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art-that-fucks-you-up-tournament · 9 months

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SET FOUR - ROUND ONE - MATCH EIGHT

"Fountain" (1917 - Marcel Duchamp) / "Judith Slaying Holofernes" (c. 1620 - Artemisia Gentileschi)

FOUNTAIN: I know, I know, if this was something you saw today in an art museum, it would be cliche and a little cringey, but this was not from 2023! Its from 1917, in France. In context, it is such a punk piece of work, such a fucking, fuck you to art elitism. While modern art movements were growing in Europe, France had a very real tension between older, traditional styles of art and the growing newer, less realistic and more abstract schools. There was a clear delineation between institutional traditional styles and the newer styles, whose artists were often working on the periphery or entirely outside of french art circles. So by putting this in a museum - saying yeah, this urinal is just as worthy as your shit to be here. Such a fuck you! It got rejected from several exhibitions for being "immoral and vulgar" and "a plagiarised object, or rather a commercial piece of plumbing art." And then the immoral, vulgar (and of course, why is this immoral or vulgar? and why are the objects of plumbers excluded from being art) piece got exhibited!

Our current understandings of art might not need this sort of philosophical challenge to "what is allowed to be art," but in 1917, the French art world definitely did (@travelingsmithy)

JUDITH SLAYING HOLOFERNES: This is one of my favorite Baroque/Renaissance paintings ever. First, it has that dynamic and theatrical lighting you get with Baroque pieces, where the background is dark and unimportant and the scene has very dramatic and intense lighting. Second, its so visceral, so violent in a way that women typically were not allowed to be in art. Judith is shown as powerful and strong, and its the same with her maidservant Abra (thanks wikipedia). Holofernes was clearly fighting back but was overcome by the two, there is blood splattered all over the bed, Judith has got her hands gripping his hair and just dragging the knife through his throat.

The context to the scene, is that this is retribution for Holofernes raping Judith, that she is getting her revenge and justice. She is a fully active participant, this is her decision and action, and its just so clear in the painting. For reference, this is Carvaggio's version and it is so different. There is a distance and fakeness to the scene, where the women are timid and almost uninvolved in the violence. Here that could not be less of the case. Judith and Abra are fully in the scene, with the strain of the murder clearly showing in their figures. It is such a far cry from the typical depiction of women in this era of art, from their form to their expressions to their actions. There's a level of personhood that is typically denied to women that is present here, the painter allowing the figures to be present in the violence of the scene, to be full actors and perpetrators, knowledgeable and determined.

On its own, it stands as an incredibly evocative piece of art. In comparison to other takes on this same scene, it completely rises above the rest (@travelingsmithy)

("Fountain" is a sculpture by French artist Duchamp that consists of a porcelain urinal signed "R. Mutt". The original was lost, but about 15 replicas exist worldwide.

"Judith Slaying Holofernes" is an oil on canvas painting by Italian artist Artemisia Gentileschi. It measures 6′ 6″ x 5′ 4″ (158.8 cm × 125.5 cm) and is located in the Uffizi Gallery in Florence.)

#art that fucks you up tournament #polls #atfyu polls #id in alt text #one of our most popular submissions #can't wait to see the comments on this one #also just remember that more commentary will be cycled into the next round!#cw blood #cw gore #cw eye contact

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moontos · 6 months

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Artemisia Gentileschi (1593 c. 1656): Judith Beheading Holofernes, 1611, oil on canvas, 158,8 x 125,5 cm, Museo Nazionale di Capodimonte, Naples.

Artemisia Gentileschi (c. 1593-1656) was the daughter of Orazio Gentileschi, a follower of Caravaggio. She is widely regarded as the most accomplished female painter of the 17th century. After a scandal in Rome involving a rape case she brought against the landscape painter Agostino Tassi, Gentileschi moved to Florence. This case, which ended with Gentileschi's humiliation, is now seen as a symbol of the violence women have endured throughout history.

The scene of Judith beheading Holofernes has been a popular subject in art since the early Renaissance, as part of a group of subjects called the Power of Women. Caravaggio's 'Judith Beheading Holofernes' is believed to be the main source of inspiration for Gentileschi's work, as his influence is evident in the naturalism and violence she brings to her canvas.

