Brigitte Bardot Defined the Modern Woman and Defied Social Norms

Brigitte Bardot had a profound impact on French national identity and beauty standards; she rivalled Marilyn Monroe in global fame at her peak. Simone de Beauvoir wrote she "appears as a force of nature." Photograph: Sam Levin/Kobal/Shutterstock.

By Ben McCann 

Brigitte Bardot had one of the most extraordinary careers in post-war French cultural life. Best known as an actress, she was also a singer, a fashion icon, an animal rights activist and a symbol of France’s sexual liberation.

Famous enough to be known by her initials, B.B. symbolised a certain vision of French femininity – rebellious and sensual, yet vulnerable.

Her impact on beauty standards and French national identity was profound. At her peak, she rivalled Marilyn Monroe in global fame and recognition. Simone de Beauvoir, France’s leading feminist writer, famously wrote in 1959 that Bardot “appears as a force of nature, dangerous so long as she remains untamed”.

A star is born

Bardot was born in 1934 to a well-off Parisian family. Raised in a strict Catholic household, she studied ballet at the Conservatoire de Paris with hopes of becoming a professional dancer.

Brigitte Bardot, pictured here in 1946, studied ballet as a child. Roger Viollet via Getty Images

Her striking looks led her to modelling. By 14, she was appearing in Elle magazine, catching the eye of director Roger Vadim, whom she married in 1952.

She began acting in the early 1950s and her appearance as Juliette in Vadim’s And God Created Woman (Et Dieu… créa la femme, 1956) put her on the map.

Bardot was instantly catapulted to international stardom. Vadim presented his wife as the ultimate expression of youthful, erotic freedom that both shocked and captivated French audiences.

Watching this relatively tame film today, it’s difficult to imagine just how taboo-breaking Bardot’s performance was. But in sleepy Catholic, conservative 1950s France, it set new norms for on-screen sexuality.

The film became a global phenomenon. Critics loved it, but censors and religious groups grew nervous.

An 60s icon

Bardot’s lack of formal training as an actress paradoxically became part of her appeal: she adopted a spontaneous acting approach, as much physical as verbal.

She was stunning in Contempt (Le Mépris, 1963), Jean-Luc Godard’s masterpiece about a crumbling marriage. Godard used her beauty and fame both as spectacle and critique. The film’s most famous sequence was a 31-minute conversation between Bardot and her co-star Michel Piccoli. Bardot was never better.

In Henri-Georges Clouzot’s intense courtroom drama The Truth (La Vérité, 1960), she showcased her dramatic range playing a young woman on trial for the murder of her lover.

Bardot in a poster for The Truth, 1960. LMPC via Getty Images

In 1965, she co-starred with Jeanne Moreau in Louis Malle’s Long Live Maria (Viva Maria), a rare female buddy film that blended comedy and political satire. Bardot’s anarchic energy remains a dazzling feat.

A Very Private Affair (Vie privée, 1962) saw her portray a woman consumed by fame and chased by the media. The plotline was eerily predictive of Bardot’s own future.

She popularised fashion trends like the choucroute hairstyle and ballet flats. The Bardot neckline – off-the-shoulder tops and dresses – was named after her. She even wore pink gingham at her 1959 wedding.

Allure and provocation

Bardot’s star appeal lay in her contradictions. She appeared simultaneously natural and provocative, spontaneous and calculated. Her dishevelled glamour and effortless sexuality helped construct the archetype of the modern “sex kitten”.

She famously said “it is better to be unfaithful than to be faithful without wanting to be”.

Throwing off the shackles of bourgeois morality, Bardot epitomised a commitment to emotional and sexual freedom. Her turbulent love life was a case in point. She was married four times, with dozens of stormy relationships and extra-marital affairs along the way.

Forever immortalised as a free-spirited ingénue, Bardot was a muse for filmmakers, artists and musicians, from Andy Warhol to Serge Gainsbourg. Later on, Kate Moss, Amy Winehouse and Elle Fanning mentioned Bardot as an inspiration.

Famously, Bardot never succumbed to cosmetic surgery. As she once noted:

Women should embrace ageing because, at the end of the day, it’s much more beautiful to have a grandmother with white hair who looks like an elderly lady than to have a grandmother who’s bleached, dyed, and […] who looks much older but also really unhappy.

Life after the movies

Bardot retired from acting in 1973, aged only 39, citing disillusionment with fame. “It suffocated and destroyed me”, she said, about the film industry.

