The shadow studio: How art history erased women painters
Imagine a room in the Louvre, on a winter morning. The slanting light caresses the gilded frames, revealing pale faces, silken draperies, stormy skies. Among these masterpieces, how many bear women’s names? A handful. Yet behind every canvas attributed to a master lie the hands of women—hands that m
By Artedusa
••16 min read
The shadow studio: how art history erased women painters
Imagine a room in the Louvre, on a winter morning. The slanting light caresses the gilded frames, revealing pale faces, silken draperies, stormy skies. Among these masterpieces, how many bear women’s names? A handful. Yet behind every canvas attributed to a master lie the hands of women—hands that mixed pigments, stretched canvases, captured the light. Those hands, history has forgotten.
Take the case of Artemisia Gentileschi. In 1612, in Rome, a nineteen-year-old woman stands before an ecclesiastical tribunal. She is asked to prove her word is true. Her crime? Accusing her painting teacher, Agostino Tassi, of raping her. To verify her testimony, they bind her fingers with cords and tighten them until blood beads. Despite the pain, she holds to her accusations. This trial, its yellowed minutes still resting in the Vatican archives, is more than a scandal—it is the symbol of a system that systematically minimized, erased, even stole the work of women artists. Artemisia, for her part, would paint Judith Slaying Holofernes a few months later—a canvas where blood spurts with a violence unheard of for the time. But for centuries, the work would be attributed to her father, Orazio Gentileschi, or to other male painters. As if a woman could not paint fury.
Why has art history been so successful in erasing women from its narratives? The answer lies not in a lack of talent, but in a tangle of prejudice, laws, traditions, and complicit silences. Let us step into the forgotten studios, the forbidden salons, the museums that chose to turn away rather than acknowledge the obvious: women have always painted. They even revolutionized painting. But to see it, one must first learn to look differently.
The brush and the corset: when the law wrote invisibility
In the seventeenth century, a young girl born into an artistic family had two options: become a nun or marry. If she chose painting, she would have to do so in secret, or with the blessing of a complicit father. Such was the case for Sofonisba Anguissola, born in Cremona in 1532. Her father, a nobleman but impoverished, quickly realized his daughter’s talent could save the family from ruin. He sent her to study under Bernardino Campi, a local painter. But Sofonisba did not merely copy the masters—she innovated. At fifteen, she painted The Chess Game, a canvas where her sisters face off under the amused gaze of a servant. What strikes the viewer is the liveliness of the expressions, the precision of the hands—those hands that would later wield the brush with rare mastery.
Yet even for an Anguissola, the doors of the academies remained closed. In 1648, the Royal Academy of Painting and Sculpture was founded in Paris. Women were excluded. In 1663, after years of pressure, four were finally admitted—out of 450 members. Four. The message was clear: painting was a man’s affair. Women could paint flowers, children, still lifes—never battles, mythological scenes, or academic nudes, considered the pinnacle of art. In 1804, Napoleon drove the point home: he banned women from studying the nude, thus depriving future artists of basic training. Without this knowledge of the human body, it was impossible to aspire to the grand genres. Impossible, therefore, to be taken seriously.
But laws were not the only obstacles. There were also the gazes. First, those of the critics. In 1894, Joris-Karl Huysmans wrote: “Women can only be dilettantes or copyists.” Then, those of the patrons. Collectors preferred to invest in male names, deemed more reliable. And then there was the gaze of husbands. In 1804, the Napoleonic Code stipulated that a married woman could not sign a contract without her husband’s permission. How could she sign a canvas, negotiate a commission, or even buy pigments without that authorization? Marie Bashkirtseff, a Ukrainian painter who died at twenty-five in 1884, wrote in her diary: “I want to be famous, but I don’t know how to go about it. Men have studios, masters, travels. I have an easel in a corner of the parlor.”
