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Title: The Story of Spanish Painting
Author: Caffin, Charles H.
Language: English
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THE STORY
OF SPANISH PAINTING
[Illustration:
S. JEROME EL GRECO
COLLECTION OF THE MARQUÉS DE CASTRO SERNA]
THE STORY OF
SPANISH PAINTING
BY
CHARLES H. CAFFIN
AUTHOR OF
“HOW TO STUDY PICTURES”
“THE STORY OF DUTCH PAINTING”
ETC.
[Illustration]
LONDON, W. C.
T. FISHER UNWIN
1, ADELPHI TERRACE
1910
Copyright, 1910, by
THE CENTURY CO.
_Published November, 1910_
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES BY THE DE VINNE PRESS
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED
WITH THE AUTHOR’S GRATITUDE TO
C. C.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I THE STORY OF THE NATION 3
II CHARACTERISTICS OF SPANISH PAINTING 25
III A PANORAMIC VIEW. PART I. TO THE END OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY 40
IV A PANORAMIC VIEW. PART II. SEVENTEENTH CENTURY
TO THE PRESENT DAY 54
V DOMENICO THEOTOCOPULI (EL GRECO) 66
VI VELASQUEZ 92
VII MAZO 121
VIII CARREÑO 131
IX RIBERA (LO SPAGNOLETTO) 136
X MURILLO 148
XI CANO AND ZURBARÁN 161
XII GOYA 171
A POSTSCRIPT 191
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
S. JEROME _El Greco_ _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
THE CATHOLIC KINGS AT PRAYER _School of Castile,
XV Century_ 18
From a photograph by J. Laurent & Co., Madrid.
S. URSULA _Spanish School, XV Century_ 31
THE APPARITION OF THE VIRGIN
TO BERNARDINE MONKS ? _Pedro Berruguete_ 37
S. STEPHEN CONDUCTED TO MARTYRDOM _Juan de Juanes_ 44
From a photograph by J. Laurent & Co., Madrid.
DESCENT FROM THE CROSS _Pedro Campaña_ 51
From a photograph by Anderson, Rome.
PRESENTATION OF JESUS IN THE TEMPLE _Luis Morales_ 62
From a photograph by J. Laurent & Co., Madrid.
THE CRUCIFIXION _El Greco_ 70
SAN MAURICIO AND HIS THEBAN LEGION _El Greco_ 75
THE FUNERAL OF COUNT ORGAZ _El Greco_ 76
BAPTISM OF CHRIST _El Greco_ 81
VIRGIN AND SAINTS _El Greco_ 85
PHILIP IV, OLD _Velasquez_ 92
EQUESTRIAN PORTRAIT OF PHILIP IV _Velasquez_ 96
AN ACTOR, CALLED “DON JUAN DE AUSTRIA” _Velasquez_ 100
LAS HILANDERAS (THE WEAVERS) _Velasquez_ 109
LAS MENIÑAS (THE MAIDS OF HONOR) _Velasquez_ 114
DOÑA MARIANA DE AUSTRIA _Velasquez_ 119
{_Juan Bautista Martínez_
DOÑA MARIANA DE AUSTRIA {_del Mazo_ 122
{_Juan Bautista Martínez_
THE FOUNTAIN OF THE TRITONS {_del Mazo_ 127
CHARLES II _Carreño_ 132
From a photograph by Anderson, Rome.
HERMIT SAINT _Ribera_ 141
MIRACLE OF THE LOAVES AND FISHES }_Murillo_ 150
MOSES STRIKING THE ROCK }_Murillo_
SS. JUSTA AND RUFINA _Murillo_ 155
APOTHEOSIS OF S. THOMAS
AQUINAS _Francisco de Zurbarán_ 163
From a photograph by Anderson, Rome.
MIRACLE OF S. HUGO _Francisco de Zurbarán_ 166
From a photograph by Anderson, Rome.
CHARLES IV AND THE ROYAL FAMILY _Goya_ 171
MAIA, NUDE _Goya_ 174
QUEEN MARIA LUISA ON HORSEBACK _Goya_ 183
THE FATES _Goya_ 184
SCENE OF MAY 3, 1808 _Goya_ 189
IN THE BALCONY _Goya_ 190
THE STORY OF SPANISH PAINTING
CHAPTER I
THE STORY OF THE NATION
In 1492 the Catholic Sovereigns, Ferdinand and Isabella, entered Granada
in triumph. The last stronghold of Moorish dominion, undermined by the
dissensions of Islam, fell before the united Christian kingdoms of Léon,
Castile and Aragón. Spain became a united country and, in virtue of her
protracted struggle of nearly eight hundred years against the infidel,
stood forth as the acknowledged and self-conscious Champion of
Catholicism. In the same year Columbus, under the patronage of the
Catholic Sovereigns discovered the New World. This date, therefore,
presents an epoch that completes the past and forms the starting point
of a new era. Intimately associated with the subsequent national
development and decline is the story of Spanish painting, but it owes
most of its peculiar characteristics to the conditions that preceded the
country’s complete union.
It is always interesting and usually illuminating to picture the
historical background out of which the arts of a country have been
gradually evolved. But in the case of Spanish painting it is essential.
For the art of Spain was, bone and spirit, a part of the Spanish
character, shaped and inspired as the latter had been by the racial,
historical and geographical conditions out of which it was moulded.
Without taking all this into account one cannot understand, much less
appreciate sympathetically, the consistently individual character of
this school of painting.
* * * * *
In the first place one must realise the meaning of the fact that Spain
is a mountainous country; not only separated from the rest of Europe,
but divided against itself by precipitous barriers. They run in a
general way from West to East: abrupt colossal walls of volcanic origin,
with a grand sweep of bulk, jagged in sky-line and frequently piled with
the chaotic debris of glacial moraines. These are the watersheds of
rivers that refuse services to navigation; foaming to flood in the rainy
season, shrinking in the drought to sluggish pools amid the rocky bed.
They intersect tracts of country that vary from narrow valleys, where
cultivation huddles in cherished pockets of soil, to broadly stretching
vegas, tablelands and plains, from which by unremitting toil generous
harvests may be obtained. Here the vistas are of magnificent extent,
circling round one in far reaching sweeps of boldly undulating country,
rimmed by nobly designed stretches of smoothly beveled foothills that
form advance-posts of the ultimate barrier of the sierras.
It is a little country, only three times the size of England, contracted
within itself by natural restrictions, yet planned by nature on a big
scale; one that affects the imagination, prompting even more than
mountainous countries usually have done to independence, individualism
and hardihood. It is a country that seems made for fighting; where a
handful of resolute men could maintain themselves tenaciously against
enormous odds. In the past they did it in actual warfare; to-day in the
pacific fight which this hardy population perpetually keeps up against
the extremes of climatic conditions. Though for the most part they still
use the agricultural implements that Tubal Cain devised, they have
inherited from the Roman and Moorish occupation a system of irrigation
and of terracing that puts to shame the happy go lucky methods of
farming in many countries which consider themselves superiorly
enlightened. The necessary preoccupation with their immediate
surroundings and the exclusion from outside influence, early made of
this people a nation of individualists, realists and conservatives. So
inbred did these qualities become that when the Spaniard mixed with the
outer world, as he did particularly in his conquest of the Spanish Main
and in his wars with Europe, it was but to become more fixed in his
conservatism at home. When he borrowed from abroad, as in his art, it
was but to shape and color the acquired impression to his own
individualistic and realistic attitude toward life.
* * * * *
The earliest inhabitants of the Peninsula are known as Iberians; with
whom about 500 B.C., a branch of the Celtic family became amalgamated.
These Celtiberians remained in undisputed possession of the country,
until they were drawn into the vortex that was stirred by the rivalry of
Rome and Carthage. The latter had planted colonies along the south
coast, and gradually extended her authority into the interior, dealing
as was her wont in a spirit of suspicion and brutality with the natives.
The Romans, hot on the trail of their traditional foe, at first suffered
decisive reverses. Then it was that Scipio the Younger offered himself
to the Senate and People of Rome as general of the war. His father and
uncle had been slain in battle in Spain; he desired to avenge their
deaths and to crush the enemies of Rome. Though only twenty-four years
of age he had the genius of a military leader and of a statesman. While
putting heart into the shattered ranks of the Roman veterans and leading
them victoriously against the Carthaginians, he adopted towards the
Spaniards a policy of confidence and conciliation which won them over to
a loyal acceptance of the Roman rule. A similar policy was practised by
Suetonius in later years, when Spain had become the battle ground of the
rival factions with which Rome was torn. It was continued by Julius
Cæsar when he fought out his fight with Pompey on Spanish soil, and
later by Augustus when, having become ruler of the Roman world, he
completed pacifically the conquest of Spain.
Henceforth Spain was the most favored, loyal and prosperous province of
the Empire. At first the Roman veterans, retiring from military service,
married Spanish women and settled down as farmers, introducing
gradually the order and scientific method for which the Romans are so
justly celebrated. The settled conditions, fertility of the soil, and
the beauty of the country in time attracted the wealth and culture of
the Capital. Spain became, like “The Province” in the South of France, a
field for capitalistic enterprise as well as a resort for those who
leaned toward a life of refined leisure. She throve in the arts and
sciences and became enriched with some of the finest evidences of the
Roman genius for engineering. Her wheatfields fed the proletariat of the
Capital and her sons reinforced the ranks of statesmen and men of
letters. She became, in the finest sense of the word, more Roman than
Italy herself. This period of splendid prosperity lasted for four
hundred years, until it was submerged, like the rest of Roman
civilization, by the flood of Gothic invasion.
The branch of the German family which overran Spain was that of the
Visigoths, who maintained an ascendency and a line of kings for two
hundred years. But, although the enervation caused by provincial luxury
had rendered the Celtiberian-Roman an easy victim to the vigorous
onslaught of the northern race, he was sufficiently tenacious of the
original spirit of the mountaineer and of the acquired love of order to
avoid the chaos and prostration that overtook the rest of the Empire,
and reasserted his instinct for amalgamation. The blend, which ensued
and became the Spanish race as it is known to later history, is
characteristically represented in the language that was gradually
evolved. For this, though overlaid with Northern forms, remains at root
Roman. In this hybrid race the Spanish element proved itself to be the
most pronounced and enduring. Its conservatism, a phase of the
independence and exclusiveness that we have already noted, was
conspicuously revealed in the great Arian Controversy which threatened
the integrity of the Western Church. The Visigoths alone of all the
Germanic family, renounced the “heresy.” Reccared, their king, received
in consequence the title of the first Catholic Sovereign of Spain. How
resolutely subsequent sovereigns clung to this distinction and their
subjects conformed to the political and religious obligations that it
entailed is one of the most notable features of Spanish history. It
seriously affected the national life, its attitude toward other nations
and the development and character of Spanish art.
Meanwhile the mingling of blood could not save the Visigothic kingdom
from the fate that attended all the Germanic governments which had been
established on the ruins of the Empire. It proved no exception to the
tendency to disintegrate and thus presented an easy prey to the
onslaughts of united Islam.
In less than a hundred years after the death of Mohammed the Moslem
faith had spread from Arabia through Syria and Asia Minor to Persia and
India, while Westward it had overrun Egypt and penetrated along the
northern shore of Africa to the Pillars of Hercules. Hence in 711 A.D.
it crossed into Spain. While the leaders, under the generalship of Musa,
viceroy of the Omayyad Caliphate of Damascus, were all Arabs, they had
enlisted in their army the warlike tribes of Mauritania, the ancient
kingdom now represented by Morocco and Algeria. Hence the name of Moors
(Mauri) which distinguishes the invaders of Spain. Twenty years sufficed
to make them masters of the Peninsula, the little northwestern country
of Asturias alone retaining its independence. Twenty years later
disintegration crept also into the ranks of the conquerors.
Abd-er-Rahman established an independent caliphate in Cordova. His
ambition was to raise it to a position in the Western world such as was
held by Bagdad, Damascus and Delhi in the East; furthermore to make
Cordova the Mecca of the faithful in the West. Thus was begun by this
Caliph the Mesquita or chief Mosque, which under succeeding Caliphs was
enlarged and beautified until it became a fitting monument of the ideals
of Islam in its period of most splendid pride and noblest enlightenment.
For nearly three hundred years Cordova was the center of an ordered
government, which not only fostered the refinement of the arts and
crafts in the cities and spread its network of highly organised
agricultural labor throughout the country districts, but also a
University of philosophy and science that made it the resort of
scholars, not only Moslem but Christian. Cordova, in fact, played a
conspicuously brilliant part in that phase of the Moslem ascendency
which is apt to be overlooked; its share in perpetuating and advancing
the Hellenic culture, which otherwise might have been lost in the Dark
Ages succeeding the fall of the Roman Empire.
Meanwhile, the spirit of Christian Spain, though broken, was not
crushed. Its stronghold was at first the little kingdom of Asturias.
Alfonso I not only resisted conquest but wrested back from the Moor the
provinces of Galicia and Cantabria. From the northwest fastnesses of the
Peninsula commenced the steady pressure southward, which, while it met
with many reverses, was never abandoned until the invader had been
driven back to Africa. The story in brief is one of gradual
consolidation of the Christian power, accompanied by a corresponding
disintegration of the Moslem. Léon becomes united with the other
provinces and Castile follows suit; while on the other hand the
Caliphate of Cordova becomes broken up into several dynasties. Then,
while a rival sect, the Almoravides, arrive from Africa and make war on
their co-religionists, Alfonso IV of Castile assumes the title of
Emperor and captures Toledo and Valencia. Later, the conquests of the
Almoravides are wrested from them by other arrivals from Africa, the
fanatical sect of the Almohades. Encouraged by this dissension, the
Christian states for the first time send their representatives to a
national assembly. The first Cortes meets at Burgos. Six years later the
Christians suffer defeat, but recover themselves and inflict a heavy
blow upon the Moors at the battle of Las Navas de Tolosa. It is followed
by repeated hammering, extending over nearly forty years, until the
Moorish power is beaten back and by the year 1251 is confined entirely
to the kingdom of Granada.
Then, for the space of two hundred and forty years, there was a
comparative lull. Under the enlightened rule of the Nasride dynasty the
province of Granada enjoyed a prosperity that invited friendly relations
even with the Christians. The wealth derived from its mines, industries
and agriculture exceeded that of the ancient Caliphate of Cordova. The
period represented, in fact, the Golden Age of Moorish civilization in
Spain, the flower and symbol of which remains to-day, though shorn of
much of its magnificence, in the still exquisite palace of the Alhambra.
So skilfully by treaty and otherwise did the rulers of Granada
conciliate the Christians that their reign might have been continued
indefinitely, but for two causes: internal dissensions and the fixed
idea of Ferdinand and Isabella to fulfil their obligations as Catholic
Kings. They lived for the purpose of expelling the infidel, and the
rivalry between the two great Moorish tribes, the Zegri and the
Abencerrages, gave them the opportunity. It had resulted in the throne
being occupied by the youthful weakling, Boabdil. He fell into the hands
of Ferdinand and Isabella at the battle of Lucena, and consented to
remain neutral while they attacked the coast cities of Granada. Finally
they appeared before Granada itself and Boabdil, after a frantic but
futile effort to oppose them, was forced into a treaty of peace, by
which the city was surrendered. Ten years later the last of the Moors
had been expelled from Spain or compelled to be baptised.
Before proceeding with the story it is worth while to consider the
effect which this long struggle of seven hundred and eighty years had
had upon the Spanish character. In the first place it had fused the
nation into one; not by some sudden stroke of patriotic ardor but by a
slow and painful process, in which the patriotism had been tested in the
forge of adversity, stiffened and tempered on the anvil of endurance and
proven by long experiences. Its qualities were trenchant,
uncompromising, decisively complete. The Spaniard had become a hero to
himself; sufficient in and for himself; realising his superiority and
wrapping it about with a mantle of haughty exclusiveness. He had learned
to rely upon himself and had justified his confidence by victory, hardly
won and dearly bought; he was a Spaniard--_verbum sat._ But he had been
more than patriot; he had been a Paladin of the Faith; a Knight of the
Cross; a Soldier of Christendom, Champion of the Holy Catholic Church.
The consciousness of this had sustained him in adversity; quickened his
strength in hours of vigil, inflamed him to the attack and crowned both
victories and defeats with divine glory. An intense passion of spiritual
ecstasy burned within him. He was at once a man of action, hard and
practical, and a pietistic dreamer, a fanatic and visionary. How this
mingling of qualities affected Spanish art, causing it, on the one hand,
to be distinctively national and, on the other, a product of
naturalistic method and highly pietistic motive will appear in the
course of our story.
* * * * *
It was, perhaps, Spain’s misfortune that her victories over the Moors
were not succeeded by a period of settled conditions. For already she
had entered upon a career of brilliant enterprise in the arts of peace.
Under the patronage of Queen Isabella and of prelates, such as Cardinal
Ximenes de Cisneros, Archbishop of Toledo, whose power rivaled that of
the Crown, great architectural works were inaugurated and sculptors and
painters were drawn from Flanders and Germany to decorate them. Learning
was still further encouraged by the founding of a new University at
Alcalá de Henares to supplement the famous foundation of Salamanca, and
men of letters and artists were welcomed and honored at Court. Among
them stand out the names of Pulgar, the first historian of Castile;
Cota, the first Spanish dramatist and Rincon, the earliest of the native
painters. The sixteenth century, in fact, opened with a brilliant dawn,
full of promise for the new nation, if only it might have had leisure to
consolidate and develop naturally its resources. But it was drawn almost
immediately into the whirl of foreign conquests.
On the one hand it became involved in the affairs of the kingdom of
Naples, which was conquered by the Spanish general, Gonsalvo de Cordova;
on the other hand, by the bull of the Spanish Borgia Pope, Alexander VI,
it was put in possession of all the conquests it might make in the New
World. In both cases the immediate results may possibly be considered a
boon, but they were followed by consequences disastrous to the nation
and the Spanish character. The occupation of Naples brought the country
in touch with Italian civilization, then approaching its zenith, but
flung it into the vortex of European intrigue and warfare. Wealth began
to flow in from the Americas, but at the expense of national
demoralization. The conquest of inferior nations, inferiorly equipped
with arms of offense and defense, may easily result in cruelty and the
general sapping of the truly soldier spirit, while the lust of gold
which soon began to inspire it converted these champions of the Faith
into brutal buccaneers and plunderers. Further, it sapped the energies
of the nation at home. For, why laboriously develop the resources of the
country, when a stream of wealth was flowing into it from abroad?
National progress, therefore, was checked and in time stifled; while the
incoming wealth soon began to go out in prodigal expenditure over
useless European wars. It became a mad gamble in which the spiritual
qualities of the Spanish character were overwhelmed with the
intoxication of power, while its exclusiveness and pride blinded the
nation to the inevitable catastrophe.
A fact antecedent to all these causes of national deterioration was that
even before the conquest of Granada the Catholic Sovereigns had
established the Inquisition. With this devilish engine, operated in the
name of God and the Catholic Faith, the Spaniard attempted to check the
progress of Europe and effectively crushed his own. In time he expelled
from the Peninsula the Jews, who in Spain had been among the foremost in
learning and industrial energy; the Moors and finally the Morescoes, the
progeny of the Christianised Moors and Spaniards, who had perpetuated
the crafts in which the Moors had been so skilled. Enterprise was thus
banished and Spain deliberately committed herself to the part of a
reactionary against progress. In time England and Holland wrested from
her her resources in the New World. She shrank within the limits of her
own Peninsula, which had been already drained of initiation and
productivity. In time, all that became left to her of her proud
possessions was the dogmatic form of the Catholic religion. It had
ceased to be spiritual inspiration and passed into a phase of
sentimentalism, whence it dwindled to a mere formalism, existing amid
irreligion and moral degradation.
* * * * *
In the last sentence we have anticipated the national prostration of the
eighteenth century, following upon the exhaustion of the previous one.
It remains to summarise the events which intervened. Ferdinand and
Isabella were succeeded by their grandson, Charles I of Spain, better
known as the Emperor Charles V of Germany. He was the son of their
daughter, Joanna, who had been married to the Archduke Philip of
Austria, son of Emperor Maximilian of Germany. Thus Charles brought
Spain under the rule of the great Hapsburg family, which even to the
present time has provided monarchs for Germany and Austria. Joanna died
insane, and the taint of her disease clung to her descendants. Born in
Ghent in 1500 and educated in Flanders, Charles I at the death of his
father in 1506 inherited the Netherlands. On the death of Ferdinand in
1516 he became King of Spain, and in 1519 was elected Emperor of
Germany, the defeated competitor being Francis I of France. The rivalry
between these two led to a protracted war, fought out chiefly in Italy,
on the possession of which each had fastened his ambition. Francis was
made captive at the battle of Pavia in 1527 and forced into a treaty of
peace; but the war was renewed two years later and Charles’ troops under
the renegade Frenchman, Constable of Bourbon, entered Rome and sacked
it, taking the Pope prisoner. This, however, was but an incident in the
political game, for Charles, as became a grandson of the Catholic Kings,
was a staunch Defender of the Faith, and endeavored to impose it upon
his Protestant subjects in Germany and the Netherlands. For the good of
their souls he subjected them to the ravages of war and the horrors of
the Inquisition, and for the filling of his military chest mulcted them
by fines as well as taxation. Then at the age of fifty-five, exhausted
in mind and body by his heroic exertions on behalf of Catholicism and
his own ambitions, and by his various forms of self-indulgence, he
handed over the Imperial Crown to his brother, Ferdinand, and the
Kingdom of Spain and his “dear Netherlands” to his son, Philip. He
himself, under the plea of caring for his soul’s welfare, retired to the
monastery of San Juste, whence he continued to meddle with affairs of
State, meanwhile surfeiting his appetites and making a collection of
clocks and watches. His bedroom commanded a view of the High Altar of
the Church and was decorated with Titian’s _Gloria_, in which picture
the artist has represented the ex-Emperor in a white robe, welcomed by
the Virgin at the throne of God; while his hopeful son, Philip, is among
the mortals who gaze up devoutly at the imperial apotheosis.
Alas! for Philip; he had the doggedness but not the genius of his
father. Meanwhile the times were changing, and he did not know it.
Despotism, whether religious or political, no longer was to go
unquestioned. What the Netherlands had endured from Charles they refused
to submit to from his son. The more so that, while his father had
chastised them with whips, he, in the person of the unspeakable Alva,
chastised them with scorpions. The United Provinces revolted and the
rest of Philip’s life was spent in a vain effort to crush the Dutch
patriots and the English who had more or less espoused their cause.
