But when it came to the connection between art and the true practices of witchcraft, I was oblivious.

That was until my third year of university, when I was introduced to the names of three incredible women: Leonora Carrington, Remedios Varo, and Kati Horna.

In the 1940s, this intriguing trio found themselves in the bustling capital of Mexico. Drawn together by their tumultuous pasts and magical beliefs, they formed a close-knit bond that would last almost two decades. To their former homelands, they were seen as exiles; to their artistic peers they were seen as rebels, and to the Mexican public, they became known as “las tres brujas” - the three witches!

The First Witch: Remedios Varo

The first “witch” to arrive in Mexico was Remedios Varo.

Born to a devout Catholic mother and a universalist father, Varo was brought up between the worlds of the sacred and the scientific. As a child, she reportedly experienced visions of supernatural realms and spent most of her time delving into the mysterious tales of Jules Verne and Alexander Dumas.

In the small Catalonian town of Anglés, her niche interests stuck out like a sore thumb, especially in the Catholic convent that she was forced to attend. But despite this, her witchy interests persisted and carried on into adulthood where she found herself in the rebellious art circles in Paris.

Here, she joined the Surrealists - a new art movement that was focused on delving into the humand mind. At first, Varo liked the idea of this creative, defiant group. But after exhibiting with them in 1938, she was disheartened to witness their basic spiritual ideas. While they discussed the meaning of dreams, Varo’s notebooks overflowed with her daily practices of remedies, spells, and love potions.

So, when the beginnings of the second world war broke out, she decided to leave the Parisian art scene for Mexico in search of new friendships and a likeminded group.

The Second Witch: Leonora Carrington

Leonora Carrington was the second to settle in Mexico.

Originally from Lancashire, England, her teenage years at a Catholic boarding school were not unlike those of Remedios Varo. In fact, like Varo, Carrington immersed herself in Irish fables and the whimsical tales of Lewis Carroll and Beatrix Potter.

Carrington also entangled herself with the Surrealists, and even began a relationship with Max Ernst - one of its pioneers. However, in this male dominated group, she faced the deep frustration of being overlooked. Tired of being cast as a model and with the Nazi occupation looming, she chose to leave, declaring:

“I [don’t] have time to be anyone’s muse”.

But whilst she fled south, Carrington suffered an emotional breakdown and was institutionalised in a psychiatric hospital in Spain. Here, her time was marked by trauma and suffering.

So, once she escaped in 1940, she sought refuge in Mexico, drawn by the hope of acceptance and peace.

The Third Witch: Kati Horna

“I fled Hungary, I fled Berlin, I fled Paris, and I left everything behind in Barcelona” - Kati Horna.

The last to arrive in Mexico was Kati Horna, a Hungarian-born photographer from an affluent Jewish family. Though her early life may have seemed one of privilege, the rise of fascism forced her into constant flight from the very countries she had turned to for hope.

Horna, like Varo and Carrington, was drawn to rebellion and artistic experimentation. In 1937, she fled to Spain to document the Civil War, using her camera to capture the resilience of women amid the conflict. However, once she was done, the growing threat of Nazi occupation forced her to flee once more - this time to Mexico.

Life in Mexico: Inspiration and Friendship.

In Mexico, Carrington, Horna, and Varo quickly formed a familial friendship. Though they came from different backgrounds, they shared a rebellious spirit and a long-held wish for stability and peace.

Together, they shared a passion for spiritual and esoteric practices and hoped to return artmaking to its magical origins. The three frequently met, often gathering in Varo’s kitchen, where they explored spiritual practices, such as: cavāla, alchemy, and tarot and drank strange concoctions of chestnut water and asparagus juice.

In this cooperative space, their notebooks brimmed with captivating spells, such as: “How to Dream You Are the King of England” and how to “Provoke Erotic Dreams.” These spells called for the strange combination of ingredients, from fresh thyme and incense to the hair from two women, saliva, and ash.

One striking thing these magical teachings revealed to Varo and her friends, was the belief that women had initially possessed powers.

“Most of us I hope, are now aware that woman should not have to demand rights. The rights were there from the beginning; they must be taken back again, including the mysteries which were ours and which were violated, stolen, or destroyed” - Leonora Carrington.

This intiative to recover the powers that women once held became a repeated theme in their work.

Using goddess-like imagery, the trio depicted women as powerful beings who could create life, wield magic, and decieve men. In comparison to their male counterparts, who reduced women to muses or symbols, Varo, Carrington, and Horna made women the active subjects of their mystical landscapes. In each of their dreamscape’s women were the protagonists, the explorers, the scientists, and the creators.

These themes reflected their own feminist beliefs and shared utopian wish for a world where the dishes washed themselves, so women had the freedom to dream and create!

The three witches remained in Mexico for the rest of their lives - a place where, after years of exile and upheaval, they finally found inspiration, stability, and, above all, friendship.

In their hands, witchcraft was not just fantasy or folklore, it was a radical act of freedom, a reclaiming of identity, and a refusal to be silenced!

In 2016, my family and I moved from our childhood home in East London to a flashy new apartment in Saudi Arabia. For a 13 year old who had never even moved houses before, this was a monumental change.

I remember leaving the airport and feeling the warm breeze of the desert-heat hit me, as if I’d opened the door to a pre-heated oven. Our apartment stood along a strip of expensive houses, whose fences cascaded so high that you could barely see the tops of their roofs. Yet every time we’d pass by, my brother and I would play the same game of “what house would you want to be yours” - a game that never gets old.

Our apartment was also sandwiched in between two mosques. I had seen mosques before, but these were…different.

