Art news

By the time Damien Holt greets me in his East London studio, he’s already speaking Zarvox, the language he invented and which he hopes will soon be spoken around the world, bringing healing to war zones and friendship to those previously unable to understand each other. His greeting sounds, to the untrained ear, like someone gargling marbles while reading IKEA furniture warnings aloud.

“Frömlik vunt-harrah šōōk,” he says warmly. When I ask what that means, he explains it’s a traditional Zarvoxian greeting that roughly translates to The moon forgives your earlier mistake. I thank him.

Holt’s goal is simple: replace every language on Earth with Zarvox, which he believes will foster unity and empathy. The problem? Almost no one wants to speak it.

“People are resistant,” admits Holt. “They complain it’s hard to pronounce or that my alphabet looks like an electrical wiring diagram. But they said the same thing about the iPhone.”

Voices from the Early Adopters

Holt’s Zarvoxian Academy currently boasts 11 students, though three joined accidentally after misreading an Eventbrite listing.

“I’ve been studying for six months,” says Peter McLennan, a software engineer. “So far I can order a coffee and describe the emotional state of my cat. I’ve only had one mishap – I accidentally confessed to several crimes I didn’t commit.”

Another student, Lila Carr, says, “It’s beautiful, really. I just wish there were fewer sounds that require me to inhale and exhale at the same time. My GP told me I had to stop, but I do so reluctantly.”

The Film: Fruntlar: A Zarvoxian Love Story

Holt believes cinema will be Zarvox’s Trojan horse into the hearts of the masses. His upcoming feature film, Fruntlar, is a sweeping romantic epic set in the city of Šlarp, (the Zarvoxian name for Paris).

Plot Summary:

In a time of political upheaval, Šlür (played by Holt himself) falls in love with Mrrʉn (played by an actress who reportedly learned her lines phonetically and still has jaw cramps). Their love blossoms despite the Klinthu Edict, a decree banning the public display of affection unless expressed through synchronised eyebrow movements.

The trailer, which is completely unsubtitled, features two people shouting rhythmic consonant clusters at each other while standing in the rain, a silent staring contest that lasts 47 seconds, and a battle scene fought entirely with spoons.

When asked whether audiences will understand it, Holt shrugs. “Art isn’t about being understood. It’s about being felt. If people leave the cinema sobbing, or at least keen to learn Zarvox just to understand what was going on, I’ve succeeded.”

Sample Phrases in Zarvox from the film

• Gvrrtik nüm-bralü: My horse is politically neutral.

• Ša-loonk mrrk-flepp!: Quick, the bread is running away!

• Tvvru šlāā nkhonk: I respect your family, but fear your goat.

The Future of Zarvox

Holt is unfazed by the skeptics. “Once Zarvox is on Duolingo, it’ll take off,” he insists. “Until then, it’s about planting seeds. Seeds made of sound. Weird, chewy sound.” He leans in, eyes shining, and whispers: “Hrünt.”

I ask him what it means.

“It means don’t go… or literally I’ve hidden your shoes.”

I did go, with a promise to learn Zarvox when his iOS teaching app is available. I gather that won’t be for years…

London artist-turned-self-appointed-linguistic-revolutionary, Damien Holt, has unveiled Zarvox, a language he claims will “unite humanity” and “finally render all those French textbooks obsolete.” Holt insists Zarvox is destined to become the world’s lingua franca, though the world, so far, has responded by continuing to speak literally anything else.

“I designed Zarvox to be the perfect fusion of logic and beauty,” Holt explained during a press conference at the Society for One World Language attended by three journalists and one confused man looking for the toilets. “It’s inspired by whale song, Mongolian throat singing, and the noises my espresso machine makes.”

The language features a grammar system Holt describes as “mathematically flawless,” a writing system that resembles IKEA assembly diagrams, and 47 vowel sounds, some of which can only be pronounced if you’ve dislocated your jaw. Despite Holt’s assurances that it’s “intuitively easy,” early learners have reported frequent nosebleeds.

To break through public indifference, Holt has announced a bold move: a feature film entirely in Zarvox. The plot remains vague, though Holt promises it will be “a deeply human story about love, loss, and the tragedy of mispronouncing the word for ‘bread’ and accidentally declaring war.” Subtitles, Holt says, would “defeat the purpose,” so the audience is encouraged to spend ten days learning Zarvox before seeing the film.

Asked whether he’s concerned about the lack of adoption, Holt waved the idea away. “All great innovations face resistance. They laughed at Galileo. They mocked Van Gogh. They ignored Esperanto, well, okay, maybe that’s not helping my case.”

