{"product_id":"blood-water-paint-isbn-9780735232136","title":"Blood Water Paint","description":"\u003cb\u003eA harrowing and empowering story of strength and persistence in the aftermath of sexual assault, written in stunning verse and based on the life of seventeenth-century painter Artemisia Gentileschi.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eLONGLISTED FOR THE NATIONAL BOOK AWARD • A WILLIAM C. MORRIS DEBUT AWARD FINALIST • A \u003ci\u003eKIRKUS REVIEWS\u003c\/i\u003e BEST YOUNG ADULT BOOK OF THE CENTURY\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\"Haunting . . . teems with raw emotion . . . deftly captures the experience of learning to behave in a male-driven society and then breaking outside of it.\"—\u003ci\u003eThe New Yorker\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eHe will not consume\u003cbr\u003emy every thought.\u003cbr\u003eI am a painter.\u003cbr\u003eI will paint.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eI will show you\u003cbr\u003ewhat a woman can do.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter her mother died when she just twelve, Artemisia Gentileschi had a stark choice to make: a life as a nun in a convent, or a life grinding pigment for her father's paint.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe chose paint.\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eBy the time she was seventeen, Artemisia did more than grind pigment. She was one of Rome's most talented painters, even if no one knew her name. But Rome in 1610 was a city where men took what they wanted from women, and in the aftermath of rape, Artemisia faced another terrible choice: a life of silence or a life of truth, no matter the cost.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJoy McCullough's bold novel in verse is a portrait of an artist as a young woman, filled with the soaring highs of creative inspiration and the devastating setbacks of a system built to break her. McCullough weaves Artemisia's heartbreaking story with those of ancient heroines Susanna and Judith, who become not only the subjects of two of Artemisia's most famous paintings, but also sources of strength as she battles to paint a woman's timeless truth in the face of unspeakable and all-too-familiar violence.\u003cb\u003eA \u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews \u003c\/i\u003eBest Book of the 21st Century (So Far)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Haunting ... \u003ci\u003eBlood Water Paint\u003c\/i\u003e does not read like historical fiction. \u003cb\u003eIt teems with raw emotion\u003c\/b\u003e, and McCullough deftly captures the experience of learning to behave in a male-driven society and then breaking outside of it.\"—\u003ci\u003eThe New Yorker \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003cb\u003eAn impassioned, lushly described account\u003c\/b\u003e of a young woman who refuses to dwell in secret shame. \u003ci\u003eBlood Water Paint \u003c\/i\u003efits smoothly into the current conversation surrounding the #MeToo movement.\"—\u003ci\u003eChicago Tribune\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Coming out of the novel, I knew I would be\u003cb\u003e haunted and empowered by Artemisia’s story for the rest of my life.\u003c\/b\u003e\"—Amanda Lovelace, bestselling author of \u003ci\u003ethe princess saves herself in this one\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e★\"McCullough has managed to vividly capture a singularly brave, resilient feminist who became an icon during a time when women had almost no agency. Her story and the stunning verse through which it is told will resonate just as strongly with readers today. \u003cb\u003eA captivating and impressive debut about a timeless heroine.\"\u003c\/b\u003e —\u003ci\u003eBooklist,\u003c\/i\u003e starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e★\"McCullough’s beautifully crafted text will inspire upper-middle\/high school readers to research the true story upon which this powerful piece of historical fiction is based. The poetry is clear and revelatory, exploring Artemisia’s passion for both art and life. The expression of her intense feelings is gripping and her complexity of character make her a force to be reckoned with, both in her times and in ours.\"—\u003ci\u003eSLJ,\u003c\/i\u003e starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e★\"A haunting, stirring depiction of an unforgettable woman, Artemisia's story \u003cb\u003ewill resonate deeply with readers today and beyond\u003c\/b\u003e.\"—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly,\u003c\/i\u003e starred review \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e★\"Luminous.\"—Shelf Awareness, starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A visceral reminder that \u003cb\u003ewomen have suffered and stood strong throughout time\u003c\/b\u003e.”—Mindy McGinnis, award-winning author of \u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Female of the Species.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"Both a grave reminder of how little has changed and a hopeful testament to how much more we might achieve,\u003cb\u003e McCullough's debut is a must read\u003c\/b\u003e.\"—Gae Polisner, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Memory of Things \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eBlood Water Paint\u003c\/i\u003e is a deftly layered portrait,\u003c\/b\u003e at once intimate and universal.\"—Melanie Crowder, author of \u003ci\u003eAudacity\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"McCullough's stunning, immersive debut tells a timely story that's sure to stay with you long after you finish.\"—Buzzfeed\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Timeless and, alas, all too timely.\"—\u003ci\u003eKirkus\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"[W]ill resonate with modern feminists.\"\u003ci\u003e—BookPage\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“McCullough’s debut novel is one of a kind. ... [A] truly inspiring and impactful story.\"—Romatic Times\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Filled with hope and an important message that women’s voices cannot be silenced.