Different in the sense that their monumentality and symmetry was unlike anything I had ever seen. Adorned in marble, they glistened in the evening heat and featured engravings of kaleidoscopic patterns that made it hard to imagine that someone had sat there and carved them by hand. Around me, the reverberating sound of the call to prayer echoed and the strong but sweet smell of oud laced the surrounding area.

Like a young girl in a Herbert Drapers’ painting, I stood there in awe. I didn’t know anything about architecture and hadn’t yet studied art history, but even I knew what a spectacle this was to witness.

Fast-forward six years, where I was in Scotland, sitting in a giant hall ready to start my lecture on Islamic Art, when my professor wrote a word on the board. Ajāib.

“It means wonder”, he said.

In the 16th century, the Persian philosopher, Qazwini, described ajāib as, ‘the sense of bewilderment felt by a person’. It was a core principle of Islamic art and people’s everyday lives. Wonder was so valued that in Islamic manuscripts, portraits of people in states of wonder (signified by their finger to their mouth) was a repetitive and fundamental theme.

But, wonder wasn’t just the awe you felt from seeing a grand building or a beautiful scultpure. It was the experience of something that, for a moment, made you forget where you were and what worries you had.

In a 16th century mosque, it was how the screen-patterned windows would, in the correct time of day, have dispersed shadows of flowers and trees onto the floor. Or how the main source of light would have come from the furnishing of hundreds of oil lamps and candles; making the interior resemble a starry night sky. And how the fragrance of incense would have perfumed the entire building with the sweet smells of rose water and jasmine.

Wonder wasn’t just the act of seeing something amazing. It was the act of feeling something amazing. It didn’t have to be something extravangant, but it had to be something that touched almost every sense in your body.

Since coming home from uni, I’ve been borrowing my mum’s masseuse and treating myself to a massage. Well, I say massage, but really it’s been more like therapy. Our masseuse is a beaming, positive, and sparkly - as she’d probably call herself - woman. She’s the sort of person you’d either think is a bit mad or insanely wise.

In our last session, I was spewing out the same old rant about how monotonous my life felt, and how I was worrying about things that hadn’t even happened yet, when I paused to ask her how she never seems to be anxious.

“It’s because I try to find the wonder in the everyday”, she said.

Wonder. It was a word I hadn’t heard since that course at uni. But, suddenly I was brought back to how pivotal it was.

If ancient teachings valued the principle of wonder so much, why didn’t I? So, I began to search for moments of wonder in my everyday life.

A few days later, I went on a walk with my mum and we stopped to sit on a bench along the canal. We sat there in silence as I watched the water ripple and glisten like diamonds. There was a gentle breeze that swayed the long grass and carried the warm smell of coffee from a café nearby. Below the trees, the distant melody of birds chirping drowned out the city noise, and for a moment, my worries disappeared.

I went home later that day and jotted it down. Finally, it was a moment of wonder in my everyday life!

I hope you enjoyed this more personal read! If you’ve had a moment of wonder recently, please share it with me in the comments below - I’d love to hear them 💓 If not, then this is your sign to start looking for them.

*I also want to mention , who has started an amazing project to give art students in Europe a platform to showcase their art. If you have some free time, definitely check out her website by clicking the link here*

But in the early 20^th century, conversations around pregnancy and motherhood were often hushed. While women were expected to be mothers and bear children, the intimate talks around its reality were saved for the whispered interactions between female friends. So, when Paula Modersohn-Becker painted this self-portrait in 1906, it wasn’t just bold - it was ground-breaking!

Born in Dresden, in 1876, Modersohn-Becker grew up in a middle-class family that encouraged her creative pursuits. At sixteen, she had her own art studio in her parents' home and later moved to Berlin to study at one of the top art schools for women (The Association for Women Artists). But it was her move to Worpswede in 1898 that marked the true flourishing of her artistic talent.

Located in northern Germany, Worpswede was a poor, rural village that had become a retreat of inspiration for travelling artists. Its distinctive moorlands and silver birch trees offered a dreamlike landscape for artistic experimentation. But while others focused on the beauty of their surroundings, Modersohn-Becker turned her gaze elsewhere.

Forming tender connections with the local women and children, she soon became intent on depicting their reality. Using her brush as a lens, she painted portraits of women and children with an affection and warmth that was deeply captivating. Her work was honest, raw, intimate, and best of all, new!

Her most captivating images were her illustrations of motherhood. Though single and childless at the time, Modersohn-Becker expressed a sensitive understanding in her diaries, writing:

“Motherhood can be all-consuming and exhausting while also filled with moments of transcendent love”.

But, at a time when unidealised images of women were taboo and and visibly pregnant women were expected to stay out of public view, the only way to portray such intimacy was by breaking tradition.

Using thick slabs of paint, she illustrated scenes she often witnessed in real life. While her male counterparts used the female nude to construct erotic fantasies, she portrayed the female nude as a vessel of power, resilience, and heroism - qualities she deeply associated with women, as revealed in her diaries.

In one entry from 1898, she reflected on a woman breastfeeding, much like the one we see above, writing:

“The woman was giving her life and her youth and strength to the child…without realising she was a heroic figure”.

Connecting mothers to these self-affirming attributes offered a profound sense of empowerment and validation to women. But these ideals soon became challenges that Modersohn-Becker would have to confront in her own life.

In 1900, she accepted a proposal from fellow artist Otto Modersohn - a widower with a young child. However, less than a year into her marriage, Becker found it difficult to balance the expectations of being a wife with the artistic ambitions she had long hoped for.

While her parents had been supportive in her youth, they now pressured her to abandon art and take on the full-time responsibilities of a housewife.

