The Love Letter

Dear Tassi,

When I painted

Susanna and the Elders

some years ago

I fell asleep on clean

brushes and dreamed

My head on my hands

drifting into Susanna’s world

the bristled brush my bridge

I called myself Sybil

a woman’s name

that also means oracle

or a torture device that pulls

and damages the fingers

like that wrought

on me by the court to prove

you raped me

But you know how strange

dreams can be

I watched my skin

G l i d e

across the page,

like Susanna’s, creamy and plum

My long-curled hair fell to the side

as I twisted away

held up my hands to deflect

the depraved elders like she did

But I fiercely grabbed

one by his carmine

cloak and forced

him into a Vajrasana pose

gripping his temples

between my knees as hard

as a nutcracker

until his beseeching

screams and skeleton

fell limp at my feet

When I awoke from the dream

I smiled.

When I painted Judith and Holofernes

I wished to reverse the raw

physical power

you lorded over me

and as my brush worked

the pores of the canvas, I imagined

meticulously sawing

through your windpipe

your life exiting your body

as if it were a terrible song

I would learn that song and carry

it through each of my paintings

in the coming years

Your blood spurted like fireworks

only touching the pristine

white sheets underneath

your semi-detached head

a stain on all that is pure and good.

When I painted

Self-Portrait as St. Catherine

of Alexandria I held tight

to the spiked, broken wheel

weaponized by pagans to kill

her, her gaze declaring

‘Don’t fuck with me’

See how she wears her artist’s face

and bony white knuckles?

For Lucretia, it was a challenge

to secure enough red

paint to finish the project

the color of rape

never looked so thick

her spilled blood

could not look as red

as her crumpled finery

I wondered, did she see red,

seconds from ending

her own life, while savagely

grabbing her breast?

(like he did)

Red is hot bloody velvet

It absorbed her into its palate

and kept her from surfacing

Red is shame’s scarf

it swaddled and swallowed

her as she screamed out

She did not see it lurking

in the shadows

as she drove the dagger into her heart.

When I painted An Allegory

of Painting, A Self- Portrait

I recalled the sound of your voice

languid and mournful

telling me, ‘do not paint so much’

On canvas, I appeared

in my own artist’s light

looking away

from the portrait’s beholders

sleeves rolled up like the heroines

I had bared before, a robust

arm keenly grasping

the paintbrush brandished

by my hand

If you wish to bring me to mind, Tassi

that is how I should be remembered.

Before I bid a final farewell

I urge you to view my new version

of Susanna and the Elders

My bristled brush still a bridge

but Susanna is no longer a babe

her arms are stronger

and you can see the details

of the railing posts, the charming

landscape of the backdrop

and her silver teardrop earrings -

only her hair is unseen

in the murky shadows.

The Elders, now older

have been kept more at bay

as she pushes back.

When the piece was finally executed

and the paint began to set

I washed the oil from my brush

the blood from my soul

Finally, I am cleaned of you.

Most Sincerely,

Artemisia Gentileschi