\"—Book Riot\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"For lovers of writers like Laurie Halse Anderson and An Na.\"—Bustle\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A stunning portrait.” –Bitch \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Can be inhaled in a day.” –Paste\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Deeply moving…”—Brit \u0026amp; Co\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"This intensely passionate and powerful exploration of women’s lives, stories, truths, and power is a masterpiece.\" —Teen Librarian Toolbox\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAmelia Bloomer Top Ten\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003eAmelia Elizabeth Walden Award Finalist\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e Editor's Choice Top of the List\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eBoston Globe \u003c\/i\u003eBest Books\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eBook Page \u003c\/i\u003eBest of the Year\u003cbr\u003eBustle Best of the Year \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eChicago Public Library Best of the Best \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eCooperative Children’s Book Center Choices List\u003cbr\u003eGlobe and Mail 100: Favourite Books of the Year\u003cbr\u003eNational Book Award Longlist\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003ePacific Northwest Booksellers Association 2019 Book Award\u003cbr\u003eA \u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly \u003c\/i\u003eFlying Start\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eSchool Library Journal\u003c\/i\u003e Best of the Year\u003cbr\u003eShelf Awareness Best Children's \u0026amp; Teen Books of the Year \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eTexas Tayshas Reading List\u003cbr\u003eYALSA Best Fiction for Young Adults\u003cbr\u003eYALSA Teen's Top Ten Nominee\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003eYALSA William C. Morris Award Finalist\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eJoy McCullough writes books and plays from her home in the Seattle area, where she lives with her family. She studied theater at Northwestern University, fell in love with her husband atop a Guatemalan volcano, and now spends her days surrounded by books and kids and chocolate. Her debut novel, \u003ci\u003eBlood Water Paint, \u003c\/i\u003ewas longlisted for National Book Award and was a finalist for the William C. Morris Debut Award\u003ci\u003e. \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewww.joymccullough.com\u003cbr\u003e@jmcwrites\u003cb\u003e11.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003eOnce upon a time\u003cbr\u003eI was a child,\u003cbr\u003enot the woman\u003cbr\u003eof the house.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eNot so long ago\u003cbr\u003ebut long enough\u003cbr\u003ethe days of tugging\u003cbr\u003eon my mother’s skirts\u003cbr\u003ein hopes of being lifted up\u003cbr\u003eat every whim\u003cbr\u003eare hazy round the edges,\u003cbr\u003elike a shadow bleeding\u003cbr\u003einto light.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eIt’s hazy how,\u003cbr\u003eher belly round\u003cbr\u003ewith brothers,\u003cbr\u003eMother still made room\u003cbr\u003efor me to crawl\u003cbr\u003eup on her lap\u003cbr\u003eto hear a story\u003cbr\u003eno one else would tell.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHow she’d look down \u003cbr\u003eand ask me what I thought\u003cbr\u003eof Father’s paintings,\u003cbr\u003elisten to my answer.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eIt’s hazy how\u003cbr\u003eshe made my father\u003cbr\u003elaugh.\u003cbr\u003eHow when I’d startle\u003cbr\u003ein the night she’d soothe me\u003cbr\u003ewith a tune\u003cbr\u003eto chase away\u003cbr\u003ethe monsters.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eIt’s hazy how\u003cbr\u003eher last few weeks,\u003cbr\u003econfined to bed,\u003cbr\u003ethe child inside\u003cbr\u003ea greater weight\u003cbr\u003ethan those who came before,\u003cbr\u003eand even when the child arrived\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e                a sister, finally, cold and blue,\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eand fever dreams bled\u003cbr\u003einto pain laced with delirium,\u003cbr\u003ePrudentia Montone spent\u003cbr\u003ethe last of her strength\u003cbr\u003eto burn into my mind\u003cbr\u003ethe tales of women\u003cbr\u003eno one else would\u003cbr\u003ethink to tell.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThose stories\u003cbr\u003eof a righteous woman,\u003cbr\u003eher virtue questioned\u003cbr\u003ethrough no fault of her own;\u003cbr\u003eof a widow\u003cbr\u003ewith nothing left to lose . . .\u003cbr\u003eNo way to tell\u003cbr\u003ewhere shadow ends\u003cbr\u003eand light begins\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003ebut Mother was always\u003cbr\u003e                                                the light.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e12.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eLight dances on the child’s curls\u003cbr\u003eand whether Father sees\u003cbr\u003eor not\u003cbr\u003ethe bond between the baby\u003cbr\u003eand his mother is\u003cbr\u003eperfection.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eTwelve years\u003cbr\u003ewith my mother\u003cbr\u003ewere not enough\u003cbr\u003ebut I know how to paint the love,\u003cbr\u003ethe source of light.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThe final touches that remain\u003cbr\u003ewould go unnoticed to an unskilled eye.\u003cbr\u003eIn truth, I could release her now.\u003cbr\u003eA signature the final touch,\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e                \u003ci\u003eOrazio Gentileschi,\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e                (never Artemisia)\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003ethe client would be satisfied,\u003cbr\u003eand none would be the wiser.