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Pieter Bruegel


Lully, lullay, thou little tiny Child,
Bye, bye, lully, lullay.
Lullay, thou little tiny Child,
Bye, bye, lully, lullay.
O sisters too, how may we do,
For to preserve this day
This poor youngling for whom we do sing
Bye, bye, lully, lullay.
Herod, the king, in his raging,
Charged he hath this day
His men of might, in his own sight,
All children young to slay.
That woe is me, poor Child for Thee!
And ever mourn and sigh,
For thy parting neither say nor sing,
Bye, bye, lully, lullay.

Painting of Massacre of the Innocents by Pieter Bruegel.

Shen Wei



China has come a long way. A culture steeped in history and rich in natural beauty, but as a leading Asian nation surging to the front of the pack of late, its landscape is a curious and awkward juxtaposition of old and new. The roads often segregate the city in the most bizarre manner - red clay roofs on the left, shiny shimmering glass on the right; dilapidated slums on the left, burgeoning city centres on the right. The roads even divide the Chinese population - the young and ambitious flood into the city, and the old and frail… well, they will soon be forgotten, just like the great nature, taken over by the insatiable desire to expand, develop and gentrify. Yes, this is progress.





Photographs by Shen Wei.

Yin Jun




… Yin Jun powerfully expresses the emotions of the increasingly demanding and materialistic society of which we are all a part. The oppressed and weak cry and shout through captivating childish faces, letting others know about their dreams, frustrations and hopes as they release their inner feelings. At first, onlookers cannot help but smile as they look at the comical, yet satirical caricatures, but soon the realization of their deeper meaning becomes apparent. Tears fly through the air and stream from the eyes; mouths open wide in different expressions, powerfully conveying the painter’s inner voice…





Additional text sourced from Outstanding Art Shanghai.

Don Russell





I cannot remember when I last held a pencil. I do not think I even own a pencil anymore, and certainly not a pencil case, or a sharpener, or an eraser. And I most definitely have not been in possession of a sketching pad for at least a decade now. It just begs the question - in years to come, will our future generations even recognise this rather ancient technology?

All sketches by Don Russell.

Roni Horn




Surrounded by and submerged within a rich white background, [this series] is the portrait of a clown’s psychology. The powdered face of [a] genderless clown, with its gaping red mouth and bulbous nose, contorts for our amusement or disquiet like a child in front of a mirror or a stage performer warming up… Each photograph captures the clown’s countenance with long exposures turning a distinct subject into a blurry composite of expressions. Like a Bruce Nauman video, there is a kind of jest, a playful sense of the absurd in these photographs, behind which lurks a darker and more disturbing concern for the authenticity of character.

Text sourced from Whitehot.

Alex McLeod





One of the earliest memories I have is of alien environments. Although they were mere dreams, I always remembered every detail vividly. In most of these dreams, I just wandered around aimlessly in wonderment. Scintillating skies, dusky horizons, bizarre entities - they are all images that are emblazoned in my mind. I quite liked the journeys. Sadly I don’t get them anymore. The burdens of maturity have placed such immense weight on all nocturnal emancipatory sojourns. Ah life…



Digital renderings by Alex McLeod.

Nick Cave




“It was a very hard year for me because of everything that came out of the Rodney King beating… I started thinking about myself more and more as a black man — as someone who was discarded, devalued, viewed as less than.”

One day, sitting on a bench in Grant Park in Chicago, [Nick Cave] saw twigs on the ground in a new light: they looked forsaken too. He gathered them by the armful and cut them into three-inch sticks. He drilled holes through the sticks, so he could wire them to an undergarment of his own creation, completely covering the fabric. As soon as the twig sculpture was finished, he said, he realized that he could wear it as a second skin:

“I put it on and jumped around and was just amazed. It made this fabulous rustling sound. And because it was so heavy, I had to stand very erect, and that alone brought the idea of dance back into my head.”


Text sourced from Bad At Sports.

Pere Pascual




We all enjoy the beauty and feel of silk on our skin but do we really know where it comes from? Insect craftsmen, Bombyx Mori or the silk worm, live for only six weeks on a diet of Mulberry Leaves. After a month, its size is 8,000 times greater and its weight increases by 10,000. When the worm stops eating, it creates a cocoon around its body with a thin silk line drawn from two glands in its mouth. Each cocoon bud wire can measure about 900 metres in length.




Images by Pere Pascual.

Jane Masters





Perhaps due to the softly undulating lines, Masters’ drawings remind me of all the life forms invisible to the naked eye. Observed in isolation, they are alien, minute and delicate. Yet when composed as collective entity, they make up all that we see and recognise around us.




Drawings by Jane Masters.

Eszter Burghardt



How much of nature is still wilderness? How much of our landscapes is man-made? Or at least influenced by man’s actions? How much more of what is left of nature will support us through the next ages? Is there such a thing as manufactured nature? Or is that the environment that will house our future generations?







All photographs by Eszter Burghardt.