Category Archives: Arts & Literature

Arts & Literature, Books, Essays, History, Reviews

Essay: The Imperative of Art in Dark Times

The Aesthetics of Resistance, Volume III
A Novel. Author: Peter Weiss; Translator: Joel Scott

The following essay was written by AI and edited by Intellicurean:

One often hears that art is a refuge from the storm, a quaint hermitage for the sensitive soul. But when the storm is a veritable tempest of tyranny, what then? Must beauty shrink to a whispered metaphor, or can it, with a flourish, confront the grotesque, form itself a weapon, and memory its shield? Peter Weiss, the German-Swedish playwright and novelist, perhaps best known for his provocative Marat/Sade, offers an unflinching answer in his masterwork, The Aesthetics of Resistance. This three-volume novel—published between 1975 and 1981, and only recently fully translated into English by Joel Scott for Verso Books—presents not merely a chronicle of Europe’s descent into fascism, but an audacious theory of survival, contemplation, and rebellion through the very act of art.

In a perceptive recent essay for Liberties Journal, Jared Marcel Pollen explores the novel’s radical scope, elegantly correcting a common misattribution of a pivotal political aphorism. Not Lenin, but Maxim Gorky, Pollen reveals, claimed that “aesthetics was [his] ethics—the ethics of the future.” More than a mere historical footnote, this elegantly salvaged reversal encapsulates the novel’s very governing spirit: that beauty, far from being a retreat from political crisis, is its very precondition for meaning, that art does not merely ornament truth, but, with a surgical precision, it excavates it.

A Chronicle of Darkness and Light

The Aesthetics of Resistance unfolds in the shadow of Europe’s unraveling, commencing in 1937, as Hitler consolidates power and Stalin’s purges silence dissent. The narrative spans the years up to 1942—a period that Hannah Arendt once called “midnight in the century.” But unlike conventional historical fiction, Weiss offers no linear tale of protagonists moving toward neat resolution. Instead, he crafts a philosophical Hades-wanderung—a relentless descent through betrayal, failed revolutions, ideological fracture, and the wreckage of cultural inheritance.

The text itself resists easy consumption. Its dense, paragraphless pages—walls of syntax without clear beginning or end—mirror the labyrinthine realities its characters inhabit. In an interview with The New York Times, translator Joel Scott remarked that reading Weiss is like “being submerged in consciousness,” and likened the novel’s structure to a frieze: a continuous mural of intellect, grief, and memory. This relentless, frieze-like form compels the reader to engage with history not as a series of discrete events, but as an overwhelming, cumulative force, a continuous present of trauma and resistance. The novel is as much a meditation on how we perceive history as it is on history itself.

Learning as Rebellion: The Proletarian Bildungsroman

At its core, The Aesthetics of Resistance is a Bildungsroman—a novel of education and formation. But it defiantly eschews the genre’s traditional bourgeois framework. This is no Goethe’s Wilhelm Meister or Joyce’s Stephen Dedalus spiraling through self-inquiry in cloistered academic halls. Weiss’s narrator—working-class, gentile, unnamed—does not wander through elite libraries or university quads. Instead, he and his comrades read Dante, study Greek sculpture, and debate Marxist theory in factory basements and kitchens, under constant threat of arrest or worse.

This autodidacticism—the practice of self-teaching—is not a mere supplement to formal education but a radical replacement. The narrator declares early on: “Our most important goal was to conquer an education… by using any means, cunning and strength of mind.” Their knowledge is not earned; it is stolen—like Promethean fire—from the guarded sanctums of official culture. This echoes Friedrich Schiller’s view in On the Aesthetic Education of Man (1795) that beauty cultivates moral freedom, acting as a safeguard against the dehumanizing mechanisms of state power. Indeed, in a totalitarian state that mutilates truth and simplifies human experience, the very act of preserving intellectual complexity – a core tenet of Weiss’s autodidacts – becomes, as Susan Sontag argued in “On Style,” an ethical stance in itself, an insistence on the primacy of certain values. In Weiss’s hands, this ethic becomes urgently, tragically manifest.