In a letter to his wife, Becker’s father wrote: “do you really believe that child will accomplish something worthwhile or can at least manage to learn how to support herself from it?…I doubt it”.

However, Modersohn-Becker remained steadfast in her ambition. Refusing to surrender her artistic dreams, she made a bold, almost unheard-of decision and left her husband for Paris in 1906.

Moving to Paris gave Modersohn-Becker a new sense of optimism. She was now in the centre of artistic innovation, and had the freedom to live and work on her own terms. Despite her recent separation, she appeared self-assured and confident - a change reflected in her art with the experimentation of bold colours and form.

Yet her decision to separate from Otto did not last. After a brief reconciliation, she invited him to join her in Paris and upon their return to Germany, she realised she was pregnant!

On November 2nd, 1907, Modersohn Becker gave birth to a baby girl. Her mother described the day as a time of warmth and happiness:

“the little mother lies there holding her baby and her brown eyes are shining blissfully.”

However, after following her doctors’ advice to stay in bed for three weeks, she unexpectedly died of an embolic aneurysm. She was 31 and her daughter, Mathilde, was just 18 days old.

It’s heartbreaking that at the very moment her life seemed poised for a new beginning, it was cut short so abruptly.

Yet, it seems that Modersohn-Becker may have sensed this. In a letter to a close friend, she wrote something that, to me, feels like the perfect way to end this blog:

Though rarely spoken about today, Rosa Bonheur was one of the best known and most successful artists of the 19th century. Known for her love of animals, she began exhibiting professionally at just 19 and later became the first woman to receive France’s highest award (The Legion of Honour). But her art wasn’t the only thing that captured people’s attention. Rather, it was her radical lifestyle and, more specifically, her unconventional fashion choices that sparked both fascination and scandal.

In 1822, Bonheur was born into a world of creativity. With a piano teacher for a mother and an artist for a father, she was never short of inspiration. But at school, Bonheur had a difficult time. As a rebellious, free spirit with “tomboy manners” (as she liked to call them) she hated reading and was expelled multiple times! The only rules she obeyed were those set by her father, who immersed her and her four younger siblings into the world of art.

Much like Bonheur, her father went against the grain. As a devoted social-reformist, he was an active participant in the Saint-Simonist movement, which championed women’s equality. Reflecting on her father’s beliefs, Bonheur said:

“Why shouldn’t I be proud to be a woman? My father told me again and again that it was woman’s mission to improve the human race…To his doctrines I owe my great and glorious ambition for the sex to which I proudly belong, whose independence I’ll defend till my dying day. Besides, I’m convinced the future is ours”.

Rosa Bonheur loved animals and was deeply devoted to painting them. For women artists, they were an accessible subject and fortunately, her animal paintings enthusiastically resonated with audiences. Critics celebrated her work for its masterful skill and traditional appeal. But while her art fit into conventions, her lifestyle did not...

Rosa Bonheur smoked, went hunting, wore her hair short, had close relationships with women, and even had a pet lion and lioness later in life. But what fascinated and scandalised others most was her unwavering insistence on wearing trousers!

In France, at the time, women needed a police permit approved by their doctor to wear trousers. This law was put in place to establish gender norms and prevent cross-dressing. But, Bonheur was tired of the impracticality of dresses and the harassment she faced when she wore them. So, she applied for a permit and, with a stroke of luck, it was approved! This new and comfortable disguise allowed her to move through animal fairs and other male-dominated spaces without being bothered. But news of her unorthodox fashion choices quickly spread.

While some admired her rejection of dresses — even encouraging her to wear them for their own curiosity. Others accused her of cross-dressing; even claiming that her new attire influenced her artistic talent. Some insisted that since her change, she now “even painted like a man.” But Bonheur shut down these ludicrous rumours with her signature wit, saying: “As far as males go, I only like the bulls I paint.”

However, there was still one work that sparked complete disbelief — it was ’The Horse Fair’.

Spanning five meters wide, this work captures a dynamic scene of a Parisian horse fair. In this chaotic scuffle, horses rear and twist to break free, while riders scramble to contain the disorder. At first glance, we might see this as a simple scene of horses, mayhem, and havoc. But, what might surprise you, is that it’s also a self-portrait.

Hidden among the crowd, Bonheur painted herself into this scene. Dressed in her signature blue shirt, she meets our gaze with a slight, almost teasing grin. Riding astride, she remains the only figure of composure and self-control. In this male-dominated scene, she doesn’t just claim space; she commands it. At the centre of the frame, she asserts her own position — just as she did in the art world and at animal fairs.

Soo, yes, this is a scene of horses, mayhem, and havoc. But, really, it’s a portrait of Rosa Bonheur — of her radical life, eccentric character, and unwavering belief in herself and the strength of women.

Rosa Bonheur passed away in 1899, leaving behind a radical legacy that helped to open doors for future generations of women artists. While the terms for queerness did not exist in Bonheur’s time, her questioning of gender norms laid the groundwork for other lesbian and queer artists, and her unwavering determination and fearless spirit remain an enduring source of inspiration for us all.

It’s been stolen twice, mimicked in popular horror films, and even helped shape the design of the shock emoji — 😱.

But what if I told you that in today’s world, The Scream is more relevant than it’s ever been? With some even calling it “the ultimate image for our political age”.

Under a fiery sky of red and orange swirls, a lone figure stands on a bridge. Behind him, the sea twists and turns, merging with the blazing sunset above. But the man seems oblivious—lost in a moment of shock, terror, and panic. Wearing a navy robe, he holds his arms to his skull-like face and looks to us for help. His hollow eyes widen to form gaping holes and his mouth stretches open; frozen in a blood-curdling scream.

