OK. So, I’m bloody loving the process of unpacking my poor library, consigned to cardboard boxes for way too many months.
Then I reached my substantial collection of art books. “ Hail, old friends!” I cried. (My children frequently accuse me of channelling someone born in the fifteenth century). But as I was setting them free, I noticed something wrong.
“What on earth could that be,” you ask? “That looks like a danged fine line up of weighty tomes… what are you carrying on about, woman?”
Well, that’s just it.
Where are all the girls?
Sure, there’s a Marina Abramovic front and center. But where are all the rest of the sisterhood?
Like so many other things, the story of art we’ve been told is a story of men, written by men.
And it’s getting a bit old.