On 19 October 2025, the Louvre Museum in Paris, one of the world’s most visited and symbolically significant cultural institutions, was the site of a meticulously executed daylight robbery. A group of unidentified thieves stole jewels described by French authorities as “priceless,” prompting renewed scrutiny of museum security and the broader vulnerabilities inherent in the stewardship of cultural heritage.

Andrew Wyeth’s Christina’s World (1948) stands as one of the most recognisable and enigmatic works in twentieth-century American art. Now housed in the Museum of Modern Art (MoMA) in New York, the painting has become an emblem of American realism, yet its subdued palette, psychological tension, and ambiguous narrative have also invited modernist interpretations. The work’s apparent simplicity of a woman lying in a field gazing toward a distant farmhouse, belies its profound emotional complexity. Through a restrained visual language, Wyeth creates a composition that oscillates between documentary precision and inner expression, rendering the painting both a portrait and a psychological landscape.

I was kindly invited to the private viewing of Some Kind of Love: Actions and Reactions to Living on a Damaged Planet at Newcastle’s Hatton Gallery, the first impression is one of quiet intensity. The exhibition does not announce itself with spectacle but builds atmosphere through careful staging of video, photography and sound. Over time, it draws the visitor into Uta Kögelsberger’s sustained inquiry into the ways humans entangle themselves with fragile ecological systems, and the uneasy balance between grief and care that defines our present.

Kögelsberger, a German/British artist based in London, is no stranger to major platforms. Her work has been exhibited at LACMA in Los Angeles, MoMus in Thessaloniki, the Royal Academy in London and the Brighton Photo Biennial, and is held in collections including the Museum of Fine Arts Houston and LACMA. She has received the Royal Academy Wollaston Award. Yet this exhibition at the Hatton marks an important moment. It brings together several major projects alongside a new commission, presenting them as interconnected explorations of how art might both document and intervene in the age of climate breakdown.

For the first time in over a decade, Durham University is placing one of the world’s most significant literary treasures at the centre of a major exhibition. Shakespeare Recovered focuses on Durham’s copy of the First Folio, the landmark 1623 publication that preserved half of Shakespeare’s plays for posterity. This volume does not simply sit in a case as a rare book. Instead, it is presented as the focal point of an exhibition that draws attention to the complex story of loss, rediscovery, and the modern science of conservation.

Reversibility, or retreatability (as is more accurate), is one of the most important guiding principles in painting conservation. It refers to the idea that any intervention carried out on a work of art should, as far as possible, be undone without damaging the original material. This principle is enshrined in international codes of ethics such as those produced by the International Council of Museums – Committee for Conservation (ICOM-CC) and the European Confederation of Conservator-Restorers’ Organisations (ECCO). It ensures that conservation remains an ongoing, flexible process rather than a final and definitive act.

In this article, I will explore why retreatability matters so deeply in conservation practice, drawing on ethical reasoning, historical precedent, and material considerations. I will also reflect on a practical case study: a painting I have recently been working on that had undergone earlier intervention which, because of its retreatability, I was able to correct and improve. This example demonstrates why the principle is not an abstract theory but a practical necessity.

Frida Kahlo’s The Wounded Deer (1946) confronts the viewer with an image that is at once unsettling and enigmatic. A small hybrid figure, a stag bearing Kahlo’s own face, is pierced by nine arrows and set in a dense, almost suffocating forest. Every detail, from the lifted hoof to the break in the branch beneath it, seems charged with meaning yet resists a simple explanation. In this painting, private pain, cultural symbolism, and personal myth converge, creating a space where suffering becomes both intimate and public. This article examines how Kahlo channels her physical and emotional trials into visual language and how the painting’s layered references, from pre-Columbian to Christian, offer insight into her enduring artistic vision.

When I started out in conservation, I expected to be told how to handle fragile objects, how to write condition reports, and how to keep solvents away from priceless surfaces. What I didn’t expect were rules about stationery, manicures, or even what I drink at lunch. These details felt nit-picky at first, but each has a clear reason grounded in conservation’s bigger principles: control, reversibility, and avoiding contamination. Here are three rules that caught me by surprise when i first entered the studio.

Vermilion, chemically identified as mercuric sulphide (HgS), occupies a central position in the history of artists’ pigments. Its striking scarlet hue, high opacity, and strong tinting power established it as one of the most desirable colours for painters from antiquity through the nineteenth century. The pigment’s appeal lay not only in its visual qualities but also in its symbolic associations with wealth, authority, and sacredness. Despite its prominence, vermilion is characterised by chemical instability that complicates both its historical use and its conservation today.

This article examines the role of vermilion in oil painting with reference to its historical development, methods of manufacture, optical and handling properties, interaction with other pigments, and its long-term behaviour in painted surfaces. Conservation challenges and the analytical methods used to study the pigment will also be considered, highlighting the intersection between artistic practice and scientific research.

In the age of Instagram and algorithm-driven feeds, the relationship between art and social media is complex, often contradictory. As an artist, I’ve felt both empowered and drained by the platforms I use to share my work. I’ve watched likes accumulate on my posts and felt the small dopamine hits that come with them. But I’ve also come to recognise the dangers of tying my creative satisfaction to an external system designed to monetise attention.

