Blood water paint

Review by Booklist Review

*Starred Review* McCullough's exquisite debut, a novel in verse, follows the heartbreaking but inspiring true story of gifted Roman painter Artemisia Gentileschi. Raised since she was 12 solely by her volatile, abusive, and less talented artist father, Artemisia spends her days as her father's apprentice, grinding pigments and completing most of his commissions. At first, she thinks she has found solace with her charming new painting instructor, Agostino Tassi, who awakens a dormant passion in her. In carefully arranged, sophisticated verse, McCullough deftly articulates Artemisia's growing fear of Tassi as he asserts control over and ultimately rapes her. Woven through Artemisia's poems are short prose chapters featuring Susanna and Judith, bold ancient Roman heroines from her mother's stories. The strong females' stories guide Artemisia through her harrowing trials with Tassi, show her how to paint her truth, and eventually inspire most of her iconic paintings. With dazzling surrealist overtones, McCullough manages to vividly capture a singularly brave, resilient feminist who became an icon during a time when women had almost no agency. Her story and the stunning verse in which it is told will resonate just as strongly with readers today. A captivating and impressive book about a timeless heroine.--Kling, Caitlin Copyright 2017 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

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Review by Library Journal Review

digital download. F At 12, Artemisia Gentileschi loses her mother, but not before "Prudentia Montone spent/ the last of her strength/ to burn into [Artemisia's] mind/ the tales of women/ no one else would/ think to tell"-including biblical heroines Susannah and Judith, who thwarted male tyranny. By 17, Artemisia is her father's assistant, although she's clearly the better artist. When charmer Agostino Tassi becomes her teacher, her innocent infatuation turns to crushing horror when he rapes her. Rejecting silence, Artemisia goes to court, where she's subjected to further brutality, yet she stalwartly demands justice. Written in free verse (as Artemisia) and prose (as Artemisia's mother), McCullough's revelatory historical fiction, set in the early 17th century, is enhanced by narrator Xe Sands, whose portrait of an artist as a young woman is sensitively modulated to be deliberate and controlled, hesitant and unsure, resigned and determined. As Sands shifts into maternal storyteller mode, her voice takes on unwavering solidity, as if infusing Artemisia with resilience, propelling her forward: "I will show you what a woman can do," Artemisia replies-and becomes one of history's greatest painters. VERDICT Libraries everywhere should have McCullough's astonishing debut readily accessible in all formats.-Terry Hong, Smithsonian BookDragon, Washington, DC © Copyright 2018. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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Review by School Library Journal Review

Gr 8 Up-Artemisia Gentileschi, 17-year-old daughter of a mediocre Renaissance painter, assists her choleric father Orazio in his studio, mixing colors but, moreso, trying to save face for him by finishing paintings that he is incapable of completing. Remembering the stories of strong biblical women which her now-deceased mother recounted to her-stories meant to strengthen her womanly resolve in a society that valued only men-Artemisia is determined to be the painter her father will never be; thus, when her father hires Agostino Tassi (Tino) to teach her perspective, she is thrilled to have someone who can help her achieve new artistic heights. As she paints Susanna and the Elders, her relationship with Tino changes, and he finally seduces her. At first she is emboldened by his "love," but, when she realizes that he has simply used her, she is determined to bring him to court in an effort to save her honor. Using free verse for Artemisia's words and prose for her mother's stories, McCullough's beautifully crafted text will inspire upper-middle/high school readers to research the true story upon which this powerful piece of historical fiction is based. The poetry is clear and revelatory, exploring Artemisia's passion for both art and life. The expression of her intense feelings is gripping and her complexity of character make her a force to be reckoned with, both in her times and in ours. VERDICT A thrilling portrait of a woman of character who refused to be dismissed; this belongs on every YA shelf.-Nancy Menaldi-Scanlan, formerly at LaSalle Academy, Providence © Copyright 2018. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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Review by Horn Book Review

In her youth, Artemisia Gentileschi, the renowned Italian Baroque painter, assisted her painter father, Orazio Gentileschi, while struggling to achieve her own artistic vision. Artemisias mother told her the biblical stories of Judith and Susanna, tales of women no one else would think to tell, inspiring Artemisia to paint these figures from a womans perspective. Susanna and Judith come to life in Artemisias imagination, coaxing her to paint the bloodor tell the truth about being raped by her tutor. Sands delivers an emotional performance that balances anguish with rage and artistic self-expression. julie hakim azzam July/Aug p.151(c) Copyright 2019. The Horn Book, Inc., a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright The Horn Book, Inc., a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