Meanwhile the fleets of both countries were sweeping the Spaniards from
the high seas. When Philip died in 1598, he left to his son, Philip III,
the legacy of a fruitless foreign war, a ruined commerce, and an
impoverished treasury. As an enduring monument of himself he left the
Escoriál.
The decline of Spanish prestige and prosperity was accelerated by Philip
III, an easy-going person, who even refused to take any active part in
the selection of his own wife. He languidly continued the embellishment
of the palaces which his father had built, and posed mildly as a patron
of the arts. Under his feeble rule the power of the crown declined,
while that of the nobility correspondingly increased; and to them
probably more than to the king himself must be attributed the crime and
economical blunder of the final expulsion of the Morescoes. An
adventitious lustre is added to the reign of this king and his father by
the genius of Cervantes, Lope de Vega, the dramatist, and the great
artist, El Greco.
Succeeding to the crown at the age of seventeen, Philip IV resigned the
government to his favorite and prime-minister, the Count-Duke Olivares,
whose idea of statesmanship was to keep his royal master as far as
possible in ignorance of the impending ruin of the kingdom. To this end
he renewed the war in Holland, which had been interrupted by a twelve
years’ truce, and, with no decisive result except the squandering of
revenue, prolonged it until the final recognition of Dutch Independence
in 1648. Over eighty years had been expended in endeavoring to set back
the clock to the principles and methods of the Middle Ages and in the
process the proud empire, inaugurated by the Catholic Kings, Ferdinand
and Isabella, had been drained of its vitality. The colonial possessions
began to fall one by one into the hands of foreigners and Spain herself
was enfeebled and demoralised. Meanwhile Philip played the part of a
Maecenas in what proved to be the Golden Age of Spanish literature and
art.
Among the names which gave a lustre to the Court were the veteran Lope
de Vega; Calderon, author among other dramas of the “Comedies of Cape
and Sword”; Velez de Guevara, playwright and novelist, whose “El Diablo
Cojuelo” was the original of Le Sage’s “Le Diable Boiteux”; Luis de
Gongora, the poet; Quevedo, the satirist; Bartolomé Argensola,
historian, and Antonio de Solis, poet, dramatist and author of “The
History of the Conquest of Mexico.” Philip himself posed, with
considerable warrant, as a poet and musician, and even took part as an
actor in the musical and dramatic entertainments which
[Illustration: THE CATHOLIC KINGS SCHOOL OF CASTILE AT PRAYER XV CENTURY
THE PRADO]
enlivened the ennui of the Court in the palace of Buen Retiro. He was
also, as an amateur, skilful in drawing and painting. This doubtless
helped him to appreciate the merits of Velasquez, who to the world
outside of Spain represents the subject of most significance in his
life. Philip’s companionship with the artist, five years his elder,
which except for the brief intervals in which one or the other of them
was traveling, lasted for thirty-seven years, indeed until Velasquez’
death, is the one thing on which the student of history and of art cares
to dwell. It has secured for Philip IV a recognition which his political
importance would have denied him.
The increasing impotence of the Hapsburg family of Spanish king’s
reached its climax in Philip’s son, Charles II. One has but to glance at
the latter’s portrait, painted by Juan Carreño, to realise the physical
and mental degeneracy that the family type has undergone. The
type, as one sees it in Titian’s equestrian portrait of his
great-great-grandfather, Charles I of Spain and V of Germany, is already
abnormal. The grey eyes, for all their sternness and penetrating
character, have a pathetic cast of melancholy; the under jaw protrudes
like that of an ape. But the chin is massive, as indicative of force as
of ferocity. In Philip II, as he appears in Titian’s portrait in the
Prado, the face has lengthened; the eyes have lost their piercing gaze,
and while no less melancholy, have an expression of deliberate cruelty.
The coarseness of the lower part of the face is displayed in the
exaggerated sensuality of the out-turned lower lip, beneath which is a
tapering chin, that has a suggestion of blended weakness and petty
doggedness. In the equestrian portrait of Philip III, which is supposed
to have been painted by Bartolomé Gonzáles and effectively retouched by
Velasquez, the monarch’s head is carried a little back, a gesture which
extenuates with probable intention the protrusion of the lower part. But
the chin is feebly pointed, the under lip pendulous, while the eye
suggests an empty vacuity, that is echoed in the mild fierceness of the
upcurling moustache. It is a face vain, stupid and not a little
commonplace. The last quality, at least, is absent, from the portraits
of Philip IV. The face, especially when young, reflects the King’s
intrinsic refinement; but its length has become exaggerated, the
protruding under-lip and jaw are puffed and fleshy, weakly sensual,
while the eyes are apathetic. The expression of the whole is of a nature
nearly worn out, that can only be stirred to occasional alertness by the
stimulant of trivial excitements. Finally, in Carreño’s portrait of
Charles II, (p. 132) appears a total extinction of active faculties,
soft sensuousness rather than sensuality, a settled look of apathy and
the profound depression of a religious monomaniac.
Charles was scarcely four years old when the death of his father in 1665
made him king of a bankrupt country. It was the policy of the Queen
Mother, whose regency was marked by political incompetence and personal
amours, to keep her son as childish as possible. And, when he reached
his majority at the age of fifteen and supplanted his mother’s influence
by that of Don Juan of Austria, the latter also schemed to keep his
master in a condition of mental darkness and dependence. Thus Charles
was the victim alike of racial degeneracy and of thwarted development.
Complete incapacity to govern himself or others was the natural result.
He shunned the affairs of state, mildly supported the arts as far as the
beggared state of the treasury would permit, and sank into a religious
mania that found satisfaction in attending auto-da-fés and prostrating
himself in acts of personal penance. Dying childless in 1700, he brought
the Hapsburg line to an inglorious conclusion; and the succession passed
to a branch of the Bourbon family.
The Crown was offered by the Spanish people to Philip, grandson of Louis
XIV. He was the nephew of the late king, being the son of Philip IV’s
daughter, Maria Theresa, and Louis XIV. When, however, this marriage was
made Louis had expressly renounced all claims to the Spanish throne,
both on his own behalf and that of his heirs; and the renunciation had
been confirmed by the Cortes. Meanwhile, another sister of Charles II
had been married to Leopold, Emperor of Germany. She also had renounced
her claim to the Spanish Crown, but the understanding had not been
ratified by the Cortes. This afforded a pretext for the Elector of
Bavaria, who had married her daughter, to claim the succession in
opposition to Philip. A third claimant had been the Emperor Leopold
himself, who however, waived his rights in favor of his second son, the
Archduke Charles. The dispute had been in progress during the late
king’s life, and Louis XIV had made a treaty with England and Holland,
recognising the claims of the Elector of Bavaria. When, however, the
crown was offered to Philip and accepted on his behalf by Louis XIV,
England and Holland made a coalition with Austria and Germany to compel
the recognition of the Archduke Charles. Hence the thirteen years’ war
of the Spanish succession, in which Marlborough gained a series of
victories over the French and Bavarians, the Archduke ravaged the
Peninsula, and the English and Dutch fleets preyed on Spanish commerce
and captured Gibraltar. Finally, by the Treaty of Utrecht in 1714 the
succession of Philip V was ratified.
He had been brought up by Louis XIV to be undesirous and incapable of
taking part in political affairs. While the country continued to be
involved in disastrous foreign wars this _roi fainéant_ amused himself
with building a summer palace and laying out gardens, both in the French
style. He also imported the French portrait-painter, Van Loo. It must be
added, however, that the stock of Spanish painters had been exhausted.
Native art, indeed, for the time, was all but dead. It so remained
through the thirteen years’ reign of his son, Ferdinand VI, though he
tried to galvanize it into official life by inaugurating the Academy of
San Fernando. This king was succeeded by his brother Charles III, who
had already distinguished himself by his wise rule of the Kingdom of the
Two Sicilies. His portrait by Goya, in the costume of a sportsman, shows
him to be a man of awkward build and of homely, though kind and shrewd,
face. He proved himself a generous patron of second-rate artists,
inviting the German painter, Raphael Mengs and the Venetian, Tiepolo, to
his Court; built the present gallery of the Prado and issued an order
forbidding the exportation of paintings by the great masters of Spain.
He appears to have had some inkling of the genius of Goya, who, however,
did not come into prominence until the succession of Charles IV.
Charles IV was an amiable imbecile and his Queen, Maria Luisa, the
shameless subject of notorious scandal. One of her favorites, Manuel
Godoy, advanced from the rank and file of a regiment of the Guards to
the title of Duke of Alcudia, was entrusted with the duties of prime
minister. After embroiling the country in successive wars with France
and England, he finally attached himself to the cause of Napoleon and
favored the latter’s design to place his brother Joseph on the Spanish
throne. The French entered Spain in 1808 and compelled Charles to
abdicate. But in the same year the Spaniards rose against the invaders,
and the English came to their assistance. Then followed the Peninsular
War, during which Wellington gradually expelled the French troops, but
not until they had pillaged the cathedrals and churches and carried off
a large number of the finest works of art. For Marshal Soult, with the
predatory instincts of an unscrupulous dealer, sent his emissaries ahead
of the army. Armed with the “Dictionary of Painters and Paintings” by
Cean Bermudez, they identified and attached the most famous canvases,
which the Marshal compelled their owners to part with at his own terms.
On the conclusion of the war many of these were returned to Spain under
the terms of the treaty of peace, but a number of masterpieces had
already passed through Soult’s rapacious hands into the public and
private galleries of Europe.
This treaty of peace, which restored the Throne to Charles’ son,
Ferdinand VII, is the end of the history of Spain so far as it concerns
the growth and development and decline of her national art. She has had
painters of repute since 1814; but not in sufficient numbers to
constitute a school or even a noticeable artistic movement. Under weak
and constantly changing governments, controlled by the Church and
existing mainly for taxation, her arts, like her commerce and industries
dwindled to an almost negligible condition, from which only recently
there are indications of recovery.
CHAPTER II
CHARACTERISTICS OF SPANISH PAINTING
Spanish Painting, so far as it represents a school, is singularly
limited in scope and rigidly circumscribed. This is due partly to the
racial character, self-centered and conservative, out of which it grew:
partly also, to the influences that immediately shaped its growth. For
it developed under the patronage of the Crown and the Church. Nor were
these, in theory or in practice, antagonistic to each other. The Church
was the embodiment, the Crown the defender, of the Faith: the efforts of
both being united to preserve the Faith against the inroads alike of
Humanism and Protestantism. Hence the art of Spain, while it might be
incidently concerned with portraiture, discovered its essential
characteristics as the exponent of Bible story and Saintly lore and as
an exhortation to faith and pious living. Its home was the sacred
edifice, where it embellished walls, vaultings, and ceilings, or
presided in the ceremonial altar-piece. Its language for the most part
was that of the vernacular; the sacred imagery being translated into the
idiom of common knowledge, its mysteries into expressions of common
experience. It was in consequence a naturalistic art.
Had the artists of Spain painted for the general public or followed
their own bent in the pursuit of beauty, they would doubtless have
developed branches of genre and still life painting that might have
emulated the work of the Holland artists; for they had a similar love of
the intimate beauty of simple things around them. But since they had to
reach the masses of the people through the intervention mostly of the
Church, which not only commissioned the subject but prescribed its
treatment, they achieved their self-expression through religious
pictures which had the character of sacred genre. Yet this Spanish brand
of genre is inferior to the secular genre of Holland or to the sacred
genre of old Flemish religious paintings. It has a quality, perceptible
in neither of the latter, of obviousness. Its motive is less surely an
æsthetic delight in things of beauty; more evidently influenced by the
practical intention of rounding out the story.
I doubt if the student of Spanish painting, particularly if he visits
Spain, can escape the feeling that it exhibits a certain oppressive
obviousness. How is this to be accounted for? In the first place,
surely, by the influence of the Church, ever more intent on making art a
handmaid of its own purposes than on developing its own inherent
beauties. And, if this was true under the conditions in Italy, where the
Church itself was penetrated with Humanism, how much more is it to be
expected under those which existed in Spain! But there is another
reason, incident to the Spanish character. The latter, as has been
suggested in the previous chapter, was the product of a long and heroic
struggle on behalf of nationality and the Christian Faith. Among its
conspicuous traits, in consequence, were self-consciousness and inflated
egoism; traits that, if you consider it, are those of the actor; the
necessary groundwork on which he builds his better qualities as an
artist.
The Spaniards are a race of actors. The arts in which they have most
naturally expressed themselves are those of the drama and the novel of
character and action. And this trait similarly affects their painting.
It is dramatic, concerned frequently with action, always with
characterisation. Meanwhile, self-consciousness and egoism readily yield
to the temptation of exaggeration. Spanish literature evaded this
weakness because it was left to go its own way and the artistic
conscience of the author was permitted to discover for itself a sense of
true values. But in the painter’s case the Church intervened and being,
so to say, interested in the box-office receipts, compelled him to play
to the gallery. It favored sensationalism and encouraged melodrama. The
meekness of the martyr must be represented so that the dullest spectator
would not miss the moral; the executioner’s hatred of virtue so
portrayed that no one could fail to recognise him as a villain; love and
devotion must be sentimentalised, and blood, pain and disease so vividly
exhibited that the crudest sensibilities would be wrung. Imagination
must not be counted upon and suggestion, the subtle road thereto, must
be abandoned for the direct and detailed statement. Aim at the crude
instincts and make the message obvious!
This Spanish tendency toward the related traits of exaggeration and
obviousness is not confined to painting. It appears also in the
architecture and sculpture. Foreign architects, for example, were
employed in the erection of cathedrals in the Gothic style; but the
latter’s noble logic of plan and elevation was disturbed by the
innovations which Spanish taste, or lack of it, dictated. Conspicuous
among these was the erection of a Coro in the center of the nave; an
inclosure walled around, carried to a great height and profusely adorned
with sculpturesque ornament. This monstrous choir effectually blocks the
view of the high-altar from any spot except the narrow space which
separates the two, and also interrupts what should be one of the sublime
features of a Gothic cathedral, its endless variety of stately vistas.
In every direction the perspective of pillars, arches and vaultings is
barred by the tasteless magnificence of the Coro. For the latter, like
the Capilla Mayor with its high-altar, is overloaded with excess of
ornament. In one case it may be in the “plateresque” style, a network of
intricate and minute embellishments that vies with the dainty exuberance
of the workers in silver-plate. Elsewhere, it is wantonly “grotesque” or
pompously “baroque” or characterised by that orgy of material
extravagance, called “Churrigueresque” after the name of the sculptor
who introduced it. In this, sculpture has been degraded to the most
blatant naturalism; Madonnas clothed like dolls in brocaded gowns; the
tragedy of Calvary or the glory of Heaven, presented with figures,
background and accessories, painted, posed and set like a theatrical
tableau. It is not for a moment suggested that there is no beauty and
grandeur in Spanish architecture and sculpture. Yet to one whose taste
is attuned to the imaginative spaciousness, sublimity and mystery of
pure Gothic or to the inventive refinement of choice Renaissance design,
the net impression of a Spanish cathedral is likely to be one of
oppression and distaste. And more so, as one analyses the psychological
cause of this extravagant display. It seems to be the Spanish instinct
to close himself round with interest in what is nearest to him, so that
he abandons breadth or height of vision--imagination, in fact--in favor
of the immediately present, which he invests with all the fervor of his
pent up nature. This leads inevitably to a materialistic point of view
and to the baldly naturalistic method; in a word, to the obviousness
which we have noted.
Spain, in fact, with its large admixture of Germanic blood, exhibits in
its art the trait that affects other races akin to the Teutonic: the
German itself, the English and American. She, no more than they, has
much sense of beauty in the abstract. The idea that beauty for its own
sake is desirable may penetrate the imagination of some artists in all
these countries, but is a principle of art in none of them, and by the
general public of all is not understood. The usual idea is that painting
is primarily the representation of some person, place or thing, and is
to be judged by what it represents. The idea that it should contribute
to the beauty of life, and that beauty is one of the qualities most
needful and desirable in life; that, indeed, properly considered, it
should be the ideal of life, is even to-day only slowly dawning upon our
comprehension. We still make the ideal of our civilization material
progress and the ideal of education the preparation to play a part in
it. In a word, our ideal is materialistic; a contradiction of terms,
confusing the high issues of life. For, if a man or a nation is to have
an ideal it must be something above the necessary matter of life,
correlating the spiritual sense to what it conceives of spirit in the
universe. It was so that the Greek, learning of Egypt and the Orient,
drawing inspiration, in fact, from the deep wells of human
consciousness, established his ideal and interpreted it under the symbol
of beauty.
For my own part, this difference between the older idea of art and our
own, which was shared by Spain, is most illuminatively enforced by the
contrast between two of the great architectural monuments of Spain: the
Escoriál and the Alhambra. Both are palaces, memorials of the greatest
epoch in the history of each race; but one is a palace of the dead and
of preparation for death, the other a lordly pleasure house, redolent of
the joy of living; the Escoriál is a monument of sternness; the Alhambra
a miracle of beauty.
Yet for the student of humanity and of art in relation thereto what a
poignant interest attaches to the Escoriál! True, it is the
self-expression of one man; but the imagination may not be astray in
discovering in it some expression also of the race and its time. For
Philip II was so loyal a son of the Church or, if you will, so morbid a
victim of the Church’s influence, and that influence was then so rooted
in the conscience of the
[Illustration: S. URSULA SPANISH SCHOOL, XV CENTURY
THE PRADO]
people, that he was in a large measure representative of them.
Philip was bound by the terms of his inheritance to create a mausoleum
for the remains of his father, Charles V. He set about making it a
burying place of sufficient dignity for his father, himself and
succeeding Catholic Kings. To the mausoleum must be attached a church,
and to the latter a monastery, to make perpetual provision for the
saying of masses. His father had retired to a monastery after laying
down the cares of government. Philip, while still handling the affairs
of his vast dominion, would also lead the cloistered life. Meanwhile
there were the mundane needs of a court to be considered and Philip
himself tempered his asceticism with gallantry, so that a palace must be
included. Hence ensued the idea of the Escoriál, wherein life consorts
with death and business and pleasure are pursued under the shadow of a
judgment to come. Surely a monument to the strangest medley of motives
that history can show! Morbid, magnificent!
Architects were employed, but Philip constantly supervised the design.
He planned his monument to last forever. Far from the possible
vicissitudes of the capital, remote from the petty changes of daily
life, he laid its foundations in the bed-rock of the mountains; and
built their strength into its walls. With its back to the precipitous
wall of the Guadarrama Sierra, it stands a colossal squared mass, facing
the undulating vista of tableland. Its facades are severely simple,
bare of ornamental detail, proclaiming their monastic purpose; and
similarly the interior, as originally planned, was characterised by the
dignity of constructional simplicity. The church also, until Luca
Giordano at a later period covered the vaultings with flaunting mural
paintings, was a unique example of stern austerity; its plan of a Greek
cross being uninterrupted by a central coro and the only magnificence
permitted being massed about the high-altar. A strange contrast, in
fact, the imagination of Philip offered to the art instincts of his
people. While they eschewed vistas and rejoiced in extravagance of
detail, he was wedded to simplicity and sought a prospect of the widest
vision. Yet in his personal life he shrank into narrowness. A private
door communicated with a corner seat at the back of the coro, so that
unobserved he could join the monks, as one of them, in their devotional
routine. While he provided himself with a palace for ceremonial
purposes, he actually lived in a tiny suite of meagre rooms, sleeping in
a cubicle. Its window opened into the church, commanding a view of the
high-altar, where the celebrant as he said mass stood directly above the
tombs of the dead kings. This Pantheon of the dead, a low, octagonal
chamber with flattened vaultings, lined with shelves on which repose
sarcophagi, was originally of extreme simplicity. For the present
bastard profusion of sombre ornamentation was added by Philips III and
IV.
To-day as one wanders through this vast and silent edifice of the
Escoriál it can well seem as if that sanctuary of death, buried beneath
the church, is the dead heart, connected by the arteries of its nearly
one hundred miles of corridors with the huge organs and spreading limbs
of a prodigious leviathan. One has left behind the exhilaration of the
air of the Sierras the glorious spaciousness of the outside prospect,
and as the artificial vastness closes in about one, the spirit becomes
numbed and chill. It is a stupendous Golgotha, a colossal Place of
Skulls. Yet we shall be lacking in imagination if we cannot realise that
the dead heart once beat and that the ponderous body once enshrined a
soul. It may have been a mad soul; certainly it was a proud one, of high
exaltation, white to its core with the flame of an intense ideal. None
the less was it something of a craven soul, evading the problems of this
life, and fearing the life to come; closing its eyes to the light and
wrapping itself in the darkness of superstition. It is the soul of one
man that was thus enshrined; but in many respects it is revealed as the
soul of the Spanish people.
Seen at noonday in summer, the Escoriál stands, shadowless in the
sunshine, at the foot of the bare Sierra, looking out over a vista of
barren stubble, parched grass and dried up water-courses; an undulating
sweep of pallid buff, interrupted sparsely by grey olive bushes;
pitilessly inhospitable. But, in the slanting light of the afternoon,
the Sierras near and far lose the bleakness of their pinkish buff
beneath transparent tones of mauve and lavender, while the harsh nudity
of the endless vega becomes clothed in tender veils of variously
modulated greys. Even the inexorableness of the granite pile is
assuaged, as the shadows creep about its base, the contours and
surfaces of its facades melt into iridescent hues and the dome and
towers rise up to meet the cooling sky with something of aerial
suggestion. Slowly, as the light wanes the Escoriál and its vast setting
become to the imagination spiritualised; but the spirit that hovers over
them and enters into yours is, if I mistake not, for all its beauty
impregnated with sadness, which, as the darkness blots out distance and
buries the monastery beneath the gloom of the Sierras, dies into a sense
of awe.
And now let us revisit the Alhambra, which enshrines the soul of another
race. No colossal formality here, or precision of foot-rule and compass
from which the free spirit of the artist’s imagination has been
dogmatically barred! On the contrary, the palace of the Moorish kings
grew cell to cell by accretion, expressive of an accumulating sense of
the power and joy of life, alive with the breath of artistic
imagination. It dominates its own hill, looking across, on the one hand,
to the protecting barrier of higher hills, and on the other, over a
smiling hospitable vega, a far reaching garden of luxuriant fertility.
The hill itself is a paradise of refreshment. Its slopes are richly
clothed with shade trees and semi-tropical vegetation, embowered in
flowers, fragrant with the scents of living growths, musical with the
song of birds, the tinkle of tiny runnels, and the plash of fountains
and cascades. Set above this scene of ordered wildness, where the
license of nature is united to the task of man, stands what is left of
the palace of the Arab Sovereigns of Granada.