Rembrandt van Rijn’s The Night Watch (1642) is widely regarded as a masterpiece of the Dutch Golden Age. It is celebrated for its technical brilliance, dramatic use of chiaroscuro, and innovative composition. But beyond the well-studied elements of lighting and movement lies a quieter mystery: could this painting contain what we might now call the first photobomb?

Art has always had the capacity to provoke — whether admiration, confusion, offence, or debate. But when does a work of art become controversial? The answer does not lie in whether a single person finds a piece distasteful or inappropriate. Rather, controversy arises when a work creates significant disagreement within the art world, the general public, or both. It is not necessarily about moral outrage, but about public discourse: contested meaning, blurred boundaries, or unresolved discomfort.

In the field of painting conservation, condition reporting forms the foundation of responsible intervention. Before any treatment begins, a detailed assessment is required to document the current physical state of a work of art. This process, often undertaken by conservators or trained professionals, results in a written condition report, a structured account that plays a vital role in both short-term decision-making and long-term preservation.

I’ve recently added a dedicated section on my website where you can view examples of condition reports I’ve produced. These reports demonstrate not only the technical language used in conservation but also how visual and written documentation come together to form a useful historical and practical resource.

My recent placement at Critchlow & Kukkonen, a private conservation studio, provided an invaluable contrast to my previous experience in a museum environment. Working alongside Eeva Kukkonen, Lucy Critchlow, and Lucy Partridge, I was immersed in the fast-paced and varied world of private conservation, where the studio’s exceptionally skilled team gave me the opportunity to engage directly with a range of treatments and studio practices. Their generosity with their time and knowledge made a significant impression on me; they were consistently welcoming, thoughtful mentors, and their guidance shaped a deeply enriching experience.

The gilding of surfaces with gold leaf has for centuries signified opulence, divinity, and cultural sophistication. Within this tradition, two dominant methods (water gilding and oil gilding) have emerged as materially and conceptually distinct practices. Despite sharing the same ultimate goal, the application of gold to a prepared surface, their underlying procedures, aesthetic implications, and conservation challenges diverge in fundamental ways. This article explores both techniques critically, situating them within their historical contexts while examining their respective material demands, visual outcomes, and implications for the modern conservator and maker.

Seeking more experience in the conservation of easel paintings, I recently undertook a three-week placement with the conservation team at Brighton Pavilion. My training so far has been rooted in the conservation of flat painted surfaces—canvas, panel, and the associated materials of oil painting. This placement marked the first time I had worked intensively with gilded decorative objects, and the shift in scale, materiality, and context proved both challenging and rewarding.

It has recently been confirmed that Lincoln College will not be accepting new students onto its degree programme in Musical Instrument Craft at the Newark School of Violin Making for the 2025–26 academic year. This includes the violin, piano, guitar, and woodwind making pathways. The decision has serious implications not only for instrument making, but for conservation practice and heritage crafts more broadly. Once lost, these specialised skills are difficult to recover. Fine out what you can do to help.

There’s a certain irony to the way value is often discussed in the world of art. It’s almost always tied to price tags, auctions, headlines. When a long-lost painting is "rediscovered" and sold for millions, its value becomes unquestionable — as though its worth only existed once the number was attached. But for conservators, the job is never just about that number.

The recent success of AI in virtually unwrapping a 2,000-year-old scroll from Herculaneum has highlighted the incredible potential of technology in historical research. This scroll, charred beyond recognition by the eruption of Mount Vesuvius in 79 AD, has long been considered too fragile to examine. However, a combination of X-ray imaging and AI has now allowed researchers to see inside the ancient document for the first time in millennia.

As a student in the conservation of easel paintings, I find it fascinating to see how AI is being used in ways that genuinely benefit historical research, rather than just serving as a source of online speculation and fearmongering. Much of the AI discourse is dominated by concerns about automation, job displacement, and the ethical dilemmas of deep learning. While these concerns are valid, stories like this remind us that AI can also be a powerful tool for preservation, rather than destruction.

It’s a common sentiment: “Modern art is just a bunch of scribbles,” or “I could have done that!”—claims often accompanied by a dismissive eye roll. But what many people are actually reacting to isn’t modern art (which refers to a specific period from the late 19th to mid-20th century), but contemporary art—the broad and ever-evolving field of art being made today.

So why does contemporary art provoke such frustration? Is it the perceived lack of skill? The ambiguity? The belief that art should be beautiful rather than conceptual? In this article, we’ll explore why so many people feel alienated by contemporary art, how art has never been just about "pretty pictures," and some ways to start engaging with it more openly.

I recently had the privilege of having my work, And When in Days Hereafter, showcased as part of Sedbergh School’s 500th Anniversary Exhibition at Bridgewater Hall. The event, which celebrated five centuries of the school’s history, was a vibrant gathering of current students, alumni, and both current and former staff. It was truly special to see our community come together, not only to honor the school’s past but also to look forward with creativity and inspiration.