interview with artnet’s podcast The Art Angle, Pedrosa explains how during a conversation about an upcoming show with an unnamed curator (my money’s on Chrissie Iles/Anne and Joel Ehrenkranz trio regarding the Whitney’s Even Better Than the Real Thing subtitle) he found himself asking, “but are there any artists that won’t fit the theme?”. The difficulties behind picking an exhibition theme that simultaneously provides parameters for its participants while also avoiding sounding like it's straight from Rebecca Uchill’s Random Exhibition Title Generator (I got To Find the Properties of Relevance: The Video Art of Social Practice, which might as well be the next Bermondsey Project Space show) have been well documented. Pedrosa’s choice ultimately implies that we are all foreigners, in some way or another, and it’s this subtle but delightful discovery that propels an exhibition underlined by the sort of feelings and confrontations that any contemporary art institution worth their salt should strive to achieve. Too often do art shows pretend they are going to change (or even save) the world: the Biennale fully embraces its role as an arbitrator of internal reflection rather than external action. The juxtaposition between these deliberate interior contemplations and Venice’s own historiographic exterior (a city of foreigners in its own right, founded in the fifth by Venti refugees fleeing Vandal invaders) provides for some really tasty experiences. By nature, the Biennale relies (both conceptually and architecturally) on the same sort of Hobbean categorisations that define the very boundaries of societal and international interaction that many of its artists are engaging with. But, unlike some institutions (sorry, I’ll stop bitching about the Whitney now), there is no illusion of solution, no vague presentation of some grand master plan that will resolve the very framework from which the artworks are functioning. The artworks are firmly focused inwards, and it’s glorious. What surprised me truly and genuinely was how intensely my own nationalist conceptions influenced my view of the art. It is not an element that (consciously, insofar as we can be) plays a part in my assessment of works in any other context; I have never stood at the Saatchi and pondered the extent to which my thoughts about the entire population of Canada affect my estimation of a Burtynsky. This year’s Biennale and its theme re-conceptualises how we approach notions of countryship and belonging by placing the innately jingoistic nature of the fair at the forefront of both its artists and its audiences mind. This is far from a bad thing, and again I must commend Pedrosa on his choice of title; it adds a certain discomforting meta-flair when you are trying to work out if you only enjoy an artwork because because you once dated a particularly dishy snowboarder from its pavilions’ country (grüezi, Switzerland!). Am I a foreigner to my own sensibilities? A visitor to the culture of my own opinions, a tourist who may only ever grasp the surface of my interpretations of art? Pedrosa’s curation seems to suggest that the answer doesn’t really matter; that the external application of our own internal concepts and abstractions of anthropology, ethnicity and nationality are, when examined, as foreign to ourselves as they are to others. Is it fetishistic? A little bit. Does it continue to treat Eurocentrism as default? Bien sûr. Can we all pat ourselves on the back over our seven-euro affogatos for being such good and philosophically-minded international denizens? Certainly. But it’s precisely this lens that gives the event such a strong sense of critical self-awareness. From left to Installation view of the 60th International Art Exhibition – La Biennale di Venezia, “Foreigners Everywhere,” 2024. Image courtesy of Marco Zorzanello. Miles Greenberg, Sebastian, 2024, performed at Neue Nationalgalerie. Photo courtesy of Viðar Logi. Perhaps this is strongest in the Biennale's selection and curation of queer works. I am usually wary of any institution that uses the term ‘queer’ as a catch-all (as opposed to simply gay or transgender, as it generally implies the aforementioned desire to simply appear rather than be progressive without giving ample space for the respective individual/collective experience to be appreciated, but it’s a genuinely appropriate term here, especially considering the heavy etymological history of the word (well, there were no lesbian artworks, but what else is new?). Miles Greenberg re-imagines the plight of Saint Sebastian in his marvllous eight-hour performance Sebastian, centering motifs of the Othellean blackamoors. Louis Fratino, an emerging American artist whose work centres on portrayals of gay male intimacy and domestic life, are juxtaposed with works by late Indian artist Bhupen Khakhar, renowned for his exploration of homosexual themes in his artwork. In another part of the Giardini, visitors encounter Dean Sameshima's recent black-and-white photographs capturing Berlin's gay porn theatres, placed opposite monochrome images clandestinely captured by Miguel Ángel Rojas at a Bogotá cinema that served as a gay cruising venue during the 1970s. Puppies Puppies’s Thursday performance piece, in which she lay naked beneath a skeleton outside the entrance to the Giardini, simultaneously homages and re-contextualises Marina Abromovíc and Ana Mendiata’s works in the contact of trans womanhood. The joy of her Friday performance, a drag lip sync to traditional drag numbers including Cindy Lauper’s Girls Just Want to Have Fun, is destabilised by the fact that her glowing dress is emblazoned with the references to the name Pulse (the gay nightclub shot up Florida in 2016). She is angry and frightened, certainly, but she is also so, so exhausted. Jade Guanaro Kuriki-Oliv, performance at Venice Biennale 2024. Video courtesy of artist. This dichotomous poignancy - something that isn’t quite fear, isn’t quite loathing - is an undercurrent to the entire exhibition. It’s most present in spaces like Christoph Büchel's show at the Fondazione Prada. Reminiscent of the the Churchill War Rooms in London, Büchel leads his audience through a subterranean maze filled with discarded boots and shoes, live feeds of Jerusalem and Gaza, CCTV footage feeding in from Kyiv, Dnipro and other Ukrainian cities, stripper poles and boxes of condoms, unused bombs, references throughout to the Barca Nostra, the ship carrying a thousand migrants between Libya and Lampedusa that sunk in 2015. There is an almost anarchist hatred for government and its tendency for world-ending throughout the entire show, from Finland’s Open Group (a Ukrainian collective) installation Repeat After Me II (2024) to Killing Architect’s Investigating Xinjiang’s Network of Detention Camps (2024) at the The Laboratory of the Future to the Dutch pavilion’s Episode III: Enjoy Poverty (2008). Yet, counterbalancing all this is a tender fear, an almost whispered: what if it's not all okay? what if they really do it this time? what if they do it again?, as seen in Pakui Hardware’s Inflammation (2023) at the Czech Pavilion or The International Celebration of Blasphemy and the Sacred’s Cercle d’Art des Travailleurs de Plantation Congolaise (2024). From left to right: Buchel's live feed of Gaza, image courtesy of Artnews, Open Group, Repeat After Me, 2022, Image courtesy of Bartosz Górka and Emilia Lipa. It’s no coincidence that artworks like this have coincided with the release of post-apocalyptic shows like Amazon’s Fallout and, more poignantly, the rising tensions between nuke-weidling countries in the Middle East (it’s telling that the vast majority of Arab pavilions, like the UAE’s Abdullah Al Saadi: Sites of Memory, Sites of Amnesia and Lebanon’s Mounira Al Solh: A Dance with her Myth, are so fiercely grounded in earthly, naturalistic expressions of their country). These groundings serve as a counterbalance to the ethereal and dystopian themes prevalent in most post-apocalyptic narratives, offering a testament to the resilience of cultural identity and folklore and oral tradition. Will our own stories live on beyond the bombs too? From left to right: Mounira Al Solh: A Dance with her Myth. Image courtesy of Federico Vespignani. Abdullah Al Saadi. Stone Slippers (Al Zannoba), 2013. Image courtesy of artist. A core but oft-forgotten fact of contemporary art is that, ever since the cultural dissolution of pre-war art institutions, there has been no objective way of judging art as being good or bad in Western society: the evaluation, therefore, relies solely on the sensibilities of the audience. This autonomy is constantly being wrenched out of the viewers hands by public institutions in the form of prosaic press releases, obtuse gallery placards and irritatingly insipid interviews (see Arthur Jafa’s promotional interview with David Zwirner for his exhibit at 52 Walker, in which he proudly claims that he’s “not trying to say anything”). We will tell you what to think, they decide. The Biennale snatches this ability to decide if art is worthwhile firmly back from the dealers and marketers and art-speakers hands and returns it, resolutely, into those of the everyday audience. In an age marked by conflicts of a thousand differing threads, it’s no surprise that the theme of feeling foreign everywhere is the one that allows this to happen the most naturally. Ultimately, it’s as an adjudicator of introspection that this year’s Biennale flourishes and captures: the fear we feel as citizens just as conflicted by our feelings for our own country's fate as we are by others, and the loathing of the space in between. Victoria Comstock-Kershaw is a is a London-based critic and contemporary arts writer.

To describe, to record, to make a film about intimacy, to insert one’s fist into a lover’s mouth; the maze Parkin’s exhibition invites us into is precisely one made of these acts of entangled violence and tenderness. writes Cindy Ziyun Huang. Installation images courtesy of Cubitt Gallery/Kadeem Oak and Benjamin Deakin Three pairs of green plastic chairs puzzle those who attempt to take a seat in Mathew Wayne Parkin’s solo exhibition at Cubitt Gallery, I can fit a fist in my mouth. Fastened tightly together by cable ties attached to their skinny black legs, the chairs of each pair face opposite directions. These tête-à-tête loveseats seem to suggest that, much as love is about bond and closeness, it’s also about confinement, wariness, and unease. Love is about sitting right next to each other – arms touching, breaths audible – but having to face away. Parkin’s exhibition takes us into the maze of intimacy. Alongside the chairs, the exhibition comprises a short film and an odd bunch of objects, including wire-rope barriers, padlocks, keyrings, a few words written on a piece of lined paper, a drawing, and an inkjet print of what looks like bulked-up Donald Duck and Daffy Duck kissing. Upon entry, visitors first encounter this miscellaneous group of objects. On the right, a makeshift partition separates the gallery into two parts. The loveseats stand between two identical screens that stare at each other – one carried by the partition and one on the opposite wall. The film, under the same title as the exhibition, plays simultaneously on both screens. Wrapped in subdued orange light, the gallery feels like the inside of a body. Installation images courtesy of Cubitt Gallery/Kadeem Oak and Benjamin Deakin The film allows a few glimpses of various private spaces and intimate moments, piecing together video clips from personal archives of the artist and those close to them. However, our visual access is also denied at times. The footage is interspersed by moments when the screens become completely black. During those momentary blackouts of varying lengths, we are left with only different voices describing the footage not shown on screen. The withdrawal of the visual frustrates voyeuristic eyes. The audio-description diligently recounts what goes on in the hidden footage, yet instead of compensating for the absence of images, the bland and occasionally hasty voices only lay it bare. Accentuating the impossibility to see and to know everything, Parkin’s film, then, asks to what extent the viewer should be allowed to access – and the artist to represent – private stories and affects under the auspices of art. This interplay of the visible and the concealed recurs in the exhibition, drawing attention to unstable boundaries. In the film, we see a gigantic windmill cloaked in a thick veil of fog, blinking lights blurred and haloed by a frosted glass panel, and the pink sky at sunset obscured behind a dusty car window. We are also confronted by more explicit representation of bodies enduring, or enjoying, violation of their boundaries, for example, footage of a fist being inserted into a mouth, or audio-description of two men sparring in a boxing ring. The vulnerability and futility of boundaries find physical manifestation in the wire-rope barriers placed in the centre of the gallery. These barriers may temporarily obstruct visitors but are unable to truly stop any trespassing. Weighted down by a handful of love locks and keyrings, they seem to be burdened and confused by the paradox of love, control, anxiety, and tender promises. Installation images courtesy of Cindy Ziiyun Huang & Cubitt Gallery/Kadeem Oak and Benjamin Deakin Parkin raises questions about violence in intersubjective intimacy. Tellingly, their film begins with a close-up of someone’s lips glistening as they sing along to Alice Deejay’s 1999 Eurodance hit Better Off Alone, and ends when the camera forces its way into a moist, soft orifice of a body.  While the film captures intimate scenes – a pair of feet resting on a daybed, toothbrushes in a shared bathroom, a damp forearm caressed by beachside sunlight – it pricks us with sharp moments when the violence and power dynamic inherent in such intimacy are revealed. “When did you film this?” we hear a man asks as he watches the footage of himself in sleep. Sounding amused and baffled at once, he laughs it off (“Creep [laughs]”), but we become alarmed by the undertone of intrusion and deception. The ethical ambiguity involved in art and love reveals itself further as the film unfolds. “I’m recording this,” “Are you taking a video?” “You filming already?” – conversations between those taking videos and those being recorded remind us that artmaking in itself is an act of negotiating violation and preservation. In the film, moments of affection and closeness are described so meticulously, to the point where it almost feels uncomfortably coercive and intrusive. On top of the audio describers’ voices, subtitles give names to even the most abstract ambient sounds in the film’s soundtrack. In addition, in the fully audio-described version of the film, another voice fills us in on everything contained by the footage. The obsessive describing heightens the tension that simmers between the describing subjects – the ones who speak – and the described others – the ones who are spoken for. To describe, to record, to make a film about intimacy, to insert one’s fist into a lover’s mouth – the maze Parkin’s exhibition invites us into is precisely one made of these acts of entangled violence and tenderness. Cindy Ziyun Huang is a London-based writer, editor and translator. Her writings about art have been published by art magazines including ArtReview. Her creative writings can be found in literary magazines such as Sine Theta Magazine and Tiny Molecules. She co-edits Qilu Criticism, an independent online forum formed in 2021 to expand spaces for critical discussions on contemporary art in Chinese.

