Nasty Women Tour

28/05/2025

In the chaos of August 4, 2020, when a massive explosion tore through Beirut’s port and devastated large parts of the city, among the countless human tragedies and cultural losses was the near-destruction of an important painting by Artemisia Gentileschi. Her *Hercules and Omphale*, a rarely seen work held in a private collection in Beirut, was badly damaged by the blast—canvas torn, frame shattered, and layers of paint scattered in fragments.

The painting had been quietly living in Lebanon for decades, its presence known only to a select few art historians and collectors. It is one of Gentileschi’s lesser-known but significant works, completed during her Naples period in the 1630s or early 1640s. In typical fashion, Artemisia turned myth inside out. The story of Hercules, forced to exchange roles with Queen Omphale and do women’s work while she donned his lion skin and club, gave Gentileschi another opportunity to explore the reversals of gendered power through her brush—a theme she mastered like no other artist of her time.

After the blast, the painting was rescued from the rubble and placed in storage, battered but not forgotten. The J. Paul Getty Museum in Los Angeles, in collaboration with the Lebanese non-profit organization Biladi and Beirut’s Directorate General of Antiquities, took on the task of restoring the work. The Getty had already been active in providing emergency conservation assistance to cultural institutions in Beirut following the explosion. But this restoration was particularly meaningful—a rescue not just of a painting, but of the fierce legacy of an artist whose life was defined by survival and reclamation.

The restoration, conducted over several years in Los Angeles, required the delicate piecing together of fragments and retouching with the kind of reverence due to both Gentileschi’s genius and the trauma the artwork had endured. Conservators described it as a kind of “surgery”—not just aesthetic but spiritual. They had to contend with blast-related abrasions, gouges in the canvas, and an unstable structure. But what emerged was nothing short of miraculous. The painting regained its vibrancy, its visual punch, and its narrative force: Omphale stands poised, powerful, amused; Hercules subdued, ensnared not by chains but by a new arrangement of roles and expectations.

This moment of restoration speaks to the resilience of culture in the face of catastrophe. Gentileschi herself was no stranger to damage, having endured public scandal, sexual assault, and the struggle for recognition in a male-dominated world. She reinvented these wounds as fuel for her vision, creating heroines who bite back, who outwit, who endure. That one of her paintings could be nearly lost in a modern disaster, only to be rescued and revived, feels almost fated—as if Artemisia’s art was destined to reflect not only the battles of her era but ours too.

For q***r audiences, especially gay men attuned to histories of erasure and reinvention, this story resonates deeply. The painting’s narrative of role reversal, its unapologetic focus on female strength and male vulnerability, and the broader arc of survival against ruin—these are themes we know intimately. The recovery of *Hercules and Omphale* is more than an act of preservation. It’s a reminder that beauty, power, and transgression do not disappear quietly. They endure, cracked and scarred, but ever defiant.

21/05/2025

Sofonisba Anguissola’s story is one of quiet defiance, talent, and perseverance in a world that often dismissed the ambitions of women. Born in Cremona, Italy, in the 1530s, she was not a noblewoman forced into a convent or a merchant’s daughter expected to marry young. Instead, she was encouraged by her progressive father, Amilcare Anguissola, who believed in educating his daughters as thoroughly as his sons. This rare support allowed Sofonisba to flourish in ways most women of her time could only dream of.

From a young age, she showed an extraordinary gift for painting. Unlike many female artists of the period, who were restricted to copying existing works or painting still lifes, Sofonisba trained under respected masters, including Bernardino Campi. Her skill in portraiture was unmatched—she captured not just the likeness of her subjects but their essence, their quiet thoughts, the subtle emotions in their eyes. Her self-portraits are particularly striking; they reveal a woman aware of her own intellect, gazing confidently at the viewer, brush in hand.

Her reputation grew, and by her twenties, she was invited to the Spanish court as a lady-in-waiting and painting instructor to Queen Elisabeth of Valois. This was no small feat—imagine a woman, an artist, holding such a position in one of the most powerful courts in Europe. She painted the royal family, including the young Infanta Isabella Clara Eugenia, with a sensitivity that made her work highly sought after. Kings and popes admired her, yet she was never formally employed as a court painter, likely because such a title was reserved for men.

