REVIEW writing is a hybrid of art and journalism. It’s not writing about the play/book/exhibition — or awarding stars (always a tricky thing for me) but getting under the skin of the thing. There’s nothing as rewarding as writing about art when it helps your own. Find its heart and soul. Both likely to be present as it has been published or produced, and, after all, all art comes from community.

I start the year with my tribute to dreamboat Leonard Cohen’s Dance Me at Sadlers Wells,  a ballet describing the life and work of Leonard Cohen. I enjoyed it. How would Cohen be responding the world now I wonder? Jewish — he would have played a huge part in today’s anti-war movement. 

Flit to April and it’s my turn. I both write about and get reviewed for my play Blood Gold and Oil. Invited to write about the personal and political energies behind the work, I turn in The Fatal Englishman, giving the background to my interest in TE Lawrence. Our dear comrade editor used the word “obsession”  — to which I took umbrage (such a brownish, disgruntled word).

“But Mum,” said my son, “of course you were obsessed — why else would you write all that and take nine years doing it!” He had thus nailed the motivation behind all art that isn’t a jobsworth. A good piece of writing from Mary Conway contained subtle hints on how the play could be improved as well as encouragement for me, director and actors. Chuffed at the 4 stars, and the play has a future.

June brought forth my review of Silent Coup — a fine book of investigative journalism from Matt Kennard and Claire Provost, describing the often dire context in which much life — and art — occurs within corporate vandalism. Life on Earth — human style.

From the subversive to the submersive, the David Hockney sense-around experience at the Light Room in King’s Cross wasn’t exactly a turkey, but cooked in the wrong oven. Hockney’s paintings don’t need all that — and neither do Van Gogh’s.   

Come August — my preview of Dina Ibrahim’s play Mother of Kamal — her ancestral story stuffed with politics and extrapolated from her father Fawzi Ibrahim’s autobiographical novel about the assaults on the communist movement in Iraq in the 1950s.

The heroic role played by the mother of this Jewish family is at the heart of it. Heads up — this play has been rewritten and extended after its run at Hen and Chickens as part of the Camden Fringe last summer to a longer play and will run from January 18 Upstairs at the Gatehouse, a theatre premiering interesting new writing.  

I can see how this work embedded critique and rewrites at the heart of its development. I’m looking forward to that.

Reviewing painter “Cantonese Cowboy” Martin Wong at Camden Arts Centre introduced me to an artist I’d never heard of. Interesting for a reviewer; no baggage of expectation and a brain opener to a very good painter indeed — whose own baggage was turned into art. That same month came The Lady With the Dog, with Chekov’s great tale done as sensuous physical acting and dialogue. No dog though. Nice! 

Autumn — reviewing the mighty Philip Guston at Tate Modern and Derek Ogbourne’s at Wembley’s new arts centre. Kindred spirits who could do anything they wanted.

So that’s enough for one year.