According to Phillips insiders in my DMs, Highley is an “all around nice guy”. I can believe it, but I often find myself watching him on the auction block while imagining him in a more compromising position than just holding a gavel. But what makes Henry Highley tick? And why is he so hot? writes New York-based daddy influencer and writer The Art Daddy for Fetch London. Auctioneer Henry Highley in the Phillips saleroom in London. Image courtesy of Phillips. When it comes to auctioneers in the art world, there are a few that have become household names: Jussi Pylkkänen formerly of Christie's, Simon de Pury formerly of Phillips, and Helena Newman of Sotheby's are all standouts for their talent and flair on the podium and have come to establish themselves in this space for many reasons. The three major auction houses––Phillips, Christie's, and Sotheby's–– are known the world over for their sale of luxury items and record breaking items often making headlines inside and outside of the art world. While the artwork is a big draw for many, for me, it really is about the auctioneer. They call the shots, set the tone, and really run the show for the art, bidders, and everyone else in the room. In an age where auction watching has reached new popularity, the auctioneer that is miles above everyone else in my book is Henry Highley. Highley, who is based out of Phillips in London, is as handsome and debonair as they come. Younger than some of his other counterparts, Highley's looks are definitely something that set him apart as well as his poise on the podium, and his charisma which is apparent any time you see him. And dare I say, an aspiring art influencer. Here he is preceding over Phillip's 20th Century & Contemporary Art Evening Sale at an evening sale where you can see the man in action. Highley introduing bottle top tapestry by El Anatsui What is it about a handsome British man on the auction block that is selling million dollar works of art that gets my heart racing? And what is it specifically about Henry Highley that sets the sould ablaze? I think the devil is in the details here, and while most auctioneers of Highley's status tend to be well coiffed, are in exquisitely tailored suits, or designer dresses, there is an ease and a confidence that comes with him that it has taken other auctioneers years to cultivate. Highley commands some of the best that the British Empire has to offer. The UK gave the world James Bond; they also gave us Henry Highley (more on this comparison later). In an unofficial poll done recently via my Instagram which posed the question, “What is the hottest thing about Henry Highley?” people answered with an overwhelming 50% to prince charming good looks/panty dropper status, 20% the perfect hair, 20% the accent, and 10% for his commanding auction presence. In a 2019 interview with Artnet, Highly noted that he was a 2008 graduate of Newcastle University where he was an art history major. After graduating, Highley began working for Phillips where he has remained ever since. He has risen the ranks at the luxury auction house and is currently the head of private sales in Europe and the Principal Auctioneer where he often presides over contemporary and modern art auctions. Well, it's not hard to see why the head auctioneer is daddy. He is suave and has all on the moves on the podium and I am guessing in other facets in life as well. I am also very curious about the compulsion to want to be an art auctioneer, and how a role like this has just become such a natural fit for our British heartthrob. Last month Phillips released a video with several of their auctioneers featured on it including Highley. In the short video, Henry Highley, Jonny Crockett, Danielle So, and others are all asked various questions about their job including “what is the best part of being an auctioneer?”, “what is the most challenging part of your job?” and “describe your auctioneer style.” The last one is where things got interesting. Henry's answer is cocky and eclectic, and is just what we would expect from our favorite heartthrob auctioneer.  The Phillips auctioneer of 10 years noted he thought he was very much like “James Bond” but was maybe closer to “Harry Potter.” Highley, who is incredibly handsome and has earned a reputation for it, is also smooth on the auction block and rarely seems to waver there and with his knowing smile, reassuring British accent, and gavel in hand. From his Instagram, I have determined that he is a fan of the outdoors, has trained for triathlons, and sees a lot of art. Henry is like a slow burn on the auction block and in real life as well. Most of his posts are art related, which isn't shocking given his profession. And, frankly, what can’t this man do? There will be an occasional selfie in a story and a repost. I was screaming last month when he reposted himself getting cozy with the British art historian Katy Hessell (who has made waves with her podcast and book, The Story of Art Without Men) and another woman. His thirst traps though, while far and few inbetween, leave me, and his 4,000 followers wanting more. He wants us to want him, but we already do. But isn’t that always the case? Highley's active and glamorous lifestyle does in some ways seem to resemble the widely popular 2023 dark film Saltburn. While Highley's life does not necessarily mirror the movie's plot, the garden parties, country estates, yachts, exclusive events, and expensive clothes seem to track: Highley is living an aspirational lifestyle. Not quite British royalty, but maybe closer to art auctioneer royalty, Highly has all the earmarks of an art star in the making. And, given his proximity to power and wealth, he also seems to be potentially attainable. Perhaps this is what is the hottest thing about Highley: the fantasy he projects that we as auction watchers, and consumers of his social media life are able to cast onto him. And who better to lust after than Henry Highley? He is obnoxiously handsome, extremely knowledgeable about contemporary art, has a big job, is a well known name in his industry, and is not even 40 yet. To me, the best is yet to come for Highley and I cannot wait to watch him - and, hopefully, post more thirst traps in the process. The Art Daddy is a Brooklyn, New York-based daddy influencer and writer. AD runs the art world Instagram juggernaut account @theartdaddy_ and a weekly substack with the same name dedicated to all daddy and art things.

Tania Delgado is the director of the renowned Festival Internacional del Nuevo Cine Latinoamericano (International Festival of New Latin American Cinema), one of the most prestigious film festivals in Latin America. Established in 1979 by Cuban filmmaker and intellectual Alfredo Guevara, the festival emerged in response to the growing recognition of the need to represent and elevate Latin American cinema, which had long been overlooked on the global stage. As the current director of the festival, held annually in Havana, Cuba, Tania plays a pivotal role in maintaining its revolutionary ideals and showcasing contemporary Latin American cinematic achievements. It was a pleasure to sit down with Tania in advance of the screening of Holly Aylett and Michael Chanan's 1986 documentary, The Havana Report, of the 7th edition of the festival, as part of the inaugural year of Screen Cuba Film Festival. In our conversation, Tania shared insights into her fascinating trajectory, from her training in law to her unexpected journey into her current role. A pivotal figure in curating and showcasing the diverse talents of Latin American filmmakers, Tania shares the challenges and joys of organising a film festival, and advancing the art of cinema in the region, as well as her vision for the future of the Havana Film Festival as it approaches it’s 45th anniversary. Stills from The Havana Report, 1989 Can you tell me about your impressive journey into your role as, director of Havana Film Festival, your transition from law to film, and what sparked your interest in film? It was quite a journey. Before taking on the role of director, I worked at the festival, as a minion – a joke I like to make. I was involved in a behind-the-scenes capacity, managing calls and organising logistics, but I wasn't part of the festival leadership, or anything like that. Then, last year, I was invited to become the director of the film festival, which was something I had never thought about. I'm not a filmmaker or a critic, and so didn’t initially anticipate this role. In Cuba, when I was growing up, we had a tradition of going to the cinema, this doesn’t exist in the same way anymore. But, when I was growing up, I have very fond memories of being taken to the cinema by my parents every week, to a cinema that was close to our house. At University, I studied law, both my mother and father are lawyers, and so am I. I worked as a lawyer for many years. However, my journey into the arts began when I joined the Copyright Centre of Cuba. I’d always had an interest in arts, I’d studied music and so to me it felt like a natural process to begin to work with all of that. I wrote my thesis about copyright law and began working with the Centre after graduating. After a few years of working closely with the lawyers at ICAIC, I was invited to join the Centre as part of the Animation Studios. I was very young at the time, 28, and this was very exciting. I am also somewhat of an animation nerd, and it was a great experience. It was amazing and beautiful, I got to know the beginning and the end of the whole creative process, something that I didn’t think in my wildest dreams that I would be doing. In 2018, I was approached to participate in the process of changing the legislation for independent producers. So, I worked as Vice President for ICAIC for five years, overseeing the production processes for independent films and managing foreign relationships. Finally, last year there was the need for presidency the Havana Film Festival, which I had been attending and involved with through my work with ICAIC, they asked me to do it – and so I said I would. The Havana Film Festival 2022 at the Payet Theater in Havana, Cuba. Courtesy of Maisna/Dreamstime. Tell me a bit about your inaugural year? This work is undeniably beautiful and incredibly creative. You meet a lot of people in the cinema industry. But it is a challenge also, for example, last year we received almost 2000 film submissions, from which our programmers had to select less than 10% of for the festival. So it is a very hard process, which also has to be done within four months or so. Not only do you have to watch all those films, but you also have to curate, and organise the entire programme. This includes not only the film screenings but also the industry sector programme, which is built from scratch each year. We need to consider the interests of both the industry and the Latin American audience, ensuring that our festival serves as both a showcase for Latin American cinema and a platform for networking and collaboration. One of the main objectives of the festival is to serve as a meeting point for everyone involved in the industry. The festival is held in December, at the end of the year, almost the beginning of the next one, marking the transition from one year to the next. It’s a moment to reflect on the year’s work and to prepare for the year ahead. It is a challenging but immensely gratifying experience. Can you tell me a little bit about what you look for in the films that you show at the festival? We don't adhere to specific topics or film styles at our festival. Instead, our selection process revolves around identifying films that we believe are exceptional or particularly representative of the region. For instance, last year, out of the 2000 submissions we received, we showcased two films from Guatemala, which is a country that you almost never think about in terms of cinematography. But it was fantastic. We don’t limit ourselves, we prioritise the quality and essence of the films themselves. Last year, during our curation process, we began to notice a prevalent theme among the selected films: family dynamics and also violence. The films explored various aspects of familial life and interpersonal relationships: family dysfunctionalities, relationships between family members, challenges faced by adolescents, and all kinds of violence. Sometimes the films lead you to that path organically. That's the beauty of the selection process; it often leads us to unexpected discoveries. Deciding on which films to include in the festival can be a very challenging and subjective task. Our discussions are rich and diverse, reflecting the different tastes, experiences and personal perspectives of our team. Ultimately, it’s this diversity of viewpoints that enriches our selection process and ensures that we present a compelling and varied programme to our audience. How has your experience of joining the festival planning midway this year influenced your understanding of the festival's timeline and the collaborative process involved in planning for both the current and future editions? I began last year's festival in during the middle of the process, and while I had been involved with the festival from my office at ICAIC, I didn’t get the process from the beginning. The festival isn’t just a four month process, it’s a year old journey, that demands attention to every detail. As a team, we brain storm ideas, reflecting on what worked and what we can improve. Last year marked the 44th anniversary and so we were already thinking about the 45th. Our aim isn’t to overextend ourselves but to keep the festival fresh and vibrant with innovative ideas and collective effort. Still from La edad de la peseta by Pavel Giroud (2006), presented by the festival at the Hotel Nacional de Cuba in February What is the ethos of the festival? The Havana Film Festival began in 1979, when it emerged as a pivotal gathering point for Latin American filmmakers. It was born out of a profound need to provide a platform for the burgeoning cinema of the region, especially amidst the backdrop of political turmoil and cultural transformation in Central and South America. At the time, Latin America wasn’t seen anywhere. Latin American films struggled for recognition on the global stage, despite the rich culture and importance of the region. The festival sought to rectify this by offering a spotlight for these films, showcasing their depth, diversity and cultural significance. Over the years, the festival’s core mission remained unwavering: to serve as a point of encounter for Latin American filmmakers, industry professionals, and cinephiles. It became a nexus where filmmakers, producers, critics and audiences converged to celebrate the art of storytelling through film. Beyond mere entertainment, the festival became a space for dialogue, exchange, and collaboration, fostering connections that transcended borders and bridged cultures. While we honour our past and the traditions that have shaped us, we also recognise the need to adapt to changing times and technologies. We have to embrace innovation in order to maintain those core values. This responsibility weighs heavily on the Festival, as it represents the culmination of years of dedication from countless individuals who have contributed to the festival's success. From pioneers like Alfredo Guevara, Julio García Esponiza, Tomás Gutiérrez Alea, Humberto Solás, etc., to the talented filmmakers and industry professionals who have emerged from Latin America, the festival's impact is profound. It's not just a celebration of cinema; it's a testament to the dreams and aspirations of an entire region. The Foundation of New Latin American Cinema and the establishment of the School of Cinema and Television are just a few milestones in our journey. We've come a long way, but there's still much work to be done. The festival serves as a reminder of our collective dreams and aspirations, and it's an honor to be part of that legacy. Tomás Gutiérrez Alea filming in 1968, image courtesy of ASPECT How do you think that those revolutionary dynamics have changed or stayed consistent over the years? The dynamics of revolution played a big part in shaping the perspectives and movements within Latin America. If you know a little bit about Cuban history, you will know that figures like our national hero, Jose Marti, emphasised the unity of Latin America despite its diverse cultures. He spoke about Latin America as a whole thing, the continent a sum of its parts, as a whole culture. There are many different cultures, many different screens in the South but in the end it’s Latin America. This sentiment has permeated through the revolutionary movements, influencing the cinematic and cultural landscape. While there may be nuances and shifts over the decades, the core objective remains consistent: to foster unity, facilitate dialogue, and promote cultural exchange. The revolution serves as a driving force to preserve our collective heritage with the world. What are your goals for the future of the festival? For this year? For the festival itself, the goal remains the same: to curate an exceptional selection of films and to attract audiences. However, we’re facing challenges, particularly with dwindling cinema audiences after COVID, and with increasingly limited access to technology needed for screenings. We’re also focused on trying expanding our reach beyond Havana to all Cuban provinces, but this is hindered by technological constraints. As for the programme, we aim to maintain around 200 – 220 titles. On the industry side, as we approach the 45th anniversary, we’re reflecting on the past while planning for the future. We’re revaluating our strategies to engage younger audiences and exploring new avenues for film distribution. Distribution is often overlooked in favour of production funding, but it’s crucial for the sustainability of the industry. This year, our main focus in the industry sector is distribution. We’re planning sessions to discuss this topic and hoping to bring film commissions on board to showcase the realities of different countries and the opportunities in them. Our aim is to create a platform for filmmakers, producers, and distributers to network and collaborate. It’s a challenging task to coordinate all these elements, but it’s also the beauty of the job. It requires bringing together diverse stakeholders, negotiating schedules, and finding common ground. It’s about creating an environment where creativity thrives and connections are made. And while it’s a daunting task, it’s also incredibly rewarding to see the festival come together and make a meaningful impact on the film industry. The 45th edition of the Festival Internacional del Nuevo Cine Latinoamericano will take place in Havana from December 5 to 15, 2024. Agnès Houghton-Boyle is a critic and programmer based in London. Her writing features in Talking Shorts Magazine and Fetch London.