There is no need to describe its plan of gardens, fountains, courts and
corridors, halls of ceremony and suites of living rooms. It is the
spirit of the whole that we may try to capture. Here, as in the Mosque
of Cordova, the Arab’s love of vistas is revealed; but while the former
spreads over a large space, the perspectives of the Alhambra are
actually restricted. In their case even more than in the other is
created an illusion of distance. The triumph is one not of material
emphasis but of artistic suggestion. It was the human imagination,
finding its free expression in art, that gave form and fabric to this
Oriental dream of beauty. It is a visualised symphony, whose theme is
life; the joy of life and beauty that irradiates the joy. And the
inspiration is drawn from nature. To those who know the Alhambra it will
not sound like freakishness of speech to say, that the imagination of
the artist has ensnared a portion of the spirit of beauty which roams at
large in the desert and sky and lurks in the silences of woods and
gardens; and, because he felt the phenomena of nature in relation to the
supreme whole, has captured something of the infinity of the universal
and enshrined it in his microcosm of beauty. Also more intimately he has
fashioned his invention upon nature; studying her forms and methods and
adapting them to the conventions of art. In the endless variety of
decorative encrustration with which the wall-spaces, the soffits of the
arches and the vaultings of the chambers are embroidered, the motives
are drawn from the interlacing of boughs and vines, the rhythm of the
brooklet meandering through luxuriant undergrowth of vines and flowers,
from the facets of the crystal and the accumulated cells of bees. But
they are not interpreted in a naturalistic vein. The Oriental
imagination, at its best, rises above naturalistic representation; it
accepts the fertilization of nature, but conventionalises the product to
conform to the artist’s idea of abstract beauty.
It may be that in the Alhambra he has carried this idealization too far
and become too prodigal with its motives. The dainty fabric has little
structural dignity; architectonic substance being sacrificed to vistas
and surface decoration, while the last may easily be judged too profuse.
Yet the Arab, when he chose, was a builder and engineer, continuing the
Roman tradition of solid and scientific construction. Even at the
Alhambra this fact is attested by the foundations that are rooted in the
rock and carried down its precipitous flank, and by the aqueducts which
convey water from the neighboring hills to supply the fountains and
baths, the sudorific chambers and the system of heating. He faced the
necessities and facts of life as they arose, but in the pleasure-house
of his soul surrendered himself to the abstract, wrapping himself in
contemplation of the beautiful. So he encouraged his artists until their
imagination reached its zenith of profuse invention in the so-called
“Room of the Two Sisters.”
Above a dado of iridescent glass mosaic the walls are overlaid with a
rich lace work as of carved ivory, the interstices of which are colored
red and blue. Their surfaces are interrupted by niches, framed with
columns and arches of surpassing delicacy. From the four corners, at
considerable height project pendentives, converting the square of the
room into an octagon from
[Illustration: THE APPARITION OF THE VIRGIN? PEDRO BERRUGUETE TO
BERNARDINE MONKS
THE PRADO]
which springs the domed ceiling. The pendentives are groups of
stalactite forms, and the vaulting above is composed of innumerable
concave cells. Each differing slightly from the others, they cling
together in pendent masses, here projecting like a bunch of swarming
bees, there receding into the mystery of a fairy grotto; all the while
mounting up the curve of the ceiling, which undulates like a vine
yielding to the weight of its grapes; climbing higher and higher in
endless frolic of invention until they draw together at the ceiling’s
peak. Enough gold still adheres to the myriad facets to suggest to the
imagination the mysterious lustre of the ceiling, when it was lighted by
a suspended lantern with its clusters of crystal lights. This gem of the
Alhambra jewel, the heart of the Harem chambers, opens, as you remember,
on one side into an alcove. Through the windows of this appear the tops
of cypress trees, which rise from the boskage of pomegranates, roses and
oleanders in a little garden court. On the other side, the “Court of the
Lions,” once shaded with orange trees, still soothes the ear with the
plash of its central fountain and the drip of the tiny jets that spring
like rods of silver from the marble pavement of the arcades. A spot,
indeed of exquisite sensations; where everything conspires to alternate
moods of reverie and poignant stimulation; where the physical senses are
rarified, exalted, till perception swims into a sea of subtleties that
melts into a dreamy subconsciousness of infinity.
This you may say is a supreme achievement, tainted with weakness. Here
the yearning after beauty for its own sake has created such a subtlety
and luxuriance of beauty as to suggest that the motive was ornament for
the sake of ornament; sense-gratification for indulgence sake;
exquisiteness at the cost of living energy. For, while the maze of
decoration is ordered with most refined sensibility, it is none the less
expressive of inordinate and almost tortured sensuousness. If you adopt
this view it is to admit that the Alhambra was a product of the
decadence of the Oriental idea; and it is interesting to note how it
bred a corresponding decadence in the artistic motives of the Christian
conquerors. It was unquestionably from the Arabs that the Spaniard
derived his taste for excess. But his racial instinct and his Catholic
faith colored the result with a great difference. His sensuous and
religious ecstasy found their expression not in abstract symbols but in
concrete actualities. They prompted him to take delight in the actual
representation of blood and torture and to render his conception of
Heaven by means of sculptured figures reposing on marble clouds amid
gilded spikes of glory. Gradually, in fact, he degraded his conception
to the most obvious kind of perception. He expressed his spiritual ideas
in terms of naturalism.
It may seem illogical to invite the reader to be interested in Spanish
art and then discourage him by laying bare its weakness. But I believe
that every one who visits Spain, where alone the inwardness of Spanish
art can be reached, must feel at the outset more or less conscious of
these limitations to his interest; that, in fact, he suffers a
preliminary discouragement. If so, is it not better to admit it; to
accustom oneself to the expectation of temporary disillusionment, in
order that one may the sooner get over it and settle down to a just
appreciation of the admirable qualities which actually exist in Spanish
painting?
CHAPTER III
A PANORAMIC VIEW
_Part I: To the End of the Sixteenth Century._
To the student who is in pursuit of æsthetic enjoyment rather than
critical research the art of Spain resolves itself into the works of a
comparatively small number of painters. It is these who are represented
in the galleries of Europe and America and form the chief attraction in
the Prado and smaller museums of Spain, as well as in the cathedrals and
churches; at least in those cases, not too frequent, where there is
sufficient light to see them. The spell exercised by these artists each
in his different way, is so arresting that one may easily be indifferent
to those of minor quality. On the other hand, our interest is increased
if we glance over the whole field, the level of which is interrupted by
conspicuous individuals, and thus view the latter in their respective
times and places in the general story.
It must not be forgotten that the racial characteristics of Spain and
her art, while they preserve a general national uniformity, were
modified by the circumstances of different environments. Even before
their union by the marriage of Ferdinand and Isabella, the kingdoms of
Castile and Aragón presented a noted difference. The former included
besides the province of Castile, the other divisions of territory in the
northwest of the Peninsula; while Aragón embraced Catalonia and
Valencia, the provinces bordering on the Mediterranean, and had extended
her authority to the Balearic Isles, Sardinia and Sicily. The
geographical distribution tells its own tale: Castile, with her bleak
Sierras and wind-swept, sun-parched plains, a region of strenuousness;
Aragón, dipping her hot feet in the Mediterranean, her asperities
assuaged by influences from over-sea. For, while Castile was early
disposed to derive her foreign influences from the Netherlands and
Germany, Aragón and especially Valencia drew theirs from Italy. Later,
when the union of the entire country was achieved by the conquest of
Andalusia and Granada, the climatic conditions of these two provinces
and their proximity to the Mediterranean naturally drew them into close
relations both with Valencia and Italy. It remains only to mention in
the way of anticipation, that the seat of Government, being always in
Castile and finally established in Madrid, became a nucleus to which the
various influences from other parts of the country were attracted. Thus,
while the Schools of Valencia and Andalusia preserved their local
characteristics, the School of Castile, which later is more specifically
known as the School of Madrid, became under the patronage of the Court
more cosmopolitan.
The sources of painting in Spain, as in other countries, are to be
looked for, first in illuminated manuscripts and secondly in the remains
of mural decorations. The earliest examples of the latter are to be
found in the figures of saints which adorn the little church of El
Cristo de la Luz in Toledo and in some scenes from the Passion on the
vaulting of the chapel of St. Catherine in San Isidoro in Léon. These
are attributed to the twelfth century. Later examples of the fourteenth
century, exist in Seville, in San Lorenzo, San Ildefonso and the Capella
de la Antigua in the Cathedral. The subject of each is the Virgin. In
the cathedral, for example, she is represented against a gold diapered
background, her robe also being adorned with arabesques of gold. In her
right hand she holds a rose and with her left supports the Child, while
two angels suspend a crown over her head. The figure of the Father
Almighty, rather small in scale, appears above. The flesh is scarcely
modeled, and in the case of the Virgin is very tenderly expressed; the
draperies, on the other hand, suggesting in their flatness and breadth
of treatment a sense of bigness. The influence is clearly Italian and
seems to present a union of the feeling of Cimabue and Fra Angelico.
It is with the beginning of the fifteenth century that one reaches sure
ground. In 1428, during the reign of Juan II of Castile, the great
Flemish painter, Jan Van Eyck, while on a mission to Portugal visited
Madrid. His coming aroused in the Spaniards an interest in Flemish art,
which resulted in the importation of paintings by Memlinc, Roger van der
Weyden, Dierick Bouts, Mabuse and Patinir. The effect of their influence
can be studied in the basement galleries of the Prado, where hang
anonymous works by painters of the School of Castile during the
fifteenth century. A very interesting series of scenes from the life of
the Virgin (numbered 2178-2183) exhibits in the angular folds of the
draperies and in the architecture a notable Gothic feeling, and have
much of the freedom of composition and intensity of sentiment of Van der
Weyden. On the other hand in No. 2184, _The Catholic Kings with their
Families at Prayer Before the Virgin_ reproduced on page 18, the
influence of Memlinc and his period of Flemish art appears. One notes
the charming glimpses of landscape, seen through the windows; the almost
childlike sweetness of the faces and the truly Flemish love of beautiful
detail. This is exhibited in the Virgin’s crimson robe and the
rosy-purple gown of the King, both of which are brocaded with designs in
raised gold, and in the various accessories, particularly the church in
the hand of S. Thomas Aquinas, the lily in that of S. Domingo de Guzman,
and the richly decorated throne. On the back of this are curious little
impish figures, that recall the weirdly whimsical inventions of
Hieronymus Bosch, whose pictures, as later those of his imitator, Peeter
Brueghel, were very popular in northern Spain. The figure, kneeling
behind the King, is the Inquisitor-General, Tomas de Torquemada; the one
behind the Queen represents S. Peter Martyr of Verona.
Ascribed to the end of the fifteenth century is the curiously
interesting _S. Ursula_, reproduced on page 31. The picture forms one of
a series of three, of which the first is _The Coronation of the Virgin_
and the third _The Temptation of S. Anthony_. Escorted by the Pope and
by bishops and cardinals, S. Ursula is seen at the head of the
procession of eleven thousand virgins who are following her to Rome;
but, if the legend is to be believed, will be slaughtered by the Huns
near Cologne. With another example, reproduced on page 37, we reach at
least the suggestion of a Spanish painter’s name. _The Apparition of the
Virgin to a Community of Bernardine Monks During a Ceremony of Exorcism_
is ascribed, though with a query, to Pedro Berruguete. Carl Justi
considers that this picture and its companions, illustrating Dominican
legends, were by the Burgundian painter, Juan de Borgoña, assisted by
Berruguete and another painter named Santos Cruz. To the last is
attributed the traces of Peruginesque influence that occur in all the
series; in the present example, in the angels surrounding the Madonna.
But the chief interest lies in the varied and individual
characterization which the artist has given to the heads of the monks
and laity. The latter seem of Flemish type, and, if Carl Justi’s
attribution is correct, may, together with the architectural perspective
have been executed by Juan de Borgoña. On the other hand, Berruguete was
probably responsible for the monks, since they approximate to the
Spanish type, as may be verified by comparing them with the character
studies of this order of brotherhood by Zurbarán (see page 166).
The gradual emergence of the national type in the works of this period
is again illustrated in the collection of splendid panels in the
Hispanic Museum, New York. Examples 1 to 7 show the Netherlandish
influence,
[Illustration: S. STEPHEN CONDUCTED TO MARTYRDOM JUAN DE JUANES
THE PRADO]
while numbers 8 and 9 represent the commencement of native feeling.
Compare, for instance, the face of the woman who kneels on the left of
the foreground in _S. Gregory Saying Mass_ with those of the women in
the high upright panel of the earlier series. The latter have a Flemish
roundness of features and rather dull expression, whereas the face in
the _Gregory_ picture, narrows toward the chin and has something of the
spiritual intensity which in the next century will be brought to its
highest pitch of expression by El Greco. In fact, although Spain
borrowed motives and methods from abroad, the inspiration remained her
own and imprinted a native character on the product.
* * * * *
This is still apparent in the art of the sixteenth century when there
poured into Spain a steady flow of Italian influence. Its general
tendency was to produce a number of so-called “mannerists,” Spanish
painters who experimented with and imitated the style of the Italian
masters, particularly of the Florentines, Da Vinci, Raphael and
Michelangelo. It was a necessary stage through which Spanish art had to
graduate in order to acquire facility in drawing, chiaroscuro and the
principles of composition. But it is not a period on which the student
who is interested in art as a living expression will care to dwell. He
will look upon it as probationary and merely preparatory for the later
liberty of national and individual expression. Yet he may glance over it
and see how even here the yeast of the national genius is fermenting the
mass of borrowed and affected manners.
An example of this is afforded by the work of Juan de Juanes, one of the
early names of prominence in the School of Valencia. The _S. Stephen
Conducted to Martyrdom_, reproduced on page 44, is an illustration of
his style. It forms one of a series, connected with the life of S.
Stephen, which is now in the basement galleries of the Prado. It is not
difficult to detect in these paintings the influence of Raphael. So
noticeable is it, that Cean Bermudez, the chronicler of early Spanish
art, assumes that Juanes must have been a pupil of the Florentine
master. Subsequent research, however, has discovered that the Valencian
painter was not born until 1523, three years after Raphael’s death.
However he may have acquired a knowledge of the latter’s style, it is
evident what it did for him and, through him, for the other painters of
the Valencian school and the closely affiliated school of Andalusia.
Comparing this picture with the earlier ones, reproduced in these pages,
one observes in it a far more varied, facile and accurate skill in
drawing, and that the composition, while it has lost the charm of
naturalness, has gained in science. It is _organisé_, as the French say,
a carefully assembled structure of inter-related parts, locked together
into an ensemble. On the other hand, to anticipate the sequence of our
story, this artificial unity will have to be digested before its
principles can be adjusted to the naturalistic presentation which is to
be the peculiar quality of Spanish art. Meanwhile we can see the
naturalistic tendency already forming. The fine head, immediately behind
the Saint’s, is that of a Spanish gentleman of the period. All the
heads, in fact, are of local types, and the exaggeration of action in
the figures and of emotion in the faces, is characteristic of a nation
so dramatically disposed as the Spanish, while the excess of humility in
the demeanour of the Saint is characteristic of the devotional attitude
of this painter toward his art. For he, like many others among the
Spanish artists, is said to have painted only sacred subjects and to
have prepared his spirit for the task by partaking of the Sacrament.
Another picture which helps to throw a light upon this period of Italian
imitation is the _Descent from the Cross_ by Pedro Campaña (page 51).
This painter was born in Brussels in 1503. But, though of Flemish
origin, he gained his knowledge of art in Rome, whence he passed to
Spain, living in Seville for twenty-four years, until his death in 1580.
Thus he was an important factor in the transitionary development of the
School of Andalusia. Murillo particularly admired this picture, and at
his own request was buried beneath it in the Church of Santa Cruz. When
the latter was pulled down, the picture was removed to the Cathedral,
where it now hangs in the Sacristy. Its indebtedness to Raphael is
apparent in the group of figures at the foot of the Cross, while a
Peruginesque influence is suggested in the draperies of the men upon the
ladders and in the placing of their figures against the sky. But also
evident is the artificiality of the whole. The gestures and expression
of the women are affected; quite inadequate is the support which is
being given to the Sacred Body, while the attitude of the latter is too
obviously regulated with the double intention of securing certain lines
in the composition and of introducing the suggestion of forgiveness of
the Magdalen. In fact, the chief virtue of the picture seems to be its
extremely handsome composition, which must be admitted to have great
nobility as well as a fine organic simplicity. The picture, indeed, is
an achievement of science; valuable for its enforcement of academic
principles; yet, even so, the work, not of a master, but a manneristic
imitator.
* * * * *
It is with more interest than one turns to the work of another artist of
this transition period, Luis de Morales. For although he experimented
with various motives, his adoption of them seems to have been prompted
by his search for the expression of a personally sincere religious
fervor. Almost nothing is recorded of his life, beyond the few facts
that he was a native of Badajoz, on the frontier of Portugal, and died
there in 1586; that, except for a visit to Madrid at the invitation of
Philip II he seems to have spent his life in the quiet retirement of his
native city, and notwithstanding the estimation in which his pictures
were held, reached an old age of poverty. For it is related that the
king passing through Badajoz, sent for the artist. The latter, when as a
young man he had been summoned to Court, appeared in so sumptuous an
attire, that the King remonstrated with him, but was appeased by
Morales’ explanation that he donned it in honor of his Majesty. Now,
however, he appeared in a condition of extreme destitution. To Philip’s
remark: “Morales, you are very old,” the artist replied, “Yes, your
Majesty, and very poor.” The king on the spot awarded him a pension of
two hundred ducats. “For your dinner,” he said, to which Morales
replied, “And for supper, Sire?” The King, so the story goes, accepted
the jest and added another hundred ducats a year to the pension. This
episode took place in 1581 and it is supposed that Morales at the time
of his death, five years later, had reached the age of seventy-seven
years.
Nothing is known as to the way in which Morales learned his art, but a
comparative study of his various styles suggests that he may have had
access to some work or copy of a work of Michelangelo, to some examples
of the Milanese School of Leonardo da Vinci and to pictures of the
contemporary Flemish and German Schools. The Michelangelesque influence,
according to the official notice of this artist in the catalogue of the
Prado Gallery, is discernible chiefly in works that are to be found in
Badajoz and Lisbon. It would appear that they are distinguished by an
exaggeration of manner. A similar trait appears in a _Pietá_ which hangs
in the Academy of San Fernando in Madrid. The Virgin is seated at the
foot of the Cross, supporting the dead body of Christ. The latter is in
an attitude of being seated, the arms suspended and the head laid back
on the shoulder, immediately below the head of the Virgin. The nude form
is as hard as if it were carved in wood, and in contrast to its pallid
whiteness are long streams of crimson blood, as glossy and stiff as
ribands. In fact, combined with the naturalistic correctness of the
drawing the figure has an exaggerated Gothic feeling, while another
excess, this time of refinement, appears in the microscopic precision
with which the hair of the beard and head is represented. This delicacy,
suggestive of the Milanese influence, reappears in the _Virgin Caressing
the Infant Jesus_ of the Prado Gallery and the variations of the same
theme which may be seen in the Hispanic Museum, New York. Here, however,
the meticulous rendering of the little golden chestnut curls which
cluster on the heads of the Mother and Child is in accord with the
loving, tender regard for refined sweetness of expression that
characterises the whole treatment. The Prado also possesses an _Ecce
Homo_; the figure, seen nearly to the waist, nude but for a crimson
mantle which covers the shoulders and is fastened on the chest. One of
the bound hands holds a reed and a crown of thorns surmounts the head,
drops of blood showing on the forehead. The face, with its straight
brows and deep-set eyes, long finely chiseled nose, and sensitive mouth,
surrounded by a softly growing beard, the whole modeled sensitively with
a Milanese subtlety of chiaroscuro, expresses an interesting blend of
intellectuality and ecstasy. In this union one may easily discover an
essentially Spanish feeling. However the methods may have been borrowed
from elsewhere, the sentiment is Castilian of the sixteenth century, a
mingling of high-bred nature and spiritual introspection.
Another picture of the Prado, selected for reproduction on page 62, is
_The Presentation of the Infant Jesus in the Temple_. It is an important
example, revealing a fuller capacity for ordered composition, in which
there is a grandiose dignity, strangely
[Illustration:
DESCENT FROM THE CROSS PEDRO CAMPAÑA
SEVILLE CATHEDRAL]
interrupted by a littleness of feeling. The latter is particularly
noticeable in the highly finished rendering of the child’s body,
disposed so affectedly amid the prim folds of the greyish white drapery.
One may be conscious also of a certain exaggerated gesture of humility
in the Virgin’s figure; but, on the other hand, how firm in its
assertion of liberty of action is the supple figure of the maiden who
holds the basket of doves! How excellently imagined, moreover, are the
spotting of the several heads, the upright lines of the candles and the
broad bold spaces of the white tablecloth!
The reputation of Morales has been injured by the number of _Ecce Homos_
and _Magdalens_, sentimentally mawkish, which, according to latest
judgment, have been ascribed to him falsely. For, in an age of artistic
copying, working for patrons who demanded an excessive display of
pietistic ecstasy, he was distinguished by a considerable measure of
individual temperament as well as of sincere religious feeling.
* * * * *
The signal example of an individual personality, is that of Domenico
Theotocopuli, popularly called El Greco from the fact that he was born
in Crete. Since he will form the subject of another chapter, it is
sufficient here to recall the fact that he reached Spain by way of
Venice and Rome and settled in Toledo. His art bridges the last quarter
of the sixteenth century and the first of the seventeenth, and,
notwithstanding his foreign training, was deeply imbued with the Spanish
spirit of his day.
Meanwhile, during the latter part of the sixteenth century a more
direct infusion of Italian influence reached Spain through the artists
whom Philip imported from Italy to decorate the Escoriál. During the
first twenty-five years of his reign he had continued the patronage of
Titian, commenced by his father, Charles V. The latter, after he had sat
to the great Venetian, loaded him with marks of favor, including an
order of nobility, and vowed that no other artist was worthy to paint
Cæsar. Philip’s pride equally demanded the services of the artist who
was accounted the greatest of his day, and Titian was willing to give
them. “Is not my aim in life,” he wrote, “to refuse the services of
other princes and to cling to that of your majesty?” The king’s
commissions were for religious subjects, but Titian, knowing the other
side of his patron’s nature, supplemented them with nudes and the
so-called “poesies,” or subjects of more or less erotic significance.
Hence the collection of over forty Titian’s which is one of the glories
of the Prado Gallery.