Art at the Crossroads: Form, Violence, and Hope

The profound question that animates Weiss’s project is not simply how to survive violence, but how to perceive it. What happens to art, to the very faculty of perception, when the world collapses into brutality? One compelling answer emerges in the novel’s early scene at the Pergamon Altar, a Hellenistic frieze of the Gigantomachy—a mythic war between gods and giants—housed in Berlin’s museum. As Nazi banners flutter outside, the young resisters look upon this magnificent fragment of antiquity and see not quaint myth, but relentless struggle. They interpret the contorted figures as symbols of class war, reclaiming the altar from its imminent fascist cooptation.

This interpretive act—the deliberate reading “against the grain”—is both aesthetic and political, a defiant reconstitution of meaning. It echoes Walter Benjamin’s chilling thesis that “there is no document of civilization that is not at the same time a document of barbarism.” Indeed, as Pollen writes with chilling precision, the Nazis, in their grotesque appropriation of classical forms, hollowed them into “plaster emptiness.” Weiss’s characters do the opposite: they revive these ancient forms by placing them in urgent dialogue with their own suffering, thus universalizing the struggle against domination, making the “mass of stone” a value “belonging to anyone who steps in front of it.”

The novel closes with a powerful meditation on Picasso’s Guernica, his monumental canvas depicting the bombing of the Basque town in 1937. The painting, the narrator insists, does not merely show war—it registers “an assault on the ability to express things.” Guernica marks a new kind of aesthetic task: not only must art represent horror, it must endure it. The painting outlasts its own referent, becoming what philosopher Elaine Scarry once called “a durable object,” an artifact that shelters memory and meaning long after political systems fall and the bombs cease to drop. In Alfonso Cuarón’s bleakly prescient dystopian film Children of Men (2006), Guernica appears, almost unnoticed, in the sterile interior of a government building—a poignant token of lost humanity. This, precisely, is Weiss’s abiding fear: that without the active labor of interpretation, without the human will to engage, even the greatest artistic achievements become mere decor, robbed of their subversive potential.

Witness and Memory: The Imaginative Faculty as Resistance

Some may, of course, recoil, finding The Aesthetics of Resistance too cerebral, too demanding, perhaps even too… Germanic, to resonate beyond the intellectual class. It’s a fair, if somewhat lazy, concern. And yet, as Timothy Snyder so chillingly reminds us in On Tyranny, fascism thrives precisely when the imagination is starved—when complexity gives way to cliché, when memory is replaced by manufactured myth.

Weiss’s project is a counteroffensive. His characters repeatedly ask, with desperate sincerity: “What does the Divina Commedia have to do with our lives?” In posing the question, they model the very activity the novel enacts—bridging distant beauty with present suffering. As Pollen notes, Weiss is not proposing simplistic analogies between then and now, but calling us to maintain the capacity for analogy—the capacity to perceive echoes and derive moral relevance from history, an imaginative act in itself.

Art, then, is not escapism. It is a form of mnemonic defense, a profound act of spiritual preservation. Horst Heilmann, a real historical figure and one of the novel’s central martyrs, declares: “All art… all literature are present inside ourselves, under the aegis of the only deity we can believe in—Mnemosyne”—Memory, mother of the Muses. Here Weiss evokes a stunning theological shift: divinity no longer lies in revelation, but in remembrance. Not in salvation, but in reckoning. Weiss shares this ethos with writers like W.G. Sebald and Toni Morrison, both of whom insisted that literature’s task is not to uplift, but to testify. In her Nobel lecture, Morrison described language as “the measure of our lives,” and warned that its decay is the first sign of cultural amnesia. Weiss anticipates this danger, and his novel becomes a fortress of form against forgetting.