Despite the constraints of her time, she carved out a life of independence. She married twice—first to a man chosen by the Spanish crown, and later, after his death, to a sea captain she truly loved. Even in her later years, she continued to paint, her style evolving with wisdom and experience. The great Anthony van Dyck, who visited her in her old age, sketched her and noted her sharp mind, her advice on art, and her enduring passion for creation.

What makes Sofonisba’s legacy so remarkable is not just that she succeeded in a man’s world, but that she did so without losing herself. She didn’t conform to the expectations of women as mere muses or silent supporters of male genius. She was the genius. Her life reminds us that talent knows no gender, that determination can break barriers, and that sometimes, the quietest revolutions are the most powerful. Her paintings still speak across centuries—proof that a woman’s art, like her spirit, is timeless.

21/05/2025

Clara Coffey’s influence on New York City’s green spaces is both profound and personal, weaving nature into the everyday rhythms of urban life. As a landscape architect working for the NYC Parks Department, she didn’t just design parks—she shaped experiences, creating pockets of serenity where women, families, and communities could pause, breathe, and reconnect with nature. Her work on Clement Clarke Moore Park in Chelsea and Yellowstone Park in Queens reflects her thoughtful approach, blending functionality with beauty, ensuring these spaces serve the people who rely on them most.

But it’s her transformation of the Park Avenue Malls that truly captures her vision. These long stretches of greenery, running from Midtown to the Upper East Side, could have been mere decoration. Instead, Coffey made them alive, dynamic. Her design was intentionally understated—no grand gestures, no overwhelming displays—just carefully curated flower beds and seasonal plantings that shift with the year, offering quiet moments of delight for passersby. Imagine walking to work or pushing a stroller down Park Avenue and being greeted by bursts of color, the soft rustle of leaves, a reminder that nature persists even in the busiest parts of the city.

Her legacy is cemented in Sutton Place, where a park now bears her name. It’s fitting—a space for gathering, for reflection, for simply being. Clara Coffey understood that green spaces aren’t just about aesthetics; they’re about accessibility, about making sure that beauty and respite are available to everyone. In a city that can feel relentless, her work offers a gentle counterbalance, proving that even in the concrete jungle, there’s always room to grow.

21/05/2025

In the 19th century, dressmaking was more than just a skill—it was a rare avenue for American women to achieve financial independence and creative expression. At a time when few professions were open to women, sewing their own clothing (or making garments for others) allowed them to earn money, support their families, and even build small businesses. The invention of the sewing machine in the 1850s further revolutionized this work, making home dressmaking faster and more accessible. For many women, it was a form of quiet rebellion against the era’s rigid gender roles.

But as the fashion industry professionalized, men began to dominate what had once been a female-dominated craft. By the late 19th and early 20th centuries, high-end dressmaking shifted from homes and small women-run shops to male-led couture houses in Paris and New York. Men rebranded the trade as "fashion design," positioning themselves as visionary artists while dismissing women’s labor as mere "domestic work." Department stores and mass-produced clothing further sidelined independent female dressmakers, pushing them into lower-paid factory jobs or back into unpaid domestic roles.

This gendered takeover wasn’t just about economics—it reflected broader cultural biases. Women’s expertise was downplayed, while male designers like Charles Frederick Worth (the so-called "father of haute couture") were celebrated as geniuses. Even sewing, once a respected craft, became trivialized as "women’s work" unless men were at the helm. Yet, despite these barriers, many women continued to innovate in dressmaking, from African American entrepreneurs like Elizabeth Keckley (who dressed Mary Todd Lincoln) to immigrant seamstresses who fueled the garment industry.

The story of dressmaking’s transformation reveals much about power, , and whose labor gets valued in history.

15/05/2025

She was born Agustina del Carmen Otero Iglesias in Galicia, Spain, in 1868—or so the legend goes. Her early life is a fog of contradictions and reimaginings, much like the persona she crafted for herself. Raised in poverty, possibly the daughter of a pr******te, she reinvented herself from a young age, claiming noble Russian parentage and the name Caroline “La Belle” Otero. From this self-fashioned origin story emerged one of the most captivating and controversial women of the Belle Époque.

