Artemisia Gentileschi, Heroine in Action

Kitty Perring

Artemisia Gentileschi, Judith and Her Maidservant, c. 1615. Galleria Palatina (Palazzo Pitti), Florence. © Gallerie degli Uffizi.

I began my visit to Artemisia: Heroine of Painting at the Musée Jacquemart-André with a simple question: how would the gallery frame an artist whose biography so often overshadows her work? The exhibition was laid out over several rooms that explored different aspects of her biography, moving from her comparison with contemporaries to the breadth of her oeuvre, ranging from allegorical and methodological painting to her lesser-known works of portraiture. Artemisia Gentileschi’s name now carries near-mythic weight and has inspired theatre, literature, and visual art, including the play It’s True, It’s True, It’s True, which dramatizes her 1612 rape trial, as well as Anna Banti’s novel Artemisia and various film adaptations.

It is no surprise that her paintings continue to resonate today. Artemisia’s heroines do not merely occupy the canvas; they command it. They wield swords, hammers, and unflinching gazes, taking bold, decisive, and often violent action. Their agency is unmistakable, placing them at the centre of climactic scenes with a determination that is both arresting and defiant.

Orazio Gentileschi, Judith and Her Maidservant with the Head of Holofernes, c. 1608–1612. National Museum, Oslo. © The National Museum of Art, Architecture and Design, Oslo.

Father and Daughter: Judith and Her Maidservant

The exhibition sets this tone early with a revealing pairing. Orazio Gentileschi, Artemisia’s father, was a prominent painter, and it was common at the time for women to enter the profession through training in their father’s workshop. Under Orazio’s guidance, Artemisia developed the technical skill and style that would later define her career. An interesting comparison, which was highlighted by the exhibition curator’s choice to display them together, can be made between father and daughter: Orazio Gentileschi’s Judith and Her Maidservant with the Head of Holofernes (c. 1608–1612, National Museum, Oslo) sits beside Artemisia Gentileschi’s Judith and Her Maidservant (c. 1615, Pitti Palace, Florence). At first glance, the compositions are nearly identical: two women, a basket, a severed head. In person, the differences are immediate and visceral. Orazio’s Judith is composed and courtly. Her hand rests lightly on her maid’s shoulder, the head tucked discreetly into a white-lined basket. Light falls evenly, lending calm after violence. The maid, unusually young, looks downward, a silent observer.

Artemisia’s Judith is another presence entirely. She leans toward her maid, body angled as if listening for danger beyond the frame. The sword remains in her grip, ready for action. Her maid does not shrink back; she braces herself, clutching the basket with purpose. The canvas is cropped tightly, the harsh chiaroscuro pulling the figures into our space. Where Orazio offers reassurance, Artemisia delivers coordination, a shared and urgent escape. Even with some reductions to the Florentine painting, the contrast highlights her maturity: still connected to her father’s model, yet fully capable of conveying the emotional bond between the two women through physical closeness and the meticulous rendering of garments.

Collaboration and Survival

This sense of partnership extends throughout the exhibition. In Jael and Sisera (1620, Museum of Fine Arts, Budapest), Jael raises the tent peg with a composed, deliberate expression. Though the biblical account presents her as acting alone, Artemisia gives her the same sculptural, muscular presence as her paired heroines, suggesting intention rather than accident.

Artemisia Gentileschi, Jael and Sisera, 1620. Museum of Fine Arts, Budapest. © Museum of Fine Arts, Budapest.

Agency and Legacy

Not all curatorial choices were ideal. Both of Artemisia’s most famous Judith Slaying Holofernes paintings were absent, replaced by a smaller copy lacking the originals’ commanding scale.

Praised by her contemporaries for technical mastery, Artemisia brought a new power to the female nude in Baroque painting, entwining sensuality and mortality in works such as Cleopatra (c. 1630–1635). Drawing on biblical and mythological themes, she depicted heroines who triumphed over male domination through intelligence, cunning, or sheer force. In this respect, the exhibition succeeds in presenting a compelling portrait of an artist who endowed her heroines with agency, strength, and presence.

Yet by presenting Artemisia primarily as a solitary genius and framing her work through comparisons with male contemporaries, such as Caravaggio, the exhibition risks obscuring her artistic networks and the women artists she collaborated with or drew inspiration from, such as Lavinia Fontana. Recognizing these connections is crucial to understanding not only her survival and success but also the social and artistic milieu in which she worked.

As with many exhibitions of historical women artists, the central challenge remains balancing biographical focus with a broader sense of artistic community and context.