Style as Weapon, Not Ornament

Perhaps the greatest gauntlet Weiss throws down, the element that still most sharply divides critics, is his distinctive style. The novel’s paragraphs can stretch for pages. There is no chapter division, no conventional dialogue, and barely a linear plot. But this excess is deliberate. As George Steiner observed in The New Yorker, Weiss “wanted his novel to resist readability as a form of moral laziness.” This is not to suggest the novel is obscure for its own sake, a mere affectation of difficulty. Rather, its very form embodies its thesis: the reader’s discomfort, the laborious trek through its unbroken syntax, becomes an echo of the characters’ own relentless, desperate struggle for meaning amidst chaos. Like Thomas Bernhard, whose relentless monologic fury shapes Correction and Extinction, Weiss denies literary comfort. Instead, he offers friction, density, and dissonance—qualities perfectly befitting a narrative of clandestine, underground resistance, where truth arrives not through effortless clarity but through sheer, unyielding persistence. In his study The Work of Literature, philosopher Peter Szondi described literature as a form that must “carry contradiction inside itself.” Weiss takes this principle further: contradiction is not a flaw but a crucial feature of truly resistant art. The reader’s discomfort, then, is the novel’s ethical demand.

Toward the Future: A Testament Against Forgetting

Weiss died in 1982, a year after completing his trilogy. In a rare interview that year with Der Spiegel, he confessed that his greatest fear was not censorship but irrelevance—that art would become mute in the face of spectacle. That fear feels chillingly prescient. As Western democracies flirt again with the seductive sirens of authoritarianism, and as history is re-scripted by those who profit from collective forgetting, The Aesthetics of Resistance emerges not merely as literature but as an instruction manual for endurance.

Its lessons are not limited to Germany or the 1930s. They resonate in Chile’s brutal reckoning with Pinochet, in the defiant murals of Belfast, in the urgent poetry of Mahmoud Darwish, and in the resolute chants of Tehran’s women today. Where brutality seeks silence, art insists on form—on surviving and shaping what was meant to be annihilated.

Weiss leaves us with a final, searing proposition: Imagination lives as long as resistance lives. And when resistance ends—when truth is reduced to slogan, when memory collapses into myth—then imagination, too, begins to die. But while a single reader still labors through his walls of text, still stands before the Pergamon frieze and refuses to see mere stone, Weiss’s profound vision endures. This is the essence of The Aesthetics of Resistance: not to comfort, but to compel. Not to promise victory, but to remind us that moral clarity comes not from slogans, but from study. And that to understand the past is not merely to remember—it is, in the most profound sense, to resist the future that forgets it.

Arts & Literature, Books, Essays, Literature, Reviews

Literary Essay: “Infinite Interiors – On the Twenty Best Novels of All Time”

The following essay was written by ChatGPT and edited by Intellicurean from an article titled “The 20 best novels of all time” written by Claire Allfree and published in The Telegraph book section on July 6, 2025.

When a culture attempts to consecrate a definitive list of its greatest novels, it risks both an admirable arrogance and a kind of elegiac futility. The recent selection of The 20 Best Novels of All Time, published by The Telegraph, seems at once a celebration of the novel’s inexhaustible possibility and an implicit acknowledgment of our own waning capacity for reading with genuine urgency. It is as though we assemble these canons less to instruct our descendants than to reassure ourselves that we have not entirely forgotten how literature once moved the soul.

One cannot help but admire the breadth and seriousness of this catalogue. It stretches from the dreamlike elegance of The Tale of Genji—a work whose thousand-year distance intensifies its immediacy—to the compulsive self-dissection of Knausgaard’s My Struggle, a testament to our age’s faith that self-disclosure can substitute for narrative shape. What holds these disparate texts together is not merely their historical significance but their shared aspiration to render life in all its unmastered perplexity.

If Harold Bloom were to begin here, he might call attention to The Tale of Genji as an early demonstration of what he once termed the “internalization of romance.” It is a book that transcends its courtly gossip to become an inexhaustible study in desire’s transformations, a mirror to the reader’s own fluctuations of attachment and estrangement. We encounter Genji’s erotic restlessness as both scandalous and poignantly familiar, for the novel’s true subject is the incommensurability between longing and fulfillment—an incommensurability that modern fiction has inherited as its principal obsession.

