Prize pooches and proud owners: Crufts 2018 – in pictures

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Tacita Dean: the acclaimed British artist poised to make history

The artist and filmmaker is staging a trio of shows at London galleries this year. She talks about her struggle to continue using 16mm film, her father’s influence and living with arthritis

It is tempting to think of Tacita Dean as a witchy presence in the world, a diviner of hidden forces. Her chosen medium is an antique one: spooled film. Waiting is a big part of her method, and watching; there is also an alertness to chance and coincidence. She is a lifelong collector of four-leaf clovers; a sometime chaser of solar eclipses. One artistic quest saw her pursuing the three known sightings of the severed breasts of St Agatha among Italian relics. In another, she rose in a hot air balloon in the Alps before dawn to try to capture a plastic bag full of alchemists’ ether. She has long been drawn both to lighthouses and to shipwrecks. The prospectus for her three solo shows about to open in London – in an unprecedented collaboration between the National Gallery, the Royal Academy and the National Portrait Gallery – involves ancient and modern obsessions divided in the traditional way: still life, portrait and landscape. She will bring her own quiet magic to each.

I meet her one lunchtime in the midst of one of those three pressing deadlines, in a closed gallery at the National, surrounded by still lifes, some chosen from the collection, some shipped in, some her own. She sits beside a long trestle table of plans and tools and notes, trying not to feel the pressure of the 101 decisions she has still to make, while a gallery assistant paints a final section of wall and one of her regular team works on the sound for one of her films.

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The woman who rode Australia’s longest trekking route – a photo essay

Sunrise, fetching horses after a couple of days off on a property near Mutchilba, Queensland.



From a young age, Alienor Le Gouvello developed a passion for travelling and adventure. Her previous expeditions include a horseback trek in Mongolia at age 22 and a sidecar motorbike expedition from Siberia to Paris. Le Gouvello, originally from France, was working with an Indigenous community in Docker River near Uluru in the Australian central desert when she first discovered the existence of wild brumbies. In 2015, she embarked on her longest solo journey: 5,330km along the Bicentennial National trail, Australia’s longest trekking route, beginning in Healesville in Victoria and ending in Cooktown, Queensland, with just three wild horses and her dog for company. Since it opened in 1988, only 35 people have completed the trail. Le Gouvello is the second woman to complete the trip and the only person to have the same horses from beginning to end.


I work in remote Aboriginal communities as a social worker with kids so even my work is a bit of an adventure and means living in isolated places

Alienor Le Gouvello on the Bicentennial Trail through the Australian bush.



Le Gouvello’s horses were purchased through the passive trapping program of the Guy Fawkes River Heritage Horse Association. She spent nine months training the three horses she selected – Roxanne, Cooper and River – before the journey began. All the horses arrived in Cooktown healthy and strong and she says they did not sustain any injuries or require rest days.


The first 3,000km my horses were barefoot. Brumbies have amazing feet

A hat, jeans with belt and knife, a pair of plyers, pair of hobbles.



A horse being shod in the middle of the outback.



Alienor Le Gouvello at the beach.



Alienor Le Gouvello lying in her tent with her dog Fox.



The Bicentennial trail follows the foothills of the Great Dividing Range and the eastern escarpment. Other than her horses, Le Gouvello’s only other company was her dog, Fox, who joined her for part of the trip, save for when she was taking the trial through national parks or private property. “I hated the times I didn’t have Fox, because as much as I love my horses they don’t fit in my tent. I have had Fox for 12 years and he is my best mate.” Some days, towards the end of the day, Fox’s arthritis would flair up on the last few kilometres and Le Gouvello would carry him over her shoulders.

The morning ritual in the early morning fog on a property on Black mountain road, Queensland.



Silhouette of a windmill in Queensland.




The beauty of some views and landscapes is just the encouragement you need some mornings to remind you the hardship of such an expedition is all worth it

Sunrise hike leaving a property near Mount Molloy, Queensland.



Tough terrain on horse’s feet near Mutchilba, Queensland.



At the beginning of the high Victorian country, the track was tough and very steep and the horses were not interested in going up and down such terrain: “Being green [just broken in] horses, they lacked the work ethic and if it wasn’t for my mare, who had the most amazing stamina, setting the pace I don’t know how we would have gotten through.”

Le Gouvello with Cooper, a five-year-old buckskin.




I had a few meltdowns during the first couple of months wondering how I was going to manage to travel over 5,000 km with two ‘donkeys’. They eventually understood they weren’t getting out of it and we started working as a team

Using pliers to get access to the next part of the trail.



Going through a lot of farmers’ stations, fences were a real challenge. Grids on the properties she was travelling through did not always have a gate next to them. Le Gouvello had to undo fences with a pair of pliers to get through and always put them back up so that the farmers wouldn’t get upset. Another difficult aspect of the trip was food and water. Le Gouvello could not carry water for three horses so she had to find it every day. Some days they had to push on for extra kilometres to find a river or dam to rehydrate.

Mowbray River on the Bump track in Queensland.



One night while Le Gouvello was continuing the nightly tradition of grooming and cuddling Fox after dinner, he began to look concerned and anxious, and when Alienor looked closer she saw a snake between her legs – it was enjoying the warmth of the fire too. Without thinking she grabbed a stick from the fire and threw the snake in.

Cooking dehydrated peas and couscous.



Le Gouvello with fox the dog by a warm campfire.




I don’t like killing things if I don’t have to, but this guy was in our camp

Kangaroos, wallabies, wombats and birds were a constant reminder that she was deep in the Australian outback. Other wild brumbies were a sight throughout the national parks but also a real threat to her horses. She spent many nights in parks staying up to look out for them.

