Around the mid-seventeenth century, Diego Velázquez completed The Rokeby Venus in unique historical circumstances; following strict rules enforced by the Spanish Inquisition, the portrayal of nudes was considered licentious enough to result in a fine, or even banishment for the artist responsible. With such paintings, largely depicting mythological figures, restricted to aristocratic circles, Velázquez may not have been in any direct danger by painting such works - particularly given his patronage by King Philip IV - but there is certainly an argument to be made for the subversive nature of the painting at the time of its production.
Centuries later, on 10th March 1914, suffragette Mary Richardson, in protest of the arrest of fellow suffragette Emmeline Pankhurst the previous day, entered The National Gallery and slashed at The Rokeby Venus with a meat cleaver. Condemned at the time by newspapers, Richardson’s act was described as if she had committed a violent attack on a person, with The Times contemporaneously describing “a cruel wound in the neck” among the damages to the canvas. Today, however, the act is rightly seen as a significant piece of protest, itself necessary to address a broken, unequal system (notwithstanding Richardson’s later controversies, in particular her involvement with the British Union of Fascists). Indeed, the choice of painting, with the nude Venus admiring herself in the mirror, puts to mind art critic John Berger’s metaphorical slashing of such works: in perhaps the most-quoted passage of his 1972 book Ways of Seeing, Berger addresses the male artists behind such paintings, stating that “You painted a naked woman because you enjoyed looking at her, put a mirror in her hand and you called the painting ‘Vanity,’ thus morally condemning the woman whose nakedness you had depicted for you own pleasure”. As Mary Richardson more succinctly put it in a 1952 interview, she simply didn’t like “the way men visitors gaped at it all day long”.
As has been frequently observed, the context and history of great artworks are just as important, if not more so, than their content. Ask any art-lover to explain their love of Van Gogh, for instance, and the response will not only cite the beauty of his works, but also the pain of the man who created them and the posthumous fame they received. The same is true of The Rokeby Venus; the targeting in 1914 has become a part of its story, beginning with its subversive origins.
On 6th November 2023, two Just Stop Oil protestors entered The National Gallery and smashed the protective glass on The Rokeby Venus, directly invoking the actions of 1914 with the cry that “Women did not get the vote by voting, it is time for deeds not words”. The incident was not an isolated one; headlines have been filled over the past few years with organisations, often Just Stop Oil, targeting artworks to bring attention to the climate crisis including Van Gogh’s Sunflowers, Constable’s Hay Wain and Da Vinci’s The Last Supper. Responses from various corners of the media have become predictably swift, often condemning the actions with a great deal of hand-wringing about the supposed ‘sanctity’ of art - despite the fact that, to quote Just Stop Oil, there will be “no art on a dead planet”.
More unusually in the case of The Rokeby Venus, however, was the number of reports and opinion pieces which explicitly cited Mary Richardson’s 1914 protest as a part of the painting’s history, before condemning the actions of Just Stop Oil - despite the latter leaving the artwork significantly less damaged. And, even if the painting had been damaged (as, it is worth noting here, none of the past artworks targeted have been), would such an action really be unthinkable? Or would it simply be the latest stage of the painting’s story, from the subversion of its very existence to its use as a conduit for further subversive protest?
With all this being said, one thing is clear: the protests themselves have been wildly effective. As previously mentioned, all the paintings targeted have emerged unscathed while, in reporting the protests, headlines around the world have been filled with the phrase ‘Just Stop Oil’. If we take the medium of protest itself to be the message, then these actions are highly successful ones - and bring attention to a major issue.
Around the mid-seventeenth century, Diego Velázquez completed The Rokeby Venus in unique historical circumstances; following strict rules enforced by the Spanish Inquisition, the portrayal of nudes was considered licentious enough to result in a fine, or even banishment for the artist responsible. With such paintings, largely depicting mythological figures, restricted to aristocratic circles, Velázquez may not have been in any direct danger by painting such works - particularly given his patronage by King Philip IV - but there is certainly an argument to be made for the subversive nature of the painting at the time of its production.
Centuries later, on 10th March 1914, suffragette Mary Richardson, in protest of the arrest of fellow suffragette Emmeline Pankhurst the previous day, entered The National Gallery and slashed at The Rokeby Venus with a meat cleaver. Condemned at the time by newspapers, Richardson’s act was described as if she had committed a violent attack on a person, with The Times contemporaneously describing “a cruel wound in the neck” among the damages to the canvas. Today, however, the act is rightly seen as a significant piece of protest, itself necessary to address a broken, unequal system (notwithstanding Richardson’s later controversies, in particular her involvement with the British Union of Fascists). Indeed, the choice of painting, with the nude Venus admiring herself in the mirror, puts to mind art critic John Berger’s metaphorical slashing of such works: in perhaps the most-quoted passage of his 1972 book Ways of Seeing, Berger addresses the male artists behind such paintings, stating that “You painted a naked woman because you enjoyed looking at her, put a mirror in her hand and you called the painting ‘Vanity,’ thus morally condemning the woman whose nakedness you had depicted for you own pleasure”. As Mary Richardson more succinctly put it in a 1952 interview, she simply didn’t like “the way men visitors gaped at it all day long”.
