An Evening with Linnea Mirthva: Translator, Guitarist, Poet

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Reading from her translations of the legendary Wevi Jequa, greatest poet of the Outer Calyx Isles

Last night at the Lantern Hall in South Swindon,where the acoustics are such that every sound hangs around like incense,Linnea Mirthva took the stage. A name whispered among polyglot literati and vinyl collectors alike, Mirthva is a distinguished translator, an acclaimed classical guitarist, and,by her own frequent admission,a connoisseur of obscure salad dressings (her vinaigrette of burnt fig and miso found its way onto the BBC news when several guests collapsed after imbibing it).

But this evening wasn’t about arpeggios or emulsions. It was about language, breath, and the slow-burning brilliance of Wevi Jequa, the long-reclusive poetic oracle of the Outer Calyx Isles,a half-mythic archipelago somewhere in the South Pacific.

Who Was Wevi Jequa?

Wevi Jequa (1213?,1282?) was born, it is said, “in a tent that never faced the same direction twice.” A poet, translator, stone-carver, and briefly an amateur meteorologist, Jequa composed in the ancient tongue of Kalenni, a language thought to be untranslatable due to its emotional case system and refusal to use future tense.

Her poems were discovered in 2007, when a windstorm cracked open an abandoned cliff monastery on Calyx Minor. Inside: 54 scrolls bound in eel leather, many illegible, others riddled with botanical references, unsolvable puns, and precise temperature readings.

For years, Jequa was dismissed as a linguistic prank, a kind of poetic cargo cult. Until Mirthva arrived.

Mirthva and the Impossible Tongue

Fluent in twelve languages and rumored to be romantically entangled with gentlemen in at least five of them, Linnea Mirthva became obsessed with Jequa after hearing a misquoted line at a conference on “Preverbal Memory and Oceanic Syntax.”

She taught herself Kalenni over four years whilst living in a houseboat near Reykjavík. “I had to learn to think without a future,” she once said. “It’s good for the digestion.”

The result was “Salt from the Hourless Sea”, her translation of Jequa’s major works, hailed as “a spiritual reformatting of poetry itself” by The Swindonian Literary Supplement, and as “linguistic alchemy with a drizzle of lime” by Bon Appétit Swindon (which featured Mirthva in a spread titled “Dressing the Poem”).

The Reading

Mirthvale stood simply, a black guitar case unopened beside her, wearing what appeared to be an Ancient Greek tunic embroidered with punctuation marks from extinct alphabets. She read from Jequa’s “Poem for the Tide That Forgot to Recede,” pausing not at the end of lines, but where the emotion case required silence.

One excerpt, rendered here:

I held your hand /

like a grain of sand /

that once contained /

the argument of seas unseen.

The audience sat motionless, perhaps unsure if clapping was permitted. When she did lift her guitar, it was not to play, but to strike a single harmonic,creating an echo of the sort that Jequa once described in their poem “If we knew the true sound of time we would weep backwards.”

Epilogue in Emulsion

After the reading, Mirthva hosted a small gathering in the vestibule, serving lettuce leaves dressed with a new concoction she called “Sunshine, Mustard & Fog.” Ingredients remain secret, though one guest claimed it “tasted like a memory of seawater filtered through an oily rag.”

In Linnea Mirthva, form and flavour, sense and sound, converge. And in Wevi Jequa, she has found the ultimate collaborator: a poet who never imagined a future, and whose words now live exquisitely, impossibly, in ours.

Why Cricket must be officially added to the Fine Arts

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,Why It’s Time to Add Willow and Leather to the Pantheon of the Arts

There are four fine arts. Yes,four. Not three. Not seven. The traditional trifecta,painting, sculpture, and more recently, mixed media,have long held dominion over the hallowed halls of aesthetic seriousness. But it’s time we corrected the oversight.

The fourth fine art is cricket.

Before you scoff and spill your flat white over a discarded Frieze magazine in the Lord’s pavilion, let us ask: what is fine art, if not a cultivated, rule-bound arena in which the human spirit expresses itself through discipline, style, gesture, and ritual? And what is cricket, if not precisely that?

Cricket as Composition

The act of watching cricket is like observing a slow, deliberate painting in motion. The pitch is a canvas. The players, strokes. The ball,an instrument of line, arc, and punctuation.