On the 22nd January, 1892, Edvard Munch recorded the exact moment of inspiration for this work, writing:

“I was walking along the road with two friends – the sun went down – I felt a gust of melancholy and suddenly the sky turned a bloody red. I stopped, leaned against the railing…my friends went on – I stood there trembling with anxiety and I felt a vast infinite scream through nature”.

In the late 19th century, a surge of global discoveries spurred a monumental movement, called Modernism. Suddenly, art, music, architecture, politics, science, even theatre all saw immense transformations. But, the biggest change was to people’s everyday lives.

In towns, urban life began to thrive with a new sense of enthusiasm and excitement. Industrialisation made its way into big cities, influencing streams of mass production. The expansion of railways, telephones, and early automobiles improved connectivity. And the rise of early feminism opened people’s eyes to deep-rooted injustices. For some, this shift brought a new sense of optimism, a feeling of promise, and a premonition of hope to come.

But, for others, feelings of anxiety and fear clouded their thoughts. As science advanced, religion waned, and soon the term ‘existentialism’ forced people into a frenzy about the uncertainty of life’s meaning. With this, a fuelling interest in psychology sparked panic. New, unexplained illnesses like ‘hysteria’ and ‘neurasthenia’ provoked trepidation about how the expanding city and modern life would affect people’s mind. And soon, this link between modernity and anxiety became inseparable for some, including Edvard Munch, who made it the central theme of his art.

Take this work, for example, entitled ‘Evening on Karl Johan Street’ (1892):

For many today, this painting feels familiar—a snapshot of a bustling street. Yet, like The Scream, it carries an almost apocalyptic tone. Under the dim light of dusk, the busy street is transformed into a place of claustraphobia; its atmosphere thick with unease. The zombie-like crowd stares ahead in a trance, while a solitary figure walks away, isolated and detached. As we watch him retreat from the overstimulating crowd, we can’t help but wonder: Who is he? Where is he going? And, why is he alone? Yet, it’s this exact sense of alienation and isolation that defines Munch’s work.

‘Sick Mood at Sunset, Despair’ depicts a similar scene—almost a mirror image of The Scream.

Rooted in Munch’s memory of witnessing his sister’s death, this piece captures a moment of deep reflection. Although the figure’s features are blurred, his anguish and helplessness are unmistakable—emotions that many of us have felt.

But how does this all relate to our world today?

In 2017, cartoonist, Peter Brookes, drew on Munch’s imagery to sum up the widespread anxiety felt by people following Donald Trump’s election as president. In Brooke’s illustration, the crowd at Trump’s inauguration metamorphosize into the well-known screaming figure.

Now, years later, we find ourselves in the exact same predicament with an even greater level of uncertainty and unease.

In today's world, Munch’s work remains as relevant as ever, capturing the anxieties that define our time. Whether you feel like screaming into the abyss, withdrawing from an overwhelming world, or pausing to reflect, his images provide a space for those emotions. By anonymizing his figures, Edvard Munch allows us to see ourselves in their place. His art doesn’t offer an escape—it offers recognition and release. When we feel unable to voice our distress or make sense of our emotions, his raw and haunting images give us a visual reassurance that we are not alone in our struggles.

On the first day of university, my classmates and I were asked this exact question.

“My parents were artists, so I always had a deep passion to study the arts” - one boy replied.

“My grandparents are art collectors, so they always took me to galleries and auction houses” - said a girl nearby.

The other responses followed a similar path — each filled with fascinating stories of a lifelong connection to the art world.

Then, it was my turn.

Truthfully, before college, I didn’t even know that art history existed. I loved drawing and painting as a child, but I never had a natural eye for the arts, nor did I grow up wandering through the hallways of galleries or museums. In fact, at first, I found art spaces quite intimidating. How long was I supposed to look at each painting? And what was I meant to look at while I stood there?

When I went to study art history at University, it was no surprise to me, that I would be an anomaly. But, among the sea of white faces in my lecture halls, I began to notice parallels between my experience and the art world itself.

In 1999, art historian, Griselda Pollock, wrote a book with an interesting term in the title, it was called ‘Differencing the Canon’. The canon. It was a term used to describe the “standard” of all art. Think of the old masters — Michelangelo, Da Vinci, or Rembrandt.

Now, I’m not going to give any unpopular opinions, their art was truly extraordinary. But, what about the extraordinary artists that didn’t make it into the canon? What about the voices left unheard, the art still left unseen?

Fortunately, the art world today is taking steps toward greater inclusivity and representation. But we can’t only focus on the present! It’s vital to continue spotlighting the artists, who, until now, have been hidden away.

One of these artists was the sculptor, Mary Edmonia Lewis — a name I hadn’t encountered until my third year of university.

Born in 1844, Lewis’s life was marked by both resilience and rarity. Both, because she was one of the first African American sculptors to gain international acclaim, and because she often wove elements of fantasy into her own life story.

Supposedly named “Wildfire” at birth, Mary Edmonia Lewis was born to a Native American mother and a Hatian father. As a child, she cherished her time spent in her mother’s Chippewa community, where people crafted a symbiotic relationship with nature. Reflecting back on this time, she said, “to catch a fish when you are hungry, cut the boughs of a tree, make fire to roast it, and eat it in the open air, is the greatest of all luxuries”. But, unfortunately, this idyllic freedom abruptly ended for her at the age of five, when both of her parents sadly passed away.