Among the painters summoned from Italy by Philip II the best known are
Frederico Zucchero, Pelegrino Tibaldi, Bartolomeo Carducho and Patricio
Caxés. They were men of facile but inferior ability, whose work is of
little interest in itself and has no part, except that of an interlude,
in the development of native art. On the other hand a definite and
distinguished rôle was played by the Flemish painter, Antony Mor or
Moro. He had been portrait painter to Charles V in Flanders, and in 1552
came to Spain in the train of Cardinal Granvilla. During a prolonged
stay at the Spanish Court he enriched his Flemish method by study of
the portraits by Titian which the emperor had accumulated. Moro’s
teaching and influence started the Castile School of portrait painting.
His best pupil was Alonso Sánchez Coello, (?-1590) whose portraits are
vital records of personality, although somewhat trivialized by the
elaboration of meticulous detail.
CHAPTER IV
A PANORAMIC VIEW
_Part II: Seventeenth Century to the Present Day._
The seventeenth century was the golden age of Spanish art, as it was of
the art of Holland; product in the one case of national decline, in the
other of national growth. While Spain was neglecting her national
resources, losing her morale and wasting money and men on a vain effort
to enslave the Dutch, the latter, in their fight for liberty, built up
their national character and developed the resources of their country.
Yet, under conditions so different, the genius of each people was
liberated, threw off the shackles of foreign influence and discovered
its own racial expression in painting. Each of the great schools had its
protagonist: Valencia, José Ribera (1588-1656); Andalusia, Murillo
(1618-1682); Castile, Velasquez, (1599-1660). Meanwhile, as we have
noted, the early part of the century was occupied by the great artist,
El Greco.
As these will be discussed in separate chapters, it remains to note the
most important of the lesser painters of the period under their
respective schools.
In the School of Castile the vogue of portraiture at Court was
perpetuated by Coello’s pupil, Juan Pantoja de la Cruz (1551-1610) and
by Bartolomé Gonzáles (1564-1627). The former’s portraits are hard and
dry in treatment and shallow in expression, while the latter’s, despite
a tightness and triviality of detail, have a certain grandiose dignity
of design. Witness the equestrian portraits of Philip III and his wife,
Doña Margarita of Austria and that of Philip IV’s first wife, Doña
Isabel de Borbón. In the Prado catalogue these are still assigned to
Velasquez, but latest criticism confines the latter’s share in them to
retouching of certain parts, particularly the horses, while giving the
originals to Gonzáles. It is further believed that the landscapes in the
Philip III and Queen Margarita were worked over by Velasquez’s pupil and
son-in-law, Mazo. The handling of the figures is so different from that
of the rest of the compositions, so evidently the reverse of Velasquez’s
broad and pregnant style, that it is strange the canvases should ever
have been assigned in their entirety to him; except for the reason that
until recently it has been the custom, both in Madrid and elsewhere, to
attribute to this master anything, however mediocre, which approached
the appearance of his method.
We recall among the Italian painters invited to the Court of Philip II,
Bartolomeo Carducho and Patricio Caxés. Each had a son who became a
painter; Vicente Carducho (1585-1638) born in Italy, but educated and
naturalised in Spain, and Eugenio Caxés (1577-1642), whose birthplace
was Madrid. They were employed in decorating the palaces of the Prado
and the Escoriál. Their work is mannered, with much technical
proficiency and little inspiration. It is, however, handsome in design;
wherein lies its chief interest to the student of Spanish painting,
since it helped to foster that skill in the filling of a space which was
brought to such perfection by Velasquez. In this connection we may
mention Fray Juan Bautista Mayno (1594-1690), a Dominican monk, who had
been drawing master to Philip IV before his accession and was retained
by him afterwards as an adviser in matters of art. There is an
“allegory” by him in the entrance hall of the Prado, representing _The
Pacification of the States of Flanders_ which in qualities of painting
is quite uninteresting, yet, regarded as a decoration, has considerable
merit, reminding one of Puvis de Chavannes’ flat patterns of full and
empty spaces. Indeed, one may be disposed to feel that from the point of
view of mural decoration it is even superior to Velasquez’s _Surrender
of Breda_, which by comparison is a historical picture. It is
interesting to note that Mayno was a native of Toledo and in consequence
familiar with the work of El Greco, who, we shall find, was a master of
decorative space-filling.
In 1603, during the reign of Philip III, Rubens, on a mission from the
Duke of Mantua, visited the Spanish Court. One of the Duke’s intentions
was that his emissary should copy some of the masterpieces of the Royal
collection. Rubens’ copy of Titian’s _Temptation of Adam and Eve_ now
hangs in the Prado, not far from the original, and it is interesting to
note how the young Flemish artist has corrected and improved the
composition of the old Venetian. The orders given to Rubens included a
provision that he should forward his work by employing the assistance
of some of the Spanish painters. He writes, saying that he will adhere
to these instructions, but, he adds, “I do not approve of it,
considering the short time we have at our disposal, and the incredible
inadequacy and idleness of these painters and their manners, (from which
may God preserve me from any resemblance!) so absolutely different to
mine.”
Such was Rubens impression of art in Madrid, preceding the appearance of
Velasquez. In 1628 at the zenith of his fame, he paid another diplomatic
visit. Philip IV was now king and appointed his favorite, Velasquez,
escort to the Flemish artist. Of the latter’s impression of the younger
man unfortunately no records exist.
* * * * *
Velasquez maintained no regular studio for pupils, yet he naturally
exercised an influence on many of the younger painters of the day, and
actually gave instruction to some. Among the latter the best known are
Juan Bautista Martinez del Mazo and Juan Carreño, who will be considered
later, and Juan de Pareja. The last mentioned was a mulatto, born in
Seville about 1608, who came to Madrid with Velasquez in the capacity of
a servant and remained with him all his life. Being constantly employed
in the studio, he was himself inspired to become an artist; but as no
slave might practise the free art of painting he worked in secret,
copying his master’s works. At last by a stratagem he revealed his
talent. Having painted a picture with special care, he placed it in his
master’s studio with its face to the wall. The king, on his next visit,
ordered the picture to be turned and enquired who had painted it.
Whereupon Pareja went down on his knees, and implored the royal
protection. The king, turning to Velasquez, said--“you will have no say
in this matter and I warn you that he who possesses so much talent
cannot remain a slave.” At least such is the story, though it is
considered more probable that Velasquez, whose generosity was marked,
actually connived at the slave’s education and procured his
enfranchisement. But, although a free man, he continued to serve his
beloved master, and after the latter’s death in 1660 continued in the
service of his son-in-law, Mazo, until his own death in 1670. He is
represented in the Prado by the _Vocation of S. Matthew_. Christ,
arrayed in the conventional draperies, is standing beside a table at
which is seated Matthew, in Oriental clothes, surrounded by others in
Spanish costume of the period. It is an ambitious and rather tedious
picture.
Three painters of this period which call for brief notice are Antonio
Pereda, Francisco Collantes and José Leonardo. Pereda (1599-1669) was
born in Valladolid, but moved to Madrid to study art and remained there.
In the Academy of San Fernando is an “allegory” by him, entitled _The
Dream of Life_. It represents a young man of heavy, rather Dutch aspect,
handsomely dressed, seated asleep before a table. The latter is strewn
with a variety of objects--jewels, flowers, coins, weapons, music, a
mask, a book--which contribute to the joy and fulness of life.
Meanwhile, on the book rests a skull, while an angel in the background,
gazing at the youth, holds a scroll inscribed--“Æterne pungit, cito
volat et occidet.” The picture is blackened and murky, but the
still-life is rendered with remarkable naturalness. Indeed, naturalistic
veracity and a taste for ascetic or moral suggestion characterises
Pereda’s art. Note, for example, the _S. Jerome_ of the Prado where the
aged saint, stripped to the waist, sits in a spiritual daze, grasping a
cross of rudely joined sticks, which lies upon a book. The latter
contains an engraved illustration, represented with extraordinary
_vraisemblance_, and the same quality is carried to a disgusting pitch
in the rendering of the withered, flabby flesh. Even more revolting and
commonplace in its excessive naturalism is an adjoining _Ecce
Homo_--blood that looks like blood, a rope unmistakably a rope, and a
cross made out of a tree, the bark of which is realised with
ridiculously ineffectual exactness. The two pictures have neither the
vigor of handling nor the dignity of conception to be found in Ribera’s
corresponding subjects. They represent naturalism for the sake of
naturalism; and anticipate the general decadence which settled down on
the School of Castile toward the end of the seventeenth century.
Collantes (1599-1656), a pupil of Vincente Carducho, is represented in
the Prado by a _Vision of Ezekiel_. In the foreground is confusion of
opened tombs and risen bodies and skeletons; in the background the ruins
of a stately classic city, and in the center, raised on an eminence, the
prophet preaching to the awakened dead. The scene both in composition
and chiaroscuro is quite impressive. Collantes is also represented in
the Louvre by _The Burning Bush_.
José Leonardo (1616-1656) is of chief interest to the student because of
his large canvas in the Prado, in which he has represented the same
subject that was immortalised by Velasquez--_The Surrender of Breda_.
Leonardo’s composition is divided diagonally, the left foreground being
occupied by the principal group, while the upper right triangle includes
the background: a plain in which troops are deploying, and a distant
view of the city. It is noticeable that the younger man, whose short
life, clouded by mental trouble, scarcely permitted him to reach his own
maturity, has, like Velasquez, made a decorative use of the lances. His
conception, also, of the scene is one that probably commended itself to
Spanish feeling, for he has represented the conquered Justin of Nassau
submissively kneeling, as he presents the keys to his conqueror, who is
on horseback. Another example by Leonardo in the Prado is the _Taking of
Acqui_. It is, with the group reversed, similarly composed to the
previous picture, of which it is a companion piece, both having been
painted for the “Hall of the Kings” in the Palace of Buen Retiro.
Notable, again, is the device of lances, while the mounted figure of the
Duke de Feria, as he leads the attack, bears an unmistakable general
resemblance to the equestrian portrait of the Count Olivarez by
Velasquez.
Among the Italian painters summoned to Madrid by Philip II, had been a
native of Bologna, Antonio Rizi. He had two sons, Juan and Francisco.
Fray Juan Rizi, for he entered the Benedictine order and spent the
latter part of his life in a monastery at Rome, was the pupil of Fray
Juan Bautista Mayno. His portraits, bearing some resemblance to those of
Velasquez, have been at times attributed to Mazo. Such was the case with
the _Portrait of Don Tiburcio de Redin_ in the Prado, which represents a
man with curls falling to his shoulders, dressed in a handsome cavalier
costume, standing beside a table. He rests one hand on it and with the
other holds a large felt hat. It is a straightforward presentation of a
virile personality, but painted with little verve. Far more interesting
is a _Saint Benedict Celebrating Mass_, in the Academy of San Fernando.
With the sacred wafer in his hand, the saint bends his strong head, with
its black hair and beard, over the white altar-cloth. Over his alb is a
gold embroidered white chasuble, supported by a monk in black. These
figures are seen against a grey-drab wall, meanwhile a third figure, an
acolyte, is in white. It is thus a very handsome tonality of grey, white
and black, which gives an air of grandiose distinction to the very
naturalistic way in which the whole is painted. The brother, Francisco
Rizi, was a pupil of Carducho, and enjoyed reputation as a painter in
fresco, decorating among other sacred edifices the Cathedral of Toledo.
He was also employed as a director of scenery and stage effects in the
dramatic performances given in the Palace of Buen Retiro. Apropos of
these experiences, he executed a curious picture, now in the Prado, in
which he has represented in an ensemble the successive stages of an
auto-de-fé. It commemorates one that actually took place in the Plaza
Mayor of Madrid on June 30, 1680, lasting from eight in the morning
until half-past nine at night. The function had afforded a spasm of zest
to the wretched religious maniac, Charles II, who commanded the
painting. It contains some three thousand figures, and, considering that
Rizi was seventy-five years old when he executed it, is an achievement
as surprising as unnecessary.
One of Francisco Rizi’s pupils was José Antolinez (1639-1676), a native
of Seville. Something of southern sweetness of sentiment pervades his
pictures as may be seen in _The Assumption_ of the Munich Pinakothek,
_The Glorification of the Virgin_ in the Ryks Museum, Amsterdam and the
_Ecstasy of the Magdalen_, of the Prado. The last named represents the
penitent floating in a seated posture, upborne by angels. Two others
hold above her the jar of ointment, while an older angel plays the lute.
The drapery is of ashy purple silk brocaded with mauve arabesques, a
fine passage of color suggestive of the influence of Van Dyke, which at
this period began to find its way into Spain. One may discover it again
in the elegantly sentimental style of Mateo Cerezo, who was originally a
pupil of Carreño. Examples that may be quoted are the _Penitent
Magdalen_ in the Gallery of the Hague, and the _S. John the Baptist_ of
the Cassel Gallery, both of them characterised by affectation. A more
important example, because of its decorative composition, is the
_Assumption of the Virgin_ in the Prado. Down below, the faithful are
peering into a sarcophagus, filled
[Illustration:
PRESENTATION OF JESUS IN THE TEMPLE LUIS MORALES
THE PRADO]
with flowers, while overhead the Virgin and her supporting angels make
an elegant mass of white and blue silk and fluttering wings. But the
picture is fatally pretty, characteristic of the decline of devotional
feeling and artistic taste.
This allusion to the decadence of the School of Castile which marks the
end of the seventeenth century may be closed by a reference to Claudio
Coello (d. 1693). The work which brought him greatest fame in his own
day is the altar-piece of _La Santa Forma_ at the south end of the
sacristry of the Escoriál. It represents a perspective view of the room
in which you are standing as you look at the picture. Thus the great
school of Spanish naturalism passes out in the meretricious glamour of a
looking-glass picture.
SCHOOL OF VALENCIA, SEVENTEENTH CENTURY
In the School of Valencia the connecting link between the period of
mannerism, represented by Juan de Juanes, and the highest development of
the naturalistic motive in the person of Ribera is supplied by Francisco
Ribalta. He was born in Castellón de la Plana, between the years 1550
and 1560 and died in 1628. After studying with an unknown painter in
Valencia, he spent three years in Italy, where he was particularly
attracted by the works of Raphael, Sebastian del Piombo and the Caracci.
Returning to Valencia, he executed a _Last Supper_ for the high altar of
the Church of Corpus Christi. The picture, which is still in the place
for which it was painted, aroused so much enthusiasm that he was kept
employed in providing works for the churches, monasteries and hospitals
in and around Valencia. Some of these are distinguished by grandiose
compositions and figures of noble character. But in other works
Ribalta’s coloring is attenuated and his handling thin; while on other
occasions he exhibits a mingling of Italian “idealism” with Spanish
naturalism. Examples of his poor color and technique are Nos. 946 and
949 in the Prado, which, moreover, are disfigured by their
sentimentality. His particular talent, however, appears at its best in
an adjacent canvas, _S. Francis d’Assisi_. The monk, clad in a brown
habit, is lying on a pallet covered with a blanket. His parched yellow
face and strong, nervous hands are raised in ecstacy toward an angel,
playing a lute, who floats above him in well-disposed draperies of dull
green and rose. Contrasted with the grace of this figure is the severely
naturalistic way in which the monk and the accessories, such as an iron
lamp and missal, are represented. It is a picture both of charm and
force and is characteristic of the kind of influence that Ribalta
exerted over his pupil, Ribera.
SCHOOL OF ANDALUSIA OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY
The transition period in the School of Andalusia is filled by two men.
These were Juan de las Roelas, who painted in a broad and yet seductive
manner with soft, warm chiaroscuro, and the eccentric Francisco Herrera,
who adapted these qualities to a “furioso” style. For this reason he has
been credited with the chief influence in developing the naturalistic
methods of the Andalusian School. But the credit is now assigned to
Ribera, whose pictures, introduced into Seville, helped materially to
shape the studies of a group of young artists which included Alonso
Cano, Zurbarán, Murillo and Velasquez.
In the eighteenth century native painting declined to a condition that
renders it negligible to the student. The names which occur are those of
foreigners such as Luca Giordano, Tiepolo, and Raphael Mengs. Suddenly,
however, toward the last quarter it sprang again to life in the genius
of Goya. The latter died in 1826, and of the few names which break the
monotony of Spanish painting during the nineteenth century it may be
sufficient to mention those of Mariano Fortuny, Francisco Pradilla,
Joaquin Sorolla y Bastida and Ignacio Zuloaga. These are to be
considered later.
CHAPTER V
DOMENCO THEOTOCOPULI (EL GRECO)
Domenco Theotocopuli was born in Crete; hence the nickname by which he
was known: El Greco. He arrived in Spain by way of Venice and Rome;
therefore in the catalogue of the Prado he is included among the Italian
artists. It was either an excess of modesty on the part of the Spanish
or a curious symptom of indifference thus to rob their own school of so
great an artist. Nor has it the warrant of facts. Though El Greco had
been a pupil of Titian and had drawn inspiration from Tintoretto, it is
the fact of his art being so different from that of Italy, of his
developing so unique a personality of his own, that is the
distinguishing feature of his genius. Moreover, it was not until after
his arrival in Spain and a sojourn of some time in Toledo that he
discovered himself. It was the conditions, physical and spiritual, of
his adopted country that brought to maturity the real El Greco. Spain
drew forth his genius and in return he expressed the genius of the
Spanish race in its spiritual aspects to a higher degree than any other
artist of Spain. He was the seer, the diviner, who not only mirrored the
external character of his times but also realised its soul.
The Church of his day seems to have prized his genius: the king
underrated it, while contemporaries and posterity recognising him as
bizarre, inclined to the theory that he was mad. It has been left to the
judgment of the present day, reaching back scarcely more than twenty
years, to appraise El Greco at his real valuation. The reasons for both
the earlier and the most recent estimations are plain.
Philip II, patron of Titian, was enamoured of Italian art and, as we
recall, imported Italian artists to decorate his palaces. Being a man of
small and dogmatic mind he could not extend appreciation to work so
different as El Greco’s, and set the fashion among laymen to ignore it.
Later the whole trend of Spanish art in its emergence from Italianate
imitation was toward naturalism. The seventeenth century was
overshadowed by the genius of Velasquez. In the eighteenth century Spain
followed the lead of other countries in the academic effort to revive
the forms without the spirit of the Renaissance art, until she became
suddenly aware of a native genius: Goya, the temperamental, objective,
impressionist. The nineteenth century was occupied with the rediscovery
of Velasquez. Its watchword became “truth”; truth of actual appearances,
the seeing and rendering of objective facts as they really seem to be.
Its artistic motive, in fact, notwithstanding that it included, as it
could not help doing, the limitations and variations of the personal
equation, was in essence photographic. It was concerned, like the
camera, with what the eye can see. Not until the end of the century did
this vogue of objective naturalism abate. The inevitable reaction
against this naturalistic view of art set in; quickened by the gradual
realisation that photography was crowding the painter from their common
field of sight. Artists, on the one hand, began to realise that there
are internal as well as external facts, facts of the spirit as well as
facts of matter; and, on the other, that the chief value of a picture is
not in its making something look like life, but in extracting from the
life represented its fullest amount of expression. Expression, among
progressive modern artists, has taken precedence of mere representation.
It is therefore, our own day that is giving special honor to El Greco
and Goya; to Goya, the master of material expression, to El Greco who
joined this, in so extraordinary a degree, to spiritual expression.
Having thus established the point of view from which El Greco should be
studied, we will briefly consider the conditions under which his genius
developed and then the qualities, technical and spiritual, which his
works exhibit. We shall find that he broke away from the Venetian use of
color, employing a sober range of hues, of extreme subtlety and a
chiaroscuro all his own. That he was also a great master of composition,
decorating every part of his large canvases with meaningful details, so
that there are no spaces perfunctorily filled or devoid of interest. A
great draughtsman also, who, although he altered for his own purpose the
proportions of figures and at times dared to indulge in “bad drawing,”
realises the plastic qualities of form as few artists have done, and
extracts from form, gesture and action a maximum of character and
expression. Similarly, in his portraits we shall discover not only a
vivid rendering of external personality, but also a penetrating insight
into the soul of the subject. Finally, in the presence of his work one
should be conscious of a rare and elevated spirit, the artist’s own,
interpreting the spiritual genius of the Spain of his day.
* * * * *
Almost nothing is known of El Greco’s life. No record of him exists
until November 16, 1570, the date of a letter written by the Venetian
miniature painter, Julio Clovio to Cardinal Nepote Farnese. It
says--“There is in Rome a young man from Candia, a disciple of Titian,
who in my opinion is a painter of rare talent. Among other things he has
painted a portrait of himself, which causes wonderment to all the
painters of Rome. I should like him to be under the patronage of your
Illustrious and Reverend Lordship, without any other contribution toward
his livelihood than a room in the Farnese Palace for some little time,
until he can find other accommodation.” This letter establishes El
Greco’s birthplace, corroborating the artist’s signature, as it appears
on many canvases in Greek characters with the addition of “Cretan”; his
experience under Titian in Venice; his visit to Rome and the fact that
in the year 1570 he was a young man. How long he stayed in Rome is
uncertain, but the next date of certainty, 1577, appears after his
signature upon a picture of _The Assumption of the Virgin_ for the
Church of San Domingo el Antigua in Toledo. The fact of El Greco being
engaged on this work is corroborated by documents relating to the
church, in which it is recorded that the artist was paid 1000 ducats for
eight pictures to adorn the high and side altars. Thus it appears that
at some date between the years 1570 and 1577 El Greco reached Spain and
settled in Toledo. Here he seems to have lived continuously until his
death, the record of which is still preserved. “On 7th April, 1614, died
Domenico Greco. He left no will. He received the sacraments, was buried
in Santo Domingo el Antigua; and gave candles.” The position of El
Greco’s tomb in San Domingo is not known. The only other documents in
existence relate to contracts for commissions and occasional disputes
and lawsuits over the prices. They have been summarised and used as data
for establishing the order in which his pictures were executed by Albert
F. Calvert and E. Gasquoine Hartley in their critical and richly
illustrated book, “El Greco, An Account of his Life and Works.”
One document may be mentioned here, since it indicates El Greco’s brief
relations with the Court. It is a royal order, dated 1580, which states
that a commission had been entrusted to Domenico Theotocopuli, Greek
painter, residing in Toledo, but that “the work was not being carried on
for want of money and fine colors.” Therefore it is commanded, “That the
said painter be supplied with money, also with the fine colors that he
asks for, and, especially ultramarine, that the work may be executed
with brevity as is suitable in my service.”