Kangaroos looking towards the camera.



Alienor Le Gouvello on her journey along the Bicentennial Trail through the Australian bush.




When times are tough sometimes you meet wonderful people who are willing to give you a hand. I called them trail angels and felt like I had a good star watching over us

Cooper the horse getting close during a break.



Le Gouvello on her journey along the Bicentennial Trail.



Heading towards Mount Molloy, Queensland.



The Australian landscape, Queensland.



Towards the end of her journey, Le Gouvello contracted Ross River fever and also a staph infection. “Doing a trek so demanding physically, being sick really messes you, but I was determined to not abandon the trip. I did two visits to hospital and both times got back on the horse and carried on with excruciating pain and exhaustion.” When she reached Cooktown she was just relieved she had made it and it was over.

Le Gouvello riding Roxanne.




I was grateful to my horses for having been so amazing and carrying me with my sickness and exhaustion of the past few weeks. I was in awe of their achievement

Wonga Beach north of Mossman after 13months on the trail.



Wonga Beach north of Mossman after 13months on the trail.



Sharing a sunset with her dog, fox by the campfire at stannary hills dam, Queensland.



Graphic brutality: posters of Italian brutalist architecture – in pictures

On a family holiday in Florence, London-based art director and graphic designer Peter Chadwick was struck by the difference between the brutalist architecture in Italy and that of the UK. “Because of the different climate, it looked cleaner, the concrete,” he says.

Brutalismo, Chadwick’s new poster series of Italian brutalist architecture, is also influenced by Chermayeff and Geismar’s classic Pan Am posters of the 70s, which Chadwick has loved since his boyhood in Middlesbrough. “My dad was a travel agent and I remember seeing those posters in the agency where he worked,” he says.

The series is part of a larger project, This Brutal House, which Chadwick launched on Twitter in 2014, celebrating a style he admires but acknowledges is out of favour among today’s “faceless” glass and steel towers. But he feels there is still a place for brutalism’s “personality and grand gestures”. He adds: “I just hope that we keep some of them. I don’t know how many will be left in 50 years’ time.”

You can stick it: protest posters in the age of Trump – in pictures

This paper-cut artwork by Zierlein, a German illustrator based in Northampton, Massachusetts, was inspired by the 2017 US Senate
vote to silence Senator Elizabeth Warren’s objections to confirmation of Senator Jeff Sessions as US attorney general. Following the vote, Senate majority leader Mitch McConnell said: “She was warned. She was given an explanation. Nevertheless, she persisted”

The big picture: London Fashion Week, February 1998

With the 2018 event now in full swing, we revisit a telling Martin Parr shot from 20 years ago

British Fashion Week, February 1998






Photograph: Martin Parr/Magnum Photos

Martin Parr is the kind of quick-witted photographer who catches life on the run, his shutter clicking faster than the human eye can blink. To coincide with London Fashion Week, which began last Friday, here is a deft act of espionage from backstage at the same event 20 years ago. Parr probably didn’t know what he’d snatched until he developed the film and saw that the flustered accidents of a moment had come to rest in a parable, showing how the beauty industry goes about its tortuous, tormenting work.

Makeup has already transformed the model into a doll: the waxen complexion, with a sickly jaundiced tone around the eyes, and the pursed, painted lips that are smaller and more infantile than her own. Now the hairdressers take over, knotting and coiling and pinning and teasing, with a can of eco-unfriendly aerosol spray ready to freeze her mane. They are technicians, busy on the assembly line; she is their manufactured product, as glassy-eyed as the lens of Parr’s camera.

What makes the photograph so piercing is the intrusion of that grasping, prehensile hand, ready to do some stern manipulating if the subject doesn’t consent to being reduced to an object. This detail makes the scene faintly scary: the bride of Frankenstein is being prepared for exposure to a battery of cameras on the catwalk, and at the end of all this cosmetic primping she will be a blank-faced, strutting mannequin. That’s what fashion does: it refashions our bodies, and turns human beings into dress dummies.

The big picture: London Fashion Week, February 1998

With the 2018 event now in full swing, we revisit a telling Martin Parr shot from 20 years ago

British Fashion Week, February 1998






Photograph: Martin Parr/Magnum Photos

Martin Parr is the kind of quick-witted photographer who catches life on the run, his shutter clicking faster than the human eye can blink. To coincide with London Fashion Week, which began last Friday, here is a deft act of espionage from backstage at the same event 20 years ago. Parr probably didn’t know what he’d snatched until he developed the film and saw that the flustered accidents of a moment had come to rest in a parable, showing how the beauty industry goes about its tortuous, tormenting work.

Makeup has already transformed the model into a doll: the waxen complexion, with a sickly jaundiced tone around the eyes, and the pursed, painted lips that are smaller and more infantile than her own. Now the hairdressers take over, knotting and coiling and pinning and teasing, with a can of eco-unfriendly aerosol spray ready to freeze her mane. They are technicians, busy on the assembly line; she is their manufactured product, as glassy-eyed as the lens of Parr’s camera.

What makes the photograph so piercing is the intrusion of that grasping, prehensile hand, ready to do some stern manipulating if the subject doesn’t consent to being reduced to an object. This detail makes the scene faintly scary: the bride of Frankenstein is being prepared for exposure to a battery of cameras on the catwalk, and at the end of all this cosmetic primping she will be a blank-faced, strutting mannequin. That’s what fashion does: it refashions our bodies, and turns human beings into dress dummies.