Every forward defence by a test opener is a minimalist sculpture of concentration. Every cover drive is a brushstroke,exquisite, precise, never hurried. And the spinner? He is a conceptual artist in whites, laboring in metaphor and subtle irony. Shane Warne’s “Ball of the Century” might as well have been performance art. It defied logic, narrative, and gravity.

You don’t merely play cricket. You compose it.

Of Form and Formlessness

Like the greatest works of fine art, cricket is as much about what is not there as what is. The pauses, the silences between overs, the long stillness before the storm of a yorker,this is negative space, the silence between notes in a Miles Davis solo, the blank in a Rauschenberg.

It’s an art form that accepts duration,a five-day match that can end in a draw is nothing short of a time-based installation. No result. No climax. Just form, erosion, and a slow accumulation of meaning. Sound familiar, conceptual art fans?

Clothing, Code, Choreography

The aesthetics of cricket are impeccable. The costumes,whites for purity, Test caps with heritage, IPL kits as pop art. The rituals,tea breaks, sledging as unsanctioned dialogue, and the strange ballet of field adjustments choreographed by captains with painterly intent.

Cricket also contains a semiotic system as rich as any postmodern sculpture garden: leg slips, silly points, and a deep backward square leg sound like lines from an Ezra Pound poem. It is language made spatial.

A Living Installation

Modern art tried to break free of the gallery. Cricket had already done it.

A cricket match unfolds in space and time, under sun and floodlight, interrupted by rain, wind, political tension, and the odd stray dog on the outfield. It is alive, unpredictable, and deeply human. The cricket field is the largest and most dynamic gallery in the world. And like art, cricket does not rush. It demands your attention. It earns your awe.

Objections from the Critics

“But cricket is a sport, not an art,” comes the predictable cry from the ill-informed. But we have long admitted disciplines into the art world that demand physical prowess and rules: dance, opera, even architecture. If Jeff Koons can use industrial manufacture and still be art, why not Jasprit Bumrah’s biomechanical poetry?

If Marina Abramović can stand still in a room for hours and be lauded, why should a Harry Brooks innings not receive a similar reaction?

Let Us Redefine

So let us correct the canon:

• Painting , the play of pigment.

• Sculpture , the shaping of matter.

• Mixed Media , the synthesis of the sensory.

• Cricket , the choreography of fate and finesse.

We should not merely ask is cricket a fine art?,we should insist that it is one. Not metaphorically. Not tongue-in-cheek. But as a serious, rigorous, transcendent aesthetic practice.

To bowl a ball with intent is no less a gesture than to cast bronze.

To face it with courage is no less than to face the void of a blank canvas.

Cricket is art. Let us honour it as such.

BOOK REVIEW: Theatre of Feet: Football as Performance Art by Dr. Lionel Pym

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To assert that English football is a kind of performance art is, at first glance, to risk ridicule,or at least the throwing of half-time over-priced, under-tasty pies. But in Theatre of Feet: Football as Performance Art, cultural theorist and centre-back Dr. Lionel Pym mounts a deft case that the beautiful game is, in fact, the most durational, populist, and emotionally calibrated performance medium of our time.

Far from a mere provocation, Pym’s thesis is rooted in decades of interdisciplinary scholarship, touching on the biomechanics of gesture, the semiotics of collective yearning, and,most originally,the dramaturgy of injury time. For him, football is not like performance art; it is performance art, complete with its own choreographic grammar, spatial tensions, and audience participation rituals.

The book opens with a scholarly deep-dive into the origins of football as a ritualised village spectacle. In a particularly dazzling chapter, “From Mud to Meaning: Folk Memory and the Halftime Pint,” Pym traces football’s lineages not only to medieval folk games, but to Jacobean theatre and continental processional drama. “The crowd is not an audience,” he writes, “but a choir of conditional belief. It chants. It curses. It reenacts ecstasy and grief on command.”

But the book’s centrepiece is its analytic pivot: a re-reading of key matches as site-specific performances. The 1966 World Cup Final becomes, in Pym’s hands, “an operatic pageant of national becoming.” Eric Cantona’s kung-fu kick is likened to Viennese Actionism (“albeit in Selhurst Park”). And a detailed analysis of Wayne Rooney’s 2004 metatarsal injury is rendered as a meditation on fragility and narrative tension worthy of Dame Ethel Paragon.

