Become Your Own Leading Lady

02/02/2026

Leading lady

She lived in the White House, married Hemingway, went ashore on D-Day while he watched from a ship—and then spent the next sixty years proving she was the better war correspondent.
Washington, D.C., 1934.
A 26-year-old journalist named Martha Gellhorn moves into the White House. Not for a visit. Not for a reception. She lives there.
First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt had read Gellhorn’s reporting on the Great Depression—unsparing, intimate portraits of hunger, fear, and survival. Roosevelt didn’t want polite summaries. She wanted truth. So she invited Gellhorn to stay while working on New Deal relief efforts.
It was extraordinary. A young reporter embedded with the First Family.
But Martha Gellhorn was never meant to stay comfortable.
Born in 1908 in St. Louis to outspoken, progressive parents, she entered journalism to witness reality—not to soften it. The Depression taught her one thing clearly: suffering ignored becomes suffering repeated.
She wanted war.
Not because she romanticized it. Because she believed war should be seen exactly as it was—by those who had no power, no escape, and no voice.
In 1936, she walked into Sloppy Joe’s Bar in Key West and met Ernest Hemingway.
He was already legendary. She was determined. Both were heading to Spain to cover the Civil War.
In Madrid, they stayed at the Hotel Florida, shelled nightly. While many reporters fled to safety, Gellhorn stayed close to the civilians. She wrote about women hiding in basements, children killed in markets, fear as a daily atmosphere. Hemingway turned the experience into fiction. Gellhorn turned it into testimony.
Their relationship burned hot and competitive. They married in 1940. Cuba followed. Gardens, music, parties.
She suffocated.
When World War II erupted, Gellhorn left. She covered the London Blitz, walking bombed streets before the smoke cleared. She flew with RAF bomber crews—rare access, even for men.
Then came June 6, 1944.
Hemingway secured official credentials for D-Day. There was only one press slot. He took it.
Gellhorn was barred.
So she improvised.
She hid in the bathroom of a hospital ship, locked herself in until the vessel reached Normandy, then went ashore with the medics. She stepped onto the beaches amid wounded soldiers, blood, chaos, and gunfire.
While Hemingway observed from offshore, Martha Gellhorn reported from the sand.
Her dispatches described stretcher-bearers under fire, men dying without names, courage stripped of myth. It was raw. It was undeniable.
The marriage ended in 1945.
Hemingway said she loved her work more than him.
She agreed.
Afterward, she didn’t slow down. She reported from Dachau during liberation—accounts so horrifying editors doubted they were real. She covered conflicts in Vietnam, the Middle East, Central America. In her seventies, she reported from Nicaragua. At 81, she covered the U.S. invasion of Panama.
Eighty-one. In a war zone.
She was denied credentials, dismissed as emotional, introduced as “Hemingway’s wife.” She rejected it all.
“I see myself as a journalist and nothing else,” she said. “And certainly not as Hemingway’s widow.”
Martha Gellhorn died in 1998 at 89, choosing her own end after illness and blindness closed in.
She left behind a body of work that reshaped war reporting—not strategy, not heroics, but human cost. She proved that proximity mattered. That truth required presence.
For decades, she was a footnote.
Now she is recognized for what she always was: one of the greatest war correspondents of the twentieth century.
Not because she married Hemingway.
But because she went where the war actually was—and told the truth from there.

01/07/2026

She was definitely her own leading lady!

