The art of Ancient Egypt fascinates and captivates us through a double effect. On the one hand, it is strikingly comprehensible: we recognize in it beauty and harmony of form, and we marvel at the craftsmanship of the artisans.

I’m three feet from a canvas that seems to breathe. The color doesn’t sit—it quivers. The waterline wobbles as if the room had a breeze of its own.

Stand at the landing, and the wall becomes weather: Rows of pillowy ovals marching to a thin blue horizon. It’s Georgia O’Keeffe’s Sky Above Clouds IV

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?