I’ve long been fascinated by Pre-Raphaelite artist Elizabeth Siddal, and in the early 2000s, I found that information about her online was scarce — limited mostly to references about her death and controversial exhumation. In response, I launched Lizziesiddal.com in 2004 as a way to share what I had discovered about her life and work. That project eventually led to the creation of Pre-RaphaeliteSisterhood.com in 2007, and both sites became true labors of love. Through them, I connected with others who shared a deep interest not only in Pre-Raphaelite art, but also in the artists themselves and the remarkable women within their circle.
When I began Lizziesiddal.com, my youngest child was just a year old. That same child is now a grown man serving as a United States Navy Corpsman. It’s a strange and humbling feeling to look back and realize how much time and energy went into nurturing both my family and the websites.
In 2018, however, a series of life events—some joyful, others challenging—shifted my focus and priorities.
Now, I am excited to launch this new project that blends both websites together and hope you will find it as informative and engaging as my original endeavors in 2004.
Guggums is derived from the pet name Victorian artists Elizabeth Siddal and Dante Gabriel Rossetti used for each other – a touching slice of life folded into the couples’ complex history. This playful term highlights the tenderness in their bond, despite the complex and sometimes troubled aspects of their relationship.
As Tennyson wrote of the Lady of Shalott, “in her web she still delights”—and I’m spinning a new one here at Guggums, with threads that connect art, history, and the stories that still captivate me.
Attempting to solve the mystery of Jack the Ripper has been a cottage industry for over a hundred years. But, until now, there has never been a concerted effort to truly understand the women he killed.
Dedicated Ripperologists have long pored over books, crime scene descriptions, and witness accounts to form theories about methods, motives, and the identity of the first serial killer to dominate the world’s imagination.
The shadowy Ripper himself has, of course, been relentlessly analyzed. But his victims are referenced only insofar as they relate to him, much like several of the female artists and models in the Pre-Raphaelite circle. After all, would we even know their names if they not been involved with successful male artists who could assist their careers? Or in the case of the Ripper’s victims, would we care about them had their names not become associated with deadly mystery and intrigue?
There are valid and understandable reasons for us to attempt to understand murderers and what makes them commit such heinous atrocities. But our endeavors should never be solely about the killer. All victims, regardless of their background, deserve to have their stories told with truth and respect.
When a voice has been silenced so cruelly and selfishly, someone should speak for that soul. It does not matter to me if that voice was extinguished one day ago or hundreds of years ago.
Perspective matters. Representation matters. Truth matters.
These women did not begin their journeys in Whitechapel, and Rubenhold does what most Ripper historians have neglected to do: help us understand how they got there.
Through The Five, we get an in-depth look at their family lives, education, and relationships. Rubenhold explores their joys and sorrows, all the while giving us historical context.
I was riveted once I started reading Rubenhold’s account of Mary Ann “Polly” Nichols, the first canonical victim. Sadly, her story is a familiar one.
Married at age twenty-two, she and her husband William had five children together, only to separate after he was unfaithful with a neighbor. Her life after that became an unfortunate cycle of workhouses, poverty, and vagrancy.
The details of her life were identical to those of many unfortunate women. Her only distinction was that her fate led her to be cruelly murdered by the first serial killer to grip sensational headlines.
My heart aches for the way we view people whose choices and experiences are fraught with struggles like Polly’s, especially in a societal system with a framework designed to hold women down. It’s a framework with recognizable patterns that persists to this day.
Annie Chapman
Second victim Annie Chapman’s story is equally gripping and tragic. A soldier’s daughter, her childhood was plagued with the illnesses and deaths of her siblings, leading to the suicide of her alcoholic father, who slit his own throat.
My compassion for Annie surged again and again as I read about her struggles and inability to stay sober, despite a devoted husband who tried to help her as much as he possibly could. Her family had suffered so much in their lives due to addiction; Annie and her loved ones deserved a better ending than the fate they were delivered at the hands of the Ripper.
Elizabeth Stride, born Gustafsdotter, embodies an international tale of a girl held down by circumstances. Stricken with syphilis at an early age, she seemed to find a promising path when she became a domestic servant in England after immigrating from Sweden. Another scandal soon followed, after which she supported herself by falsely claiming to have been a shipwreck victim.
It’s a cruel twist that, for over a century, Elizabeth has been famous for being one of the most famous victims in the world. Still, she deserves more than to be seen as an inconsequential bit player in the Ripper saga.
The life of Catherine Eddowes ended on the same night as Stride’s. Eddowes lived her life adventurously. She wrote her lover’s ballads into chapbooks that they sold as they travelled. They faced the world hand-in-hand as a team, each reportedly sporting a tattoo of the other’s initials.
Finally, there’s Mary Jane Kelly – the most mysterious victim, as well as the most brutally eviscerated. She was the only unfortunate soul slaughtered indoors. In the privacy of her home, the Ripper took his diabolical time.
The crime scene photo is the most famous and has been reproduced so much that we’ve possibly become desensitized to it. Yet, there she is, laid bare and vulnerable for generations of Ripperologists to analyze. Rubenhold continues to shine here especially, speaking for a woman who never got the chance to speak for herself.
