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Fine Artists for Things to be Better: March in London for Things to be Better

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This Saturday, the streets of London were taken over by a colourful parade of individuals who call themselves “Fine Artists for Things to be Better.” The group, which had no clearly defined purpose except for general improvement in everything, marched for a cause so ambiguous, even the participants struggled to explain it.

The march, which started at 10 a.m. sharp, wound its way through the city, with artists wielding a strange mix of banners, sculptures, and cardboard signs that seemed to multiply every five minutes.

The Cause

At the helm of this colorful chaos was Sir Percival Pompington, an avant-garde artist and self-proclaimed visionary of societal improvement. When asked to explain the core objective of the march, Sir Percival offered the following enigmatic statement:

“We are marching for better things, you see. Things that can be better. In the future, things could be better,if we make them better. Sometimes you just have to ask politely.”

When pressed further, he mentioned something about “the inherent beauty of unresolved tension in society,” and how “better things” could include anything from cleaner streets to more chairs in cafes that actually support the human form comfortably for more than ten seconds. The crowd seemed satisfied with this answer, nodding vigorously and breaking into spontaneous applause.

The Marchers

The march was a spectacular display of the eclectic and unpredictable nature of London’s fine art scene. Artists from every medium, genre, and state of caffeination were present. Some carried enormous, abstract sculptures made of what appeared to be papier-mâché and old bicycle tires. Others walked with large canvases depicting entirely different concepts of “better,” ranging from an oversized abstract smiley face to a depiction of a slightly happier broccoli stalk.

“I’m marching for a better world,one where brunch lasts until 5 p.m. and everyone understands the true meaning of postmodernism,” said Jane Blivens, an experimental performance artist in a suit made entirely of cling film.

A group of surrealist painters wore giant clocks around their necks, all set to 3:15. “Time, man, it’s all about time. Things could be better, but not until the clocks tell us it’s time,” one of them explained, before doing an interpretive dance around a nearby bus stop.

The Soundtrack

In keeping with the “anything goes” spirit of the march, a brass band consisting entirely of kazoos played an avant-garde rendition of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. The music was frequently interrupted by random shouts of “More color!” and “*Everyone, be better!” from the crowd.

At one point, a small group of drummers began tapping on traffic cones in what can only be described as rhythmic spontaneous chaos. This, naturally, brought the entire procession to a halt for a full 20 minutes as the group debated whether or not this impromptu performance was truly “art”.

The Protest Signs

The signs carried by the marchers were perhaps the most unusual aspect of the event. Some were straightforward,“Make Things Better, Please” and “Art Should Fix Everything.” Others, however, bordered on the baffling:

• “I’m Holding This Sign for Future Generations” (held by a man dressed as a potato)

• “Better is the New Good” (scrawled in chalk on an abandoned piece of pavement)

• “Can We Talk About the Lack of Pineapple in the Art World?” (this one was particularly hard to interpret, though it was written very passionately)

• “Things Might Not Be Better, But We’re Trying” (a classic, truly representative of the movement)

When asked about the message behind the signs, one marcher responded:

“The meaning of the signs doesn’t matter. What matters is the feeling you get from holding them.”

The Reception

Onlookers seemed unsure whether to cheer, clap, or perhaps call for the police. The general public’s reaction was mixed, ranging from enthusiastic encouragement to mild confusion. One passerby was overheard saying, “I don’t know what they’re protesting, but I’d like to join just for the free pastries they keep offering.”

A local café owner, who had been giving away complimentary croissants to the marchers, explained, “I don’t really understand what they’re fighting for, but they’re very polite. And they do appreciate a good almond croissant.”

The Grand Finale

As the march reached its final destination,an empty car park that had recently been converted into a temporary gallery space by a group of artists,a huge banner was unfurled reading simply:

“Things Can Be Better, But For Now, Let’s Just Stand Here.”

At this, the crowd stood in a silent tableau for 10 minutes, pondering the meaning of the march and the state of things. Some began to whisper about the deep significance of doing nothing and the collective power of inaction. Others debated whether or not the empty lot itself was a metaphor for society’s failure to improve things.

And then, just as abruptly as it had started, the march ended with a group hug. No one was sure why, but it felt right.

Conclusion

The “Fine Artists for Things to be Better” march was an inspiring, perplexing, and occasionally baffling event. While the precise cause remains unclear, it was, without a doubt, a better way to spend a Saturday morning,at least, in the eyes of those who value a good kazoo performance.

Please Stop Naming Things

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Five untitled objects (various materials), laminated labels (blank), an interactive naming station (non-functional), and a recorded apology.