James Wood, by contrast, might focus on Middlemarch as the novelistic apogee of moral realism. Eliot’s genius lay in her refusal to reduce her characters to mere emblems of ideology or historical process. Instead, she endowed them with what Wood has called “free indirect style’s psychic oscillation,” a prose capable of inhabiting and exposing consciousness in the same instant. It is a book that dares to be both panoramic and exquisitely local, to weigh the ambitions of a nation against the disappointments of a single marriage bed. If there is a single argument to be made for the continued relevance of the realist novel, it is that Middlemarch remains more acute about our interiority than any contemporary memoir.

And yet one cannot ignore how this list gestures toward the novel’s capacity for formal subversion. Ulysses, with its irreverent transformations of the Homeric epic into the trivial routines of Dublin, still feels scandalous in its abundance. Joyce’s genius is not only in his linguistic pyrotechnics but in his suspicion that consciousness itself can never be adequately represented. His prose, that shifting mosaic of styles and registers, offers no comfort to the reader who seeks transparency. Instead, it confronts us with the knowledge that the novel’s greatest power may reside in its refusal to cohere.

This refusal—to simplify, to console, to moralize—animates many of the twenty selections. Invisible Man is less a conventional narrative than a hallucinatory initiation into the American underworld of racial invisibility. Ellison’s rhetorical bravado, his blending of surrealism and jeremiad, still outpaces the efforts of more contemporary chroniclers of identity. To read Invisible Man today is to recognize how easily literary radicalism becomes cultural commonplace, but also to remember how singular its achievement remains.

Nor does the list shy from novels that embrace the uncanny. Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita may be the most exuberant refutation of realist pieties ever composed. Its supernatural comedy is both a rebuke to Stalinist orthodoxy and a reminder that the imagination is an inherently seditious faculty. If much of the 20th-century novel sought to dismantle the illusions of bourgeois life, Bulgakov’s masterpiece demonstrates that irony and enchantment can be revolutionary forces.

Yet if Bloom were to caution us, he would do so against the temptation to read these novels exclusively as instruments of social critique. Literature endures precisely because it exceeds its momentary political applications. War and Peace is indeed an anatomy of the Napoleonic Wars, but it is more crucially a demonstration of how historical consciousness itself can become an object of artistic inquiry. Tolstoy’s genius was to discover that the novelist’s truest fidelity is not to facts but to the felt perplexity of lived experience.

It is striking how Robinson Crusoe stands at the inception of the English novel, bearing within it the seeds of many later contradictions. Defoe’s narrative is, on the surface, a hymn to industry and resourcefulness. But the same story—of a man claiming dominion over an island—also encodes the imperial impulse, the confidence that the world exists to be measured, catalogued, and possessed. What once seemed the purest adventure has become, to modern readers, an uneasy parable of conquest.

One also encounters here the severe naturalism of Thérèse Raquin, a work whose lurid determinism feels almost an affront to Victorian piety. Zola’s lovers are not tragic in any redemptive sense; they are specimens trapped in an experiment of their own appetites. And yet there is a perverse grandeur in the novel’s refusal to pretend that desire leads anywhere but into the pit.

New Grub Street too is a novel about entrapment—this time not by passion but by commerce. Gissing’s weary chronicling of literary London feels uncannily prophetic, as if he anticipated the rise of every ghostwritten bestseller and every writer forced to commodify a persona. What is most unsettling is that he offers no counterexample: no heroic idealist who transcends the marketplace, no unspoiled domain of “pure” art. In this sense, the book remains an indispensable autopsy of cultural production.

If Zola and Gissing reveal the suffocating material conditions of life, Moby-Dick reveals the existential abyss. No novel is more saturated with the terror of cosmic indifference. Melville’s prose—sometimes biblical, sometimes madcap—collapses the distance between metaphysics and anatomy, making the whale not merely an animal but an emblem of the universe’s mute resistance to comprehension. In Bloom’s phrase, it is the American epic that devours all interpretations, a text that renders the critic humble before its incommensurate ambition.

