North Yorkshire coast
With its swooping whale, snapping seal and mischievous god, the artist’s tricksy new work, made with Coralie Turpin, is just one of the fun-filled additions to Scarborough’s reinvigorated Wild Eye coastal art trail

It would be too simple to say that Jeremy Deller is interested in history. It would be more accurate to say he’s interested in things that aren’t there; or things that were once there; or perhaps things that could have been there. Protesting miners, deceased soldiers, inflatable sites of pagan worship have all been created or re-created by the Turner prize-winning artist, who has now turned his hand to a “speculative [Roman] mosaic” for Scarborough’s Wild Eye coastal art and nature trail.

Created with sculptor Coralie Turpin , Deller’s mosaic is a “semi-trick” – a suggestion of a Roman masterpiece that has been uncovered on the shores of the seaside town with genuine Roman history. On the cliffs above the work sits the remains of a Roman signal station, and the mosaic is fragmented and inaccurate as if made from memory rather than a photograph, generating a sense of authenticity. “In 100 years’ time – or whenever – when this is all underwater and it is rediscovered, someone will think ‘Fuck, there was a Roman villa here,’” says Deller.

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This irresistible love story braids the personal and the political – from Brexit to who gets to use the spare room as an office

There are not many romantic novels that include Brexit, Boris Johnson’s ICU stay and the “Edstone”. Then again, not many political novels begin with a classic meet-cute. Jessica Stanley’s UK debut, Consider Yourself Kissed, is – to misquote Dorothy L Sayers – either a political story with romantic interludes, or a romance novel with political interludes. It is also the kind of book that, for a certain kind of reader, will immediately become a treasure.

That meet-cute, then: Coralie, a young Australian copywriter, and Adam, a single dad, swap homes for a single night. Adam looks like a shorter, younger Colin Firth; Coralie waits in vain for him to tell her that she looks “like Lizzy Bennet, a known fact at school”. Coralie considers Adam’s neat bookcase of political biographies, including – to her joy – those of Australian politicians. Adam considers Coralie’s piles of “those green-spine books by women”. They fall in love, books-first, fairly instantly. And the reader who knows immediately that battered green spines mean Virago Press, and that what is being implied by Coralie’s careful collection is key to not just her character, but the character of this novel as a whole – that reader will also be irresistibly, hopelessly in love by chapter three. (If this meet-cute does nothing for you, you’re in the wrong place.)

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In this warm documentary, three siblings clear out their enormously grand childhood home in Oxfordshire where among the happy memories are those of cruelty

This warm, gentle documentary from Suzanne Raes is about a family – and a family home – that might have interested Nancy Mitford or Wes Anderson. Maybe it takes a non-British film-maker to appreciate such intense and unfashionable Englishness; not eccentric exactly, but wayward and romantic. It is about a trio of middle-aged siblings’ from the Impey family who take on the overpoweringly sad duty of clearing out their enormously grand childhood home in Oxfordshire. The huge medieval manor house Cumnor Place, with its dozens of chimneys, mysterious rooms and staircases was bought by their late mother, the neuroscientist Jane Impey (née Mellanby), with the proceeds of the sale in 1966 of a postcard-sized but hugely valuable painting, Rogier van der Weyden’s Saint George and the Dragon .

Impey died in 2021 and her husband, author and antiquarian Oliver Impey, died in 2005; this left their grownup children with the task of coming to terms with the memory of growing up in what is clearly an extraordinary place. It is magical and chaotic, haunted by these two dominating personalities, full of books, papers, paintings (who knows if there is another one that might be as valuable as the one Mrs Impey sold to buy the place?), huge grounds with a swimming pool, bizarre objects and items everywhere which speak of Oliver Impey’s preoccupation with the image of the dragon.

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Tate Modern, London
The Korean conceptualist invites us into all the spaces he’s lived in, re-created full-size in paper, polyester and fabric. It’s a bit like a vast portrait made in Homebase

Home is where the art is for Do Ho Suh. The Korean conceptualist has spent his career ruminating on and exploring the places we live in, creating ghostly, beautiful facsimiles of the houses and apartments he’s called home.

