Warhol, armed with hundred dollars’ worth of change, took Ethel Scull to a photobooth and shot image after image after image.
A crewmember’s dreadful boast (uttered in the smoking area of Cellar): this is ‘sort of the BNOC play for this term’.
Walking down the street away from the cinema, I was almost overwhelmed with a disconcerting haze of claustrophobia.
Even Tarantino himself seems to understand, implicitly at least, that his story takes the wrong medium.
The Barbican Centre, that gargantuan, sprawling labyrinth of brutalism, has been an intriguing space ever since it opened its doors to the public in 1982. Not only does its location in the heart of the City create a stark juxtaposition between its muted, Orwellian concrete and the polished sheen of the surrounding glass skyscrapers, theContinue reading “An artist’s obsessions”