A play about a spirited 17th century girl who determines she will become a master painter like Caravaggio, and does so, might seem a tad esoteric. And the notion of a two-hour course in Baroque-era art appreciation might sound drily academic. Playwright Kate Hamill blasts away any such perceptions, though, before the dialogue of The Light and the Dark even starts.
Hamill, an accomplished performer who also plays the central role, strides onstage, takes a long look at the blank canvas in front of her, and then considers her audience. From the first line of the play—about composition, story and perspective—we sense that yes, this is a character working within that 17th century artists’ studio set; but she is also talking to us, here and now and today. No stilted, highfalutin’ language, no endless painterly jargon that’ll set you perusing your program or staring at your watch, wondering just how long this is gonna take. From the opening scene—which starts in “the sweltering swamp air of Rome, 1593”—we are instantly as one with Hamill and the world of Artemisia Gentileschi.
We tag along as 7-year-old Artemisia—the daughter of a traditionalist (but not quite successful) painter—is enthralled by the groundbreaking work of Caravaggio. Or, as one of the jealous painters of the day calls him, “Mother. Fucking. Caravaggio.” What century, friends, is this? Hamill not only uses the line for a laugh: she has Artemisia enthusiastically and lucidly explain that “when Caravaggio shows murder, he includes the blood! When Caravaggio paints fruit, he depicts the rot!”
The painting in question, Caravaggio’s “Judith Beheading Holofernes” is projected on the studio wall in all its gory glory. We are clearly engaged in a knockout battle between the respectable old and the violent new. To those who typically prefer to shy away from art galleries, the point is as clear as the scarlet blood spurting from Holofornes’ severed throat. Hamill places her characters in Rome at the turn of the century—the Caravaggio appeared on the walls of the Contarelli Chapel in San Luigi dei Francesi in 1600—while she writes in the language of, and speaks to the audience of, today.
Hamill has enjoyed great success with a series of imaginative adaptations of classic novels, consistently managing to distill the prose without losing the distinct flavor of the novelist in question. These include wildly entertaining versions of Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility and Pride and Prejudice, as well as Thackery’s Vanity Fair. Lest you wonder how she might do on an original play of her own with no pre-written dialogue to draw upon, The Light and the Dark offers a clear and unambiguous answer.
Hamill’s performance as Artemisia, too, is exemplary. She is joined by a fine cast. Matthew Saldívar (Bernhardt/Hamlet) is properly smarmy as the egotistical Agostino Tassi; Wynn Harmon at once supports and betrays Artemisia as her father Orazio; and Carlo Albán, who was so memorable as the busboy in Lynn Nottage’s Sweat, offers an even-handed performance as the judge struggling to fight his own 17th century biases during the extended trial scene.
Joey Parsons, who has appeared in several productions of Hamill’s plays, shines as she steps into three distinctly diverse roles. Her performance is capped by a bravura duet of a final scene, artfully played against and with the author. We also have that especially strong actor Jason O’Connell on hand in the small role of Cosimo, the painter who disdains Caravaggio and later has an important speech within the trial scene. O’Connell—who so memorably played Darcy to Hamill’s Lizzy Bennett—is clearly underutilized on this occasion, although one imagines he has simply come along to offer support to his wife (as per a charming pre-pandemic nuptial report in the Times).
Like many of the attractions that find a Manhattan home at 59E59, The Light and the Dark originated regionally. This is a production of Primary Stages, which presented Hamill’s Pride and Prejudice. The play originated at the Chautauqua Theater Company, an upstate non-profit located where the westernmost flap of New York abuts Erie, Pennsylvania. Artistic director Jade King Carroll, who directed the play, has done a fine job of staging Hamill’s text, incorporating projections of the paintings as indicated and carefully realizing the present-day undercurrents the author has woven into the work. Brittany Vasta’s small-stage art studio set, filled with painter’s implements, works effectively, offering ample space for the projections from Kylee Loera. The costumes, designed by Jen Caprio, slyly incorporate modern elements, while Seth Reiser provides effective lighting.
Does the playwright have a sly motive and hidden agenda? Of course she does, and she is remarkably successful at having it both ways. The teen-aged Artemisia endures the prejudices of the old boy’s network of the painters’ guild, which leads to a brutal rape by the jealous Agostino and culminates in the sadistic trial which Gentileschi (the victim) was forced to undergo. Yet she survives and flourishes. More to the point, her paintings have survived the centuries: sixty or so, many showing biblical or mythical heroines under attack or violently slaying tormentors, are on display in the great museums of the world. She went on to work in Florence, Venice, Naples and London, dying in 1656 or so in her mid-sixties.
Composition, story and perspective. “I don’t just paint ladies and saints, I paint whores and nurses and servants!” Hamill exclaims as the stage walls are flooded with paintings by Gentileschi, “I paint them strong, I paint them angry! My women never weep! And my prostitutes look like Madonnas, and vice-versa.”
Strong words. Strong performance. Strong play.
