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​In our hyper-connected digital age, where opinions travel faster than facts, one disturbing intellectual trend keeps growing: the urge to retroactively judge history through the lens of modern morality. We are told to tear down statues, rename streets, cancel historical figures, and rewrite textbooks—to correct the past, as if we were gods looking down on it with superior vision. But judging from the past based on today’s values is as absurd as blaming a newborn for a traffic accident they’ll have in 40 years. It misunderstands the nature of time, civilization, and what it means to be human.
Civilizations Grow Like People
Civilizations, like people, are born in darkness. They crawl, stumble, and sometimes run before they walk. They learn, fight, fail, love, and rise again. To expect moral maturity from ancient societies is like expecting a child to recite a philosophical treatise on justice before they’ve even learned to speak. Yes, there was slavery. Yes, there was war, empire, disease, despotism. And yes, there was discovery, invention, liberation, poetry, and love. These opposites do not cancel each other, they coexist, forming the rich, complex reality of human history. To whitewash history is not to heal it, it is to amputate it.
The Dangerous Fantasy of the Time Machine
Let’s play the revisionist game for a moment. Say we invent a time machine. We go back and stop every tyrant, prevent every war, cure every plague, abolish every injustice. Nice idea. But then ask: where would we be now? Without tyranny, would we have discovered liberty? Without empire, would global civilizations have connected? Without oppression, would we have written constitutions? Without war, would we have built peace? The cause-and-effect principle, the foundational law of existence, tells us something uncomfortable: progress often grows out of pain.
Slavery, Democracy, and the Paradox of Progress
Slavery is abhorrent—but its existence shaped the world we live in. The brutal, shameful system gave birth to abolitionism, civil rights movements, and a deeper understanding of human dignity. Democracy did not emerge in a vacuum. It emerged because people lived under kings, emperors, and theocratic rule, and eventually said enough. The abuses of the past gave meaning to the freedoms of the present. We love democracy but forget that it is the child of despotism. The very ideas we now hold sacred were forged in the fires we wish had never been lit.
The Illusion of a “Pure” History
Some argue: “If Christopher Columbus had not discovered America, the indigenous peoples would have been spared.” Maybe. But then maybe there would be no Enlightenment, no global scientific exchange, no United Nations, no internet. Maybe we would still be living in fragmented, isolated societies, each fearing the other.

The same goes for the Sykes–Picot Agreement or the Crusades or the Hundred Years’ War. These are not isolated evils. They are links in a long, painful, but necessary chain. To break one link is to unravel the whole. We are not passengers watching history from a distance—we are its inheritors. And our modern privileges rest on ancient shoulders.
Cancel Culture vs. Historical Complexity
Canceling historical figures doesn’t make us wiser. It makes us shallow. Thomas Jefferson owned slaves—and wrote the Declaration of Independence. Churchill held colonialist views—and defeated fascism. The same duality lives in us. If perfection is the standard, then none of us will survive the judgment of the future. Instead of rewriting history, let’s read it more carefully. Let’s teach the contradictions, not hide them. Let’s learn how flawed people created extraordinary things—not to excuse them, but to understand them. And to understand ourselves.
History as a Mirror, Not a Weapon
The past is not a crime scene. It’s a mirror. When we look into it, we don’t just see “them”—we see ourselves. Their mistakes, their ambitions, their fears, their triumphs… they are ours, too. To grow as a civilization, we need to stop throwing stones at the past and start asking better questions: What did they believe? Why did they act that way? What can we learn—not erase—from their journey? The maturity of a society is measured not by how well it judges its ancestors, but by how well it understands them.
Conclusion: Grow Up, Not Backward
There’s a deep immaturity in trying to correct history from the comfort of the present. It is childish to wish the world had been simple, pure, or perfect. It never was. And that’s what makes its achievements more beautiful—not less.
We are here because countless generations struggled, suffered, built, and believed. They weren’t always right—but they kept moving forward. That is the only standard that matters.
Let’s stop pretending we’re above history. We are history. And if we don’t start respecting its complexity, we may lose the wisdom it offers.
Final Thought
As G.K. Chesterton once said:
“The object of the progressive is to go on making mistakes. The object of the conservative is to prevent the mistakes from being corrected. But the wise man learns from the mistakes of both.”
Let us be wise. Not perfect. Not pure. Just grown-up enough to see the full picture.

