Art Diary

A Quiet Drama in Shadow: Jane Bastion’s ‘Silhouettes of Life’

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There is a hushed power in Jane Bastion’s new exhibition, Silhouettes of Life, currently on view at the Easton Rooms, a show composed entirely of silhouette portraits. At first glance, it may seem a modest proposal: profiles in bold colors cut sharply against pale grounds, an 18th-century form revived with restraint. But to spend time with Bastion’s work is to experience a quiet drama unfold—one that explores identity, intimacy, and memory through what is left unseen.

The opening night was unusually subdued for a private view, the usual rush of art-scene chatter replaced by a slower, more contemplative pace. Visitors moved along the walls in near silence, pausing, doubling back, squinting slightly, as if attempting to read the portraits not just as likenesses but as ciphers. The works do not shout. They wait.

Each silhouette, rendered with a delicacy that belies its apparent simplicity, becomes a study in presence and absence. Bastion has modernised the form with digital interventions and colour. She stays close to the tradition but pushes at its edges. A few portraits include slight deviations—a loosened strand of hair, a tilted hat brim, a shoulder slightly turned. In these subtle shifts, whole personalities emerge. A child’s profile, its line wavering with a hint of restlessness, sits beside the stern geometry of an older man whose high collar and straight spine suggest formality—or perhaps fear.

The genius of the exhibition lies in its refusal to explain. None of the works are titled with names. Instead, the pieces carry dates, locations, or phrases: April, West Window, Three Years After, She Didn’t Speak That Day. These fragments lend the works a narrative texture, encouraging the viewer to fill the void between what is given and what is implied.

This is not nostalgia, though there is an echo of the past in Bastion’s method. Rather, it is something more searching: a meditation on how we remember people, and how much we can ever truly know of them. The silhouettes ask not just “Who is this?” but “What remains of a person when all detail is stripped away?”

It is telling that several visitors returned to the same portraits more than once during the evening, drawn back to the suggestive emptiness of each shape. The lack of facial expression, of decorative context becomes its own form of invitation—to imagine, to remember, to project.

Bastion, whose previous works leaned more heavily into figuration and soft realism, has here committed to a discipline that might seem restrictive. Yet in that limitation she has found something expansive. Silhouettes of Life is a moving and, at times, unsettling exhibition that asks much of its viewer—not in terms of interpretation, but in attention. It rewards slowness.

There is a reason silhouettes once carried the weight of portraiture before photography. They offer not likeness, but presence. Bastion understands this deeply, and in this poised, meticulously constructed show, she gives us a gallery full of lives not captured, but traced—and in the tracing, remembered.

Is an Old Painting Recently Found in Fulham by Michelangelo?

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Art World in Frenzy

A recently unearthed painting found wedged behind a fuse box in the basement of a terraced house in Fulham has sparked feverish speculation in art circles, with some daring to ask: could this be an unknown work by Michelangelo himself?

The small oil painting, measuring approximately 40cm x 30cm, depicts a muscular figure reclining against what appears to be a cracked column, gazing mournfully at a bowl of overripe pears. The canvas was discovered during renovation works by homeowner Olivia Trent, who had originally planned to convert the basement into a Pilates studio.

Speculation exploded after a local antiques dealer posted an image of the painting on social media with the caption “Lost Michelangelo?” Within hours, self-declared art sleuths descended on Fulham, clutching UV lights and waving around copies of The Lives of the Artists like sacred scrolls.

Dr. Lionel Corbusier of the South Kensington Institute for Unverified Masterpieces believes the composition bears “an undeniable emotional weight, an echo of the Sistine Chapel’s Adam, if Adam had slightly longer hair and a questionable understanding of perspective.” He adds, “There’s a majesty in the brushwork, albeit hidden under thick layers of dust and what we believe might be the remains of a curry sauce.”

Even more tantalising: carbon dating of the wood panel places its origin in the early 16th century. And a faint, nearly illegible signature in the bottom corner reads either “Michel Angelo” or “Michael Andrews” depending on the viewer’s optimism and blood sugar levels.

However, not everyone is convinced.

“This is not Michelangelo. It’s not even Michelangelo’s dog walker’s cousin’s apprentice,” said Gloria Haversham, curator of Early Renaissance Art at the Royal Borough Museum. “It looks like a schoolboy’s art project on a hot Friday afternoon—probably after his mum told him he couldn’t go to the park until he finished something for class.”