The average East Asian collector has deeper pockets, broader (dare one say… better?) taste, and less hang-ups about artist identity than their Western counterparts. Which begs the question – why is Art Basel Hong Kong not giving them the option to buy good art? writes Victoria Comstock-Kershaw. Image courtesy of Sebastian Ng/SOPA Images/LightRocket via Getty Images Following a four-year hiatus, Art Basel Hong Kong has finally returned to its pre-pandemic scale. This year's participation surpassed last year's by 37%, totalling 242 galleries from over 40 countries. Works have sold, satellite exhibitions were well-attended and the city’s art scene is seeing a massive renewal - helped partly by Phillips opening a new showroom in 2023 and both Sotheby’s and Christie’s launching new salerooms and headquarters this year. According to this years Art Market Report, published by UBS/Art Basel earlier last month, “significant numbers of new, young and ambitious collectors are entering the market, particularly in China, with events like art fairs forming a pipeline of business for dealers and gallerists”. Even amidst an overall economic slowdown, China, encompassing both mainland China and Hong Kong, has surpassed the UK to become the second-largest art market, with a share of 19% compared to the UK's 17%. According to McAndrew, sales in China experienced a 9% increase, reaching an estimated $12.2 billion for the year, while Hong Kong itself saw art exports rise by nearly 60% in the first quarter compared with the same quarter in 2022. Looking around the VIP evening of the event, the figures are not difficult to believe: there are very few Westerners milling around, and those that do generally work for American or European galleries. This might be a natural result of the fact we are, after all, in Hong Kong, but the average European Art Basel event will see a much stronger relative presence of East Asian collectors and a much lower relative presence of East Asian galleries. It’s also not difficult to determine what sort of art these collectors are interested in: the rise and subsequent fall of the ‘Hypebeast’ collector has been well-documented, but something like his more enlightened younger brother is heading sale efforts in Hong Kong. Young Asian collectors headed the weekend with the likes of Youngho Kuk and Ruby Huang making major purchases from European galleries like Galerie Mai 38 or David Zwirmer (who sold the vast majority of their preview-day sales into Asian-based collections). These are not young people blindly throwing money at spray-painted canvases of Mickey Mouse smoking a joint: collectors like Alan Lo, Lin Han, Ella Ma, Matthew Shieh, Leo Shih, Pierre Chen, Victor Ma, Leslie Sun, Robert Tsao, Jay Cho and Yan Du have been developing genuinely sophisticated and lucid collections including works from Aaron Curry, Louise Lawler, Michael Asher, Liu Xiaohui, Maria Lassnig, Seth Tane, Chris Martin, Cheikh Ndiaye, Phil Tinari, Amalia Ulman, Sean Raspet, Mami Kataoka, Samson Young, So Yo Hen, Cy Gavin, Wu Chi-Tsung, Cy Twombly, Li Yuan-Chia, Mark Bradford, Gabriel Ritter, Gregor Muirs and more that span mediums from painting to installation to sculpture to photography to video to sound. It’s a starkly different scenario from that of the mid-2000s, where collectors (mostly interested in painting and sculpture) residing in Asia typically fell within the age bracket of their mid-50s. Image courtesy of Keith Tsuji/Getty Images One of the biggest differences between these youngblood collectors and their Western counterparts is that, according to Shana Wu, art adviser specialising in the Chinese art market, East Asian collectors born after 1980 are purchasing artworks “without particular attention to the age, nationality, or background of the artist”. I have touched upon young Western collectors’ obsession with the ethnic, sexual, religious and gender identity of their artists in an article about art market attitudes to female artists last month. It’s a facet notably lacking from ABHK: I don’t see the word “queer” mentioned once, even by the more liberal Western galleries like mother's tankstation limited or Venus Over Manhattan. Even London’s Victoria Miro, who sold three Yayoi Kusama’s works, made no mention of the fact that the Japanese artist is the only woman in the top 50 top-selling artists in the world. It’s a deeply refreshing attitude. I ask Hong Kong-based collector Ella Ma whether the identities of her artists ever play a role in her decision to purchase an artwork. “No,” she laughs as she gestures at me, “I think this is something more for you guys [in the West].” I ask if she thinks this has helped or hindered the Asian market, and she shrugs, “I look at the art, not the artist.” A Taipei-based collector I speak to at the Gagosian booth concurs; “I get very long emails asking if I want to buy from artists, and they say nothing about the art, no photos, just texts about the childhood and the type of… they do.” He pauses to make the finger-in-hole gesture, “I have to tell [the sellers] I don’t care. I want to know about the money! Am I going to like owning this piece as [an] investor? Show me pictures! Show me numbers! I don’t want to know this stuff.” Tokyo-based collector Sean Sato puts it a little more elegantly: “Of course we do market research to see how well artists have performed in the past, but what will always be the primary deciding factor is the first impression that an artwork gives.” he tells me. “[American artist and writer] Robert Irwin teaches us to develop our own sensibilities and tastes and to figure out what we like across history and time. That is something immediate, it is not something gained by learning about the artists, it is something achieved through ourselves and our own knowledge of art.” While some might cynically expect little from any Art Basel event, I was pleasantly surprised by Paris+ par Art Basel 2023 in Paris last year. There were of course the usual duds – Tom Sachs, Anish Kapoor, Joel Mesler, Michael Kagan, Javier Calleja, the neverending litany of artworks emulating mobile phone screens – but some genuinely impressive works were on display too. BLUM and Massimodecarlo’s booths were excellent, touting some extremely good works like Rob Pruitt’s Suicide Paintings series or Lonnie Holley’s sculptures inspired by black American civil right struggles. Of the artworks sold during the fair itself, Georg Baselitz’s fantastic Sommer in Dinard (2023) and Barbara Chase-Riboud’s 2008 glorious deep red reimagining of her sculpture All That Rises Must Converge (1973) showed that Art Basel exhibitors are very much capable of pulling together some really delicious pieces that still have financial value, alongside some more demure but nevertheless stellar modern works like Alfred Courmes’s Saint Sébastien aux fléchettes (1934) and Michel Parmentier 18 février 1968 (1968), both sold by Galerie Loevenbruck. Paris+ had 154 exhibitors to ABHK’s 243, so it was not unreasonable to expect at least some quality works to have been on offer to the lucrative and educated East Asian market. This was, sadly, not the case. I will not sit here and list all of the bad artworks; to do so would be as mean as it would be meaningless. There were the usual Western suspects: Kapoor, Drexler, Salvo, Alex Israel, and, of course, more Javier Calleja (although I perhaps understand how his saccharine figures might appeal to an East Asian market). There were some disappointing East Asian artists too, who appear to be leaning into the Zombie Formalism revival (can the dead rise twice?): Grotto Fine Art, one of Hong Kong’s only galleries devoted solely to local artists, was championing deeply bland works like Wai Pongyu’s A Rhythm of Landscape 9 (2019), Thaddaeus Ropac’s Heemin Chung’s Marigold in June (2023) or Pace Gallery’s Mika Tajima’s Negative Entropy (Seishoji Priest Prayer Drumming, Mustard, Quad) I (2024) (really, the names should tell you everything you need to know) - a shame, as other booths featured Chinese talent like Song Huai-Kuei (better known as Madame Song), Bai Yiyi, Ching Ho Cheng, and Liang Hao with moderate success. Alex Israel and his AI video installation REMEMBR at Art Basel HK 2024. Image courtesy of Victor Cheng/BMW Considering the recent expansive (and well-deserved) coverage of Koon’s bubble-burst I was surprised to see so many figurative sculptural artworks, including works by Hans Op de Beeck and George Condo, although especially egregious were the horrifying anime “lolitas” by Takashi Murakami's protégé Mr. Indeed, scale appeared to be the primary focus of the fair, with the Encounters section dedicated to large works, often taking up rooms worth of space. It’s a tell-tale sign of art fairs’ growing desire to appeal to the selfie crowd, as well as attempts to secure the much-sought-after virality championed by stunts like Cattelan’s Comedian banana at Art Basel Miami in 2019 or, as Vulture puts it, “pranks” like MSCHF’s infamous ATM leaderboard. Berlin-based neugerriemschneider’s press liaison Jonathan Freidrich Stockhorst asked last year of Art Basel Miami: “where is the threshold between the highly regarded art canon and the highly accessible?” This year's ABHK seems to answer: there isn’t one. This is not to say that there was no good art at all. Los Angeles-based gallery David Kordansky pleasantly surprised after a rather meagre booth in Paris last year, having picked up the pace with some charming pieces from the likes of Hilary Pecis and Martha Diamond. In fact, a stronger focus on the abstract seemed to be a winning formula for many of this years galleries: Junko Oki’s installation for the Kosaku Kanechika booth is a cogent ode to motherhood comprised of Edo-period clothing and taut materials that capitalises extremely intelligently of the resurgence of textiles as a gendered art form. From left to right, top to bottom: Wai Pongyu, A Rhythm of Landscape 9 (2019), Heemin Chung, Marigold in June (2023), Junko Oki, installation view in Kosaku Kanechika’s booth. Image ourtesy of Kosaku Kanechika. There are some pieces that appealed to my own Irwin-esque sensibilities: despite all my feminist tendencies I still love a good Hajime Sorayama sculpture, presented this year by Tokyo-based gallery Nanzuka, and I was impressed by Kasmin’s collection of figurative works including Walton Ford’s Minotaura (2013) and two large-scale Diana Al-Hadid works. Cao Yu’s towering neon I Just Don't Want You to Live Btter Than I Do (2021) is a nice departure from her more puritanical works, and seeing Shi Hui, one of the first Chinese artists to engage in contemporary fiber art in the 1980s propped up against Madame Song’s impressive woven goat wool and sisal wall reliefs from the 1970s was an excellent curatorial choice from MABSOCIETY’s BANK booth. Overall, however, there was a total paucity of good or even interesting individual works. Installation view of BANK’s booth at Art Basel Hong Kong, 2024. Courtesy of BANK/MABSOCIETY. By their very nature art fairs have never been the natural home of narrative, but it’s a genuinely impressive feat to cover all 91,500 square metres of the Hong Kong Convention and Exhibition Centre without managing to say a single thing. Beijing-born artist Lí Wei’s large-scale sculpture Once Upon a Time (2020-24), composed of wax figures of Putin, Merkel and Bush as children sitting on an automated playground is possibly the closest any of the artworks get to becoming overtly political, or even politics-adjacent. I don’t believe contemporary art has to be ostensibly political to be good (and here I purposefully sidestep the ‘well actually all art is political’ debate for the sake of all of our sanities), but Wei’s piece is a bland, flavourless rip-off of Sun Yuan and Peng Yu’s Old People’s Home (2007). It's extremely telling that Art Basel has chosen the most diffidently milquetoast of artworks to check off the ‘socially aware’ box. From left to right: Lí Wei, Once Upon a Time (2020-24), Sun Yuan & Peng Yu, Old People’s Home (2007) In an era of sinophobia it would be easy journalism to attribute this to censorship fears and tensions concerning the current political condition of the city state, especially in the cultural wake of the arrests following the Hong Kong protests. Artists, we may fret, simply aren’t even allowed to be radical in Hong Kong. News outlets from CNN to The Art Newspaper certainly haven’t shied away from insinuating that the fair would be affected, nay, devastated by the ins and outs of Hong Kong politics. It’s understandable to a certain extent: American artist Patrick Amadon had a billboard containing names of jailed activists taken down in 2023, and Danish sculptor Jens Galschiøt has claimed there has been a warrant out for his arrest following the Hong Kong government’s alleged seizure of his artwork The Pillar of Shame commemorating the 1989 Tiananmen Square massacre since 2021. But have these events really affected the sort of art being made in the contemporary sphere? “Plenty of [contemporary] artists have been greylisted because of [their involvement with the protests], it’s true,” admits Adrienne Lyuang of Hong Kong-based art advisory OtherDay. “But it’s not as sinister as it sounds. Galleries don’t want to work with artists who have been involved with the law, if it’s protesting or drunk-driving it’s the same. It’s for reputation[‘s sake]. At Paris Art Basel [a well-known contemporary German artist] was greylisted from [a European gallery] because [they] supported Palestine. You see it a lot in Germany. The government won’t fund artists if they have even differing political opinions. You don’t see [them] being called fascists or accused of controlling the media.” She is referring, of course, to Berlin’s proposed implementation of a new funding clause that would not allow those critical of Israel to receive financial support from the city under the guise of ensuring artists renounce “any form of anti-Semitism”. When I ask if she believes that there's a parallel to be drawn between the two situations, she says, “It’s like that here but it’s a free-market, personal choice from gallery owners. It’s not great but it’s not just Hong Kong. And it’s certainly not just Hong Kong authorities. So I think actually there are parallels but it’s better in Hong Kong because at least here it’s just about money, not morals.” From top to bottom: Patrick Amadon's "No Rioters” over Causeway Bay during 2023 Art Week. A child sits in front of Japanese artist Fuyuhiko Takata's "Cut Suits". Image courtesy of Louise Delmotte/AP In terms of pure finance, a Beijing gallery owner tells me the Hong Kong government “doesn’t have time for art like this,” while gesturing at Fuyuhiko Takata's video work Cut Suits, a large video installation of men slicing up worn clothing in the style of Yoko Ono’s 1964 Cut Piece behind a stack of sartorial detritus that can be interpreted as being critical of Chinese society and masculinity. I mention Hong Kong’s newly instated security law, widely known as Article 23, which is aimed at curbing dissent, as well as Amadon and Galschiøt. He comments (rather pointedly) that “it is always gweilo [the Cantonese term for ‘white devil’]” coming to Hong Kong to “push big buttons” and that “the Dutchman is a liar and attention-seeker” before asking me if I work for an American or European magazine. When I tell him Fetch is British, he claps his hands in delight and says, “They will arrest you [in the UK] for just saying things online! But because we are Hong Kong, you think our art is being stopped by [some] big evil government.” He leaves, grumbling, but I run into him at an after-party several hours later where he proudly tells me he has sold several Hong Kong-produced works to the Tate. We pick up our conversation and after several of Foxglove’s extremely tasty but viciously potent Big Apple cocktails he is more open to discussion. I press him about the greylisting, and he gestures at the glittering city below. “Some [kid] does some ugly graffiti and gets arrested. He is not arrested because he [is] threatening the