Last week I was speaking with an artist – highly regarded and in her 60s – when she began telling me about a recent incident with a male curator. She had been helping him install a show at a major institution when he realised the measurements for a large work of hers were off – he’d failed to double check the dimensions of the gallery. As a result, he asked if she could chop off a section of her large-scale artwork so it could fit. Understandably outraged, she declined, and the work didn’t end up in the show. But she also wondered whether the curator would have asked the same of a male artist – to butcher his own work to make it accommodate the space?
Women accommodate to a fault. But why have we been made to feel like this: guilty if we take up space; unpleasant if everything we do is not done with grace; demanding if we ask for what we want? It’s shocking to think that in 2023, the questioning of women’s authority – and the disbelief in what we are capable of – is still rife.
In historical terms, it’s partly because society hasn’t presented us with a vision in which women own certain spaces. Take a portrait commissioned to show the 36 founding members of the Royal Academy of Arts in London, of whom two were women, Angelica Kauffman and Mary Moser. Instead of painting them alongside the men who were all decked out in suits and studying a nude model, the painter Johann Zoffany reduced them to two almost unrecognisable portrait busts in the corner of the room. (The Royal Academy did not admit women to the life-drawing studio until the 1890s.)
Women’s work has also been hidden from view. In 2019, a large version of the Last Supper by the nun-artist Plautilla Nelli from around 1568 went on view at the refectory of Santa Maria Novella, Florence – its first outing.
Women have been crowded out not only on museum walls, but also in the places where they have made their work. When Lee Krasner shared a home with her husband, Jackson Pollock, in Springs, Long Island, her studio was confined to the spare bedroom, while he had the sprawling barn. And when winter came, she was the one forced to relocate to the living room.
Then there are the times women’s works haven’t even survived. At the 1939 World’s Fair in New York City, a 16-foot-high sculpture stood in its centre. Elegantly shaped like a harp, Lift Every Voice and Sing depicted 12 singing figures in floor-length robes standing in the palm of God’s hand, and a kneeling child. The work, by Augusta Savage, was commissioned to show the contribution to music by African Americans. But, despite the national press coverage it earned, it was destroyed after the fair due to an inability (or lack of will) to fund its storage. What impact would this work have had on future generations if it had been preserved?
This story makes me think about how many other works have been destroyed because they were created by, or depicted, people regarded as unimportant, while the works that have remained reinforce a narrative about the greatness of white men. The author Kate Mosse pointed out in her book Warrior Queens and Quiet Revolutionaries that there are more statues in the UK of men named John than there are statues of women, and in Edinburgh there are more statues of animals than named women.
Last year, when I interviewed the American artist Amy Sherald – who rose to fame after painting the presidential portrait of the first lady Michelle Obama, the first African American woman to do so – she recalled the power of seeing African Americans represented in art as a little girl: “I remember thinking, I wonder what my life would feel like if every single statue that I ever walked by … in all these different public spaces, looks like me?”
How different our lives would be if we saw ourselves reflected on museum walls and in public spaces. Representation is key because seeing something created by someone that looks like you empowers you, makes you feel part of the conversation, and encourages you to achieve the same things as them. But it also teaches us how to treat and respect those in society who may seem different from us. Because despite the progress of showing women’s work today, it is still being sidelined, delimited, and asked to be reduced in size. Any art or anyone is worthy of taking up space and we must go out of our way to accommodate that, no matter our gender or background.
LONDON (AP) — With a few daubs of a paintbrush, the Brontë sisters have got their dots back.
More than eight decades after it was installed, a memorial to the three 19th-century sibling novelists in London’s Westminster Abbey was amended Thursday to restore the diaereses – the two dots over the e in their surname.
The dots — which indicate that the name is pronounced “brontay” rather than “bront” — were omitted when the stone tablet commemorating Charlotte, Emily and Anne was erected in the abbey’s Poets’ Corner in October 1939, just after the outbreak of World War II.
They were restored after Brontë historian Sharon Wright, editor of the Brontë Society Gazette, raised the issue with Dean of Westminster David Hoyle. The abbey asked its stonemason to tap in the dots and its conservator to paint them.
“There’s no paper record for anyone complaining about this or mentioning this, so I just wanted to put it right, really,” Wright said. “These three Yorkshire women deserve their place here, but they also deserve to have their name spelled correctly.”
It’s believed the writers’ Irish father Patrick changed the spelling of his surname from Brunty or Prunty when he went to university in England.
Raised on the wild Yorkshire moors, all three sisters died before they were 40, leaving enduring novels including Charlotte’s “Jane Eyre,” Emily’s “Wuthering Heights” and Anne’s “The Tenant of Wildfell Hall.”
Rebecca Yorke, director of the Brontë Society, welcomed the restoration.
“As the Brontës and their work are loved and respected all over the world, it’s entirely appropriate that their name is spelled correctly on their memorial,” she said.