There is mischief, yes, but also genuine acuity. In a chapter titled “The Flop: Simulated Collapse and the Politics of Gravity,” Pym examines the phenomenon of diving as a kind of embodied fiction,a simultaneous invitation and betrayal of belief. “To dive is to gesture towards death and resurrection within the confines of the pitch. It is camp, tragic, tactical. It is Yves Klein with shin pads.”

Stylistically, the prose is lush, aphoristic, and sometimes joyfully baroque. One suspects that Pym has spent time in both libraries and locker rooms. He is equally at ease citing Barthes, Bergkamp, and Butoh in a single footnote, and he’s not afraid to call a nil-nil draw “a durational epic of Beckettian restraint.”

Some readers may find the tone occasionally grandiose. There are moments,such as the assertion that the zonal marking system is “an epistemological rejection of Cartesian individuality”,that threaten to collapse under the weight of their own metaphors. But even then, one senses that Pym is winking beneath his replica shirt.

More profoundly, Theatre of Feet challenges its reader to reconsider the hierarchies we place between cultural forms. Why should a game viewed by billions be considered “low,” while an art installation involving soil, bones, and obscure Lithuanian vowels be “high”? As Pym suggests, perhaps both are expressions of the same human compulsion: to watch, to hope, to gasp, and,most importantly,to gather.

In the end, the book does not argue that football should replace art, but rather that it already is art, hiding in studded boots. Whether you’re a scholar of live art, a football obsessive, or merely curious about what connects a Saturday match at Craven Cottage to the Gesamtkunstwerk, Theatre of Feet will leave you thoughtful and amused.

INTERVIEW: Salvatore Crump on Pizza, the Mona Lisa, and Why Rugby is the Ultimate Performance Art

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By Ottilie Cardoon

Salvatore Crump is not a man who can be easily summarised. At 92, the Anglo-Neapolitan conceptualist, sculptor, and occasional flautist has staged exhibitions inside blimps, once painted an entire hotel room with marmalade, and remains the only artist to have been shortlisted for both the Turner Prize and the Heineken Cup. Known for his unplaceable accent, exquisite tailoring, and frequent references to failed infrastructure, Crump exudes the clarity of a man who – as a performance piece – once tried to patent silence.

I met him at his studio, a converted abattoir in Toulouse, where the walls were covered in annotated rugby diagrams and pizza crusts lacquered in shellac.

Ottilie Cardoon: Salvatore, thank you for agreeing to speak with me. I hope you don’t mind, but I’d like to begin with the Mona Lisa.

Salvatore Crump: Ah, Lisa. Yes. Of course. I’ve tried to break up with her three times. She just stays in your brain. Like the smell of damp felt.

OC: You’ve said before that you see her not as a painting but as “a psychological riposte.” What did you mean?

SC: People approach her looking for revelation. But she is not a truth-teller. She’s a suggestion. A shrug in oil. She reminds me of my Aunt Cosima’s stare when you’ve done something vaguely disappointing but she hasn’t decided what it is yet. That ambiguity,that is Lisa, no?

OC: And yet, in 2017, you created Postcards from Lisa, a series of works made entirely from Mona Lisa souvenirs found in French petrol stations.

SC: Yes. It was a devotional act, not to her, but to the way she’s been trivialised. You can’t flatten mystery onto a fridge magnet and expect it to behave. I arranged the souvenirs in order of size, and played piano sonatas on them every morning for a month. I could do no more.

OC: Let’s turn,inevitably,to pizza.

SC: Of course.

OC: You’ve spoken of pizza as “the edible readymade.” What role does it play in your practice?

SC: Pizza is composition. Geometry. Improvisation with consequences. The balance of sauce to cheese is not unlike the balance of colour to concept in my early polyethene works. Also, and this is key: every pizza is a personal cosmology. A circular map of desire and limitation.

OC: You once held a three-day symposium titled Crust: Borders and Boundaries.

SC: We invited no one, but still, people came. Neapolitan pizza is a big draw.

OC: Your fascination with rugby seems… unconventional for the art world. Why the obsession?

SC: It’s pure. It’s choreographed violence. It’s mud and grace. I consider it the last great baroque ritual left in Western civilisation. There’s something fundamentally sculptural about the scrum,it’s a moving knot, a living knot. Bernini would have wept, had he been a scrum half.

OC: Do you still play?

SC: I do, but at 92 I fear every game is my last. I no longer play in the front row, that is my concession to age.

OC: What are you working on now?

