Turner Prize winner Jeremy Deller’s exhibition contrasting William Morris with Andy Warhol, two of the most recognisable artists of the past two centuries, opened at Modern Art Oxford last week to a keen audience. The exhibition offers a lot more than the expected, presenting the viewer with an alternative to the popular idea of these artists. William Morris has long been regarded either as a staple of fashionable vintage-style curtains, wallpaper, and umbrellas or alternatively seen as a grumpy, taciturn fellow whose socialist leanings were perhaps undermined by his own wealth. Here, he is revealed as a hard working, multi-talented, and at times charming artist and designer, whose socialism was reflected in his attitudes towards his own work.  Scribblings of medieval knights and doodles on a page of notes from a political lecture present a touchingly human image of Morris. Meanwhile, Deller has noted that he wants the exhibition to help people see Warhol as more than just a profit-seeking artist, but as an artist of integrity. The comparison with Morris certainly helps with this.

The viewer discovers parallels between the two artists’ practices, photographs of Warhol’s Factory are interestingly presented alongside images of Merton Abbey, where Morris and Co, the company that Morris founded, produced their fabrics, wallpapers, and designs. The original blocks used to print Morris’ wallpaper are displayed and it is easy to see the link between them and the acetate sheet used to create the Marilyn prints that Warhol is pictured holding up for our inspection in the Factory. The craftsmanship of the artists’ work is highlighted, despite their differing respective aims.

A work that particularly stood out was Morris’ tapestry, The Attainment: The Vision of the Holy Grail to Sir Galahad, Sir Bors, and Sir Percival, which greets you as you climb the stairs up into the gallery space.  Morris’ vast tapestry, over twenty feet long and eight feet high, woven from mohair, camel hair, wool, and silk, dominates one wall of the exhibition space, and depicts the climax of the story of the Holy Grail as told in Morte d’Arthur.  With the typical Pre-Raphaelite mixture of naturalism and symbolism, the piece revives a medieval art form, which in its day was far more popular than painting.  The opening text of the exhibition notes the interest that both Morris and Warhol found in mythology, that of Arthurian romance and medieval legend for Morris, and that of Hollywood for Warhol. This is reflected in the numerous photographs from Warhol’s autograph collection, including a signed photo from Shirley Temple, addressed to ‘Andrew Warhol’, and a number of his famous celebrity silkscreen prints, one of Joan Collins, another of Dame Elizabeth Taylor.  Warhol’s Marilyn Tapestry, 1968, offers another form of that famous image, staring across the gallery towards Morris’. Warhol’s however is created more like a carpet, hinting at the banal domesticity ‘celebrities’ are consigned to, an image embodying the idea of the ‘household name.’ Warhol’s morbid interest in the almost mythologized Kennedy clan, Jackie Kennedy in particular, is also explored, the mythological aspect reflected in Jackie Kennedy’s coinage of the name ‘Camelot’ to describe her husband’s presidency. 

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However it is not the exploration of celebrity in Warhol’s work that proves to be the most interesting, but that of his more overtly political works, such as Map of Eastern USSR Missile Bases, as it offers a more unexpected view of the artist.  The simple monochrome piece gave a sense of the fear surrounding the facts surrounding the USSR during the height of the Cold War.  The work, created a handful of years before the fall of the USSR, still has the power to unnerve, even after the fall of its subject; one can imagine the abandoned concrete buildings each cartoon like missile depiction refers to.  The silkscreen prints of Warhol’s electric chair images which are displayed, further emphasise the argument of Warhol as a politically engaged artist, one who was by no means entirely commercial in outlook but who was willing to unnerve and unsettle with his artwork in a more explicit manner than Morris.

While the works of these two artists may at first seem an odd juxtaposition, Deller’s appreciation of the two has brought about an interesting contrast. The exhibition draws out different strains of the artists, and brings an awareness of artistic process. Although some comparisons seem a little flippant, such as the display of a set of Warhol’s Mao prints above a case of pamphlets and leaflets which serve as testament to Morris’ socialist activity, it is an overall fruitful and pleasing comparison, which leads the viewer to a greater appreciation of both artists. The exhibition is open until March 8, and is free to enter. 

The title of J. Cole’s third album, 2014 Forest Hills Drive, makes reference to the North Carolina MC’s childhood home. As a setting, it provides a fitting backdrop for a record which is intensely personal. Well-established in hip-hop’s mainstream consciousness, Cole’s decision to look inwards rather than outwards for his subject matter is a bold gamble, into which he throws himself with confidence and vigour.

Cole namedrops his contemporary Kendrick Lamar on the album’s second track, “January 28^th”, and it’s in the vein of Lamar’s 2012 work good kid, m.A.A.d city that Cole places his story: a three-act movement, from dark beginnings through to a final realisation. Despite his ambition, Cole isn’t quite as insightful a storyteller as Kendrick, but this framework lets him channel his best quality as an MC, namely his powerful, introspective honesty; his striking tales of a fatherless childhood in “03’ Adolescence” (“Four years or so from now I’ll probably cry / When I realise what I missed, but as of now my eyes are dry”) embrace sensitivity, and with it offer nuances of humanity to Cole’s early tracks. Likewise, “Wet Dreamz” finds him losing his virginity; his reminiscences on “watching pornos trying to see just how to stroke right” inject his childhood tales with much-needed self-deprecating humour.