On some level, we are all guilty of treating the victims as props in The Jack the Ripper Show. Their killer dehumanized them, but so did society and the generations of armchair detectives who followed.
We repeatedly reach for the popcorn and thirst for more lurid particulars. Who can resist the beckoning invitation of those gaslit streets, the foggy London nights, and the phantom killer we may never name? It’s the greatest crime drama of all time and we follow the case with baited breath, trying to piece together that deliciously bloody Victorian puzzle.
Then, far too late but just in time, Hallie Rubenhold shines a light in a different direction, showing us that what we’ve focused on isn’t the only aspect of the story, or even the most important.
There are layers of history that have been largely ignored, and exploring them should concern us more than merely whodunit. Our humanity depends on it. It’s not only about the victims’ voices, but our own. We choose the tone we contribute to the world, and when we are gone, something of that remains long past the words we used. How we choose to approach and discuss crime is a part of that.
While we’ve all been enchanted by Jack the Ripper’s smoke and mirrors, there are five souls who deserve to have the spotlight illuminate their truths, their struggles, their experiences.
I will still enjoy discussing everything from conspiracy theories, DNA, and even possible escape routes the Ripper may have followed, but in the midst of that speculation, I never want to forget the realities these Victorian women faced, the class system and misogyny that weighed down their lives, and how all of these things can and should influence the way we view societal conditioning and women’s rights today.
The Five is a compelling, paradigm-shifting read. I appreciate the gravitas and respect I find in Rubenhold’s work. She researched the lives of Polly Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elisabeth Stride, Catherine Eddowes, and Mary Jane Kelly meticulously, and her hard work and dedication are palpable throughout the book.
At long last, each woman has a voice, and dignity, in death.
I’ve amassed quite a collection of Pre-Raphaelite books over the years and the addition of Pre-Raphaelite Girl Gang to my shelves adds something alive. It buzzes with energy and a sense that, just by reading it, we are tapping into a collective consciousness of artistic women whose endeavors richly deserve to be remembered and honored.
When the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood formed, they were a band of idealistic young men determined to make radical changes to the staid and petrified 19th century art world.
But their stories are incomplete if we look at the artists alone without understanding their inspirations, their struggles, and their aims. The vast majority of Pre-Raphaelite art is shaped by the women in their circle, as well as the women later inspired by the Pre-Raphaelites, who also created art. The work created by these women was their own, but it carried the distinct influence of the PRB within its DNA.
Pre-Raphaelite Girl Gang: Fifty Makers, Shakers, and Heartbreakers from the Victorian Era is a lush compendium of women deserving of the name Pre-Raphaelite Sisters. It practically overflows with compelling information, provocative anecdotes, and generous helpings of Pre-Raphaelite art. And it is all delivered with a unique sense of humor and light touch, neither of which diminishes the author’s obvious expertise.
These remarkable women are inspirations, and this book is a deservedly inspiring tribute to them. Kirsty Stonell Walker writes of them with great affection, while illustrator Kingsley Nebechi has honored each woman with a warm and touching portrait that I can not aptly describe in a way that does his work justice.
Honestly, the moment I turned to the page about Elizabeth Siddal, I inadvertently let out a slight gasp when I saw the face I know so well rendered anew through Nebechi’s hand.
Elizabeth Siddal by Kingsley Nebechi
There is something so affecting in Nebechi’s image of Lizzie. I see traces of her photograph here and in the tilt of her face I see the lineage of Beata Beatrix, Rossetti’s final tribute to her. She remains a Pre-Raphaelite beauty, but here she is somehow more human and vulnerable.
Photograph of Elizabeth Siddal, currently in the Walters Art Museum. The image was painted over in gouache by Dante Gabriel Rossetti.
Beata Beatrix, Dante Gabriel Rossetti
Physically, this book is a thing of beauty and would make a marvelous gift. Even the feel of the cover and pages is a tactile delight. We are immersed in a colorful world as we make the journey from first page to last, as though we are viewing the mid-eighteen hundreds through a magical modern day kaleidoscope. Unicorn Publishing paid great attention to every detail of Pre-Raphaelite Girl Gang and the results are beguiling.
Kirsty writes with a mix of passion and irreverence that feels as if she’s blowing the dust off art history.
With characteristic humility, she points out in the introduction that this is her list of fifty Pre-Raphaelite women, inviting readers to search for and suggest others – another example of why I love her work so much.
Kirsty shares her passion and knowledge generously in a friendly, inclusive way, and to read her blog and books, you have the feeling that you just happened upon her somewhere and she’s patted the seat next to her, saying to you “come on, let’s chat about the artistic women that inspire us and see where this leads.”
I will happily sit next to her on that seat, if I may, as she continues to introduce new generations to these talented women.
‘Beatrice meeting Dante at a marriage feast, denies him her salutation’, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, 1855. Model, Elizabeth Siddal
“In the middle of the journey of our life, I found myself in a dark wood, for the straight path was lost.”
