Blood Water Paint

by Joy McCullough

  DUTTON BOOKS

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street

  New York, NY 10014

  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.

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  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

  hobbles to market,

  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

  from a man

  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