Leaving her orphaned, Lewis moved to upstate New York where she was looked after by her aunts and half-brother, Samuel. Samuel played a pivotal role in her life, supporting her artistic pursuits and even financing her education, which was uncommon for a woman at the time, let alone a woman of colour! Later, in 1859, Lewis was accepted at Oberlin College — the first college to admit African American students. However, just because she was accepted, did not mean she was welcomed.

During her time as a student, Lewis faced relentless accounts of discrimination and racism. She was falsely accused of poisoning her white classmates and, even after being exonerated, was later accused of stealing art supplies. This hostility escalated when she was brutally attacked by a racist male mob, who left her beaten in a field. It remains unclear whether she left Oberlin by choice or was dismissed, but she never graduated.

Luckily, Edmonia’s life began to take a turn for the better when she left America for Rome (1866). When asked about her departure, she simply stated:

“I was practically driven to Rome…where I was not constantly reminded about my colour. The land of liberty had no room for a coloured sculptor”.

Fortunately for Lewis, Rome was the powerhouse of the art world, especially for classical sculpture. Here, she joined a community of women artists and abolitionists and began to carve her most well-known masterpieces. Among them was her most controversial piece, (but my personal favourite) — ‘The Death of Cleopatra’.

In this piece, Lewis used 3,000 pounds of Carrara marble to capture a life-sized scene of Cleopatra’s death. While critics scorned this work for its gruesome and morbid interpretation, I find beauty in its poignant and honest depiction. Reclining on her engraved throne, Cleopatra’s limp form drapes delicately over the chair’s sides. Though carved from stone, the pleats of her gown appear soft and weightless, and even in death, her head remains lifted and poised. Interestingly, ‘The Death of Cleopatra’ was lost and misplaced for nearly a century. At one point, it served as a decorative piece in a Chicago Saloon and, later, it marked a horse’s grave. Finally, in the 1980s the sculpture was rediscovered and restored. In the process, fragments of Lewis’s life emerged, shedding light on her likely passing in 1907.

Mary Edmonia Lewis’s story is one of extraordinary perseverance and artistic brilliance. While her legacy is beginning to be recognised, her near-erasure from art history raises an urgent question: Who else have we forgotten? and, how many more artists are waiting to be seen?

For me, the new year is a time that’s both exciting and stressful. To be honest, I’m not a fan of the whole “New Year, New Me” mantra. Despite my best efforts, most of my ambitious goals always seem to fizzle out before spring.

So, this year, I’m trying something different. Rather than chasing the image of a perfect person that I’ll never achieve, I want to focus on shifting my mindset. I want to see this time as an opportunity to refresh my perspective, to reignite my creativity, and draw inspiration from new and unexpected places.

Of course, figuring out where to start is another challenge entirely! So, If you’re anything like me, then don’t worry. Here’s some art and advice to help you kickstart the year with a new spark of creativity and inspiration!

I hope you all have an amazing New Year filled with creativity and inspiration! I’d love to hear—how’s your year been so far? (Let me know in the comments below!)

I was born to be a remarkable woman; it matters little in what way or how...I shall be famous, or I will die” - Marie Bashkirtseff.

Have you ever kept a diary? 

Well, I have, and still do. It’s one of the few consistent things I’ve held on to, and for that reason, I’m very proud of it. I started “diary-writing” when I was thirteen, though I wasn’t consistent with writing in it back then. But, ever since, I’ve always made it a habit to keep one.

My diaries are a personal record of my thoughts, a keeper of my secrets, and an insight into my experiences. Each page tells the story of who I once was, and who I am now. So, when I began studying Art History, I couldn’t help but wonder: if I were an artist, what would my diary look like? 

Luckily, my ludicrous question was finally answered when I stumbled upon the diary of the 19th century artist, Marie Bashkirtseff. 

Marie Baskirtseff was born into a family of Russian nobility. Her father was an elected marshal, and her mother belonged to a wealthy aristocratic family. They lived in what is now known as modern-day Ukraine. But, when her parents separated in 1870, Marie was whisked away on travelling trips with her mother - with their first stop being in Nice. It was here that she began her very first diary, at the young age of fourteen. 

Like my own early entries, Bashkirtseff filled her fresh pages with the trivial comings and goings of her day, the fantasies she day-dreamed about, the books she had read, and the pieces of gossip she overheard. To onlookers, she lived a life of comfort and luxury…but her diary told a very different story. 

Plagued by recurring illnesses, Marie’s playful diary soon became an outlet for her anguish and disappointment. While she had once dreamed of becoming a singer, losing her hearing had now forced her to shift her attention to art. But, with her illnesses worsening, Marie soon realised she had little time left. Expressing her deep sorrow to this painful truth, she wrote, “why does God cause suffering? If it is He who has created the world, why has He created evil, suffering, and wickedness?”

As her time grew short, so did her patience.

Marie had successfully paved her way as an artist at the Academie Julian in Paris, but she still yearned for more. Above her health, friends, and family, there was one thing she desperately desired…fame! Often expecting an audience whilst writing, she probed her readers with rhetorical and teasing questions, asking, “What do I want? Oh, you know well enough, I want GLORY”. (Yes, she really did write that in all caps). But, for a woman artist in the late 19th century, fame and glory was almost impossible. 

Though Bashkirtseff enjoyed the artistic rivalry within her close-knit studio of sixteen women, she felt excluded and deprived from the diverse competition beyond its walls. So, to increase her chances of artistic glory, she went to great lengths; inviting her art instructors to dinner, cultivating friendships with established male artists, and carefully crafting her paintings to align with the conventional guidelines for women. 