Cole’s lyricism in the album’s first act matches his honesty and dedication; he eschews the immature wordplay of his previous records for a more tightly crafted focus on storytelling and mood. It’s a decision reflected in his delivery – often a foible for Cole on records past – which shifts from youthful innocence to a grittier timbre in “A Tale of 2 Citiez”. Similarly, Cole’s assured self-production moves smoothly through the record’s changing tones; drawing on myriad samples, Cole uses Japanese easy-listening to soundtrack the dreamy “January 28^th”, but flips a shuddering drumbeat from Pusha T’s “Blocka” for “A Tale of 2 Citiez” just as adeptly. “Fire Squad”, the album’s highlight, channels ‘90s hip-hop with an insistent piano loop and boom-bap percussion backing both braggadocio and incisive commentary on cultural appropriation, imagining Cole watching “Iggy win a Grammy as I try to crack a smile”.

Yet as the album progresses, it’s hard to shake the feeling that Cole is stretched too thin. On “No Role Modelz”, he clumsily tries to turn suspicion of a girl into a discourse on female role models, and his venture into singing, albeit endearing, is a bridge too far for Cole’s independent designs. Although a bold choice, the refusal of guests falls somewhat into self-indulgence, demanding that Cole be at once the relatable everyman and the “god” that his ambition impels him to be.

However, even as 2014 Forest Hills Drive falls short of the classic status Cole desires, it remains a powerfully personal album, and Cole’s most focused effort so far. It may not be worthy of the lengthy final credits sequence “Note to Self”, which apes Cole’s mentor Jay-Z’s “My First Song”, but its integrity and bravery create an imperfect but highly enjoyable experience.

They came, presumably, from all corners of the country, maybe from beyond. They had their Smiths shirts, their quiffs, the odd gladiolus, those glasses; mostly they were men, some were old, but the majority (it seemed) were young. As I got off the tube at Greenwich, a great chant filled the station, a choir of wannabe misfits and old timers singing “And if a double-decker bus crashes into us…“ and so on. In the air: a sense of remarkable jubilation, festive almost… almost, indeed, religious. So in they came, electric and chanting, flooding the O2 arena, here to gawp at and worship one Stephen Patrick Morrissey.

Witty, spikey, a man of Olympian irony and outrageous opinions; the contrarian vegetarian, homoerotic, surly and shy in equal measure, self-deprecating, cheeky and pathologically narcissistic all at once; disgusted with life and sex and yet bewitched by desire for carnal contact: Morrissey is a unique individual, the eccentric uncle of modern British music.

2014 really hasn’t been a good year for Morrissey. Firstly, although attaining pretty saleable reviews, his new album World Peace Is None Of Your Business was withdrawn from iTunes and Spotify after a bumptious spat between Morrissey and his label, Harvest (it still hasn’t been re-released). His American tour was cut short due to illness and yet more quarrels (this time with support acts). To top off the misery, Morrissey revealed in October that he had been treated for ‘cancerous tissues’. Despite this, his European tour this November has been quietly successful, and his performance at the O2 on the 29^th proved to be no different.

The show began with the most Morrisseyesque collection of videos imaginable: Jimmy Clithero sketches, scenes from A Taste of Honey, clips of The Ramones and New York Dolls – and, predictably, pictures of the late Lady Thatcher set to the tune of ‘Ding Dong The Witch Is Dead’. After this, Morrissey makes his grand entrance – he’s wearing a white tracksuit – and teases the crowd with two classics: ‘The Queen is Dead’ and ‘Suedehead’. With the crowd primed, Morrissey begins what he came here to do – what he was put on earth to do: promote his latest album and make meat-eaters feel very guilty indeed. He succeeds on both accounts.

He sings almost all of his new material, some of which is very good: I’m thinking particularly of the thundering ‘I’m Not A Man’, ‘Kiss Me A Lot’ (a typical Morrissey ballad of stunted desire) and ‘Neil Cassidy Drops Dead’. Some aren’t so good. The title song ‘World Peace Is None Of Your Business’ is a howler of particular note, a jangly little number full of banal politics and Brandisms (‘each time you vote you support the process’).

As a performer, Morrissey is as good as he’s ever been. His voice is stronger than ever before. His movements, gestures and swoops are glorious to behold: each head-flick, each tragic turn and genuflection is choreographed to transform Morrissey into the doomed, romantic figure he has always longed to be. The crowd buys it; many swoon and weep as he twists and writhes. There is an atmosphere of exquisite fatalism, the electrifying miserablism that has been Morrissey’s stock-in-trade for over thirty years. Morrissey has always fetishized death and illness (existential and physical), but here he excels himself: he ends with an astonishing rendition of ‘Asleep’, urging the crowd: ‘Remember me, but forget my fate’, an echo of Dido from Purcell – a reference to the fatal course of his illness? Perhaps.

A woman next to me quite seriously breaks down in tears for the remainder of the show. By the end of the whole thing, I too am a little weepy, leaving all at once exhilarated and dejected, buzzing and sorrowful. Well, what else would you expect from Morrissey?