A Fresh Look at an Old Tale: My Review of the 2025 ‘Jack the Ripper – What About the Women?’ Exhibit

You know, for years, the story of Jack the Ripper has been kind of about him, the shadowy figure. As a matter of fact, his name is the one everyone remembers. So, when I first heard about a new 2025 exhibition titled ‘Jack the Ripper – What About the Women?’, I was, honestly, very curious. So, the question in the title itself is pretty powerful, isn’t it? It, like, completely changes the conversation from the very beginning. Instead of another ghoulish look at a long-gone killer, this exhibit, you know, sort of promises something different. Actually, it promises to give a voice back to the women he silenced. So I went in, you know, hoping to find more than just dusty facts and gruesome details; I was really looking for a bit of humanity. Frankly, I found a lot more than just a little. The entire experience just sort of re-frames the narrative in a very profound way.

Honestly, you walk through the doors and you know right away this isn’t going to be your typical Ripper tour experience. Basically, there are no jump scares or actors in silly costumes here. Instead, there’s just a feeling of quiet respect, almost like you’re stepping into a place of remembrance. The air itself feels, you know, heavy with stories that have been waiting a very long time to be told correctly. So the creators of this exhibit, ‘What About the Women?’, have obviously made a conscious choice to turn down the sensationalism. You get the sense that their goal is to show the real lives behind the chilling headlines. Seriously, it’s about time someone did this. And I think, at the end of the day, that simple shift is what makes this exhibit so incredibly moving and, frankly, so very necessary.

First Impressions: More Than Just Shadows and Gaslight

So, the first thing that hits you is actually the sound. I mean, instead of a spooky soundtrack, the air is filled with the faint, sort of overlapping sounds of 19th-century London. You can, like, just about make out the distant clatter of horse-drawn carts, the murmur of market crowds, and maybe even the cry of a baby from a tenement window. It’s pretty subtle, yet it works incredibly well to pull you into their time. Obviously, the lighting is just as thoughtful. So, there are no dramatic spotlights on bloody outlines; instead, there are these pools of soft, gaslight-like illumination that guide you through reconstructions of Whitechapel’s cobbled streets. As a matter of fact, these streets are not presented as a hunting ground. More or less, they are shown as a neighborhood, a place where people, you know, actually lived and worked. For instance, you see recreations of doorways to lodging houses and pubs, which really helps build a picture of a community. I honestly spent a few minutes just standing there, you know, sort of letting the atmosphere settle over me. It’s a completely different feeling from what you might expect, really.

I mean, the exhibition’s layout is, like, purposefully gentle. You are not hurried along a single, scary path. Instead, you can sort of wander between displays, a bit like walking through a quiet, historic neighborhood at dusk. Seemingly, this lets you absorb the information at your own pace. There’s just a little sense of discovery in turning a corner and finding a display dedicated to the price of gin, or the typical daily wage for a woman doing laundry. You know, these little details are pretty much everything. They sort of build a world that feels incredibly real and, frankly, quite difficult. Right, you quickly stop thinking about a monster and start thinking about the daily struggle for survival. Honestly, that shift in your thinking is exactly what the exhibit wants you to feel. You begin to understand the context of their lives, and that context, more or less, is absolutely heartbreaking, but it’s real.

Actually, there’s a powerful absence of the killer himself. By the way, his presence is only a shadow, a catalyst for the story, but he is never the star. This exhibit, you know, fundamentally belongs to the women. In fact, you see their faces, or at least sketches based on descriptions, projected faintly onto brick walls as you pass by. They’re not shown in death; they are shown as they might have appeared in a quiet moment, looking thoughtful, or tired, or maybe even smiling. I mean, it’s a really moving touch. It just feels so deeply respectful. You sort of feel like you are meeting them, not just reading about them. Clearly, this careful curation turns what could be a morbid subject into a profound tribute, and that, at the end of the day, is a really significant achievement. You could almost feel the presence of these women as actual people, not just as historical footnotes to a man’s crimes.

Reclaiming Their Stories: The Lives of Polly and Annie

Okay, so the exhibition really gets going when it starts telling the individual stories. First, you meet Mary Ann Nichols, who everyone called Polly. Basically, the display for Polly isn’t about how she died; it’s about how she lived. For instance, there’s a timeline that shows her marriage, the birth of her five children, and her separation from her husband. So, you learn she lived in a workhouse for a time, which, you know, must have been just incredibly difficult. There are letters, or at least copies of letters, written by people who knew her, describing her as having a ‘quick temper’ but also as being ‘clean and industrious’. It kind of makes her feel so much more real. I mean, seeing a replica of the kind of cheap bonnet she was remembered for wearing—the ‘jolly bonnet’—is surprisingly powerful. Honestly, it’s just a simple piece of cloth, yet it speaks volumes about her attempts to find a little bit of joy in a really hard life. We often forget these small human details, you know?

