Around 1485, Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco de' Medici commissioned Botticelli to paint Venus for his villa. This was revolutionary and risky. For nearly a thousand years, the Catholic Church had banned depictions of nude pagan gods.
The painting depicts the moment Venus, goddess of love and beauty, is born from the sea foam created when the Titan Kronos castrated his father Uranus and threw his genitals into the ocean… yes, really. She stands in a giant scallop shell, blown to shore by wind gods while a nymph rushes to cover her nudity with a flowered cloak.
Botticelli made Venus impossibly beautiful, but also strangely modest: her hand strategically placed, her pose deriving from ancient Venus pudica (or “modest Venus”) sculptures. He was painting paganism but with Christian sensibility, a precarious balance.
Everything changed when Girolamo Savonarola, a fire-and-brimstone Dominican friar, seized control of Florence in 1494. He believed Renaissance art was corrupting souls, and called for the destruction of anything deemed sinful: books, cosmetics, musical instruments, mirrors, and especially "immoral" paintings.
On February 7, 1497, Savonarola organized the Bonfire of the Vanities in Florence's Piazza della Signoria. Citizens were urged to throw vanity items into massive pyres. Thousands of artworks burned. Paintings depicting mythological scenes, exactly like Botticelli's Venus, were primary targets.
Botticelli himself fell under Savonarola's spell. The artist became a follower, destroying some of his own paintings and adopting a more severe religious style.
But Birth of Venus survived. The Medici family, though temporarily exiled, hid their art collection. Venus was tucked away in the villa at Castello, too valuable to destroy but too controversial to display. For over 300 years, only the Medici inner circle saw the painting.
During this time, the painting's meaning was reinterpreted. Medici scholars argued Venus represented divine love, not earthly lust. The west wind blowing her to shore symbolized spiritual inspiration. The nymph's cloak represented the soul covering the body. With enough intellectual gymnastics, pagan nudity became Christian allegory.
It wasn't until 1815 that Birth of Venus moved to the Uffizi Gallery. Even then, it was kept in the tribune: a restricted room visitors needed special permission to enter. Women were often denied access; the nudity was considered too corrupting.
The painting was damaged while in storage: water spots, darkened varnish, paint loss along the seams. Major restorations in the 20th century revealed Botticelli's original colours: Venus's skin luminous and pale, the sea a brilliant blue-green, the flowers impossibly detailed.
Today, Birth of Venus is one of the most famous and recognisable paintings in the world, reproduced on everything from coffee mugs to album covers. Andy Warhol made screen prints; Lady Gaga recreated the pose. It's appeared in hundreds of advertisements.
The painting that was once too scandalous to show publicly is now so ubiquitous we've forgotten how revolutionary it was. Four million people visit the Uffizi annually, and most come specifically to see Venus. The painting that should have burned in 1497 instead became immortal.
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While the museum’s main entrance on Great Russell Street is pretty impressive to look at, it can also attract some equally impressive queues. To cut down the wait time, try the rear entrance on Montague Place. Thankfully, most visitors seem to have no idea that it exists (or perhaps they just really love queuing).
Either way, this ‘back door’ is usually a safe bet for a much smoother entry – giving you more time to peruse the museum’s incredible collection!
While it might be a bit of a cliché, it’s also an inescapable fact: London has some pretty terrible weather. So, on those rare days that the sun decides to make an appearance, most normal people want to make the most of it, not spend the day indoors.
Which is great for us. While everyone else is outside getting some vitamin D, we can enjoy a less crowded, less hectic British Museum. Sure, this might seem just a little bit wrong – but to get a better look at the likes of the Rosetta Stone and the Sutton Hoo Helmet, it’s more than worth it!
(And whatever you do, just try not to go on a rainy day – because then things really can get messy).
The British Museum is a vast site – but few visitors venture beyond a few core exhibits. Their loss is our gain: from the Holy Thorn Reliquary to the Mold Gold Cape, the museum’s less popular galleries are still packed full of priceless historical treasures – and you won’t have to elbow anyone out of the way to see them!
In a collection as big as the British Museum, you’re never going to be able to see everything – but MuseMuse can help you make the absolute best of your visit. With our custom itineraries and bite-sized guides to the essential exhibits, you can cut out the aimless wandering and glide through the place like a pro.
Right then, you’re all set for a spiffing day out at the British Museum – we hope that our top tips will add that extra bit of sparkle to your visit! Just don’t telltoomany people about that back entrance, eh?
In the ancient world, body hair was largely removed. Greek and Roman men might have had some stylised pubic hair in their art, but women? If they appeared nude at all (which was rare), they were usually depicted without a single strand below the neck. Prudish? Perhaps. But by the Middle Ages, a hairless pubis had taken on an entirely different connotation—one tied to prostitution.
To keep things "decent," artists covered up genitals with fig leaves, flowing fabrics, or strategically placed hands. Even classical Greek sculptures, famous for their idealised male physiques, often had their "manhood" modestly veiled. But, of course, there were exceptions. In 1540, German engraver Heinrich Aldegrever gave us a glimpse of Eve with an impressive, centre-parted bush.
Around the same time, Bronzino’s An Allegory with Venus and Cupid (1545) might be the first Western painting to depict female pubic hair… if you squint hard enough.
While the Renaissance and Baroque masters mostly kept their nudes bare, artists like Rubens and Rembrandt ensured their figures had at least a wisp of modesty. Then, in 1800, Francisco Goya changed the game with La Maja Desnuda—a nude so unashamed that, yes, you could actually see her pubic hair.
Fast-forward to 1814: Napoleon’s sister commissioned The Sleeper of Naples from Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres and, for once, a female nude was painted with the same hairy detail that men had always received. Unfortunately, the painting was lost, and we only have a 1911 study to go by.
Meanwhile, in Japan, artists like Hokusai were already well ahead in the pubic hair department. His shunga (erotic art) often depicted women with full, natural pubes—a stark contrast to the West, where the mere suggestion of such hair was scandalous. In fact, in Japan, it was shaved pubic hair that was linked to prostitution, a cultural association that still lingers today.
The 19th century was a tumultuous time for pubic hair in art. In 1866, Gustave Courbet painted L’Origine du Monde—a bold, unapologetic celebration of the female form in all its hirsute glory. But the world wasn’t ready. The painting was kept hidden for 122 years before finally being publicly displayed in 1988.
For Victorian-era audiences, the mere sight of pubic hair was considered shocking. Just ask art critic John Ruskin. Legend has it that on his wedding night, he was so horrified by his wife Effie’s natural pubic hair (having only seen hairless statues before) that he fled and never consummated the marriage. The union was annulled a few years later.
By the late 1800s, artists like Van Gogh, Klimt, and Schiele were challenging the norms of beauty and eroticism. Schiele, in particular, painted women in unashamedly provocative poses, complete with wild, untrimmed pubic hair. Klimt’s Nuda Veritas (1899) caused an uproar, while Oskar Kokoschka’s nudes leaned more into the naturalistic than the erotic.
By 1917, the pubic taboo had mostly faded in art. Amedeo Modigliani’s signature elongated figures often included a neatly shaped triangle of hair—perhaps the inspiration for the "Brazilian" trend of today.
Throughout history, pubic hair in art has been erased, censored, scandalised, and celebrated. Whether it's hidden behind fig leaves or boldly on display, the way we depict the body reflects cultural attitudes of the time.
So, the next time you see a classical nude, take a closer look—you might just spot a tiny but significant piece of history.
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