1. Could this be young Cicero?

A young boy, no older than twelve, is engrossed in a book. With one foot propped up on a bench, his demeanor reveals a certain precocity. All he wants to do is read, and read, and read.

Commissioned around 1464, this fresco was painted directly onto the plaster walls of the Medici banking family’s Milan headquarters. It adorned the courtyard for nearly 400 years—only to be rescued during the building’s demolition.

Most historians believe this child represents the ancient Roman writer and orator Marcus Tullius Cicero. The strongest evidence is a curious inscription etched on the bench: “M T Ce Ciro.” Even so, a few scholars suspect the figure may actually be a wealthy schoolboy reading Cicero’s texts. This would shift the fresco’s meaning from a historical portrait to a celebration of humanism and education.

So, what do you think? Is Italian artist Vincenzo Foppa imagining what the great Roman statesman might have been like as a child?

2. Far from the urban cacophony

Viewing herself as a loner, American artist Georgia O’Keeffe increasingly retreated to New Mexico to escape the social demands of New York City. She later confided to art critic Henry McBride, “I never felt at home on the East Coast the way I do out here.”

In the Southwest, she found her muse in the rugged, desolate Chinle Badlands. This 230-million-year-old formation of clay, sandstone, and siltstone is famous for its vivid bands of red, purple, and blue.

“The red hill doesn’t touch everyone’s heart as it touches mine. And I suppose there’s no reason why it should,” said O’Keeffe, who considered this America’s most beautiful landscape.

In her view, the sun-bleached bones in the wilderness pulsed with life: “The bones seem to cut sharply to the center of something that is keenly alive in this desert.”

3. Oops, mistakes happen

Centuries ago, long before digital copy editing, how did scribes insert a missing sentence into a completed, hand-painted manuscript page?

Medieval historian Mateusz Fafinski shared this charming “quick fix” discovered in a 14th-century devotional book. In the margin, the illuminator drew a cloaked figure holding a heavy rope. Look closely and the figure appears to be physically hoisting the forgotten line of text right up the page into its rightful spot.

The missing text comes from Psalm 128 in the Bible: Your children will be like olive shoots around your table. And your children’s children will be your crown.

4. Bringing Vermeer’s art to life

This engaging, one-minute film by Wytse Koetse adds motion to Johannes Vermeer’s most admired paintings, offering a fresh glimpse into 17th-century Dutch middle-class life.

The Amsterdam-based filmmaker used AI to create this short video, and predictably, the results are far from perfect. For instance, why does a maid pour milk directly onto a table? Does AI think that’s how it’s done?

If the technique were perfected, would videos like this one be useful in a museum setting? I think so. Koetse’s film reminds us that a painting is like a window on the world. It encourages us to slow down and notice all the subtle yet revealing details.

Click here and see what you think…

5. “Women will get it”

In 1972, Judy Chicago and Miriam Schapiro debuted Womanhouse, the first major art exhibition dedicated entirely to female empowerment. For her contribution, Schapiro created Dollhouse, a mixed-media sculpture built to resemble an ancient temple.

The structure’s kitchen, boudoir, and nursery directly reflect the domestic roles imposed on women born in the 1950s. However, tucked away in the upper studio, a male model poses next to a tray of bananas—a playful, feminist inversion of the gender roles traditionally found in academic life-drawing classes.

Naturally, some critics dismissed Dollhouse as a trivial work. But Schapiro pushed back, explaining that the project helped her learn how to create art from a purely female perspective. “Women will get it,” she said.

6. If these chairs could talk

To escape the hectic pace of Paris, Vincent van Gogh moved south to Arles in 1888 to set up a collaborative workspace. Paul Gauguin was the first artist to join him.

To brighten their bare rooms, Van Gogh painted two symbolic portraits: one of his own simple wooden chair, and another of Gauguin’s more ornate armchair. Sadly, the relationship between the two artists soured quickly. Within weeks, Gauguin packed his bags and returned to Paris.

