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Words by Danielle Kionasina Dilys Thomson (she/her)   I arrived early, and searched for a seat to perch on while sipping on a generous glass of Marlborough Savvy B’. Scanning the crowd, which was already spilling out from the Basement bar to the courtyard, I realised that I would have to bravely introduce myself to a group of strangers if I wanted to find a table. So, I gulped down my social anxiety and said “hi” to a particularly friendly looking girlsquad. They embraced me with warm smiles and instructed me to “come sit girl!” Little did I know, I had chosen none other than the real-world best friends of Koroseta’s creator Lealofitaute Vaai to soak up the second-hand pre-show jitters with.     As the time crept dangerously close to 6.30pm, a bartender gently suggested that the audience-to-be made their way upstairs. We entered an otherworldly portal to Vaai’s work. Basement’s steep, tunnel-like staircase led us all to the reason we paid $12.00 to park in the city for one hour. A fantastic mural and fuchsia lighting signalled me to curtail my gossip sesh with my new pals. Ready or not, I needed to mentally prepare for an unsettling resurrection of emotions that many of us bury.     Koroseta told the story of a Samoan daughter wayfinding through grief. Her best friend is always knocking on her door wondering what’s up, her mum reminding her of the chores she hasn’t completed yet, and her phone relentlessly notifying her that she is misunderstood by her peers. Koroseta, the titular character, remained aloof. Mind elsewhere. As she daydreamed about her late sister, Koroseta’s navigation through heartbreaking loss was revealed in song, siva and spoken word.     Violin strings pulled at my memories of lost loved ones during this intimate portrayal of Koroseta’s life after her sister’s death. The music was harrowing. Agonising. And utterly beautiful. A small but mighty orchestra emphasised the haunting drama that ensued onstage. But they didn’t just play the classics. In fact, they played everything from Billie Eilish to The Five Stars. Listening to these orchestral renditions of TikTok hits and Samoan love songs was a surprising, poignant way to be guided through the undulating mood of the show.     Despite sorrowful appearances, Koroseta  wasn’t all gloom. Somehow, the tension broke right before I started wailing every time. Skilfully scripted banter brought temporary relief when the sadness of Koroseta’s malaga was almost too much to bear. Then the whole audience erupted in laughter that took me back to standing in my aunty’s kitchen, lovingly slapping my cousin’s shoulder for saying something cheeky that I wasn’t allowed to repeat. Deeply comforted by crack-up yarns between Koroseta and her best friend, my bottom lip steadied as the next set of heavy waves rolled in.     After her sister’s funeral, Koroseta appeared to exist in a reality that was separate to the one everyone else returned to. Untethered from her community, she was left to observe as they continued dancing to music that she could no longer hear. Automated, dutiful responses like kissing one-thousand cheeks and monotonously offering cups of tea to innumerable relatives, were swiftly replaced with complete withdrawal. Minimal lighting accentuated Koroseta’s disorientation. Once the last guest had been farewelled, life carried on—and Koroseta despaired in the gaping silence of a world that was rendered unrecognisable; incomplete.     Koroseta’s story   characterised the tenderness of Samoan alofa, the backbreaking pressure of unwavering social expectations, and the ice-cold consequences that some Samoan daughters face for not meeting them. Vaai ensured that the audience noticed the disapproving whispers and raised eyebrows that tormented Koroseta in her darkest hour. The people closest to Koroseta could not perceive the black hole she was swimming in, but the audience could. We heard her longing for her dead sister. Searching for a way to keep drawing breath without knowing why. Poetry pelting the stage like the real tears that streamed down the faces of the cast. A sombre falsetto softening each blow. As the audience uncovered Koroseta’s invisible wounds, my mind wandered to those that many of us carry beneath our own thick skin.     This was undoubtedly the first time I attended a Samoan funeral at a theatre. Despite feeling nervous to unearth my own grief in public, my eyes swelled with pride as I witnessed the innermost aspects of my culture playing out onstage. Vaai and her multi-talented cast celebrated us, in all of our complicated layers of joy and pain. While she highlighted the beauty of entrenched Samoan cultural customs, she also confronted the conflict between service and self; personal needs and communal needs; responsibilities that seem to exist in direct opposition to each other. Vaai’s masterful storytelling wove everyone in that room together. Whether I was cackling or crying, I was captivated by her unfaltering honesty.     It’s no wonder that tickets to Koroseta are hard to come by. Immediately after opening night, I asked if I could go again. But every show was SOLD OUT! You best believe I will be first in line for whatever Vaai creates next. Watch. This. Space.   Read more at @tagataatami on Instagram, and www.tagataatami.co.nz

