On View

Maria Lassnig’s figurative paintings, whose jewel-like and pastel hues belie the heavy psychological states of her self-portraits and subject matter, were late to gain the attention they deserved from the art world. But even less attention was given to her experimental film practice, which she nurtured alongside her paintings throughout her career.
These moving image works, as well as a new posthumous biopic, will be the focus of the prestigious Berlinale film festival, which opens its 74th edition in the German capital this month. Anja Salomonowitz’s feature-length biographic film on Lassnig, called Sleeping with a Tiger (2024), will premiere in Berlin on February 17.
Ten of Lassnig’s short films will be shown concurrently as a part of the Berlinale’s Forum Special section; the program will include Lassnig’s earliest animated work, Encounter (1970), a one-minute stop-motion piece based on her drawings. The 1971 Art Education, which runs just under ten minutes, considers women’s woeful place in art history, not as master of artworks but as its subjects and muses. Other films, like Shapes, explore the relationship between the body, sensation, and movement, a key focus of her painting practice as well.
Maria Lassnig, Maxingstrasse studio, Vienna, 1983. Photo: © Kurt Michael Westermann / Maria Lassnig Foundation.
In the tragically comic work The Ballad of Maria Lassnig (1982), the artist emulates with childlike storytelling and poignant wit the story of her entire life. Green-screened into a stop animation of her own drawings, Lassnig sings melodic verses that detail her birth and childhood, right up to discovery of art, continuing towards the end of her life.
“My childhood was a real life drama,” she sings, gesturing her arms ironically with a flat singsong German. “The pots and pans went flying through the air… The poor child suffered from her parent’s war.” The artist died in 2014 at the age of 94.
The Berlinale’s section head, Barbara Wurm, described Lassnig’s film works as “delightful frictions, lively criticism, wonderful ideas, hand-drawn, and self-sung.”
Still from Art Education. © Maria Lassnig Foundation, courtesy sixpackfilm.
Sleeping with a Tiger, the biopic, charts the personal and artistic life of Lassnig (played Birgit Minichmayr), from her roots in rural South Austria to the art world of Vienna and its prestigious art academy. The film follows her rise to success, her relationships, and her navigation of the male-dominated cultural scene. The biopic presumably takes its title from Lassnig’s 1975 self-portrait of the same name, where she depicted herself embraced by the giant animal.
Studio scenes in the biopic also capture her emotionally and physical invested self-portraiture style that incorporated her theory of “body awareness.” Lassnig would tune into her body while painting, only depicting on the canvas what she could feel while she was working. This intense psychological process would sometimes involve lying on the floor across her blank canvas as she made her strokes. Often, her figures would have intense distortions or be missing body parts altogether. The effect is searing and Lassnig’s portraits offer a clear window into an interior world, consciousness, and the artist’s emotional states.
Maria Lassnig, Dame mit Hirn (Women With Brain) (1990) Maria Lassnig Stiftung. Courtesy Stedelijk Museum.
Born in 1919, Lassnig was a key figure in the postwar Vienna art scene. Like many of her male contemporaries, she was influenced by Abstract Expressionism and action painting, but also by Surrealism due to her time in Paris when she brushed shoulders with Paul Celan and Andre Breton.
Since her death, the artist has had major solo surveys at Kunstmuseum Basel (2018) and the Stedelijk Museum Amsterdam (2019). Her works and films are largely held in the collections of the Museum of Modern Art and the Albertina in Vienna. Her biography was published in 2022.
The Berlinale film festival runs from Thursday, February 15, through Sunday, February 25, 2024.
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When the official collateral events for the forthcoming 60th Venice Biennale were announced last fall, the Palestine Museum U.S. learned that its proposal for an exhibition titled “Foreigners in Their Homeland” had not made the cut. The show, which will spotlight contemporary Palestinian art, will now go ahead as an unofficial collateral event at Venice’s Palazzo Mora instead, opening April 20.
Additionally, a previous iteration of the exhibition concept titled “From Palestine with Art,” which was originally presented as an official collateral event at the 59th Venice Biennale in 2022, is currently being restaged at P21 Gallery in London until March 2.
