Rape Portraits
Rembrandt's Lucretia and feminism
When I tell I study Art History, people frequently ask why Classical figures have such tiny weenies. Or, when more restrained or normal, people ask, “What is your favorite artwork?”
And I always stutter. I never know what to answer. Between so many art movements, periods, continents, it is impossible to decide.
I know those moments of hesitation are not pretty. They have to end. I feel like they invalidate my degree in front of strangers who are not even that interested. They are just making small talk. But, anyway, today I sat on my couch for like thirty seconds to think about my favorite artwork ever. And now, the next time strangers dare to test me, I will be prepared: my favourite artwork is Lucretia, by Rembrandt van Rijn, from 1666, and I will explain why.
'Lucretia’ (c.1666) by Rembrandt van Rijn. Minneapolis Institute of Art, US. Public Domain.
Lucretia’s story dates from the early periods of Rome. Her beauty, virtue and fidelity to her husband tempted Sextus Tarquinius, one of the king’s sons. One night, Sextus went to her chambers when she was alone and threatened that unless she had sex with him, he would kill her and a male slave, then lay both bodies together so it would seem that they were caught in adultery. Fearing for her family's honor and the life of a slave, she gave in.
The next morning, she was destroyed. Keep it going like nothing had happened was not a option. So Lu summoned her father, her husband, and Brutus to meet her. She told them what had happened and committed suicide with a dagger in front of the three shaken men. Legend tells that an enraged Brutus was the first to act towards revenge by taking the dagger out of her stomach and shouting for the rebellion that would overthrow of the monarchy and establish Roman Republic.[1]
In Lucretia’s own context, according to Roman law, rape and fornication were treated as the same thing. Her testimony alone, without witnesses would be legally invalid, and the case could have been seen as deliberate adultery. In this case, her father, husband or indeed any man, would be allowed to kill her. She would be human waste: she would not be a maiden, nor a wife, neither a widow. In addition to shame, trauma, fear and anger, rape also left Lucretia without a socially acceptable category.
Detail of ‘Lucretia’ (c.1666) by Rembrandt van Rijn. Minneapolis Institute of Art, US. Public Domain.
In Rembrandt’s time in the seventeenth century, Dutch Golden Age, the legal definition of rape slowly mutated from crime against property to crime against a person.[2] Gradually, there is a new focus on whether the sexual act takes place with the woman’s consent or not. Now Rembrandt’s Lucretia and her gut-wrenching expression disrupt the notion that women are property, or the sexist belief that women want or take pleasure in being raped. This Lucretia is clearly rendered as a person and a victim of a crime. She feels, thinks, despairs, overflows. She is real.
In most depictions of Lucretia, artists focus either on the rape, or on the contemplation of suicide, or yet on the political dimension of her rape and death, but never on the moment after she stabs herself. In Rembrandt’s version, the focus is in the act of dying, of giving up, of waiting resignedly for the moment when one finally stops breathing and hurting.
‘Tarquinius and Lucretia’ (c. 1571) by Titian. Fitzwillian Museum, UK. Public Domain.
In addition, since Rembrandt's Lucretia herself takes the dagger out of her stomach, and not Brutus (who, as you recall, used the bloody dagger to incite vendetta), suicide becomes something about her and her alone — perhaps still about the crime committed against her, but not about a political revolution.
The fact that Rembrandt portrays his Lucretia alone creates a sense of autonomy and agency in respect of her own body, which was dispossessed of her through the sexual abuse. But, now, alone, she gets to make a final decision about it by taking her own life. On the one hand, yes, it is crazy, she is unfairly punishing herself, even though she is a victim. And on the other hand, she is re-appropriating what was taken from her in the act of the rape in the first place. As Rembrandt displays Lucretia alone, whatever she is doing is her own decision.
‘The Suicide of Lucretia’ (c. 1529) by Lucas Cranach the Elder. TMFA, Texas. Public Domain.
