DUTTON BOOKS
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Copyright © 2018 by Joy McCullough
Credit for page 294: “Study of a woman’s right hand, Pierre Dumonstier, 1625” © The Trustees of the British Museum. All rights reserved.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: McCullough, Joy, author.
Title: Blood water paint / by Joy McCullough.
Description: New York, NY : Dutton Books, [2018] | Summary: In Renaissance Italy, Artemisia Gentileschi endures the subjugation of women that allows her father to take credit for her extraordinary paintings, rape and the ensuing trial, and torture, buoyed by her deceased mother’s stories of strong women of the Bible.
Identifiers: LCCN 2017020678| ISBN 9780735232112 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780735232129 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Gentileschi, Artemisia, 1593-1652 or 1653—Juvenile fiction. | CYAC: Novels in verse. | Gentileschi, Artemisia, 1593-1652 or 1653—Fiction. | Artists—Fiction. | Sex role—Fiction. | Rape—Fiction. | Trials (Rape)—Fiction. | Renaissance—Italy—Fiction. | Italy—History—1559-1789—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.5.M435 Blo 2018 | DDC [Fic]—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017020678
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Jacket photo by Liliya Rodnikova
Jacket design by Theresa Evangelista
Version_1
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
PART I Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
PART II Surrounded
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Carefree
Chapter 19
Trapped
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Watched
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Take Action
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
PART III Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Prepare
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Tame
Chapter 49
Consider
Chapter 50
Wonder
Chapter 51
Survive
Chapter 52
Escape
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
PART IV Sinful
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Arrive
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Righteous
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
PART V Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Broken
Chapter 93
Breathe
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Afterword
Acknowledgments
Resources
For Cordelia,
I want to know your story
PART I
1.
Everything begins from here:
the viewing point,
the place where you stand,
your eye level.
That single point on the horizon
where all other lines
converge.
2.
Sometimes when I breathe in
the linseed oil and turpentine
and roll the brush between my fingers
when I train my eyes
on what’s ahead: my purpose,
and listen only to the rise and fall
of my own breath as I connect
the brush to the paint to my breath to the canvas
I shut out the rest.
And then?
My father’s rants
tirades
rages
over debts
commissions
jealousies
recede into the background,
underpainting
that I’ll cover up
with strokes
of my own choosing.
I do not hear him
crit
icize technique, complain
I’ve strayed from his intent
remind me who the painter is.
It’s funny how the painter’s not:
the one with pigment smeared into her skin
the one whose body
is as permanent a fixture
in this studio as stool, palette, easel,
the only one whose heart is flung across this canvas.
No: the painter merely signs his name
and takes his gold.
3.
Gold could be the answer
to the Holy Child’s curls.
Plain brown and he’s no different
from my younger brothers
at our mother’s breast.
I study my palette,
wonder how to blend
a luminescent glow.
I do not notice Father
stalking toward me
till he flings his arm
toward the easel,
knocks a crock of brushes
to the floor.
I can’t tell who it’s supposed to be!
I sit back, assess
the angle of the Virgin Mary’s arm
as she cradles her holy child.
Little wonder
you don’t recognize them.
When was the last time
you accompanied us to Mass?
Don’t get smart with me.
My father spits his words,
flecks of rage arcing over my head
and slapping baby Jesus on the cheek.
If your brothers showed any promise—
—They don’t.
I ought to paint
with lighter strokes.
Dwelling on
my talentless brothers
only incites him.
They limit his prospects,
leaving him
for his apprentice
nothing but
a seventeen-year-old girl.
4.
Seventeen giulios
will buy a certain amount
of bread when Tuzia
clutching the purse
between gnarled fingers.
When she sends me, though,
if I duck my chin,
peer up through fluttered lashes,
give a twinkling smile
to Piero the baker
while my fingers brush his,
seventeen giulios
can suddenly buy
several more loaves
than they did before.
The bread is paid for
by commissions
I complete and so
my father does not dispute
a girl apprentice.
(Dispute? No.
Show gratitude? Well.)
5.
What is that ridiculous
expression on her face?
I redirect my eye
to the Madonna’s face.
