New York through a lens, Goldsworthy’s art trail, and Austen’s timeless appeal

New York’s quiet resilience, frame by frame

For 25 years, American photographer William Meyers roamed New York with his camera, capturing not the skyline’s grandeur but the small, everyday acts that sustain a city. His work, now exhibited under the title Land of the Free?, offers a counter-narrative to the usual spectacle of urban life. Meyers’ images—of a man fixing a broken streetlight, a group of teenagers painting a mural on a derelict wall, a woman handing out flyers for a neighbourhood meeting—reveal a civic engagement that often goes unnoticed. “These are the moments that keep a city alive,” Meyers told The Guardian. “They’re not heroic, but they’re essential.”

His photographs also document the city’s darker undercurrents: the sex scandals that rocked institutions, the souvenirs hawked in Times Square that feel like relics of a bygone era, the faces of those left behind by gentrification. Yet even in these frames, there’s a sense of resilience. A homeless man reading a newspaper on a subway grate becomes a symbol of endurance; a protest sign held aloft in the rain speaks to stubborn hope. Meyers’ New York is neither utopian nor dystopian—it’s a place where people keep showing up, despite everything.

Walking with Goldsworthy: where art and nature merge

In the rugged hills of Haute-Provence, artist Andy Goldsworthy has carved out a 150-kilometre trail that blurs the line between sculpture and landscape. Refuges d’Art, as the route is called, invites hikers to sleep in structures built from local stone, driftwood, and clay—each one a temporary intervention in the natural world. “To sleep in a sculpture is a wonderful idea,” Goldsworthy has said. “It’s not just about looking at art; it’s about being inside it.”

The project, years in the making, reflects Goldsworthy’s lifelong fascination with impermanence. His works—ice sculptures that melt in the sun, stone cairns that crumble in the wind—are designed to decay, reminding viewers of nature’s relentless cycle. The Haute-Provence trail, however, offers a rare permanence. The shelters, though simple, are built to last, and the route itself is maintained by local volunteers. For those who undertake the journey, the experience is as much about the act of walking as it is about the art. “You’re not just observing the landscape,” said one hiker. “You’re becoming part of it.”

The trail has also become a quiet testament to the growing intersection of art and environmentalism. Goldsworthy’s work, which has long explored humanity’s relationship with nature, feels increasingly urgent in an era of climate crisis. Here, the land isn’t just a backdrop—it’s a collaborator.

Austen’s enduring appeal: why Sense and Sensibility still resonates

Nearly 210 years after its publication, Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility has been reimagined for a new generation. The latest adaptation, starring Daisy Edgar-Jones and Esmé Creed-Miles as the Dashwood sisters, strips away the period-drama trappings to focus on the novel’s emotional core. “This isn’t about corsets and carriages,” said the director. “It’s about two young women navigating a world that doesn’t value them.”

The decision to cast younger actors—Edgar-Jones is 26, Creed-Miles 28—shifts the story’s emphasis from societal constraints to personal agency. Elinor’s restraint and Marianne’s passion feel less like moral lessons and more like survival strategies. The adaptation also leans into the novel’s darker themes: financial precarity, the pressure to marry well, the way women’s lives are dictated by men’s whims. “Austen was writing about economic anxiety,” said a literary scholar. “That’s something modern audiences understand all too well.”

The new version arrives at a moment when Austen’s work is being re-examined through a feminist lens. Critics have long debated whether her heroines are truly liberated or merely trapped in gilded cages. This adaptation doesn’t resolve the tension—it amplifies it. When Elinor finally speaks her mind, the moment lands with the force of a long-overdue reckoning. It’s a reminder that Austen’s stories endure not because they’re comforting, but because they’re unsettling.

What to watch: Nigella’s Bake Off debut and the art of chaos

Nigella Lawson’s first appearance as a judge on The Great British Bake Off was always going to be a cultural moment. But no one expected it to be quite this delightful. When she described a contestant’s cake as “sumptuous,” Noel Fielding’s reaction—“I think I might be pregnant”—became an instant meme. The episode, which aired last night, set the tone for the new season: playful, chaotic, and unapologetically indulgent.

Lawson’s presence has shifted the show’s dynamic. Where previous judges have been exacting, she’s effusive. Where they’ve been critical, she’s celebratory. “I don’t care if the cake is underbaked,” she seemed to say. “I care if it’s joyful.” Her approach has reignited debates about what baking—and, by extension, art—should be. Is it about precision, or is it about pleasure? The contestants, for their part, seemed both thrilled and terrified. One baker, tasked with recreating a coffee and walnut cake from memory, admitted afterward: “I forgot the walnuts. But Nigella didn’t even blink.”

The episode also marked the return of 7 Up, the documentary series that has followed a group of Britons since 1964. The final instalment, airing tonight, offers a poignant reflection on time, resilience, and the stories we tell about our lives. Together, the two programmes underscore a truth about British culture in 2026: we’re still drawn to narratives that balance tradition with reinvention. Whether it’s a baking show or a decades-long documentary, the question remains the same: how do we make the old feel new?