#36 Lucretia

At the Minneapolis Institute of Art, there is a painting by Rembrandt known as Lucretia. I had stood around that painting in multiple classes discussing it, even in classes that had nothing to do with Rembrandt or European art. If we passed near Lucretia, we’d all have to stop and gape at it.

Looking at her pale face was like having a small stone dropped into my left ventricle. I loved this painting, but after awhile, I dreaded those stops. I knew the story of Lucretia by virtue of multiple class visits, so, more than once, I was tasked with informing the rest of the class.

I’d try not to whisper-speak as my throat, then neck, then face would get hot and dry, especially around those words: rape, honor, suicide. I’d look up at her perpetually stuck in that moment right before collapse and feel exactly the same way.

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Originally published on amyyuki.com