Still No Idea, presented by Bunny and written by Lisa Hammond, Lee Simpson and Rachael Spence, is an insanely funny show that succeeds at both lampooning and drawing serious attention to the social, cultural, and political realities of living and working with disabilities. It is authentic, hilarious, and devastatingly relevant. "You know, when I set out to write this play, I really didn't want it to be about disability," says Lisa Hammond to the audience towards the end of the two-woman performance of Still No Idea. The play's premise is simple: without any ideas of their own, Rachael and Lisa turn to the public for help and inspiration, accompanied only by a single question "if you were to see us two in a play, what do you think it would be about?". Whatever the British public says, goes: no backing out, no changing the plot, no altering any aspects that they don't like. The answers are predictably entertaining and cringe-worthy at first: from the misogynistic 'I wouldn't expect two women to be funny' to the loud patois cries of 'Sister sister!' of two South London girls to the mother of an autistic child insisting that there's absolutely nothing wrong with wheelchair users, Lisa and Racheal provide side-splittingly funny impressions and caricatures of the Great British Public. But a darker quickly trend emerges from the funny: even though Lisa is bombarded with a deluge of comments about the 'cheekiness' of her face and the potential extroversion of any character she might play, all plot suggestions eventually end up focusing entirely on Rachael's character. Again and again, Lisa and her stories are left to the side, forgotten or unmentioned, while Rachael dates doctors, becomes a dancer, and solves the murder of mysterious high school friends. It is here that we catch our first glimpse of the message that Still No Idea is really trying to put across: that things aren't better for disabled people, in the world of film or theatre or in life in general. This shift from raucous to sombre is gradual and intelligent. The excellent writing especially shines during the parts of the play dedicated to the struggles of getting a storyline as a disabled actor (like on a show that definitely isn't Eastenders). There are still elements of humour, but the serious undertones are the sort to really make you sit up in your seat. The interviews of fellow disabled actors add a confessional tone to the final third of the play, followed closely by an incredibly poignant scene in which the names of dozens of disabled British men and women who have died due to the incompetence or neglect of the DWP. Despite what body positivity movements or identity politics may have us believe, things, argues Still No Idea, are absolutely not better than they were ten years ago: visibility and representation in media like Channel 4's Superhumans or the Malteaser adverts are hurting rather than helping disabled people. Disabled actors are still the first to get cut, even when in non-disabled roles, disable people without Paralympic abilities are made to feel less-than, and - most importantly - disabled people across the UK are still dying. Hammond and Spence have worked together for years, and it shows: not only is the writing of Still No Idea witty and well-suited, there is also a genuine connection and an authentic female friendship that shines throughout the performance. The pair play off and with each other superbly, both as improv actors and as purveyors of observational humour. There is a poignant political message and an excellent point made that most abled-body theatre goers would never even think twice about. It's important work, done well. Still No Idea plays from the 11th to the 12th of November 2019 at the Southbank Centre. Image credits: Southbank Centre & Camilla Greenwell

The Jefferson Hack-curated exhibit displays works by Doug Aitken, Sophia Al-Maria & Victoria Sin, Korakrit Arunanondchai, Donna Huanca, Juliana Huxtable, Evan Ifekoya, Dozie Kanu, Quentin Lacombe, Lawrence Lek, Jenn Nkiru, Chen Wei and Harley Weir & George Rouy in an intensely nuanced, varied and fluid view of identity through the relationship between present and future, death and rebirth, and self and reality. "I am waiting for my case to come up/and I am waiting/for a rebirth of wonder" starts American beat poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti's 'I Am Waiting'. This intense desire for the rediscovery of the self is what inspired not only the title of 180 The Strands' latest exhibit, but also its theme. Transformer: A Rebirth of Wonder is an exploration of identity in modern society with pleasantly forward-looking overtones: concepts of positive change are touted throughout the exhibit, half-hopeful, half-suggestive, and the space offers a deeply complex and refreshing look into a topic that seems more relevant than ever. There is something for everyone at 180 The Strands' latest exhibit: The Jefferson Hack-curated collection covers every imaginable artistic medium from audio-video to performance to sculptural. The mish-mash of mediums does, to an extent, act as an effective representation of the chaos of the expression of the modern self, but there is still something undeniably 'Frieze' about the exhibit: the audience is pulled and pushed rather than guided, our attention is thrown from the newly commissioned and debut light shows of Doug Aitken to the film portraiture of Jenn Nkiru (best known for her work on The Carters - Apeshit music