Shady Ladies

04/24/2025

In 1766, the HMS Dolphin anchored off the coast of Tahiti, carrying a crew of British sailors worn thin from months at sea. What was meant to be a brief stop for fresh provisions turned into something far more revealing—not just of human need, but of the cultural collisions that marked the age of exploration. The British had come armed with imperial confidence, assuming they were bringing civilization to the “unknown.” But on the beaches of Tahiti, they were met by a society with its own codes of value, power, and exchange.

The Tahitian people welcomed the strangers with hospitality, curiosity, and an openness that confounded the sailors’ expectations. Goods were traded—food, cloth, stories. But quickly, a new kind of exchange emerged. The sailors discovered that iron was prized by the Tahitians, who lacked access to metal tools. Nails, in particular, were of immense value. The women of the island, recognizing this, offered s*xual favors in return for nails. The sailors, desperate for pleasure and stripped of moral pretense, obliged.

It was a transaction shaped by imbalanced power, by colonial hunger, by the limits of understanding. The nails were ripped from the very bones of the ship—literally pulled from the structure of the Dolphin—to feed this trade. And as they indulged in the momentary satisfaction, they were weakening the vessel that would carry them onward. Desire, survival, exploitation—it all tangled together.

But this isn’t just a story about reckless sailors or exoticized women. It’s about how colonialism worked in microcosm: through need, through misunderstanding, through the stripping of resources—both literal and human. The Tahitian women saw what the sailors didn’t: that even in their power, these foreign men were vulnerable. They were willing to dismantle their own ship for what they thought they needed most.


📷credit tahititourisme.com

04/23/2025

04/16/2025

04/16/2025

Barbara Strozzi’s was born in Venice in 1619, she was not just a but a woman who carved her own path in a male-dominated field. The Baroque period was a time when women were expected to conform to strict societal roles, yet Barbara refused to be confined. Her father, the poet Giulio Strozzi, recognized her gifts early and provided her with an education in music—something rare for women at the time. But this privilege came with its own challenges. Without the backing of the Church or steady noble patronage, she had to rely on her own ingenuity to make her mark.

Her music was deeply expressive, often exploring themes of love, longing, and emotional depth—topics that resonated with the human experience in ways that felt intimate and real. Unlike many of her contemporaries, who composed primarily for sacred settings or courtly entertainment, Barbara’s work was largely secular, written for intimate gatherings in Venetian salons. These were spaces where artists, intellectuals, and free thinkers could gather, and through them, she found an audience that appreciated her artistry.

What makes her achievements even more remarkable is the sheer volume of her published work. In an era when most women’s creative output went unrecognized, she managed to release eight collections of music—more secular works than any other composer of her time. She didn’t just compose; she took control of her own legacy, ensuring her music would survive.

04/14/2025

Lillian Roth’s story is one of talent, turmoil, and tremendous resilience. Born in 1910 in Boston and raised in a world that was just beginning to understand the power of celebrity and media, she found herself in the spotlight almost from the moment she could walk. Performing on Broadway by age seven, Roth was quickly recognized as a rare talent. Her early film roles in the dawn of the talkie era, like The Love Parade and Animal Crackers, revealed a bright, expressive presence on screen—sassy, spirited, and effervescent. She became one of the first crossover stars of the stage and silver screen, charming audiences with her singing voice and vivacious personality.

But the pressures of fame, especially for a young woman in Hollywood’s early studio system, were intense. Behind the scenes, Roth struggled profoundly. She battled with alcoholism at a time when addiction was shrouded in shame, and her personal life unraveled through a string of difficult relationships and marriages. The pain she carried, often masked by glamorous costumes and a megawatt smile, led to a downward spiral that would cost her her career, her health, and nearly her life.

Yet Lillian Roth was not one to be counted out. In the 1950s, she did something extraordinary—she told the truth. Appearing on This Is Your Life, she broke the silence surrounding addiction and publicly shared her journey of recovery, long before it was common to speak openly about such struggles. The raw honesty of that appearance resonated with countless women who saw reflections of their own pain and perseverance in her words. She later co-wrote her memoir, I’ll Cry Tomorrow, which became a bestseller and a powerful film starring Susan Hayward. In telling her story, Roth became not just a survivor but a trailblazer, helping to shift public perceptions of addiction and the possibility of healing.

Even as her stardom dimmed in comparison to her earlier years, she never stopped working. Roth returned to the stage and sang with the same passion that had captivated audiences decades earlier. Her roles in I Can Get It for You Wholesale and 70, Girls, 70 showed a woman who had not lost her joy in performance or her desire to connect with others through art. She gave voice to characters who, like her, had been through it—women who knew the sting of loss but also the sweetness of survival.

04/14/2025

She was brilliant

04/12/2025

04/12/2025

She was unlike anyone who had come before her. Greta Garbo moved through the world like a shadow of silk—mysterious, aloof, magnetic. Born in Stockholm in 1905, she grew up in poverty, working in a department store before catching the eye of a director who recognized something rare in her stillness. When she looked at the camera, it looked back at her, almost reverent. She wasn’t just beautiful; she was otherworldly, unknowable, and the world couldn't look away.

By the time she was in her early twenties, she had taken Hollywood by storm. She arrived in silent films, where her expressive face and the aching subtlety of her performances needed no dialogue. When talkies came, everyone held their breath—would the magic break? But when she spoke her first line, “Give me a whisky, ginger ale on the side—and don’t be stingy, baby,” it only deepened the spell.

She played tragic heroines, romantic figures touched by melancholy, women whose hearts were always just out of reach. Offscreen, she cultivated the same enigma. She avoided interviews, premieres, and parties. She never married, never had children, and guarded her privacy with fierce precision. The studio spun it as shyness. Others whispered of affairs with both men and women. She never confirmed, never denied. She didn’t explain herself—she simply disappeared when she’d had enough.

