October isn’t a genre. It’s a mood-foggy at the edges, oddly funny. Painters have been mining that mood for centuries.

The room is dim. A clarinet calls from the curb. On Seurat’s stage, the act hasn’t started—yet the mask is already doing its work.

Japan’s studios buzz—ink, pixels, welded steel, algorithms. A postwar avant-garde tradition mixes with post-internet fluency, and the product is at once ceremonial and neon-slick.

We live immersed in information — and it’s exhausting: newsletters, blogs, social feeds, chats, ads. While being bombarded with desaturated meanings, we slowly suffocate

Mediocrity. Few words cut as sharply. For an artist still searching for their voice, it can feel like a final sentence.

The recent sale of Maurizio Cattelan’s duct-taped banana and subsequent eating of the latter caused a fresh wave of contemplation on what art is and why it is. 

Have you ever noticed that a work of art does not so much “communicate” a meaning to you as it changes the atmosphere around you? This is especially true of abstract art.

I have often been called & labeled as a ‘creative’ person. And I love beautiful things, be they small or large. At the same time, I am logical and analytical.

Have you ever stood before a painting and felt like it was looking back at you? Not just something you admire from a distance, but something that senses you too?

Walk into almost any gallery this month and you’ll see it: a small knot of visitors listing toward one painting, phones half-raised, brows furrowed in concentration. It isn’t always the biggest canvas in the room or even the brightest.

I am an outsider at the art fair. I was always afraid of attending private clubs, entering luxury shops or dining at very expensive restaurants. Not because I don’t like to (or can’t) spend but because… well, I don’t know why, I am just afraid.