Since El Greco had finished his commission for Santo Domingo and had
also painted an altar piece, _El Expolio_, or _Christ Despoiled of His
Raiment on Calvary_, for the Cathedral, it would seem as if his plea of
no
[Illustration:
THE CRUCIFIXION EL GRECO
THE LOUVRE]
money and colors had been a pretence for avoiding, if possible, the
execution of the Royal commission. The outcome of the affair is
described by a Father Siguenza, writing in 1605. “There is here in the
Salas Capitulares of the Escoriál, a picture of _San Maurico and His
Soldiers_ by a Domenico Greco, who has come to Toledo and there made
excellent things. The picture was designed for the proper altar of the
Saint, but it did not satisfy His Majesty. It is not much, because it
satisfies few; though they say that it has great art, and that its
author has much knowledge and that excellent things can be seen from his
hand.”
El Greco had one son, George Manuel, who was appointed architect of the
Cathedral. He also practised sculpture and painting, in the latter
medium imitating his father’s style so closely that some of the son’s
pictures have been attributed to him. The portrait of a beautiful girl,
late the property of Sir John Stirling-Maxwell and now in the National
Gallery, London, has been called the artist’s daughter; but later
criticism assigns this painting either to Tintoretto or to El Greco’s
early Italian period when he was still a young man. The portrait of his
son George, is identified in the _San Martin_ of San José, and again as
the youth who holds the map in the _Vista of Toledo_. It is also
supposed to exist in the younger figure of the boy on the left of the
composition of _The Funeral of Count Orgaz_. In the latter it has also
been suggested that the face with the pointed beard, sixth from the
right, represents El Greco himself; while tradition also attributes the
title of _Self Portrait of the Artist_ to the picture in the Seville
Museum of a man of middle age, holding a brush and palette. These,
however, are only surmises.
The mystery that surrounds the life of El Greco is perhaps a little
lifted by the account of him which Guiseppe Martinez gives in his
“Practical Letters on the Art of Painting.” It is not the evidence of a
contemporary, but of one who probably got his impressions from those who
had known the artist or at least the opinion commonly held of him during
his life.
“At that time there came from Italy a painter called Dominico Greco; it
is said that he was a pupil of Titian. He settled in the famous and
ancient city of Toledo, introducing such an extravagant style that to
this day nothing has been seen to equal it; attempting to discuss it
would cause confusion in the soundest minds; his works being so
dissimilar that they do not seem to be by the same hand. He came to this
city with a high reputation, so much so that he gave it to be understood
that there was nothing superior to his works. In truth he achieved some
works which are worthy of estimation and which can be put among those of
famous painters. His nature was extravagant like his painting. It is not
known with certainty what he did with his works, as he used to say no
price was high enough for them, and so he gave them in pledge to their
owners who willingly advanced him what he asked for. He earned many
ducats, but spent them in too great pomp and display in his house, to
the extent of keeping paid musicians to entertain him at meal times. His
works were many, but the only wealth he left were two hundred unfinished
paintings; he reached an advanced age, always enjoying great fame. He
was a famous architect and very eloquent in his speeches. He had few
disciples, as none cared to follow his capricious and extravagant style,
which was only suitable for himself.”
We get a glimpse here of a strangely individual personality, reserved
and proud, conscious of his destiny, working it out in a haughty
exclusiveness; wrapt up in high thoughts and cultivating in the
retirement of private life a rare refinement. In Toledo, then the
citadel of the Catholic Faith, so dominated by the dignitaries of the
Church that Philip II, who brooked no rivalry of power, was forced to
transfer his Court thence to Madrid, El Greco preserved the integrity of
his artistic faith and, by separating himself from outside influences,
maintained the independent sovereignty of his own ideals.
* * * * *
El Greco left a _View of Toledo_; a portrait, one would rather call it,
of a city’s appearance and her soul; a highly interpretative vision of
the impression of Toledo’s soul upon the spiritual imagination of the
artist. The view is from the hill beneath which the present railroad
station lies, and looks across the broken ground to the ravine of the
Tagus. In the middle distance toward the left it is spanned by the wide
arch and its narrower sister of the Alcántara bridge. Thence the line of
the city walls, interrupted by their Moorish towers, mount the citadel
hill to the group of buildings that crown the summit. The Alcázar and
the north tower of the cathedral stand conspicuously against a sky,
tumultuous with emotion and lit with large aspiring clouds. These, like
the architecture, catch the sharpest light, which elsewhere is
distributed in masses of lower tone; a union of quiet illumination and
of flashing sword-like brands of light, characteristic of so many of the
artist’s compositions, so suggestive of passionate inspiration.
How different from Venice of his youth, this rock-rooted fortress city
of the artist’s adoption! No less proudly aloof, but sternly and
strenuously exalted; straitened within tortuous limits; an apex once of
Moorish power and luxury, now of Catholic dominion and sumptuous
ecclesiastical ceremony; its dignitaries men of high and commanding
personality, its Cathedral famous throughout Spain as Toledo the Rich!
The chivalric fervor bred upon countless battlefields, glowed here in an
intense heat of religious mysticism. Her hidalgos, “sons of somebody,”
were among the proudest of their class, self-contained, austere, yet
fired with religious ecstasy. Toledo was at that time the soul of
Catholicism and of the high-bred Chivalry of Castile.
El Greco, with the penetration of the alien observer, caught its spirit.
It inflamed his own romantic ardor and religious devoutness; at the same
time giving fibre and force to his imagination. Yet his whole art, as it
developed under these conditions, was built up on observed facts. The
type of his figures, both in portraiture and altar-pieces, was drawn
from the humanity about him, the lean, long-limbed bodies, with high
narrow heads; a type that still survives. You see it even in Madrid,
still more readily in Toledo. Here too in the passing throng you may
detect one of those wistful,
[Illustration:
SAN MAURICIO AND HIS THEBAN LEGION EL GRECO
THE ESCORIÁL]
flower-like faces, pure as the chalice of a lily, that El Greco learned
to give to his Madonnas, while among the children you will find the
strangely sexless, coldly passionate faces of his angels.
He exaggerated the type, just as his contemporary, Cervantes did; the
latter to make it ridiculous, El Greco in sympathy with its high
enthusiasm. But each from his own standpoint captured the real soul of
the Spanish race more effectively than any other writer or artist of
Spain. The humor of Cervantes made him intensely popular, the
seriousness of El Greco has had to wait until to-day for recognition.
His exaggeration, sometimes even approaching distortion, is for the
purpose of decorative effect or for enforcing character or emotion, or
is more frequently employed with the two purposes combined.
A fine example of characterization is the portrait, here called _S.
Jerome_ (Frontispiece). There are replicas of this picture in the
National Gallery and the Prado, where it is called _S. Paul_. But the
title is of small account. The picture is clearly the portrait of some
dignitary of the Church or at least of the type of ecclesiastics of the
day. The stubby hair and the long beard are approaching white, the face
is greyed over, and silvery lights relieve the rose colored mantle. The
head, in proportion to the body is small but of extra length and
narrowness, and the hands are extremely elongated. But by these
exaggerations what expression of character is obtained! The head is at
once that of a soldier, a scholar and an ascetic. The eyes have a cold,
piercing directness; the long nose is indicative of relentless purpose
and the mouth of iron rigidity and cruelty. One hand lies on the book
with a gesture of refinement, almost of tenderness, while the thumb of
the other is turned down with a decision that brooks no reasoning or
opposition. In fine, the type is a strange mixture of intellectuality
and bigotry; of elevation and narrowness, of gentleness and
remorselessness. It might be that of an inquisitor, who condemns with no
more hesitation than a surgeon, compelled by his diagnosis to use the
knife.
Or for an example of distortion, employed with emotional effect, turn to
_The Crucifixion_ of the Louvre (p. 70). The body of the Christ is
beautiful in its languor of repose; no pain or horror mars the serenity.
The tragedy of the event is depicted in the amazing impression of the
sky; a murky blackish green veil, rent like the veil of the Temple, with
scars of white. The Saviour rests from his labors. It is the universal
tragedy of sin which will crucify him afresh, that is depicted. For my
own part, I know of no other suggestion of the Divine Tragedy so
spiritually moving as this one. El Greco painted this subject several
times. Another fine example is _The Crucifixion_ of the Prado, where the
figures of the donor and an ecclesiastic are replaced by the three
Maries and S. John, figures expressive of anguish and adoration, while
angels of spiritual loveliness receive in their hands with transports of
adoring ecstasy the blood from the sacred wounds. It is at once a pæan
and a dirge, superb in its decorative elaboration. But in the picture of
the Louvre, the decorative scheme is sublimely elemental; its very
simplicity
[Illustration:
THE FUNERAL OF COUNT ORGAZ EL GRECO
SAN TOMÉ, TOLEDO]
augments the poignancy of the appeal. But our original consideration was
the distortion introduced. The natural appearance of the sky is
distorted; the color false, there is no suggestion of actual light or
atmosphere. There was, in fact, no thought of representing the sky
naturally; it has been used as a symbol of expression. And it was so
that El Greco chose at times to use form.
If the student peers through the spectacles of an academic pedagogue,
criticising this or that because it does not conform to his canons of
proportion or notions of correct drawing, he will never discover the
real El Greco. If he is looking solely or chiefly for naturalistic
representation, such as will pass muster in the schools, let him turn
away at once. Otherwise he will be only seeking for trouble. It is with
the eye of the imagination, seeking for spiritual impressions or for
character of expression and expression of character, that El Greco must
be studied. On the other hand, it must not be supposed that El Greco was
indifferent to the facts of form. No artist better understood and valued
form or rendered it with more reliance on its plastic qualities. It was,
however, not the plasticity merely of its shape that attracted him, but
its plasticity of expression. He made expression visible in its external
appearances. He used form as an instrument of interpretation; hence, for
the furtherance of expression he dared to exaggerate or even to distort
it.
It is not amiss to compare El Greco to some great composer whose medium
is his orchestra. The latter is made up of units, but there is no
established proportion of the relation which they bear to each other
and to the whole. It is a flexible instrument in which the composer
makes his own adjustments. If for the interpretation of his theme he
exaggerates the wind instruments or chooses to introduce new devices for
attaining an effect, he is judged solely by the harmonious result. For
music being a completely abstract art, the verdict depends upon the
structure, scope and quality of its expression. The art of painting is
less abstract, being limited by the sense appreciation of the eye and
the need of attaching the expression to some visible object; but, as far
as possible with the liberty of the musical composer, El Greco composed
his symphonies of form and color.
* * * * *
This liberty of composition was only gradually evolved. His earlier
work, executed during his first years in Toledo, exhibit traces of his
Venetian training. _The Assumption of the Virgin_, which is now owned by
the Art Institute of Chicago, is in its treatment of the forms and
composition still Titianesque; but already the influence of the new
environment upon El Greco’s individuality is apparent. He has caught as
yet little if any of the mystic fervor, but the types, particularly of
the apostles, are local; the draperies are handled broadly and
plastically, and the color is no longer of Venetian sumptuousness. The
process of dematerialization has begun, which will be carried on until
in the great works of the artist’s maturity the Venetian richness of
pigment, full of mundane splendor, has entirely disappeared in cool,
austere harmonies of blue, lemon and yellow, black, grey, white, olive
green and silvery carnation. Touches of warm color occur but they are
comparatively rare. Least of all in the great altarpiece does El Greco
use color for effects of pageantry or mere decoration. His use is
interpretative of spiritual significance. In his portraits it is
psychologically expressive.
The latter are mostly half-lengths or busts; grand, pale faces against a
sombre background, isolated by a white ruff from the black body on which
the white nervous hands are displayed. On the other hand, the portraits
of ecclesiastics or imaginary presentation of saints involve a variety
of hues. There is a series of such presentments of the apostles in the
little Provincial Museum, now established in El Greco’s house. The _S.
Bartholomew_ is entirely in white, but the others are bi-colored,
showing a robe and mantle, respectively of yellow and blue, yellow-green
and red-wine color, grey-blue and orange, grey-blue and apple green, and
so on. It is as though the artist had searched for the most unusual and
_recherché_ combinations and had compelled them into harmony by the
nuances with which he has invested them. Moreover, each is in
psychological relation to the head and hands of the subject. Another
point to be observed in El Greco’s use of color is that he did not
spread his pigment thin over an underpainting of light and dark, but
actually modeled in color, obtaining the chiaroscuro by means of values.
It is with a feeling of strangeness that one views a number of El
Greco’s portraits such as is gathered in the Prado. Almost invariably
the eyes are fixed on us, but with no look of recognition or sympathy.
Though the face thrills with life, it is impassive. Behind each living
mask is an impenetrable mind, wrapped completely in the seclusion of its
own spirit. Equally removed from all outside sympathies are the faces of
the apostles and saints. They, however, are not impassive, for on each
is the trace of inward struggle, of highly wrought meditation or
spiritual ecstasy. Their personalities are so varied and distinct that
one is assured they are portraits or at least studies of the types of
ecclesiastics, monks or laymen which Toledo presented. They have one
quality in common, that of transcendental elevation; symptomatic of the
spiritual unrest of the time. For elsewhere the Protestant Reformation
was making headway and Spain was its most ardent opponent. It was here
that the Counter-Reformation reached its most extravagant form. The
Spaniard met the challenge of reason with a passionate belief, which
developed into mysticism and visionary exaltation. Of this Toledo was
the volcanic center and El Greco its pictorial exponent. The mainspring
of his motive was his own intense religious belief, which enabled him to
give plastic reality to the visions of his passionately exalted
imagination.
* * * * *
His pictures, when he has adjusted his style to his motive, are all
visions. Even his portraits are visions of men’s souls. And the secret
of his power to suggest the reality of the vision is that it is based on
realism. His creations are a union of realism and idealism; or rather of
realism in the true sense. For to-day we have learnt to distinguish
between realism and naturalism:
[Illustration:
BAPTISM OF CHRIST EL GRECO
THE PRADO]
the latter a representation of natural phenomena; realism a
representation of the same with a suggestion of their relation to the
horizon of the idea involved in them. This becomes El Greco’s almost
invariable habit. Turn, for example, to the _San Mauricio_ (p. 75),
which was executed shortly after the _Assumption of the Virgin_.
According to legend Mauritius was the general of a Theban mercenary
legion in the Roman army. He refused to pay homage to the gods and was
condemned to be beheaded. Whereupon the whole legion declared their
faith and shared martyrdom with their leader. One may believe that El
Greco pictured the event in his imagination; its several phases, the
general’s refusal, the executions and the glory in Heaven of the
martyr’s crown. In the glow of religious fervor a vision shaped itself
before the eyes of his spirit and he set it upon the canvas. The noble
heads of the general and his lieutenants are clearly portraits of
contemporaries, of men who no doubt believed themselves capable of
imitating the example of the saint, if occasion required it. At the
outset, therefore, the picture is based, not on a mere representation of
certain persons, but of the latter in their relation to the idea
involved. In the gravity and confidence of the saint’s face are mirrored
alike the consciousness of the tragedy to be depicted and the glory that
will follow. The saint himself, in fact, is represented as having his
own vision of the situation in relation to its horizon of ideas.
The back of the officer who is delivering the ultimatum is modeled with
intentional exaggeration, to increase the refined suggestion of the
saint and at the same time to emphasise the separateness of the main
group both from the scene that is being enacted in the rear and from the
Heavenly vision. The color impression of the whole picture is blue; cold
tones of blue relieved by the pale red-wine color of the flag, the pale
creamy yellow of some of the corselets and the extreme white of the
flesh. It is a scheme which gives an extraordinary suggestion of
abstraction. The lighting also reveals the beginning of El Greco’s
gradually developed method of chiaroscuro. The latter grew out of his
study to give to every part of the decorative pattern of his composition
the life of movement. In the figures of the angels actual movement is
expressed in the gestures and actions, but in the stationary figures in
the foreground it is suggested by the curling, quivering light,
especially on the legs. These light effects, so characteristic of El
Greco’s work from this point onward, will embarrass the student who is
looking for naturalistic exactitude. It is not until he has become used
to the artist’s blending of the concrete and the abstract, that he will
realise its fitness in the whole scheme of the vision.
The next great work of El Greco’s career was _The Funeral of Count
Orgaz_, (p. 76), known in Spain as _El Interrio_. This masterpiece still
hangs in the church for which it was painted, San Tomé, in Toledo. It
commemorates the legend connected with the founder of the church, the
pious Count Orgaz, who died in 1323. At his funeral S.S. Augustine and
Stephen appeared and lowered the body into the grave. Once more it is a
vision both of the actualities of the incident and of the no less
reality of the spiritual idea involved. While the priests and faithful
friends, portrait-studies of El Greco’s contemporaries, assist at the
solemn function, some turn their eyes to the vision above, where amid
the hosts of prophets, apostles, saints and angels, with the Blessed
Virgin interceding, the naked soul of the Count appears at the feet of
his Redeemer. Was ever nakedness expressed so literally and yet with
such abstraction? The whole vision is illuminated by a cold light which
comes from within the scene itself. The sumptuousness of gold embroidery
distinguishes the vestments of the two saints in the foreground,
emblematic of the opulent ceremonial of the Catholic Church, while the
Chivalry of Spain is commemorated in the dead body. The black steel of
the armor against the ivory white of the sheet sets the key of black and
white which is the general color impression of the lower part of the
picture. Above, the Virgin’s mantle makes a positive note of blue among
the paler and higher tones of the same color, the pale yellow, cream and
occasional suggestion of mauve and faintest carmine.
The prominence given to the Virgin and the nude form, and the elongation
of the latter help to isolate the Christ and increase the sense of
altitude, up toward which are straining eagerly the faces of the
Heavenly hosts. What a pageant of spiritual exaltation, parted by open
tableau-curtains of cloud from the drama below! And the latter--was ever
a greater intensity of gravity, dignity and tenderness compressed into a
group of heads? Tradition has it that the priest to the right in white
vestment is Don Andrez Nuñez, priest of San Tomé. The grey-bearded
profile to his left is known to be a portrait of the painter, Antonio
Corrubias, whose brother, Diego, appears in the white-bearded man on the
left of the composition, above the figure of S. Stephen. The face with
the ruff, to the left of Antonio Corrubias, is supposed to be the
artist’s.
Everyone has praised the consummate characterisation and technical
mastery of this lower part of the picture; but many have criticised the
upper and been unable to accept it as a reasonable part of the
composition. On the other hand, if study of the picture include
communion with the spirit and purpose which inspired it, one is brought
to feel that upper and lower parts are indivisibly associated both in
the conception of the subject and in the rendering of it. The
composition for a moment recalls Raphael’s vision of the _Disputá_,
which El Greco must have seen in the Stanza of the Vatican. There, the
space to be filled, though proportionately broader than this one is
similarly arched, and a band of figures, representing the Church on
Earth, spreads across the lower part, while in the upper, Heaven is
unfolded. But beyond this all resemblance ceases. Even the earthly group
in Raphael’s fresco is disposed in the manner of Italian idealism; in
the _Count Orgaz_ its naturalness is characteristically Spanish. In the
upper part of his painting Raphael continued the geometrical design of
the composition by arranging the Heavenly hosts in arcs. El Greco has
invented a sort of irregular, spontaneous geometry. The design has a
central group of three figures, disposed to form a triangle, outside of
which the spaces of cloud are divided
[Illustration:
VIRGIN AND SAINTS EL GRECO
SAN JOSÉ, TOLEDO]
into compartments or pockets, filled with figures. It is a borrowed
motive, discoverable in the compositions of Giotto and other primitive
Italians and in the mosaics that helped to inspire them. It is, in fact,
Byzantine. But the latter term is merely a named and dated milestone on
the road which stretches back in endless perspective through Persia to
Buddhistic art. To-day, with our opportunities of studying the latter,
we can detect a curious affinity between El Greco’s arrangement and well
known features of Chinese composition. Unconsciously, in fact, his
genius leaped back of its conscious source to the remote spring of
Oriental inspiration.
* * * * *
Following the _Count Orgaz_ came a series of pictures in which
passionate ecstasy reached its highest intensity. Three of them are in
the Prado: _The Crucifixion_, already alluded to, in which angels are
catching the sacred Blood, a _Resurrection_ and _The Baptism of Christ_.
The last named (p. 81) is not merely a representation of one man pouring
water on the head of another, whose humble mien, coupled with the
introduction of a hovering dove and sometimes a venerable aged man
above, tells one that the picture is meant to represent the baptism of
the Second Person of the Holy Trinity. Such is generally the jejune
method of treating the subject. But here we are again in the presence of
a vision, in which the real spiritual significance of the facts of the
incident are made visible to the eye. Heaven joins with earth in a
symphonic burst of devotional enthusiasm. Movement of life abounds, the
soul’s life typified by human forms. There is even the rhythm of
movement in the comparatively static figures of the Christ and S. John;
in the angels that lift the crimson mantle and those who stand by
adoring; while over head the spiritual energy mounts in wave upon wave
of jubilance till it circles about the serene figure of the Most High
God. Once more we note how a sense of far-off isolation is given to this
topmost figure by introduction of taller angels in the front plane; also
that there is nowhere any space unfilled with meaning, even the
grey-green creamy clouds seeming to mount upward with their angelic
burdens. But beyond all possibility of description is the degree to
which the picture kindles and lifts the imagination.
Amazing also is _The Resurrection_, now in the Prado. The figure of the
Lord, long and supple as a reed, is poised above, while down below the
soldiers are in agitated consternation. They have been roused out of
sleep by the shock of the rending tomb and, still dazed, confront the
miracle. One has fallen backward in his fear, some shield their eyes
from the light, while others carve the air with their swords in frantic
efforts. With the exception of one fine young figure that reaches up his
hand, as if in acknowledgment of the miracle, they are all nude, the
bodies wrought to extreme tension of expression.
* * * * *
To this time also belongs _The Dream of Philip II_, in the Escoriál. It
was followed by a period of serener pictures, such as those which were
painted for the Chapel of San José, Toledo. The finest of these, and the
best known, is a narrow upright panel, the _S. Martin_, dividing his
cloak with a nude beggar. The youthful figure of the saint--a portrait
of the artist’s son George, in the beauty of his first manhood--clad in
black armor, is mounted on a white horse which has black accoutrements.
The animal has one foreleg lifted and arched; the others parallel the
legs of the beggar, recalling somewhat the treatment of the legs in the
_San Mauricio_. The two figures are seen against the sky, which soars
above a distant view of Toledo. In the statuesque plasticity of the
forms and the chastity of the color scheme of white, black, green and
pale greyish blue the picture is one of extraordinary nobility and
tenderness and of extreme abstraction. Facing it is the exquisitely
tender and reverential _Virgin and Saints_ (p. 85) in which perhaps,
more than in any other of his works El Greco has yielded to the charm of
facial loveliness. Above the high altar hangs the _Coronation of the
Virgin_. The center of the composition is a trefoil arrangement of the
three figures of the Father, Son and Virgin, beneath which are two
adoring figures, the rest of the pattern consisting of clouds in
arc-like forms only less full of expressional value than the figures. It
is a motive that Velasquez borrowed in his picture in the Prado of the
same subject.
