Sophie Calle’s art of absence and Japan’s climate-proof rice: culture’s new frontiers

Sophie Calle: The art of absence and the cruelty of memory

Sophie Calle’s work has always thrived on absence. The French conceptual artist, whose major UK retrospective opens this week, has built a career on acts that blur the line between intimacy and intrusion—stalking strangers, posing as a hotel maid to rifle through guests’ belongings, even filming her mother’s final breath. Her latest exhibition, Absence and Other Obsessions, at London’s Tate Modern, brings together these provocations under one roof, challenging visitors to question where art ends and exploitation begins.

Calle’s methods are unapologetically invasive. In The Address Book (1983), she found a lost address book on the street, contacted its owner’s acquaintances, and published their testimonies without his consent. In Take Care of Yourself (2007), she turned a breakup email into an art project, inviting 107 women—including a parrot trainer and a ballerina—to interpret its contents. When asked about the ethical boundaries of her work, she responds with characteristic defiance: “Sometimes I do cruel things—and it’s worth it.”

Her latest piece, The Last Image, documents the final photographs taken by people before they lost their sight. The project, exhibited for the first time in the UK, is a meditation on memory and loss, but also on the artist’s own obsession with what remains unseen. “I am not here to do therapy with you,” she told an interviewer this week, a reminder that her work is not about comfort, but confrontation.

The Tate Modern show arrives at a moment when the ethics of art are under scrutiny. From debates over cultural appropriation to the role of AI in creativity, Calle’s uncompromising approach forces a reckoning: Can art justify its own cruelty? For her, the answer is clear. “Non.”

Japan’s rice revolution: A crop for a warming world

As Japan swelters through another record-breaking summer, farmers in the northern prefecture of Miyagi are harvesting a rice variety that could redefine the country’s agricultural future. Hinatamaru, a heat-resistant strain developed by the National Agriculture and Food Research Organization (NAFRO), has thrived where traditional varieties wilted, offering a lifeline to a staple crop under threat from climate change.

Japan’s rice farmers have long battled the effects of rising temperatures—reduced yields, increased pests, and a phenomenon known as white immature grain, where heat stress leaves kernels underdeveloped. Last year, the country’s rice production fell to its lowest level in a decade, prompting the government to accelerate research into climate-resilient varieties. Hinatamaru, which can withstand temperatures up to 2°C higher than conventional strains, is the most promising result yet.

“When I saw the fields this year, I knew we had something special,” said Haruki Kawasaki, a 63-year-old farmer in Shiroishi who planted the variety for the first time. “The grains are plump, the yield is strong. It’s not just about surviving the heat—it’s about thriving in it.”

The success of Hinatamaru comes as Japan grapples with broader questions about food security. The country imports nearly 60% of its calories, and rice—once a symbol of self-sufficiency—has become a vulnerability. The government has set a target of increasing domestic rice production by 10% by 2030, but achieving it will require more than new varieties. Farmers must also adapt to shifting growing seasons, water shortages, and the economic pressures of an ageing rural population.

For now, Hinatamaru offers a glimmer of hope. If it proves viable in other regions, it could become a model for climate adaptation—not just in Japan, but across Asia, where rice is a dietary cornerstone. “This isn’t just about rice,” said a NAFRO spokesperson. “It’s about whether we can grow food in a world that’s getting hotter.”

Photography as witness: Chernobyl, flamingos, and the weight of history

At C/O Berlin, the Ulrike Crespo Photography Prize has awarded its 2026 winners, and the exhibition is a stark reminder of how images can bear witness to both beauty and catastrophe. Among the standout works is Stelios Kallinikou’s Flamingos in the Shadow of Chernobyl, a series that juxtaposes the vibrant pink of migrating birds against the abandoned landscapes of the exclusion zone.

Kallinikou’s photographs, taken over three years, capture the eerie resilience of nature in a place still scarred by the 1986 nuclear disaster. Flamingos, which have increasingly nested in the region’s contaminated wetlands, become a symbol of adaptation—and of the unintended consequences of human folly. “The birds don’t know they’re in a radioactive zone,” Kallinikou said in an interview. “They just know it’s a place where they can feed and breed.”

The exhibition also includes works that explore family, migration, and the fear of nuclear war, themes that resonate deeply in an era of geopolitical instability. One particularly haunting image, The Last Telegram, depicts a woman holding a yellowed telegram announcing the death of a relative in the 2022 Russian invasion of Ukraine. The photograph, taken by Ukrainian artist Yana Kononova, is a reminder that history is not just something we study—it’s something we live.

For Berlin, a city that has long grappled with its own traumatic past, the exhibition is more than a collection of images. It’s a call to look closely at the world we’ve created—and the one we’re leaving behind.

What to watch: Martin Compston’s love-hate relationship with Las Vegas

For most actors, Las Vegas is a place to perform—or to lose money at the tables. For Martin Compston, star of Line of Duty and The Nest, it’s a second home that never quite feels like one. In a new three-part documentary, Compston’s Vegas, the Scottish actor explores the city’s contradictions: its neon-lit allure, its underlying loneliness, and the way it seduces even those who know its tricks.

Compston’s wife is from Las Vegas, and the couple divides their time between Scotland and Nevada. “I love it and I hate it,” he admits in the first episode. “It’s a place where you can be anyone, but also where you can disappear.” The documentary follows him as he checks into a hotel room with its own basketball court (because why not?), loses a hypothetical $20,000 at blackjack, and reflects on the city’s unique blend of excess and emptiness.

The series arrives as Las Vegas faces its own reckoning. Once a symbol of American optimism, the city is now grappling with the effects of climate change—droughts, extreme heat—and the economic fallout of a post-pandemic tourism slump. Compston’s documentary doesn’t shy away from these tensions, but it also captures the city’s enduring magic. “It’s like nowhere else on Earth,” he says. “And that’s both its greatest strength and its biggest flaw.”

For UK viewers, the show offers a rare glimpse into a city that’s often reduced to stereotypes. And for Compston, it’s a chance to reconcile his own complicated relationship with a place that’s as much a part of his life as the Scottish Highlands.