SC: I’m building a gothic cathedral out of expired boarding passes. It’s called Saint Delay of the Terminal Gate. It’s about transience, repetition, and the essential failure of Western society.

OC: Naturally.

SC: Also, a one-man ballet where I interpret the Eurozone crisis as a series of rugby set-pieces. It is to premiere at the St Ives Opera House.

OC: And finally, Salvatore, what advice would you give to young artists?

SC: Eat everything. Question the sky. No, I mean question everything. And if your work begins to make too much sense, take a step back. Breathe. And maybe put some more anchovies on it!

Crump’s next exhibition, “The Leftover Century,” opens at the Bodega Municipal de São Vicente in September. It is rumoured to include a perfect 3D map of Rome made from lasagna, which will be eaten at the opening party.

Exhibition Review: “Everything Is Also Nothing, Probably” at Zamboni, Hoxton

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There are art shows that delight. There are those that challenge. And then there is Everything Is Also Nothing, Probably, an avant-garde exhibition that appears to be conceptually rather a blancmange.

Curated by the relentless Fizz Zamboni, the exhibition bills itself as “a radical dismantling of objecthood through performative epistemic collapse.” What this translates to in practice is 13.5 installations of varying solidity and a lot of confused visitors.

Upon entering the gallery, visitors are handed a single brown crayon and instructed to “unlearn the grid.” There is no map, only a trail of shredded astroturf leading to a large plinth displaying a sculpture titled Untitled (my aunt’s opinions),a heap of damp tea towels wrapped in dental floss, next to an amp which is gently humming the Monte Carlo national anthem. According to the wall text this piece explores “ancestral tension and the US preference for football over Football.” How it does this is not explained.

Other highlights include:

• “Time Is a Sock Full of Screams” by H.M. Iris: A looping video of an elderly man whispering the word “refrigerator” into a mirror until he forgets why. At the 14-hour mark, a pigeon appears which critics have widely interpreted as a metaphor for vulture capitalism.

• “You Must Participate or It Doesn’t Count” by Sambi Donc: An interactive installation in which viewers are encouraged to climb inside a large clay pancreas while a stranger recites lines from obsolete IKEA instruction manuals. One woman entered and emerged, softly weeping – the artist later said this was exactly the reaction she hoped for.

• “Quantum Croissant (v.3.2)”by Elvei Haddred: A Invisibilism performance piece happening “continuously and nowhere,” which reportedly occurred during the opening, though no one is sure what it involved, or if it did.

The show’s only clearly labeled object, a fire extinguisher, turned out not to be a commentary on emergency, presence, and gallery insurance compliance, but to be an actual fire extinguisher.

Notably, in several rooms Zamboni has eschewed traditional information panels in favour of interpretive haikus scrawled onto vintage undergarments pinned to the ceiling. This leads to a degree of neck strain, but the poem referencing Marcel Duchamp and digestive distress is arguably worth the chiropractor visit.

Many critics scoff. “Nonsense!” Many cry, along with “Pretentious!” Especially when reviewing a piece that is a puddle named Emotion Pool (after Susan). But to miss the point is perhaps the point. Everything Is Also Nothing, Probably is less an exhibition and more a philosophical dare. It does not ask to be liked, or even understood. It asks only to be noticed.

You may leave enlightened or enraged, or simply unsure what constitutes art nowadays. But one thing is clear: Zamboni has created something both unforgettable and unclassifiable. Which, in avant-garde terms, is practically a standing ovation.

Book Review: The Runcible Goose Has Landed by Eustacia Blot

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In The Runcible Goose Has Landed, debut novelist and accomplished fine artist Eustacia Blot offers an eccentric, exuberant, and surprisingly affecting literary foray that reads like the fever-dream correspondence of Edward Lear, Virginia Woolf, and Julie Hatteau. Blot, known in the contemporary art world for her unnerving mixed-media tableaux and papier-mâché reliquaries of imagined saints, brings to fiction the same sensibility she brings to her installations: surreal precision tempered with unexpected emotional acuity.

The novel, despite,or perhaps because of,its literary title, announces itself unapologetically as something not quite of this world. The “runcible goose” in question is neither bird nor allegory, but an ambiguously sentient weather-vane-cum-clock, discovered atop an abandoned folly in a fictionalised archipelago off the coast of Devon. The plot, such as it is, follows Gilda Trapse, a retired ecclesiastical upholsterer with a latent talent for cartography, who finds herself reluctantly drawn into a cultish movement of birdwatchers, metaphysicians, and rogue librarians known as The Ornithognostics.