So, there’s this one interactive part of her story that really got to me. It’s basically a simple screen where you can see the handful of coins Polly had in her pocket on her last night. It was just enough for another night in a common lodging house. You just sort of stare at those few pennies and you really understand her desperation in that moment. It honestly frames her not as a reckless person, but as someone making impossible choices with virtually no good options available. You are not just told she was poor; you, like, actually feel the weight of those coins in her pocket. Frankly, that small interactive moment did more to explain her situation than a whole book ever could. And you really get the sense of the struggle she and so many others faced, which you can explore further in historical accounts of the era.

Next, you learn about Annie Chapman. Alright, her section feels slightly different. So, the focus here is a lot on family and loss. You see, she received a small allowance from her estranged husband, and the exhibit has a replica of a postal order book, showing the tiny amounts of money she lived on. You know, that’s just a little detail, but it paints such a vivid picture. I mean, you learn that she was deeply affected by the death of her daughter from meningitis and her own struggles with alcoholism that followed. As a matter of fact, this is not presented as a moral failing. Instead, it’s shown as a very human response to grief and hardship. You, like, see a picture of a healthy, younger Annie, and you just feel this profound sense of sadness for the life that was stolen from her, piece by piece, long before the end. This part of the exhibit is really all about empathy.

So, one of the most affecting things in Annie’s display is a small collection of items found with her. You know, a bit of an envelope, a small comb, a piece of muslin. The exhibit presents them like precious artifacts. And honestly, they are. They are, you know, the last tangible connections to her as a living, breathing person who was just trying to get by. Apparently, she was known to sell crochet work and flowers to make a little money. Seeing those simple items, the sort of things you or I might have in a pocket, just makes everything so personal. Seriously, you just can’t help but connect with her on a human level. It’s not about the crime anymore; it’s really about the person who was just going about her day. That feeling is just so incredibly powerful and it stays with you for a long time after you move on.

A Tale of Two Women: Elizabeth and Catherine’s World

So, the exhibit continues with Elizabeth Stride’s story, and you know, her’s is a story with a lot of movement. Actually, she was originally from Sweden, and they call her ‘Long Liz’. So, you get this sense of a life that was constantly in flux. The displays here really show her journey, from her home country to London, and her different jobs, like working as a domestic servant. What’s kind of striking is how the exhibit uses maps to show her path. You can, like, follow her from one address to another, seeing how she moved around the East End. You also learn about her long-term relationship with a man named Michael Kidney. Their life together, as described by neighbors, was, you know, pretty stormy but also seemingly filled with real affection at times. It sort of adds another layer to her story. She wasn’t just a transient; she was part of a relationship, part of the fabric of her little corner of the city. You really get a sense of the community she was a part of.

A really touching part of Elizabeth’s section is the focus on her efforts to help others. Frankly, it’s a detail often left out of the usual Ripper story. She was apparently known to be quite generous, sometimes cleaning the rooms for the manager of her lodging house just to be kind. They have a quote from him projected on the wall, calling her a “very quiet woman” who did no harm. I mean, that little bit of testimony, you know, from someone who knew her, just completely shatters the stereotype. It forces you to see her as a person with her own character, her own way of being in the world. It’s a very simple, yet incredibly effective, way to restore her dignity. You start to picture her not as a victim, but as this person who, even with very little, still found ways to be good to people.

Then, we move on to Catherine Eddowes. Her story feels, you know, almost like a series of unfortunate events. The exhibit does a really good job of showing how one small decision, one bit of bad luck, could change everything. On that night, she was actually in police custody for a little while, for being drunk and disorderly. You know, they have a recreation of a police station ledger, showing her name and the time she was released, just shortly before she was killed. So seeing that ledger, that official record, is just chilling. You just think, what if she had been kept there for another hour? It’s that ‘what if’ that really makes her story so tragic. You just feel the randomness of it all, you know?

Catherine was also a mother, and the exhibit handles this with a lot of care. You learn about her children and the ballads she used to write and sell on the streets with her partner. Apparently, she had a good voice and a lively spirit. There’s a small speaker that quietly plays a folk ballad from that period, and it really helps you imagine her. There’s a quote from her daughter, who remembered her as a ‘very jolly woman’ and an ‘intelligent, scholarly’ person. So, you start to build this picture of a creative, resilient person who was doing her best to make a life for herself. The fact that she was trying to get home to see her children just adds another layer of heartbreak. You’re not thinking about a killer; you’re just thinking about a mom trying to get home.