The painting depicts an episode from the Book of Judith, which is not considered canonical by Christian Churches and Jews. It tells the story of the assassination of the Assyrian general Holofernes by the Israelite heroine Judith. Gentileschi's painting shows the moment when Judith, helped by her maidservant, beheads the general after he has fallen asleep drunk.

The painting is strikingly physical, with wide spurts of blood and the energy of the two women as they carry out the act. The effort of their struggle is most finely represented by the delicate face of the maid, who is grasped by the oversized, muscular fist of Holofernes as he desperately struggles to survive. Although the painting depicts a classic scene from the Bible, Gentileschi drew herself as Judith and her mentor Agostino Tassi, who was tried in court for her rape, as Holofernes.

Artemisia Gentileschi (1593 c. 1656): Judith Holofernes'i Boynunu Kesiyor, 1611, tuval üzerine yağlı boya, 158,8 x 125,5 cm, Museo Nazionale di Capodimonte, Napoli.

Caravaggio'nun takipçisi Orazio Gentileschi'nin kızı olan Artemisia Gentileschi, 17. yüzyılın en yetenekli kadın ressamı olarak kabul edilen, Roma'da peyzaj ressamı Agostino Tassi'ye karşı tecavüz davası açtıktan sonra skandalı kaçmak için Floransa'ya taşındı. Bu dramatik olayın, Artemisia'nın aşağılanmasıyla sonuçlanan şekilde öngörülebilir bir şekilde sonuçlanması belgelerle kanıtlanmıştır ve bugün kadınların yüzyıllardır maruz kaldığı şiddetin sembolü olarak kabul edilir.

Judith'in Holofernes'i boynunu kesme sahnesi, Kadınların Gücü adı verilen konu grubunun bir parçası olarak erken Rönesans'tan beri sanatta popüler olmuştur.

Caravaggio'nun 'Judith Holofernes'i Boynunu Kesiyor' adlı eseri, bu çalışmanın ana kaynağı olduğuna inanılır ve Gentileschi'nin tuvaline getirdiği doğalcılık ve şiddet etkisi görülebilir.

Konu, Hristiyan Kiliseleri ve Yahudiler tarafından genellikle kanonik olarak kabul edilmeyen Judith Kitabı'ndan bir bölümü ele alır. İsrailli kahraman Judith'in Asur generali Holofernes'i öldürmesini anlatır. Tablo, Judith'in hizmetçisi tarafından yardım edilerek, general sarhoş uyurken onu boynunu keserkenki anı gösterir.

Tablo, geniş kan püskürtmelerinden, iki kadının eylemi gerçekleştirdiği enerjiye kadar acımasızca fizikseldir. Kadınların mücadelesinin çabası, Holofernes'in umutsuzca hayatta kalmak için kavradığı, büyük ölçekli, kaslı yumruğu tarafından en iyi şekilde temsil edilen hizmetçinin narin yüzüyle gösterilir. Tablo, Kutsal Kitap'tan klasik bir sahneyi tasvir etse de, Gentileschi, kendini Judith olarak çizmiş ve ona tecavüz davası için mahkemede yargılanan mentörü Agostino Tassi'yi Holofernes olarak tasvir etmiştir.

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pwlanier · 7 months

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Artemisia Gentileschi,

Judith and her Maidservant, 1618-1619.

Oil on canvas

Courtesy Alain Truong

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bebx · 10 months

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Feminine rage in paintings

Judith Slaying Holofernes by Artemisia Gentileschi | Salome with the Head of Saint John the Baptist by Caravaggio | Judith Beheading Holofernes by Caravaggio | Jael and Sisera by Alessandro Turchi | Judith with the Head of Holofernes by Louis Finson | Jael slays Sisera by Ottavio Vannini | Judith and Her Maidservant with the Head of Holofernes by Orazio Gentileschi | La Douce Résistance by Michel Garnier | Timoclea Kills the Captain of Alexander the Great by Elisabetti Sirani | Salome Bearing the Head of Saint John the Baptist by un unknown copyist after c. 1631 originated from Guido Reni

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rosewaterandivy · 6 months

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exsanguinate

Summary: exsanguinate - the action or process of draining or losing blood.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader, if you squint (it's really more of a character study)

WC: 2.5k

Warnings/Themes: 18 +, MINORS DNI. Graphic depictions of violence and sex. Psychological horror/trauma, botched forced sterilization, abortion, memory loss, body horror, dark and sacrilegious themes, and mutual corruption.

