Jonathan Jones's Blog, page 249

Dissecting the Exploding Whale: why do modern art shows have odd names?

From Daddy, I Want to Be a Black Artist to Schadenfreude, today's artists are battling to come up with the wackiest titles

How do artists and curators come up with titles for exhibitions? They seem to get wackier all the time. Just looking through some upcoming shows this autumn, we have Daddy, I Want to Be a Black Artist, The Show Is Over, Dissecting the Exploding Whale, Melt into You, Schadenfreude and, of course, To Be Titled.

It's easy to see why exhibition titles get more and more idiosyncratic. There are more and more of them, especially in London in the autumn, when the art world is powered up by the Frieze art fair. In this competitive atmosphere, a striking title may help your show stand out from the crowd.

Yet it is more complicated than that. Not so long ago, it was artistically fashionable to be taciturn. Words were lies. The art was the thing. Works of art were regularly called "Untitled". They often still are (or even To Be Titled), but the idea that refusing to give works or exhibitions a title is inherently profound has fallen out of favour. Indeed, it smacks of pretension. Today, as artists seek a popular audience, they go for titles that are funny or strange or rhetorical – such as Today We Reboot the Planet.

The idea that silence suits serious art goes back to the age of high modernism in the 1950s. It is hard to imagine Mark Rothko calling an exhibition "Daddy, I Want to Be a Jewish Artist" or indeed calling it anything at all. His paintings have plain titles such as Red on Maroon.

In a famous essay, the critic Michael Fried championed such seriousness against what he saw, in the 1960s, as the emerging "theatricality" of minimalist art. Where a true abstract painting ignores the beholder, for him the new art of the time pandered to people, as if it were an actor on a stage.

Since then art has become infinitely more "theatrical", and the elaborate titles of today's exhibitions are a bit like titles for plays or films. They promise a story, something to relate to. Art has shed its wordless purity. It speaks the language of the world around it. The Show Is On.

ExhibitionsArtJonathan Jones
theguardian.com © 2013 Guardian News and Media Limited or its affiliated companies. All rights reserved. | Use of this content is subject to our Terms & Conditions | More Feeds

A century of National Geographic photographs

An archive of National Geographic photographs spanning more than a century captures magical corners of our planet that are vanishing every day

• See a gallery of photographs from the exhibition

In a photograph by Randy Olson that is in the finest traditions of National Geographic magazine, Mohanis hunters stand up to their thighs in the Indus river wearing heron masks. They are trying to look like birds. If the real herons are fooled, they will allow the men to get close enough to catch them.

The men are predators, on a small scale. Yet in a world that eats indigenous ways of life for breakfast they are surely also prey.

This and all the pictures here from the archives of America's renowned magazine of exploration and science portray beautiful, vulnerable corners of a planet that is becoming more homogenous every day: small special worlds that have either vanished or are in danger of vanishing. Even the Miss Universe contest – as Miss Trinidad adjusts her costume – is surely a doomed brachiosaur in its unreflective sexist swamps.

National Geographic's website proudly says it has been "inspiring people to care about the planet since 1888". Photography has been part of that project since 1890. Yet this same period has seen not just the massive and violent destruction of nature but the almost total erasure of premodern ways of life from most of the world. The pictures that National Geographic commissions don't stop that process. At least they record what may soon only be known through photographs and film.

Those heron catchers look so still, so secure in their world. They are masters of their art, on top of their game. Who knows how long people have posed as herons in the river Indus to catch birds? It is a style of hunting that could have easily been around in the stone age. They and the other people here haunt and challenge us. We should indeed be "inspired" to protect the diversity of the earth, looking at these images of its lovely, fragile inhabitants, ourselves.

PhotographyTravel photographyJonathan Jones
theguardian.com © 2013 Guardian News and Media Limited or its affiliated companies. All rights reserved. | Use of this content is subject to our Terms & Conditions | More Feeds

Salvador Dalí's surreal dalliance with Nazism

Along with Wallis Simpson, the painter inhabited a brittle elite world that flirted with Hitler as if the fate of millions didn't matter

It seems sadly inevitable. Salvador Dalí was nicknamed ávida dollars ("eager for dollars") by his former friends the surrealists for abandoning idealism in favour of fame and money, and suspected of far worse. He was condemned by the group for his painting The Enigma of Hitler. He later wrote that Hitler "turned me on".