Last Friday, as golden light melted over the hills of Castellón, I found myself at the Hermita de San Sebastián, a small rural chapel now transformed into a site of contemporary questioning, a space between past and present, earth and spirit. The art opening, titled The Sacred and the Profane, seemed to ripple with more than just aesthetic intention. It asked something deeper: What is sacred? What is profane?
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These questions hovered in the air like incense, carried in quiet conversations between paintings and visitors. They were not questions meant to be answered but lived. And perhaps that is the point—these binaries, these categorizations, are not fixed coordinates in the universe. They are stories we tell ourselves, born from our own evolving consciousness. At one point in history, the moon was a goddess. She was Inanna, Artemis, Selene—an eye in the heavens, watching over our world with divine intent. We danced under her glow, planned our harvests and rituals in tune with her cycles. The moon held mystery and power. But then, something shifted. Through the telescope's lens, she became a rock, a satellite of Earth, a celestial object subject to laws of physics rather than divine will. Did the moon change? Of course not. We changed. The sacred and the profane are not absolutes; they are mirrors of our inner world. What we deem sacred is what we choose to elevate, to protect, to give meaning. What we call profane is often what we reject, fear, or misunderstand. These are human constructs—reflections of culture, need, and evolution.

Historically, civilizations have created gods in their own image. Anthropologist James Frazer wrote about how primitive societies personified natural forces—thunder, rain, sun, moon—granting them names, faces, and wills. The gods served not only as explanations for the inexplicable, but as guides for social behavior. Stories of gods taught us about courage, justice, love, jealousy, betrayal. The divine became our moral compass. And yet, the very gods who preached compassion were invoked to justify wars. The prophets who taught humility became symbols of dominance. How many have suffered, killed, or been killed in the name of the sacred? In every age, from the Crusades to present-day extremism, we’ve seen how religion—meant to connect us to the divine—can be twisted into a tool of division. The sacred, when institutionalized, can become dangerous.

Perhaps what we are confronting now, as a modern species, is not the death of the sacred, but its transformation. We no longer need gods with thunderbolts or commandments carved in stone to teach us basic human virtues. We know, deep within, what kindness looks like. We know what suffering feels like. We are capable of empathy without divine punishment hanging over our heads. The sacred, today, may not dwell in the heavens, but in the simple acts of care between beings. At the same time, the profane has shifted too. There was a time when dancing, sexuality, even women's voices were considered profane—unclean, dangerous. Today, many of these are reclaimed as expressions of vitality, authenticity, and even healing. What was once suppressed is now embraced. We are reshaping the map of what is "holy" and what is "unholy."

In the art exhibited at Hermita de San Sebastián, I saw this dialectic play out. One piece juxtaposed religious iconography with secular intimacy—flesh and faith entangled. Another offered a stark, almost brutal representation of abandonment, as if to say: Where is God in the silence? These works didn’t preach; they provoked. They offered no answers but insisted on the question: Is the sacred found in beauty, or in suffering? In ritual, or rebellion?

To me, the sacred today lies in awareness. In presence. In the ability to stand before a mountain, a painting, or another human being and feel something stir in the soul. That stirring—that awe—is a kind of prayer, even if no god is named. The sacred is not confined to churches, temples, or mosques; it lives in the act of witnessing, of feeling deeply. It can be found in music, in poetry, in birth, in death. It is not a domain of the chosen, but of the open.

And what of the profane? Perhaps it is simply what we have not yet understood. What we fear, we often vilify. But within the profane may also be liberation. The "profane" can shock us out of complacency, challenge norms, dismantle dogma. It is the artist’s realm—the edge, the underground, the grotesque. Without the profane, the sacred loses its contrast. Without shadow, no light.

Standing under the arches of the Hermita, surrounded by artwork, candlelight, and murmurs of reflection, I realized that the building itself had undergone a metamorphosis. Once a house of Catholic worship, now a platform for contemporary exploration, it was no less sacred. Perhaps even more so, because it held within it multiple truths, multiple questions. It was no longer a monument to a single god, but a space for dialogue between gods, people, and ideas.