government, he’s arrested for breaking the law. Art is art, government is government. Everywhere has rules. Whatever!” Outside of Art Basel the city’s art scene is very much thriving, as it always has: from underground sound installations-cum-concerts beneath flyovers in Kwun Tong to sketching sessions hosted by White Cube and Tunji Adeniyi-Jones in Soho House, the vast majority of Hong Kong artists that aren’t graffiting the names of dissidents on the side of John Lee Ka-chiu’s limousine have all the regular opportunities afforded to artists in metropolitan areas. Some might even argue they have more: statutory bodies like Arts Capacity Development Funding Scheme as well as private collectives like the K11 Art Foundation or the Asia Society Hong Kong’s Arts and Culture Promotional Fund are also dedicated to supporting the professional development of emerging artists from Greater China and Hong Kong - and, unlike Berlin, there are no qualms about funding controversial figures with even more controversial messages (see Recalling Disappearance: Hong Kong Contemporary Art efforts dedicated to sieving through the city’s cultural archives, allegedly including police reports on the ‘King of Kowloon' graffiti artist Tsang Tsou-choi). Clearly, then, Article 23 had about as much impact for the broader implications for artistic freedom as America’s 2001 Patriot Act following 9/11 - that is to say, not a lot unless you chose to self-victimise. It is simultaneously racist and shows a base misunderstanding of art finance to insinuate that the Hong Kong authorities are directly responsible for the sort of art being made - or, indeed, being sold at fairs like Art Basel. Guests view an artwork by Yu Minjun. Image courtesy of Keith Tsuji/Getty Images. Katya Kazakina posed the conveniently open-ended question of whether it was “the end” for contemporary art’s perceived appreciatory market role in an article for Artnet last month. She’s not the only one showing growing concern about the liquidity of investment-grade art, with prices plummeting and reselling becoming increasingly difficult. There's been a noticeable disconnection between primary and secondary markets since the end of the pandemic, with primary prices reaching unsustainable levels for many artists, making it challenging to resell for a profit. Whereas Western collectors are reconsidering their approach to buying art and some opting to support young or overlooked artists rather than focusing on potential returns, East Asian buyers are driving a market based on a balance of taste and investment strategy. So where does this leave large fairs like Art Basel? As pointed out in Janelle Zara’s response to the insufferable interview clip of Josh Baer decrying the supposed overabundance of “decorative and commercial” artworks present at ABHK during a “time of climate change and war”, fairs have never been representative of what artists are making, or indeed of what collectors are seeking: rather, they show what dealers are selling. Hong Kong’s latest edition of Art Basel is further proof that no matter how well-meaningly tasteful, affluent or educated the demand is, the art market will always be dictated by supply - not the collectors, and certainly not the artists. Victoria Comstock-Kershaw is a is a London-based critic and contemporary arts writer.

What remains vivid in my memory from the pandemic is the experience of forgetting how to speak. Literally, but also figuratively, given that my love language is physical touch. There's an abundance of articles and scientific papers discussing changes in intimacy during the pandemic, which need to be consumed responsibly due to their highly triggering nature. During this challenging time - as well as before and since - art acted as one of my tools for moving forward. Recently, I had the privilege of speaking with Katarzyna Perlak, a London-based artist from Poland, who recognises this as just one of its potentials. In her diverse artistic practice spanning video, performance, textiles, sculpture, and installation, Perlak seamlessly weaves together personal and political. Her works, such as Broken Hearts Hotel (2021), not only address the challenges of intimacy during the pandemic but also extend beyond it, prompting broader reflections on human relationships and resonating with the writer Sophie K Rosa's assertion in Radical Intimacy that “to remake the world, we must pay attention to connection, care, and community as sites of struggle. Doing so could bring us closer — to ourselves and to each other — in ways that fuel our struggles towards revolutionary horizons.” Broken Hearts Hotei (2021) trailer Katarzyna, let's start with your background. How did you find yourself in London? I came to London in 2004, just a month or two after Poland joined the EU and the borders opened. It was exciting but also slightly uncertain because, before that, people from Eastern Europe couldn't enter the UK very easily. At the time, I started studying photography at the Academy of Fine Arts in Poland. I wanted to go to London to experience something new. When I came here, I decided to stay and continued studying photography at Camberwell College of Arts and then fine art media at Slade School. What made you want to stay? As far as I remember, it happened on the second day [laughs]. I came in the summer, and I loved it right away. The experience of starting here wasn't easy though, as I had very little money and had to work straight away, through which I ended up in a dodgy, underpaid job. But I was still very enthusiastic about the city and all that was happening. It was the exciting energy of London, even though I didn't know anyone to start with. Before studying photography and fine art, you pursued philosophy. Has this academic journey influenced or informed the themes and approaches in your work? I studied philosophy, and at the same time, I also enrolled part-time at the School of Folk Craft. Both of them had a significant impact on my practice. I grew up on a coal mining estate in Poland, where I didn't have a lot of access to arts and culture, so studying philosophy has opened up and inspired many unknown paths and gave me research tools I have been using since. Many of my projects still start at the libraries. The craft school was crucial because I did something with the arts for the first time. We learned so much, from ceramic sculpture to weaving, embroidery and crochet to painting icons. Niolam Ja Se Kochaneczke. Film Still That leads me to my next question. You've coined the term 'tender crafts' to describe your approach to exploring crafts from contemporary feminist, queer and diasporic perspectives. Was your interest in textiles inspired by the school? It was the school and also my grandma who embroidered and sewed a lot. The first time crafts were present in my art practice was when I made Niolam Ja Se Kochaneczke (2016), a film with folk singers where I created a fictional archive of queer love in Eastern European folklore. That was because I was very interested in folk heritage myself. From a crafts perspective, but also the heritage of all the songs. There are so many love songs in the folk archives, but they all were ‘straight’. So I was thinking about those histories represented in them and how we could reclaim them and bring queerness into Eastern European history because often, it's perceived as this Western European deviation that came to Eastern Europe, but not something that belongs to us. I wanted to bring it to where it belongs. And then, I thought about craft and its position in contemporary art; there's still this stigma or less regard for these practices. I wanted to attend to it and reimagine it from a modern-day perspective. A part of it is that you want to preserve the heritage, but of course, we all have different stories to tell as time changes. It's interesting to celebrate what we have learned and, in the meantime, for the crafts to resonate with the current events. What does tender mean for you? Why tender? I resonate with tender as it speaks both to what’s soft, caring, with/in love and also sore, uncomfortable and painful. This also applies to archiving and what’s being stitched to remember. There's tenderness in capturing those moments. There’s also tenderness in the time spent on making. Making space for yourself and others through the needle. At the same time, the labour of crafts can be heavy on the body, and if we look at the production of textiles and crafts, there's a lot of hard labour. I’m very interested in your ongoing Bated Breaths series (2020 - ongoing), a collection of embroidered handkerchiefs, which is a part of the methodology. In the series, you explore the intersections of personal histories, collective memory and cultural etiquette through different proverbs or sayings. Can you discuss the process behind selecting them? Usually, they just come to me in a situation or when I hear something on the news or see something happening. There's a mixture of different sayings. It started with proverbs, both English and Polish. Or there's something that happened that could become a saying. Some archive different political or personal moments, while others are phrases said by people close to me or my friends. I see it as a stitched archive; it's an ongoing project I aim to continue. From left to right: Hands and There is no time like the present from the Bated Breaths series This relationship between personal and political reminds me of Radical Intimacies, where Sophie K Rosa asserts that “the intimate is political.” This statement brings me to your work Broken Hearts Hotel (2021). Does it resonate with what you were aiming to achieve with the project? In this instance, the political element was at the front of it. The Leslie Lohman Museum of Arts (NYC) and The ONE Archive at the University of Southern California (LA) invited a few artists to create work exploring intimacy during the pandemic. I wanted to make a film that focused on the broken heart – and I was going through the breakup myself, so it didn't feel very political as such. I was also trying to expand on it, not only to have it about the broken heart in the context of a relationship but also different situations in which we can experience love. And, aside from making the film in which I was performing, I created these encounters where I was in a space like a hotel room, and people had around 40-minute slots to share a history of broken hearts or experiences during the pandemic with me. Why did you choose a hotel? I was always drawn to hotel rooms and hotels because they are those places that are supposed to be intimate yet open to anyone. They're also non-spaces because they have this transitory nature; they only belong to people as an intimate space for some time. Do you think the transitory nature of hotels reflects the transitory nature of intimacies and relationships? I think so. Because, sometimes, these places open up that opportunity to be the person you might not be in the regular environment. In this case, it was showing this kind of vulnerable space of being heartbroken and speaking about this through other voices because, in the text present in a movie, there are quotes from Bell Hooks, Roland Barthes and a few others. It was very personal, but often, I try to start with personal experiences, which then expand into these inter-subjective forms. A broken heart is a universal experience. So this was interesting for me because when I create work about Eastern European heritage, I feel like the access point is a bit different. Broken Hearts Hotel. Film Still. Credit: Hicham Gardaf On that note, what was the experience of inviting the audiences to participate in this work, from sharing personal broken heart histories to engaging in an intimacy quiz to listening to a bedtime love story? It was moving and quite intense, for sure. I didn't know what to expect. And also because people could ask me questions about my experiences if they wanted to. Some people were more apt for just sharing words. Yes. Some people had some stories they needed to share. It was moving for people to trust me. Sometimes, there were surprising elements. I think that's the nature of, you know, just being online. And I wanted to make sure I was present for everyone. Did interacting with those people help you get over your heartbreak? Definitely. The work was like closure for the heartbreak I experienced at the time. Is that what art can do? Help you process those wounds and heal? I think so. Whatever it is that people are working through – it doesn't have to be a clear-cut line – but I feel like for me and, as far as I know, for many others, it’s a tool to process your feelings and thoughts. Art allows you to move forward. And do you think it's also, in a way, a process of self-affirmation? You mentioned that speaking in an Eastern European accent was also significant to you in the context of this work. I'm interested in the impact of accents on social mobility. I rarely see moving images work with different accents, when it comes to English anyways. Although I modified my voice slightly – I'm speaking through a karaoke microphone with a voice modification – this also creates some distance. And because I also like to use masks, which don't allow you to access someone's identity in a way. Happily Ever After. Film Still You did mention in the film that masks have magical functions, which came up for me in your other performance and film Happily Ever After (2019), with two brides wearing masks as they walk through the streets, creating these juxtaposing images of a lesbian wedding and parades against pride and ‘deviants’. I've been working with masks for a very long time, but I always thought of them as tools that enable us to be who we wouldn't be able to be otherwise. Starting with Niolam Ja Se Kochaneczke, most folk singers I worked with only agreed to be in the film with their identities covered. I made the balaclavas, which also explored the aesthetics of resistance. At the same time, it was necessary because they wouldn't take part in the work otherwise. Then, when it came to the wedding in the Happily Ever After performance, where I created this fictional lesbian wedding, the work had a few parts. In the first part, we walked around the town and did what many couples do when they get married – have their wedding photographs taken. Then, I organised this wedding party in collaboration with other people, which started with a private dinner and then moved into the public part. Many people came as if they were coming to a wedding; they brought flowers for the brides, and there were all these elements of a traditional Polish wedding. I tried to create this temporary utopian space. Because same-sex marriage is still not allowed in Poland? Yes. In the end, I made a video that combined this so-called utopian attempt with the dystopian reality of Polish streets with all these [normality] parades. I wanted to show the challenges and, at the same time, the joy people experience during this moment. This sense of queer pride despite all these challenges is what spoke to me the most. It reminded me of the quote by Maggie Nelson in Argonauts, “The moment of queer pride is a refusal to be shamed by witnessing the other as being ashamed of you.” Does art possess the ability to reimagine what the future can be like? There's potential. But also, art is not outside the world – it’s in the world. There are a lot of obstacles in reimagining and rebuilding, and I think most recently, with certain shows being cancelled and funding being cut. This is a brutal example of that. But art does have the potential of bringing new imaginations and creating the environment we strive for. Nastia Svarevska is a London-based curator, editor and writer from Latvia. She holds an MA in Curating Art and Public Programmes from Whitechapel Gallery and London South Bank University and writes for an artist-run magazine, Doris Press. Her poetry has been featured in Ink Sweat & Tears, the Crank and MONO Fiction. You can find her on Instagram @ana11sva and her website anasva.com.