Forbidden colors: what women were not allowed to paint
If you walk into a museum today and look for canvases signed by women before the twentieth century, you will mostly find portraits, still lifes, and genre scenes. Rarely historical scenes, nudes, or grand landscapes. This is no accident. These subjects were considered “masculine,” too complex, too ambitious for female hands. Yet some dared to defy these prohibitions.
Take Lavinia Fontana. Born in Bologna in 1552, she was the first woman to run an independent studio. Her father, also a painter, taught her the rudiments of the trade. But Lavinia did not content herself with portraits, the “permitted” genre. She painted Minerva Dressing, a goddess in armor, her body muscular, her gaze proud. In another canvas, Judith with the Head of Holofernes, she dared to depict a triumphant woman holding the decapitated head of her enemy. At a time when women were expected to be gentle and submissive, these images were revolutionary. Yet Lavinia remained cautious: she signed her canvases “Lavinia Fontana, daughter of Prospero,” as if to remind viewers she worked under a man’s protection.
Artemisia Gentileschi went further. After her rape, she painted Judith Slaying Holofernes with unparalleled violence. Unlike the male versions of this theme—where Judith appears almost indifferent—Artemisia shows blood, struggle, sweat. Judith’s muscles are tensed, her hands gripping the knife with determination. Some historians saw in this canvas a form of symbolic vengeance. Others preferred to dismiss it as proof of her “hysteria”—a term often used to discredit women artists. No matter: Artemisia painted what she wanted, how she wanted. And that was precisely what disturbed people.
Colors, too, were gendered. Red, the symbol of passion and power, was reserved for men. Women had to content themselves with pastels, pale blues, delicate pinks. Yet some defied these codes. Clara Peeters, a Flemish painter of the seventeenth century, used deep reds in her still lifes. In Still Life with Cheeses, Almonds, and Pretzels, she even slipped in a subversive detail: a knife, a traditionally masculine object, placed prominently. A wink? A provocation? No one will ever know. But that knife, like Artemisia’s red, speaks volumes about women who refused to be boxed in.
Stolen signatures: when men appropriated women’s work
In 2017, a canvas attributed for decades to a minor seventeenth-century painter was reexamined by experts at the Prado. Using X-ray analysis, they discovered a hidden signature beneath the paint: “Judith Leyster.” The canvas, Still Life with Flowers, thus joined the works of this Dutch artist, long forgotten. How many other canvases, attributed to men, were actually painted by women?
The case of Judith Leyster is emblematic. Active in Haarlem in the 1630s, she was one of the few women admitted to the Guild of Saint Luke, an artists’ corporation. She painted lively genre scenes—musicians, drinkers, children playing. Her style, close to that of Frans Hals, was so similar that some dealers did not hesitate to sell her canvases under the master’s name. In 1635, Frans Hals himself had to intervene to put an end to these practices. In a letter, he wrote: “This canvas is by Judith Leyster, not me.” But the damage was done. After her death, her work fell into oblivion. It would take until the twentieth century for art historians to rediscover her.
Another famous case: that of Élisabeth Vigée Le Brun. Official portraitist of Marie Antoinette, she was one of the most sought-after artists of her time. Yet after the Revolution, her canvases were systematically attributed to others. In 1835, in her Memoirs, she wrote bitterly: “They said my portraits of the queen were the work of my father. As if a woman could not paint grandeur.” Even today, some of her canvases are still wrongly attributed to Joseph Ducreux or other male painters.
The theft of signatures is not just a matter of attribution. It is a way of denying the very existence of women artists. If a canvas is signed “School of Rembrandt,” no one looks further. If it is signed “Anonymous,” it is assumed to be by a man. Women, meanwhile, must fight for their names to be recognized. And even then, they are often accused of having “too much luck” or being “too ambitious.”
Museums and the great erasure: how institutions wrote history
In 2019, a study revealed that the Louvre holds only 1.2 percent of works signed by women. The Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York has 5 percent. The Prado, in Madrid, less than 1 percent. These numbers are not coincidental. They reflect centuries of institutional choices, prejudices, and silences.
