The sight of Judith’s strong fingers entwined in the hairs of Holofernes’ decapitated head never fails to fill me with glee.
I suppose violence should never invoke an emotion of such childlike joy. And yet I feel it, filling me to my toes with excitement as I smile at the rivulets of blood fleeing the stump of what was once a thick, manly neck. The face of the head is always the same: lips drawn back in horror, forehead scrunched together with pain, eyes reflecting surprise at the female hand that has vanquished him.
The face of Judith is nearly always different. On the angelic side, I have seen virginal Judith, childlike Judith, dainty Judith, and oh my what have we here Judith. I much prefer the devilish side of Judith. Perhaps she has a self satisfied smile, or an eyebrow raised in concentration, or even better, a expression of violence splashed across her face. I want her to embody the physical trauma that she has just enacted. There is a time and place for juxtaposition, but this is not it. I want Judith to snarl and crow and shake the weeping head about like a trophy. The Judith of my dreams is undignified and vulgar and almost animalistic. She is egoistic and reckless and brave. She is also empathetic. In a moment of great danger, she saved her people from the cruelties of a righteous man, and no brutality in her image could erase that act of pure heroism.
On another floor, during another time, perhaps even a different dimension, there is a video of a woman demonstrating the use of common kitchen tools. There is anger in her every movement. Violence articulates itself through each limb, and even a can opener can be used as a weapon of destruction.
This household woman is the opposite of the Judith, just once floor above her. She is placed in a scene of tranquility, a picture of domestic bliss. All the appliances necessary to make a happy wife are laid out in front of her. And yet there is something wrong. Despite the peaceful scene, the woman herself radiates repressed rage. Her fury leaks out of her in drops and buckets as she demonstrates for her audience the use of a soup ladle. Judith, on the other hand, is placed in a scene of violence. A knife in one hand, a severed head in the other. And yet, Judith is the picture of womanly grace. Her white neck is curved gracefully away from the monstrosity in her left hand. Everything from her clothes to her demeanor to her refined brow communicates restraint, despite the clear evidence to the contrary.
These two woman hold the world between them. One holds tranquility in her, a trait so impermeable that even murder cannot sully that smooth feminine facade. The other holds female rage in her, an emotion so strong and far-reaching, that no domestic peace can calm their waters.
I'd like to think that they if they ever met, they would become lifelong friends.
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