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Everything Else

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Your next trip to an art gallery may go something like this: first, you download an app onto your phone and flip through reproductions of the work you’re going to see. At the gallery, you take pictures of paintings; your phone recognizes them, and the curator’s voice in your earbuds gives you information. One work in particular captivates you, but prints aren’t available in the gift shop; no matter—you order one online. While you’re at it, you “like” the work on your social networking profile, and a link tells you there’s another gallery nearby with work by the same artist.

Berlin by Night

Berlin is not Germany — or so I’m told repeatedly by people who live in the city, over my four days in the country’s capital. They mean this in a good way: It’s unique, they say, because of its lack of regulations, its large and increasing immigrant population, its bohemian flavour, and its open, experimental spirit. Given these qualities, it’s unsurprising that the nightlife is fantastic.

Raise Your Glasses to 3D

It’s a Wednesday night, and northwest London’s Haverstock Arms is teeming with soccer fans. Large television screens, perched among eccentric bric-a-brac, show a north London derby match in English football’s Premier League between Tottenham Hotspur and their arch-rivals, Arsenal. As two young fans wearing oversized grey glasses stand up from their table to cheer the Spurs’ second goal, they spill their pints over themselves and their mates. Sheepishly, they blame the specs.

Roger Hiorns

On a winding south London street dotted with down-at-heel convenience stores and forlorn former pubs sits the derelict Lawson housing estate; its paint is flaking, its windows boarded up, its balcony screens cracked. But if you walk through the courtyard and enter one darkened doorway in a corner, you’ll find a marvellous irruption: the brutalist bedsit has been colonized by large electric blue crystals that cover the walls, the ceiling and even the tub in the tiny bathroom.

Turner Prize 2008: Shock & Yawn

The Turner Prize, awarded each year to a British artist under 50, often engenders debates in the U. K. about such things as dead animals, excrement and sex — not to mention aesthetics. This year’s exhibit of the four nominees’ works, however, has provoked a collective shrug of indifference. The most exciting thing about it is the fact that Nick Cave, musical chronicler of all things lurid and grotesque, is set to announce the recipient of the Pounds 40,000 ($76,000) cheque tonight at London’s Tate Britain. The art itself, on the whole, is rather blah.

T.J. Ford

It’s the first game of the Toronto Raptors’ season, and New Jersey Nets point guard Jason Kidd is dribbling the ball down the court, marshalling his charges for an assault on the Raptors’ basket Out of nowhere, his opposing number, T.J. Ford, brazenly rips the ball out of his hands and starts racing down the court The referee’s whistle blows.

Music to Their Eyes: Toronto’s Broken Visual Scene

For every audiophile who mourns the death of vinyl, there’s an art lover who looks back longingly on the days when album covers were large, creative and iconic. Glitzy photography and lurid, digitally processed images are now used to browbeat the MTV generation into buying CDs, but a new generation of musicians and artists is looking forward by harking back. They’re aiming to rekindle people’s love of music shopping by the archaic methods of painting and drawing covers, and their efforts are striking a chord with fans.