Take the example of Janson’s History of Art, a reference manual used in universities worldwide. Until the 2000s, it mentioned almost no women artists. In 2001, a new edition finally included a chapter on Artemisia Gentileschi and a few others. But the damage was done: generations of students learned art history without ever hearing of Sofonisba Anguissola, Lavinia Fontana, or Rosalba Carriera.
Museums, too, played an active role in this erasure. In the nineteenth century, curators preferred to buy canvases by men, deemed more “serious.” Works by women were relegated to storage or sold as curiosities. In 1914, the Metropolitan Museum of Art purchased Irises by Georgia O’Keeffe. But it would take until 1946 for a retrospective to be dedicated to her. Meanwhile, the canvases of her male contemporaries—like Edward Hopper or Jackson Pollock—were displayed prominently.
Even today, biases persist. In 2018, a study by the Public Library of Science revealed that women represent only 13.7 percent of artists exhibited in major museums. “Women-only” exhibitions are multiplying, but they often remain marginal, as if works by women did not deserve to be integrated into permanent collections.
Yet things are beginning to change. In 2020, the Louvre acquired Still Life with Plums by Louise Moillon, a seventeenth-century painter. In 2022, the Musée d’Orsay organized a retrospective dedicated to women Impressionists. And in 2023, the Metropolitan Museum of Art announced it would reorganize its collections to include more women and non-Western artists. But will these efforts be enough to repair centuries of oblivion?
The survivors: three women who refused to disappear
Among the hundreds of women artists erased by history, a few managed to leave a mark. Their secret? A mix of talent, tenacity, and sometimes luck. Here are three of them, three survivors whose works still speak to us today.
Sofonisba Anguissola: the pioneer who taught Michelangelo
Sofonisba Anguissola was born in 1532 into a noble family in Cremona. Her father, an art lover, gave her an education rare for a woman of the time. She studied under Bernardino Campi, then Bernardino Gatti. But it was as a self-taught artist that she developed her unique style, made of intimate portraits and genre scenes.
In 1559, she became court painter to Philip II of Spain—a first for a woman. In Madrid, she painted the infants, the queen, the courtiers. But it was her Self-Portrait at the Spinet that made an impression. In this canvas, she depicts herself playing the spinet, a musical instrument. Her gaze meets the viewer’s, as if to say: “I am an artist, not a muse.” Michelangelo, impressed by her talent, sent her drawings to practice. At ninety, nearly blind, she was still giving advice to Anthony van Dyck.
Yet after her death, her work was scattered. Some canvases were attributed to her father or brothers. It would take until the 1990s for art historians to rediscover her. Today, her portraits are displayed at the Prado, the Louvre, and the National Gallery in London. But how many visitors know they are looking at the work of a woman who dared to defy the conventions of her time?
Artemisia Gentileschi: the painter who turned her pain into art
Artemisia Gentileschi was born in 1593 in Rome. The daughter of Orazio Gentileschi, a Caravaggist painter, she grew up in a studio where canvases piled up and pigments stained the tables. She quickly showed exceptional talent. But in 1611, her teacher, Agostino Tassi, raped her. The ensuing trial was a ordeal: she was tortured to verify her word, called a liar. Yet she held to her accusations.
A few months later, she painted Judith Slaying Holofernes. In this canvas, Judith is not a passive heroine. She is an angry woman, severing her enemy’s throat with unwavering determination. Blood spurts, muscles tense. Some see in it a symbolic revenge. Others, mere proof of her talent. Whatever the case, Artemisia turned her pain into art.
After her forced marriage to a mediocre painter, she settled in Naples, where she ran a thriving studio. She painted biblical heroines, allegories, self-portraits. But her work was often attributed to her father or other male painters. It would take until the 1970s for feminists to rediscover her. Today, her canvases are displayed in the world’s greatest museums. And her story continues to fascinate, a reminder that art can be a weapon.
