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!
Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio didn't just paint scenes of violence and darkness, he lived them. The revolutionary Baroque painter who transformed art history was also a murderer, who spent his final four years creating masterpieces while running from execution.
On May 28, 1606, Caravaggio got into a fight over a tennis match with a man named Ranuccio Tomassoni. Swords were drawn. When it ended, Tomassoni lay dead and Caravaggio had a severe wound to his head. Whether it was self-defense or murder, 16th-century Roman law didn't care. The penalty was death by beheading.
Caravaggio fled Rome with a price on his head. The papal edict declared that anyone could kill him without consequence and bring his head to authorities for a reward. He would never return to Rome alive.
What's extraordinary is that Caravaggio produced some of his greatest works while on the run. He escaped to Naples, then Malta, then Sicily, painting masterpieces at each stop to earn the protection from powerful patrons. Each painting grew darker, more dramatic, and more violent than the last.
In Malta, he painted the beheading of John the Baptist: the only work he ever signed, inscribing his name in the saint's spilled blood. The painting's brutal realism came from a man who knew exactly what execution looked like, who painted it while awaiting the same fate.
Caravaggio had a macabre habit: he painted himself as martyrs and murder victims in his religious works. In David with the head of Goliath (1609–10), the severed head is Caravaggio's self-portrait. In The Martyrdom of Saint Matthew (1599–1600), he painted himself as a bystander witnessing murder. He seemed obsessed with his own death.
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In 1610, Caravaggio received word that the Pope might pardon him. He boarded a boat to Rome, carrying three final paintings as gifts to secure his clemency. But he never arrived.
He died under mysterious circumstances at age 38 on a beach in Porto Ercole. Fever? Murder by bounty hunters? Revenge by Tomassoni's family? No one knows.
His body was lost for 400 years, until DNA testing in 2010 identified remains in a church ossuary as likely Caravaggio's, showing lead poisoning consistent with paint exposure. The paintings he carried that day have never been found.
Heads up for your next trip to Rome! Think the Sistine Chapel is the only ceiling worth seeing? Think again.
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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