Skip the awkward small talk over overpriced cocktails. Here's why a museum is your secret weapon for a memorable first date:
Side-by-side walking eliminates the awkward face-to-face restaurant staredown. This positioning creates a more relaxed atmosphere where conversation can develop organically as you move through the space.
Strolling through art and history shows you're cultured—without trying too hard. You don't need to be an expert; showing interest in something beyond Netflix and takeout speaks volumes about your curiosity and depth.
When words fail, point at any bizarre Renaissance baby and ask "Why does that infant have an eight-pack?" Instant ice-breaker. Art provides endless topics to discuss, from the sublime to the ridiculous, making those initial getting-to-know-you moments flow naturally.
Cheaper than dinner and drinks, and definitely fancier than a coffee shop. Many museums have "pay what you wish" options or free admission days. You get all the sophistication without emptying your wallet.
When you're done, you have a natural end to the date—or an easy excuse to keep going elsewhere if things are clicking. "I'm getting hungry after all that art appreciation. Want to grab a bite?" is a smooth transition if the chemistry is right.
Download MuseMuse first. Because nothing kills the mood like pretending to understand medieval tapestries.
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.
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