GLUCK – THE ARTIST WHO REFUSED TO BE LABELLED
In this month’s profile of remarkable lesbians from history, Marie-Helene Tyack introduces us to an artist whose insistance on living life on their own terms reads almost like a manifesto for modern living.
So full disclosure, I have said that I have fallen in love with all the women featured in our lesbians from the past series, and I already have a huge crush on this month’s historical lesbian even before writing this! Their face has been featured in all Lesbian History Day presentations from the start. I’m reluctant to share them with you, as you will all love them as much as I do!
In the annals of British art history, few figures blaze quite as defiantly as the painter known simply as Gluck. Not “Miss Gluck.” Not “Hannah Gluckstein.” Certainly not “Mrs Anything.” Just Gluck – “no prefix, suffix, or quotes,” as the artist firmly insisted. In a world that demanded women be categorised, labelled, and neatly filed away, Gluck took a pair of metaphorical scissors to every tag society tried to pin on and cut them clean off.
Gluck came from a privileged background – born into a wealthy, Jewish family in London on 13 August 1895. Their mother, Francesca Halle, was training to be an opera singer when she met Gluck’s father, who was a wealthy businessman. Of a fragile disposition, Francesca suffered from poor mental health throughout her life and was later confined to a mental asylum.
The artist benefited from good education and had every opportunity to live a life of comfortable conformity. Instead, they chose a path of radical self-determination that would scandalise polite society and inspire generations of creatives who refused to fit the mould.
This path included initially moving to Cornwall aged 21 – together with their partner at the time, the painter E M Craig (let’s say running away rather than moving, it sounds more romantic!) Together they settled in Lamorna in West Cornwall and joined the artists’ colony there. For them and many other artists at the time, the choice of Cornwall was due to the amazing lights, colours and of course its beautiful scenery that was present in Gluck’s art throughout their career.
Pronouns? No Thank You
Long before conversations about gender identity and pronouns entered mainstream discourse, Gluck was already living outside the binary. The artist rejected feminine titles and pronouns, dressed exclusively in tailored menswear, and sported a sleek, cropped hairstyle that became something of a signature (and totally swoon worthy!) This wasn’t mere eccentricity or fashion statement – it was a fundamental rejection of the idea that biology should dictate identity, expression, or artistic voice. For ease though, I will use the pronouns they/them in this article, fully conscious though that they might not have used this themselves (by the way she threatened to sue her bank for using “Miss” on an account statement…)
Gluck’s insistence on the single name was more than vanity. It was a philosophical position. By stripping away the gendered “Hannah,” the familial “Gluckstein,” and any honorific that might signal marital status or sex, Gluck created an identity that existed purely on its own terms. The art world could take it or leave it – and, largely, it took it. Gluck’s talent was simply too extraordinary to ignore, regardless of how uncomfortable the artist’s self-presentation made the establishment.
A Love Life Lived Boldly
Gluck’s romantic life was as unconventional and passionate as everything else about the artist, which is one of the things I love about them. In the 1920s and 30s, Gluck moved through London’s bohemian circles with magnetic confidence, attracting lovers and admirers with equal ease.
Their first great love was Constance Spry, the legendary florist who revolutionised flower arranging in Britain. Their relationship was intense and creatively fertile – Spry’s extraordinary floral arrangements often appeared in Gluck’s paintings, and the two inspired each other’s work in ways that blurred the boundaries between fine art and decorative arts.
But it was Nesta Obermer, a socialite and wife of an American businessman, who became the defining love of Gluck’s life. Their relationship inspired what is perhaps Gluck’s most famous painting: Medallion (1936), also known as the “YouWe” picture. This extraordinary double portrait shows two faces in profile, Gluck and Nesta, pressed close together, gazing in the same direction, merged into a single unit. It is breathtaking in its intimacy and its boldness. At a time when same-sex love was not merely taboo but illegal for men and deeply stigmatised for women, Gluck painted this declaration of love and exhibited it publicly (what makes this painting tragic is that it was painted at a time when their relationship was breaking down). The sheer audacity of it still takes one’s breath away. This painting was also used on the cover of a 1983 edition of Radclyffe Hall’s novel “The Well of Loneliness”, initially published in 1928.
The relationship with Nesta was tumultuous, passionate, and ultimately heartbreaking. When Nesta eventually chose to remain with her husband, Gluck was devastated. The artist retreated from public life for years, a testament to the depth of feeling that had fuelled both the relationship and the art it inspired.
The Paint Quality Crusade
In a delightfully Gluck-ian twist, the artist spent years in the 1950s and 60s waging a one-person war against paint manufacturers. Convinced that the quality of artists’ paints had declined catastrophically, Gluck campaigned relentlessly for higher standards, eventually helping to establish the British Standards Institution’s standards for artists’ materials. It’s a perfect encapsulation of the Gluck spirit: uncompromising, passionate, slightly obsessive, and ultimately vindicated.
Legacy: More Relevant Than Ever
Gluck died in 1978, but the artist’s legacy has only grown more resonant with time. In an era when conversations about gender identity, nonconformity, and the right to self-definition dominate public discourse, Gluck stands as a pioneer, someone who lived these truths a century before they had a vocabulary.
What makes Gluck’s story so compelling isn’t just the rebellion. It’s the art. The paintings are luminous, technically masterful, and emotionally devastating. From the society portraits of the 1920s to the Cornish landscapes of later years, Gluck’s work demonstrates that authenticity and excellence are not merely compatible, they are inseparable. The same fierce independence that drove Gluck to reject pronouns, defy gender norms, and love boldly also produced art of extraordinary power and beauty.
In Gluck, we find proof that nonconformity isn’t a distraction from greatness. It is, quite often, the very engine of it.
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