As has been frequently observed, the context and history of great artworks are just as important, if not more so, than their content. Ask any art-lover to explain their love of Van Gogh, for instance, and the response will not only cite the beauty of his works, but also the pain of the man who created them and the posthumous fame they received. The same is true of The Rokeby Venus; the targeting in 1914 has become a part of its story, beginning with its subversive origins.
On 6th November 2023, two Just Stop Oil protestors entered The National Gallery and smashed the protective glass on The Rokeby Venus, directly invoking the actions of 1914 with the cry that “Women did not get the vote by voting, it is time for deeds not words”. The incident was not an isolated one; headlines have been filled over the past few years with organisations, often Just Stop Oil, targeting artworks to bring attention to the climate crisis including Van Gogh’s Sunflowers, Constable’s Hay Wain and Da Vinci’s The Last Supper. Responses from various corners of the media have become predictably swift, often condemning the actions with a great deal of hand-wringing about the supposed ‘sanctity’ of art - despite the fact that, to quote Just Stop Oil, there will be “no art on a dead planet”.
More unusually in the case of The Rokeby Venus, however, was the number of reports and opinion pieces which explicitly cited Mary Richardson’s 1914 protest as a part of the painting’s history, before condemning the actions of Just Stop Oil - despite the latter leaving the artwork significantly less damaged. And, even if the painting had been damaged (as, it is worth noting here, none of the past artworks targeted have been), would such an action really be unthinkable? Or would it simply be the latest stage of the painting’s story, from the subversion of its very existence to its use as a conduit for further subversive protest?
With all this being said, one thing is clear: the protests themselves have been wildly effective. As previously mentioned, all the paintings targeted have emerged unscathed while, in reporting the protests, headlines around the world have been filled with the phrase ‘Just Stop Oil’. If we take the medium of protest itself to be the message, then these actions are highly successful ones - and bring attention to a major issue.
Around the mid-seventeenth century, Diego Velázquez completed The Rokeby Venus in unique historical circumstances; following strict rules enforced by the Spanish Inquisition, the portrayal of nudes was considered licentious enough to result in a fine, or even banishment for the artist responsible. With such paintings, largely depicting mythological figures, restricted to aristocratic circles, Velázquez may not have been in any direct danger by painting such works - particularly given his patronage by King Philip IV - but there is certainly an argument to be made for the subversive nature of the painting at the time of its production.
Centuries later, on 10th March 1914, suffragette Mary Richardson, in protest of the arrest of fellow suffragette Emmeline Pankhurst the previous day, entered The National Gallery and slashed at The Rokeby Venus with a meat cleaver. Condemned at the time by newspapers, Richardson’s act was described as if she had committed a violent attack on a person, with The Times contemporaneously describing “a cruel wound in the neck” among the damages to the canvas. Today, however, the act is rightly seen as a significant piece of protest, itself necessary to address a broken, unequal system (notwithstanding Richardson’s later controversies, in particular her involvement with the British Union of Fascists). Indeed, the choice of painting, with the nude Venus admiring herself in the mirror, puts to mind art critic John Berger’s metaphorical slashing of such works: in perhaps the most-quoted passage of his 1972 book Ways of Seeing, Berger addresses the male artists behind such paintings, stating that “You painted a naked woman because you enjoyed looking at her, put a mirror in her hand and you called the painting ‘Vanity,’ thus morally condemning the woman whose nakedness you had depicted for you own pleasure”. As Mary Richardson more succinctly put it in a 1952 interview, she simply didn’t like “the way men visitors gaped at it all day long”.
As has been frequently observed, the context and history of great artworks are just as important, if not more so, than their content. Ask any art-lover to explain their love of Van Gogh, for instance, and the response will not only cite the beauty of his works, but also the pain of the man who created them and the posthumous fame they received. The same is true of The Rokeby Venus; the targeting in 1914 has become a part of its story, beginning with its subversive origins.
On 6th November 2023, two Just Stop Oil protestors entered The National Gallery and smashed the protective glass on The Rokeby Venus, directly invoking the actions of 1914 with the cry that “Women did not get the vote by voting, it is time for deeds not words”. The incident was not an isolated one; headlines have been filled over the past few years with organisations, often Just Stop Oil, targeting artworks to bring attention to the climate crisis including Van Gogh’s Sunflowers, Constable’s Hay Wain and Da Vinci’s The Last Supper. Responses from various corners of the media have become predictably swift, often condemning the actions with a great deal of hand-wringing about the supposed ‘sanctity’ of art - despite the fact that, to quote Just Stop Oil, there will be “no art on a dead planet”.