video) to the enigmatic sculpture of Dozie Kanu within minutes of each other. It is a genuinely multi-faceted and prismatic portrayal of a bleary, chaotic - but cleared shared - view of identity. Jeffersons' talk of ley lines and 'portals of energy' in his October interview with AnOther may seem slightly eccentric, but there is a genuinely powerful and honest feeling to the exhibit. Connections of self, history, geography, race and gender come together in an undeniably modern, ambitious yet still unpretentious exploration of a complex and vivid topic. Transformer doesn't pretend to have all the answers, nor does it claim to present a singular view of the self in modern society, but it does ask a lot of the right questions - and the wide range of artists, mediums and messages means that at least one of them will be right for you. Transformer: A Rebirth of Wonder is exhibiting at 180 The Strand for free until the 8th of December 2019. Image credits: Amelia Karlsen, Donna Huanca, Harley Weir and George Rouy

Modernized versions of classics are not exactly difficult to find on the London stage: from & Juliet at the Shaftesbury Theatre to Stephen Fry's Mythos at the Palladium, there is no shortage of attempts to musicalize and update legends and masterworks. Some succeed and some fail, but Orpheus in the Underworld's strengths lie in its' ability not only to capture the essence of a classical myth, but to improve upon an already existing portrayal. The 2019 version of Offenbach's 1958 Orpheus in Hell is a delightfully fresh, funny, and sharp take on a classical and well-known myth, accompanied by breathtaking sets, memorable songs, and a poignant story. There is a balanced layering act between Rice's aesthetic command, Offenbach's narrative musicality, and Vigil's ancient chronicles that makes the production simultaneously enchanting and complex. It is possible, of course, to argue that Offenbach already did 50% of the work for Rice: after all, he is the one who wrote the original 1958 score. But Rice's production builds upon his work in such a fashion that the overall tone is so different, and an entirely different story is being told. Rice's production is unsympathetic in the best of ways: the Gods are not, as in Offenbach's version, helpful to mortals because of some natural or intrinsic greatness of character, but because they are a bunch of nepotistic, weak-willed drunks, interested only in serving their own personal causes. Orpheus and Eurydice are also transformed: a tragedy in the first act introduces them as a deeply flawed and unhappy couple on the brink of divorce. Eurydice falls for Pluto not because she is a plaything of the Gods ready to be passed around, but because she is alone, upset, and suffering. The end here is not happy, despite the bright colours, flashing lights, and vivid costuming, a sharp and satirical nod to Offenbach's weirdly optimistic ending. Rice's updated character choices add a dimension that explains and compliments many elements of both the original myth and Offenbacs' interpretation, making both the narrative and the personal dynamics of characters more remarkable, resounding, and ultimately relatable. I have written previously about the disappointingly bland London production of Hadestown, a show graced by good aesthetics by ultimately overshadowed by a less-than-compelling story, unlikeable characters, and rather forgettable music. Even when Hadestown's 1940s' New Orleans aesthetic was pleasant enough to look at, it didn't quite connect to the message being told. This is not the case with Orpheus in the Underworld: Rice's glitzy Beverly Hills/Las Vegas setting both compliments and represents the tone of the music beautifully. The sterile turquoise-and-blue of the Beverly Hills Hotel-esque swimming pool represents the disconnected privilege of the Gods and Olympus perfectly and contrasts wonderfully to the seedy downtown neons of the Underworld. Peepshows and stripper poles add a feminist dimension to the horrors of hell that functions particularly well in parallel to the treatment of Eurydice by the male characters of the play. Speaking of Eurydice's treatment, there is a morbid sense of pure comedy running through the entire play that satirizes not only Offenbach's original lyrics and story, but the wider problem of female treatment in myths and legends. The use of the can-can, popping up thematically as Eurydice slowly loses both her mind and independence as both a mortal and a woman, is both haunting and hilarious. Balloons are used throughout the play to represent everything from birth to death to clouds to clothes in a showcase of Lizzie Clachan's extreme comedic excellence and technical creativity. The lyrics have been updated to poke fun at everything from golden showers to veganism, while still retaining Offenbach's genuinely catchy and memorable tunes, performed under the charmingly energetic conductorship of the Royal Academy's Sian Edwards. Rice's ability to address and represent not only the source material but the masterwork that it is based on is truly an impressive feat. Her retention of the original divine mysteries and godly mischief of the myth is only enhanced by an appropriate and compelling choice of setting, which can make or break a musicalised classic. However, the glitz and glam do not overshadow the deeper messages of the performance, and there is still weight and meaning to the characters and their choices. The audience is led to both love and hate Alex Otterburn as a delightfully camp and precocious Pluto, but we are reminded in the final act that all the Gods are all ultimately on the same side: there is much to be said about a modernized myth that does not skirt around concepts of authority and unfairness without idolizing mortals or demonizing Gods. The glamourous setting only serves to enhance this ironic message of fate and power. By combining the grandeur of the myth, the musicality of Offenbach, and the witty nuances of modern directorship, Rice has produced a genuinely outstanding and enjoyable show. Orpheus in the Underworld plays until the 27th of November 2019. Tickets available here. Image credit Clive Barda