Other aspect to consider is that Rembrandt's Lucretia is fully clothed. The only reason her dress is in disarray is because it would be an obstacle to the dagger. It is not like Rembrandt was trying to make a rape victim look sexy, just like many others before him. Instead, by dressing her, Rembrandt made the rape invasion even more poignant. There is a whole new consciousness towards sexual violence as we contrast it with her fully dressed chastity.
‘Dood van Lucretia’ (c. 1594) by Jan Harmensz. Muller. Rijksmuseum, Amsterdan. Public Domain.
The quantity of nude Lucretias in Art History provides evidence of a creepy male authority in situations of desire and abuse. Considering the tale I’ve just told, why do you think a chaste, traumatised, suicidal maiden would be naked in front of Brutus, her father and husband?
It is because of the way people used to write history. A way in which women occupied a subordinate position in relation to men.[3] The result of this social structure is a voiceless gender, frequently spoken for and re-presented by the other gender — the one gender with the power of deciding which stories are going to be told and how. When the subaltern is voiceless but is, anyway, spoken for, that is a case of ventriloquism.
Because men write the books, women are unable to defend themselves: women are portrayed differently than they would portray themselves, or than they actually are. [4]
And all these sexy Lucretias are examples of such ventriloquism. This is how Lucretia’s rape ended up in history: in a eroticised way.
‘The Oath of Junius Brutus’ (c. 1797) by Alexandre Evariste Fragonard. Villa Musée Fragonard, France. Public Domain.
Representation of the world, like the world itself, is the work of men; they describe it from their own point of view, which they confuse with absolute truth. [5]
One of the first Lucretias to break with tradition was that of Rembrandt van Rjin. His portrayal of Lucretia granted her a sense of interiority and complex personality. Although he was not directly engaged in a feminist discourse, contingently, the paintings do point to issues that feminists have been approaching for a long time. For more that it was not his ultimate goal, Rembrandt shed new light on women in relationship to violence and abuse as he engaged the viewer of his works in a deeper contemplation of the women’s ‘selfness’. To look at his dressed Lucretia makes any viewer with a heart realise that the sexual abuse already made her lifeless before she pierced a dagger through her stomach. Rembrandt gave women some power, both to the historical character and to spectators through the centuries.
I think this is a great painting to call my favourite even though it does not represent a light-hearted subject matter: Rembrandt's technique was flawless and jaw-dropping, the Dutch Golden Age was an amazing period for the arts, and, finally, Lucretia brings so much of an operating conversation on women’s self-contained autonomy in respect of desire, sexual abuse and power.
From now on, when people come to me with the question "What is your favourite artwork?" I will still stutter because it will not be easy to explain all of the reasons why I like this painting so much. Well, I can always text those people with the link to this post.
[1] James Hall. Dictionary of Subjects and Symbols in Art. Philadelphia: Westview Press, 2008. P. 268.
[2] In medieval times, the virtue of a woman was considered a ‘good’ supposed to be protected in order to certify a family’s wealth and bloodline. Donatella Palotti. “A Most Detestable Crime” Representations of Rape in the Popular Press of Early Modern England. University of Florence. url.: http://www.fupress.net/index.php/bsfm-lea/article/view/12463/11780 Last Access May 6, 2016. More about this shift from property to person in: Hammer-Tugendhat, P. 73.
[3] In Can the Subaltern Speak?, Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak states “Here is a woman who tried to be decisive in extremis. She ‘spoke,’ but women did not, ‘hear’ her. Thus she can be defined as a ‘subaltern’- a person without lines of social mobility.” Gayatri Spivak. Toward a History of the Vanishing Present. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1999. Ch 4. P. 28.
[4] Margaret E. Loebe. Christine de Pizan and the Querelle de la Rose: Combating Misogyny with Morality. Sweet Briar College. Web. url.: http://oldweb.sbc.edu/sites/default/files/Honors/Loebe.pdf. Last access Apr 27, 2016. P. 13.
[5] Simone de Beauvoir. The Second Sex, London: Penguin, 1972. P. 175.