Please Stop Naming Things is an urgent plea against categorisation, a direct confrontation with language’s futile attempt to impose order onto the unordered. The installation consists of five completely unidentifiable objects, each placed on its own pristine white plinth. They resist classification. They are not sculptures, nor are they functional. They are simply there, refusing to confirm or deny their own purpose.

Each plinth features a laminated museum-style label beneath it. The labels are blank.

At the far end of the gallery, visitors encounter what appears to be an interactive station labeled Name this Object. It consists of a touchscreen and a keyboard, inviting participants to define what cannot be defined. However, the touchscreen does not respond. The keyboard is not plugged in. The act of naming has been made impossible.

A soft voice plays over hidden speakers every six minutes. It simply says, “We’re sorry, but that name is already taken.”

“A thing does not need a name to exist. It does not need a category to matter. A chair is only a chair because someone pointed at it and said so. What if we stopped pointing?”

, Davos

This work operates in the liminal space between language and objecthood. Taking cues from minimalist sculpture, conceptual negation, and the failures of taxonomy, Please Stop Naming Things refuses to participate in the viewer’s desperate need for identification.

The five objects,made of unspecified materials,offer no clues to their origins or intended use. Are they industrial remnants? Sculptural gestures? Forgotten tools? Each visitor arrives with their own assumptions, only to be confronted with a complete lack of confirmation. The interactive naming station, a cruel mirage of participation, heightens the frustration. The recorded apology, played at irregular intervals, taunts those who attempt to impose meaning.

It is unclear whether the apology is sincere.

• The touchscreen is non-functional. No amount of pressing will change this.

• If you feel an overwhelming urge to classify what you see, please sit with that feeling until it passes.

Price: £540,000 (includes all five objects, blank labels, and a certificate that simply states “It Exists.”)

The Last Frame is Yours

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Medium: 127-hour single-channel video, involuntary audience participation, signed NDAs, mandatory reflective silence.

Screening Format: 16K digital projection, no subtitles.

Runtime: 5 days, 7 hours, 12 minutes. No intermissions.

The Last Frame is Yours is not a film. It is a commitment, a test, a sentence. At 127 hours in length, the piece obliterates the notion of passive spectatorship, demanding total submission from its audience. Gallery-goers must sign a waiver before entering, acknowledging their understanding that no one is permitted to leave until the final frame has been seen.

The film’s structure is elusive: a meandering collage of unedited security footage, flickering landscapes filmed at one frame per hour, actors reading novels in languages they don’t understand with deliberate hesitation, and entire stretches of black screen where the only soundtrack is the lo-res recording of a someone filling a car with petrol. At irregular intervals, a clock appears, but it does not tell the time.

Viewers are provided with a single, numbered blanket and a deliberately uncomfortable chair. Meals are served in near silence, consisting of a thin broth and dry crackers, a menu devised in collaboration with sleep deprivation researchers. At night (though time loses meaning quickly), pre-recorded voices murmur speculative reflections on the nature of endings, though it is never clear who is speaking.

Davos insists the audience must earn the final frame. Only those who endure the full experience are granted the right to see it. What happens in the last moment remains unknown,viewers sign an NDA and are forbidden from discussing it outside the screening.

Artist Statement:

“This work is a short film that I have worked on whilst researching my magnum opus, a 300 hour feature filmed on Hampstead Heath called Fred Astaire goes to Space.”

, Davos

Curator’s Notes:

This work is the culmination of a career-long investigation into the intersection of time, endurance, and the collapse of voluntary engagement. With The Last Frame is Yours, he transcends conventional filmic expectations, creating a piece that is at once cinematic, sculptural, and carceral.

Drawing from the durational legacies of Warhol’s Empire and Douglas Gordon’s 24 Hour Psycho, but stripping away the safety of optional departure, Davos forces the viewer into a state of radical submission. The fluctuating pace,sometimes glacial, sometimes violently abrupt,mirrors the psychological erosion of captivity, though unlike most imprisonment, this is one the audience has chosen.

The final frame, withheld until total surrender, serves as both punishment and reward. Those who reach it emerge transformed, though no one can say exactly how.

Visitor Guidelines:

• Once admitted, attendees may not leave until the screening is complete.

• Bathroom breaks are allowed, but must be taken in silent, single-file procession, monitored by a gallery attendant.

• No external timekeeping devices are permitted. Phones must be left outside.

• At the end of the screening, attendees are required to sit in silent reflection for one hour before departure.