She added, “The anatomy is questionable, the shading is confused, and I’m fairly certain that’s a Nando’s receipt stuck in the varnish.”

Despite the scepticism, the painting—now nicknamed The Fulham David—will go on display at a pop-up exhibition in a converted newsagent off North End Road. Tickets are £44.50 or free with proof of recent pasta purchase from the adjoining Italian deli.

Whether it’s the lost work of a Renaissance master or the artistic tantrum of a Year 9 student, one thing is clear: the Fulham painting has already earned a place in the pantheon of delightful art world mysteries…

Artist Boz flies across Monaco harbour in self-made hot-air balloon

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In what critics are calling “equal parts daring and delirious,” London‑based multimedia artist Boz today piloted a self‑fashioned hot‑air balloon across the glittering expanse of Monaco Harbour. The impromptu aerial exhibition, dubbed La Traversée de l’Absurd, drew crowds of astonished onlookers both on the quayside and aboard luxury yachts.

Witnesses report that the balloon—crafted from repurposed gallery banners, discarded IKEA curtains, and duct tape—ascended from a secluded dock near the Yacht Club de Monaco shortly after dawn. “It looked like a giant, patchwork lampshade with an attitude problem,” quipped bystander Marie‑Claire Dupont, clutching her morning espresso.

Boz, whose previous works include a life‑sized replica of Nelson’s Column made entirely from stale baguettes, described the voyage as “a soaring metaphor for artistic freedom—and a cheeky jab at overpriced tour‑boat tickets.” In a pre‑flight statement posted on their Instagram Stories, the artist promised “views, ventriloquism, and maybe a minor diplomatic incident.”

The flight itself was punctuated by spontaneous performance elements: midway across the harbour, Boz unfurled a banner reading “Art Isn’t Grounded” and released dozens of biodegradable confetti hearts into the breeze.

After a leisurely five‑minute drift, the craft touched down neatly on a floating platform used for berthing jet skis. Onlookers cheered as Boz disembarked, bowing deeply while cradling a burned‑orange sketchbook. “It’s not every day you see someone redefine the term ‘air mail’,” remarked one astonished tourist.

Having survived the event, Boz plans to auction off fragments of the balloon’s fabric, with proceeds going to his pet dog.

Stay tuned for an exclusive gallery showing this Friday at London’s Neon Loft, where attendees can view charred scraps of curtain, hand‑drawn flight logs, and an installation featuring the ticket stub for the car-park where he parked his Lamborghini during the flight.

My Life as an Art Dealer: “A Highly Combustible Commission”

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By Harissa Beaumont

This could have been the last entry in my diary, but luckily I am still here.

There are times in this job when I wonder if I am an art dealer or an unlicensed explosives handler. This week was one of those times.

It started with a call from an eccentric collector—let’s call him Collector D. He has a reputation for wanting pieces that are not just unique but technically dangerous. His collection includes a sculpture made entirely of melted-down Colt 45s , a taxidermy piece that once leaked something suspicious, and now, his latest obsession: a portrait made entirely from different coloured gunpowder.

“I want something with energy,” he told me over lunch, while slicing into a steak that was aggressively rare. “Something alive.”

“Well,” I said, stirring my third coffee, “You might not be if this portrait goes wrong.”

He grinned. “Exactly. Get Harland Moorhead to make it.”

The artist in question is known for using volatile materials—previous works include a drawing made with rocket fuel and an installation that had to be extinguished mid-opening. “Safety is key,” D reassured me. “It mustn’t just explode randomly.” This was not entirely comforting.

A phone call was all it took. Harland loved the idea and said he actually had a cupboard full of gunpowder that he wasn’t sure how to use – so this commission was ideal.

Once the portrait was complete, the next challenge was where to store it. Gunpowder is not something you can just prop up against a wall. No smoking was allowed anywhere near it, and, as an added precaution, the piece had to be kept behind explosion-proof glass.

Fiona, my gallery assistant, looked at the crate when it arrived and then at me. “If this goes wrong,” she said, “do we technically die in the name of art?”

“Possibly,” I admitted. “But let’s try not to.”