To this period is attributed the _Crucifixion_ in the Louvre (p. 70) to
which allusion has been already made. Let us note afresh the infinite
calm of the Saviour’s form as characteristic of this period of spiritual
calm in the artist’s own genius. By this time, also, we are better able
to judge the introduction of the two worshippers in the lower
foreground. They were probably included of necessity, representing the
donor and the priest of the Church for which this picture was painted.
But they also introduce that touch of naturalism, dear to the Spanish
imagination; and the artist has made them contributary to his conception
of the scene as a vision. It is a vision of the holy scene which these
men of his own time are contemplating and the contrast of their reality
lends to the vision an increased abstraction.
Also to this period chiefly belong the many _Annunciations_ and _Holy
Families_. Of the latter we have a fine example in the Hispanic Museum,
New York, which recalls with certain modifications that of the Prado. In
all these subjects the type of Madonna is drawn from the people. But it
is not left in its stolid plainness as by Velasquez in his _Adoration of
the Kings_, or sentimentalised as by Murillo. By El Greco it has been
rarified, purged alike of grossness and earthly emotion; in fact,
spiritualized. We may also assign to this period the small _Santiago_ of
the Metropolitan Museum, New York; exquisitely choice in its tonal
scheme of blue, slightly relieved by dull ochre yellow, yet virile in
handling and inspired by an exalted purity of imagination.
* * * * *
To the artist’s latest period belongs another picture in the
Metropolitan Museum, _The Nativity_. It is the product of a newly
awakened ardor, such as characterises the most important work of El
Greco’s closing life. The participants in the event are lowly folk; the
Mother a girl of the people; the shepherds large-modeled, shrewdly
featured peasants. But all are possessed with the exaltation of the
moment; their naiveté and crudity are caught up in a frenzy of
amazement. In the darkness of the night the scene is all aflame with
spiritual incandescence. How marvellously the light and obscurity are
interwoven! What a strange diversity of plastic forms and subtlety of
sober coloring are wrought into the composition! Strangeness is
certainly the first impression one experiences; then, following it, a
realisation of intense inspiration and of masterful creativeness. One is
in the presence of the unusual, of a great imaginative spirit.
Similarly ecstatic is the vision of _The Coming of the Holy Ghost_ in
the Prado. At the top, the Dove in Glory; under it, a horizontal row of
figures, the Virgin in the center, the heads of all tipped with flame;
down below, two figures, leaning back and gazing up at the Divine Glory.
Some recollection of the old Titianesque crimsons and blues appears, but
nothing of their mundane qualities. The whole conception is one of
passionate receptivity toward the illumination from on high. The final
expression of tempestuous energy appears in the _Death of Laocoon and
His Son_ in San Telmo, Seville and in the _Apocalypse_, or as it has
been wrongly called, _The Sacred and Profane Love_, owned by the artist,
Señor Zuloaga.
El Greco had pupils but left no followers. Some of his pupils, Luis
Tristan, for example, and his son, George Manuel, learned to imitate his
manner sufficiently closely to have caused confusion in the attribution
of certain pictures. But El Greco’s style was so directly the product of
his own intellectuality, sensitive and passionate æsthetic imagination
and highly wrought soul, that it could not be absorbed in its integrity
by others. But his art influenced no less a master than the great
Velasquez. We have noted that the latter borrowed from the Toledan
artist his composition for the _Coronation of the Virgin_ and may add
the debt which his portrait of _Innocent X_ appears to owe to El Greco’s
_Don Fernando Nino de Guevara_. It was however in the matter of color
that the influence is most marked. Velasquez adopted, as Señor de
Beruete says, “certain silver-grey tints in the coloring of the flesh,
the use of special carmines and a greater freedom of execution in the
draperies, fabrics and other accessories.” These same qualities, and the
intellectuality and abstraction of his conception and style have begun
to affect some modern artists. The most notable example was the late
Paul Cézanne, whose work, in turn, is exerting a potent influence on
others. Meanwhile El Greco’s pictures, until recent years known only to
a few connoisseurs, are being sought for and treasured by collectors and
museums.
Meanwhile, by the young painter of to-day El Greco should be studied
closely. For the modern age in every development of life is beginning to
demand intellectuality, and in painting particularly a greater degree of
subtlety and abstract suggestion. The quality of expression is growing
more and more to be the test by which the artist of the present and the
future will be judged. El Greco, in all these respects is a master to
be followed; not in the way of imitation, but for the sake of the
principles involved in his conception of a subject and its technical
rendering, and also because he will help to an understanding of other
great artists of expression, such as Michelangelo, Giotto, the nameless
artists of the Byzantine period and the known and unknown masters of
Buddhistic art.
CHAPTER VI
VELASQUEZ
While El Greco gave expression to the soul of Spanish chivalry and
religion, Velasquez embodied in its highest form the racial love of
naturalism. More than this, he stands above all other naturalistic
painters in truth of representation.
He is usually called a realist. But modern thought is investing this
term with a meaning that differentiates it from naturalism. Its use of
the word is akin to the philosophic meaning of realism, which recognises
the reality not only of the species or individual but also of the genus,
and considers the individual as a phase of the universal process which
causes it. Modern thought, in fact, applies the word realist to one who
views the particular in relation to the horizon at the back of it, to
the universal process of which it is a temporary manifestation. Thus it
calls Ibsen a realist, because, for example, in “A Doll’s House,” he
treats _Nora_ and her husband as phases of the universal problem of
marital relations. On the contrary, the playwright who presents merely a
cross-section of life, characters and incidents that are true to life
but are not treated in relation to the large horizon of ideas, governing
our principles of living, it calls a naturalist. The distinction is a
vital one and so clarifying to thought and understanding,
[Illustration:
PHILIP IV, OLD VELASQUEZ
THE NATIONAL GALLERY]
that to have once comprehended it should be to adopt it.
In the light of this distinction is Velasquez a naturalist or a realist?
In his portraits, which represent his supreme achievement, is one
conscious of anything but the absorbing realisation of an individual
personality? Do we think of them as typical of their time and country,
as are the subjects of El Greco’s portraits? Most certainly there is a
great exception in the marvelous _Portrait of Pope Innocent X_. Behind
his grim face extends a wide horizon of correlated ideas. The
psychological revelation and universal suggestion of this portrait seem
to declare that Velasquez was in mind a realist, but compelled by the
circumstances of his life to be a naturalist. Tethered to the Court, he
was chiefly occupied with painting the royal personages and their
immediate entourage. His was a scene, closed in, like a stage-scene by
the artificial routine of ceremony and punctiliousness, in which the
puppets, from Philip down to his dwarf play-things, posed. How could a
realist portray them in relation to the horizon of ideas involved except
by making them contemptible or ridiculous? But his duty as a Court
painter compelled Velasquez to close out the horizon, and to represent
these individuals with as much of dignity as possible. It is a
noteworthy fact that the _Innocent X_ was painted during the artist’s
second visit to Italy; while he was for a brief space quit of the
cramped conditions of his life, able to look out on men and things and
study them in relation to large issues. Also, the fact of it being his
second visit and that he was in the full maturity of his powers, implies
much. He was less preoccupied with individual impressions, more capable
and disposed to view even the Pope himself in relation to the political
and spiritual conditions of Rome and of the World.
But though Velasquez was compelled to be habitually a naturalist, he not
only avoided the commonplace which so frequently attaches to naturalism,
but proved himself the greatest naturalist in the whole story of
painting. He lifted naturalism to its highest pitch of expression. His
representations of life are characterised not only by living actuality,
but by consummate justness, high distinction and extraordinary beauty.
There is in all a union of mental supremacy and of supreme technical
artistry. Perhaps only Rembrandt, Hals and Raeburn give one so realising
a sense of being in the presence of a living personality, as we
experience before nearly all the portraits of Velasquez. With Rembrandt
we are usually conscious of an inseeing eye which penetrates the soul of
his subject and views it in relation to a wide horizon; for Rembrandt is
the great realist. Velasquez, on the other hand, shares with Hals and
the Scottish artist their restricted vision; but his is the finer,
suggesting his own finer quality of mind. Their minds were incapable of
the high seriousness, the noble aloofness of his. Hals, seen at his best
in the Haarlem groups, is one of the jolly fellows he is depicting;
Raeburn, an honest, sturdy gentleman among the gentry who sit to him.
Velasquez is always the aristocrat, looking out upon his subject from
the elevation of a superior mental dignity. It was because of this that
his portraits have the supreme _cachet_ of all great art: aloofness. The
separateness of his own mental personality from the ordinary thing
around him is communicated to the personages which he creates. They are
alone with themselves; whether monarch, dwarf or beggar, separated from
the common touch by virtue of their author’s art. In their remoteness
they are akin to Jan Van Eyck’s portrait of _Jean Arnolfini and his
Wife_ and Holbein’s _George Gyze_ and _Erasmus_; but these have not the
insistent suggestion of being actually alive. We recognise in them an
extraordinary illusion of life; but in front of _Philip IV_ in the
National Gallery, of _Moenippus_ and _Las Meniñas_ in the Prado, not to
mention other examples, the consciousness of illusion does not enter our
thoughts. We are face to face with truth; “verdad, no pintura,” as
Velasquez himself used to say was his ideal--“truth, not painting.” On
the other hand, the truth is saved from being merely lifelike, obvious,
by the rarifying quality of Velasquez’s own aloofness. His portraits
quiver on the razor-edge of truth and abstraction.
We have spoken of their consummate justness. This represents another
result of the high-bred nature of Velasquez’s mind; revealed in a tact
of selection, exposition and arrangement. He had an unerring feeling for
essentials, his most characteristic works being singularly sparing of
detail; a cultivated instinct for the salient gesture and expression,
and a rarely economical method of achieving them. His ability to plant a
figure on the floor, so that it bears down with its own weight and grows
up in its own strength; to give it characteristic action, at once
unified and rhythmic; to invest its contour lines with firmness and
precision as well as subtlety; to give to the smallest details, such as
the modeling of a glove, an individual character and, finally, to adjust
all these several qualities into an organized unity and place the
ensemble in perfect relation to the open space it occupies--his ability
to do all this is the measure of his justness.
To the high distinction of the result we have already alluded in
speaking of its dignity and aloofness. It is the product, alike, of
elevated mentality and of supreme technical accomplishment. The latter
brings us in touch with the cause of its extraordinary beauty.
What does beauty mean to us? If it is beauty of face and form--the easy
way to artistic beauty and to lay appreciation thereof--we shall seldom
find it in Velasquez’s pictures. The people whom it was his lot to paint
were mostly plain-featured, to use no harsher terms; their costumes
outrageously extravagant and not in the direction of elegance; the
coloring was sombre, only sparingly relieved with gaiety of color. Nor,
for the most part, were they people of force of character or with
suggestion of experience imprinted on their faces, so that in the
interest aroused thereby, one could forget their homeliness. To be
frank, they are mostly stupid persons, or at least apathetic. Whence,
then, the beauty? Its source is twofold: in the artist’s vision of his
subject and in his technical rendering of what he found.
The secret of an artist’s vision, when it is truly artistic, is that it
is inspired by a feeling for beauty and is looking for beauty. He is not
searching for something to represent, but for a means of expressing
what
[Illustration:
EQUESTRIAN PORTRAIT OF PHILIP IV VELASQUEZ
THE PRADO]
he feels of beauty. To such a one as Velasquez it matters little what he
is called upon to paint. He is not aware of those limitations which the
ordinary man calls ugliness. To him the subject is a manifestation of
life and life to him is beauty in every one of its aspects, and to
render that beauty is sufficient. And you may say that he finds life and
the beauty of life not only in the face and figure, action and gesture,
of his subjects, but in the clothes they wear and the accessories that
surround them. All are contributory to the sense of life with which the
subject inspires him, so that he extracts from fabrics and objects of
still-life a raciness of character or subtlety of expression that lifts
them above the ordinary and gives them the distinction of beauty.
But, after all, it is not so much a question of extracting beauty from
the subject as of putting beauty into it. The final achievement is one
of technique. There are hundreds of pictures which a layman can admire
without thought of technique. Interest of subject predominates, or at
least is sufficient to establish interest; charm of sentiment attracts,
or splendor of color or composition. But Velasquez’s compositions for
the most part are studiously reserved; his color sober; scarcely the
quiver of sentiment disturbs the equanimity of his subjects, and the
latter, in the ordinary sense of the term, have no human interest. Such
attractiveness, therefore, as they have, is almost completely what has
been put into them by his technique.
Take, for example, the bust-portrait (p. 92) of _Philip IV_ in the
National Gallery, assuredly one of Velasquez’s most notable
achievements. How languid the pale hair; the face, how foolishly
prolonged, flabby and expressionless! Imagine it painted by a
second-rate artist, and you would pass it by. But before this portrait
you pause and linger long. Why? neither you nor I can tell; except
simply that we are in the presence of the mystery of life, so that even
this sallow, puffed face attracts and rivets our admiration. Even a
painter cannot tell you how it was painted. Its technique eludes him.
Yet it is the technique which holds him to the spot. He _feels_ that
here the mystery of living structure and tissue has been compassed by
the mystery of the artist’s creativeness. Something of the same
suggestion of spontaneously created plasticity is to be found in the
beautiful child-portrait of _Don Baltasar Carlos_ in the Metropolitan
Museum, New York. Usually, however, the means by which the effect is
obtained may be discovered. You note the character expressed in some
detail of the canvas; and then approach until you see the brush strokes
that produced it, no less magical because patently apparent. In fact,
you find yourself let in behind the scenes of the artist’s dramatic
representation of facts and in a measure share the joy of creating the
illusion.
It is a hopeful theory that out of one’s limitations may grow one’s
greatest strength. And it is true of Velasquez. The very narrowness of
his scope of actual vision encouraged a closer scrutiny. He discovered
beauty in things which had escaped the notice of artists to whom larger
liberty of choice was allowed. This is particularly revealed in his
attitude toward color and light. The range of color-hues involved in the
costumes of his royal sitters was restricted; blacks and greys
prevailed, with occasional notes of rose or blue. Debarred from a
variety of hues, Velasquez learned to see the variety of nuances which
any one hue presents under the action of light. His blacks ceased to be
merely the negation of color; they took on silvery hues, and sometimes
brown ones. Even the bare drab wall of his studio became a field for the
play of light. He grew to be an intimate student of the identity of the
effects of light and color; noting how the “local hue” of an object
varies in color-value according to the quantity, direction and quality
of the light upon the various planes of its surface. Some artists before
his time had noted this principle, but none until Velasquez and
Hals--for it is a strange coincidence that the Dutch artist also was
following this track--had given a practical application to it. Others
had treated the local color, as if it were separate from chiaroscuro.
They would model the form in monochrome and then spread their local hue
over the whole in a thin transparent glaze which permitted the
underpainting of shaded, half-shaded, and light parts to be seen through
it. Velasquez actually modeled in the local color, by representing the
differences of color-values that it assumed, according as the rise or
depression of its surface caught more or less of light.
This, of course, is what other artists had done, notably Leonardo da
Vinci in his _Monna Lisa_, Jan Van Eyck and Holbein in their portraits;
but with a difference. They imitated each color-value as exactly as they
could, modeling their surfaces with innumerable facets. Velasquez, like
Hals, discovered for himself the principle of Impressionism; so far, at
least, as this term is applicable to technical processes. For its
meaning has become extended to include the artist’s mental standpoint,
so that to-day, when we speak of an impressionist, we mean one who in
literature, or drama, or painting or sculpture colors his impressions
according to the moods of his temperament. But in Velasquez there is
nothing of the temperamentalist. He is the cool, impartial observer of
objective facts. But, instead of seeing them, as Holbein did, in the
multiplicity of their detailed variations, he saw them in the large.
Primarily, that is to say, he aimed, not at perfection of parts, but at
a unity of ensemble. To secure this he sacrificed the less important to
the more important; eliminated the unessential and emphasised the
salient. His mental process was one of keen analysis, directed to the
question of what was and what was not essential, and also to the study
of the relative degrees of importance which the essentials bore one to
another and the whole. The end in view was to make the ensemble, not
only organically simple, but an organic unit.
No doubt Velasquez was led to these results by his study of color and
light. He not only discovered but made technical use of the fact that
light tends to unify the colors and forms of objects; that it
encompasses them and affects their contour lines, causing some to be
sharp and others more elusive, and also, as we have noted, changes the
values of their hues. Further, he became aware that under the action of
light colors act and react on one another; that, for instance, the value
of the flesh of a face will be affected by the color-light
[Illustration:
AN ACTOR, CALLED VELASQUEZ
“DON JUAN OF AUSTRIA”
THE PRADO]
of the costume or of other objects near it. Thus, we ourselves may have
observed how the white gown and face of a woman, seated on the grass,
will assume values of reflected green. Or, if we are acquainted with the
Lumière process of color-photography, we are familiar with the surprises
of unexpected reflections which the camera records.
All of these results of his study Velasquez employed to render the truth
of sight and to unify the impressions. For it was the sum of the
impressions he had received that he learned to render. He, in fact,
formed in his mind a net impression of the whole scene, then translated
each part into its proper share in the total of impression. It is a
process which in the case of so great an artist as Velasquez is an act
of high imagination, giving birth to an act of real creativeness. The
result, then, is not an imitation of nature’s truth but the new creation
of an equivalent artistic truth; yet, with such an illusion of natural
truth that it still meets his own ideal--“truth, not painting.” Hence
the stimulus which the spectator feels in the presence of his finest
works. He is urged to be an active participator; to retranslate the
equivalent of truth into the natural truth; to read from the shorthand
of the brush strokes the full text of the longhand; to adjust his own
eyes and mind to the reception of the impression and that a unified one.
He becomes, in fact, a part-creator in the picture; somewhat as an
intelligent spectator of a good play finds himself a part-actor in the
dramatic situations.
* * * * *
The story of Velasquez’s life is little else than an enumeration of
incidents in his career as an artist. He was born June 6, 1599, in
Seville, where his father, Juan Rodriquez de Silva, a lawyer of an old
Portuguese family, had settled. The mother was Geronima Velasquez. Hence
the son’s full name, Don Diego Rodriquez de Silva y Velasquez, was
shortened according to Andalusian custom into the family name of his
mother. His parents dedicated him to the study of letters and
philosophy, but yielded to his desire to become an artist. After a short
period in the studio of Francisco Herrera, he was placed under the care
of Francisco Pacheco, an academic painter of no great merit, but a man
of considerable learning, whose house was a resort of the most
cultivated society of the city. The young Velasquez profited so well by
these surroundings, that Pacheco accepted him as a son-in-law. He was
married to Juana Pacheco in 1618, the result of the union being two
daughters, Francisca and Ignacia, the former of whom subsequently
married Velasquez’s own pupil, Juan Bautista del Mazo. At this time, the
School of Andalusia, under the influence of Ribera’s pictures, was
abandoning Italianate mannerisms in favor of the naturalistic motive.
When the young king, Philip IV, ascended the throne in 1621, Pacheco
began to scheme that his most promising pupil should be brought to the
royal notice. A visit to Madrid was planned in 1622, and on this
occasion Velasquez gained the notice of the Count-Duke de Olivares, the
king’s prime minister and favorite, who in the following year summoned
him back to Madrid. Under the Count’s direction and aided by his purse,
Velasquez produced an equestrian portrait (which has disappeared) of
the king, who was so well pleased with it that he took the young artist
into his service. Thus, in 1623 began that mutual friendship of monarch
and painter, which resulted in a close companionship of nearly
thirty-seven years. It was interrupted only by the king’s occasional
journeys of state and by Velasquez’s two visits to Italy.
In 1628 Rubens arrived as an ambassador extraordinary from the King of
England. His visit was prolonged for nine months, during which he
painted several pictures for the King. Velasquez was deputed to act as
his escort in the visits which he paid to the Escoriál and to the royal
picture galleries. He was thus brought into touch with the most renowned
painter of the day at the period of his most splendid achievement. The
association must have broadened the young man, but it did not cause him
to falter in his own attitude toward nature and art. Rubens urged him to
go to Italy and study the great masters, and the King endorsed the
advice.
The first visit was made in 1629 under circumstances of importance. For
Velasquez started in the train of the Marquis Spinola, the most renowned
Captain-General of the age, whom he was to immortalize in the _Surrender
of Breda_, and on his arrival in Italy presented letters from the
Count-Duke de Olivares which procured him admission to the most famous
galleries. He copied some of the works of Michelangelo, Raphael and
Tintoretto, and brought back five original canvases: _The Forge of
Vulcan_, _Joseph’s Coat_, two views of the _Villa Medici_ and a
_Portrait of Doña Maria_. The first, notwithstanding its classic
subject, is naturalistic. Velasquez has taken advantage of the story of
Apollo announcing the infidelity of Venus to her husband, while he is at
work with his assistants, in order to make a study of the nude form, as
a vehicle for the expression of action and emotion. But the composition
has nothing of the method of Italian idealism, while it abounds with
charming passages of still-life painting, thoroughly Spanish. The Villa
Medici studies are particularly interesting evidence of Velasquez’s
preoccupation with nature, even among the masters in Rome, and his
serious regard for landscape, which forms an important feature in many
of his portraits. His return to Madrid in 1631 marks the end of what is
regarded as the first period of his career. The remainder is similarly
divided into two parts.
The chief works of the first period beside those already mentioned are
the early _Adoration of the Shepherds_ (National Gallery), _The Lady
with the Fan_ (Wallace Collection), _The Adoration of the Kings_, _Los
Borrachos_ or _The Topers_, and _Philip IV. Young_, all of which are in
the Prado.
Philip welcomed his artist back with new favors, appointing him to the
post of Aposentador Mayor, whose duty it was to superintend the
arrangements for the King’s lodging during his excursions to the
country. It was a means of keeping his friend with him, though it must
have seriously interfered with the work of the artist.
An influence of the first Italian visit may be traced in the large
decorative canvases which characterise the middle period. Olivares had
presented his palace of Buen Retiro to the King, and the latter employed
Velasquez and other painters to embellish it. Hence followed the
equestrian portraits of _Don Baltasar Carlos_, _Olivares_ and _Philip_
himself, and the historical picture, _The Surrender of Breda_. In
addition, this period produced the _Christ at the Pillar_ (National
Gallery) and the Prado portraits of _Philip IV as a Sportsman_, _Don
Baltasar Carlos as a Sportsman_, _Don Fernando de Austria as a
Sportsman_, _The Sculptor Montañéz_, and the portraits of dwarfs and
actors, among the latter the so-called _Don Juan de Austria_ (p. 100).
