By Maria Bregman Not long ago, I found myself at a dinner party in Islington, seated between a gallerist despairing over her Hinge profile and…
By Alexander Stone The sound of modern Britain is not the chime of Big Ben, nor the roar of a stadium, nor even the apologetic…
By Maria Bregman There is a certain type of novel that accrues praise as a forest floor accrues moss: quietly, organically, and with an air…
By Maria Bregman To read R.F. Kuang’s Yellowface as a story about plagiarism is like reading The Great Gatsby as a cautionary tale about bad driving. It is a…
The history of the floral still life is often burdened by its own domesticity. Relegated for centuries to the realm of the decorative, painting flowers…
By Maria Bregman There is a persistent and dangerously sentimental belief that Ray Bradbury’s Dandelion Wine is a book that makes you happy. It is packaged and…
By Tessa Nolan There is a tedious paradox at the heart of modern culture: the more desperately an artist contorts themselves for our attention, the…
By Sara Bright The West End has always been an ecosystem of calculated sentiment. For every flash of genuine, lightning-in-a-bottle genius, there are a dozen…
The breakfast photograph is dead. Long live breakfast. Let us not mourn the passing of its digital ghost – that poorly lit snapshot of sourdough…
By Sara Bright Jean Marais was a face. Not just any face, but one of the great, heroic faces of 20th-century French cinema – impossibly…