Review: Marina Abramovic at Royal Academy of Art

It’s unfathomable to me that a journalist from The Telegraph proclaimed that “only the barest bones of [Marina Abramovic’s] talent remain” after witnessing the retrospective at the Royal Academy of Art. My own experience was the polar opposite — I was enraptured from the first glance to the last. I’m now even more excited to see Abramovic’s performance in The Seven Deaths of Maria Callas in November.

But let’s rewind a bit. A recent conversation with a new friend touched upon how aging has woven us more intricately into the fabric of others’ lives — friends, partners, family. An echoing sentiment seemed to suggest that shared experiences enhance their beauty. However, for me, solitude often paves the way to the most poignant experiences; mindfulness, a serene introspection.

And so, inspired, I dedicated my Wednesday to two solitary pursuits: an interlude at the Royal Academy of Art during lunch and an evening figure skating lesson. Both were wonderful, albeit in very different ways — in the latter, I felt a sense of achievement, in the former, I just felt.

I have to hand it to the Royal Academy — they know how to put on a show. From the moment I walked in, I was immersed. The first room was dedicated to The Artist is Present, a piece Abramovic put on at the MoMA in 2010. On display were raw emotions, captured expressions, and visceral reactions — a cinematic dance between Marina on one side and her audience on the other.

Next was the gut-wrenching Rhythm 0, wherein Abramovic offered herself as an instrument for audience interplay — the artist as the object. The aftermath? A harrowing portrayal of collective psychology, marking a profound commentary on consent and human behaviour.

Further on, I was introduced to Balkan Baroque — a piece Abramovic did for the Venice Biennale in 1997. It was brilliantly staged, even as recordings, that I couldn’t stop the tears from flowing. And indeed, all the artwork in this section brought me to tears — it must’ve been the recognition of a shared identity, the convergence of a Slavic history, Communist politics, Eastern European identity.

As I passed next to the room tracing her era with Ulay, I felt brittle, anxious. Their combined attempts to blur individualities and test mutual trust were emotionally charged. The experience culminated in a re-enactment of Imponderabilia. Here, the audience’s choices when sandwiched between two nude gatekeepers became a profound introspection into societal norms and personal predilections. As I squeezed through, I became acutely aware of my societal conditioning, murmuring a hasty apology. My own choice to face the female gatekeeper underscored my inherent yearning for comfort and familiarity.

Abramovic’s brilliance lies in her ability to foster deep connections by demanding participation from the audience. Through themes encompassing mortality, isolation, identity, and interaction, a tapestry of shared human experience is displayed. Their Great Wall of China expedition, Lovers, was so familiar in its essence — we are always alone.

And though the most memorable pieces were the earlier ones, I was still moved by the later works — the objects for audience consumption focussed on connection despite their stativity. Her expressions, her experimentation with energy and with rituals, all of it is mesmerizingly beautiful. I left the exhibition forever changed.

Then I went skating, but that’s probably a story for another time.

Marina Abramovic is at Royal Academy of Art until 1 January.

Review: Red Pitch

I haven’t been to the theatre for a while, which is unusual for me. But I’m back with a vengeance — yesterday, I saw Red Pitch at Bush Theatre, and I’ve got a few more performances lines up for October. Tyrell Williams’ Red Pitch was the perfect piece to open up another season of theatre — brilliantly acted and wonderfully staged.

Not only does the plot underscore the essence of youth and aspiration, but it also unravels the heartbreak — and the resilience — that transpires when familiar landscapes of our lives are threatened. The theatre was packed — the performances have nearly sold out — and from the moment the lights dimmed, we were transported to the estate on which Omz, Bilal and Joey were living out their dreams on the local football pitch.

Much like Lenny Henry in August in England, the three young actors bridged the chasm between the stage and the audience. Their playful camaraderie before the performance and their genuine engagement during and after the show brought these characters to life. Kedar Williams-Stirling, Emeka Sesay and Francis Lovehall have the rare gift of talented actors — they fully embody their roles.

The potency of the narrative lies in its rawness. We’re reminded of the countless dreams that sprout in the heart of underprivileged youth and the roles places of refuge, like their small football pitch, play in their lives. But as the encroaching winds of change threaten to sweep away these havens, the heartache is palpable.

Williams’ script is razor-sharp, evoking laughter, nostalgia, and moments of gut-wrenching pain in equal measure. The evolution of the characters, their aspirations tethered to football, and the stark reality of urban development all intertwine to paint a portrait of London that’s both tender and brutally honest.

Red Pitch is at Bush Theatre until 30 September.

Travels through Wales: Penbryn Beach, St Dogmaels Abbey, Cilgerran Castle, Cenarth Falls

My sister-in-law got married last week. It was a beautiful wedding and a lovely celebratory dinner afterwards, followed by a slightly unusual request from the happy couple was that their closest friends and family join them in an undisclosed location for a weekend getaway. We were provided the postcode on the morning of departure — wouldn’t you know it, we were going back to Wales.

Because we didn’t depart in the early morning as with all our other local trips, the drive was somewhat painful, but we made it through (mostly) unharmed. I haven’t passed my driving test yet, so I’m forbidden from driving on motorways. A-roads, however, are another story. So as soon as there was about an hour and no more motorways remaining, I switched into the driver’s seat and we were off.