But still, she remained virtually unsuccessful. Confused and depleted by her lack of recognition, she wrote, “I am exceedingly indignant because, after all, works that are really rather poor have received prizes. There is nothing more to be done. I am a worthless creature, humiliated, finished”. But, deep down, Bashkirtseff knew the true reason for her lack of fame.

While her artwork adhered to tradition, Bashkirtseff’s thoughts written in her diary were strikingly ahead of her time. Frustrated by the constraints imposed on women, she wrote, “I long for the freedom to go out alone: to go, to come, to sit on a bench and to stroll in the old streets in the evenings. This is what I envy. Without this freedom one cannot become a great artist”. 

Later, she critiqued broader injustices, commenting that “marriage is the only career for women”, and lamenting that, “men have thirty-six chances, while women only have one”. In these passages, her words served as a mouthpiece for women. When considered alongside her private funding of the French feminist paper, 'La Citoyenne’, and her secret participation in feminist meetings, her identity as someone who wanted revolutionary change is undeniable. 

In an entry from May, 1884, she wrote, “ If I do not die young I hope to live as a great artist; but if I die young, I intend to have my journal, which cannot fail to be interesting, published”.

Four months later, on October 31st, just a few weeks before her twenty-sixth birthday, she died. True to her wish, her diary was published three years later by her family.

Today, in France, the book bears a fitting title when translated into English: ‘I Am the Most Interesting Book of All’. 

At a time when women artists were unrecognised for their intellect or skill, Gentileschi rose to prominence as one of the most sought-after artists in the 17th century. Disguising the horrors of her life into biblical and mythological paintings, she shone a much needed light onto the struggles that women silently faced and infused her subjects with her own confident and self-assured traits. Straying from male representations of women as weak or frail, she showcased the true charm, voice, and strength of what it meant to be a woman - ardently writing to her patron: “I will show Your Illustrious Lordship what a woman can do”… 

As a young girl, Artemisia spent her adolescent years within the confines of her home. The streets of 16th-century Rome were considered unsafe for women at the time and besides, her role as the eldest sister of three brothers left her with little time to wander and explore. This responsibility only heightened after the death of her mother at the age of twelve, where she was forced to support her family and as a result was was not given an education until her early twenties. However, she was lucky enough to have a successful artist for a father (Orazio Gentileschi) who allowed her to work as an apprentice in his studio. In this artistic environment she became inspired to produce her very own masterpieces that soon surpassed the success of her own father.

One of her most famous works, still today, was her rendition of the biblical story: ‘Judith Slaying Holofernes’. 

This work recounts the gruesome and revolutionary tale of the assassination of the Assyrian general, Holofernes, by a young woman named Judith. Filled with a desire to defend her people from Holofernes’ army, who had unleashed a ravaging siege against her village, she seduced the general to invite her into his tent for a lavish banquet. In his tent, Holofernes ate and drank until he grew drunk and fell asleep. With Holofernes now intoxicated, unarmed, and distracted, Judith seized her chance and began to decapitate Holofernes with the help of her maidservant, Abra!

Artemisia’s painting presents the brutal climax of this story. Here, we see the moment of decapitation, of intense vigour and strength, and of victory and freedom. Artemisia exhibited the true physical struggle it would have taken for an act like this to be completed. When looking at this piece I can almost feel the struggle of the two women to pin Holofernes down, and can appreciate the determination for liberation in Judith’s controlled and hardened gaze. 

While Gentileschi chose to emphasise the themes of camaraderie, sisterhood, and female empowerment in her work, her male counterparts painted this scene very differently. Take Caravaggio as an example (on the left): in his rendition, he emphasised Holofernes’ screaming face and painted Judith as a meek young girl. Placed in a white blouse of innocence, in his version, Judith isn’t a heroic figure, but instead, a young girl who seems hardly capable of having the force required for this gruesome and emancipative task. While her maidservant, Abra, is literally presented as a frail, old woman. 

Artemisia's painting, quite literally, showcased the resilience and strength of what women were capable of. But for some, her work seemed too realistic, too graphic, and even…vengeful, with some going so far as to call this work her ‘painting of revenge’.

But, why would it be a ‘painting of revenge’?

Though Artemisia lived a cloistered life within the close reach of her father, she wasn’t completely hidden from the clutches of all men and in her time apprenticing she was horrifically raped by an artist called, Tassi. Surprisingly, Artemisia’s case was taken to court by her father - an outcome that was rare for the time. But, it was only because Tassi refused to marry her. The trial was brutal, gruelling, and unlawful. To prove her sincerity during the trial, Artemisia was tortured with tightened cords around her hands, to which she repeatedly cried out, “it’s true, it’s true, it’s true”. Meanwhile, Tassi was left with only a brief exile, which he eventually ignored. 

With this in mind, the strength of Artemisia’s women becomes more clear and perhaps her painting was a ‘painting of revenge’. 

But, regardless of whether it was or wasn’t, Artemisia’s paintings were more than a reimagining of her rape. Instead, they were a reinvention of what it meant to be a woman in the 16th and 17th century.

At a time when women were seen as weak, frail, or submissive, Artemisia portrayed them as daring, courageous, and most importantly, strong! 

“I don’t think there has ever been a man who has treated a woman as an equal, and that’s all I would have asked for, for I know I’m worth as much as they” - Berthe Morisot, 1890.

Why have there been no great women artists? This question was asked in 1971 by popular art historian, Linda Nochlin, and remains to this day a crucial point of discussion. I mean, ask yourself : why does the world so valiantly revere the names of Michelangelo or Leonardo da Vinci but whisper the names of Artemisia Gentileschi or Angelica Kauffmann ? Now, it’s not because women couldn’t create great art, but simply because they were never recognised for it. This lack of recognition wasn’t limited to the arts but extended to the studies of literature, science, music, medicine…you name it!  