The portrait was spectacular—smoky textures, deep charcoals, and fiery reds. D loved it. The only slight issue? He wanted to hang it in his drawing room, over the fireplace.

“Just a couple of small concerns,” I said carefully. “Will there be fires? And… er… candles?”

“Always,” he said proudly. “I love atmosphere.”

There was a long pause as I considered whether it was my professional duty to explain that his new portrait could, under the right (or rather wrong) conditions, ignite and destroy his entire Georgian townhouse along with much of London.

”We don’t want to cause a second fire of London, so maybe-“

”Don’t we? Imagine the publicity!”

“Make sure it’s always behind the explosion proof glass,” I said. “And, maybe no flambé desserts near it.”

The piece was finally installed, behind its protective casing, with a small but noticeable No Smoking sign discreetly placed nearby. D is thrilled. I, however, will not fully relax until at least a month has passed and I have definitive proof that it has not combusted during the cigar and indoor fireworks dinner party that D was having in its honour.

Until next week,

Harissa

A Vision for Sale: Ptolemy’s ‘Abstract Artist For Hire’ Exhibition

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The atmosphere at the opening of Abstract Artist For Hire, the latest exhibition by Ptolemy, was charged with a sense of spectacle. The crowd—an elegant mix of collectors, critics, and the art-world’s more shadowy financiers—moved through the gallery’s crisp white space, where the luminous works pulsed from the walls like windows into a parallel world. Champagne was poured with quiet efficiency, and conversations, though lively, carried an undertone of something more purposeful. By the end of the evening, almost every piece had been spoken for.

Ptolemy’s works, which exist in the liminal space between human intuition and machine logic, are nothing if not seductive. Vast swathes of colour—sometimes raw and riotous, sometimes curiously restrained—fracture and reform in complex, seemingly spontaneous compositions. Shapes hover in uneasy proximity, layered with a depth that defies their digital origins. The surface is immaterial, yet the works possess a weight, a presence that is undeniable.

At the heart of the exhibition is a tension between control and chaos. Some pieces feel as if they have been conjured in a moment of pure, unfiltered instinct, while others bear the meticulous marks of a mind that understands exactly where to let go. Blue Fault Line, a vast panel of fractured sapphire and electric gold, draws the eye with the urgency of a storm forming on the horizon. By contrast, Untitled (Horizon Study) offers a whisper of serenity—pale washes of peach and ivory intersected by a single, wavering line.

It is easy to be cynical about the prices. The numbers whispered between guests carried a level of surrealism that even Ptolemy’s most ambitious compositions could not match. But the near-total sell-out of the show suggests that, whatever one’s reservations, these works have found their market.

The exhibition’s title, Abstract Artist For Hire, hints at the tension between art as personal expression and art as commodity. There is a self-awareness in this, but no irony. Ptolemy’s work is deeply felt, even as it acknowledges its own status as a luxury object. And in this, the exhibition is both a triumph and a challenge. Is this art made to be bought, or bought because it is art? The answer, perhaps, is already written in the red dots beside each title.

Report on the Inaugural Meeting of the Berkeley Square Group

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A new force in the art world gathered for the first time last night: the Berkeley Square Group, an association of fine artists committed to pushing creative boundaries while enjoying excellent food and highly opinionated conversation. The founding members, an eclectic mix of contemporary painters, digital innovators, and conceptual collectors, convened at Le Corbeau, a discreet but impossibly expensive French bistro tucked away in Mayfair.

THE ATTENDEES

Among those present were:

• Boz, the celebrated cartoon painter, known for his satirical large-scale works depicting contemporary society as a series of vaguely horrified caricatures.

• P1X3L, the enigmatic pixel artist whose works are simultaneously nostalgic and unsettling, resembling corrupted computer files from an alternate reality.

• Elara Voss, a monochrome sculptor famous for her refusal to acknowledge color as a legitimate artistic concept.

• Franklin Dupont, a neo-Renaissance painter who exclusively works in egg tempera and refers to Photoshop as “the downfall of civilization.”

• Vera Zane, a performance-installation artist who recently spent three days living inside a papier-mâché replica of the British Museum.

There were several other artists and collectors, though their presence was harder to confirm due to the abstract nature of their introductions (one claimed to be “a living artwork,” another simply handed out business cards that read “gesture as existence”, and “I’ll buy that”).

THE DINNER

Le Corbeau, known for its almost total indifference to food allergies and minute portion sizes, provided a suitably refined backdrop for the evening. The group dined on:

• Duck confit (Boz declared it “a deeply bourgeois bird, but delicious”)

• Wild mushroom risotto (P1X3L asked if it was foraged or merely pretending to be, a comment no one quite understood)

• A tragically small salad served in a hand-blown glass bowl the size of an espresso cup (Elara Voss was delighted)

• An intimidating cheese board, which led to a heated debate about whether Roquefort is “postmodern”

Wine flowed freely, with the group choosing a 2009 Château Margaux, which was met with near-universal approval except from Franklin Dupont, who insisted it lacked the soul of a proper 16th-century vintage.

THE DISCUSSION

Conversation ranged wildly, touching on:

• The state of contemporary painting (“Too much conceptualism, not enough skill,” according to Dupont. “Too much skill, not enough conceptualism,” countered Vera Zane.)

• Whether the Royal Academy should allow AI-generated art into its Summer Exhibition (P1X3L: “No.” Boz: “Over my dead body.”)

• The possibility of launching an artist-run biennale (current plans involve a decommissioned power station, a Victorian pleasure garden, or—if funding allows—an abandoned cruise ship located off the Scottish coast, accessible either by helicopter or Sunseeker yacht).

• The admission criteria for future members (must be an artist or a collector, must have an opinion, must be able to survive a dinner at Le Corbeau without storming out in artistic frustration)

At one point, an impassioned argument broke out over whether art should be “beautiful” or “necessary,” which led to Franklin Dupont waving a breadstick in the air for emphasis. A waiter removed it from his hand without comment, which only heightened the dramatic effect.

HOW TO JOIN

The Berkeley Square Group is, naturally, not accepting formal applications. However, artists who wish to be considered should:

1. Be producing work that is either widely acclaimed, stubbornly ignored, or so niche that it exists on a conceptual plane beyond critique.

2. Attend an event and survive at least one heated debate without resorting to throwing objects.

3. Be vouched for by a current member, ideally over a lengthy dinner, during which their artistic integrity and capacity for absurd conversation will be assessed.

The next gathering is rumoured to take place in a disused library, a secret speakeasy, or a member’s crumbling country house, depending on availability and whether Franklin Dupont can tolerate WiFi in the vicinity.

The inaugural meeting of the Berkeley Square Group was an unqualified success. It was part art history seminar, part avant-garde theatre, and entirely excessive in both calories and self-importance. In short: the art world at its finest.

Review: “SUBLIMINAL TRANSIT” – An Exhibition Below Ground

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By the time I reached the entrance to Subliminal Transit, an ambitious new group show staged in a mostly disused tube station, I had already begun questioning my life choices. The exhibition, curated by the enigmatic Ludo Penhaligon (“part curator, part conceptual provocateur, part—let’s be honest—estate agent for derelict spaces”), promised to challenge notions of movement, capitalism, and spatial awareness. This was no idle claim: every few minutes, a train would thunder past at alarming speed, forcing visitors to flatten themselves against the walls like startled Victorian urchins.

THE VENUE

The station, decommissioned in the 1970s but still technically part of the transport network, had been transformed into an industrial dreamscape of flickering bulbs, peeling posters, and the occasional rat, which several guests mistook for performance art. The walls, damp with what I chose to believe was merely atmospheric moisture, provided a dramatic backdrop for the work of the evening’s two featured artists: HEDGE FUND and Ptolemy.

THE ART

HEDGE FUND, the elusive darling of the hyper-capitalist pop-art scene, unveiled a series of garish, high-gloss paintings featuring neon pound signs, luxury handbags, and the screaming face of an unidentified hedge fund manager. One piece, Stock Market Crash #7, featured a roulette wheel made entirely of crushed iPhones, while Untitled (But Expensive #77) was a canvas dipped in Yves Klein blue and liberally sprinkled with shredded tax returns.

“HEDGE FUND’s work really gets the financial crisis,” murmured one guest, a hedge fund manager himself, nodding approvingly as he sipped his £22 can of warm beer.