Poem by Danielle Kionasina Dilys Thomson My ie lavalava knows when to part like the seas So the hot space between my taro thighs can breathe My ie lavalava knows not to cling to the dimples in my coconut cream skin She is weightless in the wind And she touches down with the grace of a manu brushing the earth with sovereign wings All the majesty of my dad’s sovereign rings My ie lavalava would never impose her man-made knots upon my god-given waistline She holds me the way I ask her to Quick to follow my lead when I am born anew My ie lavalava sucks in and blows out while I forget that I am clothed at all My ie lavalava rests peacefully at my feet She worships me My ie lavalava rolls and waves like siva hands and island hips She leaves monarch kisses on the horizons of my Samoan silhouette Tenderly paying her respects

Gus Mitchell ( @gusmitchellcomics ) In 2015, my time at Salient  as a writer-columnist-comic artist was drawing to a close, and I was searching for a new creative outlet. It was around then that I discovered Wellington Zinefest, hosted that year in the underground carpark next to Ivy. I hadn’t  been that aware of zines prior, but it was an easy pitch: they have the lowest barrier to entry for any mass-produced artform.  Zines can be about anything, for anyone, yet also uniquely you, a distillation of your niche interest or skill into a printed, proletariat objet d’art . I went all in, not only producing my own zines, but also joining the organising committee from 2017 to early 2020. As a dedicated community has established itself around it, Wellington Zinefest has only grown in esteem, moving from the (quite literal) underground to a respected regular arts fair, for budding and established creatives alike. Wellington Zine Fest ( @wellingtonzinefest ) Wellington Zinefest is a community organisation that runs an annual festival, market days, workshops, publishing projects, and more! Wellington Zinefest markets are designed to show off the thriving self-publishing and zinemaking scene in Te Whanganui-a-Tara. Our markets (like zine culture more generally) are focused on fostering creativity, self- expression and community building, rather than straightforward sales and profit. This year, alongside these markets we’ll be running a series of workshops on a range of creative topics across a variety of themes, mediums, and tones. To keep up to date with everything we’re up to and get the details so you can get amongst, find us on Instagram and Facebook as Wellington Zinefest, or head to wellingtonzinefest.com

DARCY LAWREY (HE/HIM) OPINION: For many, the mention of cyclists conjures up the infamous MAMILs: Middle Aged Men In Lycra. You know what I’m talking about. Dads who pull on their brightly coloured cycling shorts to puff their way around Oriental Bay on a road bike that costs as much as a car.  But cycling in the capital shouldn’t just be for the MAMILs and public servant commuters. Cycling is a mode of transport made for students. So, imagine my surprise to find only one other bike in the Katharine Jermyn bike shed—a building with close to 400 students.  Cycling ticks every single box. It keeps you fit, is almost carbon neutral, is faster than driving around the city, and once you’ve got your bike it’s pretty much free. Also, it’s just really fun.  Cycling in Welly just keeps getting more and more accessible: Organisations like Bikespace repair and service bikes for free, cycleways run throughout the city, buses have bike racks, and finding an affordable bike is as easy as hopping on Facebook Marketplace.  And yes, cycling in Wellington does have its challenges. It's windy, and it's hilly. But that also means downhill and tailwinds. With the price of parking putting a car out of reach for many CBD-dwelling students, a bike is the perfect (better) alternative. So, next time you’ve got to get from Lambton to Newtown, or Kelburn to Pipitea, think about doing it on two wheels.