Now it turns out he was friends with Wallis Simpson, who has also been suspected of Nazi sympathies. An auction house is about to sell a drawing Dalí gave to the woman for whom Edward VIII abdicated the throne. He did it at his favourite American residence, the St Regis Hotel (it's on their notepaper). Dalí scribbled an affectionate note and sketched a horseman.

It's said that Dalí did the drawing over lunch with the Duchess of Windsor – if so, what did they talk about? Happy memories of the 1930s perhaps. In 1937, just before her marriage to the former monarch, Simpson posed for glamorous photographs by Cecil Beaton in the gardens of a French chateau. This was just a few months after Edward VIII gave up the throne. Beaton portrayed Simpson as a beauty fit to obsess a king – and a subversive modern woman who contrasted with stuffy old Britain and its moralising monarchical ways.

She posed in a dress she had recently bought, designed by Elsa Schiaparelli and Salvador Dalí. It's got one of Dalí's favourite symbols, a lobster, printed on it. Beaton's picture is in black and white but another example of this Dalí dress survives in all its red crustacean glory.

Quite a garment – but the late 30s was also when Dalí painted The Enigma of Hitler, and confessed to dreaming about the Nazi dictator. Wallis Simpson got closer than that.

An FBI investigation in 1941 suggested Wallis Simpson shared Dalí's strange attraction to Nazism. She was said to have given information to Joachim von Ribbentrop, the Nazi foreign minister, during the German invasion of France. The FBI was told she had a relationship with Von Ribbentrop in London in 1936, and that he sent her 17 carnations every day to mark the number of times she slept with him.

Wallis Simpson and Dalí were both habitues of a brittle elite world that could flirt with Hitler as if the fate of millions of people were a sick joke. After the war, Dalí was happy and rich in Franco's Spain. In New York, he did this sketch for the Duchess of Windsor.

I used to try to see the best in Dalí, but increasingly he looks like one of the 20th century's nastiest cultural products.

Salvador DalíPaintingArtJonathan Jones
theguardian.com © 2013 Guardian News and Media Limited or its affiliated companies. All rights reserved. | Use of this content is subject to our Terms & Conditions | More Feeds

David Cameron caught 'chillaxing': the sub-Richard Curtis exploits continue | Jonathan Jones

At least no one can say he's posing in a snap of him snoozing, taken by his sister-in-law Alice Sheffield before her wedding

David Cameron once again redefines the word chillax in this photograph. When a nameless "ally" said of the prime minister that "if there was an Olympic gold medal for 'chillaxing', he would win it", this modern art of idling to preserve precious energies was purported to mean he likes a game of tennis, a session with a DVD box set, a pint at the pub. Then it turned out to mean he exercises his thumbs playing Angry Birds. Now, in this picture, to chillax is once again downgraded, from pleasurable activity to exhausted inactivity – to crash out, to slumber, to snooze, to fall unconscious.

At least no one can say he's posing. This photograph was posted by the prime minister's sister-in-law Emily Sheffield on her Instagram account – but it seems to have been a careless or naive gesture, rather than some cunning propaganda move. Since the image hit the headlines it has been removed – so presumably it was not a deliberate attempt to make Cameron look cool by showing him asleep on a four poster bed at a family gathering, his slumped form whale-like in dark clothes.

In the foreground is Alice Sheffield, holding a glass of champagne as she gets ready for her wedding, which Cameron travelled to York for. Was this picture meant as a private joke? You can see the family enjoying it – there's Dave fast asleep on Alice's bed before the wedding, look at his massive naked foot. And there's his red political box thingy.

What it looks like, is that Cameron really does not put being prime minister at the centre of his existence. He's genuinely off work here, totally weekending – the red box seems a token prop to pretend to himself that he has not utterly disconnected from work. Sleeping is the most chillaxed anyone can get, while still being alive. Meanwhile, Alice Sheffield sits half-dressed in front of the disarrayed bed. Was that too part of the family joke?

Tony Blair made a great show of being a well-rounded man who played sport and spent time with his family, but none doubted that he was on top of the job. If Cameron showed similar mastery of the political world no one would begrudge him the odd nap at a family wedding – but this picture resonates with an apparent lack of precision and effectiveness at work. Just a week before it was taken (Alice Sheffield's wedding day was 7 September) Cameron failed to get a House of Commons vote to take Britain into miliary action in Syria. Lack of detailed work and thought seemed to be part of his spectacular failure to understand the political moment.