Velasquez started on his second visit to Italy in June 1649, and
returned to Madrid in the summer of 1651. It was on this occasion that
he painted the portrait of _Innocent X_, which is now in the Doria
Gallery in Rome. On his return home the King made him Marshal of the
Palace, which entailed upon him the onerous duties of arranging court
festivities. These, too, had encreased in frequency and pomp owing to
the King’s second marriage; this time with his niece, Mariana of
Austria, a girl of fourteen. Notwithstanding such interruptions
Velasquez produced during these last nine years of his life some of his
finest works and his masterpiece, _Las Meniñas_ (_The Maids of Honor_).
Among the other canvases are _S. Anthony Visiting S. Paul_; _Las
Hilanderas_ (_The Weavers_); _Portrait of Queen Mariana_ (p. 119);
_Portrait of Doña Maria Teresa_ (or _Margarita Maria_); _La Infanta Doña
Margarita Maria_, of the Louvre; _Philip IV Old_ (p. 92) and the _Venus_
(National Gallery); _Æsopus_, _Moenippus_, _The God Mars_, The Dwarf
called _Antonio El Inglese_, and the actor _Cristobal de Pernía, called
Barbarroja_. All the above, except those otherwise specified, are in the
Prado.
In June, 1660, the marriage, which had been arranged by Cardinal Mazarin
between the young Louis XIV and Philip’s daughter, María Teresa, was
celebrated upon the Isle of Pheasants, in the little river which
separates Spain and France on the West of the Pyrenees. The weight of
the burden of preparation and supervision fell upon the Marshal of the
Palace, and proved more than Velasquez could sustain. He broke down at
the end of the ceremony and, returning to Madrid, died a few weeks
later, August 6, 1660. His wife survived him only seven days.
* * * * *
In a work of this scope it is impossible to go into the questions which
have arisen over the authenticity of many of the pictures ascribed to
Velasquez. For information on this head the reader is referred to the
latest critical work on the subject--“Velasquez” by Señor A. de Beruete
y Moret, and to the continuation of the subject by his son in his recent
book, “The School of Madrid.” Both are published in English. The net
result of their study is that many of the pictures ascribed to Velasquez
are either copies of Velasquez’s work, made by his son-in-law and pupil,
Mazo, or original works of the latter, who from constant companionship
with Velasquez had learned to imitate his style so closely. Here, I will
satisfy the curiosity of the reader only by saying that these critics
pronounce the _Philip IV in Hunting Costume_, of the Louvre, to be a
copy, and the _Admiral Pulido-Pareja_, of the National Gallery, an
original, by Mazo.
By reference to a few examples, let us trace the evolution of
Velasquez’s way of seeing and rendering his subject. The earliest
picture in the Prado is _The Adoration of the Magi_. This is assigned to
about the year 1619, the probable date also of _The Adoration of the
Shepherds_ (National Gallery). Both, therefore, belong to the Seville
period. Perhaps in the _Magi_ we can detect something of the
sophistication of the learned Pacheco, as well as the influence of the
new naturalistic movement. The figures are naturalistic; while the
grouping and lighting are artificial, academical. The light is
arbitrarily centered on the Mother and Child; the shadows which envelop
the other figures are also arbitrary; neither shade nor light is
naturally distributed; the whole is a studio convention.
Velasquez finished _Los Borrachos_, (The Topers) in 1629, the year he
sailed for Italy. It represents the climax of his development during the
previous ten years, and what progress it exhibits! The distressing
murkiness of the older picture has disappeared; the chiaroscuro in this
is luminous; the flesh parts brilliantly lighted, the shadows warm and
transparent. But it still presents the studio chiaroscuro, designed for
the sake of the pattern and unity of the composition; the light and
shade are not nature’s. Wonderfully naturalistic, however, are the heads
of these peasants, brimming with character and life. The men are engaged
in a mock scene, in which a youth, playing the part of Bacchus, is
crowning a comrade with vine-leaves. As Señor Beruete says: “The Spanish
‘picaresca,’ or rogue comedy, which plays such a brilliant part in the
literature of that day, has never been better rendered than it is in
this astonishing picture.” But we note, in anticipation of the artist’s
further advance, that the picture presents only a pictorial ensemble,
not yet a natural unity. It is a mosaic of splendidly executed
items--faces, nude forms, costumes and still-life--each of which merits
and indeed demands individual study. As a _pattern_ the composition
holds together as a unit, but it does not present a unit of _sight_. One
cannot see it as a whole; the eye travels from point to point, resting
on each and enjoying it separately. The picture is a masterpiece of its
kind; but it is not of the kind that Velasquez at length achieved in the
single, unified vision of _Las Meniñas_.
_The Forge of Vulcan_, which Velasquez executed in Italy (1630-1631), is
remarkable, in the first place, for its freedom from the trace of
Italian influence. Velasquez had come face to face with the giants, but
had preserved completely his independence. Michelangelo and Tintoretto
had shown him their capacity to express emotion and dramatic energy in
the action of figures, particularly nude ones. Velasquez observes; but
applies the principles to suit his own ideal of truth; no heroics, or
pageantry of display; simply the natural expression of emotion, under
natural circumstances. The workshop, the articles of still-life, the
action of the men, have been studied from observed facts. Their work
having been suddenly interrupted, each man pauses for a
[Illustration:
LAS HILANDERAS (THE WEAVERS) VELASQUEZ
THE PRADO]
momment. How extraordinarily the arrest of action is suggested! Remark
particularly the gesture of the three, who have suddenly halted in the
sequence of their several hammer strokes. It is the figure of the god
only that seems out of place and touch with the rest. It is disagreeably
prettified, stiff and formal in gesture, with affected disposition of
the drapery. It seems to be an academic solecism amid the naturalness of
the scene.
The second point of interest is that in this picture Velasquez shows the
first marked feeling for tone. There is no brilliance here or richness
of hues, such as make _Los Borrachos_ glow like magnificent enamels. The
color-scheme is very reserved; drab, relieved with white flesh, brownish
black tools and armor and the golden-amber of Apollo’s drapery. It shows
the artist already feeling toward color as light; multiplying values
rather than hues; studying the local hues in the variety of the light
upon them, instead of applying to them an arbitrary chiaroscuro; even
contriving to give to his whole scene a certain envelope of atmosphere.
The figure, raised at the back, scarcely takes its proper place in the
aerial perspective; otherwise the scene, barring the artificial halo of
the god, represents an immense step in naturalistic expression.
We pass to the superb equestrian portraits of the little _Don Carlos_,
_Olivares_, and _The King_. I wish it had been possible to reproduce all
three in these pages; for, while they are all superbly decorative,
magnificently large in expression and thrilling with force, they
represent differences of psychological feeling. That of the _Carlos_,
the darling of the Court, is sprightly and lovable; _bravura_
distinguishes the ostentatious pleasure-loving courtier-favorite, while
a kingly gravity, tinged with the artist’s affection, ennobles the
_Philip_ (p. 96). The boy bounds forward from the landscape; _Olivares_
caracoles toward it, pointing to imaginary exploits; the King is placed
athwart it, his figure quietly dominating space. How carefully Velasquez
calculated this last effect is clear from the fact that two strips of
canvas have been stitched on to the sides of the original piece. The
artist evidently felt the need of more space to secure for the figure
the required ascendancy. It was a frequent practice of his to add a
piece to the top or sides of his canvas, which, as R. A. M. Stevenson,
himself an artist, has remarked, throws a light on Velasquez’s method of
work. He does not appear to have made careful original studies of his
subjects, a fact corroborated by the very few drawings that he left
behind. He rather seems to have attacked his subject immediately on
canvas, pushing it hotly forward to realise his mental picture, and
then, if necessary, adjusting the size of his canvas to secure a final
unity of feeling. For the same purpose also he sometimes changed the
drawing, as he proceeded, painting over the original design which now
frequently shows through. In this equestrian Philip IV, for instance,
even the photograph will show how he has altered the disposition of the
horse’s legs, bringing them nearer together, as if he had felt that the
more scattered positions detached from the quietude and dignity of the
ensemble.
The horse in this portrait as compared with that of the _Olivares_ is
deficient in splendor of muscular action. It is more monumental, the
brownish bay mass forming a magnificent support to the black armored
figure, with its pale rose sash. Philip was justly regarded the finest
horseman of his day. Observe the seat of the figure, how absolutely its
action is adjusted to that of the horse. Note, also, that while the
masses of the landscape support the horse’s mass, the king’s figure
shows free against the spaces of dove-grey sky; his black beaver with
its white and plum-colored plume lifting proudly against the white
cloud. Compare this setting of the hat upon the head, with the
respectively different treatment of the same details in the other two
portraits. Each is psychologically related to its subject. Compare also
the scintillating liveliness of the child’s embroidered costume and
fluttering scarfs, so birdlike in gaiety of plumage, with the sumptuous
bravado of Olivares’ gold-fringed, wine-red damask-silk bow, and his
gold-striped armor--the whole effect intentionally a trifle _outré_.
What a contrast of grave dignity in the King’s damascened breast-plate,
brown velvet, gold-embroidered breeches, greyish drab gloves, pale buff
boots and deep plum-red sash that floats over the horse’s stern! In the
ensemble of concentrated, controlled stateliness the only flashes of
accented energy are the horse’s white fetlock and his superbly animated
nostril and eye.
In his first period Velasquez painted an historical subject, _The
Expulsion of the Moriscos from Spain_; but the picture perished in the
burning of the Alcázar in 1734. The _Surrender of Breda_ is therefore
the only example of his work in this genre. It was executed after his
first visit to Italy, where he had seen how Titian and Tintoretto
utilised such subjects for palace decorations. Velasquez, true to
himself, has tried to represent the scene as it actually might have
happened, yet with certain formalities of balanced masses, to meet its
decorative purpose. The picture, in fact, presents a mixture and, if one
may dare to say it of a picture so famed, a confusion, of motive. The
result is neither frankly an historical picture, such as Velasquez would
have imagined it and rendered it, if his intention had been single; nor
is it satisfactory as a decoration. The pattern of the composition is
handsome. So too its coloring, which includes a lovely blue sky, fleeced
with white; fainter blue and bluish-green and warm drab distance; blue
coated troops in the middle distance; and deep sapphire blue in the
squares of the flag on the right and in the breeches of the man whose
white shirt shows against a black horse on the left of the center, and
lastly in the costume of the man with a gun over his shoulder on the
extreme left. The coat of the adjoining figure is brownish buff; the
horse on the right, dark reddish brown. Spinola is clad in black armor,
studded with gold; Justin of Nassau in brown and gold. All this is
highly decorative, but not of itself sufficient to produce a decoration.
For the secret of a decoration lies in the treatment of the planes, so
that a sense of flatness may be preserved. There is nothing of that
here; the bulk and depth of the foreground masses contradict it. The
front figures of the man on the left and the horse opposite are alone
sufficient to prevent a mural feeling. On the other hand, from the point
of view of an historical picture, the attempt to treat the groups as
masses, seen against the background, has resulted in a certain confusion
of their planes, and in a general lack of interesting suggestion in
their details. Only the treatment of the two principal figures is
entirely satisfying. Nothing could exceed the beautiful expressiveness
of the conqueror’s noble condescension and the no less dignified
humility of the conquered. To this, the heart and soul of the
conception, the rest comes near to being but an ornamental and rather
distracting surplusage.
Of the three sportsmen portraits, that of the _King_ is again the
finest. That of his youngest brother, _Don Ferdinand of Austria_, is a
somewhat earlier work, painted, possibly, before the artist’s visit to
Italy; and the little _Don Carlos_, charming as it is, has lost a
portion of its canvas (it is suggested that it may have been cut from
its frame to save it at the time of the fire), so that the composition
has not the consummate propriety and dignity of the King’s portrait. The
latter is also distinguished by the masterly discretion of its tonality,
which is based on brown. The tree trunk is brown; the foliage brownish
olive; the cap and doublet lighter tones of the same and the trunks and
gaiters darker; the gun, light brown and the glove drab brown; the dog,
orange-tawny. Thus the figures and tree count as one handsome mass, in
which the predominant spot is the pale face, set off by the soft, blond
chestnut hair. The sleeve of the undercoat is black and silver, forming
a thread of minor emphasis to connect the head and the gloved hand, the
latter so full of character and technical distinction. The background
of landscape is composed of a stretch of tawny drab grass, sloping up to
bluish trees, seen against a grey sky, curdled with cream.
A fine example of the numerous portraits of dwarfs and actors, is that
of the buffoon, nicknamed _Don Juan de Austria_ (p. 100). The figure is
shown in a drab grey interior, from which a door opens on to a view of
sea-shore and a burning ship. The costume is of black velvet and a
peculiarly subtle pale claret-colored silk. The expression of the man is
one of concentration, to the suggestion of which every part of the
figure so curiously and completely contributes its share, uniting in a
perfect ensemble of feeling. In the atmospheric envelope and extreme
choiceness of color this canvas is a worthy prelude to the masterpieces
of the final period.
* * * * *
To one of the latter allusion has already been made: the _Philip IV_ of
the National Gallery. How infallibly just is the placing of the black
bust and head against the dark background! With what _finesse_ have been
calculated the accents of the chain and ornaments and collar, in order
to secure and at the same time alleviate the emphasis of the empty,
solemn head with its puffed, waxy features and soft, pallid hair! How
absolutely a unit is the whole impression! while the brush work is the
_ne plus ultra_ of impressionistic technique.
A miracle of painting also is presented in the portrait of a child,
identified variously as _Doña Margarita_ or _Doña María Teresa_, and in
that of the not much older _Doña Mariana de Austria_, Philip’s second
wife
[Illustration:
LAS MENIÑAS (THE MAIDS OF HONOR) VELASQUEZ
THE PRADO]
(p. 119). The child’s “guarda-infante” is of cloth of silver, woven
diagonally with pale rose silk, all ashimmer with veiled lustre.
Vermilion bows adorn her waist, a jeweled rosette of the same color her
corsage, while a small rosette under the left ear and a plume on the
right of the head, both vermilion, set off the soft straw-colored hair
and the fresh tender hues of her face. Curtain and carpet are a rosy
crimson, thus completing a tonal scheme of exquisitely delicate
vivacity. In the second portrait the Queen’s robe is of black velvet,
shot with brown, decorated with silver bullion. Notes of poppy scarlet
appear at her wrists, while a pale scarlet mingled with silver is the
color of the plume and of the ribbon flowers in her hair. The curtain,
in color pale rosy burgundy, frames a dark olive background, a concavity
of atmosphere, in the half-light of which appears a dainty gold clock
upon a table. These two canvases are marvels of technical achievement
and surpassing loveliness. A head and bust-portrait of this Queen,
apparently in the same costume, hangs in the Metropolitan Museum, New
York.
A broader method, in which one strongly feels the exhilaration of the
brushstrokes, is represented in the _Æsopus_ and _Moenippus_. The
grizzled black hair and pallid features of the former show against a
warm drab-olive background. In the lower right corner is a spot of black
and creamy fabric; opposite to it a creamy colored bowl; otherwise the
figure is a study in browns of peculiarly fine quality. The background
of the _Moenippus_ is somewhat colder than the _Æsopus_; in key with the
black cloak. The cap, boots, and the table and pitcher are of tones of
brown; the beard is grey and the flesh of the face ripely rubicund. Even
in the photograph one can appreciate the masterful breadth of the
draperies, and feel through the modulation of the values the bulk of the
figure beneath.
The _Venus_ of the National Gallery, if it is to be reckoned among the
works of Velasquez, is his only example of a female nude. While it
attracts at first, it subsequently proves disappointing. In the
emptiness of the back it is hard to recognise the hand of the master,
who in early days modeled so skilfully the man’s back in the _Forge of
Vulcan_ and whose modeling generally is so masterly and full of
interest. Nor can we easily reconcile with his unerring truth of
observation the drawing of the reflection in the mirror, which instead
of being smaller than the real head is somewhat larger. Moreover the red
of the curtain and general color scheme lack the choiceness and subtlety
of the canvases of the latest period, to which the _Venus_ is assigned.
We reach now the two celebrated masterpieces: _Las Hilanderas_, (_The
Weavers_), (p. 109) and _Las Meniñas_, (_Maids of Honor_) (p. 114). They
are very different. Both are triumphs alike of science and of inspired
vision; yet, by comparison, I should distinguish the _Maids of Honor_ as
a miracle of vision, the other as a marvel of science. For we may be
conscious of the science in the one and lose thought of it entirely in
the other. In _Las Meniñas_ the unity of the ensemble seems as artless
as the scene depicted; in _Las Hilanderas_ it is perhaps less complete,
certainly less simple and seems to suggest the consummate knowledge
needed to achieve it. The interest of the former pervades the whole
chamber and centers in the little princess. That of _Las Hilanderas_,
seems, at least at first, to be distributed into three parts, and the
focus point for the eye--Where is it?
Studying the two pictures, as is possible in the Prado, since they hang
upon the same wall, near enough for the eye to travel backward and
forward from one to the other, one discovers, I believe, that the
problem involved in each is the reverse of that of the other. _Las
Meniñas_ shows a partially lighted interior, with the chief light on the
little figure in the foreground; while the problem of the other picture
is a dimly lighted, or rather darkened foreground, and a fully lighted
background. In _Las Hilanderas_, in fact, the artist’s chief motive was
the alcove, pervaded by a clear light that illumines the blues, greys
and pale rose of the tapestry. Velasquez had seen it so and realised how
the effect was heightened by the dimness of the spot in which he stood.
Conscious of this, one begins to understand that the focus point of this
picture is the shaded dull-red figure in the center of the middle
distance. But it is a focus point of departure; not, as in _Las
Meninas_, designed to draw our attention to it, but to direct it to the
lighted space behind. When once we have recognised this, order begins to
establish itself in what seemed to be the divided interest of the
canvas. The beautiful figure, on the right, of the girl in a white
chemise no longer holds our attention too exclusively. We see in her the
artist’s twofold purpose of explaining the front plane of his scene, and
pointing through the shaded figure to his main motive. We have
discovered the proper view of sight; it is in front of this girl,
looking diagonally toward the alcove, and the group on the left is
introduced to balance the composition. Yet even now, after one thinks
one has captured the secret of the unity of the ensemble, so cunningly
achieved, the beautiful figure of the girl on the right of the
foreground may arrest our interest and distract it from the whole. It is
because of this, that for my own part, there seems to be more of science
than of inspiration in this vision.
Not so with _Las Meniñas_. Here one forgets to analyse--there is no need
to do so--one simply accepts the scene and feels its consummate truth.
How consummate it is, only familiarity with the original can reveal. It
is a truth that grows upon the consciousness, stimulating it to demand
more and yet more difficult tests of its truthfulness, and satisfying
every one. And the unity which is the secret of the truth has not been
obtained by monotony of hue. The canvas is alive with color, strong
notes of most vivacious hue. The Princess’s dress is creamy silver with
a bunch of rose on her breast. This rosy note is echoed in varying
tones: in the glass that is being presented to her; on the artist’s
palette; in the curtain reflected in the mirror at the back where the
King and Queen appear; in the bright cuff ribbons on the silvery grey
dress of the maid-in-waiting on the right, and in the dull rose costume
of the child on the extreme right. The dwarf next to him wears a dress
of slaty blue, decorated with silver; the kneeling maid, a greenish grey
upper dress over a skirt of deep greyish green, and Velasquez himself is
in black. But
[Illustration:
DOÑA MARIANA DE AUSTRIA VELASQUEZ
THE PRADO]
the mere enumeration of the colors gives no idea of their positive
vivacity, as they show out brilliantly in the light, and none of the
marvellous realisation of the textures. Nothing has been evaded; nothing
seems to have given the artist a moment’s pause or difficulty. Yet, when
all is said, the greatest marvel is the concavity of the drab-grey room,
filled with luminous atmosphere; clear, around the foreground figures,
but with infinite nuances of clearness, melting into varieties of
penetrable mystery in the receding perspective. In the whole scene not a
trace of evasion or confusion! Everything is readily comprehended,
because rendered with immediate precision, as if in a moment of
infallible improvisation.
_Las Meniñas_ was not only the matured achievement of Velasquez’s long
research into the effect of light upon color and upon their relations to
one another in space; it was a new kind of picture. It is composed,
built up of light. According to older conventions of composition the
large space above the figures would be considered empty. But here it is
not empty; it is filled with tones of light, with luminous aerial
perspective that balances the group of lighted forms below. Possibly the
photograph may not convey this impression to one who has not seen the
original. But in the presence of the latter there can be no doubt of it.
The upper part is as full of material as the lower; we may even find it
more beautiful, because so infinitely subtle and stimulating to the
imagination. Never before or since has the truth of natural appearances
been so marvellously rendered, or the beauty of every day truth been so
heightened by the artist’s inspired imagination. _Las Meniñas_ is an
apocalypse, the revelation of a supreme vision.
In the decline of Spanish art and the general interest of Europe in
Italianate and rococo motives, Velasquez during the eighteenth century
was forgotten. Toward the end of that century, however, Goya derived
inspiration from his works, and nearly a hundred years later Manet,
Whistler and others rediscovered him. His example has been the chief
influence in leading the world back to regard a painting as a work of
art, and in teaching the painter himself the technique that will entitle
it to be so considered. The duration of his influence has corresponded
with the vogue of naturalism which has prevailed in Literature and the
Fine Arts, a reflex action of the general scientific attitude of the
time. The vogue is passing, and Velasquez’s immediate _influence_ may
grow less. But his _reputation_ will endure, because it is founded upon
the lasting foundation of “truth, not painting.”
CHAPTER VII
MAZO
A twofold interest attaches to Juan Bautista de Mazo, the pupil and
son-in-law of Velasquez. In the first place, he was employed by his
master to copy many of the latter’s pictures, so that he is involved in
the controversies which have arisen over their attribution. Secondly, he
was himself an original portrait painter, and practically the only
representative of landscape painting in the Spanish School.
