Text for question.

Barbara Dawson, director of the Hugh Lane Gallery in Dublin, remembers very clearly the day in 1997 when she climbed the steep stairs and entered Francis Bacon’s studio at 7 Reece Mews, South Kensington. It had been left the way it was when he passed away, on April 28 1992, and it was a chaos of slashed canvases, paint-splashed walls, cloths, brushes, champagne boxes, and a large mirror. She stood and stared for a long time, in a kind of incredulity, “and actually it became quite beautiful.” She began to see “paths cut through it,” and details. “The last unfinished painting was on the easel when I went in there, and on the floor underneath the easel was a short article on George Michael, the singer, about how he liked to be photographed from one side. It was like looking into somebody’s mind”.

7 Reece Mews was tiny, and apart from the studio consisted of two rooms — a kitchen that contained a bath, and a living room that doubled as a bedroom. The studio had one skylight, and Bacon usually worked there in the mornings. He tried to paint elsewhere — in South Africa, for example, when he was visiting family, but couldn’t. (Too much light, was the rather surprising objection.) He liked the size and general frugality, too.

Dawson recognised that the studio was the making of Bacon’s art in a more profound sense than just being a comfortable space to paint in, and determined that it should not be dismantled. John Edwards, to whom Bacon had bequeathed Reece Mews, felt similarly, and after months of painstaking cataloguing by archaeologists, conservators and photographers, the Hugh Lane Gallery took delivery of the studio, in 1998. It was opened to the public in 2001.

What is visible now, in a climate-controlled corner of the gallery, a gracious neo-classical building on Parnell Square in Dublin, is in fact a kind of faithful “skin” of objects; the tables and chairs have all been returned to their original places, the work surfaces seem as cluttered as they were — but the deep stuff, the bedrock, has been removed and is kept in climate-controlled archival areas. In the end, there were 7,500 items — samples of painting materials, photographs, slashed canvasses, umpteen handwritten notes, drawings, books, champagne boxes.

Bacon was homosexual at a time when it was still illegal, and while he was open about his sexuality, his notes for prospective paintings refer to “bed[s] of crime]”, and his homosexuality was felt as an affliction, says Dawson. It wasn’t easy. The sense of guilt is apparent in his work, as well as his fascination with violence. “His collections of pictures, dead bodies, or depictions of violence — he’s not looking at violence from the classic liberal position”. It was all, concedes Dawson, accompanied by intellectual rigour, and an insistent attempt at objectivity — “he’s trying to detach from himself as well.”

Everything was grist, and in his studio even his own art fed other art. He returned to his own work obsessively, repeating and augmenting. And of course, he responded negatively — and violently — as well as positively; a hundred is a lot of slashed canvasses to keep around you when you’re working, especially when they are so deliberately slashed. In a way, all this might serve as a metaphor for the importance of our understanding of his studio as a whole.

Aida Edemarian. Francis Bacon: box of tricks. Internet: <www.theguardian.com> (adapted).

According to the text and in reference to Bacon’s studio, decide whether the statement below are right (C) or wrong (E).

Text for question.

Barbara Dawson, director of the Hugh Lane Gallery in Dublin, remembers very clearly the day in 1997 when she climbed the steep stairs and entered Francis Bacon’s studio at 7 Reece Mews, South Kensington. It had been left the way it was when he passed away, on April 28 1992, and it was a chaos of slashed canvases, paint-splashed walls, cloths, brushes, champagne boxes, and a large mirror. She stood and stared for a long time, in a kind of incredulity, “and actually it became quite beautiful.” She began to see “paths cut through it,” and details. “The last unfinished painting was on the easel when I went in there, and on the floor underneath the easel was a short article on George Michael, the singer, about how he liked to be photographed from one side. It was like looking into somebody’s mind”.

7 Reece Mews was tiny, and apart from the studio consisted of two rooms — a kitchen that contained a bath, and a living room that doubled as a bedroom. The studio had one skylight, and Bacon usually worked there in the mornings. He tried to paint elsewhere — in South Africa, for example, when he was visiting family, but couldn’t. (Too much light, was the rather surprising objection.) He liked the size and general frugality, too.

Dawson recognised that the studio was the making of Bacon’s art in a more profound sense than just being a comfortable space to paint in, and determined that it should not be dismantled. John Edwards, to whom Bacon had bequeathed Reece Mews, felt similarly, and after months of painstaking cataloguing by archaeologists, conservators and photographers, the Hugh Lane Gallery took delivery of the studio, in 1998. It was opened to the public in 2001.