On view in the London exhibition are two embroidered thobes, a traditional form of dress in Palestine, displayed like pieces of tapestry art. An expansive landscape by the painter Nabil Anani who lives in the West Bank depicts Palestine as it would have looked a century ago, filled with luscious rolling green fields lined with olive and cypress trees.
A montage of portraits by the artist Jacqueline Bejani spotlights Palestinian intellectuals, artists, and writers, like Mahmoud Dawish and Susan Abulhawa, as well as lesser-known pioneers and creative figures. The paintings are streaked with shades of black, green, and red.
“I use the colors of the Palestinian flag, because very often we’re not allowed to show those,” said Bejani. “All of them together become the flag. It’s our cultural heritage. It’s our identity.”
Ghassan Abu Laban, Jidar, OOC (2022). Photo courtesy of Palestine Museum U.S.
Other works, like Ghassan Abu Laban’s Jidar, OOC (2022) refer somewhat obliquely to life under occupation. This almost abstract canvas represents the separation barrier in the West Bank, but one in which an imaginary hole has been torn allowing people to peer through.
A 2021 painting on the universal theme of migration by Gazan artist Mohammed Alhaj has become particularly poignant since Alhaj himself recently had to move his family from the north of Gaza in search of safety. They are currently living in a tent near the southern city of Rafah.
The London show also includes a documentary-style film by the Gazan journalist Roshdi Sarraj, who was killed in a targeted airstrike in October. Capturing air strikes and buildings reduced to rubble, this particularly distressing work will not be included in the exhibition planned for Venice.
While the 60th Venice Biennale’s curator Adriano Pedrosa did not select “Foreigners in the Homeland” as an official collateral event at this year’s Venice Biennale, he did choose a project by Artists and Allies of Hebron, an organization founded by Palestinian activist Issa Amro and Berlin-based South African photographer Adam Broomberg. They will present “Anchor in the Landscape,” an exhibition of photographs taken by Broomberg and Rafael Gonzalez of Palestinian olive trees, which have long been threatened by Israeli occupation.
Nabil Anani, In Pursuit of Utopia (2020). Photo courtesy of Nabil Anani.
The Palestine Museum U.S.’s founding director Faisal Saleh questioned why the artists behind the photography series are not of Palestinian origin.
“This is the dilemma that we as Palestinians are facing,” he said. “Western institutions don’t trust us to tell our own story. It’s a horrible feeling that they always have to find someone whose not Palestinian to lead the project. That’s the message.”
“We may not be the best artists in the world, or the best curators,” he added. “But how do you present 56 years of occupation? We have a story to tell and our story is compelling.”
As Pedrosa wrote in his curatorial statement for “Foreigners Everywhere,” the main exhibition at this year’s 60th Venice Biennale, the theme is intended to spotlight Indigenous artists who are “frequently treated as a foreigner in their own land.”
“Our exhibition is 23 Palestinian artists representing their environment and experiences living under occupation,” said Saleh. “What we presented was exactly what Pedrosa said he was looking for.”
The Biennale noted that of the 72 submissions it received for its program of official collateral events, 42 were not selected. According to its official procedure for the selection process, the curator is never asked for the reason behind their choices.
“Of course La Biennale is happy if those projects not selected take place in Venice,” a spokesperson for the Biennale told Artnet News.
Samia Halaby, Venetian Red (2021). Photo courtesy of Samia Halaby.
Another of the paintings on show at P21 is by the well-established Palestinian-American abstract painter and scholar Samia Halaby. She made headlines last fall when Indiana University’s Eskenazi Museum of Art abruptly cancelled her first U.S. retrospective, which had been in the works for three years.
The decision was made by the museum’s director David Brenneman shortly after Indiana representative Jim Banks told the university it could lose federal funding if any antisemitism was allowed on campus. Halaby has, however, been named as one of the artists to be included in Pedrosa’s main exhibition “Foreigners Everywhere.”
The Palestine Museum U.S. opened in Woodbridge, Connecticut in 2018 as the first museum dedicated to Palestinian history and culture in the Americas.
“From Palestine with Art,” runs at P21 in London until March 2. “Foreigners in Their Homeland” opens at Palazzo Mora in Venice on April 20.