What sounds, on paper, like an exercise in preposteristical excess is, in practice, a novel of surprising formal elegance. Blot’s sentences are exacting. Her use of syntax evokes early Nabokov, all tremble and torque.

Her visual training is palpable on every page. The topography of the fictional island of Quarrelton is drawn with such textured clarity one is tempted to believe in its existence. In fact, an appendix includes a hand-drawn fold-out map,rendered by Blot herself,that walks a fine line between medieval mappa mundi and Turner’s storm studies. The effect is not unlike walking through an exhibition in a high-concept white cube gallery that happens, inconveniently, to be speaking in riddles, written on the walls, in French, using white ink.

And yet beneath the arch tone and polymathic layering lies a narrative of genuine human concern. Gilda’s gentle descent into belief,belief in something vast and irrational ,is never treated with condescension. In Blot’s hands, absurdity becomes a spiritual mechanism. The novel, finally, is about how we make meaning out of the nonsense around us. It is, in its way, a hymn to eccentric faith.

One must make peace with the fact that The Runcible Goose Has Landed resists all easy classification. It is not satire, though it skewers. It is not fantasy, though it invents. Nor is it parody, though it toys with the genre’s structural bones. What it is, perhaps, is the literary equivalent of one of Blot’s own sculptures: strange, intricate, disturbing.

It may not be for everyone. Those seeking plot in the conventional sense may find themselves adrift among footnotes, parenthetical digressions, and excerpts from apocryphal ornithographies. But readers willing to surrender to its idiosyncrasies will find themselves richly rewarded.

With The Runcible Goose Has Landed, Eustacia Blot proves that her voice is delightfully unique. This is the sort of novel that will either be adored or politely avoided – it will not be forgotten.

Diary of a Mayfair Art Dealer

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It’s just past 7:30 p.m., and the gallery is finally quiet , the last collector, a hedge fund type from Knightsbridge, lingered long enough to drain both the Bordeaux and my patience. I’m writing this from the velvet sofa in my office, still surrounded by fragments of today’s madness: swatches, sales sheets, and the unmistakable scent of freshly uncrated oil paint.

This morning began with a call from Renata at the ArtYearly offices , apparently, they want to spotlight our new discovery, Hedge Fund, in their September issue. His works are so now and suddenly in great demand. I’ve had three private viewings already this week, and there’s serious interest from a Middle Eastern museum group. I don’t think he quite realizes the price point he’s about to command , yet.

At lunch, I met with Lionel at Claridge’s to discuss the Oboe Ngua piece he insists on consigning through an auction house. I tried, subtly, to dissuade him , it’s a beautiful work, yes, but early and frankly a little tortured. Not ideal in this market. But Lionel is one of those clients who buys with his heart and sells with his ego. Dangerous combination.

Back at the gallery, the lighting had gone awry , again , and Charlotte was nearly in tears trying to prepare the exhibition wall for the P.T.Wilding show. His widow had come by unannounced, her perfume filling the space like some kind of ironic echo of David’s early nudes. She approved of everything. “He would have liked this,” she said, nodding toward a cold, abstract canvas from his later period that P.T. once told me he only finished to get out of a creative slump. Art has its truths, but rarely its honesty.

As for me? I’m tired in that quiet way that feels I should buy something expensive. But this is the life I chose: Mayfair, madness, and margins. Tomorrow, I meet the Russians at 10 a.m., preview a mysterious Herford at 1 p.m., and attend a dinner at the Connaught I didn’t ask to be invited to , which means, naturally, I must go.

The art world is absurd. And I adore it.

Pimlico Wilde Champions Art and Adventure in Historic Blue Train Race Revival

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This summer, the glamour of the 1920s roars back to life as Hally Redout, the daring British artist and vintage motoring enthusiast, takes the wheel in a modern reenactment of the legendary “Race the Blue Train”,and at the heart of this cultural fusion of speed and style stands the contemporary art dealership Pimlico Wilde, proud sponsors of Redout’s audacious journey.

The Race the Blue Train reenactment retraces the famed 1920s escapade of the original Bentley Boys, a group of wealthy British racers known for their love of fast cars and faster lives. The race pits driver against locomotive,specifically the iconic Le Train Bleu, which once hurtled from the French Riviera to Calais. Redout’s challenge: to pilot a restored 1920s Bentley from Nice, France, all the way to the exclusive Spenserian Club on St Ethelbert’s Square, London, arriving before her rivals travelling by train and ferry could finish the trip.