What is visible now, in a climate-controlled corner of the gallery, a gracious neo-classical building on Parnell Square in Dublin, is in fact a kind of faithful “skin” of objects; the tables and chairs have all been returned to their original places, the work surfaces seem as cluttered as they were — but the deep stuff, the bedrock, has been removed and is kept in climate-controlled archival areas. In the end, there were 7,500 items — samples of painting materials, photographs, slashed canvasses, umpteen handwritten notes, drawings, books, champagne boxes.

Bacon was homosexual at a time when it was still illegal, and while he was open about his sexuality, his notes for prospective paintings refer to “bed[s] of crime]”, and his homosexuality was felt as an affliction, says Dawson. It wasn’t easy. The sense of guilt is apparent in his work, as well as his fascination with violence. “His collections of pictures, dead bodies, or depictions of violence — he’s not looking at violence from the classic liberal position”. It was all, concedes Dawson, accompanied by intellectual rigour, and an insistent attempt at objectivity — “he’s trying to detach from himself as well.”

Everything was grist, and in his studio even his own art fed other art. He returned to his own work obsessively, repeating and augmenting. And of course, he responded negatively — and violently — as well as positively; a hundred is a lot of slashed canvasses to keep around you when you’re working, especially when they are so deliberately slashed. In a way, all this might serve as a metaphor for the importance of our understanding of his studio as a whole.

Aida Edemarian. Francis Bacon: box of tricks. Internet: <www.theguardian.com> (adapted).

According to the text and in reference to Bacon’s studio, decide whether the statement below are right (C) or wrong (E).

Bacon’s original studio was transplanted and reassembled in the Irish capital city.

Text for question.

Barbara Dawson, director of the Hugh Lane Gallery in Dublin, remembers very clearly the day in 1997 when she climbed the steep stairs and entered Francis Bacon’s studio at 7 Reece Mews, South Kensington. It had been left the way it was when he passed away, on April 28 1992, and it was a chaos of slashed canvases, paint-splashed walls, cloths, brushes, champagne boxes, and a large mirror. She stood and stared for a long time, in a kind of incredulity, “and actually it became quite beautiful.” She began to see “paths cut through it,” and details. “The last unfinished painting was on the easel when I went in there, and on the floor underneath the easel was a short article on George Michael, the singer, about how he liked to be photographed from one side. It was like looking into somebody’s mind”.

7 Reece Mews was tiny, and apart from the studio consisted of two rooms — a kitchen that contained a bath, and a living room that doubled as a bedroom. The studio had one skylight, and Bacon usually worked there in the mornings. He tried to paint elsewhere — in South Africa, for example, when he was visiting family, but couldn’t. (Too much light, was the rather surprising objection.) He liked the size and general frugality, too.

Dawson recognised that the studio was the making of Bacon’s art in a more profound sense than just being a comfortable space to paint in, and determined that it should not be dismantled. John Edwards, to whom Bacon had bequeathed Reece Mews, felt similarly, and after months of painstaking cataloguing by archaeologists, conservators and photographers, the Hugh Lane Gallery took delivery of the studio, in 1998. It was opened to the public in 2001.

What is visible now, in a climate-controlled corner of the gallery, a gracious neo-classical building on Parnell Square in Dublin, is in fact a kind of faithful “skin” of objects; the tables and chairs have all been returned to their original places, the work surfaces seem as cluttered as they were — but the deep stuff, the bedrock, has been removed and is kept in climate-controlled archival areas. In the end, there were 7,500 items — samples of painting materials, photographs, slashed canvasses, umpteen handwritten notes, drawings, books, champagne boxes.

Bacon was homosexual at a time when it was still illegal, and while he was open about his sexuality, his notes for prospective paintings refer to “bed[s] of crime]”, and his homosexuality was felt as an affliction, says Dawson. It wasn’t easy. The sense of guilt is apparent in his work, as well as his fascination with violence. “His collections of pictures, dead bodies, or depictions of violence — he’s not looking at violence from the classic liberal position”. It was all, concedes Dawson, accompanied by intellectual rigour, and an insistent attempt at objectivity — “he’s trying to detach from himself as well.”