Price: £1,750,000 (includes blanket, numbered certificate of completion, and exclusive access to a single still from the final frame).

Limited Edition Prints: A series of five images from indeterminate points in the film, titled You Were Here, But When?, is available for £250,000 each.

Critics’ Reactions:

• Sally Quant: “A relentless, unforgiving masterpiece.”

• Michel Downton: “Davos has done what no filmmaker has dared: he has made time itself the antagonist.”

• The Torquay Guardian: “I lasted 84 hours before I broke and was carried to A and E on a passing window-cleaner’s ladder. I can never know what I missed. This will haunt me forever.”

The Last Frame is Yours is not a film you watch. It is a film you survive.

Book Review: Michelangelo Was Actually Three Children in a Coat by Dr. Lisette Thrumble

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Every generation produces a handful of scholars bold enough to upend the established canon. Dr. Lisette Thrumble, previously best known for her well-received thesis on Da Vinci’s obsession with soup, now offers a meticulously footnoted reassessment of the Renaissance’s most revered figure. Her new book, Michelangelo Was Actually Three Children in a Coat, is as scholarly as it is surreal,a wild, speculative ride through both marble and myth.

The central claim, presented with disarming academic calm, is that Michelangelo Buonarroti,the sculptor of David, the painter of the Sistine Chapel, the architect of St. Peter’s Dome,was not a single Florentine genius, but a trio of exceptionally precocious orphans working together under an elaborate coat or toga-like garment.

Thrumble’s argument is audacious, but she backs it up with some compelling evidence.

Drawing from obscure tax records, erratic handwriting in Michelangelo’s notebooks, and one suspiciously childlike doodle in the margins of a papal commission ledger, she constructs a theory that is part detective story, part psychological case study, and part theatrical farce. According to Thrumble, the “Michelangelo” persona was an invention devised to navigate the adult world of patronage and papal politics in a world where precocious children were unable to become artists.

Each of the alleged trio is given a profile:

• Giulio, the topmost child, was the “face man”,the negotiator, letter-writer, and smooth talker who dazzled the Medicis with a vocabulary far beyond his years.

• Tomaso, the middle, had an uncanny grasp of musculature and was “responsible for all torsos and minor prophets.”

• Alfonso, the base of the stack, was the legs,and also the sculptor, possessed of superhuman calves.

Thrumble acknowledges the incredulity her theory provokes and devotes several chapters to painstaking evidence. There are floorplans of art studios, designed with everything low down and easily reachable by kids. Witness testimonies noting Michelangelo’s “high-pitched” voice and tendency to “wobble dramatically when turning corners,” and one lengthy appendix on how a small boy might feasibly carve Pietà if extremely determined and in possession of an extremely sharp chisel.

More than just an exercise in speculative absurdity, Michelangelo Was Actually Three Children in a Coat slyly pokes at the myth of solitary genius, asking: must we always believe in the singular, tortured male artist? Or is it possible,just possible,that our most revered masterpieces are the result of unexpected collaborations?

Thrumble’s writing is both razor-sharp and delightful. Her footnotes often devolve into bickering with herself. Chapter titles include “On Marble” and “The Coat as Metaphor”. The index is riddled with passive-aggressive entries like “David, see: thighs, improbable.”

While the book will never replace Vasari in the syllabus, it may well find a home in the hearts of skeptics, surrealists, and anyone who has ever looked at a work of art and thought, “A child have done that!” This book tells us, maybe they did.

Art World Exposed podcast: Toddlers, Titans, and the Tragedy of Taste

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Episode Summary:

In this revelatory episode of Art World Exposed, Saldo Caluthe and Tomas Sinke continue their unflinching examination of the absurdities of contemporary art. This week, they unpack the meteoric rise of a three-year-old artist selling finger paintings for millions, discuss whether conceptual art is secretly trolling us all, and interview a collector who insists their Damien Hirst shark tank is a family heirloom. Prepare for scathing wit, faux intellectualism, and a deep dive into the art world’s strangest contradictions.

00:00 , Intro: “The Picasso of Playdates”

Saldo and Tomas open with an analysis of three-year-old phenom Ember Splatts, whose work has become the latest must-have for collectors.

• Ember’s signature technique involves flinging paint while listening to Baby Shark on repeat, which critics are calling “a radical reclaiming of childhood chaos.”

• Saldo declares Ember “the Basquiat of the pre-K set,” while Tomas asks, “But is it art or just daycare on steroids?”

• Discussion includes auction highlights, like Ember’s Untitled (Snack Break), which sold for $4.3 million despite being partially smeared with applesauce.