She shifted her attention to animal rights, founding the Brigitte Bardot Foundation in 1986. She became an uncompromising, vocal activist, campaigning against animal cruelty, fur farming, whaling and bullfighting.

But Bardot courted controversy from the mid-1990s for her far-right political views, remarks about Islam and immigration and repeated convictions for inciting racial hatred. She publicly defended disgraced actor Gérard Depardieu and pushed back on the #MeToo movement in France.

Such statements damaged her reputation, especially outside France, and created a troubling image: the once-liberating sex symbol now associated with nationalist conservatism.

While she never identified as a feminist, her unapologetic autonomy, early retirement and outspoken views led some to re-evaluate her as a figure of proto-feminist rebellion.

France gradually began to turn against Bardot, bothered by her outspoken views. But some applauded her couldn’t-care-less attitude and unwillingness to play by the rules.

Ultimately, by rejecting fame on her own terms, she parlayed her 50s free-spiritedness into a bold stand against conformity and societal norms.

Late in life, she told Danièle Thompson, the writer-director of the 2023 mini-series about her career, “I don’t understand why the whole world is still talking about me”.

The answer is simple – Bardot continues to fascinate us, flaws and all.

Ben McCann, Associate Professor of French Studies, University of Adelaide

A Fresh Start Feels Powerful - Until Motivation Fades. Here’s How to Set Work Goals that Stick

Motivation is sustained when goals support three psychological needs: autonomy (feeling the goal is genuinely ours) competence (feeling capable of progress) and relatedness (feeling supported).

By Gayani Gunasekera

Every January, offices quietly reset. New planners appear on desks. Fresh notebooks open in meetings. To-do lists look neater, ambitions clearer. There is a shared sense that this year, things will be different.

And yet, by February, many of those planners sit half-used. The motivation that felt so real just weeks earlier fades. This pattern is often blamed on a lack of discipline or willpower. But psychology tells a more generous and useful story.

Fresh starts can help us begin, but they often don’t help us persist. Here’s why – and what research can tell us about setting work goals that actually stick.

Why fresh starts feel so powerful

The start of a new year acts as what psychologists call a “temporal landmark” – a moment that separates our “old” selves from the people we hope to become.

Behavioural science research has found landmarks such as New Year’s Day create a “fresh start effect”: people feel more motivated to pursue aspirational goals simply because a new chapter seems to be opening.

The start of a new year can feel energising. Karola G/Pexels

Researchers propose the appeal lies not in the new diary or planner itself, but in what it symbolises – a clean slate, untangled from last year’s unfinished tasks and perceived failures. A blank page makes it easier to believe progress will be smoother this time.

After the social, cognitive and emotional overload of December, crowded calendars, constant decisions, accumulated fatigue, that promise of a blank page can be deeply comforting.

Writing goals into a new notebook can offer a brief sense that life can be reordered, intentions clarified and control gently restored.

Why motivation fades

The problem is not that fresh starts don’t work. It’s that we often mistake the emotional lift of beginning something new for motivation that will last.

Self-determination theory, an established theory in motivation research, proposes an explanation for why enthusiasm drains quickly.

It suggests motivation is sustained when goals support three psychological needs: autonomy (feeling the goal is genuinely ours), competence (feeling capable of progress) and relatedness (feeling supported).

January goals often fail this test. They are often shaped by social pressure (“I should be more productive”), vague aspiration (“be better at work”), or unrealistic scope (“I’ll overhaul everything at once”). When early effort doesn’t translate into visible progress, competence falters and motivation follows.

This helps explain why hesitation creeps in after the first blank page is filled, ambitious planning cycles stall, and abandoned gym memberships mirror workplace initiatives. It isn’t poor character; it’s that enthusiasm was doing too much of the work.

As motivational researcher Richard Koestner has argued, goals pursued because we feel we ought to rarely sustain effort. Goals that feel self-endorsed and meaningful are more likely to endure once the initial excitement fades.

How to set goals that stick

Sustained follow-through depends on planning for the moment when motivation dips. At work, this means designing goals for psychological endurance, not peak January energy.

Ask not what success looks like when motivation is high, but what progress looks like in a busy, distracted week. Three shifts can help:

1. Plan for the dip

Assume motivation will fade and decide in advance what “continuing” looks like.