The disapproval of material or method is not justification for the dismissal or disregard of the art that it has been used to create. "I, for one, would be ashamed to own such a canvas." writes Rachel Campbell-Johnston. "Culturally appropriative, ugly nonsense" that a "five-year-old would love", according to Eddy Frankel and Alastair Sooke. Each of these critics are, of course, referring to Damien Hirst's new and madly divisive Mandalas exhibit at the White Cube, in which thousands and thousands of butterfly wings have been pinned into concentric circles and presented on canvases as large as six feet wide. The backlash against the use of the insects' wings has ranged from the hilariously over-emotional to the downright facetious, but the hysterics surrounding the 'cruel beauty' of Mandalas represent a knee-jerk and shallow reaction that the exhibit itself not only deserves better than, but modern art in general. The major arguments surrounding the use of butterflies can be summated by the very basic sentiment that repulsion towards the material justifies the repulsion towards the art; and while this repulsion may seem natural, it is simply not logical - or, perhaps more importantly, productive. Subservience, 2019 The most common - and, perhaps, most natural - criticisms of Mandalas are those that stem from concerns for environmentalism and, to a lesser extent, animal cruelty. The sheer quantity of wings used to complete the series is impressive whichever way you look at it - the largest of the pieces are 108 inches wide, and encapsulate what must be the wings of at least 4,000 butterflies each. It is tricky to debunk the ethical concerns surrounding this without sounding like a Shapiro-esque anti-SJW, especially those stemming from genuine concern, but I will do my best. The trouble is that within the context of Hirst's work, these concerns lie somewhere between faux-woke and uneducated. Hirst did not pop down to some charming woodland estate in the Cotswold and gleefully decimate the popular of local butterflies; they were grown - either in a lab or insectarium - under his supervision (ethically, according to the pamphlet handed out at the preview, but there is a lot of subjectivity to that term). Certainly, one can argue that the effort gone into breeding tens of thousands of butterflies might have been more beneficial in, say, a conservatory or protective sanctuary, but this brings me to my next point: Mandalas seems like an odd place to start getting offended about alternate uses of physical materials. Mandala critics have presented us with an oddly over-sentimental line of thought that might as well champion that the concrete used in a David Hepher painting have been used to build a refugee camp, or the expensive chemical and scientific research gone into developing the infamous World's Pinkest Pink or Blackest Black have been dedicated to cancer research. The material used to create art has not been wasted simply because it has been used to create art that offends your own ethical sensibilities concerning what it "could" have been used for; just because you would rather have made a necklace out of the lapis lazuli used to create the vibrant blue in Girl With Earring does not make the painting a bad or invalid piece of art. The one million dollars in cash carried by Matty Mo at the NY Context Art Fair were not adding to the economy of the world (ethical or otherwise) by being dragged around in a clear duffel bag - but that didn't make the artistic intent, message, and consequent discussion of the art less meaningful. The idea that Hirsts' messages about mortality or rebirth is "exactly what butterflies out in the wild are for" (Frankel) is utterly absurd. Ethical concerns about the harvesting of the insects (that, incidentally, can and do not feel pain) aside, it borders on the ignorant and critically irresponsibly to suggest that that there was no transformation by placing their wings on a canvas. A butterfly in the wild is not art unless presented as so, and one cannot help but wonder how many of these critics were really spending their days wandering around Horniman Gardens pondering their own mortality before (or indeed after) writing their articles. The removal, pinning, and presentation of the wings had fundamentally altered our perception of them, which by default creates new meaning: meaning you may disagree with, meaning that you may feel oversimple for such an extreme medium, but a new meaning nonetheless. To argue that the symbolic and physical transformation undergone by the material is invalid simply because you've spotted an opportunity to be an artistically contrarian ecoactivist is mindless and injudicious. Furthermore, it is not "irresponsible" or "out of tune with [our] times" (Campbell-Johnston) to create art