Blood Water Paint

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by Joy McCullough


  a vast expanse—it’s far too vast—

  until it meets the bodice of my dress,

  a shield but also constrictor

  of my breasts, my breath,

  I cannot breathe.

  I must.

  I’ll never be the giggling girls

  who huddle in the piazza

  or lean out windows,

  dropping notes to their beloveds.

  More than once I’ve wondered

  what it would be like

  to have no more pressing cares

  than whether my love

  might pass beneath my window.

  But I decided long ago what mattered.

  Now this man has come for me.

  Not in that way—

  I’m such a child!

  And yet I cannot keep from

  echoing his voice inside my head

  as my name falls from his lips.

  At the thought

  my knees give way.

  But Mr. Tassi’s deep in contemplation,

  doesn’t pay me any mind.

  Doesn’t see me grope the air

  for where to place my hands,

  arrange my arms,

  learn how to stand again.

  I pick a focal point and breathe.

  If I can learn

  to paint with nothing

  but my wits

  then I can make it through

  a conversation

  with this stranger

  in my studio.

  16.

  Agostino Tassi’s

  thick, furrowed brows

  hover over pitch-black eyes

  fringed with lashes longer than

  the strands of my best paintbrush.

  (Do I exaggerate?

  Perhaps.

  But I’ve been living

  in a muted, neutral palette

  and now the sun shines through

  stained glass more vibrant

  than Marcillat’s

  Life of the Virgin.)

  His tousled hair nearly brushes

  the slanted ceiling of this horrid studio.

  His cheekbones are chiseled from marble

  by a sculptor with no subtlety,

  but there’s softness too.

  He gazes at the canvas,

  open to whatever it brings.

  Suddenly I’m mortified

  by these dismal surroundings.

  He shifts his weight—

  impressive weight, no delicate artist, he,

  a hum of power thrums through his bones—

  the floorboards creak.

  The rich brocade

  of his jacket is more valuable

  than all my clothes combined.

  So much finer than anything I own

  and suddenly it’s very clear

  this man is from the outside world

  a man I’ve never met

  alone with me

  inside my studio—

  my father’s studio.

  As if in answer to the unasked question,

  Signor Tassi wrenches his gaze

  from my Madonna,

  turns his charcoal eyes

  upon my frazzled face,

  no doubt smudged with

  pigment

  panic

  sweat—

  Your father’s kitchen girl

  let me up.

  17.

  I once found mouse tracks

  in the bread dough

  and it’s not uncommon

  for flies to float

  through our wine.

  Tuzia’s snores fill

  the tiny room we share

  so even when my mind

  has slowed enough to sleep,

  I can’t.

  In the corners,

  great dustballs congregate,

  accusing me of neglect

  as woman of the house.

  Her doughy bosom,

  graying hair,

  plump but muscled arms,

  bring to mind a kindly woman,

  affectionate, warm.

  She’s not.

  But mostly:

  Tuzia has made the choice

  to leave me unaccompanied

  in the studio

  with a man.

  Not father, brother.

  Man.

  And instead of urging him toward the door,

  I wonder how I can make him stay.

  18.

  The canvas is blank.

  He makes the first stroke.

  Your father asked

  if I might take a look

  at your most recent work.

  He says you need help

  with perspective.

  Is he coming?

  (Pause.)

  He was dealing with

  debt collectors in the piazza.

  That’s embarrassing.

  I assume it is Orazio’s debt,

  not yours?

  Yes, Signor Tassi.

  He winks.

  I flush.

  Call me Tino.

  Oh, I couldn’t.

  He gauges my discomfort,

  returns his gaze to my Madonna.

  I wait for him to speak

  but when I cannot stand

  the silence any longer:

  My father says

  you’ve come to town

  for the Quirinal Palace commission.

  That’s true.

  I expect your father’s hoping

  I’ll bring him in on the commission

  more than he’s hoping

  I’ll teach you perspective.

  Of course.

  The arm’s a bit flat.

  He may be here as a connection,

  but he’s skilled.

  If my father were

  any sort of artist

  he could teach me himself.

  You’re a lucky girl,

  that your father’s willing

  to have you

  as apprentice.

  My tongue gropes for words,

  redemption.