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eBut I would know\u003cbr\u003eher arm is\u003cbr\u003e                                not quite right.\u003cbr\u003eIt wraps around the baby,\u003cbr\u003eyet still looks flat.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eFather babbled out\u003cbr\u003esome useless nonsense\u003cbr\u003ewhen I tried to ask him\u003cbr\u003ehow to fix the problem.\u003cbr\u003eI don’t think\u003cbr\u003ehe understood\u003cbr\u003emy question.\u003cbr\u003eIf he cannot see\u003cbr\u003ethe problem to begin with,\u003cbr\u003ehow could he ever solve it?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eIt’s only a commission,\u003cbr\u003edoesn’t even bear my name.\u003cbr\u003eBut I’m not only painting the Madonna.\u003cbr\u003eI’m building a ladder,\u003cbr\u003eeach new technique,\u003cbr\u003ea rung.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e13.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eEvery time my father shoos me\u003cbr\u003edown the stairs\u003cbr\u003eaway from my studio,\u003cbr\u003eeach time he speaks to buyers\u003cbr\u003e                as though I am not there,\u003cbr\u003eeach time they leer at me\u003cbr\u003e                as I descend in seething fury,\u003cbr\u003emy mother’s stories\u003cbr\u003estoke the flames inside.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWe mostly deal in Bible tales,\u003cbr\u003esome portraits, ancient histories, myths.\u003cbr\u003eBut all the maestros\u003cbr\u003esign their names\u003cbr\u003eto David, Adam, Moses.\u003cbr\u003eThose who follow strive\u003cbr\u003eto leave their mark as well.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eI can paint a David—king or upstart boy,\u003cbr\u003ebut when I do\u003cbr\u003ethere’s nothing of me\u003cbr\u003eon the canvas.\u003cbr\u003eSusanna, though, is different.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eMy mother never held a brush\u003cbr\u003ebut still composed\u003cbr\u003ethe boldest images\u003cbr\u003efrom the brightest colors\u003cbr\u003edrawing the eye—the mind—\u003cbr\u003eto what mattered most:\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e                the young woman\u003cbr\u003e                stealing a moment\u003cbr\u003e                of peace to wash\u003cbr\u003e                away the day\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e                                then her world,\u003cbr\u003e                                stained beyond repair.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eSusanna and the Elders.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eFather’s made attempts at Susanna,\u003cbr\u003ejust like the other painters—men—\u003cbr\u003ewho think they have the right\u003cbr\u003eto tell the story of a woman\u003cbr\u003ealways watched.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eBut one can’t truly tell a story\u003cbr\u003eunless they’ve lived it in their heart.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThe longer I’m shuffled\u003cbr\u003ein and out of the studio,\u003cbr\u003eused for what I can offer,\u003cbr\u003enot what I long to share,\u003cbr\u003ethe more certain I am\u003cbr\u003eI can do Susanna justice.\u003cbr\u003eI can do my mother justice.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eI can have justice.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eBut I’m holding back\u003cbr\u003euntil I think\u003cbr\u003eperhaps\u003cbr\u003emy skills\u003cbr\u003ecan match\u003cbr\u003emy heart.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e14.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eMy arm cradles my palette,\u003cbr\u003erounded, three-dimensional.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eI paint \u003ci\u003ealla prima\u003c\/i\u003e in my mind\u003cbr\u003eexactly how it should look.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWhy then can I not transpose\u003cbr\u003e                the image in my mind\u003cbr\u003e                the image of my flesh\u003cbr\u003eonto the canvas?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eI stare at the Madonna’s\u003cbr\u003eflat, flat arm so long\u003cbr\u003emy eyes begin to blur.\u003cbr\u003eI do not notice\u003cbr\u003ethe creak of stairs\u003cbr\u003e                moan of door\u003cbr\u003e                                steps that cross\u003cbr\u003e                                                the studio.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eOr perhaps he does not enter\u003cbr\u003elike a mortal man\u003cbr\u003ebut appears\u003cbr\u003efully formed\u003cbr\u003ea miraculous apparition.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThen:\u003cbr\u003e                                a breath\u003cbr\u003e                                upon my cheek.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eNot Father’s breath.\u003cbr\u003eI grope for hiked-up skirts,\u003cbr\u003efling endless, heavy layers\u003cbr\u003eof propriety\u003cbr\u003etoward my ankles.\u003cbr\u003eI am a model Roman girl\u003cbr\u003e(or I can play the part at least).\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThe man averts his eyes,\u003cbr\u003esteps back to give me space,\u003cbr\u003eas though he doesn’t realize\u003cbr\u003ehis mere presence in this room\u003cbr\u003edrives out all air.\u003cbr\u003eHe may as well\u003cbr\u003ebe pressed against me.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHe did not mean to startle—\u003cbr\u003ethat much is clear.\u003cbr\u003eAnd even now as I\u003cbr\u003e                                recover\u003cbr\u003e                                steady my breath\u003cbr\u003e                                check my skirts once more\u003cbr\u003ehis eyes are not on me\u003cbr\u003ebut on the canvas.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e                                               My name is Agostino Tassi.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003ci\u003e                                               \u003c\/i\u003eAnd you are Artemisia.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Penguin 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