More unusually in the case of The Rokeby Venus, however, was the number of reports and opinion pieces which explicitly cited Mary Richardson’s 1914 protest as a part of the painting’s history, before condemning the actions of Just Stop Oil - despite the latter leaving the artwork significantly less damaged. And, even if the painting had been damaged (as, it is worth noting here, none of the past artworks targeted have been), would such an action really be unthinkable? Or would it simply be the latest stage of the painting’s story, from the subversion of its very existence to its use as a conduit for further subversive protest?
With all this being said, one thing is clear: the protests themselves have been wildly effective. As previously mentioned, all the paintings targeted have emerged unscathed while, in reporting the protests, headlines around the world have been filled with the phrase ‘Just Stop Oil’. If we take the medium of protest itself to be the message, then these actions are highly successful ones - and bring attention to a major issue.
Around the mid-seventeenth century, Diego Velázquez completed The Rokeby Venus in unique historical circumstances; following strict rules enforced by the Spanish Inquisition, the portrayal of nudes was considered licentious enough to result in a fine, or even banishment for the artist responsible. With such paintings, largely depicting mythological figures, restricted to aristocratic circles, Velázquez may not have been in any direct danger by painting such works - particularly given his patronage by King Philip IV - but there is certainly an argument to be made for the subversive nature of the painting at the time of its production.
Centuries later, on 10th March 1914, suffragette Mary Richardson, in protest of the arrest of fellow suffragette Emmeline Pankhurst the previous day, entered The National Gallery and slashed at The Rokeby Venus with a meat cleaver. Condemned at the time by newspapers, Richardson’s act was described as if she had committed a violent attack on a person, with The Times contemporaneously describing “a cruel wound in the neck” among the damages to the canvas. Today, however, the act is rightly seen as a significant piece of protest, itself necessary to address a broken, unequal system (notwithstanding Richardson’s later controversies, in particular her involvement with the British Union of Fascists). Indeed, the choice of painting, with the nude Venus admiring herself in the mirror, puts to mind art critic John Berger’s metaphorical slashing of such works: in perhaps the most-quoted passage of his 1972 book Ways of Seeing, Berger addresses the male artists behind such paintings, stating that “You painted a naked woman because you enjoyed looking at her, put a mirror in her hand and you called the painting ‘Vanity,’ thus morally condemning the woman whose nakedness you had depicted for you own pleasure”. As Mary Richardson more succinctly put it in a 1952 interview, she simply didn’t like “the way men visitors gaped at it all day long”.
As has been frequently observed, the context and history of great artworks are just as important, if not more so, than their content. Ask any art-lover to explain their love of Van Gogh, for instance, and the response will not only cite the beauty of his works, but also the pain of the man who created them and the posthumous fame they received. The same is true of The Rokeby Venus; the targeting in 1914 has become a part of its story, beginning with its subversive origins.
On 6th November 2023, two Just Stop Oil protestors entered The National Gallery and smashed the protective glass on The Rokeby Venus, directly invoking the actions of 1914 with the cry that “Women did not get the vote by voting, it is time for deeds not words”. The incident was not an isolated one; headlines have been filled over the past few years with organisations, often Just Stop Oil, targeting artworks to bring attention to the climate crisis including Van Gogh’s Sunflowers, Constable’s Hay Wain and Da Vinci’s The Last Supper. Responses from various corners of the media have become predictably swift, often condemning the actions with a great deal of hand-wringing about the supposed ‘sanctity’ of art - despite the fact that, to quote Just Stop Oil, there will be “no art on a dead planet”.
More unusually in the case of The Rokeby Venus, however, was the number of reports and opinion pieces which explicitly cited Mary Richardson’s 1914 protest as a part of the painting’s history, before condemning the actions of Just Stop Oil - despite the latter leaving the artwork significantly less damaged. And, even if the painting had been damaged (as, it is worth noting here, none of the past artworks targeted have been), would such an action really be unthinkable? Or would it simply be the latest stage of the painting’s story, from the subversion of its very existence to its use as a conduit for further subversive protest?
With all this being said, one thing is clear: the protests themselves have been wildly effective. As previously mentioned, all the paintings targeted have emerged unscathed while, in reporting the protests, headlines around the world have been filled with the phrase ‘Just Stop Oil’. If we take the medium of protest itself to be the message, then these actions are highly successful ones - and bring attention to a major issue.
Around the mid-seventeenth century, Diego Velázquez completed The Rokeby Venus in unique historical circumstances; following strict rules enforced by the Spanish Inquisition, the portrayal of nudes was considered licentious enough to result in a fine, or even banishment for the artist responsible. With such paintings, largely depicting mythological figures, restricted to aristocratic circles, Velázquez may not have been in any direct danger by painting such works - particularly given his patronage by King Philip IV - but there is certainly an argument to be made for the subversive nature of the painting at the time of its production.
