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Swiss artist Milo Moire has a knack for inspiring headlines. A self-professed protege of Marina Abramovic, the Dusseldorf-based performance devotee has -- on more than one occasion -- stripped down for the sake of art. Once she "gave birth" to a painting in a spectacle timed for Art Cologne. Another time she attempted to casually visit Art Basel with nothing but black writing emblazoned on her skin.

Now she's roaming the halls of a German museum, nude, with a naked baby in tow. Why? Because the LWL Museum for Art and Culture is hosting an exhibition titled "Naked Life," and Moire wanted to be a part of it, in the best way she knows how: nakedness. You can see the recent act in its entirety in the video below.

These are the articles that quickly followed her nude visit to the museum:

"Artist Goes to Gallery Nude With Baby to 'Become Art'"

"Naked woman strolls around museum leaving visitors open-mouthed"

"Naked woman strolls around museum with a baby. Why?"

Or, our personal favorite of a mouthful from the Daily Mail: "Nice legs, shame about the art: Visitors stunned by Swiss artist who walked naked around gallery while carrying a nude baby for her 'performance'"

So, what's left to say? There are only so many synonyms and euphemisms for "nude" and "performance artist." At this point in mainstream coverage, it's clear reporting on a Milo Moire intervention is an attempt to alert the masses that performance art is still weird. Or inaccesible. Or exhaustingly shocking. Or something.

But there a few takeaways worth pointing out -- you know, as long as we've hooked you with the word "naked." One, Moire is hardly the first woman to tackle pop culture's torrid love affair with the nude female body. Cue Yoko, Marina, Carolee, Genesis Breyer P-Orridge.

Second, it's one thing to take issue with the mere fact that Moire is walking naked amongst us. It's another to break down what it means to see another white, notably hairless, model-esque body type -- you know, like the ones Botticelli used to paint -- inserted into contemporary art. The field is awash with muses already (she refers to herself as muse to her partner, photographer P.H. Hergarten). When we think about the nude women we're used to seeing in art, is Moire's work even shocking at all?

Third, to her defense, Moire's frequent nudity might seem bombastic to some (and, let's be fair, it is), but she's pretty consistent in her reasoning. "Without a shell, the body develops its maximum ability to communicate, its primitive nature," she writes on her website. "The body is universal and free from distraction, not bound to dominating ideals, fashions or even time. The sight of nudity provokes a meeting with oneself and affects someone within themselves, or it repels and the thought changes into outraged resistance. I see the naked human body neutrally –- as a canvas and the possibility to get closer to oneself. The opportunity to make yourself vulnerable and feel strength."

Whether your like her methods or not, she has plenty more quotes like this lurking online. Until the next Moire headline, this has been a drive-by explanation of nude performance art, courtesy of your friends at HuffPost Arts.



The video's caption reads in part: "In keeping with the approach of the artists exhibited, Milo Moiré brings everyday life to art. And yet, she goes one step further in removing herself from the abstract form of representation and shows her main motif of the naked life: A naked infant safe in the arms of a naked woman. This direct confrontation with live nude art challenges others to reflect on familiar forms of perception. How close may a form of representation in art approach real life? Milo Moiré's performance leaves this question within the realm of the museum: 'How little abstraction can art tolerate?'"

In a Feb. 24 blog post, Bill Gates described how scientists can apply their knowledge on the growth of dinosaurs to fight malnutrition in children.

Gates specified research being done by Nathan Myhrvold, who -- using statistical methods he'd gathered from his research on dinosaurs -- was able to accurately map the relationship between a country's gross domestic product (GDP) and childhood growth stunting.

"Dinosaur growth, as crazy as it sounds, does give you important insights which, both at the policy level and hopefully, eventually, at the individual level, are going to help us do a better job of treating malnourished kids," Myhrvold said in the video by the Gates Foundation above.

Malnutrition is a dire issue in the developing world. According to the World Health Organization, the globe is off track to meet global nutrition targets that had been laid out by the World Health Assembly. The organization had aimed for the number of stunted children age 5 and under to be 100 million by 2025, but if current trends continue, that figure will be at about 128 million.

When children fail to obtain proper nutrition, they face a host of health risks. According to UNICEF, kids can suffer from more frequent and severe common infections when they are malnourished. What's more, almost half of all deaths in children under the age of 5 result from undernutrition, the organization points out, which means about 3 million child deaths a year are due to insufficient nutrition.

Gates points out that although there are obvious differences in studying dinosaur growth and human growth, problematic data is a key challenge to overcome in both fields of study -- but for different reasons.

Studying dinosaur growth is difficult because there may only be a small handful of fossils on hand for any given type of dinosaur, limiting a scientist's ability to be certain of any particular growth correlation, species-wide. Studying childhood growth in poor countries, on the other hand, presents other challenging questions, as Gates wrote -- "Is this girl short because she's malnourished? Is she from a short family? Or has she just not hit her growth spurt yet?"

In his post, Gates -- who professed his childhood love of dinosaurs -- highlighted children's fascination with the extinct animals as a reason to fight for kids in the developing world.