He hung her art without permission. She stormed in and demanded he take it down. He refused. Somehow, that argument changed American art forever.
This isn't a love story. This is a story about a woman who refused to be anyone's muse.
New York City, 1916. Alfred Stieglitz, the most powerful art dealer in America, received charcoal drawings from an unknown woman. They were abstract, powerful, unapologetically bold—unlike anything he'd seen.
He hung them in his gallery without asking.
When Georgia O'Keeffe found out, she showed up at his gallery and demanded he take them down. He refused. They argued.
And then, impossibly, they began one of the most complicated creative partnerships in art history.
But Georgia O'Keeffe would never be anyone's muse.
Born in 1887 in Sun Prairie, Wisconsin, Georgia was stubborn, quiet, and certain from childhood that she was going to be an artist. Not an artist's wife. Not an artist's model. An artist.
She studied at the Art Institute of Chicago and the Art Students League in New York, learning traditional techniques from men who painted women as objects to be looked at—never as artists doing the looking.
Georgia learned their techniques. Then she left to find her own.
While teaching in South Carolina in 1915, she created a series of abstract charcoal drawings—expressing her feelings in pure form. She sent them to a friend in New York with instructions to show them to no one.
Her friend, too excited, took them straight to Stieglitz.
The rest became history.
After their confrontation at the gallery, they began corresponding. Letters turned into a passionate affair. They married in 1924. He was 60. She was 37.
Stieglitz photographed her obsessively—over 300 portraits across two decades. Some n**e. Some in profile. Some capturing her hands, her face, her body in ways that made her both subject and collaborator.
The art world decided Georgia O'Keeffe was Stieglitz's muse. His creation. His beautiful discovery.
Georgia had other ideas.
In 1924, she began painting flowers. Not delicate botanical studies. Massive, monumental flowers that filled entire canvases. A calla lily as tall as a person. An iris that opened like a cathedral. Petals rendered in such intimate detail you could see every vein, every fold, every curve.
"Nobody sees a flower really," she said. "It is so small. We haven't time, and to see takes time."
So she made them impossible to ignore. Six feet tall. So large you had to step back to see the whole thing. So close and detailed you felt like you were inside the flower.
Male critics immediately interpreted them as sexual. Freudian. Female sexuality rendered in paint.
Georgia's response?
"Well, I made you take time to look at what I saw. And when you took time to really notice my flower, you hung all your own associations with flowers on my flower. And you write about my flower as if I think and see what you think and see of the flower. And I don't."
Translation: That's your hang-up, not mine.
She kept painting flowers her way—huge, unapologetic, impossible to dismiss as "pretty" or "delicate." Her flowers were powerful. Architectural. Demanding.
But New York was suffocating. Stieglitz's world was galleries, critics, cocktail parties, endless talk about art instead of making it.
Georgia needed space. Silence. A place where the light was clean and the sky went on forever.
In 1929, she visited New Mexico. It felt like coming home to a place she'd never been.
She started spending summers there. Then longer. Then most of the year. Stieglitz stayed in New York. Their marriage became a long-distance arrangement—separate lives connected by letters.
When Stieglitz died in 1946, Georgia didn't perform public grief. She settled his estate, handled his gallery, and within three years, moved permanently to New Mexico—first to Abiquiu, then to Ghost Ranch.
She was 62 years old. And she was just getting started.
For the next four decades, Georgia O'Keeffe painted the desert. Bleached animal skulls against blue sky. Adobe walls. Red and orange cliffs. The geometry of landscape reduced to its essential forms.
She traveled to Peru, to Japan, to anywhere the landscape interested her. She flew in small planes to see rivers from above. She painted clouds from airplane windows because she liked the perspective.
As she aged, Georgia didn't soften. She got sharper. More particular. More protective of her time and space. She wore black. She kept her hair pulled back. She looked at the world with eyes that had spent decades learning to really see.
In her 70s, macular degeneration began stealing her central vision. Most artists would have stopped.
Georgia switched to pottery. When pottery became difficult, she switched to watercolors with assistance. When that became impossible, she supervised younger artists creating work from her vision.
She painted—in whatever form she could manage—into her 90s.
Georgia O'Keeffe died on March 6, 1986, at age 98, in Santa Fe. She'd outlived Stieglitz by 40 years. She'd created over 2,000 works of art. She'd shown the world that flowers could be powerful, that deserts could be sacred, that a woman could be an artist without being anyone's muse.
She never explained her work. Never apologized for it. Never softened it to make critics comfortable.
"I've been absolutely terrified every moment of my life," she once said, "and I've never let it keep me from doing a single thing I wanted to do."
Georgia O'Keeffe didn't paint flowers to be pretty. She painted them to demand attention.
She didn't move to the desert to escape—she moved there to see more clearly.
She didn't reject the art world's rules—she simply walked so far past them that the rules couldn't reach her anymore.
Every woman who creates without asking permission. Every artist who paints what they see instead of what they're told to see. Every person who chooses solitude over compromise.
They're walking a path Georgia O'Keeffe cleared by refusing to be anything other than exactly herself.
She painted flowers six feet tall. She lived to 98. And she never, ever explained herself to anyone.
That's not rebellion. That's freedom.

11/02/2025

Yes try it ladies

08/05/2025

Great being with these lead ladies!!!

A popular fashion trend this year was black and white outfits, with many couples choosing to coordinate their looks.

04/04/2025

Ladies, please watch for self-defense

03/21/2025

Two leading Ladies