Pubic Hair in Art(or the downright lack of it)
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You must’ve heard of John Ruskin. Famous artist, exemplary critic, scared of pubes…whaat? Yep, that’s right, this man had a big old fear of the post-pubescent female body. Story goes that he couldn’t consummate his marriage to Effie Gray on their wedding night. Having only known the female form through antique sculpture, he was downright repulsed by her body hair.
Disclaimer: this far fetched story is unlikely to be totally true. Rather, (as well as showing the Victorian obsession with lowlife gossip over actual achievement- we’re not so different from our ancestors after all) it highlights the almost complete lack of pubic hair in western art right up into the twentieth century. So if you were a Victorian man looking to fine art for your kicks, you weren’t going to be seeing any body hair.
Although there are a few examples of Egyptian and Green art showing little stylised triangles on both sexes, and by the Renaissance, some male figures have at least a hint of hair, we don’t really see a post-pubescent vagina in art until the nineteenth century, and not on the reg until the mid to late twentieth (and now they’re so de rigeur we’re all bored of them.) It’s tragic, if only for the reason that these artists could have depicted pubes beautifully. All those hair fetishists (I’m looking at you Henri Fuseli) have missed a trick!
Good art concentrates reality, using simplistic tropes that are universally recognised by its viewers. Pretend you are a member of the educated Renaissance public, for an instant. You know that guy’s Hercules because he’s wearing a skin and carrying a club, you will recognise Christ in his crown of thorns. And you’ll know a sculpture’s of a woman, because, aside from the obvious, she aint got no pubes. Body hair has long been deemed the domain of man, you see, so if you’re looking at a body without it, you can be reassured you’re looking at a straight up woman, no freaky business. Hairlessness suggests a pure (aka virginal) childlike woman, passive, powerless and thus, (I hardly need to tell you) god damn sexy.
Funnily enough, when you do look at Renaissance depictions of the nude female form, you’ll actually rarely be looking at a woman. Until the late sixteenth century, female nude models were frowned upon, so most artists made do with their male counterparts, or indeed, their own bizarre imaginations, as models. It’s easy- erase the penis, add a little ‘v’, a couple of circles for boobs and there you have it- the creation of woman! Who knew we were so simple!
Interestingly, this lack of body hair in art has co-existed with a long history of female hair removal, from the ancients right through into the Renaissance and beyond. Why? Well it’s dirty and unsightly of course, same as today. I got the following nifty Renaissance trick from Dr Jill Burke’s fascinating blog (www.renresearch.wordpress.com);
Boil together a solution of one pint of arsenic and eighth of a pint of quicklime. Go to a baths or a hot room and smear medicine over the area to be depilated. When the skin feels hot, wash quickly with hot water so the flesh doesn’t come off.
What worked in 1532 must work today! Hands up who wants to give it the first try? Caterina Sforza in her Experimenti gives specific timings for a similar concoction, advising that one leaves the mixture on the skin ‘…for the time it takes to say two Our Fathers.’ I definitely follow her example in my own special way, not holding back, four hundred years later, on loud exclamations of ‘Jesus Christ!’
It’s a vicious cycle, the idealism and then reality of a woman’s body. Art affecting life and life affecting art. (what came first?!) And I wonder sometimes if I’ve been somewhat brainwashed too (though in an unfortunately less elevated way than Ruskin perhaps was). I was recently shown some brilliant dirty postcards from the 1970s, all glorious hair and bright grins, and couldn’t help commenting ‘yeah but they’re not even naked are they?’ Turns out in my mind, body hair is extra clothing. Look out for me in my pubic pants, just like the ones she’s wearing below, striding down a street near you.
