At first glance, the blunt nudity of the two subjects is shocking. Never before have Corday and Marat been painted nude. Perhaps adding the infamous knife or sickly skin to Marat would allow the viewer to infer what is occurring in the painting. But without these tell-tale signs or class-defining garments to shroud the subjects, the viewer only sees two naked figures—one female, standing in the center of a room, one male, bleeding on a sheeted bed.

At closer inspection, one feels entrapped in a room of violent chaos. Long, hurried brushstrokes blur the composition. Each stroke escapes basic geometric boundaries, the muted reds and pinks of the coffee table extending past the round edge and into the space of the room. As the colors attempt to fill the entire composition, they are halted by a stark, ghost-like Corday. She halts all movement and pierces the viewer with her stoic gaze. To her left lies the ded Marat—a bleeding corpse tossed on a filthy bed. His arms and legs are fully extended as his head rests on his right shoulder, imitating Christ’s position at the Crucifixion. Munch’s decision to place him in this position further solidifies Marat’s “martyrdom.”

In an unusual yet intriguing depiction of the death of Marat, Munch plays with psychological aspects of art, conscientiously making the viewer feel trapped in a scene of violent bloodshed. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.