When the bleep finally stops and my brain crawls out of Whitechapel, these are the places I triage first. Some are blockbusters, some feel like side rooms on a ward where the real work happens. All reliable for resetting the vital signs after a week of crash calls and corridor consultations.
Feels like walking into the private wing: pristine, well-funded, slightly unreal. Good for remembering art also lives in clean white rooms, not just peeling NHS corridors.
Looks deceptively small from the outside, like an ambulatory care unit, then opens out into something much more complex. Consistently good shows, minimal faff.
The private hospital of galleries: immaculate, expensive, slightly intimidating. Still worth the consult when you want to see what the art world’s high-rollers are betting on.
TheLysts
