[for Frieze, 4/6/18]

All these works share a central belief: that rhythm is a trait of the body, and women’s bodies are too closely policed.

[for the TLS, 2/6/18]

Word by word, Wheatley brings the texture of a vista or situation into brutal focus.

[for the Guardian, 23/5/18]

Mackintosh writes the way that Sofia Coppola would shoot the end of the world: everything is luminous, precise, slow to the point of dread.

[for the Telegraph, 20/5/18]

Ordinary People is a novel of being late for the kids’ show, allowing the rice to burn, not saying that thing outright.

[for heterotopias, 4/5/18]

For a child, the anarchy of ‘Lego Island’ has few downsides, because its whole world is just a playground, and what could be better than that?

[for Apollo, 2/5/18]

Hanging in the concourse where people reunite after months apart, Emin’s words make their intimate feelings a public thing.

[for GARAGE, 24/4/18]

Where would you take these leftover pieces, designed for a place that was never quite a place?

[for AnOther, 23/4/18]

People will always be drawn to the superficial, however ‘problematic’ they’re told it’s become; fashion is only a consequence of caring what others think.

[for Frieze, 16/4/18]

That single dark bullethole in the baby’s luminous flesh is freshly shocking each time you look.

[for Apollo, 13/4/18]

You peer at the ridges and bumps of each work, distracted by multi-directional surface rather than being lost in projected depth.

[for GARAGE, 27/3/18]

Space is hell: unfathomable depth, sheer emptiness. Stare into the abyss, as Nietzsche said, and it’s nothing that stares right back.

[for The White Review, 24/3/18]

We’re prone to speak as if dreaming were either too much or nothing at all. One person’s ‘dreamer’ is a radical, someone who’d storm an old order; another’s is irresponsible, their head in the clouds. The Greek artist Sofia Stevi studies both.

[for the Telegraph, 24/3/18]

Short stories are objects of conspicuous, intensive craft; like younger children, they tend to be compared to the accomplishments of others.

[for GARAGE, 22/3/18]

As República looks for her public, her new eyes tell us she doesn’t know who she’ll find; they meet the eyes of the viewers, who aren’t sure what she represents.

[for Frieze, 12/3/18]

Oxlade's critical essays, written throughout his career, consistently sent the 20th century to the wall. ‘Shakespeare’, he wrote in 2005, ‘was onto people like Marcel Duchamp.’ He threw out Amedeo Modigliani, Henry Moore, all pop art. Only a few escaped.

[for GARAGE, 12/3/18]

Scourti remixed her “archive” with the joy of a child taking risks, but it was her software that messed with it first, eating her paper trail and throwing it back up.

[for the Telegraph, 3/3/18]

This is a genre that hangs on blanks and lacunae, the things that people don’t yet know. (If Philip Marlowe could just interview God, Chandler novels would be short.) In that sense, they’re stories of trying to listen: the investigator strains to pick out a clue, match his account to hers, track down a dingy address based on a name half-heard in a bar.

[for Apollo, 1/3/18]

McCall admits that there’s a ‘social’ element to his light works. Their space is never entirely dark, even outside the membranes, because the sheets give off a silvery glow.

[for the Telegraph, 24/2/18]

Vlautin thinks in B-roll footage: broad sighing vistas of the Nevadan hills, wild horses bathing in the sun, pinyon pine and birch trees and creeks that trickle along. That characters have to live here, punctuating nature with their mess of cause and effect, seems like an imposition.