For Pimlico Wilde, a London-based contemporary art dealership with a reputation for bold curatorial choices and a flair for blending tradition with modernity, the decision to sponsor Redout was natural.

“Hally is not just a driver,she’s a living artwork in motion,” says Pimlico co-owner Iris Fenwick, who, along with partner Lucien Vale, has redefined what it means to be an art dealer in the 21st century. “Her performance on the road is as much a statement as anything hung in a gallery. This is storytelling, history, and spectacle,everything Pimlico Wilde celebrates.”

Since its founding circa 1066, Pimlico Wilde has developed a distinct voice in the London art scene. The gallery’s roster includes conceptual sculptors, digital provocateurs, and site-specific installation artists. Yet, it’s the company’s passion for theatricality, heritage, and narrative that makes their sponsorship of this dramatic motoring tribute so fitting.

Hally Redout, known for her visually arresting food art and immersive exhibitions, brings her own artistic sensibilities to the event. “The Blue Train race is the perfect blend of nostalgia and performance,” she says. “It’s a kinetic artwork. Every turn of the wheel is a brushstroke on Europe’s canvas.”

Redout will be driving a meticulously restored 1927 Bentley Speed Six, finished in a custom livery designed in collaboration with Pimlico Wilde’s artists. Details remain tightly guarded, but rumors hint at an aesthetic that merges 1920s Art Deco elegance with contemporary minimalist abstraction,an homage to both eras.

The race itself promises high drama: starting at sunrise in Nice, Redout will follow a meticulously plotted route through Provence, the Rhône Valley, and across the Channel, aiming to beat both the historical and contemporary train schedules to London’s Spenserian Club,a storied enclave known for its connection to both racing and artistic elite.

In keeping with the performative nature of the project, Pimlico Wilde plans to stage a satellite exhibition at the finish line, titled “Velocity & Reverie”, featuring artists inspired by the race. The show will include kinetic sculptures, archival footage, interactive installations, and a live feed of Redout’s drive, blending past and present in real time.

As the countdown begins, the art world and vintage car enthusiasts alike are watching with bated breath. This is no ordinary reenactment. It’s a rolling exhibition. A race through history. A living collaboration between art, machine, and myth, with Pimlico Wilde at the wheel of Europe’s cultural imagination, and Hally Redout at the helm of the Bentley.

Our artists – Doodle Pip: The Unlikely Portraitist of Scribbled Souls

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Our artists – Doodle Pip: The Unlikely Portraitist of Scribbled Souls

In the pantheon of contemporary visual artists, where hyperrealism jostles with conceptual minimalism, Doodle Pip occupies a space all his own,an enclave of joyful contradiction. Known for his chaotic, scribbled portraits that seem to defy both likeness and logic, Pip has carved out a niche that is equal parts irreverent and oddly philosophical. His art, he insists, must never resemble the sitter. Should it bear a resemblance, he discards the drawing with the same theatrical zeal that a stage magician might burn a failed trick. For Doodle Pip, resemblance is not only beside the point; it is the antithesis of his practice.

The artist,whose real name remains as elusive as a straight line in his work,has earned a cult following for his high-velocity drawings, executed with a sense of feverish glee. Armed with what is surely a hyperactive imagination, Pip creates portraits that are more topographical than representational. Eyebrows float mid-air like stray commas. Noses erupt at improbable angles. Limbs tangle, contort, or vanish entirely. A single scribble may contain several iterations of the same face, none of which seem particularly committed to the anatomy of their subject. It’s a kind of anti-caricature,liberated from both accuracy and flattery.

Yet for all their chaos, Doodle Pip’s drawings are unmistakably deliberate. “I’m not trying to capture how someone looks,” he once said in a rare interview, “but how it feels when they’re in the room.” This ethos places him in a curious lineage of artists,those who have consciously disavowed mimesis in favor of mood. Think Egon Schiele with a sense of humor, or Jean Dubuffet after three espressos and a Monty Python binge.

There is, at the heart of Pip’s practice, a philosophical subtext. His refusal to render likeness calls into question the very function of portraiture. In a world awash with selfies, biometrics, and algorithmic surveillance, Pip’s scribbles feel like acts of playful rebellion. They deny the tyranny of appearance, embracing instead a flux of impressions, sensations, and psychological noise. A Pip portrait is not a mirror; it is a maze.