In stark contrast, Ptolemy, the self-styled “shaman of formlessness,” presented a series of vast, brooding canvases featuring deep blacks and occasional flickers of red. His centerpiece, Abyss IX, was so dark it seemed to consume light itself, prompting one guest to walk straight into it, apologizing profusely. Another, The Impossibility of Commuting in the Mind of Someone Living It, consisted of a single, delicate chalk line that immediately smudged under the vibrations of a passing train, much to Ptolemy’s delight. “It’s about impermanence,” he explained to a baffled onlooker, who had simply been trying to read the exit sign.

THE OPENING NIGHT

The private view began as these things often do: a mixture of fashionable delay and strategic avoidance of the free wine (served in repurposed oyster card wallets). Within half an hour, a sense of barely contained chaos set in. A well-known critic, attempting to take a selfie in front of HEDGE FUND’s piece Buy Low, Sell Soul, misjudged the distance and ended up with an imprint of a golden dollar sign on his forehead.

At one particularly harrowing moment, a train blasted past, sending a gust of air that dramatically lifted Lady Cressida von Hotham’s Valentino cape and flung it into a puddle of what we all agreed to describe as “historical moisture.” The murmurs of concern were quickly replaced with murmurs of artistic interpretation. “It’s become part of the piece,” whispered someone reverently.

Meanwhile, a tense debate broke out when an onlooker mistook one of Ptolemy’s works for an unpainted section of the wall. “No, it’s about the absence of gesture,” explained the artist, as another train roared past, causing the wall to momentarily vibrate. “Actually, now it’s more of a kinetic piece.”

CONCLUSION

As I ascended the long, crumbling staircase back to street level, I found myself reflecting on the evening’s themes: movement, disruption, and the price elasticity of conceptual art. Would I return? Perhaps. But next time, I’ll be wearing high-visibility clothing and a crash helmet.

In the end, Subliminal Transit was not just an exhibition—it was an endurance test, a meditation on survival, and, quite possibly, a violation of several safety regulations. And isn’t that what art is all about?

Diary of an Art Dealer: “Hedge Fund, Tarmac, and Takeoff”

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By Bobbie Samuels

Selling a painting should, in theory, be a straightforward process. The client chooses a work, pays for it, and it is then carefully packaged and delivered. In reality, selling art—particularly to the ultra-wealthy—is more like staging an elaborate heist, except the only crime is against my sanity.

This week’s mission? Delivering a large, aggressively coloured painting of a piece of tarmac by Hedge Fund, to an anonymous Formula One driver—let’s call him Mr X—who decided, after several months of indecision, that it was exactly what his Monaco penthouse needed. “It speaks to me,” he had said on the phone, in the deeply serious tone that men use when they’ve just discovered contemporary art.

The painting in question is by a conceptual artist known for his ironic takes on finance and power structures. It is titled Bit of Road #34, which means there are presumably Bits of Road #1 to #33 lurking in the homes of equally serious men. It is large, it is loud, and it is, unmistakably, a close-up of some rather ordinary-looking asphalt—but in bold colours.

The first problem: Mr X wanted the painting immediately. This meant I had to organise not just a courier but personally accompany the work on his private jet. “We’ll send a car,” his assistant assured me. “Just be ready.”

Be ready for what, exactly, was unclear.

The second problem: packaging. A painting of this size and intensity does not simply get wrapped in a bit of bubble wrap and shoved into the back of a car. No, it requires museum-grade handling. Fiona, my gallery assistant, stood next to the crate as it was being prepared, watching nervously. “What if he changes his mind?” she asked.

I considered this. Mr X had, after all, taken four months to decide he definitely wanted the painting, during which time he had requested photos, a video, a mocked-up image of it in his home, and, inexplicably, a picture of me standing next to it “for scale.” He had then asked if we could commission a bigger version, before realising his walls were not, in fact, infinite.

But, by some miracle, the crate was sealed, a very expensive courier service was booked, and I was soon sitting in the back of a blacked-out SUV with a painting of a road strapped in beside me, being driven towards a private jet terminal. The driver did not speak but exuded an energy that suggested he had transported many questionable things in his time.

At the terminal, Mr X’s assistant greeted me with the air of someone who was both used to doing absurd things and entirely numb to them. “Welcome,” she said, glancing at the crate. “He’s very excited.”

