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.

Recently, I chatted with artist Juan Sese. I’ve been following his work for a couple of years. He is originally from Argentina—as you know, I have a soft spot for Argentinian artists—and is now based in Barcelona. I connected with him on Instagram when I saw his work: a melange of colorful shapes laid on canvas. During our conversation, a very gentle Juan showed me some of his work from his Barcelona studio and walked me through his creative process. With great candor, he shared the ups and downs of being a self-taught artist trying to make it in the art world at a global level.

Our perception of art can be like the weather—totally unpredictable and entirely dependent on where you’re standing. Of course, it’s worth noting that everyone, regardless of whether they’ve got a PhD in Art History or think Matisse is a type of pasta, has a reaction to art. Imagine a spectrum: experts are huddled at one end, non-experts loitering at the other, and in between lies a vast expanse of responses to the usual suspects—color, shape, size, and so on. Research suggests that one of the strongest indicators for art appreciation is simply being open to the experience. And while the aesthetic experience of art is a deeply personal journey—one in which emotional response may vary wildly based on your level of expertise—there’s something undeniably universal about the emotional tug of art.

It was a Friday morning, the kind of morning where the city hums in its usual, chaotic way. Naturally, as I do once a month for an appointment, I found myself wandering the streets of Harlem, drawn by that indefinable energy that makes New York, well, New York. I was on Park Avenue, somewhere between 124th and 125th Streets, when I stumbled upon it: a construction site, wrapped up tight in plywood. But this wasn’t just any old construction site. No, this was a canvas.

There are artists who can sketch a face with the precision of a forensic scientist, nailing every detail from the arch of the nose to the wayward curl of hair. And then there's Ben Slow, who doesn't just paint faces; he distills the very essence of what it means to be human and slaps it on a canvas—or, more often than not, a towering wall. We collaborated on a project a few years back—a mural for the New York offices of a certain bat-and-ball sport’s upper echelon. The NDA I signed prevents me from name-dropping, but suffice it to say, the work was as colossal as it was confidential.

I know you all loved the Kiki Schirr theory that Degas may have been Jack the Ripper. So, what other art crime could I bring to you? First, I thought of the Mona Lisa being stolen in 1911, but then I remembered the Gardner Museum heist. The spookiness of those empty frames still haunts me. I visited the museum a few years ago, and I still remember the wow-I-can’t-fucking-believe-this moment as I roamed through the galleries.

I’ve been following C. S. McIntire’s work for a few years now, and I must say, I love his keen sense of composition! He’s a self-taught painter whose transition from graphic design to fine art reveals a rich tapestry of creativity. Based in the San Francisco Bay Area, McIntire’s work reflects a unique blend of artistic disciplines and a deep understanding of human cognition and emotion.

I first crossed paths with Ann Marie Auricchio a few years ago while diving deep into research for a project I was working on. You know those moments when you find an artist whose story is so intriguing, it practically begs you to keep asking questions? That’s Ann Marie. I needed a large-scale mural for my project and stumbled upon her work online. The more I spoke with her, the more I realized I was scratching the surface of a treasure trove of talent. From her roots in commercial murals to her current exploration of fine art collages, Ann Marie’s trajectory is nothing short of fascinating.

It’s no secret that I'm a big fan of Ellen de Meijer’s work. I've written about her art before. A couple of days ago, I caught up with her son, Mick de Meijer, over coffee at L’Adresse, across from Bryant Park. He brought one of Ellen’s limited edition prints for me—and let me tell you, I love it!

Eugen Varzić is a Croatian painter known for his captivating portraits and striking use of color. His work stands out for its emotional intensity and technical precision. It invites viewers into a world where the familiar intertwines with the fantastical.

Szilard Gaspar is an artist from Romania whose work represents a unique fusion of performance and sports. And I love it! The other day, I caught up with him over zoom while he was at his studio in Transylvania. Our conversation delved into the deep connections between his personal history and his creative practice.

The world of art and true crime rarely intersect in a way that captivates both enthusiasts and skeptics alike. Enter Kiki Schirr, a bold thinker with a theory as intriguing as it is contentious: Edgar Degas, the famed French artist, could have been Jack the Ripper. While this may sound like a far-fetched plot from a historical fiction novel, Schirr has laid out a series of comparisons and similarities that, at the very least, provoke thought and discussion.