So, what is sacred? It is what we hold with reverence. A child’s laughter. A moment of forgiveness. A work of art that makes us weep. And what is profane? Perhaps only that which we exile from the sacred until we are ready to look again and find the divine hidden in its folds. In the end, maybe the question is not what is sacred or what is profane, but what are we choosing to sanctify? What meanings are we weaving into the fabric of our lives? What gods are we still creating, and what old ones are we ready to release? And maybe the most sacred act of all is asking the question itself—with honesty, humility, and an open heart.
 

​Art has always been an evolving conversation between the past, present, and future. Every artist, knowingly or unknowingly, stands on the shoulders of those who came before. This raises a fascinating question: can anything in art ever be truly original, or is all creativity just a remix of existing influences?
The Myth of Pure Originality
The idea of absolute originality—a creation that has no precedent, no influence, no roots—is seductive but elusive. Even the most radical artists, from Picasso to Duchamp, were shaped by their predecessors. The Renaissance artists built upon the discoveries of the classical world. The Impressionists reacted against academic painting. The Abstract Expressionists rebelled against realism. Art history is a long chain of innovation, each link connected to the one before it. Consider music: the 12-tone scale provides a limited yet infinite number of compositions. Yet, melodies and harmonies inevitably echo past works. Visual art follows a similar pattern-color combinations, forms, and concepts continuously reappear in new contexts.
The Remix Culture: Borrowing, Transforming, Creating
Modern creativity often embraces the idea of the remix. Artists, musicians, and writers borrow elements, transform them, and create something that feels fresh. This idea has been solidified in contemporary art, especially through movements like Dadaism, Pop Art, and Postmodernism, where appropriation plays a central role.
Take Andy Warhol’s Campbell’s Soup Cans—were they original? He didn’t invent the can, the label, or even the artistic medium of screen printing. Yet, by recontextualizing a mundane object into the realm of fine art, he created something revolutionary. His work was both a commentary and an evolution of existing culture. The internet has accelerated this remix culture. Memes, digital art, and AI-generated content blur the line between originality and adaptation. In an era where anyone can sample, filter, and manipulate, the definition of creativity itself is shifting.
Inspiration vs. Imitation
The difference between drawing inspiration and outright copying is where originality is often debated. Artists influence each other, consciously or subconsciously. Picasso famously said, “Good artists copy, great artists steal.” This isn’t about plagiarism but about deeply understanding, internalizing, and transforming influences into something uniquely personal.
Great artists don’t simply mimic—they reinterpret. Van Gogh’s Starry Night was inspired by Japanese woodblock prints. Jean-Michel Basquiat’s graffiti-infused paintings referenced both African masks and European old masters. They weren’t simply replicating; they were merging influences into something unmistakably their own.
The Fear of Unoriginality: A Creative BlockMany artists fear that they have nothing truly new to offer. The pressure to be groundbreaking can sometimes paralyze creativity. But if we accept that all art builds upon something, the goal shifts from seeking absolute originality to making meaningful contributions.
Instead of asking, “Has this been done before?” a better question might be, “What can I add to this conversation?” Your unique perspective, experiences, and emotions make your work distinct—even if its foundation is familiar.
Originality as a Process, Not a Destination
Perhaps originality isn’t about creating something from nothing but about bringing a fresh perspective to existing ideas. Every work of art, no matter how innovative, is part of a larger dialogue. What makes an artist original isn’t the absence of influence, but how they weave together inspiration to express something only they can.
So, is anything truly original? Maybe not in an absolute sense. But originality doesn’t need to be about invention—it’s about transformation. And in that sense, every artist has the potential to create something that feels new, meaningful, and uniquely theirs.