For example, instead of committing to a full project overhaul, identify the smallest meaningful step that still counts as progress. That could be a quick review, a strategic conversation or noting priorities for the week. Designing for low-energy moments ensures momentum survives early-year dips.

2. Anchor goals in autonomy

Goals aligned with personal values, rather than just external pressure, are often far more resilient – even when they’re part of performance reviews or team expectations. Motivation is stronger when you can find your own reason to care.

Ask yourself: how does this goal connect to my growth, sense of purpose or how I want to show up at work?

Set goals aligned with your own values – not just validation from others. Vitaly Gariev/Unsplash

3. Lower the effort required to persist

It helps to break intentions into small, concrete, repeatable actions so progress doesn’t depend on high motivation alone. Instead of aiming to “be more organised”, commit to reviewing your planner for ten minutes every Friday or noting one unfinished task before leaving.

Breaking goals into small “when … then” steps, also known as implementation intentions, makes follow-through easier.

Research shows these concrete cues can reduce the need for in-the-moment motivation, a principle author James Clear popularised in the book Atomic Habits as building systems that work even on low-energy days.

A more realistic approach

The urge to start fresh each January isn’t naïve. It reflects a deeply human need for renewal, coherence and hope. Blank pages matter – just not because they magically change behaviour.

Fresh starts can open the door to change. But lasting momentum depends on what we build after the novelty wears off. The real skill isn’t setting goals when motivation is high. It’s designing goals that survive the weeks when it isn’t.

Gayani Gunasekera, Postdoctoral Research Fellow and Sessional Academic, Work and Organisational Studies, University of Sydney

Planning Your Next Holiday? Here’s How to Spot and Avoid Greenwashing

The Bawah Reserve hotel has villas built around ancient trees or above gleaming waters, set in the pristine Anambas archipelago in a far flung corner of Indonesia, one of the country's first marine conservation areas. 

By Rawan Nimri, Liz Simmons and Salman Majeed

More of us than ever are trying to make environmentally responsible travel choices. Sustainable travel is now less niche and more mainstream, with 93% of travellers in one survey saying they would consider sustainable choices. Accordingly, an increasing number of hotels have become certified. This means they have been officially checked and approved to meet sustainability standards by an independent organisation.

Secret Bay, Dominica, treehouse villas have 

views from a secluded clifftop perch to the sea. 

The World Sustainable Hospitality Alliance says hotels need to reduce waste and emissions by as much as 66% by 2030 to deliver meaningful change. The World Travel and Tourism Council reports that more than 5,000 hotels worldwide have adopted its independent verification program.

Major chains, including Hilton, Marriott and Accor, have also set measurable sustainability targets. These commitments are shared with guests through hotel websites, signs in lobbies and cards placed in rooms.

So when it comes to booking accommodation, navigating the sheer volume of buzzwords and promises – “eco”, “sustainable”, “green”, “responsible” – can feel overwhelming.

When you’re planning your next trip, how can you check whether the sustainability claims live up to the promises?

Don’t believe all the claims

When hotels present themselves as environmentally friendly or sustainable through marketing, but don’t live up to those claims, it’s called greenwashing.

In our study, just published in the Journal of Vacation Marketing, we conducted focus groups with Australian travellers and asked them how well they understood hotel sustainability messages.

We learned that guests don’t always believe claims. They viewed simple actions, like skipping daily room cleaning or turning off the air-conditioning, as too small to really count. One traveller said:

They only mention towel reuse, but nothing else, but what about food waste or cleaning chemicals?

Motivations of hotels were often questioned, too. Guests felt that hotels expected them to do most of the “green” work, such as reusing towels or using the in-room recycling bin.

That made them feel the responsibility was being pushed onto them. It also created suspicion that sustainability is disguised as cost-cutting, so trust in the hotels’ initiatives suffered. Other travellers noted:

They had signs all over the place, and for me, it felt like they were trying too hard and making it seem better than it actually was.

Hotels talk a lot about being green, but to me, it feels more like branding than real action.

When the promises are backed by action

But when hotels explain exactly what they’re doing, show proof of their actions, and admit where they’re improving, guests feel more confident. They may even pay more for their stay.

What we found supports a growing consensus among travellers.

Nobody wants to fall for greenwashing, and consumers want to feel empowered to make the right choice for the environment. Guests want to know if they’re at risk of supporting greenwashing, so they can choose hotels whose efforts are verifiable.