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The Royal Academy in London has unveiled a monumental new public sculpture by the Bahamian-born interdisciplinary artist Tavares Strachan. The First Supper (Galaxy Black) (2023) has been installed in the courtyard as part of “Entangled Pasts, 1768-now: Art, Colonialism and Change,” a new exhibition that puts the RA’s historic artworks in conversation with contemporary masterpieces to explore and challenge narratives around empire, race, and colonialism. It opens today and runs through April 28, 2024.
Inspired by one of art history’s best known paintings, Leonardo da Vinci’s The Last Supper (ca. 1495-98), the mammoth bronze sculpture imagines a convivial gathering between notable historical figures from Africa and its Diaspora who, in reality, never met because they were separated by time and place. Among these 12 Black scientists, activists, and artists are the abolitionist Harriet Tubman, the gay rights campaigner Marsha P. Johnson, the U.S.’s first Black congresswoman Shirley Chisholm, the poet Sir Derek Alton, and the gospel singer Sister Rosetta Tharpe.
Less prominent figures that Strachan has chosen to highlight include the Brazilian resistance fighter Zumbi Dos Palmares, the nurse Mary Seacole, the astronaut Robert Henry Lawrence, and the explorer Matthew Henson. The 13th figure is a self-portrait of Strachan himself in the guise of Judas. The central figure who takes the place of Jesus is Emperor Haile Selassie I of Ethiopia, who some Rastafarians consider to be the returned messiah.
Tavares Strachan, The First Supper (Galaxy Black) (2023). Image courtesy of the artist and Perrotin, collection of Glenstone Museum, Potomac, Maryland.
The long table of animated figures faces museum visitors as they turn into the courtyard from Piccadilly, welcoming them in. The group’s various gestures and expressions lend the work a lively theatricality, and it cuts a striking figure against the RA’s aged gray facade thanks to Strachan’s use of black patina and gold leaf.
Another statue of the RA’s founding president, the painter Sir Joshua Reynolds, can be seen standing on its usual perch just behind. Installed in 1931, its presence reminds us that for centuries these kinds of public monuments were erected almost exclusively to commemorate white men.
“I think it’s important for us to have an archive of the stories of our folks; one that doesn’t necessarily centre Europe, modernism or any -ism that is not indicative of us,” Strachan commented for the show’s catalog.
Strachan was born in 1979 in Nassau, Bahamas and is currently based between New York City and Nassau. His conceptual practice has long brought to light marginalized histories, which is the focus of his ongoing project The Encyclopedia of Invisibility. It was born out of Strachan’s research into Matthew Henson, the first person to reach the North Pole in 1909. For over a century, Henson’s achievement went unrecognized and the milestone was mistakenly credited to his fellow explorer Robert Peary instead.
“Entangled Pasts, 1768-now” opens today and runs through April 28, 2024. 

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When a serious museum show dedicated to a crowd-pleasing artist like Yayoi Kusama or Olafur Eliasson is branded “Instagram-friendly,” it is usually meant as a backhanded compliment. Yet “Thinking of You. I Mean Me. I Mean You,” a new survey of works by Barbara Kruger at London’s Serpentine South Gallery goes one step further: it is proudly TikTok-friendly.
Since rising to prominence in the 1980s, the legendary American conceptual and collage artist has proven that she’s still well ahead of the curve. Take, for instance, the Serpentine show’s TikTok filter that allows users to make their own versions of one of Kruger’s most iconic artworks, Your Body is a Battleground, with their selfie cameras. This savvy conceit takes an eye-catching graphic that was first mass-reproduced in print in the 1980s and jettisons it across the globe at lightning speed thanks to the power of social media.
Barbara Kruger, Untitled (No Comment) (2020). Photo: The Art Institute of Chicago, courtesy of the artist and Sprüth Magers.
The influence of the internet is present throughout the main show. Unlike the slow-moving, painfully esoteric films that feature frequently in contemporary art museums, Kruger’s newest piece Untitled (No Comment) (2020) is an immersive three-channelled video installation that was born ready to compete in the attention economy. Its unrelenting, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it stream of cats, hair tutorials, flashing slogans, and quotes from thinkers as diverse as Voltaire and Kendrick Lamar manages to simulate the all too familiar feeling of scrolling on our phones “to relax” before bed.
