Books like The Story of Art Without Men

I know I’m stretching the scope of my own title here, but this book’s worth it.

Maggie O’Farrell excels at striking harmony between character, place, and historical moment. Starting with her discovery of a painting of Lucrezia de Medici, the little-known member of that great Italian dynasty, O’Farrell paints her own portrait and revives 16th-century Italy. Pushed into marriage at just 16, Lucrezia quickly infers that her husband, Alfonso, Duke of Ferrara, is planning to kill her.

Her swerve-by-swerve struggle to escape his clutches had me gripped to the very last page. But above all, it was Lucrezia’s passion for art that fascinated me. Her love of drawing and collecting was so sensitively described, and I was moved by her resilience when all her equipment was taken from her.

Besides being a compelling read, the book is a powerful reminder of the role art can play in the lives of… show more.

Anne Higgonet’s study of this elusive Impressionist remains one of my favourite biographies.

It is superbly researched, yet Higgonet wears her academic credentials lightly. She moves deftly through Berthe Morisot’s life, finding just the right balance between historical context and individual psychology. Chapters are both thematic and chronological, yet they flow effortlessly.

The pace was just what I look for in a biography. It moved along smartly, and I felt myself really getting to know this measured, passionate, and endearingly melancholic painter. Every so often, the author’s own opinions can be glimpsed. But these appear and pass so swiftly and subtly that they take nothing from the narrative denouement.

I found this a riveting retelling of a life story, one which drew me right into the heart of Impressionist Paris and the world of a woman pulled between artistic rebellion and social mores.

Now something of a classic and an award-winning film, Herrera’s biography of the artist Frida Kahlo appealed to me for its rich personal detail and evocative descriptions of early 20th-century Mexico.

Her interpretations of the paintings are engrossing. By peppering these throughout the book, Herrera really helped me understand the significance of each work and its place in Frida’s life story, which is one of passion and pain.

I know some people find copious letters in a biography tedious, but I welcome this. Letters are such a gift to a biographer. As a reader, I found they really helped me get inside the head of this intense, sensual, and resilient woman. This, in turn, made her pictures come alive. This biography really opens up Frida’s world. I couldn’t help getting drawn in. 

Higgie uses a series of potted biographies to tell the story of a group of artists – women – who are largely undervalued by history.

I found her structuring approach inspiring. By grouping clusters of these life stories around themes rather than periods, she encouraged me to think about the psychology of why and how a woman chooses to paint herself.

I loved how each chapter begins with an introduction to a theme – smile, allegory, solitude, nakedness, etc. – before turning to the artists for whom that resonated. There are some fascinating stories here; tales of triumph and heartache, of art being pursued against the odds.

And because it is not chronological, I found I could dip in and out of sections and go back to those I wanted to read again. In short, this is a brilliant, user-friendly book which cannot fail to surprise and educate. 

I love picture books about artists, and Yayoi Kusama is a fascinating contemporary artist that young readers would love to learn more about.

I mean, who covers paintings, dresses, tables, walls, and more—with dots? Readers will enjoy learning more about this clever, quirky artist from Japan and why she does what she does.

This is an in-depth and well-researched exploration of the abstract expressionist movement, with a particular focus on the female artists who played a crucial role in shaping the movement. This book offers a fresh perspective on a significant period in the history of modern art and provides readers with a deeper understanding of the contributions made by women artists during this time. What I liked most about this book was the spotlight it shines on the critical role of key female artists in the abstract expressionist movement, who often get overlooked in traditional art historical narratives. Overall, Ninth Street Women is a must-read for anyone interested in learning about the groundbreaking contributions of female artists in the 20th century, and the impact of the abstract expressionist movement on contemporary art.

As an undergrad, I was blessed to have two professors who changed the course of my life: Angela Davis and Whitney Chadwick. Both of these professors discussed the intersectionality of gender, race, and class. Women, Art, and Society was published in 1990, and in 2020, the sixth edition was released. Although women artists’ representation in art history pedagogy has improved since 1990, the art world in general still favors men over women, making Chadwick’s book a relevant read. It provides a historical and critical look at women artists from the Middle Ages to the present, covering a range of media and artists from various cultural and geographical backgrounds. It challenges the assumption that great women artists are the exception to the rule and charts the evolution of feminist art history. 

I adored this partly fictionalized, richly realized novel, which fleshes out the life of China’s greatest female painter, Pan Yuliang (1895–1977).

Rescued from a brothel by a wealthy government official, she fled to where the action was—1920s Paris—after graduating from art school in Shanghai. Boldly specializing in paintings of female nudes, including of herself, Pan was invited by high-profile artists to return to Shanghai and display her art, only to become embroiled in a series of widely publicized scandals over her nudes, leading her to quit China for good and resettle in Paris.

Her uncompromising devotion to her independence and her art marginalized her into a life of poverty and posthumous fame. It’s precisely these noble qualities that endeared me to Epstein’s treatment of the artist.

This book was on the bedside table at a friend’s house where I was staying. I picked it up, started it, and stayed up much later than I had planned!

I was so engaged with the idea of an eighteenth-century woman who began making these botanical paper cut-outs and achieved attention for her work in late life, and I was drawn along by Peacock’s clear, lyrical prose and how she wove in aspects of her own life as a poet.

I loved Mary Delaney’s creativity, spirit, and grit, and she now feels to me like a friend from 250 years ago. 

This is the true story of Phyllis Pearsall who (amongst other adventures in a remarkable life that was also filled with personal tragedy) decided to chart and map the geographical districts of London – a project which eventually tuned into the A-Z map. Over a year Pearsall walked 23,000 London streets to achieve this remarkable feat and set up the Geographers’ Map Company. Pearsall is complex and flawed and Hartley wasn’t always able to separate fact from the fiction (Mrs P was a wonderful storyteller but sometimes contradicted herself). Ultimately Hartley concludes ‘If there is a scene, or a word, or a character, you believe to be too fantastical, it is likely they are real.’ Mrs P did have an extraordinary life.