Curated by Prunella Azzahra (she/her) New Zealand School of Dance Choreographic Season - Liminal Friday 10th May - Friday 17th May Tickets $20 (student) Te Whaea: National Dance and Drama School The NZSD Choreographic Season is back with what’s sure to be a high class collaboration with Toi Whakaari, Liminal . Always one of the school’s highlights of the year, this show builds on skills learnt in students’ first and second year at NZSD. The costuming is sure to be a feast for the eyes with Toi Whakaari’s team incorporating reused and recycled materials. Not to be missed! The Golden Ass Ends Saturday 11th May Tickets $30 Circa Theatre Calling all classics students: Michael Hurst’s adaptation of The Golden Ass  is for you. After turning from a human to a donkey, protagonist Lucius takes on a whirlwind of bandits, goddesses, witches, sandals, and sex. The show is on its last week now, so get in quick!  Bailamos Bachata! Latin Dance Party 6pm Sunday 12th May Free! Southern Cross Garden Bar Restaurant Get your groove on and learn Bachata—a Latin couples dance! Whether you’re a complete beginner or an absolute pro, this free dance party includes a lesson and social dance time to put your new moves to use. Southern Cross requests attendees support their venue with purchase of food or drink. If you enjoy it so much, the event takes place each month! Woohoo! Courtney Dawson - Dreams Are Free Tuesday 14th May - Saturday 18th May Tickets $25 BATS Theatre Winner of Outstanding Comedy Performance at the 2022 Auckland Fringe Festival, Courtney Dawson (Ngāti Kurī / Ngāti Amaru) is my fav of the fest in the NZ International Comedy Festival. Having gone from “crack up chicky at the BBQ” to stand up comedy gold, this show is not to be missed.  Rhys Nicholson - Huge Big Party Congratulations Saturday 18th May Tickets $35 Te Auaha - Tapere Nui Fans of RuPaul’s Drag Race will be no stranger to Aussie comedian Rhys Nicholson. After receiving five star reviews and accolades such as Most Outstanding Show at the 2022 Melbourne Comedy Festival, Nicholson takes the Wellington stage for a brand new hour long set. Tickets are sure to go quick so snap them up while you can! Lauren Groff: The Vaster Wilds Tuesday 21st May Tickets $27 - $30 Hannah Playhouse New York Times Bestseller  Lauren Groff takes the stage to discuss her new novel The Vaster Wilds . If the name doesn’t sound familiar, the book cover certainly will (think Fates and Furies , The Monsters of Templeton, and Arcadia , her other books). This is sure to be a profound discussion as her new novel comments on how we can save ourselves from a not too distant future.

DAN MOSKOVITZ (HE/HIM) There are two things worth their weight in gold when applying for graduate roles: your academic transcript, and your GPA. The institution with this information is the university. It charges you for your transcript, and won’t provide you your GPA.  You get one academic transcript for free upon graduation, but before then it costs $20.38. Considering the fees you already pay Vic, it's a lot. Also, graduate positions are roles you can apply for before graduation.  And there’s no GPA in there, either.  “​​Information about Grade Point Average (GPA) has never been shown on Te Herenga Waka’s academic transcript, as the University does not have a universal way to calculate GPAs,” said a university spokesperson in a statement.  “GPAs can be provided from the relevant Faculty if a student needs that information.”  Google “GPA Vic” and you’ll be taken to a webpage which tells you how to calculate your GPA.  This raises questions about the universality of the webpage’s calculator, and is confusing communication.  As for the cost of transcripts, the university said the reasoning for the cost of the transcript was to cover the fees involved in producing a legal document.  “Students can provide external organizations and individuals with a link to their   MyeQuals  which enables them to see their academic records, and there is no cost associated with this,” said the same spokesperson.  Two things on this. First, job applications don’t have an “insert link here” box for your MyeQuals, they have a button to upload your academic transcript (which is what they ask for).  Second, if anyone can figure out how to attain this link from their MyeQuals, please let me know. Neither myself nor other Salient staff could figure it out.

DAN MOSKOVITZ (HE/HIM) The heart of Courtney Place will stay dead, after a council agreement to reopen Reading Cinema fell through.  Closed since 2019 for earthquake strengthening, Reading International has done everything but strengthen. The lot—prime real estate in central Courtney Place—has just been abandoned.   The cinema involved not just a movie theater, but also an arcade and a whole suite of food and retail options. Crucially, it was large enough that there were places to exist in without paying anything, and it bridged the day and night life on Courtney Place.  Reading choosing not to strengthen was a loss for the city.  Enter Tory Whanau, who made it her personal mission to get the cinema reopened . After a $1400 rate-payer funded dinner with Reading’s owners , she put forward a $32 million deal  to buy the land Reading’s land and lease it back to fund the renovation. The deal would have involved the council selling land to finance the purchase .  This deal was shrouded in secrecy, divisive, and accused of being corporate welfare. Eventually, it just barely passed, only for negotiations to collapse last week. Why? Who knows. The council’s press release  uses many words to not give reasoning.  A lot of time, effort, money, and media attention has been spent on this deal. Would spending $1400 of rate-payer money on a dinner be worth it to bring Reading back? That’s up to you. Regardless of your feelings, all of said cash is gone, and Reading will remain closed for the foreseeable future. In the absence of any legal mechanisms to force Reading to use the land, the lot will remain vacant until Reading feels like doing something with it.

