Likely inspired by Lucy’s name, which derives from lux, or “light,” later versions of the tale add the gouging of her eyes to her long list of abuses. Some say she did the deed herself, in order to avoid the hungry male gaze and put off her pagan husband-to-be; others describe Diocletian committing the act. In both, God restores Lucy’s vision—but Diocletian eventually prevails with a sword to her throat (this denouement is the focus of most Northern European depictions of the saint).

Cossa’s version, though, remains my favorite for its bizarre floral treatment of disembodied eyes and their bearer’s fiery persona. Lucy is pictured with arched eyebrows, pursed lips, and a penetrating glare. In 1934, Italian art historian Roberto Longhi hypothesized that the painting was part of a double altarpiece commissioned by Floriano Griffoni; the patron’s wife was named Lucia. Longhi also noted that Cossa’s depiction of eyeballs as flowers was derived from the name Floriano. While this, like many mysteries surrounding the painting, still isn’t confirmed, it’s clear that this Saint Lucy exudes a hot-blooded humanity absent in creepier, surrealistic depictions of detached eyes, where female bodies are disassociated and dismembered. Here, she is in control of her form—presenting her eyes (along with her vision, and maybe even viewpoint) as elements to be revered and honored, rather than picked apart.



