Henry Moore News
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An Ice-Age nude, a legendary boat race and a gourmet Easter Egg meal are among Muse’s arts and leisure recommendations this weekend.
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Blood-red paint gushes, splashes and drips in the new Barnaby Furnas paintings at Marianne Boesky gallery in Manhattan’s Chelsea district.
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Now is a good time to be thinking about the human body. It’s on display, in peak form, at all the London Olympic venues, and in rather less standard configurations at a trio of sculptural exhibitions.
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Bureaucrats will today decide whether to go ahead with the sale of a Henry Moore sculpture -- a decision which has put them at odds with London’s art world.
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The more history unfolds, the less the description “Homo sapiens” -- man the wise -- seems to fit. Perhaps we should speak instead of Homo pictor, man the painter, or of human beings as the sculpting species.
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London is entering the final lap of Olympic hysteria. For those left without tickets, BT London Live has screens in Hyde Park, Victoria Park and Trafalgar Square.
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I never thought I’d find myself writing these words: The Turner Prize exhibition of 2012 at Tate Britain is actually entertaining.
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If he happened to meet Picasso walking down the road, Winston Churchill once disclosed, he planned to give him a kick in the rear.
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Art dealer Marc Jancou, his jeans soaked to the knees, stood outside his gallery on West 24th Street in Chelsea supervising a clean-up brigade wielding mops and buckets.
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Edouard Manet once took umbrage at a sarcastic remark someone made about one of his paintings. He ran the offender through the shoulder with a sword.
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