  You’re not wrong,

  by the way.

  His painting is shit.

  Between us, of course.

  A strangled bark

  of laughter escapes.

  Of course, Signor Tassi.

  I’m not the only one

  speaking out of turn.

  He looks at me.

  Through me.

  Tino, please.

  I meant that.

  Really, I don’t—

  It’ll be our little secret.

  It’s no small secret,

  to call him Tino.

  Tino.

  You see?

  His smile fills the room

  as though each wall is glass,

  and ceilings too,

  and this, the sunniest

  spot in all of Rome.

  That wasn’t so hard.

  Roman society did not storm

  the walls, drag us away

  to be tortured.

  I’ll tell you another secret.

  What’s that?

  There’s a lot you can get away with

  when no one is watching.

  Carefree

  Close your eyes, love.

  See in that artist’s mind of yours Susanna in her garden. Carefree, but only for a moment. Because, you see, you’re not the only one watching her.

  There are intruders lurking j
ust out of reach. It seems inconceivable at first. She’s in her private garden, her home. She’s sent her ladies away. Why, then, would two men be leering over her wall, stealing what’s rightfully hers?

  They’re not monsters, either. Not men you’d shrink away from on the street. On the contrary. They’re men you’d see at Mass, who’d give you a polite nod while they greet your husband.

  You can imagine having a husband, can’t you, darling?

  The important thing to remember here is that these two men are leaders in their community. Handsome, even. Respected and wise. Entrusted with advising the highest levels of government.

  Of course, they don’t need to be respected leaders to have more power than Susanna. Any man who breathes has more power than a woman in her world—and our world, too. And these men who lurk on the other side of the wall, planning their attack on a woman who only thought to wash the day away, will crush her world to dust upon a whim.

  This may shock you, for you are still young. But this should not surprise Susanna. Of course she’ll startle when she realizes they’re there, but upon reflection, she’ll understand that she’s a woman in a world where her father got a receipt of sale upon her wedding day. She is a thing to be used by men.

  And you should realize, love, that even the simple act of a bath is potentially world-altering. But then, you never see the beast until he is upon you.

  19.

  I am a child learning

  single-point perspective.

  Perhaps next we shall

  mix blue with red

  and see what we discover!

  Still, I consent.

  I’ve never had

  a proper teacher.

  So I will be

  a proper student.

  I listen to Signor Tassi

  Tino, I insist.

  determined

  to make the most

  of his wisdom.

  In single-point perspective

  there’s one vanishing point.

  The place where all lines

  parallel to the viewer

  converge.

  Just imagine:

  you’re standing

  in the middle

  of a long, flat road,

  gazing as far as the eye can see.

  He’s poised behind me,

  pointing; one hand

  rests on my shoulder,

  the other stretches

  out in front

  of our bodies,

  my heart thudding

  so hard I may not hear

  what he says next.

  Somewhere, far out in the distance

  the two sides of the road

  will come together

  in one vanishing point.

  They always come together,

  those two lines.

  Even if they’re very

  far apart to start.

  We stand there for a moment, staring

  down the length of his steady arm

  side by side, breath in sync,

  converged like the point

  out on the horizon

  where our two

  lines have

  become

  one.

  Trapped

  One more story, love. Then we must slip into dreams.

  Now where did we leave Susanna? Ah yes, her sister threw a tantrum. But that all melts away the moment Susanna dips her toe into the water.

  (I do so wish this baby’s tantrums might be calmed by a single drop of water. But do you know, the constant kicking, pushing, jockeying for the best position leads me to believe you’ll have a sister soon enough. Your brothers never kicked this much. But you . . . oh, darling girl. Even from the start, you couldn’t bear to be constrained.)

  Susanna, too, is trapped. She endures it with more grace than you, but she is older. She understands the world she lives in. She doesn’t want to cause a scene. But if presented with a choice, she’d happily trade the rest of Joaquim’s grand home—the painted tiles, carved archways, every last detail her sister pines for—for this private garden, this bit of bliss where the late afternoon sun beats down to warm the water where it pools.

  Why should a little corner of the garden be so important to a woman like Susanna? A woman with a palatial home, and the finest garments. Because imagine it—if you live as she does, surrounded by endless people and their expectations, ones you cannot possibly live up to, you do not even want to live up to—that refuge might be the only place you are safe.