So begins Dante Alighieri’s descent into the afterlife — a journey through Hell, Purgatory, and Paradise that forms the epic Divine Comedy. These famous opening lines mark not just Dante’s pilgrimage, but in many ways, our own.
My own journey to Dante began not with his writing, but through art—specifically, the Pre-Raphaelites. It was the relationship between Dante Gabriel Rossetti and Elizabeth Siddal that first drew me in. Siddal, his muse and wife, is often likened to Dante Alighieri’s Beatrice, and Rossetti painted her as such on more than one occasion. Beatrice, Dante’s muse and unattainable love, famously serves as his spiritual guide in The Divine Comedy.
Rossetti’s Beata Beatrix sparked a deeper interest for me. Painted after Siddal’s tragic death from a laudanum overdose in 1862, the work is a haunting tribute. Rossetti had created studies of her as Beatrice long before her death and returned to those sketches to complete the painting. In it, we see a transcendent Beatrice at the moment of death, with Dante and the figure of Love in the background. A dove delivers a poppy — source of laudanum — into her hand.
Elizabeth Siddal’s features appear in ‘Beata Beatrix’, Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s tribute to his wife after her death.
Beata Beatrix blurs the line between Elizabeth Siddal and Beatrice Portinari, turning Siddal into an eternal muse. Just as Dante immortalized Beatrice in his poetry, Rossetti immortalized Lizzie in his art — his own lost love, now imagined in paradise. The exhumation of Siddal’s grave to retrieve Rossetti’s buried poems only adds to the mythos and melancholy surrounding her legacy.
‘La Pia de Tolomei’, Dante Gabriel Rossetti. Pia shares her story in Canto V of Purgatorio in La Divina Commedia. Rossetti used Jane Morris as a model and the painting is filled with symbolism.
The Rossetti family’s deep engagement with Dante wasn’t accidental. Their father, Gabriele Rossetti, was a Dantean scholar, and his influence permeated their creative lives. Dante’s presence can be found in the works of many Victorian artists, but I’m especially fond of the Dante-themed paintings of Marie Spartali Stillman.
‘Dante at Verona’, Marie Spartali Stillman‘Dante and Beatrice’, Marie Spartali Stillman
Before I began reading Dante’s own work in earnest, I realized I’d absorbed him mostly secondhand — through visual art and literary references scattered throughout popular culture. His shadow is long. We’ve all heard ‘Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.’ I first encountered Dante as a child, watching the 1946 Merrie Melodies cartoon Book Revue, where the villain falls into the Inferno. I was captivated by the idea of books coming to life — and by extension, by Dante’s fiery vision of the underworld.
Dante’s influence spans centuries. T.S. Eliot wove him into poetry. Lemony Snicket gave his narrator a lost love named Beatrice. Philip Pullman draws from Dante’s hell in The Amber Spyglass, and The Dante Club by Matthew Pearl turns the Commedia into the framework for a literary murder mystery. Dante’s vision of the afterlife has become our cultural blueprint for imagining Hell.
Last June, I picked up Reading Dante by Prue Shaw, hoping to engage more deeply with the Commedia. It offers rich context — Florentine politics, language, numerology — and brings Dante into the modern day. Far from being dry, Shaw’s work is both intelligent and accessible. I’ll return to it again. It’s helped elevate my appreciation for Dante to new levels.
Although I only read La Vita Nuova and The Divine Comedy for the first time two years ago, I was surprised by how much I enjoyed them. Dante’s reputation can be intimidating, but the experience of reading him felt familiar — his imagery, like Shakespeare’s, has soaked into our collective consciousness. Watching Professor Giuseppe Mazzotta’s lectures on Dante was an invaluable supplement. His passion is infectious, and his insights helped illuminate the journey.
Ultimately, The Divine Comedy is about two fundamental things: journeys and stories.
The journey — the symbolic movement from confusion to clarity, from darkness to light — is one we all undertake. And the stories — the voices Dante meets along the way — are what make his work endure. He doesn’t moralize or lecture; he lets his characters speak, and we, the readers, draw meaning from their words.
‘Paolo and Francesca de Rimini’, Dante Gabriel Rossetti. The story of the two lovers, condemned to the second circle of hell, is from Canto V of the Commedia.
That’s why The Divine Comedy still resonates. It holds up a mirror to our own lives. Like Dante, we all encounter our own ‘dark wood,’ unsure of which path to take. Yet we move forward, becoming both characters and narrators in the stories of others. Hopefully, like Dante, we too will ‘come forth, and once again behold the stars.’
Dante’s epic remains a masterwork of beauty and introspection. It reminds us that poetic truths often carry more weight than literal ones. When life feels overwhelming, it’s this kind of truth that sustains us.
There’s a quiet comfort in seeing Dante’s influence ripple through generations of art and literature. Each era finds its own reflection in his words. Ars longa, vita brevis — art is long, life is short — and Dante’s art, thankfully, still speaks.
‘Dantis Amor’, Dante Gabriel Rossetti. Dantis Amor (Dante’s Love) includes a quotation from Dante’s Vita Nuova: ‘that blessed Beatrice who now gazeth continually on His countenance qui est per omia saecula benedictus’ (Who is blessed throughout all ages).
