"Which university did you go to?" asks Sacha Baron Cohen.

I'm taken aback. Not by the question per se, which is a fairly standard enquiry (dogs sniff bottoms, the middle classes compare education - the purpose is the same: to gauge status).

But it is extremely unusual to wheel it out, as Baron Cohen has done, as a conversation opener. It jars. And, paradoxically, it reveals more about the one asking the question than he or she can hope to gain from hearing the answer. I'm suspicious.

Baron Cohen is a clever man (Cambridge University, incidentally) who would not ask such a question without a good reason. Which is why I'm taken aback. Am I his latest fall guy?

It is unusual, too, to interview the comedian as himself. He has not previously given a formal interview to a British broadcaster, preferring instead to appear in character - Ali G, Borat, Bruno and now General Admiral Aladeen in The Dictator.

It's not as if his new film needs extra publicity. It has had some decent reviews and has been "tracking" well as far as advance box office is concerned. So I agree to the interview - offered at very short notice - with some trepidation. This, after all, is a man who has made his name by setting others up.

By the time we meet, I'm in a state of heightened alert. He arrives with a small entourage. Bearded men in checked shirts spread out around the space in which our camera is set up and start to check everything out.

They behave like security guys, avoiding eye contact and any pleasantries. They're PR blokes, Baron Cohen tells me. And then three slightly calmer men, also part of the Baron Cohen posse, wander over for a chat. They, it transpire, are his writers.

His writers? What on earth are they doing at a press interview? I'm used to PRs and make-up artists being in attendance, but I've never known a group of writers to rock up before.

Eventually Baron Cohen emerges and we take up position on a hotel balcony one sunny afternoon in Cannes. He is chatty and likeable and constantly on the look out for the opportunity for a gag - but he is forever popping off to do something.

I wish I could relax and enjoy his company but I can't, especially when he smiles. That mouth, those teeth! It is Ali G. It is Borat. It is deeply unnerving.

I also wish he'd relax.

"Should I wear my sunglasses?" he asks. "No Sacha, they'll make you look shifty."

"My eyes might stream."

"I'll tell you if they do."

And then, just when everything is set and we're about to start…

"I need to go to the loo."

Once again, my suspicions are raised. The writers are surely poised, the cameras hidden: the trap set.

He returns, sits down, and puts his mic back on.

I ask why, when at Cambridge, he wasn't part of his generation's Footlights.

He has just started on a story about how he only chose Cambridge in order to be in the Footlights, but was refused entry because his humour didn't chime with the tradition set by John Cleese et al ("there were lots of jokes about cricket matches," he says), when he picks up a glass of cola and takes a drink.

This ruins the shot. We have to start again. Is it a wind-up?

No, I don't think so. He seems genuinely nervous and inexperienced at being interviewed. Hence the posse - safety in numbers - and the unusual question about which university I went to. (I didn't - "What!" he exclaims, "I thought everybody at the BBC went to Oxbridge.")

Of course he's unduly nervous. Rather like doctors who tend to become hypochondriacs because they see ailments at their most acute, so Baron Cohen is used to interviews in which he seeks to make fools of his subjects.

Once he relaxes, he's open, funny and revealing. He's willing to talk about anything I ask, even - such as his opinion of the United States - when he's slightly contradictory. Unsurprisingly he's at his happiest when telling an anecdote that allows him to slip into one of his characters.

So why has he come as Sacha Baron Cohen?

"When we were doing The Ali G Show and from then onwards, I realised that the moment I went on air and started talking about 'oh yes, I set people up' and there were photos of me, there was a chance the interviewee would withdraw consent.

"It was to protect the comedy and protect the movie. Now I don't really have to that; this [The Dictator] is a different sort of movie."

But why now? In common with all performers, he likes attention, but he gets plenty of that anyway.

Maybe he just fancies giving it go.

Or maybe he's researching his next character…

The most striking are the plans to put more British films in UK cinemas; to promote more variety in cinemas; and to make British films more successful abroad.

It is laudable stuff but there are challenges. How do you get more British films into the foreign-owned multiplexes that make up the vast majority of cinema screens in the UK?

And how do you make British films more popular abroad? Is it about making films more commercial, or is it about making them more avant-garde?

These are really tricky issues.

The panoramic vista is spectacular and it's great to have a fresh perspective on London. But I find the views from the London Eye more memorable and the experience more entertaining.