from and about nature during a time of ecological strife. If anything, it is more responsible to instigate discussion, as Hirst has done for years, most lately with his Kaleidoscope series - of which Mandalas is a part of. The White Cube exhibit is part of Hirst's much wider ability to manipulate and showcase the grotesque in aesthetically beautiful ways, and there are thought-provoking parallels to be drawn between Hirst' own body of work and the modern desire - and need -to find artistic beauty in political and environmental discord. To claim that we should not make art about (or from) the things that make us uncomfortable is boring at best and damaging at worst. Certainly, the aspects and messages of his work surrounding death and rebirth are perhaps overplayed, but the backlash and outrage caused by the Mandalas exhibit alone is enough to prove that it still resonates hugely - despite the rather snide and supercilious accusations of Hirst and his work's irrelevancy in light of the artist himself being "now sober, in his mid-fifties, and unable to shake the whiff of being spent" (Sooke). It is not "flagrantly commercial" (Campbell-Johnston) to have produced 18 rather than 1 of these works, it is an impactful method of communicating and continuing Hirsts body of work. I am not arguing that everything is sacrificable in the name of art. There are lines to be drawn and limits to be respected, but Mandalas and its butterflies are an odd place to start (especially since Hirst has been using dead insects, birds, and animals in his work since the early 90s). One of the most arguably defining features of modern art is the ability and process of evoking strong emotions through unexpected mediums and materials, something that Mandalas succeeds at in every respect. Even if you do have ethical qualms about the wings, it is not more productive to think of their use as, perhaps, a commentary on the cyclical nature of consumerism? Or to draw parallels between the demise of their owners for the sake of aesthetics and the nature of life, death and beauty itself? Or to think of this blatant function of butterflies as a material no difference than paint of clay as a biting, nihilistic examination of... God, I don't know, anything, rather than to dismiss the entire exhibit as a purposeless "holocaust" or "genocide"* (Edward Lucie-Smith) just because you feel iffy? Disapproval of material or method is not justification for the dismissal or disregard of the art that it is used to create. It is entirely possible to dislike and even condemn the ways in which art can be made while still being open to discussing intent and meaning. It seems purile and childish to dismiss Mandalas as worthy of being ignored simply because the art has created a personal dilemma for you to confront, and it seems cowardly and unfair to shy away from art like Hirsts' because it makes you feel uncomfortable. There is still merit to both the symbolism and the aesthetic of the work no matter your stance on the material used to create it, and it is far more valuable to let that stance enhance your opinion of the works, rather than erase it entirely. Noble Cause, 2019 *I add, on a personal note, that I felt these words were utterly inappropriate and bordering on offensive to describe something as minor as a few dead insects, and while over-dramatic rhetoric will always be appealing to some, I encourage any and all art critics to adopt the sound practice of avoiding words usually associated with war crimes when reviewing small South London art exhibits. Damien Hirst's Mandalas is free to visit from the 20th of September 2019 to the 2nd of November 2019 at Mason's Yard, White Cube. Image credits: Prudence Cuming Associates Ltd. Courtesy White Cube, Elite Daily

Cynthia is not Tyler Durden. She is not Pheadrus or Dr Hyde or the Hulk. Cynthia is a sweet, relatable, and slightly lost woman obsessed with wellness apps and bubble baths - and it is utterly refreshing. Shana Moulton's first London solo show challenges and redefines what the second self has come to mean in art with great artistic playfulness and an introspective spirit. Shana Moulton Moulton's alter alter ego, Cynthia, is defined by concepts of healing, reflection, and lostness, and it is excellent: rather than retread the same tired ground of being a representation of inward desire for destruction and loss of control, Cynthia allows Moulton's audience to examine and relate to the hopeful desire to simply be better. We've all fallen prey to the epidemic of products and services surrounding the concepts of well-being and mindfulness: apps, crystals, skincare routines, self-help books are just some of the thousands of amenities promised to relieve and heal in an age where stress and anxiety are at the forefront of our culture. Cynthia explores this phenomenon with a humour and playfulness that is so often lacking in the concept of alter egos. Where Tyler Durden stands for grand, intense ideals of chaos versus order, Cynthia stands for far more sincere and much closer to home concepts of wanting to heal, relax, and improve. Moulton's alter ego succeeds just as much as Robert M. Pirsigs' or Chuck Palahniuks' for a very simple reason: she evokes all the fears and frustrations that come with identity by deconstructing her - and, with that, the audience's - own. This is not to say that Cynthia's slightly more domestic themes are any less powerful or impressive that those of alter egos that came before her: Moulton captures an intensely real and painfully relatable feeling of being slightly lost in the face of consumeristic spirituality, and explores the intense confusion and frustration that occurs in the face of what feels like genuine effort. Inversion Therapy (2019) is the perfect commentary on the relationship between consumerism and spirit: it pokes fun of the pointlessness of the ritual, while still acknowledging the reasons behind it. The Pink Tower (2019) is well placed as the first piece to welcome you, setting the tone both in terms of aesthetics and medium: Moulton's video works are concise and pleasant, and work fantastically well in the space of the soft, baby pink-glow of the Zabludowicz Collection's three main rooms. Whispering Pines is the pinnacle of her message and style: Cynthia almost relaxes in the bright bubbles and psychedelic patterns of a bubble bath, but ultimately cannot. We are made to feel uncomfortable at her failure, yet somehow relieved that hey, at least we're not the only ones struggling. Moulton and her Cynthia shine in two main areas: firstly, the artists' aesthetic, which is coherent, weird, and fantastically fun, and secondly, her ability to criticise consumerism while still acknowledging the very real appeal behind it. Anti-consumerist art is nothing new, so it is refreshing to experience a take that doesn't denigrate those that participate in it, but rather attempts to relate, reach out, and explore the causes and consequences of the phenomena. The use of the likeable alter ego makes this superbly effective, as she includes herself directly in the rituals that she is encouraging us to examine and ultimately criticise. Through Cynthia, the audience is left to feel as if Moulton is trying to figure it all out just as much as the rest of us. Image credits: Dazed Digital

There is a talent behind successfully portraying a city through the art that it has inspired. London is certainly no exception to the rule, but the Guildhall's Art Gallery has not only tackled the task of depicting the city and her artwork with depth, grace, and charm, but has also favoured its audience with a look into an entirely different metropolis: the London that never was. Oliver Bevan/Michael Bach/Niels Møller Lund The Architecture of London portion of the gallery is incredibly well curated. It has not fallen into the trap of grouping solely by style or date of completion, which can quickly sizzle out and become stale and repetitive, but chooses to present works based on their geographic location or the architectural function of their subjects. This focus on subject over style gives a vibrant and cohesive feeling to the exhibit, as well as providing a powerful narrative: the gallery gently guides you from breathtaking birds-eye views of the London landscape, like Michael's Bach's block-coloured View I or Lund's famous Heart of the Empire to the almost photo-realistic architectural brutalism of Brendan Neiland and David Hepher. Brendan Neiland/David Hepher The parts of the exhibit dedicated to specific events - like the Blitz or the Great Fire of London - are particularly effective uses of this curation style; there is something inherently moving about the different ways in which the devastation and carnage suffered by the city has been interpreted by contemporaries and successors alike. The overarching cohesiveness of the exhibit still leaves plenty of space for the individual merit of works to shine; particularly impressive are the unexpected dips into London architectural art by household names. Lucien Freud applies his distinctive not-quiet-right perspective to a street behind Paddington Station in Wasteground with Houses, Paddington, and Catherine Yass's Damage witnesses the interaction between her signature manipulation of film and the environment of London streets. But the Architecture of London isn't the only way in which Guildhall makes us think about London: the smaller, slightly more intimate collection of The London That Never Was, curated by the London Metropolitan Archives, is compiled of discarded designs and rejected plans for the buildings and monuments that we know and love. It's a fascinating glimpse into the London that might have been, ranging from the practical (such as the 60s futureretro monorail over Oxford Street) to the fantastic (like the Soviet-esque glass casing covering Tower Bridge) to the morbid (like the hauntingly proposed Primrose Hill 'pyramid mausoleum'). There is something really special about visualising alternatives to a city that is already so aesthetically and culturally established; and to be given the opportunity to see the real-life designs and plans that could potentially have altered and upended the city as we know it is a genuine treat. Tickets are £10, £7 concession, or half-price from Art Fund card holders, and are available until 1 December 2019. Image credits: London Picture Archive, London Metropolitan Archives, Guildhall Art Gallery, and ArtUk.org