Centuries later, on 10th March 1914, suffragette Mary Richardson, in protest of the arrest of fellow suffragette Emmeline Pankhurst the previous day, entered The National Gallery and slashed at The Rokeby Venus with a meat cleaver. Condemned at the time by newspapers, Richardson’s act was described as if she had committed a violent attack on a person, with The Times contemporaneously describing “a cruel wound in the neck” among the damages to the canvas. Today, however, the act is rightly seen as a significant piece of protest, itself necessary to address a broken, unequal system (notwithstanding Richardson’s later controversies, in particular her involvement with the British Union of Fascists). Indeed, the choice of painting, with the nude Venus admiring herself in the mirror, puts to mind art critic John Berger’s metaphorical slashing of such works: in perhaps the most-quoted passage of his 1972 book Ways of Seeing, Berger addresses the male artists behind such paintings, stating that “You painted a naked woman because you enjoyed looking at her, put a mirror in her hand and you called the painting ‘Vanity,’ thus morally condemning the woman whose nakedness you had depicted for you own pleasure”. As Mary Richardson more succinctly put it in a 1952 interview, she simply didn’t like “the way men visitors gaped at it all day long”.
As has been frequently observed, the context and history of great artworks are just as important, if not more so, than their content. Ask any art-lover to explain their love of Van Gogh, for instance, and the response will not only cite the beauty of his works, but also the pain of the man who created them and the posthumous fame they received. The same is true of The Rokeby Venus; the targeting in 1914 has become a part of its story, beginning with its subversive origins.
On 6th November 2023, two Just Stop Oil protestors entered The National Gallery and smashed the protective glass on The Rokeby Venus, directly invoking the actions of 1914 with the cry that “Women did not get the vote by voting, it is time for deeds not words”. The incident was not an isolated one; headlines have been filled over the past few years with organisations, often Just Stop Oil, targeting artworks to bring attention to the climate crisis including Van Gogh’s Sunflowers, Constable’s Hay Wain and Da Vinci’s The Last Supper. Responses from various corners of the media have become predictably swift, often condemning the actions with a great deal of hand-wringing about the supposed ‘sanctity’ of art - despite the fact that, to quote Just Stop Oil, there will be “no art on a dead planet”.
More unusually in the case of The Rokeby Venus, however, was the number of reports and opinion pieces which explicitly cited Mary Richardson’s 1914 protest as a part of the painting’s history, before condemning the actions of Just Stop Oil - despite the latter leaving the artwork significantly less damaged. And, even if the painting had been damaged (as, it is worth noting here, none of the past artworks targeted have been), would such an action really be unthinkable? Or would it simply be the latest stage of the painting’s story, from the subversion of its very existence to its use as a conduit for further subversive protest?
With all this being said, one thing is clear: the protests themselves have been wildly effective. As previously mentioned, all the paintings targeted have emerged unscathed while, in reporting the protests, headlines around the world have been filled with the phrase ‘Just Stop Oil’. If we take the medium of protest itself to be the message, then these actions are highly successful ones - and bring attention to a major issue.
Around the mid-seventeenth century, Diego Velázquez completed The Rokeby Venus in unique historical circumstances; following strict rules enforced by the Spanish Inquisition, the portrayal of nudes was considered licentious enough to result in a fine, or even banishment for the artist responsible. With such paintings, largely depicting mythological figures, restricted to aristocratic circles, Velázquez may not have been in any direct danger by painting such works - particularly given his patronage by King Philip IV - but there is certainly an argument to be made for the subversive nature of the painting at the time of its production.
Centuries later, on 10th March 1914, suffragette Mary Richardson, in protest of the arrest of fellow suffragette Emmeline Pankhurst the previous day, entered The National Gallery and slashed at The Rokeby Venus with a meat cleaver. Condemned at the time by newspapers, Richardson’s act was described as if she had committed a violent attack on a person, with The Times contemporaneously describing “a cruel wound in the neck” among the damages to the canvas. Today, however, the act is rightly seen as a significant piece of protest, itself necessary to address a broken, unequal system (notwithstanding Richardson’s later controversies, in particular her involvement with the British Union of Fascists). Indeed, the choice of painting, with the nude Venus admiring herself in the mirror, puts to mind art critic John Berger’s metaphorical slashing of such works: in perhaps the most-quoted passage of his 1972 book Ways of Seeing, Berger addresses the male artists behind such paintings, stating that “You painted a naked woman because you enjoyed looking at her, put a mirror in her hand and you called the painting ‘Vanity,’ thus morally condemning the woman whose nakedness you had depicted for you own pleasure”. As Mary Richardson more succinctly put it in a 1952 interview, she simply didn’t like “the way men visitors gaped at it all day long”.