Key Quote:

Saldo: “It’s raw, it’s primal, it’s a tantrum on canvas. Frankly, I’m jealous.”

11:47 , Segment: “Is Conceptual Art Laughing at Us or With Us?”

Tomas argues that the entire field of conceptual art might be an elaborate joke. Saldo counters by insisting that the joke is the art. They revisit notorious examples, including:

• Maurizio Cattelan’s banana duct-taped to a wall (Comedian), which Tomas dubs “the original fruit-based trolling.”

• A recent performance piece titled Wait in Line for Art where visitors queued for hours to see… absolutely nothing.

• Ember Splatts’ Crayon Cry, a single crayon taped to a wall, which sold for $600,000 and included a certificate of authenticity signed in glitter glue.

25:20 , Interview: Collector Miranda Plique on “Owning a Damien Hirst as a Family Pet”

Saldo and Tomas interview eccentric collector Miranda Plique, who recently purchased Damien Hirst’s infamous shark tank The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living. Plique discusses:

• The challenges of living with a 13-foot preserved shark in her dining room.

• Why she dresses the shark in festive hats during holidays.

• Her insistence that the shark is “not just art, but a family member.”

Key Quote:

Miranda: “Some people have cats, others have Damien Hirst sharks. Both shed a lot, but only one makes you money.”

38:15 , “The State of Taste: From Cigarettes to NFTs”

Saldo and Tomas examine the evolution (or devolution) of taste in the art world. Key topics include:

• Whether good taste is now synonymous with boring art.

• A debate on how collectors have shifted from Warhol soup cans to NFT soup animations.

• Saldo’s scathing critique of “tasteful” collectors who only buy beige minimalist works, calling them “art’s interior decorators.”

49:08 , Segment: “Toddlers of the Avant-Garde”

Saldo deep-dives into the sudden trend of toddler artists taking the art world by storm. They discuss:

• Why Ember Splatts’ parents are already negotiating a retrospective at the Tate Modern.

• Tomas suggests an emerging market for pre-natal art programs.

• The ethical dilemmas of collectors treating three-year-olds like the next Warhol.

• A call from an indignant listener, who asks if their nephew’s macaroni art is also worth millions.

Key Quote:

Tomas: “This is the logical conclusion of the art world,buying finger paintings before the kid even learns to spell their own name.”

1:02:17 , “Exhibitions You Shouldn’t Miss This Month”

The duo rounds up the most absurdly essential shows of the season:

1. “Ember Splatts: Tiny Tempest” at the Serpentine Pavilion, featuring her greatest works, displayed at toddler height.

2. “Post-Humanity: The Algorithm Weeps” at the Hayward Gallery, a conceptual AI-curated show about robots feeling emotions.

3. “Dead Things in Glass” at Shakleton’s, featuring Damien Hirst, a jar of pickles, and a stuffed iguana.

4. “Minimalist Whispers” at the Whitechapel Gallery: A silent exhibition where the artworks are hidden behind walls.

5. “Kazakhstan Biennale: London Satellite Edition” at the Barbican, showcasing goat-related performances and bottles of ethically sourced crude oil.

1:12:42 , Outro: “The Art World is a Crèche”

Saldo and Tomas close with reflections on whether toddlers could be the future of art,and what that says about the rest of us. Tomas suggests they submit one of their podcast scripts to an art fair as a conceptual piece, while Saldo muses about opening a gallery exclusively for under-fives.

Key Quote:

Saldo: “If a toddler can sell art for $5 million, why are we still podcasting for free?”

Listen Now:

Stream Episode 70 of Art World Exposed on Spotify, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you indulge in pretentious audio content.

My Life as an Art Dealer: “Hollywood, Hildone, and Hysteria”

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By Harissa Beaumont

It’s been one of those weeks,the kind that starts with me confidently saying, “It’ll be quiet, I can catch up on admin,” and ends with me wondering if I should abandon art dealing entirely and retrain as a florist or a lighthouse keeper.

Monday began with an early morning crisis, which, in the art world, is just called “morning.” A high-profile collector,let’s call him Giles, because his real name is much worse,decided that a major Kathy Hildone piece he’d purchased from us six months ago was too big for his Knightsbridge penthouse. “I told my interior designer I wanted something bold,” he said over the phone, “but now I’m wondering if it’s… a bit much?” The piece in question is a 10-foot-wide abstract painting in shades of radioactive pink and acid yellow. It is, in fact, a bit much. But you don’t say that to someone who just spent eight figures on it. So instead, I said, “It’s definitely a statement.” He sighed heavily. “Do you think I could swap it for something… subtler? Maybe a repaintage piece?”