“This digital availability that you have online is just so irresistible and so dominant today,” Kruger said in a recent interview with curator Hans Ulrich Obrist.
Random sounds playing out from speakers in the galleries are intentionally disorienting. “Having rogue audio thread through the exhibition as a sonic intervention was just another way of challenging and adding to receivership,” she added.
Installation view of “Barbara Kruger: Thinking of You. I Mean Me. I Mean You.,” on view from February 1 to March 17, 2024 at Serpentine South. Photo courtesy of Serpentine.
Kruger, aged 79, left art school at Syracuse University after just one year and cut her teeth instead working as a graphic designer for magazines in New York during the 1960s. A decade later, she had developed her trademark style of Futura Bold or Helvetic Ultra Condensed font text on black, red, or white banners slapped over black-and-white images. The works had an immediately memorable impact, not unlike that of tabloid headlines. The popular streetwear brand Supreme once admitted in court to being “influenced” by Kruger’s work.
Throughout the London show, one is assaulted with the artist’s directives, flippant propositions, and succinct statements, all of which seem to be a sad reflection on the state of society. Examples like Admit nothing/Blame everyone/Be bitter (1987) are always humorous enough, however, to avoid being too scolding or didactic.
Untitled (Taxis), 2024, outside of Serpentine’s “Barbara Kruger: Thinking of You. I Mean Me. I Mean You.” Photo: George Darrell.
A few of the works have been updated for our present moment through the medium of animation. Untitled (I Shop Therefore I Am) (1987/2019), for example, has the words disintegrate on screen before reforming to flash between new variations on Descartes’ infamous philosophical musing like “I shop therefore I hoard,” or “I sext therefore I am.”
Similarly, in Pledge, Will, Vow (1988/2020) Kruger uses a three-channel video stream of classic texts like the U.S. Pledge of Allegiance to highlight the various ways in which a narrative can be constructed. As each word appears on screen, it flickers between several possible alternatives that would imply new meanings ranging from incisive to playfully absurd. “Allegiance,” might therefore become “adoration,” “adherence,” or “anxiety.”
Barbara Kruger, Untitled (Our Leader) (1987/2020). Photo courtesy of the artist and Sprüth Magers.
Kruger’s classic works reinvented for the internet age reveal the technological leaps that have occurred within her lifetime. Yet they also demonstrate that the pace of social change has unfortunately lagged within that same time. For instance, Your Body is a Battleground was originally made for the Women’s March on Washington for reproductive freedom in 1983 but has, if anything, only grown in relevance in recent years.
Similarly, Untitled (Our People are Better Than Your People) (1994) offers a statement of delusional superiority: “Our people are better than your people. More intelligent, more powerful, more beautiful, and cleaner. We are good and you are evil. God is on our side,” and so on. Originally created as sharp satire 30 years ago, today it reads like MAGA-style political talking points nearly verbatim, with very little room for parody.
“It would be great if my work became archaic,” Kruger told Obrist. “But unfortunately, that’s not the case at this point.”
Barbara Kruger’s “Thinking of You. I Mean Me. I Mean You” is on view at the Serpentine South Gallery in London’s Kensington Gardens until March 17, 2024. 
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Although the sculptor and installation artist Anu Põder has had an outsize influence on the contemporary art scene in her native Estonia, she remains relatively little known beyond its borders. All the while, some of the country’s hottest young talents, including Kris Lemsalu and Edith Karlson—the latter will represent Estonia at this year’s 60th Venice Biennale—have cited her highly experimental work as a major influence on their own practices. Now, a decade after her death in 2013, Põder’s work has finally arrived on the international stage.
Her first survey show outside of Estonia is at Muzeum Susch in Switzerland until June 30; over 40 works spanning from the late 1970s to the 2000s have been brought together by Cecilia Alemani. The star curator behind The Milk of Dreams, the main exhibition at the 59th Venice Biennale, discovered the Estonian sculptor during her research. Her concept for the 2022 exhibition “revolved around ideas of metamorphosis and transformation, and how the human body is impacted by the machine and by the introduction of new technologies.”