For now, Holt is optimistic. “Soon, the world will speak Zarvox,” he said, before clearing his throat in a guttural three-note trill that apparently meant thank you. No one in the room responded.

Justine Fiox, recently appointed Director of Conceptuality at Pimlico Wilde Art Dealers, has long been a figure whose very presence challenges the boundaries of the art world. Born to the celebrated avant-garde sculptor Lucien Fiox and the pioneering performance artist Mireille Davenant, Justine inherited a sensibility that is equal parts daring and exacting. Her childhood was steeped in creative ferment; summer evenings spent in sculptors’ studios and winter mornings observing her mother’s experimental performances instilled in her an instinct for the unconventional.

Her own career has been marked by audacity. In a bold attempt to redefine the relationship between art and public life, she once proposed that conceptual artworks, ephemeral ideas and installations, be accepted as legal tender for tax payments. The proposal, met with both bemusement and outright resistance, nonetheless captured the imagination of avant-garde circles worldwide, cementing her reputation as a thinker unafraid to blur boundaries.

Yet even in a life saturated with art and intellectual ambition, Justine has known profound personal sorrow. She was once the devoted caretaker of a pet stick insect, whimsically named Archimedes, whose quiet presence was a source of steady comfort. The insect’s death left an indelible mark. Those closest to her speak of a lingering melancholy she has carried since Archimedes death, a gentle, almost secret grief that surfaces in her reflective pauses and in the subtle poignancy of her curated exhibitions.

At Pimlico Wilde, Justine Fiox brings this blend of rigorous intellect, audacious imagination, and tender humanity to her role. Under her guidance, the gallery has begun exploring new conceptual terrains, inviting audiences to question the very frameworks through which art is experienced. With a lineage of genius behind her and a personal history etched with both daring and loss, Justine is not merely curating art; she is reshaping how the world thinks about it.

The best art in London can appear in surprising places; currently it is to be found in a converted newsagent off North End Road. Hundreds of art lovers are braving the drizzle to glimpse the so-called “Fulham David,” a painting purported by some to be a lost work by Michelangelo.

Inside, visitors are met with dim lighting, the faint smell of recent floor polish, and the star attraction: a modest 40-by-30 cm panel depicting a muscular, half-reclining figure staring at what could be either a cracked marble column or a very large breadstick. His gaze drifts toward a bowl of pears that, under harsh light, resemble old tennis balls. The palette is muted, the brushwork uneven, yet the crowds keep coming, snapping selfies in reverent silence, as if proximity alone might grant them Renaissance insight.

For those squinting hard enough, there are hints of High Renaissance grandeur: the contraposto, the muscular form, the slightly imploring expression, perhaps the ghost of the Sistine Chapel lingers here. But for others, the resemblance stops the moment you look closely at the hands, which have the odd, blocky quality of someone painting gloves without ever having seen any.

Who is this painting by? Pro-Michelangelo voices argue for a youthful experimental work, perhaps dashed off between major commissions, its roughness the mark of genius unpolished. Then there are the more sober comparisons to Michael Andrews (1928,1995), the English painter known for his luminous, painterly figuration, often tinged with melancholy. Andrews’ portraits and group scenes, whether of bohemian parties or contemplative swimmers, carry a similar uncertainty of finish, a kind of cultivated incompleteness. The Fulham David’s flat planes and curiously distracted expression, say the Andrews camp, feel far closer to mid-20th-century London than early-16th-century Florence.

Dr. Selina Marwood of the Courtyard Institute is firmly in the Andrews column: “If Michelangelo painted this, then I’m Raphael’s left hand. The figure’s torso has promise, but the pears are pure 1960s Andrews, slightly unresolved, bathed in a haze of longing. And the varnish looks like it’s from somewhere between Carnaby Street and the Sixties.”

Meanwhile, the exhibition’s curator insists on neutrality, preferring to highlight the “mystery” over any definitive authorship. “Whether it’s the hand of Michelangelo, Michael Andrews, or even my mate Michael who popped in for a pint,” he said, “the public are clearly captivated. And the public are rarely wrong in such matters of art identification.”

Captivated they are. Pensioners, students, art tourists, and the simply curious all shuffle forward in the dim light, eager to witness a painting that might be a masterpiece. “Even if it wasn’t originally by Michelangelo, I feel that it is by him now,” commented Audrey Willan, and all the people nearby cheered in agreement.

In the end, the “Fulham David” may never be conclusively identified. But like the queues outside, the speculation shows no sign of stopping, and in the art world, ambiguity is sometimes the most valuable commodity of all.