If I asked you to picture a Michelangelo piece right now, I doubt that you would struggle: from the Sistine Chapel to the statue of David, Michelangelo's works have been engrained into the artistic psyche of the Western world for centuries. The same, however, can not be said for the works of American video artist Bill Viola, and it is in the the pairing of these two artists where the Royal Academy's latest exhibit, Bill Viola Michelangelo: Life Death Rebirth lies. The first room sets the tone for the rest of the exhibit, and provides the explanation for the odd pairing: on one wall, the voyeuristic Nantes Triptych (1992), in which we watch a floating figure in between a video of a young woman giving birth and a video of an old woman dying (Viola's own mother, according to this) - on the opposite one, three original Michelangelo works, including the fresco Taddei Tondo (1504-05) and the sketch The Lamentation over the Dead Christ (1540). Okay, sure, you may think, there's an overarching theme of motherhood and death here. But that's about it. The mediums don't contrast rather as much as they clash, the themes aren't quite strong enough to justify the differences. Don't get me wrong: both sides of the room are vastly impressive. The triptych is beautiful - if a little on the nose - and the fresco is pure Renaissance marble elegance. But they simply don't feel like they belong together. There are some impressive pieces, despite the lack of coherence. Man Searching for Immortality/Woman Searching for Eternity (2013) is the pinnacle of Viola's work: a hypnotic projection of a man and woman slowly exploring their naked bodies with torchlights, as if searching for a connection between the light and their skin. Viola's use of video is slightly hit-or-miss. He is aware and proud of the role that the passing of time plays in his work - time is to the consciousness what light is to the human eye - but that doesn't stop some of his works from being, simply put, too long to be interesting. Where Slowly Turning Narrative succeeds with its rotating mirror and multiple projections, works like The Sleep of Reason or The Reflecting Pool fails with their too-long runtimes or awkward pauses in action. These are not reasons to dismiss the pieces, but when you are faced with standing in front of a screen for fifteen minutes or moving on to see a Michelangelo original sketch, one tends to choose the latter. It's always worth being skeptical when an exhibit opens with "X, the X of his time". I am of the opinion that if an artist is forced to find merit in comparison, then most likely there is little merit in their own stuff. It is particularly cliche to compare an artist to a Renaissance Master - there are already countless articles and think pieces asking who 'the Da Vinci of our time' is, or claiming that the latest underground artist is 'the Donatello of East London' - and yet, it is one of the first claims that we are presented with as we are ushered into the dimly-lit and early muffled silence of the RA's exhibit chambers. The connection is strenuous and superfluous at best: both artists explore life, death, and the cycle that encapsulates it, but I can think of thousands of other artists that do the same. The exhibit is well crafted, but it's hard to get into either of the artists works when the audience is so clearly being pushed to make connections between them. Viola's work is often very good, and Michelangelo's sketches are just as impressive as you would think, but one distracts like the other, and we find our attention being yanked around by the vastly contrasting mediums and messages. Unfortunately, the themes of life, death and rebirth unfortunately aren't quite enough to justify the odd pairing, and one can't help but feel that each artist would have benefited far more from having their pieces assigned their own individual exhibit. Bill Viola Michelangelo: Life Death Rebirth is on at the Royal Academy of Arts until the 31rst of March 2019. Tickets start at £15.

This weeks favourite music, shows, artists and exhibitions - Friday 25/01/19. EXHIBITIONS Grace Wales Bonner: ‘A Time for New Dreams’ at the Serpentine Gallery Bonner's exhibit is a mishmash of identity, art, and fashion, filled with items and artworks that inspire and excite her, from Liz Johnson Artur photographs to David Hammons sculptures of jars full of flies. A unique, exhilarating, and slightly mad exhibit. MUSIC Time - Jafaris Dublin-based rapper Jafaris's newest single is quintessential 2019: high energy tunes and vibrant funk/hip-hop vibes, with a rolling beat and sharp, intelligent lyrics. SHOW Original Death Rabbit at the Jermyn Street Theatre An eery and uncomfortable look into our relationship with fame and social media, Kimberly Nixon gives a very good performance as an unkempt and unhappy Welsh girl admitting serious mental and social health issues to her webcam - and to us. Biting, concise, and unsettling. Tickets from £10.

My mother makes costumes for musical theatre, and I myself am heavily involved in the theatrical drag scene in London. This means that I have spent huge chunks of my life surrounded by the sort of preppy, bright-eyed twenty-somethings who unironically still enjoy Disney films and believe that Lin Manuel Miranda will solve racism. Hadestown is, at its core, what I imagine their wet dreams to look like. The whole thing feels like someone has given far too much money to an overenthusiastic but ultimately rather shit Midwestern American high school drama club. The premise of the show is fairly compelling: the tale of the Greek lovers Orpheus and Eurydice, re-imagined as 1940s love story and set in a swinging, jazzy New Orleans in which both Gods and men co-exist. But that is, sadly, where my enthusiasm for the whole things dies off. The swinging blues motif gets old real quick. And I mean real quick. I cannot remember a single distinct tune from the show, which is especially concerning as the whole premise of Orpheus' character