As an artwork, the Orbit is slightly underwhelming. Kapoor is an extremely talented artist who has made scale the central tenet of his work. Although he's unlikely to say so in public, I suspect privately he wishes the structure was at least 50 per cent bigger than its current 115 metres.

When it comes to this particular piece, size really does matter.

He made the comment at a screening of 56 Up, the eighth episode in the long-running social documentary series.

Apted said that the role of women in Britain was the biggest societal change in the lifespan of the show.

But he and his colleagues had totally "missed it", he remarked.

56 Up is as engaging as the previous seven series.

It brings up to date the stories of a group of ordinary people who are individually unique but collectively represent Everyman.

Taken as a whole, the eight documentaries rank among the finest ever made. And, according to Michael Apted, they are far from finished.

He added that it was the first film he worked on (as a researcher) and it would likely be the last.

To varying degrees, all the characters have enjoyed good times and endured bad times; have won and lost; struggled and succeeded.

As a survey of the British class system, it confirms both that there was one in 1964, and that it is still alive and well in 2012.

But what it really shows us is, that when all is said and done, what really matters to people is friends and family.

Asked if he thought the Jesuit maxim "give me a child until he is seven years and I will show you the man" was borne out by the Up series, Apted said he thought it was.

He added that personality traits evident in the cast when aged seven were still clearly recognisable at 56. Bruce, a maths teacher who said in the very first episode in 1964 that his "heart's desire was to see my daddy", corroborated the director's point of view.

Thirteen of the original 14 characters have taken part in the latest iteration of the series with only one declining to do so. Peter has returned to the fold having opted out after 28 Up due to what he felt was unfair and unnecessarily negative press comment.

He said he did so in part to promote his band: A successful strategy, as it turned out, with several shots of the musicians rehearsing and performing included in the final edit.

Apted felt there were other reasons at play for the on-going collaboration of the cast. He cited the trust shared between his team and the subjects portrayed, and to the participants' loyalty to the project.

He added that he thought it highly unlikely that such a series would be commissioned today.

56 Up will be shown on ITV on Monday 14 May at 21:00 BST

In a world of jittery stock markets and double-dip recessions, top-end artworks have become a reliable and highly desirable investment for the world's super-rich.

There are five factors at play in dictating an artwork's value: rarity, reputation of the artist, confidence in the market, condition of the artwork, and competition for the piece.

It is this last factor that has powered the continued rise in prices. A few years ago Sotheby's would have had bidders from three or four countries, now it's 20 or 30: that's globalisation for you.

The selection of Spartacus Chetwynd is significant. Artists that have a performance aspect to their work have appeared on the shortlist before - Gilbert & George and Mark Lecky for instance - but it is the first time an artist whose practice is centred on performance has been shortlisted.

Chetwynd's nomination is recognition by the jury of the fact that performance art is no longer a fringe activity pursued by the eccentric arm of the avant-garde.

Marina Abramovic's 2010 blockbuster exhibition The Artist Is Present at New York's Museum of Modern Art; and the soon-to-be-opened Tate Tanks at Tate Modern are proof of performance art's arrival at contemporary art's top table.

And from Tuesday the arts will be more accessible to the public when The Space, a new online platform, is launched by Arts Council England and the BBC.

It will showcase a mix of live broadcasts and archive highlights, you can find out more details by watching my report.

Globe to Globe will feature productions, including King Lear performed in Belarusian, Hamlet in Lithuanian and Othello re-interpreted through hip-hop. It is part of the wider London 2012 Festival which ties in with the summer Olympics.

As well as the multi-lingual plays, there will be dozens of Shakespeare productions across the UK.

Directed by Kevin Macdonald, the film looks at how Marley's mixed race made him feel like an outsider until he found music and religion.

This is money you have yet to pay tax on. As a high-earner, you pay at a rate of 50%, which means a £1m gift costs you personally about £500,000 - the other half is taken from your tax bill.

With the current tax relief system, a £1m donation breaks down like this:

Of course, you - as intended - are left with nothing. But then so is the Treasury.

Replay the scene, but with the changes to the charitable tax relief system as proposed by the chancellor in his recent Budget. Of your £1million gift:

Your donation has still personally cost you about £500,000, but the net result is your generous donation is worth a great deal less to the Royal Ballet.

