Culture

From Russia: French and Russian Master Paintings 1870-1925 from Moscow and St Petersburg Royal Academy, until 18 April Sponsored by E.ON It is a salutary and instructive experience to forego the relatively civilised Press View of an exhibition, when only the denizens of the world’s press and assorted successful liggers are allowed in, and attempt to review a show amid the hurly-burly of an average open-to-the-public day. Especially when the exhibition has been talked up to the skies and punters are queuing to get in. Column inches had helped to create the unsatisfactory and uncomfortable viewing conditions in which I found myself last week, and here I am adding to them. While commending the contemporary appetite for culture, I do wish there were fewer people in the world.

Things that make you despair: young journalists who have never read Scoop. In a better world that would be a sacking offence. Clive publishes a reminder of the novel's glories as part of his excellent Notebook feature: "Come to think of it," he added moodily, "there's no point in answering anyway. Look at mine." CABLE  FULLIER  OFTENER  PROMPTLIER  STOP  YOUR  SERVICE   BADLY  BEATEN  ALROUND   LACKING   HUMAN  INTEREST  COLOUR  DRAMA PERSONALITY  HUMOUR  INFORMATION  ROMANCE  VITALITY "Can't say that's not frank, can you?" said Corker. "God rot 'em." Well, yes, exactly.

James MacMillan explains why he hates the assumption that he is a liberal left-winger In my travels I see myself frequently described in foreign media as a ‘left-wing and Scottish nationalist’ composer. The latter label is ludicrous, and I just put it down to a foreigner’s ignorance and justifiable disinterest in the parish-pump tedium of devolved Scotland. It doesn’t bother me too much. The first, however, disturbs me much more. I used to be on the Left — I joined the Young Communist League in 1974, when I was just 14. Part of the motivation behind this was no doubt to annoy my devoutly Catholic relatives, who were all Labour supporters, but anxious, to the point of distraction, about insiduous Marxist manoeuvrings in the unions and in the workplace.

A Decade of Discovery Esoterick Collection, 39a Canonbury Square, London, N1, until 6 April This year, as the Estorick Collection of Modern Italian Art celebrates its tenth anniversary, garlanded with plaudits for the loan exhibitions it has mounted, it is time to focus once again on its greatest asset: its permanent collection. This new display, occupying all six galleries, shows the collection to fine advantage, enabling a group of works by Massimo Campigli to be viewed for the first time, along with a couple of new acquisitions, and further enhanced by works loaned from British and Italian collections, mostly private individuals whose generosity must be applauded. The exhibition starts on the ground floor with a room of the Estorick’s big names — the Futurists.

Switch off your radios: I shall be on BBC Radio 4's PM programme at around 5.45pm talking about, of all things, state-sponsored Gaelic TV. It may not surprise readers that I consider this a perfectly senseless boondoggle. by the standards of government waste it is, for sure, trivial and harmless stuff. To the extent that it perpetuates the nonsense that we should all be speaking Gaelic and have bilingual signs all over Scotland it's further evidence that the national capacity for self-delusion and fatheaded history endures. You can listen online here.

‘Mr Hallé’s Band’ began giving concerts 150 years ago. Michael Kennedy on the great orchestra On the wet evening of 30 January 1858 in the Free Trade Hall, Manchester, which had been opened only two years previously, the 38-year-old Charles Hallé launched his privately funded series of orchestral concerts. On the same date next week, 150 years later, the orchestra still bearing its founder’s name will celebrate the anniversary with a programme introduced by Dame Janet Baker. In a century and a half it has had only ten chief conductors. The tenth, Mark Elder, will be on the rostrum. Carl Halle, as he was born, with no acute accent, was German and trained as a pianist although he conducted several operas in his home town of Hagen when he was 11.

At the risk of trivialising a tragic death, I have been musing over Heath Ledger’s now-posthumous performance as the Joker (see my earlier post as well as this article detailing the potential fate of Ledger's incomplete film projects) and the impact that death can have upon the reception of art, literature and entertainment. Here is my thumbnail list of posthumous precedents. There must be many, many others. Which would Coffee Housers add?