As has been frequently observed, the context and history of great artworks are just as important, if not more so, than their content. Ask any art-lover to explain their love of Van Gogh, for instance, and the response will not only cite the beauty of his works, but also the pain of the man who created them and the posthumous fame they received. The same is true of The Rokeby Venus; the targeting in 1914 has become a part of its story, beginning with its subversive origins.
On 6th November 2023, two Just Stop Oil protestors entered The National Gallery and smashed the protective glass on The Rokeby Venus, directly invoking the actions of 1914 with the cry that “Women did not get the vote by voting, it is time for deeds not words”. The incident was not an isolated one; headlines have been filled over the past few years with organisations, often Just Stop Oil, targeting artworks to bring attention to the climate crisis including Van Gogh’s Sunflowers, Constable’s Hay Wain and Da Vinci’s The Last Supper. Responses from various corners of the media have become predictably swift, often condemning the actions with a great deal of hand-wringing about the supposed ‘sanctity’ of art - despite the fact that, to quote Just Stop Oil, there will be “no art on a dead planet”.
More unusually in the case of The Rokeby Venus, however, was the number of reports and opinion pieces which explicitly cited Mary Richardson’s 1914 protest as a part of the painting’s history, before condemning the actions of Just Stop Oil - despite the latter leaving the artwork significantly less damaged. And, even if the painting had been damaged (as, it is worth noting here, none of the past artworks targeted have been), would such an action really be unthinkable? Or would it simply be the latest stage of the painting’s story, from the subversion of its very existence to its use as a conduit for further subversive protest?
With all this being said, one thing is clear: the protests themselves have been wildly effective. As previously mentioned, all the paintings targeted have emerged unscathed while, in reporting the protests, headlines around the world have been filled with the phrase ‘Just Stop Oil’. If we take the medium of protest itself to be the message, then these actions are highly successful ones - and bring attention to a major issue.
Around the mid-seventeenth century, Diego Velázquez completed The Rokeby Venus in unique historical circumstances; following strict rules enforced by the Spanish Inquisition, the portrayal of nudes was considered licentious enough to result in a fine, or even banishment for the artist responsible. With such paintings, largely depicting mythological figures, restricted to aristocratic circles, Velázquez may not have been in any direct danger by painting such works - particularly given his patronage by King Philip IV - but there is certainly an argument to be made for the subversive nature of the painting at the time of its production.
Centuries later, on 10th March 1914, suffragette Mary Richardson, in protest of the arrest of fellow suffragette Emmeline Pankhurst the previous day, entered The National Gallery and slashed at The Rokeby Venus with a meat cleaver. Condemned at the time by newspapers, Richardson’s act was described as if she had committed a violent attack on a person, with The Times contemporaneously describing “a cruel wound in the neck” among the damages to the canvas. Today, however, the act is rightly seen as a significant piece of protest, itself necessary to address a broken, unequal system (notwithstanding Richardson’s later controversies, in particular her involvement with the British Union of Fascists). Indeed, the choice of painting, with the nude Venus admiring herself in the mirror, puts to mind art critic John Berger’s metaphorical slashing of such works: in perhaps the most-quoted passage of his 1972 book Ways of Seeing, Berger addresses the male artists behind such paintings, stating that “You painted a naked woman because you enjoyed looking at her, put a mirror in her hand and you called the painting ‘Vanity,’ thus morally condemning the woman whose nakedness you had depicted for you own pleasure”. As Mary Richardson more succinctly put it in a 1952 interview, she simply didn’t like “the way men visitors gaped at it all day long”.
As has been frequently observed, the context and history of great artworks are just as important, if not more so, than their content. Ask any art-lover to explain their love of Van Gogh, for instance, and the response will not only cite the beauty of his works, but also the pain of the man who created them and the posthumous fame they received. The same is true of The Rokeby Venus; the targeting in 1914 has become a part of its story, beginning with its subversive origins.
On 6th November 2023, two Just Stop Oil protestors entered The National Gallery and smashed the protective glass on The Rokeby Venus, directly invoking the actions of 1914 with the cry that “Women did not get the vote by voting, it is time for deeds not words”. The incident was not an isolated one; headlines have been filled over the past few years with organisations, often Just Stop Oil, targeting artworks to bring attention to the climate crisis including Van Gogh’s Sunflowers, Constable’s Hay Wain and Da Vinci’s The Last Supper. Responses from various corners of the media have become predictably swift, often condemning the actions with a great deal of hand-wringing about the supposed ‘sanctity’ of art - despite the fact that, to quote Just Stop Oil, there will be “no art on a dead planet”.
More unusually in the case of The Rokeby Venus, however, was the number of reports and opinion pieces which explicitly cited Mary Richardson’s 1914 protest as a part of the painting’s history, before condemning the actions of Just Stop Oil - despite the latter leaving the artwork significantly less damaged. And, even if the painting had been damaged (as, it is worth noting here, none of the past artworks targeted have been), would such an action really be unthinkable? Or would it simply be the latest stage of the painting’s story, from the subversion of its very existence to its use as a conduit for further subversive protest?