La Belle Otero didn’t just enter the stage—she conquered it. By her late teens, she had already become a sensation in the cabarets of Marseille, and soon Paris followed. She possessed a smoldering beauty that didn’t quite fit the classical mold, but what truly entranced people was her confidence. She moved like a woman who knew men would fall at her feet, and they did. Kings, dukes, millionaires—none seemed immune to her. She counted the likes of the future Edward VII, Tsar Nicholas II, and Prince Albert of Monaco among her admirers. Men went to war over her. At least six are believed to have taken their own lives in despair over her indifference. But she never mourned. “I was born to take advantage of men,” she once said, unapologetically.

She danced at the Folies Bergère and was more spectacle than performer—her image was everywhere, her legs insured, her name synonymous with luxury and danger. Her costumes were dripping in jewels, not borrowed but owned, paid for by the fortunes she extracted from her lovers. She was never a courtesan in the traditional sense; she was something much more rare and dangerous: a woman who knew her worth, multiplied it by ten, and demanded the world pay the price.

In an age when women had little autonomy, she built an empire around her image, allure, and clever manipulations of desire. She did not marry, not truly. She had no intention of surrendering her freedom. Instead, she played the game as well as, if not better than, the men who thought they controlled her. She walked through the salons and gambling halls of Monte Carlo with the composure of an empress and the instincts of a survivor. And though her legend was fed by gossip, few truly knew her.

Time, as it does, eventually caught up with her. Her beauty faded, and so did the frenzy. She spent her later years in the south of France, mostly alone, still gambling, still wearing a touch of her former extravagance. In the end, she confessed to a great loneliness—that the diamonds hadn’t kept her warm, and the men, so many men, had been a blur.

But she lived unapologetically. Her story is not one of shame or morality; it is one of self-possession. She took what the world offered—often more—and refused to be reduced to regret.

08/05/2025

Paula Rego’s art pulses with raw emotion and fierce defiance. Born in Portugal under the oppressive dictatorship of Salazar, she grew up acutely aware of the silence and submission demanded of women. Her early exposure to this climate of control and shame helped shape the themes that would come to define her work: power, pain, resistance, and the complexity of womanhood. When she moved to England and studied at the Slade School of Fine Art, she found a space to begin exploring her voice, not just as an artist, but as a woman refusing to play by the rules.

Her paintings and pastels are unsettling and often grotesque—but they are also intimate and honest. Rego never shied away from depicting discomfort. She created worlds full of nursery rhyme figures, women with animal heads, girls caught in moments of violence, rebellion, or silent suffering. The domestic scenes she painted are charged with psychological tension; the home is rarely a place of comfort in her work—it’s often a place of control, secrecy, and suppressed emotion.

One of her most powerful contributions came in the form of a series of pastel drawings on the subject of illegal abortion, created in 1998 after a Portuguese referendum failed to legalize the procedure. These works are unapologetically direct: young women sit or lie alone in bare rooms, their bodies curled in pain, their faces turned away. There is no sensationalism, no sentimentality. The reality of what many women endure is presented with dignity, fury, and compassion. Rego later said she made them to shock, to make people look and understand. And they did—these images were widely credited with shifting public opinion in Portugal ahead of the 2007 referendum that finally led to the legalization of abortion.

Rego's feminism wasn’t loud in the conventional sense; it was elemental. She understood that power can live in the quiet, in the places people prefer not to look. She worked mostly in pastels in her later years—a medium she used with surprising force, making it do things it had never done before. Through her insistence on centering the female body, the female psyche, and female agency—often in scenes where power and vulnerability coexist uneasily—she changed the landscape of contemporary art. Her legacy is a body of work that stands defiantly outside of prettiness or politeness, telling women’s stories with truth and strength.