Over a century later, Nigerian artist John Madu reimagined Gauguin’s chair through a symbolic self-portrait of his own. His version features a red plastic chair, flip flops, and a Coke bottle. On the seat lies a book of Japanese ukiyo-e prints—an art form that Van Gogh studied extensively.

“I want to pay homage to this artist I love,” said Madu, who reinterpreted the visuals in a West African setting to bridge local stories with a worldwide audience. The entire series is available on the Van Gogh Museum website.

7. Quiet companions

Artist Édouard Vuillard portrayed age with singular tenderness. This portrait is one of his finest studies of someone who is no longer young. The sitter is art critic Théodore Duret—a champion of Impressionism and founder, along with Émile Zola, of the radical weekly La Tribune. 

During the Paris Commune, Duret narrowly escaped execution. 

Vuillard depicts the writer surrounded by the books and papers of a long career. Reflected in the mirror is Whistler’s portrait of Duret as a young man dressed for a night at the theater. This reflection marks the passage of time: at 74, Duret is no longer the firebrand whose political views nearly cost him his life.

Now, grave as a Venetian doge, he holds a cat on his lap. Place your thumb over the cat to discover how much of the painting’s soulfulness depends on Lulu…

8. From bottle caps to royal capes

Years ago at MoMA, art critic Henry McBride was scrutinizing a huge mask adorned with hairbrushes, a mousetrap, and other miscellany when a distinguished-looking couple stood beside him. The man stared in disbelief, turned to his wife, and said, “Never throw anything away.”

McBride’s anecdote comes to mind whenever I see work by El Anatsui. Originally from Ghana, the artist now lives in Nigeria, where he recycles bits of discarded metal, usually from liquor bottles. First he hammers the metal. Then he artfully wires the flattened pieces together.

Anatsui’s installations evoke Kente cloth, a shimmering fabric worn by Ghanaian royalty. He reimagines this royal textile to critique the values of consumer culture. The works take on a different shape each time they are displayed—a fluidity meant to reflect the ever-changing nature of life.

Currently, you can view Untitled 2009 at the Smithsonian National Museum of African Art in Washington, D.C.

9. Monster mash

Suspended high in the air, Saint Anthony remains calm while demons test his faith. I admire his stoic chill.

Inspired by a 15th-century engraving by Martin Schongauer, this painting vanished for centuries. It resurfaced in 1905, disappeared again, and finally reemerged in 2009 when a dealer brought it to the Metropolitan Museum of Art for authentication. While experts already knew the painting originated in the Renaissance workshop of Domenico Ghirlandaio, the specific artist’s identity remained unknown.

The Met’s imaging technology brought a surprising revelation: the artist was a mere twelve-year-old boy destined to become the famous sculptor Michelangelo. Historians recognized his unique cross-hatching in the underdrawing. The prodigy had used his quill pen like a chisel, practically sculpting his vision onto the gessoed wood panel.

To make his monsters truly nightmarish, the young artist visited a local fish market in Florence to study the textures, colors, and scales of the creepiest sea life he could find.

10. Childhood interrupted

At first glance, our eyes are drawn to a singular, provocative detail: a beauty mark called a chiqueador. Made of black velvet and attached with sticky resin, this patch enjoyed immense popularity in colonial Mexico.

Usually, it was worn by women who followed European fashion trends (where it was known as a mouche). Here, however, it has been placed on a twelve-year-old girl with frizzed and powdered hair.

Doña María is swathed in luxury—or is it armor? The black bodice of her dress indicates she is in mourning, coping with the recent loss of her mother. Look closely at her wrist and you’ll see her mother’s portrait. At the same time, her handmade lace collar, sparkling jewelry, and full red skirt proclaim the family’s wealth.

In this portrait by Miguel de Herrera, the chiqueador acts as a visual rite of passage. It lays bare the vulnerability of a young girl as she faces a new reality in the public eye.