The Louvre is overwhelming in the best possible way. No matter how carefully you plan your visit, you inevitably get lost in its endless halls, drifting between centuries and continents as if time itself has loosened its grip. The museum demands that you slow down, not just because of its vast size, but because so many pieces ask for more than a glance. They ask you to think. To connect. To question.

One painting that stopped me in my tracks was Delacroix’s Liberty Leading the People. The canvas is alive with motion bodies surging forward, smoke curling through the air, a woman striding at the center holding the French flag high. Liberty herself is a paradox: at once an allegorical figure and a flesh-and-blood woman. Her bare breast is impossible to ignore, and while I understand why some may find it unsettling or even exploitative, to me it feels nuanced—both vulnerable and powerful at once. It communicates something raw and symbolic, with purity and defiance intertwined. In that moment, Liberty read to me as a “pure, edgy woman,” unashamed of her body, charging into danger without hesitation. She is maternal and militant at the same time, a figure both nurturing and unyielding. Her nudity doesn’t seem to exist for the pleasure of the viewer, but as part of the message she carries: this is France, stripped of pretension, leading its people toward freedom.

The sense of nationalism in the painting is palpable. Every brushstroke pulses with the urgency of revolution. You can feel the pride, the resolve, the collective identity. For me, the painting wasn’t just about French history. It was about how visual symbols can transcend time and geography, inspiring people who may never have lived under the tricolor flag.

That connection between past and present surfaced again when I came across something completely different, a coat designed by Duro Olowu. In the middle of all the classical sculpture and historic portraits, there was a piece of modern fashion that spoke the same language as the paintings around it, but with a contemporary twist. Olowu’s coat blends the elegance of eighteenth-century European style with patterns and influences drawn from his Nigerian heritage. Standing in front of it, I thought about how fashion, like art, can be an act of cultural dialogue, taking something rooted in a particular history and transforming it through another lens.

The coat reminded me that the Louvre isn’t just a collection of the past. It’s a place where conversations between eras and cultures can happen right in front of you. Seeing that coat after Liberty Leading the People felt like watching two different chapters of the same story—the struggle for self-definition, the interplay between identity and image, the blending of tradition with something bold and new.

But not every representation of the female body in the Louvre left me with the same feeling I had in front of Liberty Leading the People. During class, we discussed Gustave Courbet’s L’Origine du monde (The Origin of the World). Unlike Liberty’s symbolic nudity, Courbet’s work reduces the figure to a sexualized body part without context or narrative, unlike the empowering message of the former. This discussion brought to mind the concept of the male gaze—the idea that much of art history has been shaped by men creating for the eyes of other men, often turning women into objects rather than subjects.

It made me think about how often women in art are seen but not heard, visible yet voiceless. Even when their beauty is celebrated, the perspective can still be one that strips them of agency. In contrast, Liberty feels like she’s claiming her space. She meets the viewer’s eye, she moves, she leads. The gaze doesn’t trap her; she directs it.

This revisiting of the male gaze wasn’t something I expected to do at the Louvre, but that’s the thing about being in a place like this: art doesn’t just sit quietly on the wall. It provokes. It demands that you think about what you’re seeing and how you’re seeing it. By the time I left, I realized my visit had been less about “seeing the Louvre” and more about having a series of conversations—between myself and the art, between the past and the present, between the different ways a body can be represented. Liberty Leading the People reminded me that nudity can be a symbol of courage and solidarity. Duro Olowu’s coat reminded me that tradition can evolve, taking on new forms without losing its roots.

Art, I realized, isn’t static. It changes depending on who’s looking and on what lens they bring with them. That day, my lens was shaped by our class discussions, by the works I’d already seen, and by my awareness of how nationalism, fashion, and the female body intersect. And just like Liberty leading her people, I left feeling a little more sure of my footing, ready to keep moving forward.

This whole experience deeply reminded me of Les Misérables and its complex portrayal of women and society. Women in the novel, like Fantine and Cosette, navigate a world that often reduces them to mere objects or symbols, much like the tension I observed in these artworks. Fantine’s suffering and degradation echo the objectification and loss of agency represented in The Origin of the World, where the female body is fragmented and stripped of identity. She is forced into invisibility and dehumanization, much like the faceless figure in Courbet’s painting.

““For most of history, Anonymous was a woman.””

— Virginia Woolf

However, Hugo’s novel also offers women moments of quiet strength and revolutionary care, much like the figure of Liberty, who simultaneously embodies nurturing and defiance. Cosette’s transformation under Jean Valjean’s protection is a powerful assertion of a woman’s right to dignity and love, transcending the societal chains that bound her. She claims her place beside Valjean, walking “step for step” into a new life. This mirrors the image of Liberty, standing front and center, unapologetic and unashamed, demanding recognition and agency.

Les Misérables is deeply concerned with who gets to tell the story and whose voice is heard. Just as the Louvre’s vast collection reveals hidden histories and provokes questions about representation, Hugo’s novel elevates voices on the margins, especially those of women who must resist erasure in a patriarchal society. Both the museum and the book compel us to question dominant narratives and to recognize the power of stories told from the perspectives of those who have been silenced. Women like Fantine tragically struggle under circumstances that deny them this agency, while others like Cosette symbolize the hope for reclaiming it. Similarly, the artworks at the Louvre challenge viewers to consider how women’s identities have been shaped, distorted, or reclaimed through history and art.

In the end, my visit to the Louvre and my reading of Les Misérables converged around a shared truth: that women’s bodies and stories have too often been controlled, objectified, or erased, but that reclaiming agency through care, love, and courage is a form of quiet revolution. Whether it’s Liberty leading her people, Cosette stepping forward beside Valjean, or women throughout history reclaiming their narratives, these acts of defiance and dignity ripple across time, challenging us to see and honor the full humanity of women.