Eva Davis (she/her) Taking your hands out of the water is hard when they’ve grown gills, and of course hands don’t really do that, but people do when they can’t breathe. No they don’t, they stick their head up out of the water. Their hands grow calloused, they don’t grow gills. It’s easy to believe those calluses are gills when you’re drowning. A person will believe anything when they want to survive.  Scrubbing the dirt off of your hands is hard when you’ve planted them in the ground, and of course you can’t really plant your hands in the ground, but people do that when they don’t know where they belong. No they don’t, they read self help books, they meditate, they look at the map on the sidewalk. They’ll do anything to avoid looking lost. It’s easy to avoid things, harder to ask for help. A person will do anything to avoid asking for help sometimes.  Taking your hands out of the fire is hard when they’re cold, but of course people don’t really do that, they don't stick their hands in fire. They hold them in front of it, they huddle close to it. Nobody sticks their hands in fire, everybody knows fire burns. They’ll get as close as they can though, they might even sing themselves a little. A person will lean in as close as they can when it’s cold, even if it burns.  Hands are good at holding on to things, at getting close to things, at getting used to things. It's in their nature to fold shut, to curl in, to hold on. They get used to things, and we all know once you get used to something it is hard to let go, addiction is the easy way to go(no it’s not, but no one tells you that). It’s easy to cling to things, the hard part is letting them go. A person will do anything to keep holding on. Context: I wrote this piece about the character Stepehn Blackpool from Hard Times by Charles Dickens. I wrote it mostly about the way they call the workers of the industrial revolution ‘hands’ and reduce them to their ability to work, but lately I’ve also been thinking about this piece in tandem with what privilege allows you to do with your hands(ie: create art) and also how art is affected by consumer culture/its ability to make and or not make money. Mostly though, it is about what people do with their hands.

Te Huihui o Matariki Chi Huy Tran (he/him) Taranaki Tūturu, Te iwi o Maruwharanui, Ngāti Maniapoto E Rangi, e Papa, e te w`ānau Atua Ka tū`wera te pū, ka tū`wera te w`akatiputipu Kia rere arorangi ki ngā tīpuna Hei w`akamānawa, `ei tiaki i tēnei taonga Ko te Tā Moko, te taonga pūmau Ē toi w`akao`o i te wairua, te tinana, te `inengaro Nā ngā Atua, nā ngā tīpuna, tuku i`o, tuku i`o `UIE, TĀIKI E! Mai i taku tamarikitanga, kua w`akamiha au e i ngā toi ataa`ua a ōku tīpuna. Ngā w`akairo, ngā tukutku, ngā raranga, ngā peita, me ngā Tā Moko tino hoki. Tā moko, `e tikanga tuku i`o ā ngā Māori e w`akairo i te tinana me ngā u`i matatau. `E ā`ua o te w`akapuaki a`urea me te tuakiri, ā, `e tikanga w`akapapa `oki me `e `āngai ki ia ā`uatanga , ā`uatanga w`ānui. E w`akapuaki ana te moko i ngā kōrero mō ngā taeatanga, te rangatira, me te w`akapapa o te tangata. `E toi ataa`ua, he wā`anga w`aka`ira`ira o te taonga tuku i`o o ngā Māori.  In the art of Tā Moko, I find a profound connection to my identity, my ancestors, and the spiritual realm. To me, my body is like a piece of wood, waiting to be carved with intricate patterns that tell the story of my Whakapapa, who I am as a person. Each line etched onto my skin is not merely a design; it's a link to my heritage and the spirits of my ancestors. Each of those lines carry mana within them. When I look at my body, I can see and feel my moko on my skin;  I can sense and feel the wairua of my tīpuna inside of me. I feel healed. As the needle touches my skin, I feel the presence of my forebears guiding the artist's hand. The process is more than just physical; it's a spiritual journey, a communion with my past and te Atua. With every stroke, I am reminded of te  aumangea , mānawanawa and   mātauranga  of those who came before me. Through Tā Moko, I carry on the legacy of my people, honouring their traditions and preserving our cultural heritage. It's not just about adornment; it's a statement of pride, a declaration of who I am and where I come from. In each pattern, I see the stories of my ancestors woven into the fabric of my being, reminding me of the strength and beauty of my heritage. Our tradition was, for centuries, a vibrant one. Yet it was nearly lost to the shadows of colonisation. For years, our cultural identity was suppressed, our practices forbidden. But now, as a rangatahi among many many other young individuals, I see the importance of reviving this ancient art form. Let us, the young generation, carry the torch forward, preserving and promoting Tā Moko for generations to come. E hoa mā, it is our mission. Don’t ever feel whakamā, or that you’re not worthy to wear moko. It is our birthright as Māori.  In doing so, we honour our past, empower our present, and ensure a vibrant future for our ancient and beautiful practice. Chur, Huy.

