I was reminded recently of a line from The West Wing:

Toby, the total tonnage of what I know that you don’t could stun a team of oxen in its tracks.

This is almost certainly true in the context of this blog, too. You, dear reader, know an awful lot of things that I don’t know.

When I wandered passively into the V&A’s exhibition on The Great Mughals, I couldn’t have told you the first thing about them. And, to be honest, the explanatory text mostly went above my head. It was only roughly half way through that they explained that one of the Mughals was behind the Taj Mahal, and that they used to be referred to in English as Mongols, that I began to get my bearings a little. Even so, it turned out to be one of those encounters with history that leaves me quietly uncertain about what I’ve taken from it.

The exhibition is beautiful. It’s hard not to admire the level of craftsmanship in the miniature paintings, the jewellery, the manuscripts. There’s a kind of serene intensity to the objects on display, each one a product of unimaginable labour, precision, and—often—wealth. The story of the Mughal Empire is told largely through the lens of splendour: the grandeur of architecture, the opulence of court life, the flourishing of art and science. It is all, in a word, impressive.

And yet, I found myself struggling to settle into the experience, and not just because of my disorientation. I moved through the exhibition more quickly than I’d intended, glancing rather than lingering, admiring rather than absorbing. I often find it difficult to look at exquisite objects created for emperors and princes without also thinking about the systems that made them possible. Who carved the emeralds? Who was pressed into the service of empire so that an emperor might commission a manuscript in gold leaf? These aren’t questions the exhibition ignores, exactly—but nor do they sit at the centre. The narrative is one of cultural flourishing, not of domination or inequality. That’s understandable, perhaps, but I came away feeling that the absence of discomfort had left me a little uncomfortable.

I don’t mean to sound overly cynical. I’ve ranted at length about the British Museum’s insistence on interpreting stolen artefacts from a British perspective, and literally plastering ‘British’ over display cases containing objects which are anything but. I didn’t feel that here: the focus on design dampened the potential for cultural insensitivity, somehow. The objects on display are extraordinary, and there is joy in seeing them up close.

Yet, I wonder if the framing of exhibitions like this one leans too heavily on admiration—at least for a visitor like me, prone to squinting at power structures. I’m left wondering whether I’ve simply failed to meet the exhibition on its own terms.

Still, I’m glad I went. There’s something quietly humanising in grappling with a past that doesn’t neatly align with contemporary instincts—especially one rendered in so much turquoise and lapis. Even if I didn’t quite connect, the effort of trying to felt worthwhile. And perhaps that’s enough for an afternoon.

The photo shows an image of the construction of the Agra fort from a manuscript illuminated in about 1590. I took it quite furtively, as I wasn’t completely sure whether photography was allowed. Nevertheless, the exhibition continues at the V&A until 5 May.

The FT had a lovely ‘long read’ by Daniel Thomas about the success of the West End last week: footfall is well above pre-pandemic levels and the industry is in rude financial health. But not so on Broadway, where neither footfall nor revenue has recovered from the pandemic.

It feels like we often hear a lot of depressing stories about the financial performance of the arts in the UK, so it’s heartening to read some positive news… and even moreso given the brief mention of Newcastle’s very own Theatre Royal.

Hotel room art is often very boring, and never moreso than in a Travelodge or Premier Inn, who seem to buy identical pictures by the tonne.

I enjoy it when hotels try something bolder—even, as in this example, when it’s not quite to my taste. This particular hotel room was painted and furnished in millennial grey, which always gives me slight ‘institution’ vibes. This very bold choice did a lot to offset that impression.

Yep, another mosaic.

Dominican monks have a long history in Newcastle, with Blackfriars Priory established in 1239. The Friars wore black tunics over white cloaks, as shown in the mosaic, which eventually led to Newcastle United wearing a black and white kit.

The Priory dissolved in the 1500s in line with Henry VIII’s decree. The church was stripped, but, unusually, the rest of the monastery remained standing and was given over to the city’s guilds—butchers, bakers, tailors and the like—hence the mention of ‘crafts’ in the mosaic.

These days, Blackfriars is probably best known for the restaurant which opened on the site in 2001. The unique location means that one can—as, indeed, Wendy and I have—dine in the oldest purpose-built dining room in the UK. I had steak.

This is the River God Tyne on the wall of Newcastle’s Civic Centre. It was the largest bronze sculpture in the UK when it was installed in 1968 and the artist was David Wynne (he of the nearby swans).

Occasionally, water trickles from his outstretched hand, over his head, and into that little collecting pool (but mostly splashing out of it and all over the place—which, I assume, is why it’s normally turned off).

When I told you that there were twelve mosaics under the A1058 in Newcastle, you may have had one of two thoughts:

1. Aren’t there fourteen? Why yes, that was poorly fact-checked.
2. Does this mean 13 more posts featuring photographs of grimy 1970s mosaics from a dodgy underpass? I can neither confirm nor deny, but this post might give you a clue.
   

Deep beneath the A1058 in Newcastle lies a subway decorated with twelve mosaics. These were installed in 1979 in anticipation of the 900th anniversary of the city’s founding, celebrated the following year.

Each panel was chosen to represent a key event in the history of the city. With a little foresight, they included the opening of the Metro as one of those seminal moments:

The trains captured in that image have trundled round the system continuously since it opened… but not for much longer. Yesterday, the first of a new generation of Metro trains entered passenger service. Perhaps someone, somewhere is making mosaic to celebrate.

It’s a sign of the times that the new train is having to trundle under Gateshead at a reduced speed due to the risk of collapse of the crumbling Gateshead flyover. Small steps forward are always welcome, but with the UK’s public realm and infrastructure suffering from long term under-investment, it looks like we’ll be stuck with cascading sets of problems for years to come.

Just a recommendation: I can’t remember how long I’ve been reading the Jennifer Mills News, but it has been brightening my week for years. It’s a single-page ‘newspaper’ about Jennifer Mills, published by her once a week, with its own distinctive journalistic style.

It is just personal, fun and delightful.

I’m approaching two years of daily blogging. One consequence of this, as Wendy will tell you, is that I’m prone to whip out my phone and photograph any public artwork or memorial I happen across.

This one, in Hartlepool, struck me as one of the better artworks I’ve seen this year… but it’s been on my list of things to post for longer than usual, as I’ve struggled to find out anything about it.

But now, I’ve cracked the mystery. It is the output of a competition from the 7-9 year olds at the nearby Ward Jackson Primary, 18 years ago. The kids were asked to design an artwork to replace frequently-vandalised lamppost. This winning design belonged to Jessica Draper.

An interview with the artist at the time revealed her motivations: “Most people like the sun and say it makes them feel better, so I thought I would include it in my design.”

Honestly, I think that may also be one of the best justifications for a bit of civic art that I’ve read this year as well.

As someone who has occasionally been a little grumpy about children’s art, even I think this example is worth celebrating.

This rock, which gives strong ‘Permanently Low Prices Forever’ vibes, commemorates the opening of Seaton Carew’s Esplanade by Councillor R Sargeant in August 1905.

The area on which it now stands was in fact constructed in 1997 as part of a new coastal protection scheme for the town.

So the rock is commemorating the opening of something that, in a sense, closed some time ago. I’m not sure I’d have retained it in the new scheme for that reason—but, then, no-one is ever likely to put me in charge of any commemoration of anything being opened. Thank goodness.