Introducing Rakewell, Apollo’s wandering eye on the art world. Look out for regular posts taking a rakish perspective on art and museum stories.
In last weekend’s Sunday Times, pugilistic car journalist Jeremy Clarkson tried his hand at art criticism, spinning an article about the vandalism of contemporary sculptures in France into an ad hoc review of Frieze London. ‘I don’t doubt for a moment that true connoisseurs were appalled by the collection of cardboard boxes that had been fastened somehow to a wall, or the enormous lollies that were to be found outside, stuck into the lawn’, he wrote. ‘And that’s before we get to the skeleton draped over a chair.’ The paper’s actual art critic, Waldemar Januszczak, won’t be fearing for his job just yet then…
Despite luring in connoisseurs of Clarkson’s estimable stature, Frieze failed to attract New York Magazine critic Jerry Saltz, who instead headed to last week’s other big art event…
I love the art world but fuck going London Frieze Art Fair. I went to fucking ComicCon. Performers, madmen, drummers in the summer. pic.twitter.com/KufXOYPlSD
— Jerry Saltz (@jerrysaltz) October 8, 2017
Theresa May’s appearance at the Conservative Party conference last week was somewhat overshadowed by (among other things) her perplexing choice of accessory – a bracelet bearing the likeness of Frida Kahlo. As the Guardian’s Hannah Jane Parkinson helpfully explained:
Can I just point out that Theresa May is wearing a bracelet of Frida Kahlo, a member of the Communist party who LITERALLY DATED TROTSKY pic.twitter.com/CR13geaO7n
— HannahJane Parkinson (@ladyhaja) October 4, 2017
President Macron took time out from running France on Sunday to attend the opening of ‘Picasso 1932: Année érotique’ at the Picasso Museum. According to Le Figaro, Macron was met by Maya Widmaier-Picasso with a greeting of ‘Hello young man! I am the worst of the family’.
Rakewell’s mole in Paris stopped at a bar in the trendy 11th arrondissement to watch a PSG game last weekend, and espied a well-dressed man all but skidding into the tables of the terrasse on his scooter. The man dismounted, flung down his helmet and shouted loudly at the TV for the duration of the game. Following the game (and indeed drinks for any patrons who desired them), said individual revved up his motorino and zoomed off into the night. ‘Who was that?’ asked our mole. ‘Ah,’ replied his companion. ‘That was Renzo Piano…’