Other Places by Alexander Massouras features an array of new and recent artworks, each of which explores themes centred around time and narrative. Through his art, Massouras challenges visual realities and draws on contextual references to create compositions that are not just compelling but also poignant. writes Avantika Pathania. Installation shots courtesy of Ben Deakin For Other Places, he derives inspiration from travelling and the concept of postcards, seamlessly combining both to craft stimulating narratives. His practice is usually influenced by found imagery. “I look at postcards a lot and travel brochures, often quite old ones, for these paintings. They capture leisure and the way that we think about work and leisure, along with the going away aspect of holidaying. I tend to encounter those images, and from there I just end up putting them in decontextualized spaces. When you think of travel, there’s a kind of wish-you-were-here sentiment on postcards. These are wish you were here, but without the ‘here.’ Sometimes it’s just about the particular location or setting and the figures are just incidental. Here, the figures become the subject.” From left to right, top to bottom: Alexander Massouras, Four Summers, Castaways Hotel, 2024, Four Summers IX, 2024, Four Summers XVI, 2024, Four Summers XV, 2024 Massouras’ paintings, although different, are united by an “interest in photography.” He is an admirer of 15th-century Italian paintings and the Pop Art movement. His series titled Four Summers, a collection of paintings made between 2019 and 2024, is the most engaging in the space. These paintings employ a colour palette and theme of isolation that echoes Edward Hopper’s realist paintings. On having a resemblance with Hopper’s works, Massouras affirms, “His works look a lot like a stage set, very theatrical.” Alexander Massouras, The Triumph Of Poverty, 2011 Emily Austin, Projects Curator and Gallery Manager at Austin/Desmond explains that the curatorial process aimed to unite “different series that share common themes, such as time, relic, and antiquity, while representing the broad spectrum of Massouras’ work.” Massouras presents travelling and leisure in an ambiguous manner that is both intriguing and captivating. It is difficult to determine where all these people are situated, what they are doing, or even where they are sitting. However, this is where Massouras’ creativity truly shines, capturing an otherworldly essence that is both mesmerizing and profound. Alexander Massouras: Other Places will run from 14 March – 20 April 2024 at Austin/Desmond Fine Art. Avantika Pathania is a London-based writer and arts journalist.

Installation images courtesy of Benjamin Deakin Upon entering February’s exhibition at APT Gallery, one's attention is immediately drawn to Rebecca Partridge's large Sky Painting, where a deep indigo gradually transitions into a dusty pink ombre. There is a stillness captured in the harmonious change of hues that reminds of the very early morning; a slight light seeping into inky darkness with a hint of an impending dawn. This serves as the initial focal point, captivating viewers from a distance with its imposing scale and subtle blend of pleasing colours. Whereas the small dark canvas positioned adjacent to it prompts a viewer to approach closely to discern its intimate details. In this piece, a scattering of delicate purple wildflowers on slender stems emerge from dark grasses and seem to catch an artificial light. There is a vibrant energy and wild beauty in this scene which contrasts with the serenity of the previous image. Rebecca Partridge, Sky Painting 8, 2020 and Wildflowers, 2023 The work is a fitting introduction to Erotic Ecologies, an exhibition which draws its title from the bio-philosopher Andreas Weber’s 2017 manifesto Matter and Desire: An Erotic Ecology, urging readers to live with a perspective from ‘the inside of life’ by paying attention to the corporeal experience of being alive rather than as analysing machines standing apart from the world. The drive toward both attachment and autonomy is the fulfilment of what he calls an ‘erotic encounter, an encounter of meaning through contact, an encounter of being oneself through the significance of others’. Across the room, Sarah Kate Wilson’s piece Deep Magic (2024) and Catherine Ferguson’s intricate Schematic Objects II (2023), too share an engagement with nature, but their unconventional compositions deviate from a steady literal interpretation, requiring a viewer, as Weber encouraged, to engage with the natural beyond a purely analytical or representational standpoint. Wilson’s dynamic scribbles emerge through layers of dark black paint, revealing turquoise wax atop the shimmering hues of holographic card. This interplay cultivates a cosmic ambiance that is beautifully dark. In contrast, Ferguson's artwork unfolds against a backdrop dominated by murky brown hues, characterised by dense and interwoven brushstrokes reminiscent of coiled layers of worms or rope. Atop this textured foundation, bold sections featuring a light shade and jug are arranged in a collage-like fashion. The dim colours and odd layered images create a noticeable departure from the pleasant feelings conjured by Partridge’s pieces, leaving the viewer with an indescribable and stirring feeling. Initially seeming out of place, this very characteristic is what seamlessly aligns them with the uneasy darkness emanating from Wilson’s beautiful compilations. Sarah Kate Wilson, Deep Magic, 2024, Catherine Ferguson, Schematic Objects II, 2023 In a conversation with one of Wilson’s colleagues from the Chelsea School of Art, it was revealed that the intensity of feeling in Wilson's Deep Magic canvases was inspired by her experience of childbirth, a personal connection which adds an additional layer of depth, inviting viewers to consider the profound and personal narratives intertwined with the natural elements depicted in the exhibition. The artworks in Erotic Ecologies not only showcase individual expressions but collectively meditate on and manifest Weber’s philosophy. This exhibition, inspired by Weber's advocacy for embracing a perspective from within life itself, boldly asserts that nature is the profound wellspring of both sensual and aesthetic encounters. Inviting viewers to delve into the diverse elements that compose the tapestry of human experience, the exhibition goes beyond portraying the natural world as a subject of analysis. Instead, it positions nature as an inherent source of profound connection and meaning, mirroring Weber’s call for an immersive and engaged relationship with the world. In a narrower space leading to the final room, Eirini Boukla's Untitled artwork, consists of mohair and alpaca yarn nets hung over cardboard boxes, that resonate thematically with Partridge's ombre pieces. Boukla's exploration of depth and dimension in the interaction of colours on painted cardboard boxes highlights their materiality. The juxtaposition of colours creates visually striking depths, prompting a viewer to contemplate the origin and nature of each component within the composition. Notably, Boukla’s use of textiles invites reflection on how materials exhibit altered properties under different weather conditions, a fact observed by Boukla during the exhibition. This exploration of materials and their responsiveness aligns with Weber’s philosophy, as he posits that nature serves as the source of sensual and aesthetic experiences. Boukla’s work reflects an engagement with Weber’s concept of an ‘erotic ecology,’ where the intertwining desires for attachment and autonomy foster a profoundly meaningful connection with the world. Moreover, Boukla’s installation echoes Weber’s call for a departure from traditional paradigms, urging a more immersive and engaged connection with the natural world. The emphasis on embracing the materiality of life, acknowledging tangible aspects, and recognising the dynamic interplay between organisms and their environments aligns seamlessly with both Boukla’s work and the broader themes inspired by Weber’s philosophy within the exhibition. As we progress through the corridor-like space, Boukla's larger cardboard boxes positioned at the back beckon us into the room. The deep red mohair net stretched across a warm yellow box commands attention, while the subtle pink net atop a blue box invites closer examination to discern its nuanced presence. Boukla deliberately manipulates the contrasting and harmonious colours, skilfully playing with the depth created in this carefully arranged composition. In this context, Partridge’s artworks offer a subtle contrast with lighter and gentler transitions between shades of blue and white, reminiscent of a serene sky on a warm day. Yet, the wash of colour atop her non-primed canvases also evokes the dying technique employed by Boukla. In sharp contrast to both Partridge and Boukla, Ferguson's Film Colour painting presents a striking departure. This artwork features collages scenes of an angel flying, a yellow tablecloth adored with a tray of lemons, a possibly Sicilian scene, and a hand-drawn world map, all layered over what appears to be a grey wall. The stark difference challenges a viewer with its unexpected juxtapositions, directing our attention to the materiality of the piece. Agnès Houghton-Boyle is a critic and programmer based in London. Her writing features in Talking Shorts Magazine and Fetch London.

"Biba was the first of its kind and lived a short, spectacularly successful life. With its meteoric rise and quick downfall, the fashion brand perfectly encapsulated the spirit of '60s youth culture." says Martin Pel, curator of The Biba Story, 1964-1975 at the Fashion & Textile Museum. A lifestyle brand synonymous with '60s nostalgia, Biba was honoured on March 22nd with its own exhibition at the Fashion and Textile Museum curated by Martin Pel. In an exclusive interview with the Biba expert, we delve into the label’s impressive legacy and the resilience of its co-founder and former fashion illustrator Barbara Hulanicki. Image courtesy of Alamy Images For the typical fashion fanatic, the phrase ''’60s fashion" conjures a cavalcade of Mod cuts, optical patterns, André Courrèges futurism and Mary Quant miniskirts. Unlike the aforementioned designers, the 1964 Biba boutique (originally a mail order company) managed to capture the era's zeitgeist while also being inexpensive. "Twiggy used to go to Biba when was a schoolgirl because it was the only place to buy affordable trendy clothes" says Pel, who has authored, co-authored and edited a handful of Biba books including Biba and Beyond: Barbara Hulanicki (2012). Much of its success boils down to its illustrious mail-order catalogues; which were shot by talented photographers like Helmut Newton, James Wedge, Harri Peccinotti and Sarah Moon. Each spread went beyond the textbook layouts of typical catalogues; featuring elegant dioramas and advertorials of models in situ with the furniture and accessories comprising the “Biba lifestyle.” These tomes attracted customers across the United Kingdom (including a young Annie Lennox in Scotland), and brought them in droves to the Big Biba department store, which opened in Kensington in 1973. It was in this Art Deco building that the full Biba experience was enjoyed. There were rails of the latest fashions, a food hall, homeware section, a rose tea garden and an enigmatic restaurant-cum-nightclub on the fifth floor called the Rainbow Rooms. The ultimate place to be, it became a hang-out and concert hall for rock stars such as the New York Dolls and Liberace. A Fashion Empire Fashion-forward visitors to Pel’s exhibition can look forward to an assortment of beautifully crafted designs like a grey, leopard print trouser suit that has been donated by former Biba staff and friends of Hunalnicki. The curator is particularly excited to display a reconstruction of the famed Gingham dress that was commissioned by the Daily Mirror’s fashion editor Felicity Green and shot by the society photographer John French in 1964. At the time, the pink-gingham sleeveless shift frock and matching triangular kerchief made fashion history. Initially expected to haul in a modest sum, its spot illustrating an article on women in business in The Daily Mirror saw Biba receive over 17,000 of orders. Soon afterwards, Hunlanicki expanded her mail order company and opened Biba’s first boutique in London's Abingdon Road with the help of her husband Stephen Fitz-Simon in September 1964. Some would say that this moment marked the beginning of Hulanicki's fashion empire. It evolved into a spectacular paragon of affordable on-trend fashion that only lasted eleven years, but whose impression on the hearts and wardrobes of young Mods must not be underestimated. The One & Only Barbara Hunlanicki Pel first met Hunlanicki in 2009 and has often consulted her expertise when writing Biba related works and curating this year's exhibition. When she was twelve, the Polish born designer moved with her sisters and mother to England from Palestine after her father was assassinated. "Barbara became the emotional head of the family," says Pel. "She used drawing to escape from a new world where she didn’t know much English and had become quite difficult." Having developed a passion for drawing, she won a fashion competition advertised in the Evening Standard In 1955, and saw a swimwear outfit she designed made flesh by the British fashion designer Norman Hartnell. Hulanicki illustrations. Images courtesy of Collingsby Gallery "This was the first moment that she realised she could transfer her drawing skills to fashion illustration," states Pel. Hulanicki then pursued a career in fashion illustration after studying at Brighton Art College in the late 1950s. Her skills were soon recognised by the fashion industry, and she was invited to cover the fashion shows of revered houses like Chanel and Dior. Travelling to catwalks in Paris, London and Milan among others, her success was celebrated by a double page article in British Vogue '64. Seeing that photography was overtaking the need for illustration, "she then naturally progressed into fashion design," says Pel. Keenly aware of the lack of clothes that were accessible to young women, Hunlanicki focused her eye on bold silhouettes and patterns reminiscent of the clothes her mother made throughout her childhood. "Biba was very much Barbara's personal expression and a love note to her family," says Pel. Indeed, family values proved intrinsic to Biba's business model. Hunlanicki christened the brand after her younger sister and crafted clothing lines for children, men and women, as well as patterned wallpapers, and stationery. This range transformed Biba into a living, breathing unit of the family home. "You could literally live, eat, sleep and breathe the Biba lifestyle," says Pel, who has collected a variety of the brand's cosmetics, soups, wines and even baked beans for the exhibition. Inside Big Biba’s Artistic Interiors Crucially, Big Biba amplified its charm by embracing the aesthetics of bygone eras (an uncharacteristic move for '60s brands, who typically conformed to a post-Second World War sentiment of capitalising on the new). "Barbara was the complete opposite and her shops reflected their built-in history," explains Pel. Indeed, when the designer acquired a Victorian building desecrated with modernist interiors, she restored it to its former glory with Art Deco wallpapers, a colour palette inspired by the Pre-Raphaelites and objects drawing on Alphonse Mucha and Sarah Bernhardt. But she didn’t stop there! The eclectic interior combined elements of Hollywood's Golden Age with eccentric displays, such as a giant Snoopy and his doghouse in the children's department. Biba interior, 1970s. Images courtesy of Alamy. This formula of old-age sophisticated melodrama traversed throughout Biba’s seasonal lines and brand makeup. It was reflected in the 19th century Art Nouveau Celtic knot that formed its logo, as well as the plum pigments and dramatic makeup looks illustrating its catalogues. "The looks weren't usually pretty in a conventional sense and could be quite extreme," says Pel. "You could have blue eyeshadow, blue lipstick, blue blush, or even a blue wig." Similar to how Paris’ Le Bon Marché transformed shopping into a social event and popularised the Parisian woman archetype in 1852, Biba became a theatre of fashion glamour and poster-child for the stylish youth and household. According to Pel, it was a veritable playground for families, teenagers, models, singers and TV celebrities like Cilla Black and Cathy McGowan. "Buying a Biba garment was an investment and people still wear its clothes. They haven't lost their