Reported by Te Huihui o Matariki Chi Huy Tran (he/him) Taranaki Tūturu, Te iwi o Maruwharanui, Ngāti Maniapoto Urchinomics Sees Opportunity in New Zealand's Kina Barren Problem Netherlands-based company, Urchinomics, has set its sights on New Zealand's growing sea urchin problem. With similar issues in Japan, California, Canada, and Norway, caused by overfishing and climate change, Urchinomics sees potential. To tackle the kina barrens, they have appointed Maru Samuels as the in-country director for Aotearoa. Samuels, with Ngāi Te Rangi, Te Rarawa, and Ngāi Takoto heritage, aims to consult with coastal communities and introduce the concept of mass removal and fattening of skinny kina. This approach could help regenerate seaweed forests. Stay tuned for updates from the upcoming public hui in Awanui, called by Oceans and Fisheries Minister Shane Jones.  Moving Forward with Memory: The Ō-Rākau Site's Journey to Remembrance Kiingitanga spokesperson advocates for Ō-Rākau battle site's return to descendants, honouring history, and healing the future. The Ō-Rākau Remembrance Bill, progressing through legislation, aims to transfer the historic site to its rightful guardians. The land, pivotal in the Waikato War, witnessed fierce resistance by iwi against British forces. Rahui Papa emphasises the importance of remembering ancestors' struggles without dwelling on past pain, advocating for a national memorial to acknowledge all who stood with Waikato and Kiingitanga.

At VUW, there is a club that is possibly queerer than UniQ. The vast majority of Zine Club are queer and neurodivergent, and they gather on Tuesdays to cut up magazines, doodle, and glue stuff onto zines.  'What is a zine?' is a question for the ages. There is no clear answer, but a simple one could be 'a self published work that is easily reproduced'. Basically, anything that can be put onto paper can be a zine, and even better—anyone can make a zine. It's easily one of the most accessible art forms.  Having only just started in Tri 2 of 2023, Zine Club is, at its core, a social club with art supplies. Founder Robin Wolf (they/them, AuDHD) an avid zine maker and artist, actually started the club to get rid of their hoard of magazines and withdrawn books.  Robin has been doing art since they could pick up a pen and got into doing zines in 2016. From then, they helped out with Wellington Zinefest for three years, and haven't stopped making zines—mostly taking text out of context, and making new content via blackout poetry. They also make zines and comics about their neurodivergence and queerness, themes that resonate with other members of the zine club.  Why make zines?  * to share information and art in a non mainstream way  * they’re cheap, easy to make, and accessible  * if you can put it on paper, you can put it in a zine  * they’re easily distributable  * they’re sellable, tradeable, collectable  * they can get you a taste of publishing/weird job opportunities  A Short History of Zines  * Dada: Literary and Artistic Review:  An avant-garde magazine published in 8 issues between July 1917 and September 1921, first in Zürich (issues one-four/five) and later in Paris (issues six-eight). The magazine was edited by Tristan Tzara; issue three three (1918) features his Dada manifesto, in which he declares: "dada means nothing".  * Spockanalia:  A Star Trek fan zine, which ended up in Gene Roddenberry’s hands; he proclaimed it required reading, as a way to understand what the fans wanted from the show. Spockanalia also provided a safe space for women in fandom to discuss gender stereotypes in media.  * Dungeons and Dragons , by Gary Gygax and Dave Arneson: First published in 1974, the first edition of D&D was technically a zine!  * Punk Zines:  About sharing ads for bands and venues before the internet, extending word of mouth, and helping form communities. * The Riot Grrl: A   movement which brought third-wave feminism and DIY culture to zines. The zines were a good way of distributing information that opposed mainstream culture, sexism and stereotypes in the media; they discussed sexuality and feminism.  What Makes a Zine Radical?  * Cheap distribution  * Keeping your zines anti-copyright  * Facilitating a collaborative zine to get a lot of voices heard.  * Making zines as a response to a political event (which can also be cathartic).  Why I Love Zine Club Zine Club is a stunningly inclusive, creative, and fun club. We get together once a week to hang out, listen to some banger beats, and make zines!  Anyone can make a zine. You don’t have to be good at art—you just need the will to give it a go! Seasoned Zine makers and complete beginners frequent our club, anyone is welcome!  My experience at Zine Club has been fantastic. I joined last year when it started. It was a fantastic place to relax, be social if I wanted, or just quietly work on my own thing if that’s what I was feeling. It was lovely to have something fun and creative to do where I didn’t need to think about school things. There was no pressure to make something fantastic or perfect.  I tried out several clubs in my first couple years at uni, and Zine Club is the only one that stuck. Now I am helping run it(!), which has been super fun.  I have loved making art all my life, but I didn’t know what a zine was until last year. I was introduced to them in Dylan Horrocks’s Visual Narrative course, and I’ve been hooked ever since! There is such a cool community of creative, interesting people who are into zines. Zine people feel like my kind of people!  - Elias BatachEl (they/he)  My Experience With Zines  I only started getting into zine last year, after joining the VUW Zine Club, and it is a fantastic medium! As a digital artist, I’ve not done heaps of work in traditional mediums, and this can become a habit. Zines help me get back into doing things by hand and getting away from my screen, which I appreciate when my days revolve around doing work on my laptop! Zines allow me to just get messy with my creative output and go with the flow. It’s also really nice to see an active zine community in Wellington as well, especially when everyone comes together at Zinefest! I encourage anyone who’s doing any kind of creative work to try to make a zine, if they can! -Alex Pham (he/they)