Baroque artist and feminist icon Artemisia Gentileschi is given voice in a debut verse novel.Only 17, Artemisia is already a more gifted painter than her feckless father. But in 17th-century Rome, the motherless girl is only grudgingly permitted to grind pigment, prepare canvas, and complete commissions under his signature. So when the charming Agostino Tassi becomes her tutor, Artemisia is entranced by the only man to take her work seriouslyuntil he resorts to rape. At first broken in body and spirit, she draws from memories of her mother's stories of the biblical heroines Susanna and Judith the strength to endure and fight back the only way she can. Artemisia tells her story in raw and jagged blank verse, sensory, despairing, and defiant, interspersed with the restrained prose of her mother's subversive tales. Both simmer with impotent rage at the injustices of patriarchal oppression, which in the stories boils over into graphic sexual assault and bloody vengeance. While the poems (wisely) avoid explicitly depicting either Artemisia's rape or subsequent judicial torture, the searing aftermath, physical and mental, is agonizingly portrayed. Yet Artemisia's ferocious passion to express herself in paint still burns most fiercely. Unfortunately, those who lack familiarity with the historical facts or context may emerge from this fire scorched but not enlightened. McCullough's Rome is a white one. A brief note in the backmatter offers sexual-violence resources.Nonetheless, an incandescent retelling both timeless and, alas, all too timely. (afterword) (Historical fiction. 14-adult) Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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11.   Once upon a time I was a child, not the woman of the house.   Not so long ago but long enough the days of tugging on my mother's skirts in hopes of being lifted up at every whim are hazy round the edges, like a shadow bleeding into light.   It's hazy how, her belly round with brothers, Mother still made room for me to crawl up on her lap to hear a story no one else would tell.   How she'd look down  and ask me what I thought of Father's paintings, listen to my answer.   It's hazy how she made my father laugh. How when I'd startle in the night she'd soothe me with a tune to chase away the monsters.   It's hazy how her last few weeks, confined to bed, the child inside a greater weight than those who came before, and even when the child arrived                   a sister, finally, cold and blue,   and fever dreams bled into pain laced with delirium, Prudentia Montone spent the last of her strength to burn into my mind the tales of women no one else would think to tell.   Those stories of a righteous woman, her virtue questioned through no fault of her own; of a widow with nothing left to lose . . . No way to tell where shadow ends and light begins   but Mother was always                                                 the light.     12.   Light dances on the child's curls and whether Father sees or not the bond between the baby and his mother is perfection.   Twelve years with my mother were not enough but I know how to paint the love, the source of light.   The final touches that remain would go unnoticed to an unskilled eye. In truth, I could release her now. A signature the final touch,                    Orazio Gentileschi,                 (never Artemisia)   the client would be satisfied, and none would be the wiser.   But I would know her arm is                                 not quite right. It wraps around the baby, yet still looks flat.   Father babbled out some useless nonsense when I tried to ask him how to fix the problem. I don't think he understood my question. If he cannot see the problem to begin with, how could he ever solve it?   It's only a commission, doesn't even bear my name. But I'm not only painting the Madonna. I'm building a ladder, each new technique, a rung. 13.   Every time my father shoos me down the stairs away from my studio, each time he speaks to buyers                 as though I am not there, each time they leer at me                 as I descend in seething fury, my mother's stories stoke the flames inside.   We mostly deal in Bible tales, some portraits, ancient histories, myths. But all the maestros sign their names to David, Adam, Moses. Those who follow strive to leave their mark as well.   I can paint a David--king or upstart boy, but when I do there's nothing of me on the canvas. Susanna, though, is different.   My mother never held a brush but still composed the boldest images from the brightest colors drawing the eye--the mind-- to what mattered most:                   the young woman                 stealing a moment                 of peace to wash                 away the day                                   then her world,                                 stained beyond repair.   Susanna and the Elders.   Father's made attempts at Susanna, just like the other painters--men-- who think they have the right to tell the story of a woman always watched.   But one can't truly tell a story unless they've lived it in their heart.   The longer I'm shuffled in and out of the studio, used for what I can offer, not what I long to share, the more certain I am I can do Susanna justice. I can do my mother justice.   I can have justice.   But I'm holding back until I think perhaps my skills can match my heart.     14.   My arm cradles my palette, rounded, three-dimensional.   I paint  alla prima  in my mind exactly how it should look.   Why then can I not transpose                 the image in my mind                 the image of my flesh onto the canvas?   I stare at the Madonna's flat, flat arm so long my eyes begin to blur. I do not notice the creak of stairs                 moan of door                                 steps that cross                                                 the studio.   Or perhaps he does not enter like a mortal man but appears fully formed a miraculous apparition.   Then:                                 a breath                                 upon my cheek.   Not Father's breath. I grope for hiked-up skirts, fling endless, heavy layers of propriety toward my ankles. I am a model Roman girl (or I can play the part at least).   The man averts his eyes, steps back to give me space, as though he doesn't realize his mere presence in this room drives out all air. He may as well be pressed against me.   He did not mean to startle-- that much is clear. And even now as I                                 recover                                 steady my breath                                 check my skirts once more his eyes are not on me but on the canvas.                                                  My name is Agostino Tassi.                                                 And you are Artemisia. Excerpted from Blood Water Paint by Joy McCullough All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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