Artemisia Gentileschi - Painful Truths

 
Ever since encountering La Pittura for the first time back in 2007, I've always referred to the artist who painted it as Gentileschi. Yet, standing before the Corinthian Columns of the National Gallery and gazing up at the pendent posters, the name that I see displayed is Artemisia. Had I been committing a Dan Brown type faux pas, clumsily referring to a painter by the wrong name? Not quite. Gentileschi is the family name and not the name of a place. Nevertheless, the nominatively determined opening syllable of Artemisia meant that I was more than happy to start using that name when referring to one of the greatest artists of the Renaissance.  

Artemisia, La Pittura, (1638)

Note that I didn't refer to Artemisia's gender there. It's obvious to anyone who looks at her work that she is one of the Renaissance greats. Yet, when it comes to the paintings in this exhibition, there's a certain curatorial reticence towards what part gender and power relations play in Artemisia’s choice of subject. Take this from the wall-biography in Room 4:

"To read Artemisia's pictures purely in relation to her gender and biography risks overlooking her artistic achievements. Artemisia was an exceptional storyteller with an astonishing ability to get under the skin of her protagonists, translating emotions and actions onto canvas in visually complex, captivating and often shocking ways."
 
That biography is inescapable, though. Raped by two men at the age of eighteen, and then tortured with thumbscrews as part of a subsequent trial, one that she eventually won, it is impossible not to view many of the paintings through that prism. Indeed, a manuscript outlining the details of the trial is on display in the very first room. The danger isn't so much that we 'risk overlooking her artistic achievements', rather that we downplay the key theme - female power in the face of male violence - and diminish a subject that dominates much of her work. Or to put it another way, we would not say that Rubens' obsession with the fuller female figure runs any risk of lessening or detracting from his genius. Moreover, it's quite clear that the dramatization of female empowerment within the violent environs of a wholly male world, has much greater heft than which types of bodies are titillating men at a particular point in history.

And it's that dramatization of this key theme that is so fascinating, particularly in the biblical story that she treated over and over again, Judith's beheading of  Holofernes, the general who had invaded her village. Caravaggio, a huge influence on Artemisia, had painted this scene already. And in Artemisia's many depictions the Milanese artist's tackling of the subject was at the forefront of her mind.

Caravaggio, Judith Beheading Holofernes (1599)

Caravaggio's Judith Beheading Holofernes is undoubtedly magnificent. Yet Artemisia rises to the occasion, not only matching Caravaggio's draughtsmanship, colour and claustrophobic composition, but actually surpassing him with her painting's dramatic force. In Artemisia's version - and let's focus on the painting that is usually housed in the Uffizi - the murderesses are much closer to the victim and there is no sign of distaste or flinching from the task at hand. Faces focused and resolute rather than wincing, these women are not fucking around.

Artemisia, Judith Slaying Holofernes (1614-1620)

I love how Artemisia follows Caravaggio in insisting on white bed-linen. Yet the blood that soaks onto Artemisia's sheets - dirtier, greyer sheets - is so much more realistic and visceral, channelling into the creases and dripping down towards the floor. 

That lack of hesitation, unflinching in the act of carrying out vengeance, also gave me a chance to approach another painting in the exhibition and see it in a slightly different way. It is no surprise that the story of the rape and subsequent suicide of Lucretia found its way into Artemisia's oeuvre. And just to remind ourselves of the story: Sextus Tarquinius, the youngest son of the last king of Rome, has raped Lucretia at knifepoint. Afterwards, Lucretia sends letters to her father and husband informing them of the dreadful event, and then, in order to atone for the 'crime', plunges the dagger into her heart. 

Artemisia, Lucretia (1625)

Thematically this is the artist's most interesting painting, and, in the context of her own experiences leads us towards thoughts of how exactly Artemisia regards Lucretia's predicament. Even allowing for the fact that it was a very different age, Artemisia must surely have baulked at the absurdity of the thumbscrew torture that she was required to undergo to prove her innocence. And in setting out to paint this subject, she would have also know, all too well, the words that the Roman historian Livy gives to Lucretia as she justifies suicide to her husband: 

"It is for you to determine what is due to Sextus; for my own part, though I acquit myself of the sin, I do not absolve myself from punishment; not in time to come shall ever unchaste woman live through the example of Lucretia."    

 

The contradiction is glaring, but let's spell it out. If Lucretia is acquitting herself of sin, why the need to punish herself? And maybe, in Artemisia's painting we have a suggestion of reprieve. The dagger is not yet plunged into her breast; indeed, it is pointed upwards. In almost all other artistic depictions of this moment - take a look at Rembrandt, Dürer, Joos van Cleve - the blade is either in the process of cutting flesh, or is certainly heading in that direction. Artemisia isn't one to flinch from a bloody climax. Yet she does here. To me the absurdity of the act is etched on the furrowed brow of Lucretia, frozen in a limbo of indecision. She may well be raising her left breast in order to make room for the thrust, but at this particular moment, there is, at the very least, ambiguity.     

The arc of Artemisia's moral universe is long, but it does bend towards justice. And that is certainly the case with another subject that she returned to consistently, the story of Susanna and the Elders from the Old Testament Book of Daniel. Bathing in her garden, Susanna finds herself spied upon by two elderly men who demand sex and attempt to blackmail her through threats to her reputation. Susanna does not succumb and she finds herself accused of adultery. Daniel will later reveal inconsistencies in their stories, but it is the voyeuristic moment that Artemisia focuses upon. And we get a wonderfully privileged opportunity in this exhibition to compare an earlier depiction with a much later one. 

Artemisia, Susanna and the Elders (1610)

The reaction of Susanna in the 1652 painting (see below) is much more confrontational. She faces the perverts down, her right hand raised towards the head of one of the Elders, her nakedness less exposed, the blush of shame on her cheeks entirely absent. I love that it's clearly the same model in both paintings, too, a moment of redemption and assertiveness for the heroine as she confronts the Elders. Could we also argue that it's the same men in both paintings, albeit aged? If so, Artemisia rewards her heroine with eternal youth. Indeed, Artemisia is not content to let the later Susanna come across as weak and subject to the whims of patriarchal fortune. Justice will be hers and she will fight for it herself.  

Artemisia, Susanna and the Elders (1652)

It is telling that when the theme of women taking on patriarchal power structures are absent, I lost a little bit of interest. Until, that is, the final room in the exhibition, where once again I came face to face with La Pittura. I could spend hours with this painting and never get tired. I've written about it frequently: about the way that that gravity and the tilt of the artist's head causes the necklace to fall - my own version of Proust's petit-pan; and also the gorgeous play of light and shade in the artist's left sleeve - and not just in the green, but in how a shimmer of light shifts the spectrum and brings out a completely different colour below the crook of the elbow. And I'm still noticing - certainly with the privilege of seeing it up close again - new things. The dab of white paint on the end of Artemisia's nose that, after a step back, reveals itself as light.  

Artemisia, detail from La Pittura

Yet the impact of the exhibition, and the document from the trial, draw my eyes elsewhere, towards Artemisia's right hand. Look at those bruised bluish grey shadows that seem to haunt the hand. And the delicate way that the index finger and the thumb - yes, particularly that thumb - hold the brush. 

Artemisia, detail from La Pittura

We may be dealing with a painting that is allegorical - its subtitle is Self-Portrait as the Allegory of Painting - but, yet again, we are unable to resist the inviolable gravity of biography. We stare at that thumb and cannot forget those devices of torture that a teenage Artemisia was inflicted with in order to prove her innocence. And it is blindingly clear from the works in this wonderful exhibition, that Artemisia does not want us to forget them either.