It is for this reason that Põder’s dolls, mannequins, and busts particularly caught Alemani’s eye. She saw them as “cyborgian constructions that brought together past and future, merging “poor” materials like burlap and wood with very futuristic ones, like pink plastic sheets used for medical purposes and epoxy [resins].” Highly resourceful, Põder was known for making use of materials that were cheap and readily available; these soft materials are particularly effective for the exploration of psychological and corporeal experiences.
Born in 1947, Põder grew up under the Soviet regime, which started after World War II and ended with Estonia’s liberation in 1991. Her highly avant-garde experiments with material went against the grain of the local art scene and she stayed on the fringes of the global contemporary art world. Compared to other artists of her generation, Põder faced unique challenges as a single mother of three and she worked in relative isolation.
“They are sensual, erotic works and at the same time violent,” according to Alemani. “They depict fragmented, amputated female torsos intersected with amorphous appendages. The body becomes a site of experimentation limbs are twisted, postures are never straight, bodies are embracing and interlocking, and hard materials meet crumbling elements.”
“Anu Põder: Space for My Body” is remains on view at Muzeum Susch until June 30, 2024. Check out more works from the show below. 
Installation view of “Anu Põder: Space for My Body” at the Muzeum Susch. Photo: Federico Sette, courtesy of Muzeum Susch Art Stations Foundation.
Anu Põder, Lickers (1994) in “Anu Põder: Space for My Body” at the Muzeum Susch. Photo: Federico Sette, courtesy of Muzeum Susch Art Stations Foundation.
Anu Põder, Study for a Self-Portrait (late 1970s) in “Anu Põder: Space for My Body” at the Muzeum Susch. Photo: Federico Sette, courtesy of Muzeum Susch Art Stations Foundation.
Anu Põder, Composition with Hanging Hands and Light Stuffed Figure (both 1992) in “Anu Põder: Space for My Body” at the Muzeum Susch. Photo: Federico Sette, courtesy of Muzeum Susch Art Stations Foundation.
Anu Põder’s Pattern as Sign. Coats (1996) in “Anu Põder: Space for My Body” at the Muzeum Susch. Photo: Federico Sette, courtesy of Muzeum Susch Art Stations Foundation.
Anu Põder’s Pattern as Sign. Fur Coats (1996) in “Anu Põder: Space for My Body” at the Muzeum Susch. Photo: Federico Sette, courtesy of Muzeum Susch Art Stations Foundation.
Anu Põder, Space for My Body (1995) in “Anu Põder: Space for My Body” at the Muzeum Susch. Photo: Federico Sette, courtesy of Muzeum Susch Art Stations Foundation.
Anu Põder, Lectern (2007) in “Anu Põder: Space for My Body” at the Muzeum Susch. Photo: Federico Sette, courtesy of Muzeum Susch Art Stations Foundation.
Anu Põder’s Rolled-up Figure and Spring ’92 (both 1992) in “Anu Põder: Space for My Body” at the Muzeum Susch. Photo: Federico Sette, courtesy of Muzeum Susch Art Stations Foundation.

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Cuteness is not a quality that often gets much air time in the rarified halls of an art museum. Its commercial appeal may have exploded in recent decades, flooding shop shelves and social media feeds with items or images deemed “cute,” but still it’s a descriptor that carries some hard to shake associations. As we continue to re-evaluate the art and entertainment that has been historically dismissed as superficial or unsophisticated, perhaps its time for us to reconsider “cute?”
“CUTE,” a new exhibition at London’s Somerset House places contemporary art by Wong Ping, Ram Han, and Juliana Huxtable side-by-side widely-circulated pop cultural ephemera to tell the story of the rise of “cute,” delving into some of the reasons we find it strangely irresistible.
Hello Kitty installation in the “CUTE” exhibition at Somerset House in London. Photo: David Parry PA for Somerset House.
