When I was doing my undergraduate degree, I had the privilege of being taught by Dr. Anne Ashton, an accomplished art historian who occupies a respectable niche as the ‘leading expert on the Renaissance breast’. Under her tutelage, we spent a good deal of time reviewing the great works of Western civilisation as if they were a Victoria’s Secret catalogue, debating optimal nipple heights and inspecting 15th century racks for signs of artificial enhancement. The most important thing garnered in these hours spent with Dr. Ashton was the fact that all of these breasts were, to a certain degree, fake.
The ‘Masters’ of the Renaissance and the lower-ranking artists who ran their workshops were nearly all men, and thus, in most areas that experienced the Renaissance, forbidden from working with female models by laws of propriety. If these artists were really determined, they might perhaps have a local woman of loose morals sit for them, but finding one who would pose nude—or, at the very least, topless—was strictly out of the question. This did not, however, dampen their collective desire to make pictures of breasts.
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