Venice

At the Venice Biennale last year, Jeremy Deller presented English Magic in the British Pavilion. It was an aggressive look at contemporary Britain and featured protest art based on socialist politics. It’s fitting, then, that the show has transferred to the William Morris gallery in Walthamstow; no doubt the libertarian socialist would be proud to see Deller’s work displayed in his old house. Despite thoughtful intentions, though, the transfer doesn’t quite work, and Deller’s art seems uncomfortable in its new setting. The mural depicting Morris in the Venetian lagoon, clutching Roman Abramovich’s enormous yacht (above), makes little impact. It’s meant to be an acerbic statement about the One Per Cent,

Queuing to gain admittance to the pavement of Westminster Bridge on a ferociously hot Sunday afternoon recently, I found myself trapped. Pinioned by a road to one side, a stall selling models of Big Ben and snow-dome Buckingham Palaces to the other, and bordered by the great bronze statue of Boudicca, I was caught in a corralled mass of tourists and going nowhere fast. It occurred to me that the last time I experienced such a peculiar blend of urban misery was in Venice. This might have been the Rialto in August. But it wasn’t the Grand Canal that we were crossing, it was the Thames, and it started me