I thought I was doing decently well. I was feeling fairly confident with the speed (70mph) and taking roundabouts without much trouble. The issues started when we got closer to our destination and drove into a town. I don’t have a sense of the car yet, and so I was driving too close to the curb. My husband kept asking me — first nicely, then with increasing agitation — to “stay in the middle of the lane!”

He nearly had a heart attack when I crossed over a bridge and (allegedly) barely missed the stone ledge with my lefthand mirror. It was then an adventure on the long and winding roads as I took the turns too fast and the hills too slow. By the time we pulled into the driveway where my in-laws were waiting, I was half sure they wouldn’t be my in-laws much longer. Husband told me in no uncertain terms that there would be no more driving in Wales.

The house they had rented was massive, with a jacuzzi and a games corner and even a gym. We had a lovely barbecue for dinner after I’d resoundingly won at pool, but lost at darts. The next morning, we waited for three more family members to join us, and then headed to Penbryn Beach, a beautiful bay with an overwhelming amount of holiday lets. Cristian took a dip in the sea while I cooled my feet in the waves, then we were all off along the footpath to Aberporth.

As the rest of the family peeled off to return home, the two of us — and the dog — continued on all the way to the end, stopping at the charming Cwtch Glanmordy for a toastie and coffee. I met an elderly man in the queue, who shared his joy at living in such a beautiful place, expressing pity for the poor Londoners stuck in their high rises — I told him he’s lucky indeed, and “that’s why we end up coming over for the weekend to get some fresh air!”

Driving back to Clos Y Hendy, where we were staying, we encountered the newlyweds ahead of us on the road, so we figured we’d follow them. Turns out, we made the right decision, because they led us straight to the ruins of St Dogmaels Abbey, a 12th century abbey. We walked around the different stones of the various buildings dating back to the four centuries between 1115-1536, finishing off our walk with a quick visit to the functioning church within the complex.

Our next stop was Cilgerran Castle, another medieval structure originally built around the same time as St Dogmaels Abbey and refined in stone around the first half of the 13th century. It was an absolutely phenomenal experience, because despite the castle being in a semi-ruined state, it was possible to climb up to the top and look out from the various balconies upon the forests and rivers below.

When we got home, the rest of the family partook in the property’s many activities, but I was exhausted from the day of sightseeing and went to sleep early. After a quick clean up and checkout the next morning, we started our long route to London, but not without a stopover in the beautiful Cenarth Falls. I’ve mentioned before that I’m not usually one for waterfalls, but the backdrop of an ancient mill made the view postcard-perfect. We indulged in one final walk along the river before making the journey home.

Travels through Belgium: Brussels

One of the joys of living in London is how well-connected the city is. And so, having recently exchanged my American Express points for Eurostar points and scored two free tickets to Brussels, my husband and I were off for a day trip to capital of Europe.

The adventure kicked off at the Halle Gate, our first stop after arriving at Bruxelles-Midi. We seized the opportunity to practice our French with the ticket seller — but requested English language audioguides. The museum was surprisingly empty, and we enjoyed having the place to ourselves as we navigated the circular staircase up to the roof.

Afterwards, it was time for lunch. We found a restaurant nearby doing a lunchtime special. My husband bravely opted for frog legs, soon insisting that anyone who says they taste like chicken needs their taste buds checked. As for me, I enjoyed the daurade — a whole bream fish skilfully dissected by our waiter.

We then faced the 30+ degree heat in an attempt to see the main sites — Manneken Pis, of course, and the beautiful Grand-Place. But the sun proved a bit too much, so when we spotted a pub advertising itself as a “beer museum”, we headed straight in. With its medieval ambiance and convivial crowd of musicians, it wasn’t much of a museum, but was worth the €5 entry price for the atmosphere and delicious half pint of blond.

As we were about to exit, one of the patrons — dressed as a musketeer — proudly directed us to a screen. We thought perhaps we’d missed something during our visit, but no — he just wanted to show us footage of himself playing the trumpet at a local festival. In good spirits, we headed out to a proper museum this time — the Magritte Museum.

Housed temporarily in a different building, which I believe to be the Brussels art museum, the Magritte exhibit was impressive, but lacking the soulful curation of its original home. Even the artist’s iconic work of a dark city against a daylight sky seemed a tad less striking in the absence of its usual dramatic lighting.

Review: GEN/GEN Generative Generations

The GEN/GEN: Generative Generations exhibition — if we’re limiting our discussion to the works represented and the curation itself, since Gazelli Art House has, fortunately, managed crowd control far better than the RA — was fascinating. As a newcomer to the art world, and especially to generative art, it was incredibly informative to trace the art form’s history over the past six decades. And, of course, it was great to see the final outcome after having spent the last month or so putting the puzzle pieces together — I’m talking about integrating the Art Blocks Engine into the Verisart Shopify app, of course.