​A millennial grandparent telling a bedtime story “The Lost Wi-Fi and the Quest for the Forgotten Code”.
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​Once upon a time, in a world where people still touched grass but also had hologram meetings, there was a little village named Scrollhaven. It was a peaceful town, filled with self-driving bicycles, talking refrigerators, and wise old smartphones that had seen the rise and fall of a thousand apps.
But one fateful evening, something terrible happened—the Great Wi-Fi Tree stopped working! The villagers could no longer call their friends, summon their dinner with a voice command, or even find the perfect bedtime story. Panic spread like an outdated meme.
Only one person could save the day: a young girl named Lina, who had been raised by her Millennial Grandmother, Nana Sky. Unlike the others, Nana Sky had lived in a time before endless Wi-Fi, when people had to memorize things and use maps made of paper!
“My dear,” said Nana Sky, adjusting her oversized sweater, “the ancient stories speak of a Forgotten Code, hidden deep in the heart of the Offline Forest. It is said to restore all connections.”
Lina was brave and a little skeptical. “So, like… I have to go outside?” she asked.
“Yes, sweetie. But don’t worry—I’ll pack you some organic snacks and an emergency mixtape of 2010s classics.”
So, Lina set off, armed with nothing but her Grandma’s Old Phone (a device of great mystery, with buttons instead of touchscreens!). She journeyed through the vast Offline Forest, where signals dared not enter, and encountered strange creatures:

• The Buffering Beast, a slow-moving, spinning creature that trapped travelers in endless loops.
• The Troll of Hot Takes, who spoke in riddles and only let people pass if they answered, “What is the best decade of music?”
• The Library Guardian, an old man who handed her a paper book and whispered, “You don’t need a battery to read this.”

Finally, deep within the woods, Lina found a glowing stone with strange symbols. She typed them into Grandma’s Old Phone, and suddenly—the Wi-Fi Tree came back to life! The villagers cheered, but something had changed in Lina.
She realized that while Wi-Fi was great, there was something magical about not always being connected. About walking outside, about telling stories face to face.
And so, every night, instead of watching bedtime videos, Lina and Nana Sky sat together, telling stories. Stories that didn’t need screens.
And from that day on, Scrollhaven was never truly disconnected again.
The End.

Here’s to the Women Who Create, Fight, and Post on Instagram in Their Underwear
Ah, March the month of women. A time to celebrate female empowerment, acknowledge the achievements of women across all walks of life, and remember the countless female artists who have been making waves in the art world, often from the comfort of their own kitchens, bathrooms, or wherever else we can find a moment of peace between running to a gallery opening and making sure our kids aren't painting on the walls.
And yet, in this age of social media, there's one pesky question that lingers like a thick layer of paint no one bothered to wipe off their brushes: Why, oh why, is being a female artist still a challenge in 2025? Why is it that a woman’s art—regardless of how amazing it is—still has to fight tooth and nail to be taken seriously? Oh, and by the way, don’t forget the mandatory showing of skin to make that art marketable. Because, you know, marketing one's work as a woman isn't about the talent; it's about the "look."
In this post, we’re going to dive into the absurd, often hilarious, and sometimes downright frustrating challenges women face in the art world. And who better to honor than the wonderful, incredibly talented Elizabeth Hefty Khoury and Sandy Goodwin? Two artists who, despite the odds, still manage to create beautiful, boundary-pushing work, all while being subjected to the bizarre expectations placed on women in the art world. So, here we go, a sarcastic salute to all the female artists out there—especially Elizabeth and Sandy.

The Struggle to Be Taken Seriously: “Cute,” “Sweet,” and Other Patronizing Labels
If you're a female artist, congratulations! You’ve already won the first prize in the "You’re Probably Not Taken Seriously" category. I mean, of course, art made by women must be soft, emotional, and nice, right? It couldn’t possibly have any sharp edges, depth, or complexity because, heaven forbid, we let women think or create in ways that are anything other than 'delicate.'
Take Elizabeth Hefty Khoury, for example. Her work delves into deep, emotional themes—yet somehow, if she were a man, critics would talk about her work with serious, pretentious buzzwords like "existential," "deconstructing boundaries," or "epic." Instead, when a woman creates similar work, suddenly it’s all "cute," "quirky," or worse, "pretty." Oh yes, because a piece of art that took hours, weeks, or even months to create must surely be classified by how "cute" it is. After all, if it’s made by a woman, it couldn’t possibly have the intellectual depth that "serious" art does.
That’s not to say that “cute” can’t be a valid descriptor (we're not totally against pink things), but when your entire career as a female artist is constantly being boiled down to whether or not you make people “feel cozy,” then we have a problem. But hey, at least we're being called “cute,” right? That's progress...?

The Never-Ending Battle for Visibility: You Must Have a ‘Gimmick’
Now, let’s talk about visibility in the art world. If you're a woman, forget about simply showcasing your art. You also need a gimmick. And by "gimmick," I mean something extra preferably something that makes people want to look at you rather than your work.
Enter the social media age! Where followers are more important than galleries, where likes are more valuable than a genuine conversation about technique, and where women artists are often encouraged (sometimes subtly, sometimes not-so-subtly) to wear a little less to sell a little more. Sandy Goodwin, an amazing talent with work that resonates deeply, still has to dance around this bizarre pressure. Her paintings speak volumes, but for the algorithm to notice, she may have to pose next to her art in a crop top, or worse, share a story about how she’s been "feeling sexy and inspired."
Can we talk about the irony here? We’re living in an age where women finally get the chance to express their artistic vision to a massive audience, but it’s not enough. Oh no. To truly break through, you need to become a brand. And that brand? Better be willing to give the world a full view of your personal life—and, preferably, your cleavage.
The cruelest part? It’s not even about what you create anymore, it’s about what you sell of yourself. Because art? Well, that's secondary to the “look” of the artist.

The Art Market's Favorite Game: Show Some Skin
Let’s be real for a second. To sell art as a woman, sometimes it seems like you have to put on a little bit of skin. I'm talking about the “Hey, why don't you just pose in front of your painting with your legs crossed and a wink?” pressure. Which, let’s be honest, is exactly what everyone expects. When was the last time a male artist had to take off his shirt to prove his art was valuable? Yeah, we thought so.
This is where social media really likes to help female artists—by helping them to “promote” their work, of course. Just make sure to throw in a few candid shots of yourself on the beach, casually reclining next to your latest abstract piece. Now, don’t get us wrong. There’s nothing wrong with embracing your body and expressing confidence. But in an industry where men can literally just post a picture of their canvas and a few cryptic quotes, women? We’ve got to work twice as hard—not just to create meaningful art but to market it by any means necessary.
It’s all very meta. You’re an artist, but to get the art noticed, you have to become an influencer. Oh, and also, throw in a little skin. Otherwise, how could anyone possibly appreciate your work without the added bonus of your ‘sellable’ persona?

Shattering Stereotypes: What Elizabeth Hefty Khoury and Sandy Goodwin Do Best
So, what’s the antidote to all this nonsense? If anyone can teach us how to break free from these ridiculous expectations, it's Elizabeth Hefty Khoury and Sandy Goodwin. These two powerhouse artists defy the norms with their work, proving that art is far from being confined to “feminine” expectations.
Elizabeth’s work, with its emotional depth and innovative use of materials, leaves no room for misinterpretation. She’s not here for your labels. Her art speaks loud and clear, and let’s be honest—no one’s going to mistake her for “cute.” Sandy Goodwin, too, continues to push boundaries, creating art that challenges perception while navigating a world that wants to box her into a specific “feminine” role. These women are unapologetically themselves. They aren’t here to play nice or fit into anyone's tidy little expectations. Instead, they’re shattering stereotypes and showing the world that being a female artist is not about being "cute"—it’s about being complex, layered, and unstoppable.

Cheers to the Women Who Make Art (and Take No Prisoners)
In conclusion, let’s raise a glass (filled with whatever you like) to the Elizabeth Hefty Khoury and Sandy Goodwins of the world. Women who continue to create, break barriers, and fight the absurdity of an art world that, despite all of its progress, still places ridiculous expectations on their work—and their bodies.
Let’s not forget, though: these women are more than just “artists.” They’re warriors in a world that still finds it difficult to take them seriously. They are taking over the art world, one piece of art (and one Instagram post) at a time.
So, here’s to all the women out there showing their creativity, their resilience, and yes, their strength—even when it’s not appreciated in the ways it should be. Keep painting, keep posting, and—please, for the love of all things—keep your clothes on when you can. Your art deserves better than that.
To Elizabeth Hefty Khoury and Sandy Goodwin, thank you for showing us what real art looks like. Keep making waves, because we’ll be here watching, and this time, we’ll be appreciating the art, not the packaging.
 

