Self–portrait, by Sabine Graef Lepsius (1885). She painted this at the age of 21, yet she was able to communicate – and depict – so much discernment, such an exacting, sceptical, probing regard

What percentage of the artwork in a museum or gallery is painted by women?

This was the first question put to us, the participants in a tour of women’s art in Berlin’s Alte Nationalgalerie on International Women’s Day, which is a public/bank holiday in Berlin. The museum showcases artwork from the 18th, 19th and early 20th centuries. Not a period in which women’s creative aptitude was formally recognised, much less encouraged.

Our tour guide, Ines Doleschal – artist, curator and co-founder and -director of fair share!, an organisation promoting increased visibility of women artists – indicated that only 3 per cent of the works there had been painted by women. They have in recent years attempted to increase the amount of artwork by women in the museum, which is why they even have 3 per cent. The sad truth is that women as artists were never taken as seriously as men, not regarded as capable of creating art worthy of lasting recognition. And this despite the fact that the women whose art was displayed in the museum were admired in their time and achieved renown despite the odds against them.

Schwarzwälderin (Women from the Black Forest), by Alma Erdmann. This painting was actually signed, as you can see in the bottom right–hand corner, which makes it identifiably hers. The delicate, sensitive rendering of the fabric is as eloquent as the expression on her face, difficult to interpret. The quick gallery smartphone photo and its light reflection reveals the damage to the canvas – you can see a fold and the many cracks from poor storage

You can tell that their work was less valued, Doleschal points out, by the state of some of the canvases. They just weren’t cared for with the same reverence as that of their male counterparts. The paintings were also often left unsigned, which makes it difficult to identify the artist. Because of that, the artwork has often been wrongly designated as painted by someone else – generally male.

What distinguishes those who did manage to achieve recognition in their time is their absolute resolve and determination. Anna Dorothea Therbusch (1721-1782) could only really pursue her career once the pressing demands of motherhood had abated as her children grew older. In 1762, she became an honorary member of the Académie des Arts in Stuttgart and was named court painter in Mannheim by Kurfürst Karl Theodor von der Pfalz. When she went to Paris to further her education and reach, she was rejected by the Académie Royale because her work was considered too good to have been painted by a woman. But she doggedly continued and eventually garnered much admiration and recognition.

Then, after death, her work disappeared into obscurity.

Caroline Bardua (1781-1864) and Louise Seidler (1786-1866) both had the extreme good fortune of being recognised by poet and playwright Johann Wolfgang von Goethe – a writer so revered in German culture that his nod of approval was golden. But an artist like Alma Erdmann (1872-1955), who lived away from urban hubs and cultural centres, went largely unrecognised, despite her incredible skill.

One of history’s most well-known women artists, Paula Modersohn-Becker (1876-1907), was influenced by the Impressionists and early Expressionism, but clearly had her own very unique style which resists categorisation. If she had not died so early, from complications following a difficult childbirth, she could have been the trailblazer of her own movement, so unique and individual was her style. Her legacy and renown owe much to the promotion her paintings received posthumously from her husband, Otto Modersohn, and colleagues Heinrich Vogeler and Curt Stoermer, who catalogued her work and got it into exhibitions.

Other 19th-20th century women artists did not have that advantage. Dora Hitz (1853-1924) had the advantage of a father who was a drawing instructor. She studied at schools of painting for women. Her work was sufficiently admired in an exhibition for her to be named court painter to the Romanian crown. Her work collected accolades in Paris and Germany and was exhibited in the Chicago World Fair in 1893. She belonged to various artistic organisations and was a founding member of the Berliner Secession.

Maria Slavona (1865-1931) was very active and recognised in her time. The official Prussian Academy of Arts didn’t accept women at the time she was applying, but she was able to study at other art institutions in Berlin and Munich. Like other artists of her era, she had her obligatory time in Paris. Once back in Berlin, she became a member of the Berlin Secession. Yet after her death she, too, slid into obscurity.

Also a founding member of the Berliner Secession, Sabine Graef Lepsius (1864-1942) was primarily a portraitist, and one of her most spectacular is her portrait of herself in 1885. Her home with fellow painter husband Reinhold Lepsius hosted a lively salon in Berlin. Yet her work suffered additional creative erasure through the Nazis, as many of her portraits were of and in the possession of Jewish families, whose possessions were appropriated, sold or destroyed by the powers that be at the time.

How many more women artists can you name? Artemisia Gentileschi (the subject of a recent novel by Elizabeth Fremantle)? Berthe Morisot? Käthe Kollwitz? Camille Claudel (who had an exhibition at the Alte Nationalgalerie dedicated to her – but not exclusively, it was shared with Bernhard Hoetger)? Frida Kahlo? Bridget Riley? I’m sure you know many more. Along with the many similarities and differences, what distinguishes these fabulous painters is their constant determination to paint, to practise their art, and not to take no for an answer. Also, the fact that, in their lifetimes, this paid off: they achieved contemporary recognition and accolades. And that once they died, their names largely died with them, until more recently. One exception is Paula Modersohn-Becker, whose husband, colleagues and admirers saw to it that she didn’t just fade away.

Stare at the expression on Graef Lepsius’s self-portrait. She knows this all too well. And she’s not afraid to stare back. Sceptically, but not fearfully.

So, fellow women artists. Don’t hide in the corners. Don’t play yourself down. Don’t make compromises that leave you with less. Make yourself seen, heard, read. And do it again. Persist.