Boarding a private jet with a painting of tarmac is a strangely humbling experience. While other passengers might bring luggage or a small dog, I was carefully escorting what was essentially an abstract road surface onto a Gulfstream. The flight attendants did not blink. Clearly, this was not even in the top five strangest things they had seen.

Upon arrival in Monaco, the situation escalated into what I can only describe as a logistical opera. The painting was too large to fit into Mr X’s building’s lift. “We’ll have to carry it up the stairs,” his assistant declared. The stairs, I should add, were marble, winding, and designed for people who had never carried anything heavier than a champagne flute. I briefly imagined the crate slipping and crashing through several floors of unimaginable wealth.

Eventually, with much sweating and some questionable manoeuvring, the painting was placed exactly where Mr X wanted it—above a very large, very white sofa. He arrived moments later, wearing an expensive tracksuit and an expression of deep artistic appreciation. “Perfect,” he said, staring at the piece. Then he turned to me. “Do you think I should get another one?”

I smiled, because there is only ever one answer to that question.

“Yes,” I said. “Definitely.”

Bobbie

My Life as an Art Dealer: “Penalty Kicks and Priceless Prints”

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By Harissa Beaumont

By now, I should know that if a week seems like it’s going to be straightforward, something catastrophic is lurking just out of sight. This was meant to be a calm period—tie up loose ends, chase unpaid invoices, and, in an ideal world, sit still for five minutes without someone calling to ask, “Do you think this will double in value by June?” Instead, I found myself negotiating with a Premier League footballer about whether a Monty Carlo picture was too intellectual for his dining room.

Monday began in an unusual way: standing outside the gallery in the bitter cold, waiting for the world’s slowest locksmith to arrive. The lock had “been temperamental” for a while, which is code for “completely broken, but I kept ignoring it.” Fiona, my gallery assistant, suggested I see this as an artistic metaphor. I suggested she fetch us coffee instead.

By midday, the lock had been fixed (by a man who called me “darlin’” seven times in five minutes), and I was on my way to a meeting with a very high-profile client, one of the most expensive footballers in the world. I will call him Leo so he can’t be identified. Leo is Italian, adored by tabloid journalists, and—crucially—newly obsessed with contemporary art. His agent had emailed saying Leo was “looking to start collecting seriously.” This, translated, meant: Leo has recently discovered Instagram and would like his house to look like an editorial shoot.

I met him at his townhouse in Chelsea, where a housekeeper in head-to-toe black silently brought us espressos. “I love art,” Leo announced, gesturing vaguely at a wall that was, so far, empty. “I want something… big.”

We looked through a few options. A bright, abstract canvas by a celebrated abstractist Ptolemy? “Too messy.” A striking minimalist piece in shades of grey? “Too sad.” Then we got to a signed Monty Carlo piece, and his face lit up. “This is cool,” he said. “Monty Carlo, he’s… good, right?”

“Yes,” I said carefully, because I had learned from past experiences that over-explaining things to certain clients is a one-way ticket to disaster.

“I love that it’s deep,” Leo continued. “But not too deep.”

I nodded. “Exactly.”

“I think I’ll get it,” he said, then paused. “But do you think it’s too intellectual for the dining room?”

At this point, I had two choices:

1. Explain that Monty Carlo was a genius whose work explored power, and identity, and that no picture in history had ever been too intellectual for a dining room.

2. Say, “No, it’s perfect.”

I went with Option 2.

Wednesday was marked by an incident I can only describe as profoundly irritating. A woman stormed into the gallery wearing an impractically large fur hat and demanded, “Where is the pink painting?”

I blinked. “Which pink painting?”

“The one I saw here last year,” she said, as though I run a museum where everything stays in exactly the same place for eternity.

I explained that, unfortunately, paintings do tend to sell and that the pink painting in question was now in a house in the South of France. She let out a deep sigh, as though this were a personal attack. “I knew I should have bought it.”

“Yes,” I said.

There was a long silence. “Do you have anything similar?”

“Not really. Although I have a pink balloon you can have for free.”

Another long silence. Then she left, looking deeply wounded, as though I had personally denied her happiness.