So it was with great excitement that I headed downstairs from the Verisart office and into the three floors of gallery space belonging to Gazelli Art House. I’d invited a friend along, so we grabbed some welcome drinks and a few printouts explaining the background of the exhibition, and began our exploration. The first thing that struck me was the visible progress of technology — if the first experimentations with what I would think of as modern computer art (at least in the sense that it is computer art produced within my lifetime), such as William Latham’s Mutator1. Zapx6red-13, look very much a product of their time, today’s algorithmic output is mindblowing. But therein lies the progression of successive generations that is at the heart of the exhibition.

Given the ever-changing nature of digital art, showcasing this progression alongside its predecessors not only preserves, but also extrapolates new meaning from these historical moments — kind of like software updates for a legacy system, only more poetic. My favourite is, admittedly, the one I had some sort of relationship with prior to the exhibition — I was present at the minting of Monica Rizzolli’s Dance to forgotten noise, and I’m enamoured with its idea of an infinite number of generative outputs.

And so, the exhibition stands as testament to the artists who have pushed and are continuing to push the boundaries of art and technology, exploring the relationship between automation and creativity. If, like me, you’re keen to contextualise the complexity of digital art, you’ll enjoy GEN/GEN: Generative Generations.

GEN/GEN: Generative Generations is at Gazelli Art House until 7 October.

Hiking the Lake District: Catbells, Scafell Pike, Raven Crag

I had a dream. I wanted to be one of those remote workers, the type that go off and work somewhere exotic. So when my company announced that we don’t need to be in the office for the last two weeks of August, I booked an apartment in Thirlmere for the bank holiday week.

We’d been there before and had a wonderful time, so I thought it would be nice to return — and bag some more Wainwrights while we’re at it. Our friends — three of the six who accompanied me through the Dolomites back in 2019 — joined us for the long weekend. I had a list of fells planned for each day of the week we’d be there, starting with the charmingly named Catbells.

An early morning departure from London and a long drive later, we were ready for our first mountain. Because we had a car, we were free to choose a suitable hike on All Trails, accounting for distance and difficulty. We chose a moderate route to the peak of Catbells, starting at a farmhouse in Little Town, which rewarded us with breathtaking views as we reached the ridge.

We headed up to Maiden Moor, where we were treated to the glorious sight of a rainbow arching over Derwentwater. Miraculously avoiding the rain, we marvelled at the rainbow for as long as it was visible before making our way back down the fell to the car. The evening was spent enjoying local ales and learning to play Dungeons and Dragons.

The next morning, we grabbed breakfast at the Lake Side House Cafe and plotted our route. The weather wasn’t looking promising, so we weren’t sure Scafell Pike was worth the risk, but ultimately the fact that one of our friends was leaving the country soon and this was his only chance to conquer England’s tallest mountain swayed the decision in favour.

We started off from Seathwaite in heavy drizzle, but as we ascended, the rain eased and the fog dissipated. The beautiful valleys opened up beneath us as we scrambled ever higher, pausing to admire the waterfalls and gorges below. As we joined the path leading from the more popular Wasdale Head route, it became very crowded — and a lot foggier.

By the time we reached the summit, the visibility was next to zero. Of course, we made it on top of the marker, but there’s not much to show for it. We didn’t stick around, immediately finding the route taking us towards Great End. Circumventing the summit to hurry down, we made our way along one of the most beautiful sights of the entire trip — the waterfalls along yet another gorge with the menacing cliffs of Great End looking on.

Our friends were leaving the next day, so we turned in for an early night. In the morning, we drove straight to Penrith, where we had some breakfast and saw them off at the station. A quick tour around the Penrith Castle ruins, and we were off to Wast Water, which I remembered as being of the most stunning lakes from that fateful day two years prior on which my friend and I were rescued by Cockermouth rescue services. The weather wasn’t on our side, and we were drenched almost the minute we got out of the car for a walk, but it made for striking scenery.

Our plan for the rest of the week was to work throughout the day and bag some Wainwrights in the evenings. Unfortunately, the apartment we were renting had next to no WiFi connectivity — and an incredibly unpleasant proprietress to boot. I don’t like disparaging anyone, but from the initial encounter when she rebuked me for not ringing the hardly noticeable buzzer to where she kicked us out of the hotel drawing room for the fact that we had a dog (despite the apartments we were renting being advertised as dog-friendly and no signs to say otherwise for the rest of the complex), it made for a stressful experience.

All of which ultimately resulted in the decision to head back home on Tuesday evening. I managed to work out of two Keswick cafes during the day, but it wasn’t particularly comfortable. Looks like I don’t get to be a jet-setting, exotic-location scouting remote worker after all. Luckily, my husband provided a temporary antidote — right before we checked out and headed back, he surprised me with a trip to bag another fell, Raven Crag. It was the perfect distance for a post-work hike — less than two kilometres to the top, but incredibly steep.

Exhausted but satisfied, I handed back the keys, but was unfortunately unable to avoid another unpleasant encounter with the grumpy manager of Dale Head House, who told me off for not being able to use the Internet (as if it was somehow my own incompetence that resulted in pages not loading). I managed to get out relatively unscathed (emotional wellbeing notwithstanding), but lesson learnt — mountains are for relaxation, so best to leave the laptop at home.