This is the part of my job that should be classified as diplomatic relations. The unspoken rule of art dealing is that once a client has bought a piece, it’s their problem. But this is Giles, and Giles buys a lot of works, which means,annoyingly,I do have to care. “Leave it with me,” I said, before hanging up and banging my head against my desk.

Tuesday took an unexpected turn when I received a call from an assistant to Jack Landon, an aggressively handsome Hollywood actor who has made a career out of playing emotionally tortured detectives in very expensive cashmere. Jack was “in London for a few days” and wanted to visit the gallery. Now, normally, when celebrities visit galleries, they do one of two things: (1) buy something enormous and impractical for their house in the Hollywood Hills, or (2) take moody Instagram photos next to a Rothko and buy nothing.

Jack swept in at precisely 2:30 PM, trailed by an entourage that included his stylist, his publicist, and a woman who I assume is paid exclusively to carry his cashmere coat. He was wearing sunglasses indoors, which is a deeply unserious thing to do in London in January, but I let it slide. “I love art,” he declared, gazing around with the intensity of a man auditioning for a role as someone who really loves art. “It’s all just… so real, you know?”

Jack gravitated toward a piece by an artist I represent, who creates sculptures out of discarded technology. The work in question,a life-sized human figure constructed entirely out of old iPhones,seemed to unsettle him. “So, like… what does it mean?” he asked, frowning. “It’s about consumption,” I said, “and the way technology is eroding our humanity.” Jack nodded sagely. “Wow. That’s deep.” Then, after a pause: “Could I get it in black?”

Wednesday was spent at an auction preview, where the usual crowd of collectors, dealers, and art-adjacent socialites floated around pretending they weren’t mentally calculating resale values. I ran into Lucinda, a hedge-fund widow who is perpetually “on the verge” of opening her own gallery but never actually does. “Darling, I have to introduce you to someone,” she trilled, grabbing my arm and steering me toward a man who looked like he had personally eaten the EEC butter mountain. Is that still a thing. “This is Olivier. He’s fascinating.”

Olivier turned out to be a self-declared “art investor” who believes traditional galleries are obsolete and that the future is “tokenizing masterpieces on the blockchain.” “Imagine,” he said, swirling his Negroni, “owning a fraction of a Picasso.” I imagine Picasso would have thrown a chair at him, but I resisted.

Thursday, in a moment of reckless optimism, I agreed to a studio visit with a performance artist named Finn, who has been begging me to come and see his work. The “work” turned out to be a series of “durational experiences” in a warehouse in Hackney, culminating in Finn blindfolding himself and attempting to hammer nails into a wooden board while reciting poetry backwards. “It’s about the fragility of intent,” he explained, mid-swing. I told him I would “think about how we could position it.” What I actually thought about was how quickly I could leave.

By Friday, I was so exhausted that I seriously considered hiding in the gallery’s storage cupboard and waiting for the week to end. Instead, I had to deal with the Giles situation. Miraculously, I convinced another collector,an American tech CEO who, crucially, loves things that are “a bit much”,to take the Hildone off Giles’s hands. “It’s vibrant, it’s alive, it’s got movement,” the CEO said enthusiastically. “Like my brand!” Whatever that means.

As I wrapped up the deal, I received a text from Jack Landon’s assistant: “Jack loved the iPhone sculpture but wants to know if he can pay in Bitcoin?” I closed my laptop and poured myself a very large glass of wine.

Until next week,

Harissa

Room 3: Exhibition Wall Panel

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Compton, Room 3: A Turning Point (1980,1995), 2025

Printed text on canvas

Room 3: A Turning Point reimagines the traditional exhibition wall panel as a work of art, transforming informational text into a poetic and conceptual meditation. Printed on canvas, this piece blurs the boundaries between documentation and creation, challenging viewers to reflect on how narrative shapes our understanding of art, time, and legacy.

Compton’s mastery lies in their ability to elevate the ordinary. By isolating and reframing text, they invite the audience to focus on its rhythm, structure, and emotional weight. The work’s minimalist design, with precise typography and balanced composition, mirrors the quiet intensity of its content, drawing attention to every carefully chosen word.

This piece is an ode to Compton’s enduring fascination with language as both medium and message, offering a profound commentary on art’s capacity to interpret itself. A singular and thought-provoking addition to any collection, Room 3: A Turning Point embodies their reputation as a boundary-pushing innovator in contemporary art.

Price on Request.