At times, the show has the air of a Comic Con, with some visitors enthusiastic enough to come dressed up in their own interpretation of “cute.” A section on the ground floor dedicated to the mammoth cultural impact of Hello Kitty, who is celebrating her 50th birthday this year, contains a Hello Kitty Disco where visitors can get down, and an Instagram-ready wall blooming with stuffed toys. Display cases filled with collectibles speak to the Hello Kittification of everyday items. Most will be familiar to anyone who has left the house in the past five decades, but there are also the less obvious—duct tape, flavored water, and Heinz pasta shapes.
“I already have pretty much half of these,” one woman wearing a Hello Kitty t-shirt gushed out loud when I visited. “I have the toaster, but not the TV.”
Louis Wain, Ginger Cat (1931). Photo ourtesy of Bethlem Museum of the Mind.
Elsewhere we are reminded that, while it may seem like cuteness entered the cultural conversation around the same time that cat photos could be uploaded online, humans have long had a soft spot for bug-eyed, furry pets. A charming series of photographs by Harry Pointer, in which cats appear to have tea parties or ride tricycles, were a huge hit back in the 1880s. Edwardians of the early 1900s couldn’t get enough of the adorably mischievous cats imagined by illustrator Louis Wain.
In Japan, meanwhile, enthusiasm for “kawaii” was slowly building thanks to the work of artists like Yumeji Takehisa, Junichi Nakahara, and Katsuji Matsumoto. The style was adopted by many young people as a means to subvert traditional societal expectations. In the 1980s, this craze went global and the show demonstrates kawaii’s influence on Western pop culture most effectively through the medium of music videos ranging from Jun Togawa’s Suki Suki Daisuki (1985) to Björk’s Possibly Maybe (1995).
Katsudi Matsumoto, ‘Kawaii Kurumi-chan’ transfer stickers from 1943. Photo courtesy to Yayoi Museum.
Upstairs, we are exposed to “cute”‘s sharper edges. One display reminds the visitor that what seems “cute” might be a performance of vulnerability, but to what end? Figurines whose droopy eyes brim with tears are shown next to tour posters promoting the rapper Yung Lean’s Sad Boy music collective.
Elsewhere, cuteness is shown to be a convenient facade beneath which darker realities may lurk. Archival objects include cheerfully anthropomorphized oil droplets being used to advertise the oil and gas corporation Esso and happy emojis adorning a bag of pills. In American artist Mike Kelley’s Aah… Youth! (1990) photo series, a child’s cuddly toys look sorrowful and even vaguely sinister despite their permanently stitched-on smiles.
Sugar coated pill display in the “CUTE” exhibition at Somerset House in London. Photo: David Parry PA for Somerset House.
Cuteness is an aesthetic that amplifies, and Somerset House’s galleries have been transformed into a fantasy world full of friendly creatures. Many of the cultural reference points were originally targeted towards children but, much like last summer’s Barbie movie, are now re-presented for the pleasure of adults. Sets of Sylvanian Families and Neopets may promise nostalgic comfort, but there is no real attempt to unpack why so many grown ups in 2024 feel tempted to self-infantalize. Will that be the secret to this show’s success?
“CUTE” is on at Somerset House in London through April 14, 2024. 

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You know it when you see it. An uncannily symmetrical vista with a vintage phone booth or a stylized old building awash with pastel color. These are the images known as “accidentally Wes Anderson” for how closely they seem to align with the American director’s distinctive aesthetic.
Best known for films like The Royal Tenenbaums (2001) and The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014), Wes Anderson has long enjoyed creating imagined worlds with a uniform visual appeal and touch of eccentricity that sets them apart from our own, bleaker reality. The look is popular enough that an Instagram dedicated to sharing the rare moments when this look occurs unplanned has amassed 1.9 million followers. Satisfying to look at, these chance spots filled an entire New York Times bestselling book in 2020.
The latest product in the franchise is an exhibition in London, which opened in December. It promises “an adventurous journey around the world through photography,” allowing the visitor to travel to over 200 places scattered across the globe that contain something of Anderson’s magnetic mix of grandeur and whimsy.
Organized across seven themed rooms, the exhibition lets us in on the backstory of these unusual locations, proving that sometimes truth is just as strange as fiction. The journey starts with a trip back in time to a pre-technological London when communication centered around the local post office. Other quintessential Anderson motifs to be explored include seascapes, detailed architectural facades, mysterious doors and retro modes of transport.
