On an unsuspecting street in west London, between a snaking trail of newsagents, restaurants and a row of modern houses braced with dark, wood-stained panels, stands the studio of British photographer Mary McCartney. In person, McCartney – who greets me warmly, buoyant in step and sensibility – emits a calm vibrancy, a quality that instinctively manifests in her work.
Should one wish to be reminded of her extensive repertoire, they need only to scour the walls of the…
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