At just 36, she walked away from the screen entirely. She lived the rest of her life in near-anonymity, walking the streets of New York, visiting bookstores, talking to almost no one, her legend only growing in her absence. In leaving, she cemented what Hollywood could never script: the power of mystery, of choosing your own story, of never letting the world fully possess you.

04/12/2025

The bedding ceremony was once a common feature of marriages in parts of Europe, especially among the upper classes, but it was not limited to royalty or nobility. Its origins lie in ancient traditions where marriage was as much a public contract as it was a personal union. In many cultures, it was not enough for a couple to exchange vows; their marriage had to be *seen* to be consummated. The bedding ceremony made that moment a spectacle.

After the wedding feast, the bride and groom would be paraded—sometimes quite literally—through the household or village, accompanied by cheering guests, servants, and sometimes musicians. In some customs, the guests would es**rt the couple to their bedchamber, help undress them, and even tuck them in, all amid raucous jokes and lewd encouragements. The goal was to publicly affirm that the marriage was valid and that it would lead to children, alliances, and inheritance—foundations of power and stability in pre-modern society.

For many women, especially those from elite families, the ceremony was a performance of duty rather than desire. It was a transition from girlhood to womanhood made stark and sometimes humiliating under the scrutiny of others. In certain cases, witnesses would remain in the room until the act of consummation had begun—or even wait outside to hear "evidence" that it had occurred. These weren’t just traditions; they were ways to protect dynastic claims and ensure paternity in a world where lineage meant everything.

Not all bedding ceremonies were so invasive. In some regions, the couple was left in privacy after the symbolic un******ng, and the ceremony became more of a ritual than an intrusion. But the memory of the practice lingers—an example of how deeply women’s bodies were tied to politics, propriety, and public expectation.

Over time, the bedding ceremony faded away, considered increasingly vulgar or outdated. But its traces remain in historical texts, court records, and literature, offering insight into how societies once regarded s*x, marriage, and especially the role of women within both. What was meant to legitimize a union could also strip it of intimacy—reminding us just how hard-won the concept of privacy, especially for women, truly is.

04/12/2025

04/12/2025

Peggy Guggenheim had an insatiable appetite for art and s*x. While building one of the most impressive art collections the modern world has ever seen, she was also busy bedding men left and right. While in Europe, it is said she slept with almost 1,000 men. She claimed to have had affairs with numerous artists and writers, and in return, many claimed to have had affairs with her.

Once, she even claimed to have had s*x with a fictional character: William Boyd’s Nat Tate.

While extremely wealthy, Peggy bought only 2 or 3 dresses a year. She used her money instead to buy art. She opened a gallery in London called Guggenheim Jeune, showcasing artists such as JEAN COCTEAU, Jean Arp and Kandinsky. On one trip to Paris, she bought 10 Pablo Picasso, 8 Joan Mirós and 3 Man Rays, among others.

In front of The Peggy Guggenheim Collection in Venice, there is a bronze sculpture of a naked boy, in a state of arousal, with his two arms extended. Scandalous as she was, Peggy made sure the p***s was detachable, so as not to offend the more conservative dignitaries and visiting archbishops.

Peggy died in 1979. In her lifetime, Peggy Guggenheim loved many, and loved them ardently. But the great love of her life was neither man nor woman, but always, truly, her love for art.

CONFESSION OF AN ADDICT: https://amzn.to/41Sbqei

04/08/2025

Long before the Technicolor glamour and musical numbers of the 1953 adaptation, "Gentlemen Prefer Blondes" made its first cinematic debut during the silent film era. The 1928 version, directed by Mal St. Clair and produced by Paramount Pictures, was based on Anita Loos' best-selling 1925 novel of the same name, which had captivated audiences with its satirical take on Jazz Age femininity and materialism. Ruth Taylor, a popular silent screen actress and a flapper icon in her own right, was handpicked by Loos to play Lorelei Lee, the bubbly blonde gold-digger at the heart of the story. Alongside her was Alice White, playing the brunette best friend Dorothy, mirroring the later Russell-Monroe dynamic in spirit, if not in musical performance.

The 1928 production embraced the aesthetics of its time, drenched in Art Deco stylings and the visual vocabulary of the Roaring Twenties. Costumes sparkled with beads and fringe, settings evoked the sleek lines and geometric patterns of the modern age, and the film’s tone echoed the novel’s razor-sharp wit and social satire. It was an ambitious and stylish adaptation, designed to appeal to the flapper generation, celebrating female friendship, wit, and unapologetic ambition.

Unfortunately, like many silent films of the era, this version of "Gentlemen Prefer Blondes" has not survived. It is classified as a lost film, with no known copies in any archives. What remains are a handful of production stills and promotional materials, offering only tantalizing glimpses of what the film might have looked like.

04/03/2025

“In whose room shall I be hung?” Edith Schiele wrote in her diary after learning her husband’s first life-size oil portrait of her had sold to the art dealer Guido Arnot. “A strange thought—not to know where a work one has come to love will end up, which people I will smile down upon.”

Egon Schiele completed this frontal painting during two weeks of leave from the Austrian army, in August 1915. Thirteen years later, KRI namesake Otto Kallir, born in 1894, sold the work to what is today the .nl. Over its decades in the museum, the likeness has perhaps garnered more “visitors” than Edith Schiele ever dreamed possible.

Image: Egon Schiele, “Portrait of the Artist’s Wife, Standing (Edith Schiele in Striped Dress),” 1915, oil on canvas, Kunstmuseum Den Haag, The Hague.

04/03/2025

"In a Persian Bath" by Blas Olleros Quintana (Spanish, 1851 – 1919).