Let’s get something straight: art history hasn’t exactly been kind to women. For centuries, the “female gaze” was whatever a man decided it should be. Usually, that meant soft lighting, mysterious half-smiles, and one bare shoulder that looked like it had dislocated itself for dramatic effect.
The problem was simple. Women didn’t paint those women. Men did.
So what happens when a woman, or better yet a lesbian artist, picks up the brush? Suddenly, women stop looking like exhausted swans and start looking like real people. People who might be tired, laughing, complicated, or thinking about lunch.
Creating art for the female gaze isn’t about being deep, or symbolic, or gallery-ready. It’s about being honest enough that someone somewhere might sigh and go, “Finally.”
The female gaze is funny (on purpose)
Here’s the thing: women are funny. Not the “haha, silly” kind. The clever, sharp, eye-rolling kind that comes from surviving nonsense for centuries. That humour lives in sapphic art too. It’s in the knowing looks, the raised eyebrows, the tiny smirk that says, “I know exactly what you’re thinking and I’m judging you a bit, but lovingly.”
The female gaze isn’t humourless. It finds beauty in the ridiculous. It knows that love can look like one woman trying to put on a harness in a sexy way while you both pretend it’s fine. It knows that intimacy can be messy, and that’s exactly what makes it real.
If you want to draw two women watching TV, do it. If you want to paint someone staring into the fridge for moral guidance, go ahead. You don’t need to justify it with symbolism or tragedy. A woman with cheeks full of cheese, harshly lit by the fridge light, is more real and relatable because it's funny and because you can see yourself in them at that moment.
Women existing is already enough.
Creating art for women by women is about trust. Trusting that how you see women is valid. Trusting that honesty is more interesting than perfection. Trusting that humour belongs in art just as much as depth does.
Ordinary women doing remarkably normal things
The female gaze thrives on the ordinary. A woman sitting in her underwear eating crisps straight from the bag. Another one half asleep with paint on her hands and no idea how it got there. Two women sharing a look that says “we should go to bed” and “we should also dismantle the patriarchy” at the same time.
This is the art I want to see, the kind that looks real enough to smell faintly of coffee and existential dread. Because when you create for the female gaze, you stop trying to make women look “timeless.” They’re not mythical beings, they’re people with Wi-Fi problems. It’s art that says, “Yes, I’m wearing mismatched socks, but emotionally, I’m (kind of) thriving.”
Why representation still matters (even when we’re tired)
Being an LGBTQ artist sometimes feels like you’ve accidentally become spokesperson for the entire alphabet. As if one painting can summarise every queer experience ever, fix the world, and still look good above someone’s IKEA sofa. Spoiler: it can’t.
But visibility still matters. When lesbian art shows up in a gallery, it whispers to every queer person who’s ever looked around and thought, “Do I belong here?” and quietly answers, “Yeah, you do.”
Queer women have been painting, photographing, and sketching each other long before galleries thought it was trendy. We’re not asking to join the art world. We’ve already moved in, rearranged the furniture, and made it smell nicer.
Why it matters
We’re in a time where women and queer artists don’t need permission to be seen anymore. We took the brush, the pen, the lens, and the mic, and said, “We’ll take it from here.”
The female gaze isn’t a phase or a fancy theory. It’s how women see women when no one’s watching. It’s quiet, funny, honest, and absolutely here to stay. Paint your friends, your lovers, your messy kitchen tables, your unmade beds, your everyday miracles. Paint the laughter that makes no sense and the tears that do.
Make it real, make it yours, and make it funny.
Because sometimes the most radical thing a woman can do is show up exactly as she is, no filters, no permission slips, and both shoulders fully intact.
And if someone looks at your work and says, “I don’t get it,” smile and tell them, “That’s okay. It wasn’t for you anyway.”