Verso: An Art History Podcast

In 17th century Rome, architecture wasn't just art, it was power. The Catholic Church was fighting to reassert its authority over a changing world, and the artists who could build something transcendent enough to make people believe were the most valuable people in the city. Two men defined that moment more than anyone else: Gianlorenzo Bernini, the charming, theatrical papal favorite who understood the game instinctively, and Francesco Borromini, the brooding geometric genius who refused to play it. They worked together, fell apart, and spent the next four decades locked in one of the most consequential rivalries in art history, one that would shape the Rome we know today and raise a question that still doesn't have a clean answer: does it matter how good you are, if you don't know how to work the room?

Part One covers their origins, their years together at St. Peter's, and the moment the Baldacchino — one of the most celebrated works of art in the world — became the fault line between them. It also covers a crowbar, a razor, and the kind of papal favor that makes attempted murder disappear.

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You know Vincent van Gogh: Sunflowers. Starry nights. The guy who cut off his ear. One of the most famous artists in history.
But you probably don't know Jo van Gogh-Bonger, the woman who made him famous.
When Jo's husband Theo died in 1891 after just twenty-one months of marriage, she was left with a baby, no income, and hundreds of paintings that critics called "nearly vulgar." She had zero art world experience. Male dealers dismissed her as a grieving amateur. Her own brother was embarrassed to ask her permission to sell paintings.
So Jo did what the experts told her was impossible: She spent the next thirty-five years turning Vincent van Gogh into the most famous artist in the world. Not by pretending to be an expert, but by trusting instincts the art world didn't have, and creating a template for the modern "struggling" artist in the process.

In February 1974, a young artist named Tony Shafrazi walked into the Museum of Modern Art, pulled out a can of cherry-red spray paint, and wrote "KILL LIES ALL" across Picasso's Guernica—the most famous antiwar painting in the world.
His act made headlines, exactly as he'd planned. But was it protest or publicity stunt? Political intervention or narcissistic vandalism? And how did the man who defaced a masterpiece go on to become one of the most powerful art dealers of the 1980s, launching the careers of Keith Haring and Jean-Michel Basquiat?
This episode tells the story of Tony Shafrazi's impossible comeback and asks: can political art survive institutionalization? What happens when protest becomes a museum artifact? And fifty years later, as climate activists throw soup at van Gogh, what can Shafrazi's act teach us about the limits—and endurance—of art that tries to change the world?

Content Warning: Discussion of suicide

In 1970, Abstract Expressionist painter Mark Rothko was found dead in his New York studio, leaving behind nearly 800 paintings worth millions. Within weeks, his executors—including his trusted accountant Bernard Reis—had signed contracts turning over his entire life's work to the Marlborough Gallery under terms that would shock the art world.
What followed was one of the most dramatic legal battles in art history, as Rothko's 19-year-old daughter Kate fought to expose a conspiracy that reached from Manhattan to Liechtenstein. The case would reveal how the very systems Rothko created to protect his legacy became the weapons used to exploit it.
This is the story of how an artist's deepest fears about the art market came true after his death—and how one young woman's fight for justice exposed the mechanisms of power, greed, and betrayal that still define the art world today.

Adolf Hitler believed the Ghent Altarpiece contained a coded map to supernatural relics that would grant him power. He and Hermann Göring competed to possess it. They built a state-of-the-art storage facility a mile underground in an Austrian salt mine to house it alongside 6,577 other stolen paintings—works by Michelangelo, Vermeer, Rembrandt, Rubens, and, most importantly, Van Eyck.
Then, in April 1945, SS soldiers placed bombs in the mine. Six 500-kilogram aircraft bombs positioned to collapse the entire facility and bury everything inside.
What happened next involved a toothache in a small German town; four Austrian double agents parachuting onto the wrong mountain; a Nazi collaborator who helped the Allies, then killed his family; competing resistance groups who all claimed credit for the rescue; and a storm that nearly prevented the painting from making it home.
This episode explores what happens when obsession becomes industrial-scale plunder, and how the Ghent Altarpiece survived not because of perfect heroism, but because chaos eventually undoes even the most organized theft.