Élisabeth Vigée Le Brun: the portraitist who saved Marie Antoinette’s image
Élisabeth Vigée Le Brun was born in 1755 in Paris. The daughter of a pastellist, she learned painting on her own. She quickly specialized in portraits. Her style, both delicate and precise, charmed the aristocracy. In 1776, she became the official portraitist of Marie Antoinette.
But painting the queen was no easy task. Marie Antoinette was hated by the people, accused of depravity and waste. To restore her image, Vigée Le Brun depicted her as a loving mother, surrounded by her children. In Marie Antoinette and Her Children, the queen wears a simple, almost modest dress. The dauphin, who died in 1789, is symbolized by an empty cradle—a prophetic detail.
During the Revolution, Vigée Le Brun had to flee France. She traveled to Italy, Russia, England, painting the great figures of the world. In 1835, she published her Memoirs, a unique testimony on the life of a woman artist in the eighteenth century. Yet after her death, her work was often attributed to others. It would take until 2015 for a retrospective to be dedicated to her at the Grand Palais. Today, her portraits of Marie Antoinette are considered masterpieces. But how many visitors know they owe their existence to a woman who dared to defy the prejudices of her time?
The secret studios: where women painted in hiding
Behind the scenes of the great Renaissance and Baroque studios, women painted in secret. Some worked alongside their fathers, husbands, or brothers. Others rented rooms under assumed names. All knew their talent could save them—or ruin them.
Take the case of the Anguissola sisters. Sofonisba was not the only one who painted. Her sisters, Lucia, Europa, and Anna Maria, were also talented artists. But unlike Sofonisba, they did not have the luck to become court painters. Their canvases, often signed “School of Sofonisba,” were attributed to others. Today, they are being rediscovered little by little. In 2019, an exhibition in Cremona paid tribute to them. But how many other sisters, wives, or daughters of artists have vanished into anonymity?
Another example: Michaelina Wautier. Born in 1604 in Mons, she settled in Brussels with her brother, the painter Charles Wautier. For years, it was believed that the canvases signed “Wautier” were the work of Charles. But in 2018, a retrospective at the Museum of Fine Arts in Ghent revealed the truth: Michaelina was a major artist, capable of painting historical scenes, portraits, and even male nudes—a genre reserved for men. Her Triumph of Bacchus, a monumental canvas where satyrs and nymphs embrace, is a unique work in art history. Yet for centuries, it was attributed to her brother.
These secret studios were places of resistance. Women exchanged techniques, pigments, ideas. Some learned to paint there. Others found the courage to sign their canvases. But most remained in the shadows, their names erased by time.
The light returns: how women artists are finally emerging from oblivion
In 1971, Linda Nochlin published an article that would change art history: “Why Have There Been No Great Women Artists?” In this foundational text, she dismantled the mechanisms that prevented women from gaining recognition. It was not a lack of talent, she wrote, but a system that deprived them of education, means, and visibility.
The 1970s saw the birth of the first feminist movements in art. In 1979, Judy Chicago created The Dinner Party, a monumental installation where thirty-nine ceramic plates paid tribute to historical women, including Artemisia Gentileschi. In 1985, the Guerrilla Girls, a collective of anonymous artists, plastered posters across New York: “Do women have to be naked to get into the Met. Museum?” Their message was clear: museums displayed more female nudes than works by women.
Today, things are moving. Museums are organizing retrospectives. Art historians are rediscovering forgotten artists. The art market is beginning to recognize the value of women. In 2014, Irises by Georgia O’Keeffe sold for $44.4 million—a record for a woman artist. In 2021, Propped by Jenny Saville reached $12.5 million.
Yet inequalities persist. In 2022, an Artnet study revealed that works by women sell for an average of 47 percent less than those by men. Major museums continue to favor male names. And textbooks, despite some progress, remain dominated by the “great masters.”
So what is to be done? Keep searching, exhibiting, telling stories. Because art history is not fixed. It is rewritten every day, brushstroke by brushstroke, signature by signature, with new gazes. And this time, women will not be erased.
The shadow studio: How art history erased women painters | Art History
