Blood Water Paint

by Joy McCullough

Overview

"When I finished this novel, I knew I would be haunted and empowered by Artemisia Gentileschi's story for the rest of my life." —Amanda Lovelace, award-winning author of the princess saves herself in this one

Her mother died when she was twelve, and suddenly Artemisia Gentileschi had a stark choice: a life as a nun in a convent or a life grinding pigment for her father's paint.

She chose paint.

By the time she was seventeen, Artemisia did more than grind pigment. She was one of Rome's most talented painters, even if no one knew her name. But Rome in 1610 was a city where men took what they wanted from women, and in the aftermath of rape Artemisia faced another terrible choice: a life of silence or a life of truth, no matter the cost.

He will not consume
my every thought.
I am a painter.
I will paint.

Joy McCullough's bold novel in verse is a portrait of an artist as a young woman, filled with the soaring highs of creative inspiration and the devastating setbacks of a system built to break her. McCullough weaves Artemisia's heartbreaking story with the stories of the ancient heroines, Susanna and Judith, who become not only the subjects of two of Artemisia's most famous paintings but sources of strength as she battles to paint a woman's timeless truth in the face of unspeakable and all-too-familiar violence.

I will show you
what a woman can do.

★"A captivating and impressive debut about a timeless heroine." —Booklist, starred review
★"Belongs on every YA shelf."—SLJ, starred review

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9780735232112
Publisher:	Penguin Young Readers Group
Publication date:	03/06/2018
Pages:	304
Product dimensions:	5.50(w) x 8.25(h) x 0.75(d)
Age Range:	14 Years

About the Author

Joy McCullough writes books and plays from her home in the Seattle area, where she lives with her husband and two children. She studied theater at Northwestern University, fell in love with her husband atop a Guatemalan volcano, and now spends her days surrounded by books and kids and chocolate. Blood Water Paint is her debut novel.

www.joymccullough.com
@jmcwrites

Read an Excerpt

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.

Editorial Reviews

"Coming out of the novel, I knew I would be haunted and empowered by Artemisia’s story for the rest of my life."—Amanda Lovelace, bestselling author of the princess saves herself in this one

"Tragically relevant and unflinchingly feminist, Blood Water Paint is the kind of book all historical fiction should aspire to be."—Mackenzi Lee, New York Times bestselling author of The Gentleman's Guide to Vice and Virtue

"A visceral reminder that women have suffered and stood strong throughout time.”—Mindy McGinnis, award-winning author of The Female of the Species.

"A story of bravery, feminism, and the enduring human spirit flourishing more than four centuries ago. Both a grave reminder of how little has changed and a hopeful testament to how much more we might achieve, McCullough's debut is a must read."—Gae Polisner, author of The Memory of Things 

"Blood Water Paint is a deftly layered portrait, at once intimate and universal. McCullough’s debut is an unflinching tribute both to Artemisia and to all who dare to stand at the intersection of artistry and womanhood."—Melanie Crowder, author of Audacity

"McCullough paints an unflinching portrait that is as heartbreaking as it is powerful."—Rachel Strolle, Anderson's Bookstore, Naperville, IL

"Written for teens who will feel empowered as they root for Artemisia, but trust me, adult book clubs will spend a lively evening discussing her choices, too."—Jenny Chou, Boswell Book Co., Milwaukee, WI

★"McCullough has managed 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 through which it is told will resonate just as strongly with readers today. A captivating and impressive debut about a timeless heroine." —Booklist, starred review

★"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."—School Library Journal, starred review

"[An] incandescent retelling both timeless and, alas, all too timely."—Kirkus

"Intimate, haunting, and deeply moving..."—Brit & Co.

"Make no mistake, [Gentileschi's] story is brutal, as is her quest for justice, but it is also filled with hope and an important message that women’s voices cannot be silenced."—Book Riot

From the Publisher

★ 01/01/2018
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

School Library Journal

2017-12-06
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 seriously…until 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)

Kirkus Review