Domestic violence is a taboo that is still regarded as somewhat of a taboo in many societies, but it an issue that too many people deal with. Artists can play an important role in educating about this, whether they come from a place of personal experience or merely as an observer or concerned citizen. Each voice that publicizes this emotive topic shines light on something that thrives in darkness. 

Surviving domestic violence is an act of strength and resilience. It requires not only the courage to endure but also the bravery to leave and rebuild a life shattered by trauma. For survivors, each step forward is a testament to their inner power, a refusal to be defined by the pain inflicted upon them. This strength is not merely the absence of fear but the decision to persist despite it—to reclaim autonomy, self-worth, and a voice that was silenced.
The legacy of trauma, however, is complex and enduring. It lingers in the form of hypervigilance, trust issues, and emotional scars that can resurface unpredictably. Yet, within this legacy lies the potential for profound transformation. Acknowledging the pain without allowing it to dictate the future is an act of defiance against those who sought to diminish. Healing involves unraveling the narratives imposed by abusers and rewriting them with self-compassion and honesty. Therapy, support networks, and creative expression can serve as powerful tools for this journey, helping survivors process their experiences and find meaning beyond survival.
Turning trauma into strength involves embracing vulnerability as a source of power rather than weakness. Survivors often develop heightened empathy, resilience, and an acute understanding of human nature. This hard-won insight can become a guiding force, transforming personal pain into advocacy, art, or mentorship for others who share similar struggles. The ability to survive and rebuild becomes a narrative of hope—not just for the individual but for others still trapped in silence.
In this way, the legacy of trauma is not only a reminder of what was endured but also of what was overcome. It is a source of strength that proves survival is not the end of the story but the beginning of a new chapter defined by self-determination and the fierce will to live freely.

Red Tangles, a photographic exhibition by Diana Juliusdottir examining domestic violence, opens on Thursday March 13 and runs until March 27. 

Why Women Artists Matter, Especially in Marginalized Societies

Women artists hold a profound significance in marginalized societies where their rights are persistently under attack. In these environments, where freedom of expression is stifled and gender equality remains a distant ideal, women’s art becomes a radical act of resistance. Through their work, women artists challenge oppressive norms, expose injustice, and give voice to the silenced. Art, in this context, is not merely a form of expression but a lifeline—a way to document lived experiences, resist erasure, and demand change.
Women’s art often intertwines the personal with the political, capturing the complexities of identity, freedom, and survival. In societies where women's voices are systematically suppressed, their art serves as an alternative record of history and culture—one that refuses to be erased. It reclaims narratives, portrays resilience, and insists on the validity of women's perspectives. The act of creating itself becomes a declaration of existence, a refusal to be invisibilized. In this way, women artists in marginalized societies transform art into a weapon against patriarchy and an archive of resistance.

Solidarity Across Borders: How Women Artists in Freer Societies Can Support Others
Women artists in societies that enjoy relative freedoms have a unique role to play in supporting their sisters in more oppressive contexts. Their freedom to create and communicate without severe repercussions positions them as powerful allies. This support can manifest in several ways:

1. Amplifying Voices: Artists in freer societies can use their platforms to spotlight the works and stories of women from marginalized communities, ensuring their messages reach a global audience. By curating exhibitions, publishing collaborative works, or even leveraging social media, they can bypass censorship and amplify suppressed voices.
2. Collaborative Projects: Cross-border collaborations can unite women artists around shared themes of struggle and resilience. These projects not only create bonds of solidarity but also highlight the universality of women's rights issues, fostering a collective resistance.
3. Advocacy Through Art: Women artists can channel their freedom into advocacy, creating pieces that address gender-based violence, political oppression, and systemic discrimination faced by women globally. Art that demands accountability and exposes human rights abuses can rally international support and pressure oppressive regimes.
4. Resources and Training: Sharing resources, funding, and skills can empower women artists in restrictive societies to continue their practice. Offering mentorship, workshops, and residencies can provide these artists with the tools they need to resist and create despite limitations.

