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.
For decades, no one knew what to make of them. Some believed they were the work of a vandal. The truth remained a mystery until 2021, when infrared imaging and handwriting analysis finally settled the debate.
The words were written by Munch himself. The revelation transformed the painting from an expression of terror into something even more intimate: a quiet confession. The inscription appears on only one of the four known versions of The Scream.
The image was born from a single night that left a permanent mark on Munch. He later described the experience in his diary, and his words are as haunting as the painting itself:
“I was walking along the road with two friends—the sun was setting—suddenly the sky turned blood red—I paused, feeling exhausted, and leaned on the fence—there was blood and tongues of fire above the blue-black fjord and the city. My friends walked on, and I stood there trembling with anxiety—and I sensed an infinite scream passing through nature.”
That moment of dread did not come out of nowhere. Munch’s life was already steeped in loss and fear. His mother and one of his sisters had died of tuberculosis when he was young. Another sister was later committed to a mental asylum. He struggled with alcoholism, anxiety, and recurring breakdowns. Mental illness haunted his family, and Munch lived with the constant fear that madness was not just around him, but inside him, waiting.
And that burning red sky may not have been pure imagination. Some scientists believe it was inspired by the eruption of the Krakatoa volcano in Indonesia in 1883. The explosion sent ash particles high into the atmosphere, creating spectacular, blood red sunsets around the world for years.
So why would Munch scribble such a brutal line over his own masterpiece?
The words were added after The Scream was first exhibited in 1895, after critics reacted rather harshly. One review mocked the work, suggesting that only a madman could have painted something so disturbing. Munch did not argue publicly. Instead, he responded in pencil, writing the accusation himself in letters so faint they almost disappeared into the paint. It was defiance, irony, and self-awareness all at once.
The painting’s troubled history does not end there. The Scream was stolen twice, once in 1994 and again in 2004, and recovered both times. Four versions of the work exist today. One of them, the 1895 pastel, sold for $119.9M in 2012, making it one of the most expensive ever sold.
What remains is an image that still screams across time, and a single sentence, nearly erased, that asks whether madness was the subject of the painting, or its source.
Let’s start with composition. This refers to how the different parts of a work come together to create a whole (much like a piece of classical music – or a cake).
Next, up, we’ve got en plein air – a fancy way of saying 'outdoors'. Painting en plein air was popular with the Impressionists, who found that working outside let them capture the nuances of light and colour far better than they could in the studio.
Now, like almost every painter who came before them, the Impressionists were figurative artists. In plain English, this meant that they painted real things, like people and places and implausibly stacked fruit bowls.
By contrast, abstract artists aren’t interested in depicting the world as we normally see it: if you're into shapes, lines and big blobs of colour, this might be the style for you.
Another bit of art jargon that sounds scarier than it really is diptych. This is simply an artwork made up of two separate parts or panels. And you guessed it – a triptych is a work made up of three.
If a triptych doesn’t float your boat, then how about a tondo? Taken from rotondo, the Italian word for ‘round’, this refers to a work in the shape of a circle.
Another exotic term beloved by art buffs is fin de siècle. This French phrase translates to ‘end of century’, and generally refers to the period from around 1880 to 1900. Of course, you could simply say ‘the end of the 19th century’ – but that wouldn’t be anything like as impressive, would it?
Last but not least, we come to the most valuable weapon in the art expert’s arsenal. Next time you find yourself faced with a work you really don’t understand – or a work you really don’t like – stand in silence, slowly stroke your chin, and after at least twenty seconds have passed, utter the immortal words: hmm… interesting.
Right: you’re all set to dazzle the experts with your newfound vocab. But if you want to take things to the next level, be sure to download MuseMuse.
Our app is packed full of bite-sized breakdowns spanning thousands of years of art and culture. And whether you’re a complete newbie or a cultural connoisseur, you’re bound to learn something new (and have fun while you do it!).
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