The Final Act: The Story of Mary Jane Kelly

Frankly, the story of Mary Jane Kelly is often the one that gets the most ghoulish attention. So, this exhibit seems very aware of that. Actually, her section is set up a little differently. You approach a partial reconstruction of her small room at 13 Miller’s Court, but you can’t go all the way in. You can just sort of peer through a recreated doorway. What’s inside is not macabre. Instead, it’s just a simple room, tidily kept, with a few personal touches—a picture on the wall, a kettle near the fireplace. It is, you know, just a home. By not showing the horror, the exhibit forces you to see the humanity. It asks you to respect her space, her privacy, even now. It’s an incredibly respectful and frankly, a very clever way to handle a very difficult part of the story. I honestly found it to be the most moving part of the whole exhibit.

I mean, what you learn about her is that she was apparently quite young, probably in her mid-twenties, and known for being pretty and friendly. People who knew her said she was often singing. So, instead of focusing on the grim end, the exhibit has accounts from her neighbors and her partner, Joseph Barnett. You read about her generosity, how she would often share what little she had. One neighbor remembered her crying after a disagreement with her partner, just like anyone would. So, these details, you know, are so small, but they make her a real person. You begin to understand her as the heart of her small court, someone whose absence was deeply felt. The experience makes you wonder about the many forgotten details of her short life. It really makes you see her as more than just the final victim.

What’s really special here is a digital display that shows photos of Miller’s Court before it was torn down. You can, like, tap on different windows and doors, and little snippets of information about the families who lived there pop up. So it’s not just about Mary’s room; it’s about the whole community that lived in that tiny, cramped space. You learn about the children who played in the courtyard and the other women who lived nearby. At the end of the day, it’s about context. Mary wasn’t isolated; she was part of a world. Seeing that world, you know, really helps you understand her better. You kind of get a sense of the sounds and smells and the daily life of the court, and it makes everything feel much more immediate and real.

Whitechapel Itself: The Silent Witness

So, the final part of the exhibit, you know, kind of pulls the camera back. It’s not just about the five women. It’s about all the women of Whitechapel. I mean, this section uses large-scale photographs from the era, showing the crowded markets, the overflowing lodging houses, and the factories where women worked for very little pay. You see their faces—tired, resilient, worried, sometimes even laughing. Basically, you are surrounded by the real people of that time and place. There’s a soundscape here, too, that’s a bit louder, a bit more chaotic, reflecting the constant hustle of a neighborhood bursting at the seams. It’s a really powerful way to show the environment that shaped these women’s lives. It just makes it clear that any one of these women in these photographs could have been a victim.

What I found really interesting was a large map on the wall. It wasn’t a “Ripper map” showing where the bodies were found. Instead, it was a “community map”. It highlighted the locations of public houses, laundries, churches, and pawn shops—the places that were, you know, so central to these women’s lives. So, you can see the routes they would have walked every day, the places they would have sought shelter or work or a moment of peace. Frankly, it changes your entire mental image of the area. It wasn’t just a dark maze of streets; it was a network of places where life happened. You start to feel the pulse of the community, which is an experience you just don’t get from reading the usual books on the topic. For example, it helps you visualize the daily life better.

Finally, there’s a really simple, but very effective display. It’s a wall that lists the names of many other women who lived and died in Whitechapel around that time, women who died from disease, childbirth, accidents, or other acts of violence. So, it’s a long, long list. As a matter of fact, it quietly makes the point that life was incredibly dangerous for all these women, not just the ones who crossed paths with one particular man. You sort of stand there reading the names and the causes of death, and you just get this overwhelming sense of the hardship they faced. Honestly, it’s a fitting end. It takes the focus off one infamous story and puts it where it belongs: on the countless, forgotten women who struggled to survive in an incredibly tough world. The exhibit, you know, gives them a small piece of the remembrance they’ve always deserved.

I mean, you leave this exhibition feeling, well, pretty thoughtful. It’s not about solving a crime. Actually, it’s about acknowledging a tragedy. It gives these women back their names, their stories, and their humanity. It’s a very quiet, powerful, and deeply human experience, you know? I would honestly recommend it to anyone who thinks they know the Jack the Ripper story. So, you might find that the real story isn’t about him at all.