​The Power of Women’s Art as a Message of Strength and Defiance
Women’s art is a potent force for change. It embodies defiance against systems that seek to silence and oppress. When women portray their realities—whether through painting, performance, or installations—they declare their existence and resilience. Art has the power to transcend borders, languages, and cultural barriers, making women’s struggles visible to the world.
Moreover, women’s art often carries a deeply symbolic language that resonates universally. From reinterpreting ancient myths to exposing the raw pain of contemporary injustices, women artists weave personal and collective memories into powerful critiques of patriarchy and oppression. In doing so, they not only challenge the status quo but also offer visions of alternative futures—ones where women’s voices are not just heard but lead the way.
In essence, women artists matter because they refuse to be silenced. Their art is both a mirror and a beacon, reflecting the harsh realities of oppression while lighting a path towards equality and justice. By standing together across borders, women artists can amplify this message of strength, defiance, and hope—insisting that no woman, no matter where she lives, stands alone.

March is Women´s Month!

In Beirut this is being celebrated with an exhibition (07-28 March) at the Museum of Lebanese Prehistory at USJ, Monot of the work of some multitalented Lebanese artists, curated by BeyArt. 
 
Supporting Women Artists
Supporting women artists is not just about achieving gender parity in the art world—it is about recognizing and amplifying voices that have been historically silenced or marginalized. Art has a unique power to reshape narratives, challenge societal norms, and inspire change. When we support women artists, we invest in a more inclusive cultural landscape that reflects the full spectrum of human experience.


Celebrating Women’s Month
Women’s Month offers a dedicated time to highlight the achievements and struggles of women throughout history and today. It is an opportunity to focus on the contributions of women artists who have navigated structural biases and limited access to resources and platforms. Showcasing their work during this time is a powerful reminder that women’s perspectives are indispensable to understanding and interpreting the world around us. Their art often addresses themes of identity, resilience, and transformation—narratives that resonate with broader struggles for equality and justice.


The Importance in Lebanon
In Lebanon, supporting women artists carries an additional layer of significance. Lebanese women artists continuously challenge societal expectations and cultural constraints through their art, using it as a medium for both personal expression and political critique. Their work often delves into themes of feminism, displacement, identity, and resistance—reflecting the complexities of a country marked by conflict, migration, and a profound sense of belonging and exile. Now, more than ever, their voices need to be heard, to reflect the renaissance of a country emerging from the ruins of another war. By highlighting their work, we not only empower individual artists but also contribute to a broader dialogue about freedom of expression and social justice in Lebanon. The art on display in this exhibition by multitalented Lebanese women serves as a powerful form of storytelling, preserving collective memory and shedding light on overlooked or suppressed narratives. Supporting these artists means ensuring that Lebanon’s cultural narrative is multifaceted and authentically representative of all experiences.
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Creating Space for Future Voices
By investing in Lebanese women artists, we lay the groundwork for future generations. This support translates into funding, exhibitions, residencies, and networks that enable women artists to thrive. In turn, these artists serve as role models, showing young women that their voices matter and their perspectives are valuable. Supporting Lebanese women artists—especially during Women’s Month—is a powerful act of solidarity and a commitment to a richer, more inclusive cultural future for Lebanon.
 

The Space Between
There exists a space between what is real and what is imagined, a liminal ground where the personal and the collective intertwine. It is neither one nor the other, but something woven from both—a shifting terrain of memory, dream, and experience. Here, what we perceive as truth dissolves into myth, and what we dismiss as fiction leaves an imprint on our reality.

This is the space of interwoven realities, where the self is never solitary. We move through it carrying echoes of stories told before us, narratives absorbed through time, fragments of past lives that shape our own. Our private thoughts are never entirely ours; they are stitched together from the remnants of culture, history, and whispered voices.

In this space, what we call identity is porous. The boundaries between self and other, then and now, fact and fiction blur, revealing a deeper truth: we are always more than one. Reality itself is a weave of overlapping threads, a tapestry that belongs to no single hand.

In Interwoven Realities, De Souza Gallery´s new online exhibition on Artsy, six contemporary artists—Greg Bryce, Sandi Goodwin, Elizabeth Hefty-Khoury, Aubrey Ramage-Lay, Tina McCallan, and Juan Petry—bring together diverse perspectives through layered approaches to abstraction, symbolism, and storytelling. This online-exclusive exhibition explores the fluid boundaries between the real and the imagined, personal and collective, chaos and order.