With all this being said, one thing is clear: the protests themselves have been wildly effective. As previously mentioned, all the paintings targeted have emerged unscathed while, in reporting the protests, headlines around the world have been filled with the phrase ‘Just Stop Oil’. If we take the medium of protest itself to be the message, then these actions are highly successful ones - and bring attention to a major issue.
Around the mid-seventeenth century, Diego Velázquez completed The Rokeby Venus in unique historical circumstances; following strict rules enforced by the Spanish Inquisition, the portrayal of nudes was considered licentious enough to result in a fine, or even banishment for the artist responsible. With such paintings, largely depicting mythological figures, restricted to aristocratic circles, Velázquez may not have been in any direct danger by painting such works - particularly given his patronage by King Philip IV - but there is certainly an argument to be made for the subversive nature of the painting at the time of its production.
Centuries later, on 10th March 1914, suffragette Mary Richardson, in protest of the arrest of fellow suffragette Emmeline Pankhurst the previous day, entered The National Gallery and slashed at The Rokeby Venus with a meat cleaver. Condemned at the time by newspapers, Richardson’s act was described as if she had committed a violent attack on a person, with The Times contemporaneously describing “a cruel wound in the neck” among the damages to the canvas. Today, however, the act is rightly seen as a significant piece of protest, itself necessary to address a broken, unequal system (notwithstanding Richardson’s later controversies, in particular her involvement with the British Union of Fascists). Indeed, the choice of painting, with the nude Venus admiring herself in the mirror, puts to mind art critic John Berger’s metaphorical slashing of such works: in perhaps the most-quoted passage of his 1972 book Ways of Seeing, Berger addresses the male artists behind such paintings, stating that “You painted a naked woman because you enjoyed looking at her, put a mirror in her hand and you called the painting ‘Vanity,’ thus morally condemning the woman whose nakedness you had depicted for you own pleasure”. As Mary Richardson more succinctly put it in a 1952 interview, she simply didn’t like “the way men visitors gaped at it all day long”.
As has been frequently observed, the context and history of great artworks are just as important, if not more so, than their content. Ask any art-lover to explain their love of Van Gogh, for instance, and the response will not only cite the beauty of his works, but also the pain of the man who created them and the posthumous fame they received. The same is true of The Rokeby Venus; the targeting in 1914 has become a part of its story, beginning with its subversive origins.
On 6th November 2023, two Just Stop Oil protestors entered The National Gallery and smashed the protective glass on The Rokeby Venus, directly invoking the actions of 1914 with the cry that “Women did not get the vote by voting, it is time for deeds not words”. The incident was not an isolated one; headlines have been filled over the past few years with organisations, often Just Stop Oil, targeting artworks to bring attention to the climate crisis including Van Gogh’s Sunflowers, Constable’s Hay Wain and Da Vinci’s The Last Supper. Responses from various corners of the media have become predictably swift, often condemning the actions with a great deal of hand-wringing about the supposed ‘sanctity’ of art - despite the fact that, to quote Just Stop Oil, there will be “no art on a dead planet”.
More unusually in the case of The Rokeby Venus, however, was the number of reports and opinion pieces which explicitly cited Mary Richardson’s 1914 protest as a part of the painting’s history, before condemning the actions of Just Stop Oil - despite the latter leaving the artwork significantly less damaged. And, even if the painting had been damaged (as, it is worth noting here, none of the past artworks targeted have been), would such an action really be unthinkable? Or would it simply be the latest stage of the painting’s story, from the subversion of its very existence to its use as a conduit for further subversive protest?
With all this being said, one thing is clear: the protests themselves have been wildly effective. As previously mentioned, all the paintings targeted have emerged unscathed while, in reporting the protests, headlines around the world have been filled with the phrase ‘Just Stop Oil’. If we take the medium of protest itself to be the message, then these actions are highly successful ones - and bring attention to a major issue.
Around the mid-seventeenth century, Diego Velázquez completed The Rokeby Venus in unique historical circumstances; following strict rules enforced by the Spanish Inquisition, the portrayal of nudes was considered licentious enough to result in a fine, or even banishment for the artist responsible. With such paintings, largely depicting mythological figures, restricted to aristocratic circles, Velázquez may not have been in any direct danger by painting such works - particularly given his patronage by King Philip IV - but there is certainly an argument to be made for the subversive nature of the painting at the time of its production.