One finds a different kind of ambition in Party Going, where Henry Green distills modernist unease into something almost glacial. Its stranded revellers, imprisoned in their own frivolity while fog swallows the city below, seem to embody an entire civilization’s failure to apprehend its own decline. The novel is both slight in incident and inexhaustible in implication—a reminder that the modernist fascination with stasis can be as provocative as any narrative pyrotechnics.

Proust’s In Search of Lost Time remains the most exhaustive testimony to literature’s faith in consciousness as a world unto itself. No novel before or since has so patiently mapped the minute inflections of memory, the subtle humiliations and triumphs of social life. It is a book that tests the limits of our attention but also rewards it with an intimacy that becomes, paradoxically, universal.

The Great Gatsby, meanwhile, retains its status as a parable of aspiration’s inevitable corrosion. Fitzgerald’s sentences are so lapidary that their loveliness can almost distract from the novel’s acrid judgment. Gatsby’s dream—at once romantic and predatory—has become the template for American self-mythology. That the dream collapses under the weight of its illusions is precisely what grants it the force of prophecy.

It is striking, too, how many of these novels seek to articulate the experience of cultures in collision. Things Fall Apart is the most lucid demonstration of Achebe’s conviction that narrative authority must be reclaimed by those whom empire has consigned to silence. Okonkwo’s tragedy is not only that he fails to adapt but that his story has been written over by the conqueror’s language. Achebe’s triumph is to create a form that both inhabits and transforms that language.

Closer to our own era, The Country Girls quietly ignited a literary insurrection. O’Brien’s candid portrayal of female desire and disillusionment, so scandalous in 1960s Ireland, now seems almost decorous in its gentleness. Yet its influence remains incalculable. It taught a generation of writers that the domestic could be radical, that the most private confessions might unsettle entire cultures.

No less ambitious, though in a different register, is The Golden Notebook. Lessing’s formal fragmentation enacts the very psychic disintegration it describes. Anna Wulf’s notebooks—political, personal, artistic—refuse to reconcile into any coherent identity. In this refusal, Lessing anticipates the confessional experiments of Knausgaard and the autofiction that now dominates so much literary discourse.

The Rings of Saturn, by W.G. Sebald, is a late testament to literature’s capacity to hover between genres—memoir, travelogue, essay—and to become, in that ambiguity, something more resonant than any of them alone. Sebald’s melancholy is not performative but almost geological: the sorrow of civilizations grinding into dust, of memory dissolving into rumor.

If Sebald writes out of mourning, Knausgaard writes out of a hunger so relentless it often seems pathological. My Struggle is both monument and provocation: an assertion that the granular details of ordinary life deserve the same attention Proust once gave to aristocratic salons. Whether this is a triumph of honesty or a capitulation to narcissism is a question the reader must answer alone.

And then there is Conversations with Friends, whose subdued prose and emotional diffidence reflect an era uneasy with grandeur. Rooney’s novel is not so much plotted as observed: a record of glancing attachments, tentative betrayals, and the provisional negotiations of millennial intimacy. Some will dismiss it as slight, but its cool detachment has a disquieting relevance. It suggests that the novel no longer needs epic ambition to be significant; it need only be exact.

A Closing Reflection

Surveying these twenty novels, we see not a single tradition but a plurality of experiments—each one extending the novel’s reach. To read them is to join a conversation that has never ended, in which each new book answers its predecessors with admiration, dissent, or surpassing ambition. Perhaps that is the most heartening lesson: that literature, in all its contradictions, remains the most durable form we possess for contemplating the inexhaustible strangeness of being alive.

