There’s something undeniably romantic about wandering into a gallery without any idea of what you want to see. Alas, this is a sure-fire way to miss-out on some of the best exhibits, and a one-way-ticket to cultural burnout.
Alright, this one might seem a bit obvious… but when some paintings are worth upwards of 100 million big ones, it’s definitely worth repeating.
Some people like to experience art in a vacuum – but reading-up on the context behind a particular work can transform and enrich our understanding of it.
For example, Edvard Munch’s The Sick Child hits so much harder when you know that it was based on his own sister, while Paul Gauguin’s dodgy personal life completely changes how we view his paintings of Tahiti.
But if you find traditional gallery labels a bit stale, you’re not alone. Download MuseMuse for bite-sized breakdowns of all your favourite pieces, packed full of fun facts and juicy gossip!
A gallery isn’t a library – so if you want to discuss a painting with your friend, or argue about whether we should cancel Picasso, then knock yourself out. But try to keep it down, and try to keep it on topic – because it’s hard to focus on the art when someone’s barking into a mobile phone, or debating what to have for dinner!
Visiting a gallery shouldn’t be an endurance test. Make sure to take a seat every now and then – and if you find yourself seriously flagging, a trip to the café is a great opportunity to refuel and recharge.
Last but not least, we’ve got the art gallery equivalent of manspreading. There’s usually more than enough space for multiple visitors to take in a painting – but then someone decides to stand directly in front of it, blocking everyone else’s view.
Obviously, this is incredibly annoying: so make sure that this someone isn’t you!
So, there you have it – the MuseMuse guide to the dos and don’ts of the gallery world. With these top tips, you’re ready to make the most of your visit. But don’t get too hung up on etiquette: the most important thing is to enjoy yourself!
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.
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.
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