Even in innovative movements, women still held an entirely different reality to their male colleagues.

Starting in Paris, in the 19th century, the Impressionist movement spurred a catalytic change. Tired from painting the monotony of historical narratives, impressionists began to produce images that reflected scenes of the everyday. This novel mindset, at the time, defined this era as the ‘dawn of modernity’. But, while male artists thrived from this newfound progressiveness, the same cannot be said for women.

At the time, women were restricted from pursuing careers as many feared they would interfere with their ‘womanly’ duties of being a mother or wife. To men, a woman was meant to be passive, submissive, and compliant - their goals or ambitions were never regarded as something of importance.

Even the arts were considered a distraction to women’s responsibilities. As a result, women artists were faced with a hostility that made their pursuit for an artistic career nearly impossible. Women weren’t allowed to attend live drawing sessions. They weren’t allowed to illustrate images of the nude. They weren’t allowed to go out unchaperoned, and they were rarely allowed to enter male art clubs. 

Women artists, like Marie Bashkirtseff, expressed their frustration with these rules in their private writings, saying: 

“I long for the freedom to go out alone: to go, to come, to sit on a bench … and to stroll in the old streets in the evenings. This is what I envy. Without this freedom one cannot become a great artist”.

On the off chance that a woman artist gained recognition, it was only under the merits of her personal charm and beauty, not her artistic skill. If she complied to conventions, she was often suspected of being helped, or was accused of copying her male counterparts. But if she rebelled, her work was ridiculed for its ‘feminine’ aesthetic - being marked as pretty, but not professional. In short, the 19th century world was not made to accommodate the dreams of women artists, yet many still persevered.   

One of those artists was Berthe Morisot, who rejected societal pressures and leaned into her artistic passion.

I had the privilege of seeing Morisot’s work when I was 16 at the Musée d’Orsay in Paris. Just as I was about to leave, I noticed a sign to a free exhibition and was struck by the vibrancy and nostalgia of her work. Morisot was, like many other women, restrained to the domestic sphere. But she didn’t let this confinement stop her from illustrating scenes that she wanted to. Instead, her paintings honed in on this restriction and spoke to the everyday lives of women.

Male critics who viewed her works were pleased that her images complied to their domesticated rules. However, they failed to realise that these images were not intended for their enjoyment, but rather for the relatability of women.

This painting was one that immediately struck my attention. In this piece, a woman is seated in front of an open window wearing a pillowy, frilled, white dress. Bathed in the light of what seems to be an early summers morning she gazes down in a state of contemplation. Something seems to be on her mind as she rejects the outside view for the patterns on her fan. But what could she thinking of?

The woman in this work was Edma, Berthe Morisot’s sister, who was influential in supporting her choice of becoming an artist - (this was probably because she shared the same ambition).

Like Morisot, Edma had a passion for the arts and often attended art lessons with her. But, in 1869 she succumbed to the societal pressures of marriage which ended her pursuit of doing art altogether. Just after, Morisot began a series of paintings dedicated to her (this painting being one of them). Now knowing this, a new perspective can be drawn from this painting. When I look at it, I see Edma contemplating on the life she could have lived if she continued on with her passion.

Unfortunately, at the age of 54, Berthe Morisot died of influenza and to this day her death certificate lists her as being without a profession. Despite this, I think Morisot’s courage can be a message to us all. Her life is a story of inspiration that urges us to pursue our aspirations.

P.S. I’m thinking of making this a little series as I’m currently doing a course at uni on women artists! So, look out for some more of this content - I hope to give these women the recognition that they deserve ♡

As a child, Caravaggio tragically lost both of his parents to the plague and, when old enough, decided to move from his hometown in Northern Italy to Rome (1592)- the epicentre of the artistic world. Here, he yearned for a chance to paint a new and better life for himself, however his incessant bad behaviour proved to challenge this young idealism.  

When I first learnt about Caravaggio, I was intrigued to hear that most of what art historians know about him has been collated from his criminal records. In between his time spent painting and selling artworks, he was often caught up in drunken brawls, street fights, and violent riots. These acts led to his repeated arrest and trial precisely eleven times for things including: fighting with waiters, abusing police, and yes… murder!

As the story goes, in 1606, Caravaggio had an argument with a man that escalated into a sword fight. Though not intentionally wanting to kill him, Caravaggio stabbed the man who later bled out from his wound. Choosing incompliance, as always, Caravaggio fled Rome in search for pardon, but little did he know he was wanted for murder by no other than the Pope who prayed on the justice of a death sentence against him.

Despite his controversial behaviour, Caravaggio was undoubtedly an artistic genius who gained immense popularity through his works of religious and mythological narratives. In these paintings, he was revered for his use of ‘tenebrism’, an Italian word used to describe his dramatic technique of contrasting light. Caravaggio played with light for its theatricality and used it to aid viewers in distinguishing the “good” and “bad” characters in his works. For the public, who would have largely been illiterate, Caravaggio’s techniques were a marker of clarity and inclusion that pushed the message that art was for all.

So, it’s clear why Caravaggio was viewed as rebellious, but why were his paintings seen in the same light?

This painting is one of my favourite depictions of his artistic defiances. Although seemingly devout, this work was rejected for its religious and artistic disobedience. Here, Caravaggio illustrated the transit of the Virgin. We see her lifeless body flayed in the centre of the composition with a crowd of people that surround and mourn her. Her feet lay exposed, and a heavenly light shines down onto her face which expresses a realistic stillness of death. When I look at this artwork, I can almost hear the softened cries of the crowd and feel the heaviness of despair and heartbreak in the air.