A LIST OF THE BOOKS FROM THE ESSAY AND REVIEW IS BELOW:

  1. The Tale of Genji (1021) – Murasaki Shikibu
    Often called the first novel ever written, this thousand-year-old Japanese masterpiece recounts the romantic adventures of Prince Genji and the inner lives of the women he pursues, offering an exquisite portrayal of courtly love and social intrigue.
  2. The Pilgrim’s Progress (1678) – John Bunyan
    A religious allegory composed in prison, telling the story of Christian’s perilous journey to the Celestial City. Simultaneously quest narrative, moral parable, and spiritual confession, it became one of English literature’s most influential texts.
  3. Robinson Crusoe (1719) – Daniel Defoe
    A castaway narrative presented as a true account, blending adventure and colonial ideology. Crusoe’s survival on an island and mastery over his domain has sparked both admiration and fierce debates over its imperialist assumptions.
  4. Moby-Dick (1851) – Herman Melville
    Captain Ahab’s vengeful pursuit of the white whale becomes an existential epic exploring obsession, fate, and humanity’s place in the cosmos. Famous for its lyrical prose and encyclopedic digressions on whales and whaling.
  5. Thérèse Raquin (1867) – Émile Zola
    A grim study of adultery and guilt, depicting the murderous passion between Thérèse and her lover, Laurent. Their crime leads to psychological disintegration and ghostly hauntings in this early work of French naturalism.
  6. War and Peace (1867) – Leo Tolstoy
    Tolstoy’s sprawling saga of Russian aristocrats during the Napoleonic Wars interweaves personal transformation with sweeping history, offering a masterful portrait of love, fate, and the forces that shape nations.
  7. Middlemarch (1871) – George Eliot
    Set in a provincial English town, this realist masterpiece follows the intellectual and emotional struggles of Dorothea Brooke and other characters as they confront marriage, ambition, and disappointment.
  8. New Grub Street (1891) – George Gissing
    An unflinching look at the late-Victorian literary marketplace, chronicling the rivalry between idealistic writers and pragmatic hacks, and exploring the compromises required to survive as a professional author.
  9. Ulysses (1922) – James Joyce
    A modernist reimagining of Homer’s Odyssey, set over a single day in Dublin. Famous for its stream-of-consciousness style, linguistic experimentation, and celebration of ordinary life’s hidden richness.
  10. In Search of Lost Time (1913–1927) – Marcel Proust
    A monumental seven-volume exploration of memory, time, and desire, chronicling the narrator’s life and the decline of French aristocracy with lush psychological and social detail.
  11. The Great Gatsby (1925) – F. Scott Fitzgerald
    A glittering tragedy of the Jazz Age, centering on the mysterious Jay Gatsby’s doomed pursuit of wealth and love, and exposing the hollowness of the American Dream.
  12. Party Going (1939) – Henry Green
    A surreal, modernist novel about a group of privileged young people stranded in a railway hotel, whose trivial gossip masks a pervasive sense of dread as Europe hovers on the brink of war.
  13. Invisible Man (1952) – Ralph Ellison
    An unnamed Black narrator journeys through racism and disillusionment in America, blending surreal episodes, biting satire, and profound reflections on identity and invisibility.
  14. Things Fall Apart (1958) – Chinua Achebe
    Set in a 19th-century Igbo village, this landmark postcolonial novel traces the cultural collision between indigenous African traditions and British missionaries, through the tragic story of Okonkwo.
  15. The Country Girls (1960) – Edna O’Brien
    The coming-of-age story of two Irish girls escaping their repressive Catholic upbringing, whose quest for independence transformed Irish literature and scandalized conservative audiences.
  16. The Golden Notebook (1962) – Doris Lessing
    An ambitious, formally fragmented narrative about a woman writer dividing her life into separate notebooks—political, personal, creative—and attempting to reconcile them during a breakdown.
  17. The Master and Margarita (1966) – Mikhail Bulgakov
    A satirical fantasy in which the Devil arrives in Stalinist Moscow with a retinue that includes a giant talking cat, exposing the absurdity and cruelty of totalitarian society.
  18. The Rings of Saturn (1995) – W.G. Sebald
    A genre-defying meditation combining travelogue, memoir, history, and philosophy, as a narrator’s walk along the English coast sparks digressions on decay, memory, and loss.
  19. My Struggle (2009–2011) – Karl Ove Knausgaard
    A six-volume autofiction epic chronicling the author’s life in exhaustive detail, from childhood to fatherhood, redefining confessional writing and stirring controversy over privacy and truth.
  20. Conversations with Friends (2017) – Sally Rooney
    A millennial love story about a young Dublin student entangled in an affair with an older married man, written in Rooney’s lucid, understated style that captures the textures of contemporary intimacy.
Arts & Literature, Design, Essays, History