Information matters. So when hotels get their messages wrong, they can undermine the trust of their customers.

Hotels can get certified with independent registers. Riley Jackson/unsplash, FAL

In recent years, a number of registers have been established that certify sustainability actions taken by hotels. External registers are financially independent of the tourism industry, and have minimum standards required for registration.

Here’s what to watch for

Not everybody can become an expert in sustainability, so we have put together a list of things you can look out for when you’re booking accommodation, as well as what you can do to help other travellers.

• Look for independent proof. Book with hotels with recognised third-party certifications, such as EarthCheck or Green Key. If there is no certifier named and no explanation of what was checked, treat the claim as marketing, not evidence.

• Check for details. Trustworthy green claims use concrete details such as percentages, dates and clear actions. Phrases like “eco-friendly,” “sustainable”, or “planet positive” without statistics or examples are too vague to trust.

• Compare the claims against what you see. Test promises against reality. Reviews, guest photos and what you notice on arrival should show real changes, such as refillable toiletries, recycling and less waste, not just posters.

• Ask: who is really doing the work? Many “eco” messages ask guests to reuse towels or skip cleaning, which are actually cost-cutting initiatives. Better signs are investments in efficient systems, using solar power, water-saving fixtures and proper recycling. If the towel card is all you see, the balance is wrong.

• Look for honesty about limits. No hotel is perfect, and honest ones admit it. Brief explanations of current limitations with future goals are more believable than claims of being fully sustainable.

• Watch out for suspicious language and pressure. Be cautious of absolute claims like “zero impact” or “100% sustainable” without proof. Also be wary of messages that make you feel guilty for wanting normal comfort.

• Use your power as a consumer. Ask simple questions before you book and notice how clearly the hotel replies. Check independent review sites, too. After your stay, mention specific practices, good or bad, in your review to deter hotels from greenwashing behaviour.

Not just a green label

Travel is changing, and so are travellers. More people want holidays that feel good for them and for the planet.

When you know what to look for, you can spot shaky green claims and choose hotels that match your values. That pressure matters. It nudges the industry to be authentic, cuts down on greenwashing, and supports the hotels that are actually doing the work, not just putting a green label on the door.

---

We would like to acknowledge Dr Farah Shishan from the University of Jordan who contributed to this research.

Rawan Nimri, Lecturer in Tourism and Hospitality, Griffith University; Liz Simmons, Assistant researcher, Griffith University, and Salman Majeed, Associate Professor, University of Technology Sydney

To Feel Loneliness is to be Human: Here’s How to Handle it at Christmas

The Christmas season is like a golden thread, spanning our lives, pulling us back to the past. We often us it as a time to reflect on what we've lost, what we've become and what didn't happen. It can cut deeply. Cover picture of Juana Martin Haute Couture AW25 in Paris by Andrea Heinsohn for DAM

By Paul Jones  

Christmas is often considered a time of connection, warmth and belonging. That’s the script, anyway. But for many people, the reality feels different; isolating, emotionally weighted and filled with comparisons that sting.

Whether you’re spending Christmas alone, navigating grief, or simply don’t feel “festive,” it can feel like you’ve slipped out of sync with the rest of the world. However, that feeling isn’t the same as being alone. Loneliness, isn’t about the number of people around you. It’s about connection, and the absence of it.

This time of year intensifies emotional experience. Rituals such as decorating a tree or watching a favourite film may bring up memories. These could be of people, or they could be of former versions of ourselves.

We measure time differently in December, a phenomenon psychologists refer to as “temporal anchoring”. The season acts as a golden thread spanning our lives, pulling us back to the past. We often use it to reflect on what we’ve lost, who we’ve become, and what didn’t happen. It can cut deeply.

It is a sharp counterpoint to the cultural messaging: people coming together, the push to be joyful and the idea that gratitude must prevail. It’s not just tinsel that is expected to sparkle. We are, too.

Some people are more vulnerable at this time of year, particularly those in flux or transitioning. A recent breakup, moving house, a medical diagnosis or redundancy can often lead to feeling emotionally unanchored. Others carry complex feelings about family, grief or past trauma, which make forced joy or cheerfulness jarring.

Personality plays a role too. People high in traits such as neuroticism or socially prescribed perfectionism can be more vulnerable to distress and loneliness when life does not live up to their expectations.

Your brain on loneliness

Studies have shown that chronic loneliness can increase stress hormones such as cortisol, impair immune function and even affect cardiovascular health. Social neuroscientist John Cacioppo described loneliness as “a biological warning system” that our need for connection isn’t being met.

Loneliness, though, is a normal human response. It is a reaction to a mismatch between our desired social experience and our reality. Self-discrepancy theory helps explain why this mismatch causes emotional pain. When there’s a gap between who we are and who we feel we should be, whether it is socially, emotionally or even seasonally, discomfort follows. Christmas, with all its trimmings, amplifies that gap.

Do Christmas your own way. Bogdan Sonjachnyj/Shutterstock

Solitude isn’t the enemy

That said, being alone at Christmas doesn’t automatically mean something’s wrong. In fact, it might be exactly what you need.

For many, this time can be a rare opportunity for space, stillness and healing. It might be the only time of year when you get the space to hear your own thoughts, reflect or reset. Choosing solitude purposefully can be deeply restorative.

Connecting with yourself can be just as important as connecting with others. Research into self-determination theory also highlights autonomy, competence and relatedness as core psychological needs.

Autonomy, in particular, means honouring your own choices, not other people’s expectations. For example, choosing to spend the day quietly reading, cooking for yourself, or creating a personal ritual supports both autonomy and competence. These acts reinforce your ability to care for yourself and reduce the pressure to seek validation from others.

Philosophers such as 19th-century Danish thinker Søren Kierkegaard and ancient stoic Epictetus emphasised the importance of tuning into your own inner life rather than being governed by external forces. They remind us that authenticity doesn’t come from performing joy for others, but from noticing what we need and choosing to honour it.

The key is alignment. Do what nourishes you, not what performs well on Instagram, and let the societal pressures wash over you rather than be driven by them.

So what can help?

Trying to “fix” loneliness with a to-do list isn’t the answer. It’s about tuning into what you need. These approaches are rooted in psychological and philosophical insight. They are not quick fixes.

1. Let yourself feel it

Loneliness hurts. It’s okay to name it. Pushing it away rarely works. Accepting and sitting with it can be the first step toward softening its grip.

2. Create micro-rituals

Small routines bring meaning and structure. Brew a particular tea. Rewatch a film that resonates. Light a candle for someone you miss. Rituals connect you to something larger but also connect you to yourself.

3. Reframe connection

Closeness doesn’t have to mean crowds. It might mean sending a message, joining a quiet online space or simply being present with yourself. Journaling, voice notes or reflective walks can all be forms of inward connection.

4. Celebrate your uniqueness

You are not a statistic. You don’t need to aim for the “average” mental health baseline. Your emotional life is yours alone. A little variation, a little eccentricity, these are signs of being alive.

5. Find what works for you

There’s no one right way to do Christmas. Whether it’s a solo walk, a day in pyjamas, or calling one person you trust, the point is to honour your individuality.

If you’re feeling out of step this Christmas, that doesn’t make you broken. It makes you aware. You’re noticing what’s missing; you are listening. That’s not weakness, it’s one of the greatest sources of wisdom.

In The Book of Disquiet, Portuguese poet and philosopher Fernando Pessoa wrote: “To feel today what one felt yesterday isn’t to feel – it’s to remember today what was felt yesterday, to be today’s living corpse of what yesterday was lived and lost.”

It’s a stark image, but a truthful one. At Christmas, we often try to summon old feelings, those of joy, warmth, and belonging, as if they can be reactivated on command. But what if we didn’t force it? Christmas doesn’t have to be remembered joy. It can be present truth.

Loneliness isn’t something to be solved or suppressed. It’s a companion on the journey inward.

And sometimes, the most meaningful connection we can make is with ourselves.

Paul Jones, Associate Dean for Education and Student Experience, Aston University, UK.

A Brief History of Mulled Wine: From Health Tonic to Festive Treat

    Artsiom Lebedzeu/Alamy

By Sara Read

When frost sparkles in the morning and our breath is visible as we venture outside, thoughts turn to winter warming treats like mulled wine – a drink full of ingredients that have become synonymous with Christmas.

Mulled wine is made by adding spices such as cinnamon, cloves, ginger, mace and nutmeg to sweetened red wine, which is then warmed gently. Across Europe and Scandinavia, it can be purchased in many pubs, bars and festive markets – while supermarket shelves groan with bottles of readymade mulled wines for you to heat at home.

