It’s minus four degrees Celsius in Zurich and the pewter lake is as smooth as a fairy-tale mirror, reflecting white swans, white clouds, white snow on charcoal trees, slate-grey church steeples scratching at soft mist and low cloud. The winter world is black and white, muted, subdued, smothered in furs of fog, silent, still; it is a landscape of the interior, a world turned quietly in on itself. Up the hill, at the Kunsthaus, Niki de Saint Phalle’s wild, bodacious, colourful, cheerful, humorous Nanas have taken over, bursting out of the halls of the museum like uncontainable party guests. A carnival of mirror-shards and coloured noise and figures of impossible proportion and scale, all rounded curves – hearts, wings, breasts, bellies; mythical, mystical, fertile, magical – rubbing up against the…