Mazo was a native of Madrid, the date of his birth being placed
approximately in 1612, because he is reported to have lived a little
over fifty years, and his death took place in 1667. It is not known when
he entered the studio of Velasquez, but he married the latter’s
daughter, Francisca, in 1634. The King signalised his approval of the
marriage by relieving Velasquez of his duties as Usher of the Chamber
and transferring them to Mazo. The young people made their home with
their parents-in-law, and Mazo worked in constant companionship with
Velasquez until the latter’s death. He seems to have had a remarkable
faculty of imitation, for Palomino, writing shortly after Mazo’s death,
says: “He was so skilled as a copyist, especially with regard to the
works of his master, that it is hardly possible to distinguish the
copies from the originals. I have seen some copies of his, after
pictures by Tintoretto, Veronese and Titian, which are now in the
possession of his heirs. If these copies were produced in Italy, where
his talent is unknown, they would be taken without any doubt for
originals.” Velasquez utilised this ability of his pupil, as Rubens and
Rembrandt made use respectively of theirs, to assist him in part or in
whole. Copies of his pictures were required by the King for presentation
to members of the Royal Family of Austria, to ambassadors and others to
whom he wished to show special favor. In some cases Velasquez himself
made a replica, more often, because of the interruptions of his Court
duties and the stress of other work, would employ Mazo to make a copy,
leaving it intact or touching it up as the case might be.
An example of one of these copies, according to Señor Beruete, is the
_Philip IV as Sportsman_, of the Louvre. He assigns it as a copy, made
by Mazo, of the original that is now in the Prado. There is a slight
difference between the two. In the Louvre picture the King holds his cap
with the left hand on his hip; in the Prado the cap appears upon the
head. This was an alteration, subsequently made by Velasquez, for one
can still trace in the original picture a dark mass over the hip, where
the under-painting shows through. The copy, therefore, must have been
made before the alteration.
An example of an original by Mazo, which has passed as a Velasquez, is,
according to Señor Beruete, the celebrated portrait of _Admiral Adrian
Pulido Pareja_ in the National Gallery. It is signed with the name of
[Illustration:
DOÑA MARIANA DE AUSTRIA MAZO
THE PRADO]
Velasquez in Latin. But the Spanish critic points out that, while a
signature itself is no proof of authenticity, this one differs in matter
and character from the only other three instances of the signature of
Velasquez on a picture. These are on undoubted works of the master: the
full-length _Philip IV_ in the National Gallery, the portrait of _Pope
Innocent X_ in the Doria Gallery, and the fragment of a picture which is
preserved in the Royal Palace in Madrid. Studying the technical
qualities of the _Admiral_ and comparing them with those of undoubted
examples of the same period in Velasquez’s career, Señor Beruete
reaches, in brief, the following conclusions. The figure does not stand
firmly on its feet; the latter and the legs are badly shaped; the hat
looks like a sack; its curve is prolonged by that of the left arm and
both are parallel to the curve of the body; the hands are poorly
modeled; the baton is held without distinction, the silhouette of the
whole figure is neither sure nor beautiful, and the masses lack just
disposition and balance. The whole is without the distinction, sureness
of touch and _brio_ that characterise all the authentic portraits of
Velasquez. It is a fine work by a painter of less power than Velasquez,
but bears so strong a resemblance to his style, that it can be by no
other than his pupil, Mazo. For other pictures, hitherto supposed to be
by Velasquez but now claimed by Señor Beruete for his pupil, the reader
is referred to the Spanish critic’s book: “The School of Madrid.”
With the _Portrait of Doña Mariana of Austria_ (p. 122), the second wife
of Philip IV, we reach an unquestioned original by Mazo. It is the same
subject as in Velasquez’s portrait (p. 119), only the girl-bride has
now become a girl-mother. Her child, the Infanta Margarita, about four
years old, appears in the rear with attendants and a dwarf. It is a drab
interior rather reminiscent of that in _Las Meniñas_. The crimson
curtain and chair and the Queen’s pose, on the other hand, recall
Velasquez’s portrait, just mentioned. The suggestion, in fact,
throughout is Velasquez, but not the handling and the style. Compare,
for example, the hand on the chair in the one portrait and the other. In
the Mazo there is an absence of modeling and character. How
characterless also the line of the right arm, and wanting in decision
and distinction the whole silhouette of the figure. Yet the picture has
a very great charm of refinement and tender feeling.
Another probable original by Mazo in the Prado (No. 1083), _Portrait of
Prince Baltasar Carlos_, is attributed to Velasquez in the official
catalogue. It is one of a number of similar attributions that surprise
the visitor to the Prado. The portrait in question shows the Prince, now
in his fourteenth year, standing with his left hand upon the back of a
chair, while his right hangs gracefully, holding a plumed hat. The
figure is entirely in black against a drab background. There is no
picture by Velasquez, known to exist, from which this could be a copy.
That it is not an original by the master is evident in the softness an
indecision of the drawing, and the actually bad drawing of the right leg
which does not connect properly with the hip. It is therefore assumed
with probability to be an original by Mazo, and the fault of drawing is
explained by the fact that he was only twenty-four years old when he
painted it. This picture has an undeniable elegance, but falls very
short of Mazo’s _Doña Mariana_ in accomplishment.
However, both the originality and the capacity of Mazo are best
displayed in his landscapes, which have now been collected into one of
the upper galleries of the Prado. As we have noted, Mazo is the single
great landscape painter of the old Spanish School. While the
contemporary School of Holland, in the persons of Ruisdael, Van Goyen,
Hobbema, Cuyp and many others, was developing landscape as an
independent branch of art and carrying it to a high level of
representation and expression, the Spanish School, with the exception of
Mazo, still used it in subordination to the figure. Considering that
both schools were influenced by the naturalistic motive, how is one to
account for this difference? Probably in the fact that, while the Dutch
artists were in a great measure painting to please themselves and
choosing their own subjects, the Spanish artists worked directly under
the patronage of Royalty and the Church. Portraiture and religious
subjects were the only work demanded of them. Added to this may be the
fact that the Dutch ideal was democratic, the Spanish aristocratic. The
Dutch people were interested in themselves and in the everyday concerns
and environment of their lives, and the Dutch artists, being of the same
stuff as their public, contributed to the popular taste. On the other
hand, both the Spanish monarchy and the Church were strongholds of
aristocracy and both had close affiliations with Italy, the art of which
had been pre-eminently aristocratic. It was based, as has been pointed
out in a companion volume to this one, “The Story of Dutch Painting,” on
the idea of the superiority of the individual person, or, translated
into terms of art, on the supremacy of the human figure as an
art-motive.
We may well believe that Mazo was encouraged in his feeling for
landscape by Velasquez himself. For it is recalled that the latter
during his leisure in Rome painted two vistas in the gardens of the
Villa Medici. There is also in the Prado a _View of the Arch of Titus_,
which the catalogue admits was probably painted in Spain from a sketch
made in Rome. Later criticism, however, has concluded that it was Mazo
who painted this from Velasquez’s sketch, and has also assigned to the
younger man several other landscapes, originally supposed to be by
Velasquez. In this judgment the Director of the Prado acquiesces, for
the pictures have been placed in the gallery devoted to Mazo’s
landscapes.
Before considering them, let us note the contribution made by Velasquez,
indirectly through his portraits, to the art of landscape painting. He
used landscape, with the freedom and feeling of one who comprehended it
and loved it, in his equestrian and sportsman portraits, in the
_Surrender of Breda_ and particularly in one of his latest works, _S.
Antony Visiting S. Paul_, where the figures are small and the picture is
virtually a landscape subject. The chief distinction of all these
landscape scenes is that Velasquez, the student of light, has brought
natural light into the scenes, in which respect they differ from the
landscape of Italian backgrounds, even those
[Illustration:
THE FOUNTAIN OF THE TRITONS MAZO
THE PRADO]
noble ones of Titian’s, which are pervaded with what is, comparatively
speaking, a studio lighting. Velasquez is in a sense even more
naturalistic than his contemporaries, the Holland masters of landscape,
for, although they rendered nature more intimately, they were disposed
to translate the actual hues of nature into a tonality of their own.
Velasquez, on the contrary, recorded what seemed to him to be the facts
of sight. He, therefore, reappears among the moderns of the nineteenth
century, in landscape as in portraiture, one of themselves, because
their mutual study was the light of nature.
One of Mazo’s most important landscapes, known to be his by documentary
evidence, is the _View of Zaragoza_. It hangs in the Velasquez gallery
of the Prado, because the master added the figures which are distributed
in three planes throughout the foreground. But the river beyond, dotted
with sailboats, the bridge and distant view of the city are
unquestionably by Mazo. The silvery deep olive-green of the water and
the accurate definition of the buildings, which nevertheless are felt as
masses, recall the finest manner of Il Canaletto, while the suggestion
of light in the sky is more naturalistic than the Venetian ever
attained. It is a picture that interests one to compare with the single
landscape of Jan Vermeer: his _View of Delft_ in the Hague Gallery. Each
gives one an extraordinary realisation of the actuality of the scene;
but, while the Holland artist’s picture breathes an intimate
domesticity, the work of the Spaniard is psychologically different,
suggesting a certain _hauteur_ and exclusiveness; partly, no doubt,
through the introduction of the choice groups of figures by Velasquez.
The three landscapes originally attributed to Velasquez, but now
included by the Director of the Gallery among Mazo’s are: _The Fountain
of the Tritons_ (p. 122), _Calle de la Reina de Aranjuez_, and _The View
of Buen Retiro_. In the first named the tree-stem on the
left-foreground, sprinkled with leaves, is reminiscent of Velasquez, and
the beautiful little figures, so suggestively rendered, may have been
added by him. But the handling of the grey-green foliage of the further
trees, softly blurred against a bluish grey sky, is unlike the method of
Velasquez as seen in any of his landscape backgrounds. On the other
hand, the soft faint masses of tone, subsequently worked over with
little curly strokes, can be found to a greater or less extent in the
foliage parts of all Mazo’s landscapes in this room. The latter, it
should be observed, vary in subject, including views of buildings,
romantic scenes of rocks and waterfalls, sea-shore in combination with
cliffs and temple-ruins, and views more simply naturalistic. To each the
artist has adopted a technique suitable to the occasion, so that it is
not at first sight easy to recognise them as the work of one man.
Mazo, in fact, in his approach to landscape, shows nothing of the
timidity and indecision and tendency to follow closely his master, such
as characterise his portraits. Here he shows himself an original
experimenter, freely pursuing his own motive. In the case of _The
Fountain of the Tritons_ it has brought him to a method that anticipates
the impressionistic style of Corot. The peeps of sky through the soft
screen of trees; their very coloring, the single tree-stem in the
foreground and the envelope of cool grey atmosphere--Corot might have
painted them.
The _Calle de la Reina_ has again a strangely modern air, somewhat that
of a Jules Dupré, when he is not stirred to emotional effects. The
avenue, leading to the palace of Aranjuez, recedes in the shadow of tall
trees, which tower up in dark masses against a fine twilight sky. Its
light is dimly reflected in the grey-blue water of a shadowed lake on
the left of the foreground; the rest of the latter being enlivened with
figures which form the retinue of two arriving coaches. All these
sprinkled forms count as dark spots upon the pale-lighted sandy road. In
its truth of observation and simple nobility of feeling this landscape
would do honor to any school of any period.
To assist his appreciation of Mazo’s romantic and mythological
landscapes, the visitor to the Prado will do well to step into an
adjoining gallery, devoted to the works of Claude Lorrain and Nicolas
Poussin. It is true they are not represented here at their best; yet
perhaps sufficiently well to suggest the character of their work and
certainly its spirit. Particularly in the case of Claude Lorrain it is
slighter, shallower than the spirit of Mazo’s corresponding scenes; less
reinforced by close observation of nature; or, it may be, inspired by
softer influences. For the source of the difference is perhaps the
contrast of character of the Spanish as compared with the Italian
landscape. Mazo has noted to good purpose the stirring cloud effects
that pile high above the gaunt sierras, and their grandeur and bigness
have inspired his feeling. By comparison, the mellow skies of the
French-Italian landscapes, seem trivial, and communicate their slighter
feeling to the formal, classically composed foregrounds, so that they
seem mannered. In Mazo’s on the other hand, the grandeur of the sky’s
suggestion spreads to the mountains, rocks and water, investing the
whole with a sense of structural power and therefore of sincerity. In
fact, in these romantic, mythological subjects Mazo stands alongside
Turner rather than Claude and Poussin.
CHAPTER VIII
CARREÑO
Among the painters who were contemporaries of Velasquez and after his
death helped to stem for a little while the decline of the School of
Madrid, special notice is due to Juan Carreño de Miranda. He came of a
noble family of the province of Asturias, his father being Alcade de los
Hijosdalgos or Chief of the Council of Nobles, in the town of Aviles,
where Juan was born in 1614. When he was still a boy he accompanied his
father to Madrid, and made up his mind to be an artist. His father, at
last acquiescing, placed him with Pedro de las Cuevas, who had also been
the teacher of José Leonardo and Pereda. Carreño afterwards worked with
a painter, Bartolomé Roman; but by the time that he was twenty years old
had so distinguished himself that he was entrusted with several
important commissions. Velasquez recognised his talent and, thinking he
should be employed in the King’s service, commissioned him to paint some
frescoes for the royal palace. These were destroyed in the fire of 1734.
In 1669 Carreño was appointed one of the Court Painters, a post which he
continued to hold after the succession of the young king, Charles II,
when the regency was in the hands of the Queen-Mother, Mariana de
Austria. In this capacity Carreño executed portraits of the royal family
which represent his best work.
Meanwhile his popularity was based upon his decorations and
altar-pieces. His decorative ability, which had been recognised, as we
have seen, by Velasquez, included a familiarity with the technique of
fresco painting, a branch of the art which had few representatives among
Spanish painters. The taste for it had been introduced by the Italians
summoned to decorate the Escoriál, and perpetuated by other foreigners
who were employed in decorating the principal churches and convents.
From them Carreño acquired a knowledge of the process. He seems (for I
am not acquainted with Carreño’s mural decorations) to have been
distinguished in his use of it by a combination of Italian decorative
composition with types and motives characteristically Spanish, and by
very delicate and spiritual schemes of color.
Perhaps the character and quality of the latter may be discovered in the
altar-piece by this artist in the Hispanic Museum, New York. It is a
_Conception_; the subject being presented in the usual way prescribed by
the Church. But the composition is looser, if one may say so, than
Murillo’s in similar pictures, with lines more flowing and masses
distributed more gaily. It is the arrangement, in fact, of a painter
accustomed to the liberty of decoration on a large surface. It has a
sweep and elegance that make it akin to the compositions of Antolinez
and particularly of Cerezo, whom we briefly discussed in the fourth
chapter. In its color-scheme also, it favors theirs. All these artists,
in fact, represent
[Illustration:
CHARLES II CARREÑO
THE PRADO]
a reaction from the more sober and restricted color-schemes, imposed
upon Velasquez and other Court painters. At the same time, they are
characteristic of the decline which had already begun. The coloring of
this _Conception_ of Carreño’s is distinguishably prettified; pearly
pinks and blues, soft greys and greens, perilously suggestive of the
_bonboniére_ style. And the sentiment of the whole is correspondingly
suave, almost, if not completely, to insipidity. Similarly sentimental
are this artist’s _Magdalen in the Desert_ in the Academy of San
Fernando in Madrid, and his _San Sebastian_ of the Prado. The Magdalen
looks like a matured Ariadne, abandoned by her lover. She is posed upon
a rocky seat, so that her beautiful arms may be seen to advantage and
the long line of her graceful figure duly emphasised. Meanwhile she
lifts her tearful gaze to the sky, at a carefully calculated angle that
will impress the beauty of her neck upon the sympathetic spectator. As
for the _San Sebastian_, it should make a gentle lady weep to behold how
this tender body has been abused. In fact, the student who has
discovered the true sources of greatness in the Spanish School of
painting will not take Carreño very seriously when he is in these moods.
Fortunately for his present reputation there is a graver and more
dignified side to his art.
In his portraits, especially those of the members of the royal family,
Carreño shows himself to have absorbed no little of the influence of
Velasquez. These portraits of Charles II and his mother, Queen Mariana,
vary in quality; for he was called upon to repeat them, and the replicas
display a lack of interest and falling off in technical distinction.
Perhaps the handsomest portrait of the King, painted when he was still a
lad of twelve, is the one in the Kaiser-Friedrich Museum, Berlin. The
boy, as usual in a black velvet suit, with long blond cavalier locks
descending over his shoulders, stands resting his left hand on a
marble-topped table, which is supported on a lion and ball pedestal. His
face has not yet acquired the expression of settled melancholy and is
gracious and lovable. The coloring is rich and luminous, and the
concavity behind the figure, full of atmospheric suggestion. The replica
of this in the Prado is tighter and drier in treatment, lacking in
quality of tone and lighting.
Another portrait of this period, showing the figure at half length is
owned by Señor Beruete. Judged by the photograph of it, reproduced in
his “School of Madrid,” it is a very superior canvas, distinguished by
graciousness and dignity. It is a terrible contrast to turn from the
weak yet winning beauty of the boy to the portrait in which Carreño has
depicted the man (p. 132). In all the range of portrait-painting can we
find a face so degenerate as this? The face droops to an inordinate
length, as if the vacuous brain could no longer hold it in position; the
mental distortion is reflected in the grotesquely exaggerated features;
the expression of the pallid mask is one in which hope and joy of life
are extinguished and reasonless fear is habitually present. Such was the
last of the proud Hapsburg line of Spanish Sovereigns.
Carreño’s most important work, however, is the _Portrait of Queen
Mariana of Austria_, in the Munich Old Pinakothek, of which there is an
unsatisfactory replica in the Prado. But the Munich portrait, once seen,
impresses itself indelibly on the memory. It is a cold, implacable
indictment. The surly sadness of the girl-wife, painted by Velasquez (p.
119), who had our sympathy for the cruel grossness of her lot, has
hardened into callous obstinacy and weak self-indulgence. Her widowhood
has brought authority without a sense of responsibility, she has
betrayed her maternal trust in order that through her child’s feebleness
she may hold on to power; she has dallied between her lover and
confessor, and is now _devote_. Clothed in black and white weeds that
resemble a nun’s garb, she sits squarely at a table, a loveless,
forbidding woman. Yet strangely haunting because of Carreño’s analysis
and fearless exposition.
CHAPTER IX
RIBERA (LO SPAGNOLETTO)
Though recognised as the leader of the School of Valencia, José or, as
he is sometimes called, Jusepe de Ribera spent most of his life in
Naples, where his Spanish pride, combined with his somewhat diminutive
stature, procured him the sobriquet, _Lo Spagnoletto_. He was born in
1588, eleven years senior to Velasquez, in the province of Valencia, in
the hill-town of Jativa, the cradle of the Borgia family. Hence the
proud title which he often appended to his signature, “Spaniard of
Jativa.” His parents, Luis de Ribera and Margarita Gil, took him to
Valencia that he might study Latin with a view to becoming a man of
letters. But José, even thus early showed his independence by declaring
that he would be an artist, and was accordingly placed under the care of
Francisco Ribalta. The latter, we recall, was the link of transition
from Italian mannerism to the native naturalistic schools of Valencia
and Andalusia; at one time producing thinly painted subjects of
extravagant sentimentality, at another showing himself quite masterful
in naturalistic representation. This blend of naturalism and sentiment,
the latter frequently carried too far, distinguishes also the work of
Ribera and through his influence many artists of the Andalusian School,
Murillo in particular. The naturalistic tendency is Spanish, common to
North and South alike; the sentiment is a bias given to it by the
Southern temperament.
While still a youth Ribera made his way to Rome, where his handsome face
and evident ability attracted the notice of a cardinal, who took him
into his house and would have cared for him that he might pursue his
studies in comfort. But José, nothing if not independent, found the
restraint irksome and went back to his rags and poverty, declaring that
he needed the stimulus of necessity. He made copies of some of the
Raphaels and the Caraccis in the Farnese palace, and even found means to
visit Parma and Modena and study the works of Correggio. But the
pictures which most attracted Ribera were those of Michelangelo
Caravaggio, who worked in Naples. So to Naples he went, although he had
to leave his coat behind in Rome to pay his boardbill. Whether Ribera
actually studied under Caravaggio is uncertain. Anyhow, since the latter
died in 1609, the association could not have lasted more than a short
time. Meanwhile, even if Ribera never saw Caravaggio in the flesh, he
could not escape his spirit. It was a part of the turbulent atmosphere
of the Naples of that day, into which with a violence, equal to
Caravaggio’s, the independent young Spaniard was quick to fling himself.
Fortune favored him, for a rich art dealer gave him some commissions
and, discovering his ability, determined to attach him to his own
interests. He offered him his daughter’s hand in marriage, and Ribera,
having experienced the stimulus of poverty, was now resolved to taste
the encouragement of wealth and ease, and accepted it. Soon after his
marriage he produced a life-sized picture of the _Martyrdom of S.
Bartholomew_, who was flayed alive. The ghastly scene was represented
with such horrible naturalism, that when the picture was exhibited
outside of the art-dealer’s shop, a crowd gathered about it. This
attracted, as no doubt it was intended that it should, the notice of the
Spanish viceroy, the Duke of Ossuna, whose palace window overlooked the
spot. Having learned the cause of the excitement he sent for the picture
and was so impressed with it that he bought it, appointed Ribera his
painter in ordinary, and gave him apartments in the palace. Thus, almost
at a bound, Ribera found himself upon the topmost rung of the ladder. He
was rich and now courted by the richest and most powerful, who presumed
that he had the ear of the viceroy. In artistic circles the young artist
had taken the place of Caravaggio and invested it with still greater
honor. He was the recognised leader of the naturalists in their war of
extinction with the Eclectics.
It is necessary to note the rivalry between these two contemporary
schools, since it throws a light on an extraordinary episode in Ribera’s
career. With the death of Tintoretto in 1592 the last of the giants of
the Renaissance had passed away. They were succeeded by a race of
pigmies, who strutted in the mantles of Raphael and Michelangelo. They
are called “Mannerists,” differing, however, from the Mannerists of
Spain. For while the Spanish imitated the great masters in order to
acquire the secrets of their greatness, at the same time, as we have
seen, infusing the result with something of the raciness of the Spanish
character, the Italian “Mannerists” aped the past in an attempt to
galvanize it into continued living.
The “Mannerists” soon become obscured by the “Eclectics,” whose
headquarters were in Bologna, the home of the Caracci. For the school
grew out of the influence of the five brothers Caracci, especially the
three, Annibale, Ludovico and Agostino, who led the way in what was to
be a “revival” of art. Its principle was a catholic eclecticism, which
should combine the drawing and power of Michelangelo, with the color of
Titian, the grace and sentiment of Raphael and the soft dreamy
chiaroscuro of Correggio. The movement spread throughout Italy, being
variously represented by the Caracci, already mentioned, Domenichino,
Guido Reni, