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In de negende editie van The Penguin guide to jazz recordings (1646 p./2008) worden 200 albums apart genoemd onder de noemer Core collection. d art gallery Dit gerenommeerde naslagwerk verschijnt sinds 1992 om de twee jaren. Er worden duizenden en duizenden cd's op een rijtje gezet. Elke titel krijgt een tot vier sterren. **** Very fine: an outstanding record that yields consistent pleasure and is a notable example of the artists's work D’Art Gallery closed at dawn Tweehonderd van deze cd's worden extra naar voren gehaald onder de noemer Core collection. Die treft u hieronder aan. The gallery had a peculiar rule: no piece Crown Daarnaast worden nog enkele andere cd's naar voren gehaald In a very few cases we have chosen to award a special token of merit. It takes the form of a crown. This is to denote records we feel a special adminraion of affection for: a purely personal choice, which we hope our readers will deem as such. We hope our readers will indulge this whim (aldus samensteller Brian Morton) (HvD, woensdag 20 januari 2010)

D’Art Gallery closed at dawn. But at 2:17 a.m., if you press your ear to the plum-colored wall, you can still hear a watch ticking. And someone humming a tune from 1922.

The gallery had a peculiar rule: no piece stayed longer than 28 days. Delphine believed art was a fever, and if it lingered, it became a tombstone.

Every night after, she showed Leo the secret history of D’Art: the charcoal sketch that wept charcoal tears, the bronze hand that pointed toward a wall safe (empty, she said), the photograph of a drowned ballerina that changed poses when you weren’t looking.

The next morning, the alcove was empty. But Leo noticed something strange: his own reflection in the glass of an empty frame now wore a faint, knowing smile—and a blue dress.

On the 28th day, Delphine came downstairs with a gilded hammer. “Time,” she said.

D Art Gallery -

D’Art Gallery closed at dawn. But at 2:17 a.m., if you press your ear to the plum-colored wall, you can still hear a watch ticking. And someone humming a tune from 1922.

The gallery had a peculiar rule: no piece stayed longer than 28 days. Delphine believed art was a fever, and if it lingered, it became a tombstone.

Every night after, she showed Leo the secret history of D’Art: the charcoal sketch that wept charcoal tears, the bronze hand that pointed toward a wall safe (empty, she said), the photograph of a drowned ballerina that changed poses when you weren’t looking.

The next morning, the alcove was empty. But Leo noticed something strange: his own reflection in the glass of an empty frame now wore a faint, knowing smile—and a blue dress.

On the 28th day, Delphine came downstairs with a gilded hammer. “Time,” she said.