Médée furieuse, 1838
- Médée furieuse, 1838
Furious Medea, Delacroix called her,but I can see no rage, unless we counther breasts, twin weapons aimed squarelyat us, or the hand clutching a dagger,its shadow slicing her nearest child’s leg.There is disorder in her hair and robes,but her face, caught in profile, reveals what wemight read as sadness, a jaw too soft for anger.The painting’s tension lies in the lack of fury,in the illusion that she might be guardingthe boys, in our knowledge that she is not.And the children in her arms—they know it, too.The one half-hugged, half-throttled squirms away.The other is folded in a pose so closeto the surrender of nursing he looks at peacealmost, but for his eye, open wide—and looking directly at us. How many timeshave I seen that look, the flash of fear,on my young daughter’s face when I have ragedat her or some small thing? It passes, the furyand the terror—my daughter puts on socks;the driver yields—but I’m left shaken, a stranger.Maybe all mothers murder their children’sinnocence. In the painting, Medea holdsher boys so close they’re one body again,two cords she must cut. The children have no choicebut to love the hand that holds the knife. [End Page 24]
chelsea rathburn is the author of two collections of poetry, including A Raft of Grief. Her work has appeared in Oxford American and Virginia Quarterly Review. She lives in the north Georgia mountains, where she directs the creative writing program at Young Harris College.