Then again, just before heading for York for this wedding, he'd got back from Russia where he countered reported sneers at British irrelevance with a patriotic speech widely compared to something out of a Richard Curtis film. People mocked him for being fantasist, but perhaps this picture proves Cameron's life really is a bit like a Hugh Grant movie: One Debacle, a Summit and a Wedding. No wonder he gets confused.

So we have to ask why the picture was taken. Endlessly putting pictures of your life into cyberspace is a bit like turning it into cinema. This picture suggests that, not only Cameron but those around him, feel they are living in the great British romantic comedy, circa 1993 – a cheery and heartwarming tale of posh folk. As the nation gawps at sleeping Dave, that fantasy crumbles. The latest Richard Curtis film got a critical drubbing. This picture's blend of extreme chillaxation, familial comedy and even vague sexual implications looks like bombing at the box office.

David CameronInstagramJonathan Jones
theguardian.com © 2013 Guardian News and Media Limited or its affiliated companies. All rights reserved. | Use of this content is subject to our Terms & Conditions | More Feeds

Kurt Cobain, Tom Jones and Through the Keyhole – the week in art

The Nirvana frontman is resurrected, Tom Jones is accused and Loyd Grossman's finest hour in installation form – all in your favourite weekly art dispatch

Exhibition of the week: Mira Schendel

One of the towering artists of post-war Brazil, who helped to remake the language of modernism in South America after fleeing fascist Europe, Schendel skewed abstraction and took apart the stuff of language.
• Tate Modern, London SE1, from 25 September until 19 January 2014

Other exhibitions this week

Ana Mendieta
This pioneer of feminist art and body art left a powerful corpus of work when she • Hayward Gallery, London SE1, from 24 September until 15 December

Reflections from Damaged Life
An exploration of art and psychedelia.
• Raven Row, London E1, from 26 September until 15 December

Willie Doherty
The history of the Troubles mirrored in eerie images.
• City Factory Gallery, Derry BT48, from 27 September until 4 January 2014

Friedrich Kunath
Psychologist Raymond Moody and rock band The Moody Blues are surreally juxtaposed.
• Modern Art Oxford, Oxford OX1 from 21 September until 17 November

Masterpiece of the week

The Montagne Sainte-Victoire by Paul Cézanne, c1887
The light of Provence is hard and spiky in Cézanne's revolutionary modernist landscape. Sheer heat has turned the air into a vibrating crystalline entity. As if we were listening to a prelude by Wagner, the tension rises inescapably as we contemplate this still yet portentous vista. Cézanne's longings and fears are in this heatwave of genius. Is the mountain god, or death, or just a rock?
• Courtauld Gallery, London WC2

Image of the week
What we learned this week

That the last ever Frank Lloyd Wright house is about to be built in the most unlikely setting – near Bristol. And it's got a dedicated dancing area

Why a young artist has mummified Kurt Cobain

Why Jack Vettriano is the Tom Jones of art

That Through the Keyhole is back – in art form!

That Richard Serra's into black magic

That Tate has installed interactive screens so that you can become a critic and an artist

That an architecture festival's just opened where buildings are banned

And finally ...

Follow us on Twitter
Follow us on Tumblr

NirvanaTom JonesPsychedeliaExhibitionsInstallationPaul CezanneSculpturePaintingArtJonathan Jones
theguardian.com © 2013 Guardian News and Media Limited or its affiliated companies. All rights reserved. | Use of this content is subject to our Terms & Conditions | More Feeds

Jack Vettriano: just the Tom Jones of 21st-century art?

Vettriano is no modern Van Gogh. To me, he's more like the Welsh singer: bold, brassy and devoid of inner truth

Jack Vettriano, that meticulous painter of racing cars and high heels, beaches and butlers, is clearly getting a bit overexcited about his retrospective that opens next week at the Kelvingrove Art Gallery in Glasgow. He has even been found almost likening himself to Van Gogh. He told Radio 4 that if Van Gogh could have sold his art as postcards and prints to a mass audience, as Vettriano does, he'd have "jumped at the chance".

That's true as far as it goes. Van Gogh likened the emotional effect he wanted from his painting La Berceuse to a "cheap chromo", a popular print. He thought his art had popular appeal, that it was for everyone – and history has proved him right. Van Gogh's Sunflowers are, dare I say it, even better known than The Singing Butler.

But to focus on the comparison between Vettriano and Van Gogh is to see how lacking the Scottish artist is in almost all the qualities that make art worthwhile. He has a fair bit of skill but no imagination and no heart. My deep dislike of Vettriano's paintings is not rooted in any desire to do down figurative painting. I love figurative painting. When it is good. But Vettriano makes scenes that are soulless.

He's the very oppposite of Van Gogh. Where the latter painted rough, humble things – a kitchen chair, or his bed – and invested each daub of the brush with all the passion that was in him, Vettriano fixes on fetishistic, stylish objects and paints them with a slick, empty panache. The distance between Van Gogh's chair and Vettriano's Bluebird car is the gulf between art that speaks to the soul and trash that titillates shallow values.

Big cars. Sexy women. The world of Jack Vettriano is a crass male fantasy that might have come straight out of Money by Martin Amis. There's nothing wrong with erotic art – some of the world's greatest art is erotica – but where Titian shares his awe of the human body, Vettriano constructs scenarios with all the emotion of an Airfix modeller's painted Spitfire.

When I was a teenager, my dad would occasionally drive me crazy by playing his Tom Jones record. The deep, hollow voice singing The Green, Green Grass of Home made my flesh crawl because it seemed so empty, so slick.

Jack Vettriano is no 21st-century Van Gogh. He is the Tom Jones of art: big, bold, brassy and devoid of inner truth.

PaintingVan GoghArtTom JonesJonathan Jones
theguardian.com © 2013 Guardian News and Media Limited or its affiliated companies. All rights reserved. | Use of this content is subject to our Terms & Conditions | More Feeds

Richard Serra's dark magic descends on the Courtauld

The American's most recent drawings have invaded the gallery's delicate environment like a black sun swallowing up the sky

London's Courtauld Gallery is a happy place. People row boats on glittering rivers, dry themselves after a nice bath or meditatively powder their faces. For this is one of the world's great collections of impressionist and post-impressionist art, and the light of Monet, Cezanne and their contemporaries suffuses its rooms with stardust.

The US artist Richard Serra has just invaded this delicate environment like a black sun swallowing up the sky. Serra is renowned for making austere and intimidating abstract sculptures. His walls and elliptical labyrinths of steel confront and surround awestruck audiences. But Mr Serra also likes to draw. His latest works on paper have been made for the Courtauld and they strike up a powerful if disturbing dialogue with its fine collection.

A lot has happened since Toulouse-Lautrec portrayed Jane Avril leaving the Moulin Rouge in one of the Courtauld Gallery's most compelling masterpieces. The 19th century saw its wars and revolutions but on the whole the light of the impressionists is the light of a prosperous, expanding, optimistic world. Richard Serra's drawings are like messengers knocking at Monet's door, telling of the violence and disasters to come.

Blackness descends. Serra is a magician of the dark. His necromantic pictures are multilayered and rich in texture. Made by printing black litho crayon on to transparent mylar sheets, his works at the Courtauld create fascinating three-dimensional effects. Their depths and shadows remind me of the optical recesses of Monet's waterlily paintings. There is a subtletly here that more than justifies his visit among the masters. But the richness is that of ash. The subtlety is that of death.

Serra's message to Monet is that the century of the Holocaust made it impossible for a serious artist to paint happy river scenes any more. He has reduced the world's colours to a mighty black, a black that is gorgeous yet terrible. Vortices of black swirl in space, mountains of black are heaped up.

One of the first works I ever saw by Serra was a homage to the Auschwitz survivor Primo Levi. His new drawings, seen against the beauty of the Courtauld's 19th-century paintings, are tragic testaments to what art must be in our brutal age. The reason Serra is one the great artists of our time is that in a world of shallow cultural consumerism he bites at the hand that feeds him and forces a tragic sensibility on we who would rather fool ourselves. To tell that truth he blocks out the Courtauld's lovely light.