No 10: Rich abuse charity giving

This scenario, unsurprisingly, has upset many state-funded arts institutions. They feel as if they have been let down by the government.

Culture Secretary Jeremy Hunt announced significant cuts to government funding of the arts last year. But he cushioned the blow by saying that both he and the government would do their utmost to encourage more philanthropic giving. In 2011 Mr Hunt launched a Year of Corporate Philanthropy.

It was a well-intentioned initiative. But, by his own admission, the venture was not a success. Corporate giving did not rise during this period; it fell. The arts sector winced. Still, there was always individual giving - private philanthropy - and the culture secretary said he was very keen to support that.

Then last month came the chancellor's budget announcement.

Nobody in the arts that I've spoken to thinks the new tax proposals will have anything but a detrimental effect on philanthropy. Not just in terms of money, but also by discouraging people to give.

George Osborne explained at the time that the changes were to stop the rich offsetting their tax bill by giving to "dodgy" charities. Ministers say they want to end the practice of wealthy people minimising their tax bill - sometimes to zero - by donating to charity. The upshot of these comments, one senior fundraiser told me, was that "the government has changed the perception of philanthropists from generous do-gooders, to greedy tax-evaders".

The government has since announced a formal consultation over plans to limit the tax relief on charitable donations, saying there are "various options on table". And Number 10 has said David Cameron wants to see more charitable giving.

Consequences of the proposed change are worthy of consideration. Let us accept - for the sake of argument - that it is desirable for our arts institutions to operate at their current level in terms of programme and cost. Let us also accept that the amount of money philanthropists have available to give away remains unchanged.

Under these circumstances, the new tax system would leave a deficit in the funding of our arts institutions that would probably fall to the government to cover.

The effect of which would be that the tax-paying population as a whole would be paying more to fund the arts, and the super-rich less. Is that fair? After all, large swathes of the British public don't actually go to the ballet, or the theatre or an art gallery, but wealthy arts enthusiasts do so a great deal.

In the United States, a country Mr Hunt has cited as an exemplar for encouraging philanthropic behaviour, there are generous tax concessions to stimulate individual giving, meaning the rich pay more to play - and the poor less to watch them have fun.

The alternative is to accept that arts institutions will have a reduced income. But that is not without risk, given that the vast majority of philanthropic giving is allocated to the UK's major institutions such as the National Theatre, British Museum and the Tate Gallery.

Over the past decade or so, they have all thrived through investment to become an important part of the country's domestic economy and international reputation. For example, both the British Museum and the Tate are in the top five tourist attractions, while the National Theatre has successful shows running in the West End and on Broadway. All of this activity generates commercial income on which tax is paid.

It is often the additional money given by philanthropists that allows these institutions to take a risk, to put on a show or to add a new facility. It is therefore quite possible that a less well-funded arts sector could end up costing the Treasury and the taxpayer a great deal more money than the small amount of extra revenue generated by changing the rules on charitable giving.

Jeremy Hunt's office would not comment, saying tax is a "Treasury matter".

"Why?" she asks.

"He's always late. Famously so," I answered.

"We have it for three hours - that has to be enough," she says, looking concerned.

"I'm not so sure," I say, blithely knocking back a tasty wheat beer recommended by the attentive waiter at the bar on Spring Street, New York, where we're having our night-before prep talk.

"Oh dear," she exhaled, and finished off her water.

I feel for her. Really. She is one of the BBC's finest news producers: polite and intelligent and determined.

She has produced pieces on war zones and natural disasters, riots and elections, but in one - strange - walk of life she is a total innocent: she has never ever dealt with A-list celebrities.

Booking Bob (as the mission became known) was her job. Redford is coming to London with a three-day version of his Sundance Festival and I wanted to talk to talk to him beforehand to find out why.

A month or so ago his PRs asked if we would be willing to fly out to Utah and meet at his home that doubles up as the location for all things Sundance (film festival, institute, workshops).

"You bet," I replied.

That didn't come off. A week or so later. Would I go to LA? Yes, if I have to. That didn't come off either. And then.

How about New York? Always.

Bob was booked. We had a time (9am), a date (6 March) and a place (the Elizabeth Taylor Suite in the uptown hotel in which Redford was staying).

We arrived early for the interview. We knew we were in for a long wait, but coffee was booked - and, well, it was the Elizabeth Taylor Suite. It was 8:40am.