"Ever since dinosaurs were discovered, kids have showered them with love," he wrote. "Thanks to this work, we may have found a way for dinosaurs to pay them back."

To take action on hunger-related issues, check out the Global Citizen's widget below.

CAMBRIDGE, Massachusetts -- Marie Carine Boggis sat bolt upright in her seat as she drove and focused on the radio. It was early April 2014, and a special had just come on New Hampshire Public Radio about the twentieth anniversary of the Rwandan genocide.

"In the late 1990s, a new group of refugees started resettling in New Hampshire. Like the Bosnians and Cambodians before them, they were fleeing conflict and persecution in their home country," said the host. "Over the course of 100 days, more than 800,000, mostly ethnic Tutsis, were killed, with hundreds more fleeing and displaced."

By the end of the broadcast, Carine was fuming.

The piece went into great detail about the genocide and about how the country and its refugees were doing today. But there were some gaping holes, she thought: What have the last 20 years been like in Rwanda? What has it been like for survivors who moved abroad? And what is it like to live with that memory?"

Carine, 28, spends her free time volunteering at the Genocide Survivors Support Network (GSSN) to help Rwandan refugees in the United States -- those with stories similar to her own -- move on with life without losing sight of the past.

This was the aim of a workshop led by GSSN February 20-22 at Harvard Law School. The event, which Carine helped organize, gathered dozens of survivors to share their stories and provide support services.



Carine and other organizers at GSSN believe that getting survivors comfortable airing their stories will help more people understand the dangers of racism and violence.

Carine was eight years old when the genocide began. Her family lived in Nyamata, a small city about 25 miles south of the capital Kigali. Carine said that shortly before the violence began, her parents sent her, an older sister, and an older brother to their grandmother's home about 12 miles north. Carine's parents stayed in Nyamata with her younger brother and two other sisters.

Her parents anticipated that there would only be conflict in the larger cities and planned to reunite the family later at their grandmother's home. But the violence spread quickly.

Carine's parents and siblings who had stayed behind were forced to flee. The church where they went into hiding was attacked, and Carine's family was killed.

Meanwhile, Carine and her surviving siblings were also in peril. Hutu militia members overran their grandmother's town and she was killed. The three children hid in a swamp along the Nyabarongo River.

They plunged into the cold, muddy abyss and ducked under a bush big enough to hide them. They were not alone. A sizeable group had taken to the swamp, and its bushes and roots became coveted shelter for Tutsis who needed to disappear. Her brother who was with her was found in hiding and killed. Carine and her sister survived.

"I don't know how long we stayed there. I just know that to me it seemed like an eternity," she said. "Eventually, [Tutsi] rebel forces took control of the area. And we were able to come out."

Carine was later adopted, and in 2000, her new family obtained visas to work in the US, where they saw an opportunity to begin anew while their country was in the midst of a painful rebuilding process.

Her first memories of the US include the biting cold, which she has since adjusted to, and her initial concern for the trees, which seemed dead in the middle of winter.

Later, Carine studied political science and international affairs at the University of New Hampshire, where she now works as an academic advisor.

In 2007, during ethnic violence in the Darfur region of Sudan, Carine decided to begin sharing her own story publicly, with the goal of encouraging people to stop a genocide similar to Rwanda's.

She said her motivation is tied to the arbitrary nature of her own existence.

"It's the simple fact that you're alive, and close to a million people aren't. And you're not that special, so why are you the one that's here? And you feel like you're supposed to do something about it," Carine said.

* * *

On Saturday, February 21, Carine stood at the front of an open room in Harvard's Caspersen Student Center, gazing around at her audience, her wide brown eyes meeting those of her fellow survivors.

She stood tall and beautiful, black hair leading into an easy smile. She took measured steps and spoke with a calm intensity as she told her audience about her mixed emotions growing up as an adopted child.

"I didn't actually see my parents die, and I never saw their bodies, so sometimes I would think about the possibility of them showing up. In third and fourth grade, I would sit in class dreaming about that reunion, playing it out in my head," she said to her audience. "But after a few years I got really attached to my parents who adopted me, so that scenario began to worry me. In those later episodes, I would have to find a way to promise one set of parents that I would make sure to visit them on the weekends."

This ability to speak to a crowd and share details about life that people can identify with was a big theme of the workshop.

For some, it was the first time ever speaking openly about their experiences. Like Carine, many grew up as orphans and described their memories of the genocide as passive aggressive, sometimes weighing down hard on the conscience, sometimes not there at all.

Carine's husband Marcus, a New Hampshire native, remarked that Carine's painful memories are not a huge drag on her life. "Carine's a normal person. She goes about life like the rest of us," he said.

She goes out often with friends. She loves to travel and eat. She's obsessed with "Game of Thrones." And because she spends a lot of time driving, she makes sure to always have an audiobook to listen to.

As an activist, Carine says she plans to continue to speak out about ethnic violence and help her network of survivors succeed in their lives in the US. Eugenie Mukeshimana, GSSN's founder, said she hopes to create a Rwandan genocide center to memorialize the survivors and victims of the genocide.

Carine agreed. It's important to "get to a point where we have structures in place," she said, "where these stories are preserved."