Judith and Holofernes

When I took these pictures ten years ago, I only knew it was Judith but I’ve never been sure about the part of the epic story these images belong to. This Judith is not Caravaggio’s disgusted girl doing what she is supposed to do, regardless of how barbaric it looks in contrast with her refined facial features.

This Judith is not Gentileschi’s feminist self-empowering statement, reflecting her victory over a cruel past. It’s not the sexualized Judith Klimt depicts, inviting you to celebrate or maybe even be the next head she puts aside and out of the frame.

My Judith is found lonely, doubtful, not so much about what she has to do but what she’ll have to live with, after her decision is made. This Judith is used to this Holofernes and he is used to her, sleeping like a peachy newborn in her arms. This is not a scene of pre-war one night stand where the invasor takes advantage of a widow. This is a couple, a marriage, where decapitation, so many times, is an allegoric mockery, an escape, a truth that oozes through the strong bars of commitment and pillars of love, of the “forever and always”, of the long-forgotten first kiss.

My Judith, lonely but in company, plays with her fingers while ordering her thoughts, with Holofernes’ face as the landscape of her immediate past and somewhat forgotten future. Framed from a godly cenital perspective, the crimson-blood streams of the great Baroque masters, are replaced by royal purple and blue of this Judith, widow only to her past, decapitating only with a hug. The cameos on her bracelet are nothing more than solid colors and unlike Gentileschi’s Artemisia, this Judith bears Khronos.

Observing them, from this very intimate angle, I also didn’t know at the moment of taking this picture, that I’m the third character, Abra, hidden in a tridimensional negative space, outside of the composition, beyond the shadows.

This week, in February 2022, many will be widows and I’m sure many would gladly decapitate the double-headed eagle if they could.