Art Movements: ‘How Art Deco Shaped 100 Years Of Forward-Thinking Design’

Artnet (February 27, 2025) by Caroline Roux

One hundred years ago, a sprawling international exhibition was staged in Paris. It was intended to dazzle visitors with all that was new in architecture, design, fashion, and jewelry, and to establish France as the unassailable arbiter of taste of the western world. Called “L’Exposition internationale des arts décoratifs,” it ran from April to October 1925, attracted 16 million people, and was a celebration of Modernism and Art Deco design.

It occupied nearly 70 acres of central Paris, on both sides of the river Seine, with 20 countries building bespoke pavilions that celebrated the new progressive style—sleek and geometric—inside and out. Needless to say, around two-thirds of the exhibitors were French.

Art Deco is a design movement that emerged in the 1920s and 1930s, defined by bold geometry, rich colors, and lavish ornamentation. Blending influences from Cubism, Futurism, Bauhaus, and ancient Egyptian, Aztec, and African art, it exudes luxury through sleek symmetry, exotic materials, and jazz-age opulence. Art Deco was modern but not necessarily restrained.

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In the USA, the focus is on art, with a show of Tamara de Lempicka, the doyenne of Art Deco painters, at the Museum of Fine Arts in Houston (9 March to 26 May) and a wide-ranging exhibition at the Nassau County Museum of Art, covering everything from Tiffany lamps to artworks by Fernand Leger and Guy Pene du Bois. There was even a show of Leonard Lauder’s collection of Art Deco Architecture postcards at the Museum of the City of New York. Sorry, but you’ve missed that one.

Caroline Roux writes on contemporary art and design, She is a regular contributor to the Financial Times, World of Interiors and Galerie magazine.

Arts & Literature, Reviews

‘Rembrandt And Literature’ (Review)

LOS ANGELES REVIEW OF BOOKS (LARB):

ALTHOUGH ONE CAN never get enough of Vermeer or van Gogh, a regrettable consequence of this current age of blockbuster art exhibitions is that more and more great artists are being viewed in isolation from each other. Turning the 18th-century notion of the singular genius into a marketing ploy, museums around the world present their subjects as rebels, outcasts, and troublemakers who operated outside time and space, when all of them were, in fact, closely connected with—and creatively indebted to—their culture and time period.

It is refreshing, then, to stumble upon a show like Impulse Rembrandt: Teacher, Strategist, Bestseller (2024–25) at the Leipzig Museum of Fine Arts in Germany, whose accompanying English-language catalog of critical essays plugs the most revered of the Dutch masters back into the ecosystem that influenced him as much as he influenced it.

Born in Leiden to a well-to-do miller in 1606, Rembrandt in early youth began to draft sketches of the Dutch countryside and portraits of his Protestant mother, who instilled in him a lifelong reverence for Christian mythology. In his teens, he apprenticed first with Jacob Isaacszoon van Swanenburg, a history painter freshly returned from Italy, then with Pieter Lastman, who also taught Jan Lievens. At 22, Rembrandt began taking on students of his own, many of whom, including Ferdinand Bol, Gerard Dou, and Carel Fabritius, became successful painters in their own right. Contrary to popular belief, writes the head of paintings and sculpture at Leipzig Museum, Jan Nicolaisen, in the exhibition catalog, these students—some as young as 14 when they first appeared at Rembrandt’s stately house and studio on Amsterdam’s Jodenbreestraat—didn’t spend their time completing Rembrandt’s masterpieces so much as copying them, adopting his style and sensibilities as their own. Concerned more with light and emotion than idealized forms, and increasingly painting in loose, expressive strokes, Rembrandt has been deservedly called one of the first “modern” painters, his well-documented influence running from his immediate disciples to Paul Cézanne, Pablo Picasso, and Salvador Dalí.