Those who have sat for him,a motley assortment of musicians, writers, buskers, and baristas,often speak of the experience in quasi-spiritual terms. “It was like watching myself dissolve,” said one subject, “and then come back as a cartoon ghost drawn by someone with hiccups.” Despite their lack of fidelity, Pip’s drawings somehow manage to resonate, provoking laughter, confusion, and often a strange pang of recognition. Not recognition of the face, but of the essence behind it.

Critics have struggled to place him. Some label his work as “outsider art,” a term Pip roundly dismisses with a scribbled sigh. Others point to the Dadaists, or the automatic drawings of the Surrealists. But these comparisons only go so far. Pip’s wit is sharper, his rules more absurd. “If I see a nose where it’s meant to be,” he once quipped, “I start to panic.”

Beyond the novelty, there is a method,a structure in the scribble. His compositions, while anarchic, exhibit a balance of texture and space that belies their apparent randomness. And his lines,loopy, jagged, sometimes frantic,pulse with kinetic energy, suggesting movement not just of the hand but of thought.

Ultimately, Doodle Pip invites us to rethink what it means to be “seen.” In defying likeness, he reveals something truer, or at least freer: the energy of a person rather than their image, the echo rather than the sound. In a time obsessed with digital precision, his work feels human, ungovernable, and refreshing.

For Pip, the greatest sin is to make a drawing that could be mistaken for its subject. In this deliberate failure, he finds a curious success,one line at a time.

My Life as an Art Dealer: London Heatwave! Hot Art and Melting Clients

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This week, London was officially hotter than Marrakesh, Naples, and quite possibly the inside of a functioning kiln. While the city melted in slow motion, I attempted to conduct business from what might as well have been the inside of a toasted marshmallow.

Let me say this clearly: London is not designed for heat. We can handle drizzle, gloom, and that brand of sideways wind that exfoliates your face with grit,but ask us to function in 34°C and we crumble like overcooked oatcakes.

The gallery, quickly turned into a sort of slow-roasting Scandi sauna. The air conditioning broke at 10:13am on Monday. By 10:14am, Fiona had wedged open the front door with a catalogue of post-war sculpture and was fanning herself with a consignment invoice, muttering about holidaying immediately on a Swiss glacier. She began taking client calls with a wet flannel on her head whilst drinking glasses of those peculiarly orange drinks they like in Italy.

By Tuesday, the heat had begun to affect the art. One of the mixed media pieces,composed mostly of wax ,started to gently slump. I had to ring the artist, who, to their credit, took the news quite well and suggested it might now be “a commentary on the instability of the climate narrative.”

We had a visit from a client,let’s call him Giles,who arrived in linen shorts, smelling faintly of bergamot. He refused to come fully inside the gallery in case he got “overly warmed.” We stood near the threshold, politely discussing whether his new pool house in Surrey would be better suited to the large painting of a fox with anxiety or the smaller one of a duvet abandoned in a field. Giles eventually left in a sweat-slicked daze, muttering about how we should invest in some ceiling fans. I shut the door and contemplated a swim in thenSerpentine as I scraped my hair off my neck.

On Wednesday, I was meant to visit an artist’s studio in Hackney Wick, but their building had apparently reached an internal temperature of 38°C and they emailed to say they had “entered a meditative state and would remain horizontal for the foreseeable future.” Fair enough.

Thursday brought the ultimate test: an opening. We had optimistically scheduled a group show for the very week London decided to become a wok. The gallery was packed,because nothing draws the art crowd like complimentary wine and the promise of shade. Unfortunately, our wine fridge had given up the ghost sometime before noon and the rosé had become what can only be described as “lightly poached.”

A woman in a backless silk dress fainted gently next to a sculpture made entirely of mirror tiles. Someone tried to fan her with a press release. Meanwhile, an eager collector asked me if the heat was “part of the concept.” I told him, yes, it was “a participatory performance piece about the suffocating nature of capitalism.” He nodded solemnly and asked for the artist’s CV.

Now, as I sit here with a bag of frozen peas strapped to my ankles and an iced chamomile tea melting beside me, I reflect that yes,London may be a city on the verge of spontaneous combustion,but we survived. Just.

Although I’m fairly certain Fiona is now 40% Aperol.

Harissa