ArtInstallationPaintingHolocaustExhibitionsJonathan Jones
theguardian.com © 2013 Guardian News and Media Limited or its affiliated companies. All rights reserved. | Use of this content is subject to our Terms & Conditions | More Feeds

Adrián Villar Rojas: why I made Kurt Cobain out of clay

From shark eggs to corncobs, from kittens to Kurt Cobain, Adrián Villar Rojas brings things to life with clay – only to watch them crumble. As the artist prepares for his show at London's most exciting new gallery, Jonathan Jones gets a sneak preview

The mummified corpse of Kurt Cobain is cracking apart even as some plastic bottles, propped up by metal frames, pour lifegiving water into it. Can Adrian Villar Rojas bring his musical hero back to life? Or will this dry, grey effigy of the rock'n'roll suicide crumble into dust?

Or, to put it another way, can art save the world?

In another aisle of his east London workshop, the Argentinian artist is examining potato plants growing out of the gutted flank of a fish. "This whole project is about trying to force life to appear," he says, eyeing the green shoots rising from the bulbous potatoes swaddled in rich, black soil. "We will fail. No matter what we do, they will die."

All around this workshop, life is taking shape, rising from the earth and returning to it. Stretching across the concrete floor of this vast hangar, shark eggs share shelfspace with kittens, a donkey, some bread, the legs of Michelangelo's David, an alien monster, the skull of a Tyrannosaurus rex, apples, oranges – and an apeman whose face is a pathetically expressive mask of sorrow as he contemplates his guts hanging out after some horror has torn him open. Models of prehistoric apemen in museums always look peaceful, explains Villar Rojas, so he has created one who's dying. The guts spilling out of this poor creature look like worms. In fact, they are hand-rolled strands of pale clay. Everything on these shelves, apparently, is made of clay. This young artist is fashioning a whole replica of the world out of the stuff. The air vibrates to the sound of electric saws as his team cuts metal for armatures to support soft clay forms; over in a quiet corner, someone is patiently sticking blobs on to a cone shape to make a copy of a corn cob. The process is brilliantly effective, the finished products so real I want to eat them. Or I would if they weren't mud-grey.

Villar Rojas is preparing the first ever exhibition at the new Serpentine Sackler Gallery, which opens in London next week. Smart new designer galleries (this one has been created by Zaha Hadid out of an old gunpowder store in Kensington Gardens) often upstage the art inside them. This time is different: Villar Rojas, born in 1980, is one of the most incisive artists of his generation, a man on an ecological mission that is actutely timely. In 2009, he made a lifesize clay whale, stranded it in a forest in Argentina, and called the work My Dead Family. His Serpentine exhibition is called Today We Reboot the Planet. Not content with launching a new art gallery, he is also meditating on whether it would be possible to relaunch life itself – after we destroy it.

In the 1960s, a group of Italian artists known as the Arte Povera movement rejected the industrial achievements of Italy's postwar "miracle", choosing instead to make art that was rooted in nature and the fragile human past – casting tree trunks, building igloos. I can see Arte Povera being reborn on the earthy production line that is the Villar Rojas workshop. This art is about the fate of the planet, and is made out of the planet. As Villar Rojas says: "Clay is soil. It's refined soil."

Clay is among the most ancient of art materials. Using a traditional potter's wheel, Villar Rojas and his team make vases that look like vessels from ancient China. But those objects have survived thousands of years because, after being shaped, they were fired in an oven, making the clay hard. Villar Rojas takes it in a more tragic direction. Nothing he makes is fired, so all of it is doomed. The polluted London air is already corrupting it. "The way we are using clay is super-experimental – because the material is too fragile, because the pieces are difficult to transport, because they are cracking, they deteriorate in a totally disproportionate way," he says. "I never smash the sculpture to get the cracks. It just happens."

A kind of ironic pessimism – planning to fail – is a bit of a cliche in contemporary art. Villar Rojas, however, overcomes this through sheer exuberance. The energy and hard toil evident everywhere in the workshop have thrown up a staggering variety of finely realised artefacts. It is not just nature that he replicates: there are abstract artworks made of clay, geometrical models, a statue of a child hugging a donkey, and what seems to be the face of Jesus Christ emerging from a chaotic, earthen swirl.

There is one big difference between Villar Rojas and the Arte Povera artists, though: his art is representational. When he was at art college, he looked at the conceptual mood prevailing in Argentine art and did the opposite of what artists today are supposed to do: he set out to tell stories, depict figures, express emotion. His art is full of comic pathos, from cute kittens to a fish out of water breathing its last.