The exhibition is organized by Fever, an entertainment company known for hosting a series of immersive art exhibitions including the blockbuster “Van Gogh: The Immersive Experience,” which first opened in 2018.
“Accidentally Wes Anderson: The Exhibition” is showing at 81-85 Old Brompton Road, London SW7 until February 17, 2024. Check out more images from the show below. 
Ascensor aa Bica in Lisbon. Photo: Jack Spicer Adams.
Barbican laundrette. Photo: @coinop_london.
Installation view of “Acidentally Wes Anderson: The Exhibition” in London. Photo: Dan Ross.
Casino Mont Blanc. Photo: Ramon Portellii.
Eastern Columbia Building. Photo: Elizabeth Daniels.
Installation view of “Acidentally Wes Anderson: The Exhibition” in London. Photo: Dan Ross.
Japanese railway. Photo: Accidentally Wes Anderson.
Kaeson Station, Pyongyang Metro. Photo: Dave Kulesza.
Installation view of “Acidentally Wes Anderson: The Exhibition” in London. Photo: Dan Ross.
Tokyo Taxi. Photo: Accidentally Wes Anderson.
Washington State Ferries. Photo: Cole Whitworth.

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This blockbuster show has finally arrived to London several years later than planned. It was first pushed back by the pandemic but, after the #BlackLivesMatter protests of 2020, its curators scrambled to ensure that Philip Guston’s unsettling hooded caricatures of the Ku Klux Klan were handled with due sensitivity.
Driving around town in groups with blank expressions and comically large cigars, these characters are rendered both ridiculous and, crucially, commonplace; just normal people taking part in everyday activities. The images are unambiguously critical of racism in the U.S., so the decision to postpone the show was dogged by controversy. One of its curators, Mark Godfrey, labelled the move “patronizing” on Instagram and was swiftly suspended from Tate Modern before taking voluntary redundancy in 2021.
Now that the show is finally installed, our attention can shift back onto the art itself. What really stands out across some 100 works, is the considerable breadth of Guston’s practice. Born in 1913, the artist spent his 20s and 30s responding to European influences and borrowed from the Old Masters and then-contemporary Surrealists with equal gusto. By the early 1950s, he was swept up in New York’s passion for Abstract Expressionism. These impressive canvases establish his pink-infused palette, but they are most notable for how they allowed Guston—always a figurative painter at heart—to entirely reinvent his style from scratch, starting with simple, monochromatic line drawings.
Only in the final suite of galleries do the painterly cartoons, replete with repeated motifs such as cigars, shoes, ladders, beds, and hands, finally emerge. Though they would push him into relative obscurity, these strangely unique canvases grew in size and ambition and are filled with clues about Guston’s own experiences and outlook. Born to Jewish parents who fled persecution in present-day Ukraine, Guston changed his name from Goldstein in 1935, amid rising antisemitism, and by the latter decades of his life was overcome with fears about latent evil in society. By humanizing its perpetrators, he hoped to turn the lens back on the establishment, everyday people, and himself.
“Philip Guston” is at Tate Modern, London until February 25, 2024. Check out more images from the exhibition below.
Installation view of Philip Guston exhibition at Tate Modern in 2023. Photo: Larina Fernandes, © Tate.
Philip Guston, Bombardment (1937). Photo: © The Estate of Philip Guston.
Philip Guston, Passage (1957-58). Photo: Will Michels, © MFAH.
Installation view of Philip Guston exhibition at Tate Modern in 2023. Photo: Larina Fernandes, © Tate.
Installation view of Philip Guston exhibition at Tate Modern in 2023. Photo: Larina Fernandes, © Tate.
Installation view of Philip Guston exhibition at Tate Modern in 2023. Photo: Larina Fernandes, © Tate.
Philip Guston, Painting, Smoking, Eating (1973). Photo: © The Estate of Philip Guston.
Philip Guston, Couple in Bed (1977). Photo: © The Estate of Philip Guston.
Installation view of Philip Guston exhibition at Tate Modern in 2023. Photo: Larina Fernandes, © Tate.
Philip Guston, The Line (1978). Photo: © The Estate of Philip Guston.

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