is that he has created a song so beautiful that it convinces the Gods to let his lover go. It's also not helped by the fact that everyone is microphone-ed up - understandable to a certain extent, the band is live and the National is not renowned for its amazing acoustics - but the real trouble with mics is that their use persuades actors to throw every rule of performance out of the window. Backs are turned to the audience, pronunciation is butchered, words are slurred. While both charm and clarity are lost through this dodgy audio situation, many of the lyrics aren't particularly worth hearing in the first place. I had the great fortune to be invited to a pre-show talk by director Rachel Chavkin, who spoke at length about her collaborative efforts with writer Anaïs Mitchell to produce a show that was "radically new" for the London stage, and how the lyrics themselves often took "months for a single word" to be writen. This lands somewhere between unfortunate and unbelievable. The song "Why We Build The Wall" is quite good, and the fact that is was written years prior to Trump's election is particularly telling, but asides from that I cannot think of any marking or at all interesting or clever lyrics. There is also a complete lack of any sort of narrative motivation to root for either of the two lovers. Orpheus's character is boyband boring, although perhaps that remains preferable to that of Eurydice - unconvincing, utterly devoid of charm, and with a personality about as consistent as damp toilet paper: she is both somehow strong enough to fight against Orpheus's original advances yet weak enough to hang around starving while he tries finishing his masterpiece. My next statement concerning the lovers may be disregarded as perhaps simple ignorance of the finer technicalities of vocal training, but both Reeve Carney and Eva Noblezads's voices actively made me wince a couple of times during their respective performances. Noblezad is shrill and over-the-top, Carney is bland and, on certain occasions, flat-out out of tune. The saving graces of the show, however, almost make it worth seeing. Amber Gray is simply phenomenal as an alcoholic but sanguine Persephone, André De Shields is a brilliantly suave and superbly mischievous Hermes, and Patrick Page's voice alone is enough to make you to be fully convinced of Hades' power. The group choreography of the Workers and the Fates is also very well-done, if a little repetitive and run-of-the-mill, every-musical-theatre-dance-piece-ever, but the Olivier's fantastic rotating and rising/falling stage elements are used in a generally innovative and exciting fashion. The costume and set design, however, is by far the most compelling element of the entire show - the central themes and motifs shine through Rachel Hauck and Michael Krass's fantastic work, and really bring the story to life: the idea of Gods and men living together during such a culturally and aesthetically iconic period is not lost on them or the audience, and even during the more boring scenes there is always something new and exciting happening to the stage or the clothes of the characters. It really is a beautiful show to look at: every set and every wardrobe change adds to the story far more than the charmless choreography of the lovers dances or the repetitive music of the chanting numbers. The set and costumes transform and transport both the characters and the audience from the vibrant bars of New Orleans to the industrial hell that is Hadestown with the sort of elegance and creativity that the lyrics, music, and acting of the show does not. Overall, it is perhaps the 'it could almost be good'-ness about the show that frustrates me the most. Some of the songs are bad, but the stage design makes up for it. Some of the vocals are bad, but the choreography makes up for that. And some of the acting is bad, but the costumes make up for that. The aesthetic premise of the show itself it what you're really paying for here, which is a shame as there is such huge potential in the story itself. There is a lack of basic narrative, and with that a lack of awareness that good musical theatre is the symptom of a compelling cast and story rather than the cause. But it is simply too visually gorgeous a show to dismiss it as being utterly bad - and so I leave you with a half-hearted but rather grumpy recommendation: do see it, if only for the pretty lights and nice frocks.

This weeks favourite music, shows, artists and exhibitions - Friday 18/01/19. EXHIBITIONS Klimt/Schiele at the Royal Academy of Arts A fascinating glimpse into the minds and creative processes of two of the most significant artists of the early 20th century. The collaboration with the Albertina Museum in Vienna marks the centenary of both artists’ deaths, and is a grand and unique collection of sketches, drafts, and portraits. MUSIC Lana del Rey - Hope Is a Dangerous Thing for a Woman Like Me to Have but I Have It Moving, dreamy, and somber, Lana del Rey's ode to Sylvia Plath (and to herself) is both hauntingly dark and refreshingly honest. ARTIST CB Hoyo CB Hoyo's artwork both satirises and celebrates the niceties and nastiness of the art world in a biting, funny, and deeply self aware fashion. SHOW The Play That Goes Wrong A must-see West End favourite, the hysterically funny and beautiful choreographed play somehow manages to make slapstick comedy and theatrical fuck-ups funny for two hours. Tickets on sale from £23.50, running October 2019.