Everything was grist, and in his studio even his own art fed other art. He returned to his own work obsessively, repeating and augmenting. And of course, he responded negatively — and violently — as well as positively; a hundred is a lot of slashed canvasses to keep around you when you’re working, especially when they are so deliberately slashed. In a way, all this might serve as a metaphor for the importance of our understanding of his studio as a whole.

Aida Edemarian. Francis Bacon: box of tricks. Internet: <www.theguardian.com> (adapted).

Text for question.

Barbara Dawson, director of the Hugh Lane Gallery in Dublin, remembers very clearly the day in 1997 when she climbed the steep stairs and entered Francis Bacon’s studio at 7 Reece Mews, South Kensington. It had been left the way it was when he passed away, on April 28 1992, and it was a chaos of slashed canvases, paint-splashed walls, cloths, brushes, champagne boxes, and a large mirror. She stood and stared for a long time, in a kind of incredulity, “and actually it became quite beautiful.” She began to see “paths cut through it,” and details. “The last unfinished painting was on the easel when I went in there, and on the floor underneath the easel was a short article on George Michael, the singer, about how he liked to be photographed from one side. It was like looking into somebody’s mind”.

7 Reece Mews was tiny, and apart from the studio consisted of two rooms — a kitchen that contained a bath, and a living room that doubled as a bedroom. The studio had one skylight, and Bacon usually worked there in the mornings. He tried to paint elsewhere — in South Africa, for example, when he was visiting family, but couldn’t. (Too much light, was the rather surprising objection.) He liked the size and general frugality, too.

Dawson recognised that the studio was the making of Bacon’s art in a more profound sense than just being a comfortable space to paint in, and determined that it should not be dismantled. John Edwards, to whom Bacon had bequeathed Reece Mews, felt similarly, and after months of painstaking cataloguing by archaeologists, conservators and photographers, the Hugh Lane Gallery took delivery of the studio, in 1998. It was opened to the public in 2001.

What is visible now, in a climate-controlled corner of the gallery, a gracious neo-classical building on Parnell Square in Dublin, is in fact a kind of faithful “skin” of objects; the tables and chairs have all been returned to their original places, the work surfaces seem as cluttered as they were — but the deep stuff, the bedrock, has been removed and is kept in climate-controlled archival areas. In the end, there were 7,500 items — samples of painting materials, photographs, slashed canvasses, umpteen handwritten notes, drawings, books, champagne boxes.

Bacon was homosexual at a time when it was still illegal, and while he was open about his sexuality, his notes for prospective paintings refer to “bed[s] of crime]”, and his homosexuality was felt as an affliction, says Dawson. It wasn’t easy. The sense of guilt is apparent in his work, as well as his fascination with violence. “His collections of pictures, dead bodies, or depictions of violence — he’s not looking at violence from the classic liberal position”. It was all, concedes Dawson, accompanied by intellectual rigour, and an insistent attempt at objectivity — “he’s trying to detach from himself as well.”

Everything was grist, and in his studio even his own art fed other art. He returned to his own work obsessively, repeating and augmenting. And of course, he responded negatively — and violently — as well as positively; a hundred is a lot of slashed canvasses to keep around you when you’re working, especially when they are so deliberately slashed. In a way, all this might serve as a metaphor for the importance of our understanding of his studio as a whole.

Aida Edemarian. Francis Bacon: box of tricks. Internet: <www.theguardian.com> (adapted).

Text for question.

Barbara Dawson, director of the Hugh Lane Gallery in Dublin, remembers very clearly the day in 1997 when she climbed the steep stairs and entered Francis Bacon’s studio at 7 Reece Mews, South Kensington. It had been left the way it was when he passed away, on April 28 1992, and it was a chaos of slashed canvases, paint-splashed walls, cloths, brushes, champagne boxes, and a large mirror. She stood and stared for a long time, in a kind of incredulity, “and actually it became quite beautiful.” She began to see “paths cut through it,” and details. “The last unfinished painting was on the easel when I went in there, and on the floor underneath the easel was a short article on George Michael, the singer, about how he liked to be photographed from one side. It was like looking into somebody’s mind”.

7 Reece Mews was tiny, and apart from the studio consisted of two rooms — a kitchen that contained a bath, and a living room that doubled as a bedroom. The studio had one skylight, and Bacon usually worked there in the mornings. He tried to paint elsewhere — in South Africa, for example, when he was visiting family, but couldn’t. (Too much light, was the rather surprising objection.) He liked the size and general frugality, too.