Centuries later, on 10th March 1914, suffragette Mary Richardson, in protest of the arrest of fellow suffragette Emmeline Pankhurst the previous day, entered The National Gallery and slashed at The Rokeby Venus with a meat cleaver. Condemned at the time by newspapers, Richardson’s act was described as if she had committed a violent attack on a person, with The Times contemporaneously describing “a cruel wound in the neck” among the damages to the canvas. Today, however, the act is rightly seen as a significant piece of protest, itself necessary to address a broken, unequal system (notwithstanding Richardson’s later controversies, in particular her involvement with the British Union of Fascists). Indeed, the choice of painting, with the nude Venus admiring herself in the mirror, puts to mind art critic John Berger’s metaphorical slashing of such works: in perhaps the most-quoted passage of his 1972 book Ways of Seeing, Berger addresses the male artists behind such paintings, stating that “You painted a naked woman because you enjoyed looking at her, put a mirror in her hand and you called the painting ‘Vanity,’ thus morally condemning the woman whose nakedness you had depicted for you own pleasure”. As Mary Richardson more succinctly put it in a 1952 interview, she simply didn’t like “the way men visitors gaped at it all day long”.
As has been frequently observed, the context and history of great artworks are just as important, if not more so, than their content. Ask any art-lover to explain their love of Van Gogh, for instance, and the response will not only cite the beauty of his works, but also the pain of the man who created them and the posthumous fame they received. The same is true of The Rokeby Venus; the targeting in 1914 has become a part of its story, beginning with its subversive origins.
On 6th November 2023, two Just Stop Oil protestors entered The National Gallery and smashed the protective glass on The Rokeby Venus, directly invoking the actions of 1914 with the cry that “Women did not get the vote by voting, it is time for deeds not words”. The incident was not an isolated one; headlines have been filled over the past few years with organisations, often Just Stop Oil, targeting artworks to bring attention to the climate crisis including Van Gogh’s Sunflowers, Constable’s Hay Wain and Da Vinci’s The Last Supper. Responses from various corners of the media have become predictably swift, often condemning the actions with a great deal of hand-wringing about the supposed ‘sanctity’ of art - despite the fact that, to quote Just Stop Oil, there will be “no art on a dead planet”.
More unusually in the case of The Rokeby Venus, however, was the number of reports and opinion pieces which explicitly cited Mary Richardson’s 1914 protest as a part of the painting’s history, before condemning the actions of Just Stop Oil - despite the latter leaving the artwork significantly less damaged. And, even if the painting had been damaged (as, it is worth noting here, none of the past artworks targeted have been), would such an action really be unthinkable? Or would it simply be the latest stage of the painting’s story, from the subversion of its very existence to its use as a conduit for further subversive protest?
With all this being said, one thing is clear: the protests themselves have been wildly effective. As previously mentioned, all the paintings targeted have emerged unscathed while, in reporting the protests, headlines around the world have been filled with the phrase ‘Just Stop Oil’. If we take the medium of protest itself to be the message, then these actions are highly successful ones - and bring attention to a major issue.
Around the mid-seventeenth century, Diego Velázquez completed The Rokeby Venus in unique historical circumstances; following strict rules enforced by the Spanish Inquisition, the portrayal of nudes was considered licentious enough to result in a fine, or even banishment for the artist responsible. With such paintings, largely depicting mythological figures, restricted to aristocratic circles, Velázquez may not have been in any direct danger by painting such works - particularly given his patronage by King Philip IV - but there is certainly an argument to be made for the subversive nature of the painting at the time of its production.
Centuries later, on 10th March 1914, suffragette Mary Richardson, in protest of the arrest of fellow suffragette Emmeline Pankhurst the previous day, entered The National Gallery and slashed at The Rokeby Venus with a meat cleaver. Condemned at the time by newspapers, Richardson’s act was described as if she had committed a violent attack on a person, with The Times contemporaneously describing “a cruel wound in the neck” among the damages to the canvas. Today, however, the act is rightly seen as a significant piece of protest, itself necessary to address a broken, unequal system (notwithstanding Richardson’s later controversies, in particular her involvement with the British Union of Fascists). Indeed, the choice of painting, with the nude Venus admiring herself in the mirror, puts to mind art critic John Berger’s metaphorical slashing of such works: in perhaps the most-quoted passage of his 1972 book Ways of Seeing, Berger addresses the male artists behind such paintings, stating that “You painted a naked woman because you enjoyed looking at her, put a mirror in her hand and you called the painting ‘Vanity,’ thus morally condemning the woman whose nakedness you had depicted for you own pleasure”. As Mary Richardson more succinctly put it in a 1952 interview, she simply didn’t like “the way men visitors gaped at it all day long”.
As has been frequently observed, the context and history of great artworks are just as important, if not more so, than their content. Ask any art-lover to explain their love of Van Gogh, for instance, and the response will not only cite the beauty of his works, but also the pain of the man who created them and the posthumous fame they received. The same is true of The Rokeby Venus; the targeting in 1914 has become a part of its story, beginning with its subversive origins.