By and large, the development of 17th-century Dutch literature followed the development of 17th-century Dutch painting, Amsterdam’s writers and poets moving away from the dominant, classical style of their French neighbors in much the same way Rembrandt looked beyond the masters of the Italian Renaissance. 

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It is, in light of this conclusion, rather fitting that both academic and literary treatments of Rembrandt have slowly moved beyond the one-sided interpretations of the past, viewing him neither as a nuisance—as the classicists and Victorians did—nor as a Romantic genius, but rather as a man of unresolvable contradiction, a hungry miller’s boy who bit off more than he could chew. Possessed of both innate talent and acquired skill, he was equally sensible to corporeal and aesthetic pleasures, and willing to change and develop in response to both his surroundings and his own better judgment. A best-seller indeed.

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Tim Brinkhof is a Dutch journalist and researcher based in the United States. He studied history and literature at New York University and has written for Vox, Vulture, Slate, Esquire, Jacobin, GQ, New Lines Magazine, and more.

Arts & Literature, Humanities, Reviews

Humanities & Literature: ‘Fooled By Language’

FRONTLINE (February 12, 2025): In his incisive 1946 essay “Politics and the English Language”, George Orwell performs a brilliant autopsy on the art and craft of writing and communication. He focusses on how and what language manifests—or rather, fails to manifest—in political discourse. The master satirist, never one to mince words (though he’d be the first to appreciate the irony of that cliché), dissects the tendency of political language to change straightforward ideas into bloated, pretentious prose that obscures rather than enlightens.

Towards the end of this long essay lies a powerful statement: “Political language is designed to make lies sound truthful and murder respectable”. Clearly, Orwell was talking about how politicians and other public figures twist words to hide ugly truths. When leaders want to justify terrible or unpleasant actions, they turn to a vague, fancy vocabulary. Instead of saying “we killed civilians”, they might say, “collateral damage occurred during military operations”. This kind of cloudy language makes it harder for people to understand what really happened or will happen.

Language shapes perception. It defines how we see the world and the forces that power it. In an ideal scenario, words like “development”, “reform”, and “progress” should inspire optimism, suggesting a march towards a better future. But in practice, these terms become euphemisms for destruction. Beneath their hopeful facades, they have hidden environmental devastation, the displacement of indigenous communities, and the widening gap between the rich and the poor. If we strip away their idealistic veneer, we uncover a history of exploitation and loss—one that continues to this day.

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Arts & Literature, Essays

Essays: ‘Wollstonecraft – A Daring Experiment’


TIMES LITERARY SUPPLEMENT (February 13, 2025): After her husband drowned off the coast of Tuscany, Mary Shelley relayed an unusual request to her stepmother in London. Would she send a “remembrance” of her mother, the revolutionary-era philosopher of women’s rights, Mary Wollstonecraft, who had died shortly after Shelley’s birth? In response, Mary Shelley’s father put aside one of her mother’s rings, crafted from pearls and a lock of hair taken from Wollstonecraft’s closest female friend, Fanny Blood: a gothic symbol of eternal love. 

Like the bejewelled ring with Fanny’s hair, Wollstonecraft and her first love lived on – thanks to the retelling of their life stories by other philosophers and writers. As a kind of female Socrates, Wollstonecraft sketched the contours of a new form of philosophy, undertaken not necessarily by writing, but also and more fundamentally by living and experimenting. An author of autobiographical novels and epistolary memoirs, Wollstonecraft used personal narratives to ground her defence of the rights of the poor, women, children, African slaves and Native Americans as integral to the “rights of humanity”. Later thinkers, especially in the feminist tradition, have attempted to flesh out this story of human emancipation left incomplete by her untimely death at the age of thirty-eight.

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