A/N: prosaic idolatry, smut, horror, and the sublime. please re-read the warnings/themes section above because this is not for everyone. if you can't watch a David Cronenberg film or have issues with any of the warnings above, please move along. and before you can ask, yes, this is a quasi-winter soldier!au

Please do not interact if you aren't 18+.

Nota bene: Reblogging, commenting, and liking my work is always appreciated; reposting, however, is not.

Enjoy! 💜

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“There’s a ticket out for you too,” The American says, eyes cutting to yours.

You nod, lips pursed and observe the painting before you: Artemisia Gentileschi’s Judith Beheading Holofernes. You know the story well, the Biblical Judith and her maidservant bear down on their victim, the invading Assyrian general Holofernes, as Judith saws at his neck with a sword.

Your eye travels to take in the blood spattering in long, ropy arcs, spraying Judith’s chest and neck. Holofernes’s tortured expression and copious amounts of blood are familiar to you, a slow smile crept its way across your face.

I got your one way ticket right here, mister.

Stepping to the next painting, the American trails alongside you.

“I appreciate that.”

It’s a calculated response, one you’d inevitably settled on anticipating this very conversation.

“We’ll be in touch.”

His footsteps echo along the corridor leaving you alone in the gallery.

Eyes taking in the somber hues of blue and gray, along with the warmth of a red dress and ochre wall. Magritte’s The Lovers II stares back at you. It was always a favorite of yours, embodying the protagonists’ frustrations all too well.

The hoods could very well double as burial shrouds, a final separation of the lovers in their last embrace.

The knife twisted inside you once more.

Moscow likes a sure thing.

So when you were brought in, an amalgamation of skin, bruises, and bones, he was suspicious.

And when the handler ordered him to fight you, he nearly balked.

But not you.

Barrelling at him with all your might and the grace of a dancer, you were ready to rip him to shreds.

The Asset.

The man you could never possibly live up to.

How wrong they turned out to be.

He wakes to a disembodied blood curdling scream.

Jolts upright in his cell, briefly disoriented by the faint tingle of a phantom limb. Goes to flex his fingers and shake out the tinge to find nothing there.

The prosthesis was being recalibrated. He usually slept better without it, anyway.

Silence echoes through the hallway, the faint whirring of machines fading away like an afterthought.

Looking to the left, he finds you aren’t in your cell. Which is odd, given the hour.

He stays awake, lays back against the bed and waits.

Not an hour later, two medics drag you back to your cell. The tops of your feet are bloody from scraping against the concrete, and two red spots bloom through the flimsy white gown near your hips.

They place you back on your bed, promising to return a few hours later to check on you. A brief nod of understanding and they’re walking back to the operating room.

You’d stifled your pain as long as you dared, hiccupping sobs erupting from your throat as you turn toward the concrete wall.

“What happened?”

It’s the first question he’s asked you since your appointment as his partner. His voice was controlled, but concerned. He doesn’t like not knowing things.

You sniff, an effort to stop your tears and snot but it does no good. When the sobs and hiccups subside, you reply: “Moscow likes a sure thing.”

No accidents. No fuck-ups. No survivors.

One day, maybe, you’ll tell him how the good doctor didn’t put you under (couldn’t spare the expense) as he sterilized you. How the medical staff had to hold you down limb by limb to quell your thrashing.

“Now, now, Lilith,” he tsked with scalpel in hand, “Either you comply or we get the little red book, eh?”

A cold sweat broke out against your skin. Anything but the little red book. The trigger words and their inevitable countdown to oblivion and the chair.

“N-no,” you manage to eek out through the bit in your mouth, “I’ll be good.”

A slow smile, like splitting skin with the tip of a nail, “Of course you will dear.”

He turns toward the camera in the operating theater just as a nurse jabs a needle into your neck. The chemical concoction burns its way through your veins.

“Let us begin.”

You’re late.

Uncharacteristically so.

Your partner trudges on ahead of you, boots crunching in the snow. Coming back from a mission in the outer reaches of the taiga, in December.

Fucking Moscow.

The safe house is within sight now, at least. The promise of a warm fire and the ability to feel your toes again was within reach.

The drop, which he knows nothing of, is tomorrow.

The pills, which he knows nothing of, will be administered by the pharmacist the day after tomorrow.

You could do this.

You had to do this.

There were no other options.

Time had run out.