On 6th November 2023, two Just Stop Oil protestors entered The National Gallery and smashed the protective glass on The Rokeby Venus, directly invoking the actions of 1914 with the cry that “Women did not get the vote by voting, it is time for deeds not words”. The incident was not an isolated one; headlines have been filled over the past few years with organisations, often Just Stop Oil, targeting artworks to bring attention to the climate crisis including Van Gogh’s Sunflowers, Constable’s Hay Wain and Da Vinci’s The Last Supper. Responses from various corners of the media have become predictably swift, often condemning the actions with a great deal of hand-wringing about the supposed ‘sanctity’ of art - despite the fact that, to quote Just Stop Oil, there will be “no art on a dead planet”.
More unusually in the case of The Rokeby Venus, however, was the number of reports and opinion pieces which explicitly cited Mary Richardson’s 1914 protest as a part of the painting’s history, before condemning the actions of Just Stop Oil - despite the latter leaving the artwork significantly less damaged. And, even if the painting had been damaged (as, it is worth noting here, none of the past artworks targeted have been), would such an action really be unthinkable? Or would it simply be the latest stage of the painting’s story, from the subversion of its very existence to its use as a conduit for further subversive protest?
With all this being said, one thing is clear: the protests themselves have been wildly effective. As previously mentioned, all the paintings targeted have emerged unscathed while, in reporting the protests, headlines around the world have been filled with the phrase ‘Just Stop Oil’. If we take the medium of protest itself to be the message, then these actions are highly successful ones - and bring attention to a major issue.
Around the mid-seventeenth century, Diego Velázquez completed The Rokeby Venus in unique historical circumstances; following strict rules enforced by the Spanish Inquisition, the portrayal of nudes was considered licentious enough to result in a fine, or even banishment for the artist responsible. With such paintings, largely depicting mythological figures, restricted to aristocratic circles, Velázquez may not have been in any direct danger by painting such works - particularly given his patronage by King Philip IV - but there is certainly an argument to be made for the subversive nature of the painting at the time of its production.
Centuries later, on 10th March 1914, suffragette Mary Richardson, in protest of the arrest of fellow suffragette Emmeline Pankhurst the previous day, entered The National Gallery and slashed at The Rokeby Venus with a meat cleaver. Condemned at the time by newspapers, Richardson’s act was described as if she had committed a violent attack on a person, with The Times contemporaneously describing “a cruel wound in the neck” among the damages to the canvas. Today, however, the act is rightly seen as a significant piece of protest, itself necessary to address a broken, unequal system (notwithstanding Richardson’s later controversies, in particular her involvement with the British Union of Fascists). Indeed, the choice of painting, with the nude Venus admiring herself in the mirror, puts to mind art critic John Berger’s metaphorical slashing of such works: in perhaps the most-quoted passage of his 1972 book Ways of Seeing, Berger addresses the male artists behind such paintings, stating that “You painted a naked woman because you enjoyed looking at her, put a mirror in her hand and you called the painting ‘Vanity,’ thus morally condemning the woman whose nakedness you had depicted for you own pleasure”. As Mary Richardson more succinctly put it in a 1952 interview, she simply didn’t like “the way men visitors gaped at it all day long”.
As has been frequently observed, the context and history of great artworks are just as important, if not more so, than their content. Ask any art-lover to explain their love of Van Gogh, for instance, and the response will not only cite the beauty of his works, but also the pain of the man who created them and the posthumous fame they received. The same is true of The Rokeby Venus; the targeting in 1914 has become a part of its story, beginning with its subversive origins.
On 6th November 2023, two Just Stop Oil protestors entered The National Gallery and smashed the protective glass on The Rokeby Venus, directly invoking the actions of 1914 with the cry that “Women did not get the vote by voting, it is time for deeds not words”. The incident was not an isolated one; headlines have been filled over the past few years with organisations, often Just Stop Oil, targeting artworks to bring attention to the climate crisis including Van Gogh’s Sunflowers, Constable’s Hay Wain and Da Vinci’s The Last Supper. Responses from various corners of the media have become predictably swift, often condemning the actions with a great deal of hand-wringing about the supposed ‘sanctity’ of art - despite the fact that, to quote Just Stop Oil, there will be “no art on a dead planet”.
More unusually in the case of The Rokeby Venus, however, was the number of reports and opinion pieces which explicitly cited Mary Richardson’s 1914 protest as a part of the painting’s history, before condemning the actions of Just Stop Oil - despite the latter leaving the artwork significantly less damaged. And, even if the painting had been damaged (as, it is worth noting here, none of the past artworks targeted have been), would such an action really be unthinkable? Or would it simply be the latest stage of the painting’s story, from the subversion of its very existence to its use as a conduit for further subversive protest?
With all this being said, one thing is clear: the protests themselves have been wildly effective. As previously mentioned, all the paintings targeted have emerged unscathed while, in reporting the protests, headlines around the world have been filled with the phrase ‘Just Stop Oil’. If we take the medium of protest itself to be the message, then these actions are highly successful ones - and bring attention to a major issue.
