Mundane objects often fade into the background, their design blending seamlessly into our lives to serve a functional purpose. But when removed from their context—by artists like Michael Craig-Martin or Fabio Menino—they transform. These artists elevate everyday objects, turning them into art and urging us to reconsider what we usually overlook.

Michael Craig-Martin’s art is proof that you don’t need grand, sweeping narratives to make something compelling. A chair, a pair of sunglasses, a light bulb—these are the humble stars of his show. But in his hands, these everyday objects transform into bold, vibrant icons that feel anything but ordinary.

Fabio Menino, an artist from São Paulo, has built his career on making us rethink the humble objects cluttering our lives. While most of us toss a broom in a corner or a watermelon on a countertop without a second thought, Fabio looks at these objects and sees something worth painting—a lot of something, actually.

Once upon a time, when gender roles were as rigid as your great-grandmother’s idea of a “good woman,” art didn’t exactly do much to challenge the status quo. Men were strong, stoic, and usually naked, flexing their marble pecs while lounging against a column. Women were delicate, mysterious, also naked—possibly clutching a fruit or draped in gauze for reasons no one understood. This was the art world’s version of a gender reveal: blue for boys, pink for girls, and absolutely no room for discussion.

Fast forward to today, where contemporary art has flipped this outdated narrative on its well-sculpted head. Artists are taking a sledgehammer to traditional gender roles, deconstructing them, and rearranging the pieces into a complex mosaic.

If you’re not familiar with Catherine Opie, you might want to prepare yourself—she is the punk rock of contemporary photography, with her camera acting as both a scalpel and a megaphone. She uses it to cut open the social constructs we all live by—gender roles being one of her favorite topics—and then loudly broadcasts the complexities she finds within.

Elizabeth Bergeland describes herself as an “incessant melancholy type,” which feels spot-on for an artist whose work digs deep into the grit of masculinity and emerges with paintings so tender, they might make you rethink everything you thought you knew about your high school gym coach. You know the type—red-faced, whistle-blowing, a master at pushing boys into boxes labeled "tough" or "soft." But Elizabeth? She’s prying those boxes wide open, and the results are truly beautiful.

Fine art photography often feels like it comes with an air of mystery, as though you need a special pass or an art degree to fully appreciate it. But here’s the thing: you don’t need to be part of an exclusive circle to enjoy fine art photography. It’s more accessible than you might think. The key is letting go of the pressure to “get it” and focusing instead on how it makes you feel.

So what’s the appeal of fine art photography, and how can you start to understand it?

Picture yourself strolling down a New York street, blissfully unaware that someone is following you. Not a friend or a lost tourist, but an artist—someone whose only goal is to silently track your every move. Maybe you duck into a bookstore, grab a coffee, or wander toward the subway. At no point are you aware that this stranger is trailing you, documenting your unremarkable day like a strange personal detective with no case to solve. This was the premise behind Vito Acconci’s 1969 conceptual art piece, Following Piece—part performance, part commentary on the unsettling proximity between everyday life and surveillance.

A couple of weeks ago, I found myself standing alone in a gallery in Malta, the quiet kind of place where even your footsteps feel too loud. There was no obligatory chitchat with strangers trying to sound intellectual, just me and the art. It was the kind of serene environment I actually prefer—no distractions, just a chance to focus and really take in what’s in front of you.

I recently rediscovered an underappreciated artist named Matthias Stom. It wasn’t exactly part of the initial plan—I had gone to Malta with my family, thinking we’d spend the week soaking up sun and history. Somewhere along the way, we found ourselves wandering into MUŻA - The National Community Art Museum, in Valletta. I wasn’t expecting much, to be honest. At first glance, the museum seemed a bit underwhelming. But then we made our way to the second floor, where the collection of Renaissance and Baroque art was displayed. And that’s when things changed. The paintings on this floor were incredible—rich with color, drama, and emotional intensity. Among the pieces in the Baroque galleries were several works by Matthias Stom, and suddenly, the day went from mildly interesting to absolutely captivating.

Meeting Benny Or during the pandemic wasn’t your run-of-the-mill "How’s it going?" It was more like, "Are we ever going anywhere again?"—the question on all of our minds at the time. I first stumbled upon his Instagram feed during those blurry lockdown days, when socializing had been reduced to double-taps and mindless scrolling. But Benny’s posts stood out, offering a breath of fresh air in the middle of all the monotony. A self-taught multidisciplinary artist, he has this incredible knack for storytelling that pulls you right in. So, naturally, I reached out. The rest, as they say, is digital history.

Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio, known simply as Caravaggio, was a rock star before rock stars existed. He lived hard, painted harder, and his work continues to haunt and inspire us centuries after his death. But it’s not just his dramatic use of light and shadow or his intense, often violent, subject matter that keeps us talking. It’s also the mystery surrounding his untimely demise in 1610.

The Alps is a dramatic place—no surprise there. It’s the kind of landscape that makes you feel more alive, or at least more aware of how fragile life is when you’re surrounded by towering rock formations that could squash you like a bug. For the past two years, I’ve found myself tucked away in these mountains at a hotel that looks like it should be an Instagram wellness retreat for influencers who don’t eat real food. It’s small, remote, and full of things that make you roll your eyes—pillows stuffed with spelt, biodegradable tissues, and other bits of “hippie shit” designed to remind you that, yes, you’re paying for an experience. But beyond all the oat-scented nonsense, there’s something truly captivating about this place: the art.

A couple of weeks ago, I found myself at a wedding in Austria. It was one of those perfectly idyllic situations—beautiful bride, stunning scenery, the whole nine yards. The bride is a close friend of mine, and her brother-in-law is a German artist named Oliver Westerbarkey. Now, I’ve been following his work for a while, but having him there gave me a rare opportunity to talk to him about his work directly.

I remember having one of those unexpectedly deep conversations with architect Sarah Robinson, the kind where you start talking about one thing and end up somewhere entirely different. Her book Architecture Is a Verb had just hit the shelves, and we were discussing embodiment and architecture—how we physically inhabit spaces, but also how those spaces inhabit us. It was one of those chats that sticks with you, the kind that lingers in the back of your mind and makes you see the world a little differently.

Last week, in a moment of cultural parenting, I took my kid to MoMA. We wandered through the fifth floor, passing Van Goghs and Matisses. And then, like a scene out of a suspense thriller, we stumbled upon René Magritte's The Menaced Assassin. It's the kind of painting that stops you in your tracks—not because it’s particularly beautiful, but because it’s profoundly unsettling.