He was due at 9am. Fat chance. Where the TV trigger?

"He's here."

"What?"

"HE'S HERE."

"He can't be here - it's only 8:45am," I reasoned. "He is ALWAYS late."

"Well, who's that then?' asks my producer in a kinder and more considerate manner than I deserved.

And, true enough, standing in the doorway looking a little bewildered was Robert Redford.

"Hi," he said. "Where do you want me?'

"On the terrace please," said my producer, "but do you mind waiting so we can film you with Will as you walk out?"

"Oh, I see, some b-roll stuff. Sure no problem," replied the Oscar-winning director.

As he made his way over he had a couple of words with his hovering PRs, which was interesting to observe.

You can often gain an insight into a star by the way his or her handlers respond in their presence.

Some are fearful, others tense; a few are colder than the mountains of Utah in winter. Bob's lot were calm but deferential. He knew them. Asked about their family lives. Teased them a bit.

Pleasantries over, he came out to the terrace. I asked if I could call him Bob, he couldn't see a reason why not.

Dressed in a black open-neck shirt, jeans and deck shoes (without socks) he appeared as relaxed as any 75-year-old man could who was about to be subjected to a 45-minute interview before catching a plane to finish cutting a film on the other side of the country.

He chatted away as we walked towards the bar stools set up for the interview, behind which were the castles of commerce that dominate Manhattan's skyline.

As we sat down he thanked me for "coming over" in a way that was beyond platitudinous, it was a display of good manners that I took to be genuine: Redford is a courteous and considerate man.

As we sat down I noticed he moved like a man feeling - if not looking - his age. I wouldn't go as far to say he appeared frail, but nor did he seem physically powerful.

Below the shoulders he is slight, his legs are thin: his hands purplish with liver spots. Above the shoulders is a different story.

His eyes really are electric blue, his hair golden and his weather worn face just as handsome (and untreated) as it ever was.

His brain, by the way, is working at full wattage, but his voice is not.

On a scale of one to 10 - if 10 is shouting and one is whispering - Bob is operating at one-and-a-half.

I am one metre away from him and I can barely hear a word he says.

When a clanking noise starts on the roof to the right ("drones" he suggests) and is joined by a stiff wind he is completely inaudible.

Talking that quietly is a sign of someone of high status. It is a take-it-or-leave-it challenge: a control thing. It could also be a fatigue thing.

Redford has three concurrent careers - filmmaker, environmental activist, and the figurehead and founder of the Sundance Institute.

He takes a front seat in all cases, sometimes as the driver pushing a project forward, at others in a supporting role, guiding and cajoling.

I had planned to start the interview with questions about why he was bringing a slice of the Sundance Festival to London ("We were asked"), before moving onto his politics and his personality.

But he was having none of it. Half way through answering my first question about Sundance (he wants to give America's independent filmmakers a chance to put across their view of the US) he veers off into politics.

"My country is obsessed with winning," he says. "As you can see in our current political debates, it's all about winning. And what people will do and say just to win."

He is "angry at" and "embarrassed" by America's political leaders, whom he judges to be "not the best or the brightest".

He says the country has been going downhill "ever since Bush" and that those running for the Presidency are "stuck in the 50s" and "frightened of change".

"Why," I ask, "didn't he go into politics?"

"Are you kiddin' me?" he shoots back. "It's too narrow... you can't be yourself. Have you seen any of those guys being natural, unless they're so crazy they're natural."

The cameraman stops the interview to change his tape. Redford leans over to me and says: "You used to work at the Tate, right?"

"Right," I confirm, a little taken aback. Robert Redford is a busy man - where does the find the time or inclination to check out my potted history?

"I like art," he says slightly sheepishly. He wants to talk about art. No, that's not quite right. He wants a proper conversation about art. He's the one leaning forward now and riffing on Egon Schiele.

In the short time it takes for the cameraman to re-set us we have covered the Post Impressionists, Baudelaire, the time Redford was down and out in Europe and Paris when he was 20 and seriously considering becoming an artist, and a recent exhibition of his art of which he was clearly proud.

When we snap back into interview mode the mood has changed. It's more convivial. And either I've become used to his hushed tones or he's projecting a little more.

He is good natured and thoughtful and quick to a one-liner if the chance arises. He has imposed no time limit on the interview or question areas that are out of bounds. Once committed, he's committed.