Customarily, the transit of the Virgin would have been painted in a more idealistic manner, but here she simply resembles a dead woman. If it wasn’t for the light halo above her head, one would think this work was of an ordinary person…and perhaps it was.

Supposedly, the Virgin in this work was modelled by a prostitute that Caravaggio knew - pretty ironic and improper for the time but not at all unusual for Caravaggio. Despite his criminal persona, Caravaggio apparently paid prostitutes and the homeless to model for his works which again dismantled the elitism of art that was ever-present in the 17th century. However, for the church officials and art critics who viewed this scene, his good deed was seen as an act of rebellion that inappropriately compared the sanctity of the Virgin Mary with the inferiority of a prostitute.

In 1610, age 38, Caravaggio allegedly died of a fever whilst on his way back to Rome. However, due to the lack of medical records that support this, there are many speculations about his passing (seeing as he was still a wanted man). So, what do you think? Did his death result from a common illness or was he, perhaps, finally killed for his treason of murder?

The next time you’re at the National Portrait Gallery in London take a look at some of his paintings! Although the ‘Death of the Virgin’ won’t be there, have a seat and admire his dramatic narratives and intricate work of tenebrism.    

Born in 1908, to a strict Catholic family in the Catalonian town of Anglés, Varo was forced to attend a convent school for most of her early life. It was in this confinement that her interests in alchemy, science, and philosophy were sparked, and at the age of 15 she was enrolled by her parents to the ‘Academy of Arts’ in Madrid. Here, she developed her artistic skills, but in the hopes to pursue an endeavour that wasn’t coddled by her parents she rebelliously left for France at 19. Spending most of her time in Paris, Varo was at the heart of the Surrealist movement and began to exhibit works alongside the notable figures of, André Breton, Max Ernst and Paul Eluard. Despite these successes, she fled France after the beginnings of World War II and moved to Mexico where she spent the rest of her life, completing 110 paintings in her final decade.

I first stumbled upon Varo’s name whilst aimlessly scrolling on YouTube when I found a video entitled, ‘Know the artist: Remedios Varo’. Since then, I became enamoured by each one of her paintings and the unique mysticism that they offered. Varo’s works seamlessly combined the whimsical compositions of Hieronymus Bosch with the eerie satires of Francis Goya, in a way that was both captivating and haunting. In these curated worlds, the everyday became obscured, the mundane became mystifying, and the familiar became fantastical. Although these pieces of adventure and mystery were far removed from my dull reality, I had no trouble with immersing myself into their stories.

Intrigued by this “new” artist, I began to search for books that would help foster my fascination and bought a book titled, ‘The Surrealist Dictionary’. I wilfully assumed that Varo would be mentioned in its pages, but when I flipped to ‘Mexican artists’ all that was written was, “Remedios Varo (1908-1963) married to Benjamin Péret”. Well, I’m sure you could imagine my disheartenment in finding such an indefinite description. To me, Varo was a revolutionary, an exile, and an activist. But in the pages strewn beneath me, she was labelled as nothing more than a wife. Despite her achievements that I had read about, her legacy in the present hid in the shadows of her husband’s fame.

Even during her artistic career, Varo occupied a contentious position as a woman artist, and when reflecting on this time she notably said:

“My position was one of a timid and humble listener; I was not old enough nor did I have the aplomb to face up to them, to a Paul Eluard, a Benjamin Péret, or an André Breton. There I was with my mouth gaping open within this group of brilliant and gifted people”.

To most male surrealists in the 1930s and 40s, women were viewed as metaphors, muses, and mothers; often being portrayed in relation to violence, sensuality and passivity. One only needs to look at ‘The Rape’ (1934) by René Magritte or the ‘The Doll’ (1934) by Hans Bellmer to understand these fetishist and chauvinistic views.

In retaliation to these beliefs, Varo painted works where women were the arbiters of her worlds. She rejected the eroticised male gaze that had dominated Surrealist pieces and, instead, presented women in a light that was hopeful. In each of her esoteric dreamscape’s women were the protagonists, the explorers, the scientists, and the creators. As a result, her works provided the empowering message that women could be more than the muses and objects that they were commonly illustrated as. In tandem with these feminist ideas, she explored the intersections between the philosophical, the sacred and the scientific.

Recently, Varo has gained traction in new research and scholarly circles but, in my opinion, her work merits even greater attention from members of the public who have likely never heard of her name.

So, if one day you’re asked to name a female surrealist, say Remedios Varo.

So…who am I?

Well, I’m glad you ‘asked’.

I’m Alisha, a recent art history graduate who loves to yap, overshare, and - yes - ramble. I’m currently navigating the post-graduate job market in London, which has been…well…let’s not even talk about it. So, instead of applying for jobs, I thought, why not distract myself with writing? Sounds like a solid plan to me!

What is Art History Rambles?

So, Art History Rambles is essentially a diary of my art historical interests. There’s not much theme or planning to what I write - just a mix of recommendations, essays, love letters, and gossip. My goal is to make the art world more accessible to people who don’t have an art background, so prepare yourself for a chaotic stream of pieces like these:

What can you expect?

Now, I’ll try not to make too many promises I can’t keep, but I’ll do my best to deliver a new post every two weeks. I also post art recommendations on my notes every few days, so be sure to check those out. Plus, if your attention span is anything like mine, you can catch more digestible, frequent content on my TikTok (under the same handle).

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