shape or style,” says Pel. “I would love for the exhibition to remind visitors that if you buy carefully, you can wear inexpensive clothes for a long time." But it wasn't just Biba's sustainable backbone that has made its appeal timeless, as crowds swarmed the shop floor to bag the latest must-wear item, Biba's clothing lines evolved alongside the changing tastes of the modern woman. "As the Biba girl grew into a woman, with a career and a home, the brand supplied her with everything that she would need," says Pel. "The store developed from the point of view of being a woman, rather than simply reflecting what was going on in fashion." From sensual silhouettes in the late '60s to a '50s inspired revival in the '70s, Hunlanicki was careful to adapt her primarily Mod collections to the mood of the moment. Images via Alamy Long Live Biba! Despite its booming popularity, Biba's short life on the high street meant that it closed its doors in 1975. In an attempt to save the label, Dorothy Perkins and Dennis Day made a 75% stake that saw the formation of Biba Ltd. But following disagreements with the board over creative control, Hunlanicki left the company and the store closed again after two years. Further attempts to relaunch the brand in the late 2000s were also unsuccessful. Since then, there's been a musical, documentary and a handful of mentions in films like Made in Dagenham (2010) and Bohemian Rhapsody (2018). As for Hulanicki, the end of Biba "was like losing a child," says Pel. She moved to Brazil soon afterwards and then to Miami in the late '80s, where she made a splash designing interiors for Art Deco hotels and rock stars like Ronnie Wood from The Rolling Stones. "She has been credited as being the spark that reignited Miami," says Pel, who reports that she received the keys to the city from the mayor only two months ago. "She may be 87 but there's no stopping her creative drive! She's incredible, and is always working on something." Not one to revisit the past, Hunlinicki was initially hesitant to reprise her time at Biba when she was first approached by Pel all those years ago. But her enthusiasm for the exhibition has been unfailing. "We talk on the phone regularly and I send her images of the show," says Pel, crediting her involvement in its curation. He’s audibly excited to unveil the displays to Hunlanicki, who has made the journey from Miami to London to see it. And we can’t wait to join her! Raegan Rubin is London-based freelance journalist specialised in art and fashion history, subcultures, social justice, sustainability, LGBTQ+ and Fetish culture. Martin Pel is curator of fashion and textiles at the Royal Pavilion & Museums, Brighton. He has curated numerous exhibitions including Lee Miller: Dressed (2023), Stephen Jones Hats at the Royal Pavilion (2019), and Biba and Beyond: Barbara Hulanicki (2012). He has authored, co-authored and edited four books including The Biba Years 1963 – 1974 (V&A Publishing, 2014). The Biba Story, 1964-1975 is on at the Fashion & Textile Museum, 83 Bermondsey Street, from 22 March 2024 – 8 September 2024.

behold your heart: Dante Biennale is a picturesque rendezvous of artworks celebrating Dante Alighieri at Rebecca Hossack Gallery bringing together the best of contemporary art's contemplations on the fourteen century writer. writes Avantika Pathania. behold your heart: Dante Biennale is the latest group exhibition at Rebecca Hossack showcasing contemporary artworks that draw inspiration from the life and writings of Dante Alighieri. The show includes previously-existing works like Tobias Till’s silkscreen prints (based on the first and final canticles of the Divine Comedy, Inferno and Paradiso). Others were commissioned by the gallery for the exhibition, such as Alice Macdonald’s watercolour series depicting scenes from Francesco Bertolini's 1911 silent film L’Inferno. Image courtesy of Avantika Pathania. Dante Alighieri, the fourteen-century Italian writer, poet and philosopher, has had a profound influence on Western visual culture best known for his magnum opus, the Divine Comedy (c. 1308 and completed around 1321). The narrative poem presents a vivid portrayal of the afterlife and explores themes of sin, redemption, and divine justice. Dante’s imaginative language and imagery, combined with an impressive array of knowledge and incisive analysis of contemporary issues, make it an awe-inspiring work that continues to captivate, inspire and terrify audiences to this day. Alice Macdonald, watercolours (2024) Courtesy of Rebecca Hossack. Dante’s life was defined by his love for his ideal Beatrice Portinari (the daughter of the banker Folco Portinari and wife of Simone dei Bardi, a woman whom Dante only met twice) as well as the injustices and exile he faced, themes that have proved to be a rich source of inspiration for artists across the ages. Beatrice is a recurring central character in several of the exhibitions artworks. Hepzibah Swinford’s Beatrice Entering the Heavenly Realms (2023) is a cross-cultural coalescence of Dante’s Beatrice and Buddhist spiritual art, which is reminiscent of Thangka paintings. Thangkas are renowned for their ability to provide profound spiritual inspiration, fostering a sense of connection with the divine and inspiring contemplation about divine love. Typically featuring a central Buddhist deity or teacher alongside associated gods and lineage figures, these paintings may depict important religious events or myths, or offer a detailed representation of a particular deity’s realm in the form of a mandala. Meanwhile, Beatrice is a character in Dante’s Inferno, who serves as a symbol of divine love and is believed to have the power to transcend the limitations of time and space. She also plays a critical role as the patroness of Dante’s pilgrimage through the underworld. As his real-life muse, Beatrice’s character represents a significant aspect of the work’s theological and philosophical underpinnings. Tatyana Serraino, Gallery Associate at Rebecca Hossack emphasises Swinford’s inspiration from Buddhist spirituality that forms the visual crux of the painting, with Beatrice entering through the different realms of heaven. The combination of Western and Eastern cultures to create a work of art is transforms the work into a truly universal masterpiece, no longer belonging to just one realm. From left to right: Hepzibah Swinford, Beatrice Entering the Heavenly Realms (2023), John Holcomb, Beatrice & Dante, 2024 (after Henry Holiday's Dante and Beatrice 1884-84 From Serraino further elucidates, “Even if you have not read the Divine Comedy, you will, in some way, be impacted by it. You might be using phrases or concepts that he introduced, from the narrative poem without knowing it. He is a household name, especially in Italy.” John Holcomb’s Pink Dante (2024) re-imagines Botticelli’s Portrait of Dante (c. 1495) infused with a Warholian pop-art crosscurrent. “Though inspired by Fauvism, he is also simultaneously looking back and forth.” On the curatorial process Serraino explains, “We had a lot of fun figuring out how best to place the artworks to create the strongest narrative possible. All works are so unique in the way they interpret the themes and ideas of Dante. They highlight a beautiful interplay of multiple influences.” She talks about the gallery’s first exhibition on Dante that took place two years ago, entitled Inferno, which was to celebrate Dante’s 700th death anniversary. The positive response and impact of this exhibition led to Rebecca Hossack deciding to institute a Dante Biennale in which, every two years, the gallery will present an exhibition inspired by Dante. “Compared to the previous Dante exhibition, this one is more expansive as it not only derives inspiration from Inferno but from all parts of the Divine Comedy: Paradiso, and Purgatorio as well.” Indeed, the essence of Dante’s life and works is intricately captured in every artwork that pays homage to him. The works demonstrate a great deal of thought and devotion, all coming together to celebrate the genius of Dante. Dante Biennale will run from 9 March - 4 April 2024 at Rebecca Hossack Art Gallery, 2a Conway Street, Fitzroy Square, London. Avantika Pathania is a London-based writer and arts journalist. Cover image: Phil Shaw, The DIvine Comedy, 2022, (detail) Image courtesy of Rebecca Hossack.

In the realm of contemporary literature, Maria Fusco stands as a luminary, an award-winning Belfast-born working-class writer whose interdisciplinary practice spans critical, fiction, and performance writing. Her unwavering commitment to honesty and inclusivity defines her work, the core focus of which is a profound exploration of intersectionality and class. Maria currently works as Professor of Interdisciplinary Writing at the University of Dundee, and previously held the position of Director of Art Writing at Goldsmiths, University of London. In her latest collection of essays, Who does not envy with us is against us (2023), published with Broken Sleep Books and recently launched at Burley Fisher, Maria closely examines her personal history growing up working-class during the Troubles in Belfast. She shares with her readers fragments of memory, of the everyday violence of her neighbourhood, the echoes of war which could be heard through poorly built homes, and her mother’s use of language harshening across many years of conflict. Through her personal anecdotes Fusco paints a clear picture, not only of how working-class experience shapes daily life, but also of how it profoundly influences how we perceive and evaluate those experiences within the context of writing and teaching. For her most recent project, Maria took the bold step of challenging the Royal Opera House to address its historic exclusion of working-class voices. The result is the ground-breaking experimental feminist opera-film titled History of the Present, for which she has been honoured with an Engender Fellowship. Co-created with artist film-maker Margaret Salmon, and filmed on 35mm in unpredictable ways, the piece centres the voices of working-class women. It includes compositions by avant-garde 83 year old composer Annea Lockwood, a compelling libretto by Maria, archival audio featuring Maria and her mother, and improvisational vocal works by soprano Héloïse Werner, that together radically challenge the conventions of opera and carefully articulate the way that trauma is carried in the voice. The piece is currently touring nationally and internationally and is being made available to stream with the Royal Opera House’s on-demand service, making it the only non-stage performance to feature. I had the privilege of attending a screening at the Berwick Film and Media Arts Festival, where it was part of the festival’s New Cinema Awards Strand, and of engaging in a conversation with Maria following the screening about this work and her latest projects. Photography by Greag Mac a’ tSaoir In History of the Present, vocalist Héloïse [Werner] improvises the archival sounds of conflict, using her voice in challenging ways to mimic the distinctive sounds of war, of low-flying helicopter whirrs and the rumble of a Saracen armoured personnel carrier. You've discussed the initial conception of the piece as a live performance. Could you share more about what led to your decision to transition it into a cinematic work? Because I work in an interdisciplinary way, the form of my work often does develop and I'm not unused to significant changes mid-process. I had made a number of large-scale voice-based live performance pieces before, so in that way, an opera was a fairly logical way to work. I was drawn to opera’s potential to hold multiple layers of emotional registers. But operas are inherently very expensive to produce, so ultimately I felt it would be more logical to be able to make a work with this sort of subject matter that could travel around and reach different countries, in a way that people could see for free or for not very much money. Throughout the work, violence is expressed through the embodied experience of the voice, and through observing a contemporary Belfast informed by its history. In one of the sections in the opera-film, you speak aloud violent instances of the Troubles. In the most unequivocally clear section, you describe stunning moments: torn flesh lying on the pavement and a severed head, kept on ice with the Christmas turkey in the path because the ambulances couldn’t get through. These images are visceral. Could you tell me about your decision to eschew visual archival footage of the city during the Troubles and, instead, work with artist filmmaker Margaret Salmon to film contemporary Belfast – in a way that is often obscured and unsettled? When dealing with specific historical instances, even those from the recent past, there is a question of audience knowledge and responsibility. How much can you expect the audience to know? How much should they know? Who should tell them, and whose responsibility is that? As the work begins to travel, the embodied work of the camera becomes a manifestation of these questions. In one sense, it involves attempting to acknowledge the inherent challenge of not being able to quite ever definitively get at something, as if the pursuit can only be in an effort to. You can make an effort to try and get at a particular history, or particular historiographic re-telling. Importantly, for me, there is a very strong sense in the work, of testimonial, and of being a contemporary witness. The work is not a documentary, clearly, it's an experimental artist’s film. Its subjectivity is evident therefore, with the use of my voice and family recordings. I think there's an analogous relationship between the attempts that the singer, Héloïse makes, these improvisational attempts to keep up with something which is largely mechanical, and not of the body, but that the body is still trying to process, the inorganic. The experimental methods, that Margaret uses, the double exposure and the chance meetings of image upon image inherent to this technique, and sometimes with the obscuring of lens with Vaseline – there is a kind of pushing back of this notion of existing visual material by its nature being true. As we know, it’s often not true and a documentary is never a straight documentary. Did Margaret's experimental filming approach bring any surprises or unexpected perspectives that made you see the familiar location in a different light? The process of creating images involved a deliberate choice for me not to accompany Margaret during the shoots. I felt that I might reminisce too much about the familiar places, constantly being like, "I used to go here, and then we went there." While we decided on the locations together, I didn’t attend the shoots. I also didn’t accompany Annea during the in-situ field recordings. These recordings were made in Ardoyne, the area I grew up in with the peacelines there. We didn't make an enormous amount of extra material, most of what we see is mainly what we made, there’s very little wastage with it, and that's partially economic. But it's also because we made it in a modular way. We made the first bit and then we worked out what we wanted or needed before doing the next bit. It wasn't storyboarded in a traditional way, and in that way, the process was quite intuitive. On a basic level, exposure is by its nature surprising, because you don't know what you're going to get. There are some things that interested me that I hadn’t really thought about: Margaret noted that when filming folk on the Belfast streets, that they were very easy around the camera, they sort of just glide past the camera observing them and that’s because the people of Belfast are so used to having surveillance on them all the time. It’s not that they’re comfortable but they are accustomed because the level of surveillance is so high. This was something that I think I knew in myself, but hadn’t articulated, and I learnt that through seeing what was happening and the way that Margaret filmed it. History of the Present, 2023 (stills) The vocalisation also draws from archival audio of your infant voice variously crying and learning to speak, echoing your mother's inflections - it powerfully explores the intergenerational impact of violence, and trauma through voice. Can you talk a little bit about your choice to include the audio footage of you and your mother? There are three clips – one when I’m about one year old, learning to speak, and another one when I’m a bit older, present in the room but not speaking. And of course, there’s one where there is the aria towards the end where my Mother, Sally, is relating an anecdote about cleaning in the hospital she worked in. I wanted these to be historical