The 60s were weird. Lava lamps, tie-dye, and bouffants all contributed to the outlandish and electric atmosphere of a decade defined by pop art, protest, and politics - but an oft overlooked aspect of 60s fashion was the massive boom in wearable paper. ATOPOS cvc's latest exhibit at the Marylebone-based Hellenic Centre explores the ethics and aesthetics of the 'throwaway fashion' that dominated the second half of the decade. The ATOPOS cvc Paper Dress collection has existed since 2007 as a unique glimpse into the various ways that paper has been used in fancy dress and fashion through history. Their ‘RRRIPPP!!! Paper Fashion’ - first presented at the Benaki Museum in Athens, and since shown at (mongst others) MUDAM in Luxembourg, the MoMu in Antwerp, the Bellerive Design Museum in Zurich and the Gallerie Stihl in Wailblingen - has been critically acclaimed, and their first time in London is an exciting look into the cultural and historical uses of paper in fashion. #TextMe_PaperFashion focuses in particular on the Paper Dress movement that came about in 1966 when American companies like Hallmark and Scotts Paper began producing paper dresses as a way to promote their own products. #TextMe_PaperFashion examines how this trend evolved and blossomed through a delightful collection of clothes, accessories, and photographs. After 1966, the fashion world quickly became inundated with paper everything: hats, bikinis, outfits that matched your disposable tablecloth and crockery. Women became 'walking billboards' as companies, brands, and even political parties began printing their own garments - like the fantastic 1968 'Nixon' paper dress, made for the future Presidents fan-club and approved of by the man himself. Baby Ruth, Butter Finger, and even Campbell's soup all jumped on the paper trend during the years between 1966 and 1970 - dresses could be delivered within an envelope and assembled at home, their paper material coated with a specialised fire-resistant (let us not forget that everyone smoked in the sixties, and having your dress go up in flames was never a good look - even if it did match your tablecloth). These 'Poster Dresses' were also used to promote various poetry and song, as seen by Harry Gordon's paper dresses, adorned by Allen Ginsberg's poem Uptown NY and Bob Dylan's face. The exhibit itself is perfectly charming, and explores both the technical and historical aspect of using paper in fashion - as well as boasting an impressive collection of original paper garments from the 1960s. The first few tables concern themselves mostly with the cultural, historical and technical aspects of paper fashion, presenting the audience with Japanese kozo bark, Nepalese paper threads, waterproofed kamiko samples, and the like. Some seriously impressive historical peices include a 20th century Hinagata (a practice kimono) made of recycled pages from legder books, and the 'Airmail Dress' by Chalayan. Although the majority of the exhibit is focused on paper fashion produced during the 1960s, there are also some more contemporary pieces by Maison Martin Margiela, John Galliano, and Stratis Tavlaridis. An interesting subject, a well developed collection, and an aesthetically pleasing layout makes for a great overall pop-up exhibit. It runs from the 16th of January until the 24th of February 2019, and is free to visit. Image credits: Eventbrite, Liveauctionneer, ATOPOS on Instagram, Gigazine, writer's own.

The Tate Art describes Virtual Reality as 'a technology that enables a person to interact with a computer-simulated environment, be it based on a real or an imagined place'. While VR has been around since the 1980s in video games and entertainment, its entrance into the Art world is much more recent. 'We Live in an Ocean of Air', created by Marshmallow Laser Feast in collaboration with Natan Sinigaglia and Mileece I'Anson, is a surreal and uncanny use of this technology that will leave you both breathless and dazed. Before entering the installation, you are handed a myriad of tech, including a computer-backpack hybrid, a headset, hand trackers, headphones, and two heart monitors. It's all a little fussy to get on and off (I had to ask for help a few times), but it quickly becomes worth it: your emotional reactions are tracked (with your consent only) and used to gauge audience reaction. The 'breath technology' manages to measure your real-time breathing and display it as thousands of little dots bursting forth into the atmosphere. The experience itself is, in the simplest of terms, pretty magical. You swim-walk-fly through a constantly changing atmosphere of ever-changing colours, starting at the foot of a giant sequoia and ending up floating hundreds of feet above the earth. All thoughts of 'I hope I don't look like a twat as I pretend to float around this Avatar simulator' quickly disappeared, and I found myself deeply immersed in a gorgeous, constant transforming landscape. I don't know how the science or tech behind it works, but there's something insanely trippy and stunningly beautiful about watching your breathe being converted to oxygen by a giant sequoia tree. It's simply fantastic. The actual graphics of the experience are mind-bogglingly beautiful, utterly convincing, and genuinely impressive. The scent dispersal systems - which I was highly sceptical of at first - only added to the feeling of reality and deep connection to nature as you float around and above the world's largest living organism. One particularly enjoyable aspect is being able to watch other people interact with the performance before your turn, preparing you very slightly for the experience ahead. It is exactly what one expects and wants from Virtual Reality Art - we are transported as we are faced with an experience that is at once utterly unachievable, and yet incredibly real. The addition of the breath and scent sensors is a fantastic touch, and truly drives home the message of the work: to appreciate the invisible - but fundamental - connections between human and natural worlds. Tickets are £20, concession (ages 10 -16) are £15, and are available until the 24th of February. Image credits: Ticketmaster/Marshmallow Laser Feast on Facebook