Greg Bryce’s bold compositions blur the lines between abstraction and representation, evoking a visceral sensory experience. Sandi Goodwin’s gestural and textured works reveal a delicate tension between control and spontaneity. Elizabeth Hefty-Khoury weaves myth and cultural memory through painting and drawing, reinterpreting ancient symbols for a contemporary audience.

Aubrey Ramage-Lay merges figuration with abstraction, using recurring symbols like birds and snakes to explore transformation and interconnected realities. Tina McCallan’s playful, irreverent abstractions subvert traditional form and color, bringing energy and unexpected connections into her practice. Juan Petry’s conceptual works, deeply influenced by social sculpture, offer a philosophical lens on community and the role of the artist in society.
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Together, these artists invite viewers to navigate multiple layers of meaning—revealing the hidden and the unspoken, offering glimpses into shared experiences and unseen worlds.
 
 

​The Near Eastern figure of Baubo and the Sheela na Gig of the British Isles and Western Europe share striking similarities in their iconography and possible functions. Both are often depicted as grotesque, exaggerated female figures emphasizing the vulva, and both are linked to themes of fertility, protection, and the subversive power of sexuality.

Baubo: The Laughing Goddess of Obscenity and Healing
Baubo appears in Greek mythology, particularly in the Homeric Hymn to Demeter, where she is a bawdy, grotesque, and humorous figure who exposes her genitals to the grieving goddess Demeter, causing her to laugh. This act restores Demeter’s spirit, ultimately allowing her to resume her search for her daughter Persephone. Some scholars believe that Baubo has roots in earlier Near Eastern goddesses associated with fertility and sexuality, such as Inanna-Ishtar or Anat, who were also linked to themes of death, renewal, and the life cycle.

Baubo’s role suggests that sexuality, rather than being solely reproductive, held ritualistic and transformative power. Her explicit humor and bodily display appear to be tied to ancient rites of catharsis, protection, and renewal—functions that overlap with the later Sheela na Gig figures of Europe.

Sheela na Gig: The Apotropaic Vulva Display
Sheela na Gigs are medieval stone carvings found in Ireland, Britain, France, and Spain, featuring female figures holding open exaggerated vulvas. Their origins are debated, but their placement on churches, castles, and other structures suggests an apotropaic (protective) function, possibly to ward off evil, much like grotesques or gargoyles.

Theories about Sheela na Gigs range from Christian moral warnings against lust to survivals of pre-Christian goddess worship. Some interpretations align them with fertility figures akin to Baubo or prehistoric mother goddess statues. Others view them as remnants of older beliefs in the magical power of female sexuality, reflecting traditions where the act of exposing the vulva—akin to the ancient Greek ritual of anasyrma—was thought to drive away malevolent forces.

Connections and Theoretical Links
The correlation between Baubo and the Sheela na Gig suggests a broader, possibly ancient Indo-European or even older Neolithic tradition in which exaggerated representations of female sexuality were not just fertility symbols but also had protective and liminal functions. The act of exposing the vulva, whether in art or ritual, appears across multiple cultures as a form of power—one that could restore balance, dispel negativity, and affirm life.

1. Ritualistic and Protective Purposes: Both figures may have been used in fertility rites, initiation ceremonies, or as protective charms, similar to how the Sheela na Gig appears on churches and fortifications.
2. Links to Pagan Goddesses: Baubo’s origins possibly connect her to fertility deities like Inanna-Ishtar or even the Anatolian Cybele, while the Sheela na Gig may represent a folk memory of earlier goddess traditions in Europe.
3. Sexuality as a Sacred Force: Both figures suggest that sexuality was not merely about reproduction but had a deeper role in the cycles of life, death, and rebirth. Rather than being seen as obscene, the display of female sexuality in these contexts may have been viewed as a source of power, healing, and protection.

Conclusion
While there is no definitive proof that the Sheela na Gig directly descends from Baubo, their similarities hint at a continuity of belief systems where female sexuality and humor played key roles in sacred traditions. These figures challenge later moralistic interpretations of the body, revealing a more complex understanding of sexuality in early religious and spiritual contexts. They may represent echoes of a pre-Christian worldview where the vulva was not a source of shame but a symbol of life’s resilience and the mysteries of the divine.