Asking well-known people personal questions can feel impertinent, until you realise that they are just like the everyone else, and like nothing more than talking about themselves. Bob is no exception.

He finds older women who have had "no work done" attractive. He accepts he is obstinate and that it has probably been the making of him (he refused to shave off his moustache in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kind and nearly lost the gig).

He says he likes to watch people, to "pay attention" but finds it hard because of his fame. "Does he like being Robert Redford?" I ask.

"There are moments," he says, "like being happy... just moments."

I ask him if he could be remembered for one thing - filmmaking, activism or Sundance - which would it be.

He pauses, and then looks up. "Performing," he says. "It's my core. Everything else came from that."

They're reasonable points, which probably have had some positive affect on attendances. But not to the extent we have witnessed over the past decade. After all, great art has always had pulling power - there's nothing new in that.

So what's changed, if it's not us? The answer is, museums have.

Until fairly recently a museum saw itself as an academic institution that begrudgingly opened to the public as part of its state funding deal. The art historians that worked in these fusty, dusty places, looking after the treasures within, called themselves "keepers" - a proprietorial, guard-like job title with an inherently anti-public access ethos.

But then, at some point in the 1980s, a new breed of impresario-cum-museum Director emerged and turned their institutions into visitor attractions. Marketing departments were created, public relations experts were hired, and once damp, dark and forbidding buildings were transformed into light, bright family-friendly venues.

Art had gone into the show business and has been presenting blockbusters ever since.

It has been bought for the British people by the National Galleries in London and Edinburgh, after a £45m ($71.7m) deal was agreed with its owner, the Duke of Sutherland. Diana and Callisto is a companion piece to Diana and Actaeon; that was purchased from the duke for £50m in 2009, following a national fundraising campaign.

Both paintings, on public display in London for 18 months, will move to Edinburgh and then rotate between the galleries.

His homeland, Norway, traumatised him. One day out walking, the sun went down and the sky "turned as red as blood". His companions walked on, leaving Munch alone with his vivid imagination. He was stuck, trembling with fear, feeling "as if all nature were filled with one mighty unending shriek".

The Scream immortalises the artist's moment of existential horror in an image that strikes terror into any viewer's heart. It reveals a harrowing truth of the human condition - we can never escape our inner anxiety, it is the price we pay for consciousness.

Munch was not blessed with a happy disposition - not entirely surprising given that he lost both his mother and sister to tuberculosis while still a boy. As an artist he was initially unable to fully express himself, until he visited Paris in the 1890s and was exposed to the work of the recently deceased Vincent van Gogh.

Soon he too was distorting images into gnarled shapes, in the Expressionistic style invented by the Dutch genius. A couple of years later he produced The Scream, an iconic image that was to influence purveyors of horror, from Alfred Hitchcock to Francis Bacon.

The star added the Brits for best British female and British album to the six Grammy Awards she won last weekend - but was beaten to the award for best British single by former X Factor boy band One Direction.

Ed Sheeran also won best British male and British breakthrough - while Coldplay were crowned best British group for a record third time.

Then again, that's Buckingham Palace for you. George IV's opulent makeover of his father's central London residence into a lavish palace fit for a Prince Regent is at once full of magnificent things whilst being brazenly over the top. It is also fascinating, and every object within it tells the story of its royal residents.

While making The Art of Monarchy for BBC Radio 4, I found myself in the White Drawing Room. As State reception rooms go, it is way out there. Think King Midas meets Goldfinger.

More on the treasures featured in the series

Or catch up on iPlayer

Everything is golden: sofas, piano, wallpaper, chairs, mirrors, tables, screens, candelabra and even the fireguard. It is George IV at his most theatrical, mixing shimmering splendour with questionable taste.

In one corner there is a concealed door made to look as if it is part of the wall, in and out of which the royal residents sometimes come and go to their private quarters. More theatre. If the bling-filled room wasn't dazzling enough, I was there to examine Carl Peter Faberge's glittering Mosaic Egg, made by the Russian jeweller for Tsar Nicholas II to give to his wife Tsarina Alexandra in 1914.

The egg, which is about the size of a tennis ball (although slightly taller), is made out of platinum and gold and decorated with emeralds, rubies and diamonds.