plumb lines – the particular way of women speaking amongst themselves within the house, in a domestic space. There is an element of performance with my mother in the first one, not massively, but there was definitely a bit because she knew she was being recorded. In that recording, my grannie, is also present in the room, and those recordings are of my grandmother, my mother, my two eldest sisters, me and my brother, who is the one recording it. I wanted to include them because I think they're quite special through their ordinariness, and because the sonic spatial quality within them, is really unusual. We don't often get to hear recordings in domestic settings like these. They’re very different to the more standard oral history project, where someone would be being interviewed about what it’s like to be a woman in the Troubles for example. The spatial sense, especially the volume of the voices that people use when they’re in a small room together, it is not easy to listen to comfortably. In the first recording, I’m mimicking the tonal patterns of my mother’s voice, which obviously is one of the ways that people learn to speak, and also importantly, how they learn accent. That's how you're learning because that’s what you're hearing, so being able to, I guess, capture, that moment in time. Then sort of building an analogous relationship with the singer, Hélöise [Werner], attempting to not speak exactly, but to vocalise because there is this central question in the work and, I would say, in most of my work, about who has the right to speak, and this second bit, in what way? and who may be listened to and that tying in with that testimonial. And yet, working-class voices, particularly those of women perhaps are the ones extended most often, the ones facing strain most daily. In 2015, I made Master Rock, an experimental radio play, which was made in-situ inside of a granite cave in a power station, on the west coast of Scotland. There are three voices in the piece – an English woman’s voice, a Northern Irish man, and the voice of the granite itself. The woman’s voice is depicted by the poet and philosopher Denise Riley, known for her particular, somewhat brittle voice. She’s someone who doesn’t like performing, which she’s told me before, but is used to it as a poet. She’s got this amazing voice, and people like hearing her speak. But by recording the piece in situ, she really had to push her voice outwards. She consistently pushed her voice against the granite to see, rather to hear what came back. It wasn’t literally an echo, this process did have the quite radical effect of rewriting her voice. Working with performance writing and crafting scripts for others to perform, means that your words are no longer your own. You give them to others and all you can remember is how others have spoken them – in a sense you lose your own words. There’s an interesting distinction with that. I often write for specific, individual voices, so, in way that is not repeatable like a traditional play and I think that that testing of voice is very much at stake within a feminist close listening of what a working class women's voice is like. Particularly, what a working-class women’s is voice is like a militarised environment and how they use their voice. An example of that is in the chapter of my new book, Who does not envy with us is against us, when I talk about my mother’s swearing and her having to be hard – having to be aggressive in order not to portray weakness. Interventions, of physical or sexual violence, all the things that might be experienced in a heavily regulated military setting, are held in the voice. I can hear my mother’s voice changing across the two recordings we used in History of the Present – I wouldn’t expect anyone else to hear that change but I do, distinctly, this makes me very upset. And it’s very much linked with this sense of history entering the body, and how we hold that in our body. Obviously, we hold traumatic histories in our body, and various therapies like post-traumatic stress disorder therapy and somatic therapy focus on the voice, and putting back together, the bits that have been torn asunder through various physical, sexual acts of aggression. Somatic therapy is a particularly useful way through post-traumatic stress, to bring the bits back together again. Sometimes that literally means giving a voice, so for me, that's very significant. "One voice. One organ.": Fusco's 2018 play Ezcema explored co-occupation and incessant dialogue with eczema, a skin disease affecting an estimated 15 million people in the UK, celebrating the 70th anniversary of the NHS and commissioned by National Theatre Wales. Could you share more about your role as the founder of the Intertextual writing course at Goldsmiths, especially considering that, at that time, the term wasn't widely recognised or established? Yes, the art writing programme was the first of its type internationally. I approached the programme [in 2007] with more of a notion than a concrete idea. I’d done lot of freelance writing myself and know how difficult even writing traditional reviews are. I’d always been interested in reviewing things that I didn’t have an inherent interest in so that I’d really have to work, squeeze it, and examine it. I think there’s something within that – divergent from literary criticism or normative theoretical endeavours. At that time, there was still a prevalent belief in the possibility of an objective voice, which I found to be specious. The interdisciplinary nature of the art writing programme brought together people with varied interests. Really what it did was kind of ring a bell for people who had a sense of the importance of writing, beyond traditional training and methodologies. Whether it was performance writing, film writing, or literary writing, the focus was on the material qualities of writing within an artistic or literary context. Around the same time, I founded The Happy Hypocrite, a new journal for and about experimental art writing. The ‘for’ and ‘about’ qualification in the title strapline is crucial, it reflects on what it is doing as it is doing it, now we have clearer terms like ‘auto-theory’ or ‘auto-fiction’ or even ‘auto-textual’ to describe this approach… I think there are times when things need to be examined closely by a group of people who are intensively focused on a particular set of issues, this was my intention with the art writing programme. And those times called people towards them, and people oriented towards them and that contributed to a more rigorous and precise level of discussion that will continue to develop. As you’ll know from your own work around experimental writing, it's incredibly precise and there’s nowhere to hide. Not only does it create its own rules, and processes, and sometimes some syntaxes, it also then has to stick to them. It's a whole worlding of affect, words, phrases, space, and time – things that we hold in our bodies. Over time, as the practice evolves, certain aspects become generally accepted, because the discourse has moved on a bit. I think that's what that programme was good at doing, because of its constituent parts, the students, coming together to contribute to a nuanced and evolving discourse. In Who does not envy with us is against us, you talk about not being a reader growing up, and of watching a lot of television instead. Can you tell me about how you became engaged with literature and art? I was going on a bus with my mother, I must have been about nine, and the bus went past the art college in Belfast, which is right in the city centre. This is in the midst of the Troubles, and I saw a man standing outside the art college with a giant papier-mâché lipstick. I mean, I was a child, but I was like wow, it was so surreal, and so joyous. Amidst horror. And I said to my mum, what is that place? and she said that's the art college, and I remember thinking, interesting things go on in there.  I've said this quite a lot before in public contexts because I think it’s important, but I could see the front door of the art college, and I think I may have orientated towards literature, if I had seen a door that was the front door of a literature building, but I didn't. I think that the material properties that interest me in writing, and sometimes in performance reading, but I think just generally in the use of language, and the demands that brings to me is informed by a fine art background, and a practice of materials. Of course, that's not new. Many poets speak about that much more eloquently than I could. But I think that there is something in that, when one works in an interdisciplinary way, there's still always a writer within that. I never shift from being a writer. I’ve co directed this work as you know, and I've directed other works that I've written, but I'm always I'm always a writer, it’s the core activity and the practice. When I came to reading, it was at art college, I read theory, out of interest. I find theory very useful, actually from an emotional point of view in my life, in terms of thinking through emotional things. I find it very helpful and useful and sometimes very enjoyable – it depends on the writer! I think that, for me, it's very important to try and be honest about that, that I wasn't someone who read, and that you don’t have to be someone who is incredibly well read or educated in order to create things which shove and pinch and move and push through traditional forms and move into abstract and experimental forms. Furthermore, with that there is still hope, I believe and push for that within the mainstream that there is space for that. I'm fascinated by the constant adaptability of your text, your economical use of language, and its perpetual flux. Can you tell me about your creative process and collaboration with Olivier Pasquet and Maxine Peake with Mollspeak at Museum of the Home? —an immersive eleven channel sound installation where the voice of an eighteenth-century maid, narrated by Peake, reflects on her duties, desires, and role in the world. The piece is a constantly changing composition of words and sounds that highlights the transposable nature of servants. I've collaborated with Olivier before on the Master Rock piece. Collaboration is always about sensibility; I think it's got to do with certain creative and intellectual sensibilities, like a vibe. In Mollspeak, I was commissioned to make a work for Museum of the Home reopening. I had visited the museum while I’d lived in London and always thought it was great. But, I had always been dissatisfied and wondered who cleaned those rooms, who kept them in good order? I felt like it's really annoying because you never get to see the labour of the maids whose job it was do that. Because I had a good relationship working with Olivier previously, I had a sense that we could work with some objects from the museum and evolve a soundscape from them. We selected objects that the maids would have kept in their personal boxes—simple items like a paper doll, a teaspoon, a tinderbox. Those boxes are the only historical record of the maid servants, so the reason why I could find this information is because the boxes were searched when something went missing in the master’s house, and as a result the only recorded evidence of the maid servants and their belongings comes through court records reporting things being stolen from the main house, which tells a poor and interesting history. So, we made recordings using those objects. I'm drawn professionally to individuals who can handle various aspects of their practice themselves, Olivier is much like Margaret in this respect who manages everything herself as a filmmaker, with intensity and integrity. As a writer, you really don’t require anybody else, and I like that economy. I'm attracted to working with others, that are like that, and exploring how to communicate with people across different fields. For Mollspeak I’d always said that I really wanted Maxine Peake to be the voice for the performance. Fortunately, due to the COVID Lockdown, she had a lighter workload, and could only really do recording work. So we borrowed equipment, sanitised it, and sent it to her for remote recording. She was sitting inside a wardrobe in her house, to create this distinctive sound. I was just terribly nervous to direct her, as you might imagine, but she was very warm and patient. So then the work was installed in the under croft of Museum of the Home. The museum is very traditional in its museological sort of space, and this is a work that is really quite experimental. It's a work which is generative, so an audience member will never hear the same thing twice. It's programmed to be generative, hence speaking towards the disposability of servants. But I think it's interesting to have it in a space which has a sort of directional museological function to have something that really is ambient because of course, when one thinks about it, the servants were ambient, they just sort of like drifted about, sort of like vapours and didn’t speak. Animation courtesy of Maria Fusco How did you go about developing the script for Mollspeak? I did a lot of archival research, delving into the Old Bailey records that I mentioned, and practical aspects like garment cleaning techniques for specific materials. That was the kind of material that we could find, there aren’t memoirs or that sort of thing, which led me to looking through quite diverse sources. I wrote the script in anapestic tetrameter, which was a period meter traditionally used in comic verse of that period, I took advice from a specialist at the University of Glasgow, so that I could authentically replicate the specific historical form of that time, which is quite jovial and is something that the maids would have listened to, when they went to the park on their maybe two hours off on a Sunday, or something. I would say that that script is perhaps one of the more straightforward scripts that I’ve written, it could be delivered as a play, but its experimental nature emerges in the work’s overall form. I’m interested in the label of ‘working class writer’ that you carry – why do you feel this category is important? I think it is important to create space for other people as well as yourself. I have worked as an academic full time for many years now alongside my work as a writer. There’s an ethical responsibility in teaching, as well as in simply being a person in the world, which is to create space for other people. In the UK, the class system is so stratified, melodramatic, and based gaudy stereotype. I think unless you appear and present as being working class with all the features that appear go along with that, people will not necessarily know that you are working class and will assume that you are middle class. By being obvious and labelling that you are working class, it indicates that things aren't necessarily always as they appear, that class is less obvious and more interestingly nuanced. As my work was more widely experienced, sometimes people ask me, whether it is easier to exist in the art world, assuming there are fewer middle-class individuals compared to literature. I'm not sure where that idea comes from! Images courtesy of Maria Fusco I think that by being clear, about where a work has come from, as I try to articulate in my new book, it substantiates into a defined process and a method. The last two works that I’ve made, have been auto theoretical, but I think that my previous work also speaks to the fact that that there is a particular way of sort of being in the world that is often invisible because our class system in the UK is so disagreeable. All our identities are intersectional which is an obvious thing to say, but if I'd grown up in Northern Ireland, and I had been middle class, my personal experience would have not been the same and I would have barely seen that the conflict was happening. So, really, again, as in many other places, it's often the poorer people that experience it and it’s often women and children who experience it most, this is not new news. I think that just being open about that feels like it’s important to do, and I've always spoken about it, I'm not ashamed of it. In the work that I've made recently, the address to that is more direct, but I believe that my methodological approach through many different things that I have made, has an attention to economies of production, to thrift, to paring away, so that you are left with less, sort of like a figure and I think that that’s working classness in action. Cover photography: Greag Mac a’ tSaoir Agnès Houghton-Boyle is a critic and programmer based in London. Her writing features in Talking Shorts Magazine and Fetch London.