Dawson recognised that the studio was the making of Bacon’s art in a more profound sense than just being a comfortable space to paint in, and determined that it should not be dismantled. John Edwards, to whom Bacon had bequeathed Reece Mews, felt similarly, and after months of painstaking cataloguing by archaeologists, conservators and photographers, the Hugh Lane Gallery took delivery of the studio, in 1998. It was opened to the public in 2001.

What is visible now, in a climate-controlled corner of the gallery, a gracious neo-classical building on Parnell Square in Dublin, is in fact a kind of faithful “skin” of objects; the tables and chairs have all been returned to their original places, the work surfaces seem as cluttered as they were — but the deep stuff, the bedrock, has been removed and is kept in climate-controlled archival areas. In the end, there were 7,500 items — samples of painting materials, photographs, slashed canvasses, umpteen handwritten notes, drawings, books, champagne boxes.

Bacon was homosexual at a time when it was still illegal, and while he was open about his sexuality, his notes for prospective paintings refer to “bed[s] of crime]”, and his homosexuality was felt as an affliction, says Dawson. It wasn’t easy. The sense of guilt is apparent in his work, as well as his fascination with violence. “His collections of pictures, dead bodies, or depictions of violence — he’s not looking at violence from the classic liberal position”. It was all, concedes Dawson, accompanied by intellectual rigour, and an insistent attempt at objectivity — “he’s trying to detach from himself as well.”

Everything was grist, and in his studio even his own art fed other art. He returned to his own work obsessively, repeating and augmenting. And of course, he responded negatively — and violently — as well as positively; a hundred is a lot of slashed canvasses to keep around you when you’re working, especially when they are so deliberately slashed. In a way, all this might serve as a metaphor for the importance of our understanding of his studio as a whole.

Aida Edemarian. Francis Bacon: box of tricks. Internet: <www.theguardian.com> (adapted).

Text for question.

Most of the recent scholarly works on the evolution of diplomacy highlight the added complexity in which “states and other international actors communicate, negotiate and otherwise interact” in the 21st century. Diplomacy has to take into account “the crazy-quilt nature of modern interdependence”. Decision-making on the international stage involves what has been depicted as “two level games” or “double-edged diplomacy”. With accentuated forms of globalization the scope of diplomacy as the “engine room” of International Relations has moved beyond the traditional core concerns to encompass a myriad set of issue areas. And the boundaries of participation in diplomacy — and the very definition of diplomats — have broadened as well, albeit in a still contested fashion. In a variety of ways, therefore, not only its methods but also its objectives are far more expansive than ever before.

Yet, while the theme of complexity radiates through the pages of this book, changed circumstances and the stretching of form, scope, and intensity do not only produce fragmentation but centralization in terms of purposive acts. Amid the larger debates about the diversity of principals, agents, and intermediaries, the space in modern diplomacy for leadership by personalities at the apex of power has expanded. At odds with the counter-image of horizontal breadth with an open-ended nature, the dynamic of 21st-century diplomacy remains highly vertically oriented and individual-centric.

To showcase this phenomenon, however, is no to suggest ossification. In terms of causation, the dependence on leaders is largely a reaction to complexity. With the shift to multi-party, multi-channel, multi-issue negotiations, with domestic as well as international interests and values in play, leaders are often the only actors who can cut through the complexity and make the necessary trade-offs to allow deadlocks to be broken. In terms of communication and other modes of representation, bringing in leaders differentiates and elevates issues from the bureaucratic arena.

In terms of effect, the primacy of leaders reinforces elements of both club and network diplomacy. In its most visible manifestation via summit diplomacy, the image of club diplomacy explicitly differentiates the status and role of insiders and outsiders and thus the hierarchical nature of diplomacy. Although “large teams of representatives” are involved in this central form of international practice, it is the “organized performances” of leaders that possess the most salience. At the same time, though, the galvanizing or catalytic dimension of leader-driven diplomacy provides new avenues and legitimation for network diplomacy, with many decisions of summits being outsourced to actors who did not participate at the summit but possess the technical knowledge, institutional credibility, and resources to enhance results.

Andrew F. Cooper. The changing nature of diplomacy. In: Andrew F. Cooper and Jorge Heine. The Oxford Handbook of Modern Diplomacy. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013. p. 36 (adapted).

Each of the fragment from the text presented below is followed by a suggestion of rewriting. Decide whether the suggestion given maintains the meaning, coherence and grammar correction of the text (C) or not (E).