Thursday was mostly spent dealing with logistics. I had to coordinate the shipment of a sculpture to a collector in Dubai, which meant six different phone calls to a shipping company where nobody seemed to know what was happening. “It’s an awkward size,” one of them told me, as though I hadn’t already seen the sculpture and deduced this for myself. Meanwhile, Jack Landon’s assistant sent yet another email asking if the artist of the iPhone sculpture would consider making a mini version for Jack’s private jet. I forwarded it directly to the artist, who responded with, “Absolutely not,” followed by an emoji that I assume was meant to represent despair.

And then, just when I thought I could quietly slip into the weekend, Leo’s agent called. “Leo’s obsessed with his Monty,” he said.

“Oh, fantastic.”

“Yes, and now he’s thinking maybe he does want something intellectual.”

I closed my eyes. “Right.”

“So he wants a Ptolemy as well. Abstract is intellectual, right?”

”Yes, yes, abstract is intellectual.”

”Great. Send one over. In green.”

This is the job.

Until next week,

Harissa

ART WORLD EXPOSED – EPISODE 73

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“PLUCKED FROM OBSCURITY: THE FEATHER ARTIST RUFFLING THE MARKET”

Welcome back to Art World Exposed. Your hosts, Saldo Caluthe and Tomas Sinke, return with another deep-dive into the absurd, the avant-garde, and the potentially profound.

This week, we take flight with Cassian Plum, the enigmatic artist whose intricate, large-scale installations made entirely from feathers have captivated collectors and deeply unsettled the pigeon community. Is his work an ethereal meditation on weightlessness, or just an elaborate excuse to own a very large birdcage?

And in other news: If anyone has seen The Melancholy of Mr. Puddles, please let us know. The painting was stolen from a private collection last week, and despite its bizarre name, it is reportedly worth millions.

TIMESTAMPS & SEGMENTS

00:00 – Intro: Is It Still Art If It Makes You Sneeze?

Saldo and Tomas kick things off by debating whether art should be physically irritating. Have we reached the point where allergic reactions are part of the aesthetic experience?

06:10 – Cassian Plum: The Artist Who Works Exclusively in Feathers

• A look at Plum’s latest installation, The Winged Echo, a 40-foot wall of meticulously arranged feathers sourced from “ethically ambiguous” origins.

• Museums are scrambling to acquire his work, but storage specialists are reportedly “not thrilled” about the long-term preservation of bird-based materials.

13:30 – Interview: Art Critic Fenella de Courcy on Why Feathers Are “The New Canvas”

We sit down with returning guest and “aesthetic theorist” Fenella de Courcy, who explains:

• How Plum’s work “disrupts the conventional weight of meaning”

• The complex political implications of avian-inspired minimalism

• Why collectors are suddenly spending small fortunes on what is, ultimately, just a pile of feathers

22:00 – The Ethics of Feather Art: Where Do They All Come From?

Saldo and Tomas investigate the whispers surrounding Plum’s supply chain. Some sources claim the feathers are “naturally sourced,” while others suggest a rogue taxidermist may be involved. Is this a delicate meditation on flight, or a logistical nightmare for bird conservationists?

30:40 – The Search for The Melancholy of Mr. Puddles

A somber yet perplexing detour: A painting with a rather ridiculous name has been stolen from a private collection, and authorities are baffled.

• The painting’s owner, billionaire hedge fund manager Gregor Blythe, insists it is “priceless” and “not at all amusing.”

• Art thieves remain at large, and so does Mr. Puddles. Call in if you have seen the picture in a rogue museum.

38:15 – Listener Question: “If I Glue a Feather to a Rock, Is It Conceptual or Just Littering?”

Saldo and Tomas debate the thin line between deep artistic statement and accidental environmental hazard.

44:50 – Final Thoughts: The Future of Ephemeral Materials in Art

Saldo predicts that the next logical step is an artist who works exclusively with gusts of wind. Tomas argues that feathers are at least more tangible than some recent conceptual works, including an artist who once exhibited a locked safe with “something profound inside” but refused to open it.

Join us next week for “Painting Without Paint: The Artist Who Only Uses Shadows”, featuring an exclusive interview with a curator who insists it’s “not just someone standing in front of a light.”

If you have any leads on The Melancholy of Mr. Puddles, please contact the show. Also, follow us on Instagram unless you believe social media is a conceptual trap, in which case… respect.