You’d been in denial until a week or so ago.

You had, after all, been sterilized via tubal ligation several years ago.

So, when you’d run out of condoms during a recon mission in Budapest sometime after midnight, the risk was negligible.

And he’d talked so low and sweet, made your body positively sing sin, that the obstacle was quickly forgotten.

Somehow, you never did manage to grab another box.

So it goes.

Color you surprised when you realize you’ve gone the greater part of a month without your period.

The test itself nearly falls out of your hand and clatters to the ground when the two lines appear.

A familiar rap on the door.

“Mon coeur, we’re going to be late.”

Yeah, about that…

But there was no time to spare, Moscow was calling. And if this extraction was going to go off without a hitch, there could be no question of your loyalties.

Scrambling to hide the evidence, you toss the plastic test into the bin and give yourself a final once over in the mirror.

Deep breath.

“Of course, Soldat,” you purr opening the door. “We wouldn’t want that, now would we?”

He was furious, of course.

Holed up in the safe house with someone he thought he could trust, who turned out to be a traitor.

“They approached me,” you say for the umpteenth time.

He rakes his hand through his hair again; the strands standing this way and that evidence of his frustration.

“You kept saying things in your sleep, over and over again,” you try to reason with him. “Robin, Hawkins, Star Court, Upside Down, Dustin—”

“What?”

You pause, taking in the low pitch of his voice. “Like I said, you were talking in your sleep.”

He sits in front of the fireplace, warm golds and oranges cascading across his face. He shakes his head, “Those words mean nothing to me.”

“Well,” you bite your lip, “Agree to disagree.”

You recount how you intercepted a cipher from someone named Murray and sent another back.

“Under a pseudonym, Laika.”

“The Sputnik II dog?”

“The patron saint of one-way trips,” you reply, with a sad turn of your lips.

Continuing to fill him in on how the American made contract and gained your tentative trust.

“He showed me pictures.”

A younger man, maybe not entirely carefree but at least carrying a different burden from the man in front of you now.

“You looked happy.”

He grunts, disbelieving.

Rising from your perch against the windowsill, you step toward him. He makes room for you in front of the fire, head resting against the crown of yours as he pulls you to his lap. Breathes in the familiar scent of you, nose buried at the nape of your neck.

“The name. Tell it to me again.”

“Steve,” you say, “Steve Harrington.”

You feel his lips moving against your sensitive skin, mouthing it back to you, tasting the syllables against his tongue.

“Who the fuck is Steve?”

Despite yourself, you let out a laugh.

“That’s for you to find out, Любимый.”

The American arrives at daybreak, just as he promised.

The knocks on the door match the code you’d agreed upon. The Soldat is less than enthused— his brows have been furrowed since he'd woke up.

Kits packed, and the fire extinguished, you hazard a glance for anything left behind. Deeming the safe house cleaner than when you’d arrived, you open the front door and step outside.

Fresh snow blankets the area as the American waits for you to approach. You nod in greeting and turn back to the cabin, “Get a move on,” you call out in Russian.

Facing the American you’re privy to his reaction upon seeing this so-called Steve Harrington. And it does not disappoint. His eyes widen ever so slightly, the light blue appearing cooler in the winter light. He takes a breath, gaze falling to the metal prosthesis of his left arm.

“Steve.”

The door slams shut and echoes throughout the clearing. He shoulders his bag and assesses the American, coming to a stop at your side.

“Do you trust me?"

He regards you briefly, gaze softening on your features. “Of course, my love.”

His eyes search your face for any signs of apprehension. Finding none, he sighs and gestures to the American as if to say, ‘lead the way.’

The three of you trek into the forest for several kilometers. The American says little and for that you are grateful. The Solda— Steve speaks to you every so often in Russian; you’re lagging behind and he’s concerned.

You spy the snowmobile out of the corner of your eye, just where Stanislav said it would be.

You owe me, She-Wolf.

Called in every favor you had, ledger bleeding red at this point. But it was worth it, you’d do it all over again if it meant he could be free.

After all, one of you should be happy.

The telltale sound of a twig snapping halts your party. The American pulls a glock from his coat and slowly turns back toward you.

Your partner, armed to the teeth as ever, already has his M4 carbine loaded and scope trained on the outlying forest.

“How many?”

Checking the magazine on the M294 SAW, you sigh. “Too many.”