One of the most quoted snippets of art criticism of all time is from John Berger’s Ways of Seeing: “You painted a naked woman because you enjoyed looking at her, put a mirror in her hand and you called the painting Vanity, thus morally condemning the woman whose nakedness you had depicted for your own pleasure.” It’s a fantastic quote in its own right, but seems particularly relevant when looking at shifts in attitudes towards the sale and collection of female artists at the start of the 2024 spring season. Sotheby’s disappointing Modern and Contemporary Evening Auction, held in London last Wednesday, seems to suggest a market more interested in buying art by women than of them. While this may seem like a good thing on the surface, fears of a market based on overly figurative works hurtling towards a glass cliff may not be unfounded - and it’ll be women paying the price for the Icarian fall. writes Victoria Comstock-Kershaw. Helena Newman auctioneering Klimt's Dame mit Fächer in 2023. Photo by Haydon Perrior, Image courtesy Sotheby's. It’s no secret that when the stock market does well, the upper tier of the art market suffers. Now, with the stock market booming and interest rates likely to stay high for a while, it seems like seriously expensive art might not perform as well in the near future, especially during the spring auctions in London. Sotheby’s Modern and Contemporary Evening Auction was off to a rocky start with 10 lots withdrawn by consignors before the sale even started, meaning nearly 15% of the 70 works originally marketed never even saw the light of the auction room—including the event’s second-highest offering, a Blue Period Picasso portrait originally expected to sell for between £5m and £7m and a Josef Albers painting (est £800,000 to £1m) removed about one hour into the proceedings. The rest of the evening, a “staid although not disastrous” affair, ultimately culminated with 60 lots achieving £82.2m (£99.7m with fees)—falling just within the adjusted projection of £74.8m to £106.5m but significantly lower than the earlier £136.9m (£172.6m with fees). Interestingly, however, art by women did generally well: The Now sale (now, refreshingly, no longer a stand-alone event) saw the evening kick off with Takako Yamaguchi’s Catherine and Midnight (1994) selling for £889,000, vastly beating the £400,000 to £500,000 estimate. Additional records in the category were established by Rebecca Warren, whose piece sold for £571,500, and by an abstract painting by the late Etel Adnan, which fetched £444,500, exceeding its low estimate by more than threefold. Emily Kam Kngwarray, Françoise Gilot and Alex Katz were also amongst the roster of female artists beating estimates and pushing the auction into the aggregate low estimate.There were, naturally, a couple of flubs: Nicole Eisenman’s Biergarten (2007) was originally estimated to fetch between £500,000 and £700,000 but failed to raise a single bid – although, in the current political climate, one wonders how much this had to with the fact that it’s owned by Israeli advisors Joshua Gessel and Yoel Kremin. Similarly, Barbara Hepworth’s Horizontal Vertical (1972) failed at presale with an estimate of £900,000 to £1 million ($1.1 million to $1.27 million) but there is always the possibility that the thought of becoming entangled with anything from Ron Perelman’s collection (whose own financial escapades are remarkable in their own right) was enough to scare off potential buyers. From left to right: Alex Katz, Black Hat No. 3, 2010, Françoise Gilot, Portrait de Geneviève avec un collier de colombes, 1944 Female artists doing well at auctions that can otherwise be considered disappointing has been a recurring trend over recent months. Christie's 20th / 21st Century: London Evening Sale and The Art of the Surreal Evening Sale saw The Woven Warped Garden of Ponder (2021) by Jadé Fadojutimi sell for £1.6m against an estimate of £400,000–600,000 and Allison Katz’s Snowglobe (2018) sell for £277,200 against an estimate of £40,000–60,000. Joan Mitchell set a new personal auction record at £29 million for her Untitled (c.1959) at an otherwise uneventful 20th Century Evening Sale at Christie's in New York in November. The entire The Now and Contemporary New York Sale was a bit of a letdown, only tiptoeing within the aggregate low estimate thanks to figurative female painters like Jenny Saville and Marina Perez Simão. Frieze Los Angeles saw first-night sales of works by the likes of Rita Ackermann, Loie Hollowell, Huma Bhabha, Carrie Mae Weems and Lynne Drexler while Louise Bourgeois, Agnes Martin and Barbara Hepworth all set new auction records during a relatively soft and selective autumn season, and Yayoi Kusama climbed to 8th place amongst the world's top-selling artists - behind Magritte and above Klimt. It’s not just the upper tier of the market seeing a resurgence in interest in art by women. As noted by Clare McAndrew, founder of Arts Economics in The Art Basel and UBS Global Art Market Report for 2020, ‘a unique feature of the art trade is that the secondary, or resale, market dominates values, with the highest value of trade taking place between former and future consumers and their intermediaries, rather than between producers and consumers.’ The Other Art Fair, the independent fair currently being held at the stonkingly impressive Truman Brewery on Brick Lane, features an overwhelmingly female-centric roster of galleries and artists, from Willow Stacey’s text-based textiles to programs like the East London Strippers Collective residency, with projects like Nicola Gifford’s The Future is Female at the Chelsea Barracks overtly championing female sculptors. Independent women-focused art advisories like The Nomad Salon, cultural occasions like Zara Muse collaboration with Kanishka Mayfair and, of course, galleries like Gillian Jason are simultaneous causes and consequences of this flourishing intermediary market, with Surrealist, Abstract and Expressionist works in particular demonstrating strength in prices fetched for works by females. Pheobe Boddy, Bad Bitch, 2024, Cinthia Sifa Mulanga, All My Emos, 2022 Art of women by women in particular has also been selling remarkably well and the reason is twofold. Of course, the female-as-subject is a timeless tradition in the Western artistic canon and, in an age where women are increasingly viewing their own and others bodies as objects to be consumed, it is a natural reflection of society that artworks by the likes of Joan Semmel or Tali Lennox do well (that, and those ghastly vases of headless female torsos). Of the most researched female artists on Artsy, figurative and (often naked) portrait artists like Cinthia Sifa Mulanga and Zandile Tshabalala have been rising the ranks. More importantly, however, is the cultural clout that comes with being able to claim support for and of minority artists and their works. Playing to feminist sensibilities might not mean much to the upper tiers (just 9.3% of the overall total market share went to female artists in 2023 and of the top 50 most expensive works sold at auction last year zero were by women) but it carries plenty of weight to newer and younger collectors. Up-and-comers like Jason Foster and Amar Singh have been building collections based on works by female, LGBTQ+, and minority artists (and, naturally, won’t shut up about it). Artsy’s irritably obtuse Women in Art report demonstrates the rising popularity of artworks “female-identifying artists”, especially African and Gen-Zers (indeed, the current record holder for most expensive African work sold at auction is held by US-based Ethiopian Julie Mehretu, whose 2008 work Walkers With the Dawn and Morning fetched £8.6m at Sotheby’s New York in November). You can generously attribute all of this to broader cultural shifts and, of course, the fact that it’s International Women’s Month, but it is significant that art by women is doing so well in a time when auction houses are clearly a bit nervous. According to ArtMarket’s 2023 report, the number of transactions concerning female artists doubled over the past five years and tripled over the past ten, a trend attributed to ‘deliberate policy among key market players to revalue their works both historically and monetarily.’ On the surface this is a good thing, but other factors might cause the more cautious of us to raise eyebrows. The S&P500 and the NASDAQ have risen to new all-time highs as the art market has pulled back from its 2022 benchmarks and any art institution worth their salt will be watching the inverse correlation between equities and art with at least a little bit of apprehension. Indeed, Sotheby’s slashed their buyer’s premium for the first time since 1979 only last month. The auction house decreased the fee to 20% on the hammer price up to $6m/£5m, and 10% of the hammer price above $6m/£5m—a price not only significantly lower than the previous 26% up to $1m/£800,000, 20% up to $4.5m/£3.8m, and then 13.9% on the portion of the hammer price beyond that, but very much below the fees charged by its principal market rivals. It’s difficult to say who exactly this move was made for; but the adoption of a new ‘success fee’ incurring an additional 2% commission should a lot’s hammer price exceed the top estimate (a structure already implemented by Christie’s a decade ago) suggests that it’s primarily in the interest of buyers - presumably in an attempt to signal confidence in the art market as the positive post-Covid economy continues to encourage investors from looking elsewhere than the safety of fine art as outlays. This has been the first time since 1982 (when Christie’s briefly dropped its premium from 10% to 8%, likely as a response to the worst economic downturn in the United States since the Great Depression) that one of the world’s leading auction houses has reduced its buyer’s premium. This is not to suggest that Sotheby’s restructured their finances solely to spite women. It is, however, of great interest that these phenomena are occurring in tandem: typically, buyer's premiums increase as vendor fees decrease and sellers of valuable items seldom pay the full commission. One motivation behind these shifts is to transition away from private and intricate negotiations in obtaining works for sale, but a side effect is that artists and their estates make less money. Clearly women aren’t making as much as they could be in the first place, but one would be forgiven to worry that the coincidental rise in interest in female artworks is a result of a desire to capitalise on a trend rather than as a barometer of financial success. Identity-based trends aren’t necessarily a bad thing, but the ramifications of women doing well in overall economic contraction will be more cultural than financial. Michelle K. Ryan and Alex Haslam coined the term “glass cliff” in 2005 as a way of referring to the hypothesised phenomenon in which women are more likely to break the glass ceiling during periods of crisis or downturn when the risk of failure is highest. It’s generally a term used to refer to leadership positions awarded to women in companies and governments just before things go tits up, but, I believe, can also be applied to the general cultural gravitas of women in Western society. This month an Ipsos survey revealed that almost half of Britons believe that “women’s equality has gone too far” in the UK (a fact that, as astutely pointed out in the comment section London-based feminist art collective Hysterical founder Eliza Hatch’s commentary on the subject, surely has nothing to do with the fact that half of the British population is male). The market’s ardent penchant for female-produced artworks, therefore, is one that potentially implies a conciliatory economy in which women artists and their collectors are left to pick up the slack as the cultural pendulum swings south. It may sound unfair to imply that the reason female artists are thriving in the middle market is because collectors who acquire them simply aren’t reliable as barometers of success, but it is clear from setbacks like Sotheby’s Modern and Contemporary Sale that the hard-hitters are likely to be sitting this season out. As investors abandon the ethos of the 2020-21 ‘flight to quality’ and start moving their money away from more stable asset types like artworks into riskier ones like equities, wiser investors will simply not be looking to park their money in art. The fear, therefore, is that when we look back at this relatively stale but female-centric market that we blame the women: it’s no secret that the art world is already prone to blaming “wokeness” for the perceived decline in the overall quality not only of work being made, but being sold. Collectors and curators very rarely catch the same flack as artists and as long auctions continue to only just scrape by, the scrutiny on female artists and their contributions to the art market may intensify due to the perception that female-produced artworks are being disproportionately relied upon to buoy a struggling post-Covid market or the skepticism surrounding identity-based trends in art collecting. In the case of portrait and figurative female artists (whose already over-saturated lower market is bound to see a bubble-burst soon), extra caution should be taken as they continue to inadvertently - but often literally - attach the female figure to stale markets in the art world's collective financial subconscious. Shadi Al-Atallah: Kris croker stole my tears, 2018, Elsa Rouy, Exposed Like This, 2021 There’s no real solution to be provided, or at least none until I am proved correct (or, hopefully, not). One might cautiously suggest that newer female artists move away from figurative art, especially those overly focused on female nudes. It may seem a bit unkind to tell women to stop painting themselves during International Women’s Month, but I think we can all agree that less Oh de Laval or Maya Fuji and more Paula Siebra or Liz Wilson can only be a good thing. The boorish, fleshy deconstructions of female and non-binary artists like Elsa Rouy or Shadi Al-Atalla aren’t doing much for the whole ‘women are not objects’ argument and anyway, abstract and expressionist (and to a certain extent installation) works make more money in both the long and short term markets. A strategic pivot away from figures not only augments artists' brand recognition (because seriously, how many To Feel Alive (2020) knock-offs can we be expected to keep stomaching?) and market penetration but also strategically positions them for sustained growth and prominence within the industry - something that may come in handy once the market picks up again and analysts start looking back up the glass cliff-face and start to identify women as potential harbingers of weakness. This is, of course, a remarkably pessimistic view of what might genuinely be a new and exciting trend in purchasing powers across the art market, but when looking at the auction history of works like O'Keeffe's 1932 Jimson Weed/White Flower No. 1 the trend towards treating works by female artists during times of economic upturn as pump-and-dumps becomes more apparent, and the added 21st century tendency of female artists uncritically portraying their genders bodies with the same, perfunctory artistic methods as their sexist counterparts just adds an extra layer on unpleasantness to the entire affair. We've come a long way, baby - but it's also up to us try and make sure we can keep the momentum going into better markets. Georgia O'Keeffe, Jimson Weed/White Flower No. 1, 1932, Oh de Laval, To Feel Alive, 2020 Victoria Comstock-Kershaw is a London-based critic and contemporary arts writer.