The Moco Museum in London assembles an enviable roster of late-20th-century cultural heavyweights: Banksy, Warhol, Emin, Basquiat, Haring, etc.
On paper, such a line-up ought to radiate urgency, wit, and the frisson of artistic risk. In situ, however, the experience is oddly inert — less a gathering of vital provocateurs than a tableau of hustlers, lingering on a street corner long after their work has been codified, packaged, and sold.
This inertia is not rooted in the intrinsic quality of the works, or indeed the artist themselves, but within Moco’s tightly curated, boutique-style environment, the edge is blunted. Warhol’s prints, originally a calculated affront to distinctions between art and commerce, now appear as well-worn brand assets, their iconography as familiar — and as unthreatening — as the consumer products they once critiqued.
Similarly, Tracey Emin’s confessional works, initially brimming with the intensity of public vulnerability in this setting feel as a predictable as a drunk uncle retelling stories at a family gathering. Basquiat’s canvases, infused with graffiti influences and a sense of urban immediacy, are diminished to mere high-value décor, their socio-political significance overshadowed by the mitigating effects of wall text and carefully orchestrated lighting.
Banksy’s inclusion underscores the paradox. His practice depends upon context — the unmediated encounter on a city street, the intervention into public space — to function as political commentary. Here they are divorced from site and circumstance, the work shifts register: from subversive gesture to collectible commodity. The transaction becomes aestheticised rebellion, stripped of consequence.
The result is a museum experience that frames radicalism within a safe, consumable format. It invites visitors to encounter these figures not as insurgents within the cultural field, but as fixed points in a canon that has already been stabilised for mass circulation. The presentation favours recognisability over confrontation, producing an environment in which dissent has been fully domesticated.
What emerges is a broader institutional question: can works born of defiance retain their potency within the commercial and museological apparatus that ultimately validates them? Moco’s exhibition suggests that, once integrated into the art-market economy, even the most oppositional practices risk becoming part of the very system they once sought to disrupt.
If Moco’s upper floors feel like a nostalgic playlist on shuffle, the basement is a live wire. Go for that head to the basement for the Marina Abramović collection. Abramović’s work resists embalming because it was never about static images or neat objects. It is about endurance, presence, and the unmediated exchange between artist and audience. Even when translated into photographs, videos, and documentation, her performances retain a charge — the sense that something visceral, uncomfortable, and unpredictable once took place. The gaze still meets you. The tension still hums in the air. You can’t domesticate the feeling of holding another person’s gaze for minutes at a time. There is no easy reproduction, no endlessly shareable clip that captures the weight of the moment.
Standard tickets £25 with concessions for students, over 65s, etc.
1954–1960: Fragile Democracy, Deep Divides – Brazil’s path to the 1964 military coup began a decade earlier. In August 1954, President Getúlio Vargas, accused by conservative forces of corruption and communist sympathies, took his own life rather than resign. His death deepened political polarisation, as populist and conservative forces clashed over the country’s direction. Successive governments wrestled with balancing industrial growth, social reform, and elite resistance, while the military quietly consolidated influence behind the scenes.
1961: The Goulart Presidency and Early Opposition– When President Jânio Quadros abruptly resigned in 1961, Vice President João Goulart (Jango) — a left-leaning ally of workers and unions — was next in line. The military tried to block his succession, fearing his ties to socialism. A compromise was reached: Goulart could assume office under a temporary parliamentary system that reduced his powers, which were restored in a 1963 plebiscite.
1961–1963: Reform vs. Reaction – Goulart proposed sweeping Basic Reforms (Reformas de Base): land redistribution, expanded education, progressive tax changes, and more rights for workers. These reforms alarmed Brazil’s agrarian oligarchs, industrial elites, and conservative politicians, who saw them as a direct threat to their wealth and influence. Inflation soared above 70%, the economy slowed, and strikes multiplied, fuelling fears of instability.
Meanwhile, cultural life was deeply engaged in the political moment. Student groups like the União Nacional dos Estudantes (UNE) staged plays and rallies supporting reform. Theatre companies such as Teatro de Arena and Teatro Oficina used allegory to critique inequality, and Cinema Novo filmmakers like Glauber Rocha produced works blending social realism with political commentary. Musicians including Chico Buarque, Caetano Veloso, and Gilberto Gil — then early in their careers — began weaving subtle critiques of injustice into their songs.
1962–1964: Cold War Pressures and the Propaganda Offensive – The Cuban Revolution (1959) had made Washington hypersensitive to any leftward shift in Latin America. Through the CIA and State Department, the United States channelled covert funds to Brazilian opposition politicians, student groups, and media outlets. Business elites and the Catholic Church amplified this message at home, portraying Goulart as a dangerous radical bent on “Cubanising” Brazil.
By early 1964, the cultural sphere was part of this propaganda war. Artists, intellectuals, and student leaders who supported reform were depicted in conservative newspapers and radio programs as communist agitators.
March 1964: Confrontation – On March 13, 1964, Goulart addressed a massive rally in Rio de Janeiro, announcing land reform decrees and the nationalisation of oil refineries. To his supporters, it was a bold step toward social justice. To his enemies, it was confirmation of their fears.
Six days later, on March 19, São Paulo hosted the Marcha da Família com Deus pela Liberdade (“March of the Family with God for Liberty”), drawing hundreds of thousands. Organised by conservative women’s groups, funded by business associations, blessed by the Catholic Church, and amplified by media outlets, it became a powerful public display against Goulart.
March 31–April 1, 1964: The Coup – On the night of March 31, General Olímpio Mourão Filho led troops from Minas Gerais toward Rio de Janeiro. Other military units quickly joined. The United States initiated Operation Brother Sam, dispatching a naval task force with fuel, arms, and logistical support in case the coup met resistance.
With little opposition, Goulart fled to Porto Alegre and then into exile in Uruguay. On April 2, Congress declared the presidency vacant. Within days, General Castelo Branco assumed power, marking the start of 21 years of military rule.
April–December 1964 Cultural Life Under the New Regime – The military quickly moved against perceived sources of dissent:
The UNE headquarters in Rio was raided and burned.
Leftist student leaders were arrested or went underground.
Artists were placed under surveillance, with intelligence files opened on musicians, playwrights, filmmakers, and authors.
Public performances now required approval from government censors.
While the harshest repression came later (especially after Institutional Act No. 5 in 1968), this early period already reshaped cultural expression. Some artists went silent or into exile, others tempered their work to avoid trouble, and many turned to metaphor, coded language, and allegory to evade censorship.
Musicians used duplo sentido (double meanings) to slip political critique into popular songs. Theatre leaned toward historical parallels and absurdism. Underground student theatre troupes staged performances in private spaces, keeping resistance alive.
The 1964 coup silenced some voices and radicalised others. It fractured Brazil’s artistic community but also laid the groundwork for a decade of creative resistance — from the Tropicália movement to protest songs and politically charged theatre — that would keep challenging the dictatorship, even under the most repressive conditions.
Irregular Frequencies 