This workshop, a hangar on a Stratford industrial estate that feels miles away from any tree, is an attempt to recreate the place where Villar Rojas now conducts most of his experiments: a rustic brickworks just outside his home city of Rosario, in central Argentina. After creating his beached whale in 2009, Villar Rojas found himself in demand around the world, at major art events such as Documenta in Germany and the Venice Biennale. On returning to Rosario after all this globetrotting, he felt like a stranger: "You have to understand that I was born there, I grew up there, I studied there. I lived my whole life there. It was a weird feeling to be totally out of place."

In the midst of trying to reconnect with his hometown, he discovered an old brickworks on the city's outskirts where bricks are made using cow dung. (No, really: grass that has been through cows binds the bricks.) He got permission to set up a studio there, observing the artisans and working beside them; the move has literally brought his art closer to the natural world. He shows me a large, hard, hollow ball of mud with a snug entrance hole carved into it. "This is a hornero nest," he explains. "The hornero is a very big bird in Argentina. It makes its nest out of mud. So it's a kind of builder." These wondrous nests, which he found around the site of the brickworks, will be on show at the Sackler.

Birds make nests, humans make buildings – and sculptures to sit in them. In the work of Villar Rojas, in the sprawl of his vision, the abundance of our planet is mirrored by the fecundity of human creation. Yet it is all so fragile. The eviscerated apeman looks on sadly as we walk among crumbling magnificence. Earth to earth, his eyes seem to say.

SculptureArtJonathan Jones
theguardian.com © 2013 Guardian News and Media Limited or its affiliated companies. All rights reserved. | Use of this content is subject to our Terms & Conditions | More Feeds

Adrián Villar Rojas at London's new Serpentine Sackler gallery - video preview

The young artist talks about why he wants to capture all human culture in his clay sculptures, and why he chose to mummify Kurt Cobain

Jonathan JonesCameron Robertson

Note to the V&A: a 3D-printed gun still kills people

Why are we not allowed to be shocked that the museum has acquired Cody Wilson's 'Liberator' handgun, a working firearm, just as another US shooting occurs?

It's the old song. Museum does something sensational. Moralists take offence. Shocked stories add to the museum's publicity. Everyone is happy.

Except all the performers know their parts so well by now that, as in a story by Jorge Luis Borges that compresses an entire novel into a few pages, there is no need to go through all the tedious details. Everyone knows the narrative so well that it can just be taken for granted and we can all move directly to the conclusion, which is that no one is really shocked and yet everyone can enjoy the frisson of the idea that someone, somewhere, some antediluvian fool, disapproves.

Thus the V&A's acquisition of a gun made on a 3D printer has been reported with a mixture of awe at the curator's cultural savvy, reverence at something controversial being done, and respect for the artefact whose groundbreaking nature has now been sanctified by a museum. Far from getting the museum into trouble, its plan to exhibit a working firearm, designed by a self-styled anarchist to give everyone the "freedom" to make a gun at home, only adds to the acclaim for a museum that recently escaped its Victorian image with a massive exhibition dedicated to David Bowie.

It is unfortunate that just as the V&A's gun exploit was settling into the PR bliss of a non-provocative provocation, another "shooter" in America murdered at least 12 people, reminding us that easy access to firearms is a recipe for mayhem. In its cultured way, the V&A is giving succour to barbarism by promoting homemade guns.

It's fascinating how some extreme politics are cool and others are not. If the designer of the "Liberator" handgun had done it in the name of a far right group, there's no way his invention would be in the V&A. Instead, Cody Wilson claims to be a democratic anarchist in the mould of Wikileaks. His violent creation is therefore cool and deserves to be in a museum.

In reality, the idea of freely available gun designs that anyone can manufacture at home (in whatever quantities they wish) as 3D printing looks set to become a routine part of modern life, is terrifying and quite obviously apocalyptic. It's a monstrous perversion of democracy.

What this gun really shows is the human propensity to make the worst of its own intellectual power. Within a few years of the Wright brothers making human flight a reality, war planes took to the air. As soon as nuclear fission was achieved, it was used to destroy cities. Now, as soon as 3D printing opens up a new age of design, it is used to preach the might of the gun.

Does the V&A really want to celebrate that?

What a naive question …

V&A3D printingUS gun controlGun crimeMuseumsJonathan Jones
theguardian.com © 2013 Guardian News and Media Limited or its affiliated companies. All rights reserved. | Use of this content is subject to our Terms & Conditions | More Feeds