08/05/2025

08/05/2025

⁣⁣Alphonse Mucha⁣⁣⁣ Portrait of Jaroslava⁣⁣⁣ 1925⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣ “Jaroslava, Mucha's first child, was born in 1909 in New York, during the family's stay in America. She appears in numerous pictures and designs, including Czechoslovak banknotes.⁣⁣⁣In this half-length frontal portrait, Jaroslava sits in an elaborate white headscarf with her chin in her hands.⁣⁣⁣When Mucha was working on the Slav Epic at Zbiroh, Western Bohemia, Jaroslava not only posed for the paintings, but also worked as her father's technical assistant. This early training may have helped her pursue her career as a conservator of fine art.”⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣ New York, New York

05/05/2025

Firs Zhuravlev (1836-1901), Young Woman in Kokoshnik.
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04/05/2025

Suzanne Valadon lived a life that defied the expectations of her time, not with loud declarations but with the steady, stubborn power of art and autonomy. Born in 1865 to a single mother who worked as a laundress, she grew up poor in Montmartre, Paris—a world where women were more often the subjects of paintings than the creators. But Suzanne didn’t follow the script. She began as a circus acrobat, but after a fall ended that career, she found herself in the studios of artists like Renoir and Toulouse-Lautrec—not just as a model, but as an observer.

While she posed, she studied. She taught herself to draw, to paint, to see the world through her own eyes. Her early sketches caught the attention of Edgar Degas, who not only encouraged her but bought her work—an extraordinary gesture in a world where women artists were often dismissed outright. With his support and her own relentless drive, Suzanne transitioned from model to painter, eventually becoming the first woman admitted to the Société Nationale des Beaux-Arts.

What makes Suzanne’s art remarkable isn’t just its bold lines or its vibrant palette. It’s the gaze. Her nudes didn’t flatter or idealize. They were unapologetically physical, grounded, and alive. She painted women with the kind of honesty usually reserved for male subjects. She reversed the gaze. The bodies she portrayed weren’t objects of desire—they were people with interior lives, with weight and presence.

She also painted her son, the artist Maurice Utrillo, and their troubled, deeply entangled relationship played out on the canvas and in life. She raised him mostly alone and supported him through his struggles with mental illness, even as she forged her own path in the art world. Their story is not simple, not sentimental—it’s complicated, fierce, and human.

Suzanne refused to soften herself for anyone. She smoked, drank, loved freely, and aged visibly and unashamed. She lived with the same defiant clarity that defined her paintings. In a world that tried to define women through their relationships to men, she claimed her space as a creator in her own right.

Her legacy is a reminder that art made by women doesn’t have to be delicate or decorative. It can be messy, muscular, and brave. Suzanne Valadon painted what she saw, and what she saw was real.

04/05/2025

Anouk Aimée possesses a kind of presence that doesn't simply dazzle—it lingers. Watching her on screen is like slipping into a dream you never want to end. She is not a performer who overwhelms with theatrics; instead, she commands your attention through stillness, subtlety, and a gaze that often says more than pages of dialogue ever could. Born Françoise Sorya Dreyfus in 1932, she became Anouk Aimée early in her career, adopting a name as elegant and elusive as the characters she so often portrayed. There is an undeniable sense of mystery in her performances—not mystery as a trope, but as an emotional state. You don’t fully understand her, and you’re not meant to. That’s the beauty.

Aimée’s work in La Dolce Vita made her an icon, but it wasn’t the kind of stardom that burns out or begs for attention. As Maddalena, she’s both emotionally distant and oddly tender, moving through Rome’s hedonistic nightlife with a cool detachment that somehow makes her heartbreak more palpable. Her character is neither villain nor victim; she exists somewhere in between, a woman shaped by experience, capable of love but wary of it. It's a performance that feels startlingly modern even now, because it rejects easy definitions of femininity.

Then came Lola, a film that felt like it was written in soft charcoal and rain. As Lola, Aimée became the muse of the French New Wave—not because she courted the role, but because she embodied what that movement craved: authenticity, ambiguity, longing. She played women who had lived, who remembered love and bore its absence with poise. You watched her and felt like you knew her, and yet you didn’t. She was not made for simple narratives. Her characters were women who loved deeply, who waited without martyrdom, who endured.

She died on June 18, 2024 (age 92 years), in Paris.

24/04/2025