Words by Dinah Symons (she/her) CW: discussion of sexual abuse. Artemisia Gentileschi burrowed into my heart when I discovered her two years ago, in ARTH 101. A trailblazing feminist icon, her successful career as a painter in 17th century Rome—unprecedented for women at this time—is characterised by revolutionary subject matter. In her dramatic reimaginings of traditional historical and mythological narratives, Gentileschi tears down the male gaze that dominated her visual world, inserting female voice and agency.     Two paintings, both titled Susanna and the Elders , voice Gentileschi’s strong campaign for women’s sexual rights. They respond to the Old Testament story of a woman (Susanna) who is spied on and approached by two men (the Elders) whilst bathing in her garden. After she refuses their sexual advances, the Elders accuse her of adultery. Previously objectifying and villainizing portrayals of Susanna by male artists, such as Cesari Giuseppe or Otavio Leonni, arrange Susanna’s nude body for the pleasure of the viewers. She nonchalantly brushes her hair or washes herself in a nearby pond whilst staring seductively from the canvas at the target—male—audience. Her unaffected behaviour in the Elders presence insinuates that she is the villain in this story, responsible for leading the Elders on, which leads to her trial.    Gentileschi refuses this portrayal. She paints from Susanna’s perspective, rather than the lusting Elders, and shifts the focus of the story to her plight. In her first work, from 1610, Susanna grimaces, contorting her body away from the men and shielding herself with her hands. Gentileschi properly conveys Susanna’s discomfort at the Elders violating presence. The third painting, from 1652, shifts focus completely from Susanna’s now covered body to her rejection of the objectifying gazes of the men on the canvas, and those viewing it. Looking the Elders in the eye and holding a hand out to stop their advances, she forces them to acknowledge her as a human being. These paintings speak to all audiences, and they are as relevant and powerful now as they were 400 years ago. With her first Susanna  she asks her viewers to rethink what sexual violence looks like. With her second Susanna  she turns her female subject, and viewers, into people with sexual rights, agency and responsibility. Both artworks disrupt patriarchal narratives and constructions of women by asserting female voice and power.  Both are (in my humble opinion) artistically beautiful, just like the rest. The strength of the visual language Gentileschi speaks lies in the way she speaks it. Her female characters inhabit the canvas with force, emotion and energy; they are animated by a dynamic use of light, colour and form. I encourage anyone who is interested to go explore and admire what Gentileschi has to say.