The male gaze, term coined by Laura Mulvey in 1975, has dominated art for centuries in the objectifying and sexualised portrayal of women. This can be seen as early as the Renaissance, in paintings such as Sandro Botticelli’s Birth of Venus, where Aphrodite, goddess of love, is depicted as nude. Ancient culture, unlike modern society, had no such stipulations surrounding nudity, with art typically presenting both men and women without clothes. This same attitude was translated to their gods and goddesses, who were presented in similar likeness. Therefore, it is unsurprising that Botticelli presents Venus in this way, as he attempts to be faithful to the culture he is presenting. However, it is notable that there is a clear difference in the degree of nudity that the male and female figures display. While Zephyrus, the god of west wind, is covered everywhere apart from his chest, two of the three female figures are notably more exposed with their right breasts being depicted. This certainly suggests that the male gaze is present within this painting, as the attitude of nudity is not consistent across genders. Another example of the male gaze in art is in Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres’ Grande Odalisque, which depicts a woman in languid pose as she looks over her right-shoulder. Ingres’ elongation of the female’s limbs demonstrates a desire to portray women in an idealised way that goes beyond the natural. In both cases, it is clear that the nudity of the female body is done to please the audience rather than convey a message in its own right. Art becoming a commodity is essential in understanding why art has been dominated by the male gaze, as, throughout history, the audiences of art have been predominantly male and thus catered to their preferences. 

Now, in a world where art is no longer simply for male consumption, there has been an attempt to look beyond the male gaze, looking back at women in art who have been brushed aside and forward to the exploration of the female gaze. This can be seen in Wangechi Mutu’s Yo Mama, which is a collage piece that depicts a female figure stamping on the head of serpent with her stiletto. The figure presented is a representation of radical Funmilayo Anikulapo-Kuti, who was significant in the fight against female genital mutilation. While the femininity of the figure is central, the sexualisation of it is absent, with the body of the female representing a powerhouse of strength over the phallus-like, invading snake, that has symbolic links to the Bible and Eve, whose downfall has been part of the villainising narrative of women for centuries. Another example of this can be seen in Mary Beth Edelson’s Some Living American Women Artists, a subversive take on Leonardo De Vinci’s The Last Supper. According to Edelson, she had “the double pleasure of presenting the names and faces of many women artists, who were seldom seen in 1972 . . . while spoofing the male exclusivity of the patriarchy.” This piece simultaneously gives standing to female artists overlooked in history while giving them power, without objectifying them, by putting their faces in place of Jesus and his disciples. Senga Nengudi’s R.S.V.P I outright rejects the idolisation of the female body inherent to the male gaze in her performance-based sculptures made of pantyhose. The piece presents opposing ideals, with some of the sand-filled structures drooping and bulging, while others are taut and firm, representing the different forms the female body can take, especially when going through pregnancy and childbirth. 

Ideas more subtly challenging the male gaze can be seen earlier in art history, in pieces like Auguste Toulmache’s The Reluctant Bride, where he presents a young woman angered by her arranged marriage. Not only is this subversive in its depiction of outright rejection of expected female behaviour, the pose that the central female figure adopts is slouched, rejecting the idealised image of the female body in favour of presenting a less attractive, rebellious message. The piercing, direct look of the central female also challenges the traditional demure presentations of women in art history, whose gazes are often portrayed as looking to the side or down, making it hard for audiences to ignore her presence and the refusal to conform it represents. In comparison to art that caters to the male gaze, where the figures are made to be looked at, but unable to look back, the steely look of the woman directly stares down the viewer, almost daring them to try and make her an object to be observed. 

Frida Kahlo is also another artist that goes beyond the male gaze in her paintings. This can be seen in one of her most famous artworks, The Two Fridas. It depicts two versions of herself, connected through an artery that is wounded. The uninhibited, graphic depiction of the hearts and the artery symbolise the pain that Kahlo feels at the rejection and separation from her husband. Instead of making this a piece that adheres to the male gaze, it embodies the female gaze in its bold addressal of the brutal reality of female anatomy and the pain she feels. A step further in this depiction of female suffering can be seen in her painting The Broken Column. While it does grapple with female nudity, it is done in a way that goes beyond the sexualisation of the female form that a male gaze painting might present. The striking depiction of the spinal cord that takes centre stage in this painting exposes the harsh reality and pain of spinal surgery and the tole it takes on the body. This is furthered in the littering of nails that stab into her flesh, demonstrating that the nudity of the female body here is an attempt to display the physical vulnerability the human body has, rather than an idealised form of femininity. A continuation of the suffering the female body endures is continued in some of her other works like My Birth and Henry Ford Hospital. Both these paintings explore the reality of childbirth and complications that come with it, with Henry Ford Hospital depicting a miscarriage that Kahlo had. In My Birth, the naked body of the mother is presented as giving birth to the head of Kahlo, where below there is a stain of blood. Nudity, in this painting, is not sexualised, but there to represent the grotesque realities of birth and the toll it has on the mother, with the enlarged head symbolising the extreme pain that some mothers experience while giving birth. The overlooking of the Virgin Mary, in the throes of grief, suggests a certain helplessness in the female’s suffering as she is forced to watch on in sympathy. Again, in Henry Ford Hospital, the nakedness of the female body can similar be seen as demonstrating the suffering that Kahlo has endured. There is no idealisation of the female body here, but an emphasis on the realities of experiencing something as painful and traumatic as a miscarriage. The six objects that surround the figure, including a foetus and snail, referencing the apparent slowness of time she felt during this event, all culminate in the melancholic but strikingly honest depiction of her experience. 

With March marking Women’s History month, it reminds us of the importance of giving voices to those that have been previously ignored in history. By giving attention to female artists that have been overlooked and striving to look beyond the male gaze in art, by presenting different narratives than just the sexualisation and idealisation of women, who have historically been made as props or part of the scenery to be merely observed for nothing other than their appeal to men, we open up the art world from its male-dominated history. Looking at the variety of artists that have challenged this narrative, by rejecting female expectations in society and exposing the realities of the female body and female suffering, it demonstrates the wealth of diverse perspectives that we gain from giving light to these voices, allowing us to garner a broader understanding of modern society outside of the male perspective.