He is my teacher, after all,
for what he’s worth
(not much).
A mediocre painter,
Orazio Gentileschi,
but from time to time
he drops a seed
I can nurture
into something more fruitful
than he’s ever imagined.
Or sometimes
what he says
is wrong,
but if I pinpoint
why he said it,
I learn.
This is such a time.
Her face is not ridiculous.
She gazes at her child in adoration.
The baby may be holy king savior god
but to his mother
he is simply love.
She looks drunk.
I try to shake him off,
hike up my skirts
for ease of motion
to reach for my paints,
connect with the canvas.
What does he know
of motherly love?
Though if I am careless,
my mother’s voice
in my imagination
will recede.
6.
Not even voice
but breath upon my neck,
the slightest whisper
if I concentrate,
reach out in hopes
I’ll feel her reaching back.
She’s there, but not.
My head tipped back,
gaze heavenward,
these dismal surroundings
fall away.
Nearly.
In a moment of madness
(or clarity)
my ambition
burns a hole in the ceiling,
allows the light
a direct path to
my canvas.
But then Father’s there,
my gaze snaps down.
Get downstairs.
Potential buyers.
And so I’m hustled
down the stairs
as loudmouthed men
ascend to fill the studio
(my studio),
intent on courting favor
from the church
by flaunting pious art
to make up for
less-than-pious lives.
Two men pass
without a glance my way,
the third makes very sure
I feel his gaze.
No longer do I covet light.
I wish men
would decide
if women are heavenly
angels on high,
or earthbound sculptures
for their gardens.
But either way we’re beauty
for consumption.
7.
Head out of the clouds, girl.
We’re off to market.
Tuzia shoves
a basket into my arms.
I blink,
try to shake off
the weight of a gaze
I never welcomed
who now occupies
my studio, perhaps
even sits on my stool
as he ogles
my Madonna.
On our return, though,
Tuzia will weigh me down
with produce, beans, dried fish.
She says young arms
can better bear the weight,
but then I wonder:
Why not bring my brothers?
My thoughts wander
heavenward again
as I linger with my Madonna
—and her child
too small to understand
what she has sacrificed
to give him life—
while my feet trip along
the cobblestones
of Piazza di Santa Maria.
Piazzas, churches
named for a teenager
who gave life to the Christ.
Sculptures, paintings, frescoes
devoted to her holiness.
But the only thing about her
we remember:
she was a virgin.
We must stop by
the apothecary.
Your father needs
more linseed oil.
My father needs more linseed oil,
Prospective buyers need the studio.
The boys need figs and fritters,
sugared apples Tuzia buys for them
with coins
that should be mine.
But I’m not meant
to have desires at all.
8.
When I am wrenched from easel
to fulfill some menial task
just as easily completed
by one without the skill to paint,
I am determined to use the time
to my advantage.
If I must leave the studio
at least I’ll notice every shade of green
that’s blended through the trees
and how a crack divides
a cobblestone, ant brethren
stranded across a great divide.
These are things I must observe
if I’m to paint the world with truth.
And yet I am distracted from my purpose,
not by Tuzia’s constant rambling,
but by my mother’s voice,
more vivid in this place
than any shade of green.
I spiral down
through many years
until I do not only hear her voice;
I’m with my mother
on the way to market,
skipping through this very square.
The Piazza di Santa Maria’s
octagonal fountain boasts
four stone wolves,
at watch for centuries.
I’m not certain
whether the beasts
are meant to protect
the Holy Mother
or remind her
of her place.
The fountain is undergoing renovation.
I want to stop, observe
the craftsmen as they chisel
the stone, but Mother yearns
to move along.
The baby’s coming soon
(I cast a wish toward heaven
that I might finally have a sister)
and Mother’s feet are swollen
from the weight
she bears.
Still, she says,
the sun beating down
on her aching back,
You watch, my love, my life.
This fountain
in our little piazza
will now be connected
to the aqueduct
Acqua Felice.
This is progress,
before your eyes.
You watch.
Now she’s dead.
I’ve seen no progress.
The stone wolves
remain fixed to earth.
The only thing
that’s changed is
she’s not here
to say
I see you
hear you
want to know