Chiaroscuro, by Becca Ringle

Judith Slaying Holofernes, by Artemisia Gentileschi (Italy) 1620

​Chiaroscuro 

The painting seems to follow me everywhere I go. Pick something else, a small voice inside my head pleads, anything else. I can’t seem to shake it, no matter how many times I try. You could write about something funny, the voice insists. Something gentle. Something soft. 

“But I dreamed about it,” I say out loud to no one, and then I know what I have to do. 

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Chiaroscuro (from the Italian chiaro, meaning clear, light, and scuro, meaning obscure, dark): a technique employed in the visual arts to represent light and shadow as they define three-dimensional objects; the interplay of light and shadow on or as if on a surface; the quality of being veiled or partly in shadow. 

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Artemisia Gentileschi was already an accomplished artist — and only seventeen years old — when she was raped by her painting tutor, Agostino Tassi. During the trial in 1612, men tortured her to prove she was telling the truth. Her hands were bound together with rope, intertwined and weaved between each of her fingers. A question is asked and answered. Rope cuts into flesh. Again. Again. Again.  If you have the time, you might dig through the nearly 400 pages of testimony to find the scattered remains of a young girl’s voice repeated through history. 

“È vero, è vero, è vero.” It’s true, it’s true, it’s true.

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I’m only ever truly angry in my dreams. In my dreams, there is another girl. Not seventeen, but seven. She only comes to me when there’s something I am refusing to see, but every time it’s the same. She leads me through a barren wood, following a path draped in shadows, and suddenly, I am afraid. She turns to face me, and the dream solidifies into a nightmare. Where a familiar mouth should be, there is only a pale, uninterrupted canvas of skin. Flames dance in the hollow space that belongs to her eyes and I can no longer look away. She is a holy relic, the bringer of light. The muscles in her face twist and pull until I realize…Screaming. She is screaming. I could be lying, of course. Want to test me? 

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In Caravaggio's depiction of the scene, Judith holds the sword with a limp indecisiveness that I find vaguely ridiculous. It does nothing to convey the violence of the moment, the relentless urgency and unerring necessity of it. Historians have argued that Artemisia’s version is an autobiographical exercise in revenge. If you look closely enough, it is she who has taken the place of our heroine. It is Tassi who lies helpless on the bed, his body on display, his face sealed for eternity in a stunned expression of terror. There is no hesitation in her brushwork. No mercy. She does not try to apologize for this. I wonder if I will ever be able to do the same. 

Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. Except when it isn’t. 

Becca Ringle 

Becca Ringle is a graduate student in the English Department at Virginia Commonwealth University. She currently lives in Richmond, VA, with her two cats and one rather grumpy Russian tortoise.