There are many different English recipes out there, including some dating back to the 14th century – from a collection of manuscripts that later became known as The Forme of Cury. The beverage made by following this recipe would certainly have packed a punch, as it contains several spices from the ginger family including galangal, in addition to the more familiar ones.

And before wine was known as mulled, drinking wine flavoured with spices has a long history. There is a mention of drinking spiced wine in the biblical poem the Song of Solomon, which states: “I would give you spiced wine to drink.”

It is thought that spice-infused wine was introduced to Britain by the Romans. An older name for it was “hippocras”, although this was mainly taken as a health tonic – made from spice-infused red or white wine and taken hot or cold.

An illustration from a medieval manuscript showing ‘ypocras’ being made. Wikimedia

In The Merchant’s Tale from Geoffrey Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales (1392), the wealthy, elderly knight January takes “ypocras, clarre, and vernage / Of spices hote, to encrese his corrage” (hypocras, clary, and vernage / of spices hot to increase his courage). January sups these three types of spiced wine to boost his virility on his wedding night for his young bride, May.

Diarist and civil servant Samuel Pepys also mentions taking “half-a-pint of mulled sack” – a sweetened Spanish wine – in an almost medicinal way to comfort himself in the middle of a working morning in March 1668, when things had been going wrong for him.

The name mulled wine comes from the Old English mulse – an archaic name for any drink made of honey mixed with water or wine, derived from the Latin word for honey (mel) and still used in modern Welsh as mêl. From mulse we get “musled”, which was used to describe anything that has been “mingled with honey”.

Before the growth of the global sugar trade, honey was the main way that food and drink was sweetened. Vin chaud, the French equivalent of mulled wine, is traditionally sweetened with honey. England imported spiced wine from Montpellier in large quantities from the 13th century, but only those of social status, like Chaucer’s knight January, would have been able to indulge in those days.

Warm sweet and spiced wine continued to be drunk for health and enjoyment throughout the centuries. But in the 18th century, mulled wine evolved again, as reflected in a recipe in Elizabeth Raffald’s The Experienced English House-keeper (1769) for a warm drink thickened with egg yolks:

Grate half a nutmeg into a pint of wine and sweeten to your taste with loaf sugar. Set it over the fire. When it boils, take it off to cool.

Beat the yolks of four eggs exceeding well, add to them a little cold wine, then mix them carefully with your hot wine a little at a time. Pour this backwards and forwards several times till it looks fine and bright.

Set it on the fire and heat a little at a time till it is quite hot and pretty thick, and pour it backwards and forwards several times.

Send it in chocolate cups and serve it up with dry toast, cut in long narrow pieces.

The result of this method is a frothy, velvety smooth confection, enjoyed with dipping toast or biscuits.

Our ancestors didn’t associate mulled wines with Christmas, so it seems likely that the pairing was popularised by Charles Dicken’s 1843 novella A Christmas Carol – like so much of what we now regard as a traditional Christmas.

After Mr Scrooge has seen the error of his miserly ways, he says to Bob Cratchit: “We will discuss your affairs this very afternoon, over a Christmas bowl of Smoking Bishop, Bob!” Smoking Bishop is a recipe for mulled wine that combines port in the wine and uses dried oranges for an added flavour note. The smoke refers to the steam rising from this hot drink.

So this year, as you cup your hands around the warm mug and inhale the fragrant steam coming off your mulled wine, think of the long history you are a part of.

Sara Read, Lecturer in English, Loughborough University

How a Medieval Oxford Friar Used Light and Colour to Find Out What Stars and Planets are Made Of

Fishacre would have been delighted to know that nearly 800 years after his discoveries, contemporary astronomy is using light and colour to show far flung stars and planets are all made from the same elements.

By William Crozier, Durham University

During the 1240s, Richard Fishacre, a Dominican friar at Oxford University, used his knowledge of light and colour to show that the stars and planets are made of the same elements found here on Earth. In so doing he challenged the scientific orthodoxy of his day and pre-empted the methods and discoveries of the 21st-century James Webb space telescope.

Following the Ancient Greek philosopher Aristotle, medieval physics affirmed that the stars and planets were made from a special celestial element – the famous “fifth element” (quinta essentia) or “quintessence”. Unlike the four elements found here on Earth (fire, water, earth and air), this “fifth element” is perfect and unchanging.

Fully transparent, it formed the basis of what were believed to be the nine concentric celestial “spheres” surrounding the Earth, as well as the various stars and planets attached to them. These, it was argued, were merely condensed versions of the “fifth element”, with each of the first seven spheres having its own planet, and the outermost eighth and ninth spheres containing the stars and heaven itself, respectively.

A Medieval chart of the nine 

concentric celestial 'spheres’ 

surrounding the earth. 

Oxford University

Colour, light and the stars

Lacking access to telescopes and rock samples, Fishacre – the first Dominican friar to teach theology at Oxford University – openly rejected the idea that the stars and planets were made from some special “fifth element”. In his opinion, they consisted of the same four elements found here.

His reason for asserting this position was his understanding of how colour and light behave.

Colour, Fishacre noted, is typically associated with opaque bodies. These, however, are always composite, meaning made up of two or more of the four terrestrial elements. When we look up at the stars and planets, however, we see that the light they emit often has a faint colour. Mars appears red, and Venus yellow, for example. This suggests, of course, that they are composite and thus made “ex quattuor elementis” – “out of the four elements”.

In Fishacre’s opinion the surest proof that the stars and planets were not made of some special “fifth element” came from the Moon. It has a very definite colour, and, crucially, every so often it eclipses the Sun. Were it made from the transparent fifth element – even a highly condensed version of it – then surely the Sun’s light would pass through it, just as it does a pane of glass. This, however, is not the case.

The Moon, Fishacre reasoned, must therefore be made of the same elements found on Earth. And if this was true of the Moon, which is the lowest celestial body, then it must also be true of all the other stars and planets.

The James Webb space 

telescope confirmed 

what Richard Fishacre 

claimed about the 

composition of stars.

A brave move

In arguing this, Fishacre knew that he was risking criticism. “If we posit this position,” he wrote, “then they, that crowd of Aristotelian know-it-alls (scioli aristoteli), will cry out and stone us”.

Sure enough, stones were thrown at Fishacre – and from high places. In 1250, his teaching was denounced at the University of Paris by St Bonaventure of Bagnoregio, a Franciscan friar who ridiculed in his lectures those “moderns” like Fishacre who foolishly questioned Aristotle’s teaching on the celestial fifth element.

Contemporary astrophysics has, of course, vindicated Fishacre’s position. The stars and planets are not made of some special fifth element, but rather from many of the same metals and elements found here on our home planet. The James Webb space telescope, for example, recently established that the atmosphere of the Neptune-like exoplanet TOI-421 b, some 244 light years away, contains high quantities of water and sulphur dioxide.

Remarkably, how the James Webb space telescope established this – a process known as transmission spectroscopy – is very similar, at least in principle, to the method which Fishacre employed. It detected subtle variations in the brightness and colour of the light emitted by TOI-421 b which could only be caused by water and sulphur dioxide.

Given how much criticism his claims received, Fishacre would no doubt have been delighted to know that nearly 800 years after his death, contemporary astronomy, just like him, is using light and colour to show that far flung stars and planets are all made from the same elements.

William Crozier, Duns Scotus Assistant Professor of Franciscan Studies, Durham University

How a Gustav Klimt Portrait was Saved from the Nazis and its Contribution to a New Record Sale Price

Painted between 1914 and 1916, the painting played a role in Elizabeth Lederer's deception of the Nazis, after Austria was annexed in the 1930s. Cover picture of byFang SS26 collection. 

By Benedict Carpenter van Barthold

Gustav Klimt’s Portrait of Elisabeth Lederer has sold to an anonymous phone bidder for US$236.4 million (£180.88 million) at Sotheby’s New York. Only Leonardo Da Vinci’s Salvator Mundi has achieved a higher hammer price. For modern art, Klimt is the uncontested champion.

What’s more, this record was achieved despite a cooling global art market, and with Klimt lacking the universal household recognition of Da Vinci in much of the world.

The painting is valued so highly because it carries a deep personal and political history – and because the artist’s incredible skill once helped it serve as a life-saving disguise.

Standing over six-foot tall, the canvas depicts Elisabeth Lederer, daughter of Klimt’s most important patrons, August and Szerena Lederer. Painted between 1914 and 1916, it represents the artist’s late, ornamental style.

Elisabeth is swaddled in a billowing, diaphanous dress, nestled within a textured and ornamental pyramid, an implied Imperial dragon robe. The upper half of her torso is ensconced in an arc of stylised Chinese figures. The effect reminds me of a halo in an icon (religious images painted on wooden panels).

