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Artemisia Gentileschi’s Revenge Is Still Radical

At the Columbus Museum of Art, three paintings made in fury and grief take us inside one of the Baroque's most original and uncompromising minds.

It’s an old story—men preying on girls and young women. Today, as women come forward to expose sexual predation, Artemisia Gentileschi stands as a perfect symbol. She stands as a figurehead for justice, having been raped in 1610 at the tender age of 17. With iron will, she endured a grueling seven-month trial, tortured physically as part of it to verify her testimony. Her abuser, Agostino Tassi, also a painter, was convicted. His punishment was exile from Rome, which was never enforced, and he served less than a year in prison. Artemisia went on to create astounding paintings throughout her life, most of which depicted powerful women. She was the first woman admitted to the Accademia di Arte del Disegno in Florence, an academy of eminent artists of the Medici court of which Michelangelo was also a member.

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It is evident that Artemisia was influenced by her contemporary Caravaggio—their shared use of chiaroscuro, painting on a dark ground rather than the traditional white, building up to lighter tones. Unlike Caravaggio, however, Artemisia’s work centers on the power and vulnerability of women, the subjugation of men and the transformation of violence. In Judith Beheading Holofernes (1620), a resolute Judith severs the head of the drunken Assyrian general in two swift strokes, drawn from the apocryphal Book of Judith. Holofernes had dared to lay siege to Judith’s town; Tassi had dared to lay siege to Artemisia’s virginity. The painting is a graphic depiction of revenge. Unlike Caravaggio’s version of the same subject, the crimson blood here is anatomically correct, spurting upward and pooling below. Artemisia’s Judith looks calmly determined, the culmination of a well-planned act, whereas Caravaggio’s Judith leans away as if horrified. Artemisia’s Judith also leans away—but only because the blood is spurting onto her golden gown. It is worth noting that the bracelet Judith wears is strung with multiple portraits of Artemisia herself.

Another astounding painting is Madonna and Child, painted when Artemisia was only 20. The love between mother and child is palpable, and the child’s tender reach toward his mother’s face is especially moving. Artemisia gave birth to five children between 1613 and 1618—four sons and a daughter. Prudentia, named after her mother, was the only one to survive childhood.

A rare opportunity to see three of Artemisia’s paintings is now on view at the Columbus Museum of Art in Columbus, Ohio. Seeing these works in the museum’s deep-teal gallery, with other paintings from the same period, is to witness her masterful manipulation of rich color, her dramatic and vivid compositions and her unique interpretation of mythical subjects. Like Caravaggio, she worked with live models, enabling her to capture gesture, expression and reaction in the moment of action. Lucretia (1627) reveals a mature artist, painted when Artemisia was just 34. It depicts the Roman noblewoman’s public suicide: Lucretia had been raped by Sextus Tarquinius, son of Rome’s former king, and her act of vengeance sparked a revolution that replaced dynastic rule with an elected republic. With luminous pearls and billowing fabric set against voluptuous flesh and hair, the painting shows Lucretia pleading heavenward, vulnerable and unsure—a self-portrait of Artemisia herself, tortured in her innocence. She would rather die than be dishonored.

Also in the Columbus Museum exhibition is the equally intriguing Hercules and Omphale. The myth is usually treated as satire, with humor, but here Artemisia approaches it with characteristic seriousness. The Queen Omphale takes the Greek hero Hercules as her slave in retribution for her brother’s murder, forcing him to wear women’s robes and spin wool. Not only does she emasculate him, she seduces him, as evidenced by his open gaze and the gleeful Cupid resting on his thigh, while roiling clouds threaten beyond the doorway. Hercules is clearly lost. Omphale triumphs. The gallery also has an excellent touchscreen station where visitors can scroll through 60 depictions of this myth by different artists across the centuries. None is as dramatic, forceful or charged with feminine power as Artemisia’s.

Bathsheba, owned by the museum, depicts another myth that resonates powerfully today. King David spies on the beautiful woman at her bath from his balcony above, plotting to possess her. Bathsheba is married to the Hittite Uriah, so the king sends him into battle to his death. Historically, the story has been interpreted as Bathsheba seducing the king, but Artemisia knows better. Taking a different perspective, she shows Bathsheba’s beauty alongside her vulnerability and innocence—bathing on her balcony, surrounded by trusted female attendants, entirely unaware of the king’s leering gaze above. Artemisia’s rendering of expressive hands and feet, in both her male and female figures, is a marvel. She was a masterful draftsman.

One would love to see an exhibition pairing Artemisia and Caravaggio side by side—her virtuous, powerful women alongside his rascals, their shared deep reds and blacks, the play of shadow and illumination. Their paintings would speak to one another beautifully. But the moral weight of Artemisia’s dramas reaches beyond Caravaggio’s. Her work is for the ages, championing women for 500 years. She was mighty in her attempt to change things. Unfortunately, the struggle is far from over.

“Artemisia Gentileschi: Naples to Beirut” is at the Columbus Museum of Art through May 31, 2026.

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