The first shot whizzes just past The American and you play your hand. Returning fire and stepping off the trail, you jerk your chin to the west.

“Go on ahead, I’ll catch up.”

“Not happening sweetheart,” he grouses, picking off a sniper.

“We’re nearly there already, less than a kilometer to the Ukranian border.”

“All the more reason to go together.”

Stanislav was not going to like this. The sooner you convinced him to leave with the American, the better.

“I’ll be fine, mon lion.” You assure him, covering his flank. “Get the American out of here, I’m right behind you.”

And this would be the hardest part.

Breaking his trust could very well be the end of you, but it had to be done to ensure his safety and survival.

You hear the bullet before you can feel it graze your temple. As you fall, you see him turn toward you and run faster than he has in his entire life.

Voices are muffled, but you can tell that there’s shouting.

“We have to go now!” The American says, tugging at your partner’s arm.

“Don’t you fucking touch me,” he bites back, hands searching for injuries along your torso.

In the fall, your head had lolled to the side and effectively hidden the wound. The blood still poured however, head wounds bled like a bitch anyway, and you know him well enough that he won’t move you until it’s necessary.

His lips form your name, not Lilith or ma louve, not darlin’ nor malishka. Your actual name, the one Moscow hadn’t managed to scrape from you; something you held close and dear, reserved for only him.

Everything is so still.

Quiet.

The American attempts to bargain with him, unsuccessfully.

“C’mon honey,” he croaks, “I’m here, I’ve got you. Just gotta wake up, hmm? We’re so close, you can’t leave me now.”

It’s a funny thing, you never wanted to leave him in the first place. Just wanted him safe and sound, away from the rot of Moscow and your blood-stained hands.

His right hand lingers over your arm.

Warm.

His fingers touch your cheek.

Nothing.

Your face has gone slack, eyes shut, body lax against the white snow.

Well, mostly white.

Arms wrap around you, a hand cradles your head, you feel the tremor in his hold before he croaks out in English, “Help her. Help–”

“Don’t look kid,” The American advises, voice low and pleading. “We gotta go, Steve. She’d want you to.”

He’s ignored.

Pulling away from his grip, cool fingers turn your face toward him before they flinch back as if burned.

A hollowness carving its way through his chest.

So many things he never got to tell you. Never had the right words to say— And now, there are simply none.

He chokes down the feeling. The pain, torment, sacrifice, torture— all of it. Wills himself to stop trembling, and stop being weak but the voice echoing through his mind is unfamiliar to him. Older, stern, and perpetually disappointed.

Finally, he turns his hand.

A blood-red bloom.

Stanislav held up his end of the bargain and patched you up as best he could before depositing you back in Moscow under the care of the pharmacist.

You wake in a dimly lit room, a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling.

The wound at your temple has already begun to heal, thanks to the KGB serum no doubt.

The old woman enters with a tray of food and a glass of water. She sets it down at the foot of the bed with a sad smile.

You clock the paper cup immediately and swallow what feels like is your heart crawling its way out of your throat.

You pick at the food until she deems you’ve eaten a decent amount. She hands you the paper cup and a glass of water. Eyeing the four pills in the cup, you glance up to ask, “Got anything stronger?”

A slow shake of her head.

With a sigh, you tuck the four pills under your tongue and wait for them to dissolve. After a few minutes, you take a sip of water and swallow the last remnants of the pills. Upon your arrival, you’d be conscious enough to take enough pain killers to down a horse, just in case.

You finish drinking the water and pass it back to her.

She regards you carefully, sadness in her eyes. “I’ll bring you vodka,” she concludes lifting the tray from you bed on her way out the door, “After, for the pain.”

As the door closes, you hand rests against your abdomen briefly. Nothing more than a clump of cells now, a hurricane of genetics containing both you and him.

In another life, it would have been good.

As it was, there was hardly a choice to be made.

A choice between you and him.

(Him, always.)

A choice between survival and death.

(Survival, at all costs.)

Moscow, after all, likes a sure thing.

It was all but assured that you would raze the organization to the ground with your very hands. Dissemble their precious assets brick by fucking brick. The handlers, the medics, and the good old doctor himself would have to answer for their crimes blood for blood.

And you knew all too well the many and varied ways to make them bleed.

Hell hath no fury, after all.

#steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #stranger things fan fiction #stranger things fanfic #winter soldier!steve #Spotify

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