Elisabeth’s mother Szerena in her apartment in Vienna with the portrait. Wiki Commons

The setting is fantastical, abstracted, unreal, ornamental – above all, rich. Despite the jewel-like setting, Elisabeth’s face is painted with a striking, psychological realism. Her expression is detached, enigmatic, perhaps isolated. Her hands seem fretful.

It is hard not to project meaning with the benefit of hindsight, but she seems to gaze out from a world of immense Viennese wealth, a world unknowingly on the brink of annihilation.

The Lederers were a prominent Jewish family. After the 1938 Anschluss (the annexation of Austria by Nazi Germany), they faced persecution. The family scattered. But Elisabeth remained, divorced and isolated, in Vienna.

Classified as a Volljüdin (“full Jew”) under the Nazi regime’s antisemitic rule, she faced a likely death. In desperation, she circulated a rumour that she was the illegitimate child of Klimt, the Austrian and Aryan painter of her earlier portrait.

To aid this endeavour, her mother Szerena, who had fled to Budapest, swore an affidavit that Elisabeth’s biological father was not her Jewish husband, August, but Klimt, a notorious philanderer. The claim was not without plausibility. Klimt had a long personal relationship with the Lederer household. Elisabeth’s portrait is itself a document of this interest and closeness.

The Nazis, eager to reclaim Klimt’s genius for the Reich, accepted the fabrication. If Elisabeth was not a “full Jew” but instead a Mischling (half-Jewish), then the painting itself could be reclassified as an Aryan work of art. With Elisabeth’s desperate sleight of hand, both she and the painting were saved.

Aided by her former brother-in-law, a high-ranking Nazi official, Elisabeth was legally reclassified as illegitimate and “half-Aryan”. This lie successfully shielded her from the death camps, uniting art history, gossip and survival in a single legal document.

Klimt in 1914, the same year he began the portrait of Elisabeth. Wiki Commons

This deception also ensured the painting’s physical survival. The Lederer Klimts fell into two camps. The Jewish portraits were degenerate art, and were set aside to be sold. But the rest were considered important heritage. While the Nazis moved the bulk of the looted Lederer collection to the castle Schloss Immendorf for safekeeping, Elisabeth’s portrait remained in Vienna due to its newly contested “Aryan” status, in limbo. In May 1945, SS troops set fire to the Schloss, incinerating over a dozen Klimt masterpieces, including a painting of Elisabeth’s grandmother. But in Vienna, the painting of Elisabeth, and another of her mother, Szerena, survived. This brutal and arbitrary destruction is what makes Elisabeth’s painting such a statistical anomaly.

As one of only two full-length Klimt portraits remaining in private hands, its scarcity is near absolute. For collectors, this auction was an inelastic opportunity. On Tuesday November 18, if you wanted to own a major Klimt portrait, it was this one, or none.

The work’s post-war provenance further amplifies its value. The painting was restituted to Elisabeth’s brother Erich in 1948. In 1985, it was purchased by the cosmetics billionaire Leonard A. Lauder.

Unlike many investment-grade masterpieces that are sequestered in free ports, unseen and treated as financial assets, Lauder lived intimately with the work for 40 years, reportedly eating lunch beside it daily.

He frequently loaned it anonymously to major institutions, ensuring its visibility to art history and scholarship, but without testing its value on the market for four decades. Lauder’s loving stewardship added a premium, presenting the work not just as a commodity, but as a cherished, well-documented piece of cultural heritage.

Ultimately, the US$236.4 million price tag reflects a value proposition that transcends simple supply and demand. The anonymous buyer has acquired an object of extreme aesthetic power, but also a tangible relic of resilience. It is a painting saved by a daughter’s lie, a mother’s perjury, the vanity and cupidity of an odious regime, emerging intact from the wreckage of the second world war.

In a market characterised by hype and speculation, this sale rewards deep historical density and incredible technical prowess. Elisabeth’s portrait, which is both monumental and deeply personal, opens a window to the tragic heart of the 20th century.

This legacy should not be financialised, but it is disturbing to speculate to what extent its dark past is reflected in the hammer price. Let’s hope the new owner treats the work as lovingly as her previous custodian. The painting deserves to be shared with the world.

Benedict Carpenter van Barthold, Lecturer, School of Art & Design, Nottingham Trent University