  When Susanna’s stripped off her robes and slipped into the blue, it no longer matters who her husband is. She can pretend her parents never handed her over like one of the prize goats that came along in the deal. That her sister never wept at the injustice, never slashed the robe she was to wear on her wedding night in retribution for something Susanna never wanted to begin with.

  Sometimes, when she escapes to the garden, she slips all the way under, lets the water close over the top of her head, and relishes the utter and absolute silence. The last time she tried that, though, she only enjoyed the silence for a few moments before hands clamped over her arms, yanked her back up, a reverse baptism. Gossiping maidservants fluttered around, congratulated themselves for saving her, scolded her for needing a savior.

  Susanna did not need a savior.

  She learned to swim in the river with her brothers when she was still young enough to steal a tunic and run about the village as a boy. She will not drown in a shallow pool. And trapped though she feels, Susanna would not choose to fill her lungs and make the silence permanent.

  But there will be no convincing the ladies around her that she will not soon need saving again. Ever since that day, they have stuck to Susanna like honey dried into the fibers of her finest dress.

  Some days Susanna pities them, the women who’ll never stop grasping toward a station they’ll never reach. But today is not one of those days.

  Susanna is grown by the standards of her world, but in this moment, her youth shines through. She makes a face exactly like the one you make when you find greens upon your dinner plate, and casts it toward the window where she knows the women loom.

  Then she holds her breath and sinks into obscurity.

  20.

  The water has grown cool

  but the air upon my wet skin

  is cooler still.

  I sink deeper in the tub.

  Tuzia promised

  to bring more

  boiling water.

  But now she

  oohs and aahs

  as Giulio recites his lesson,

  my bath forgotten.

  My teeth begin to chatter.

  I brace myself,

  then stand,

  gasp as the air hits my skin.

  This is the moment

  Tuzia chooses

  to step into the room.

  She grabs the length of cloth

  I cannot reach

  and flings it at me.

  For decency’s sake,

  cover yourself!

  No fawning maidservant

  is Tuzia.

  I step carefully from the tub,

  dry myself, reach for my smock.

  Must you always wear

  that ratty thing?

  If she is going to stand there,

  scrutinize my every move,

  then she can get her fill.

  I turn and face her,

  take the time to dry

  my dripping hair

  before I pull the smock

  over my head.

  I’m going to paint,

  not meet the Pope.

  Next up, my petticoats.

  More layers than
r />   the onions I will peel

  before the day is through.

  Signor Tassi will be here soon.

  I wait,

  as though to say,

  And so?

  She cannot help herself:

  Just because you

  are doing a man’s work

  does not mean

  you need to look

  like a man.

  I shrug on my bodice,

  lace it up.

  I spend a moment

  longer than usual

  arranging the ruffles

  of the smock

  peeking out

  from beneath.

  At Tuzia’s smirk

  I cut her off.

  I don’t entertain

  a suitor. I learn

  from one my father

  wishes to exploit.

  21.

  That burst of inspiration,

  that sudden vision of the inner eye—

  that’s my first fire.

  That’s when I absolutely

  must get the image

  on paper—a sketch, a rough rendering

  of the vision I see

  perfectly in my mind.

  When the first fire ignites,

  there’s no time to grind the colors

  heat the oil

  cut the linen

  stretch the canvas.

  There’s only time to capture it.

  The thing that flows

  from the charcoal to my scrap

  of paper is nothing

  that can be described

  with words. Just an image

  I can’t even name.

  Echoes of the tales

  my mother used to tell.

  Shadows of the places

  where different colors come together.

  Vanishing points.

  Today, a girl

  in a garden.

  She’s naked.

  She’s bathing.

  Her face is unclear still—

  but wait.

  It’s clearer now,

  calm and peaceful.

  That’s not quite right,

  not for the end result,

  I know, but this is now,

  not then.

  For at least a few more moments,

  she doesn’t know

  what’s waiting

  behind that wall.

  22.

  My fingers burn

  with desire to move

  beyond sketches,

  to place Susanna on the canvas

  in her garden,

  use what I’ve learned

  to tell her story.

 

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