Who cracked the glass ceiling with a paintbrush, lived in a palace in Rome, and painted the Pope? Lavinia Fontana, of course.

Fontana was so talented she forgot the rules from time to time, frequently making amends for postponed commissions. Who could blame her? If King Philip II of Spain himself pays 1000 ducats for your artwork, you’d better be getting a free pass on some overdue projects.

Unfortunately, 16th century Italy pardoned most any artistic flaw except for being a woman. Despite Lavinia’s commercial success, the idea of a female artist gazing at the nude male was far too incendiary for the era. Consequently, the leading lady was prohibited from enrolling in a top academy. Never mind those gruesome nude death scenes painted by Botticelli a century before— that artist was a man, after all.

Although locked out from this painting tradition, Fontana didn’t hesitate to paint a cheeky Athena in the nude in Minerva Dressing. Most of her subjects, however, are so swaddled in Renaissance finery that it’s a wonder they can even breathe. Proof of the artist’s modesty, or simply a testament to Lavinia’s sophisticated sense of style?

Fontana was a boss, and she didn’t hesitate to show it. Her self portraits are charmingly self-elevating. Instead of grasping a bouquet or simpering with a puppy, Lavinia poses with instruments and pen in hand. Of course, it didn’t hurt that the triple threat was known for her brains, beauty, and genius with the brush. Even Lavinia’s marriage was progressive; her husband Gian Paolo forwent his own painting career to act as Lavinia’s agent.

Lavinia did bring in the bacon, after all. It’s hard to beat patronage from multiple popes, acclaim among the nobility, and a glowing review from the Persian ambassador. The gentleman was so inspired by their encounters that he wrote a madrigal and called Lavinia the greatest wonder of his stay in Europe. With these accomplishments in mind, it’s a crime that historian Malvasia labeled Fontana Elisabetta Sirani’s inferior. What more could Lavinia do, don a cape and save Rome from overly enthusiastic tourists?