And now those fragile, wispy, delicate buildings have been transported and rebuilt in the middle of Tate Modern. A traditional Korean hanok house looms over you as you enter. It’s not made of bricks and mortar or wood and screws, but paper, carefully wrapped around the artist’s childhood home and rubbed with graphite, exposing the texture of the material beneath. The paper is yellowed and mildewed from months of being left exposed to the elements, but it has survived as a sort of memorial: to childhood, architecture, migration, the past.

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Museums in Belfast, Cardiff, Perth, Warwickshire and County Durham compete for £120,000 Art Fund Museum of the Year award

Five UK museums, all “alive with ideas and energy”, in Belfast, Cardiff, Perth, Warwickshire and County Durham are to compete for the world’s largest prize given to a museum.

The Art Fund Museum of the Year prize offers the winner a gamechanging prize of £120,000, with £15,000 going to each of the other finalists.

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Belfast rappers post apology to families of David Amess and Jo Cox after footage emerges of apparent call to kill MPs

Kneecap have apologised to the families of murdered MPs David Amess and Jo Cox after footage emerged in which the Irish-language rappers purportedly call for politicians to be killed.

Criticism of the group has been mounting – including from Downing Street and the Conservative leader of the opposition, Kemi Badenoch – since a video emerged from a November 2023 gig appearing to show one person from the group saying: “The only good Tory is a dead Tory. Kill your local MP.”

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The Patrick Melrose author brings his trademark dark wit and flinty compassion to this wide-ranging sequel

Edward St Aubyn’s previous novel, 2021’s Double Blind , was something of a challenge even for his devotees. Leaving aside the usual gripe that he is never quite as compelling without the shield of his authorial alter ego Patrick Melrose, the obsessive nature of the book’s inquiry into bioethics, narcosis, psychotherapy, oncology, venture capitalism and inheritance made too heady a cocktail to be more than sipped, a few pages at a time. I struggled with it until the very last scene, a charity bash where a schizophrenic young man takes his first terrified steps in employment as a waiter and happens upon a woman who, unknown to both, is intimately related to him. Their chance encounter was intensely moving and tautly suspenseful – you felt an immediate longing to know what would befall them.

That longing is now answered in Parallel Lines, which picks up the narrative five years later and reintroduces its cast of interestingly troubled characters. Francis, a botanist pursuing a rewilding project on a Sussex country estate, has now joined an NGO in Ecuador trying to save the Amazonian rainforest. He’s also raising a son with his wife, Olivia, a writer producing a radio series on natural disasters and wondering whether Francis can resist the amorous lures of his philanthropist boss. Olivia’s best friend, Lucy, is in the throes of treatment for a brain tumour, the traumatic reverberations from which have forced her boyfriend – wild man plutocrat and drug fiend Hunter – to seek refuge with “compassion burnout” at an Italian monastery, where he’s hosted by a gentle abbot, Guido.

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A poetic new exhibition of dreamlike black and white images captures the country’s contemplative beauty, from lonely Torii gates to sprawling temple trees

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Sweet documentary about Sean DeLear, of LA punk band Glue, who never landed a major record deal but was famous among celebrities

That’s Sean DeLear, pronounced like “chandelier”, born Anthony Robertson in 1964. You probably haven’t heard of him: DeLear was the lead singer of a band called Glue on the underground post-punk scene in Los Angeles in the 1980s and 90s. On stage, he performed in drag, singing punk songs dressed like a 1960s go-do dancer in cute little dresses. The band never landed a major record deal, and DeLear died from cancer in 2017 . This sweet, scrappy documentary has been lovingly put together by his friend Markus Zizenbacher.

It’s not the first posthumous attempt at recognition for DeLear. In 2023, his teenage diary, written in 1979, was published under the title I Could Not Believe It. Extracts of this queer black memoir are read here on the voiceover – and they are glorious. Even aged 14 years old, living with his Christian parents in a conservative suburb of Los Angeles, DeLear was proudly, joyfully gay, though this was before the terror of Aids. The interviews in the film with his mum and brother, an evangelical pastor, feel a little bit thin; his family accepted his sexuality, they say, but not much else.

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