Each tiny precious stone has been cut with such precision that it fits into a bespoke section of the egg's intricate platinum lattice without recourse to clasps or settings. Inside is a removable piece that features a cameo of the Russian couple's five children. It is an exquisite and poignant object.

Three years after the Tsar gave the Faberge egg to his wife he was in deep, deep trouble. The Bolsheviks had removed him from power and were looking to finish the job by killing him and his family. In this moment of dire need, he turned to his first cousin, King George V, and pleaded to be given exile in Britain. The King refused, worried that by acquiescing to his relative's request he would threaten his own popularity.

Within months Tsar Nicholas, his wife and their children had been murdered by the Bolsheviks. The revolutionaries took the Tsar's Faberge collection and subsequently sold some of the fine pieces - including the Mosaic Egg, which was brought in 1933 by another monarch as a present for his wife. Quite what Queen Mary thought or felt when George V presented her with this glorious trinket nobody knows.

Along the corridor from the White Drawing Room is the Ballroom. Designed and built during Queen Victoria's reign, it was once the largest room in London. The Ballroom was opened in 1856 with, appropriately enough, a ball: a grand party to celebrate the end of the Crimean War.

It has been in fairly constant use ever since. State banquets, concerts and investitures all happen within its mighty 36m by 18m footprint. During the course of making the programmes I have watched Goldie present a gig in there, and observed members of the royal household preparing a 78ft (23.7m) table for dinner.

I have even been "knighted" on its throne dias - meaning I have knelt on the actual investiture stool and been dabbed on the shoulders by the actual sword that the Queen uses on such occasions. The Queen wasn't on the other end of the sword, but nevertheless…

She uses the same Scots Guards dress sword that her father George VI employed for investitures. He chose it because he was the regiment's colonel and was no doubt proud when he removed the sword from its scabbard to reveal a blade embossed with the regiment's battle honours.

The sword acts as a reminder of the very special relationship that exists between the monarchy and the country's armed forces. Commanding the loyalty and respect of the armed forces has long been a crucial aspect in the art of monarchy. "We don't swear allegiance to this or that government, but to the monarch who is the personification of the nation," Sir General Mike Jackson, the British Army's now retired Chief of the General Staff, tells me.

The one time when the monarchy failed to keep the armed forces on side resulted in the Civil War and their ejection. The royals got back in track in 1660 with Charles II, but monarchal life was never quite the same. Money, Charles found, was in short supply. Which was embarrassing for a monarch looking across the Channel and seeing the shimmering glory of Louis XIV living the life of a Sun King at Versailles.

Not to be outdone, the cunning Charles struck a deal so shady he could have ended the monarchy for good. At Windsor Castle you can find a small but spectacular silver side-table. The heavily embossed - and therefore totally impractical - object was commissioned by Charles II in about 1670. He believed that a monarch should be surrounded by magnificence in order to command the respect of his subjects and rivals.

But without the money to implement his grand plan he had to do some royal "outside of the box" thinking. He came up with a solution that makes Del Boy's convoluted and risky schemes appear considered and astute. Charles decided to get Louis XIV to pay. Which, in a roundabout way, he duly did.

And, in an ironic reversal of fortunes, while the British monarchy has kept its fabulous silver table, the French have found themselves a bit short. An expensive war with Holland meant that they had to melt down much of their high status silver to fund the war effort.

To come across objects such as these is like finding an old cinema ticket in your pocket - proof, evidence, of what went before. The paintings and artefacts amassed over the centuries by our kings and queens not only shed a fresh light on the monarchy, but also help to bring the past alive.

An exhibition of Freud's portraits opens at the National Portrait Gallery on Thursday, the first major exhibition since the painter's death in July 2011.

There have been very few painters of the human form like him. He's got this way of noodling into the individual sitter.

Gayford - who should know - describes the experience of sitting for a Lucian Freud portrait as simultaneously "excruciating" and "absolutely fascinating".

Michael Frayn's revived Noises Off has been playing to full houses at the Old Vic. It's now become their first production to transfer to the West End.

Farce is back then. But what are the genre's pitfalls and problems? And does it fit today's age of austerity?

He seemed to inhabit the same world as [film-maker] David Lynch, creating high-concept surrealism with a macabre twist.

Kelley's art dealt with our unconscious and delved into our deepest and darkest fears.

And coming from an artist living in LA in the 21st century, that is particularly powerful.

It is claimed the find will transform understanding of the world's most famous picture.