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 a scrap of fabric that exists solely to circle your neck, the collar has a history that is anything but modest. From status symbols to sweat-stained shirt edges , collars have been through it all. And today, we can still trace their dramatic transformations through the ages — immortalized in museum portraits of men, women, and children from every era.
Before the 1400s, collars weren't really a thing. Men's necklines ranged from high to what we'd call today a scoop or boat neck. Shirts didn’t need collars because, frankly, there wasn’t much need for them.
By the mid-1500s, the ruff had emerged as the first true collar — evolving from simple shirt gathers at the neck into a separate accessory tied around the throat. What began as a practical way to keep garments clean soon caught on as a fashion trend, spreading from Spain to the rest of Europe. Early ruffs were modest in size and easy to launder — but not for long.
But what began as a modest pleated trim soon escalated into a theatrical halo of linen, lace, and starch...
The cartwheel ruff especially turned heads (and made turning your own head quite difficult). Popular from 1580 to 1610, these oversized collars were stiffened with starch, layered into hundreds of pleats, and could stretch up to a foot from the neck. The finer the linen, the more elite the wearer — with embroidery, jewels, and even precious metals adding to the extravagance.
They were as impractical as they were impressive. Wearing one meant assuming a proud, rigid posture — and making eating or moving your head nearly impossible. Often, ruffs could only be worn once before collapsing from heat and humidity.
Of course, not everyone was impressed. In the 1580s, Englishmen sporting these oversized neck donuts were mocked in France as “the English monster.” Fair.
As the ruff lost its hold (and the neck regained its freedom), a new style emerged: the falling band. Flat, soft, and often edged in lace, it was a welcome shift — easier to wear, easier to clean, and far less theatrical.
By the mid-1600s, these relaxed collars, sometimes called fallen ruffs, had taken over. Men wore them first, but women soon followed. Over time, this style continued to simplify, eventually giving rise to jabots and cravats…
In the 18th century, Enlightenment ideals ushered in a more restrained approach to dress. Out went lace, excess, and flamboyant ruffs. In came simplicity, refinement, and the cravat — a modest white neckcloth first worn by 17th c. croat cavalry, that set the stage for the modern tie.
In the 1830s, a woman named Hannah Montague had a stroke of domestic genius: the detachable collar. Tired of constantly washing her husband's entire shirt, she cut off the grimy collar and stitched on a clean, starched one instead. It worked — and it caught on fast.
This clever hack offered the look of a freshly laundered shirt with a fraction of the effort. Soon, crisp, removable collars became a menswear staple and a subtle status symbol.
By the 1930s, fashion loosened up. As the Duke of Windsor put it, “We were all beginning to ‘dress soft.’” Stiff, starched collars faded, and René Lacoste’s polo shirt kicked off the casual revolution.
Around the same time, “white collar” and “blue collar” emerged — terms born less from style than from laundry. Office workers wore crisp whites, while laborers opted for darker, practical fabrics.
Collars grew more relaxed, dress codes blurred, but the collar never vanished — it simply adapted.
The collar lives on — crisp or rumpled, buttoned-up or barely there. It still says something, whether it's "hire me," "brunch time," or "yes, this is vintage." And thanks to period dramas and runway revivals, even the ruff has staged a comeback. One person's historical hassle is another's fashion fantasy.
If so, you might have experienced something called ‘museum fatigue’. This phenomenon can affect even the most enthusiastic culture buff, and refers to a sense of feeling increasingly overwhelmed and exhausted as you mooch around a museum or gallery.
The term ‘museum fatigue’ was first coined by Benjamin Ives Gilman in 1916. He focused on how the placement of exhibits led to unnecessary physical strain, causing us to tire ourselves out. But since then, researchers have also come to recognise the mental toll of a museum visit. This stems from a number of factors, including:
Information overload – where the sheer amount of information in a museum gets a bit much. This includes lengthy gallery labels and descriptions, as well as the exhibits themselves!
Object competition – when different exhibits in the same space battle it out for our attention. This prevents us from focusing properly on a single piece and erodes our overall engagement with a museum.
And last but not least, satiation – where we take in a number of similar pieces in a row, causing us to become progressively less interested. (One ancient Greek statue? Fantastic. One hundred? OK, now you’ve lost me.)
Together, these elements can contribute to an acute case of cultural burnout – and more than 100 years on from Benjamin Gilman, museum fatigue doesn’t look like going away.
So, it’s clear that something has to change; that we need a whole new way of approaching museums, and the amazing things in them. Because if we’re getting tired of Da Vinci and Van Gogh – of the Rosetta Stone and the Venus de Milo – then something has gone seriously, seriously wrong!
Big news: MuseMuse just got nominated for a Webby Award for Best Art & Culture App—aka the Oscars of the Internet. Among 13,000 entries, we made it into the top 12%.
But here’s the thing: we need your vote. Webby winners are decided by a very official jury of… the internet. That’s you. Your friends. Your barista. Every vote counts.
In the meantime, we’ll keep doing what we do best: helping you explore the world through art.
So thank you art lovers! And thank you to everyone who’s ever wanted more from a museum visit and thought, “There has to be a better way.” There is. It’s called MuseMuse. And apparently, it’s Webby-worthy!
Cheers - MuseMuse
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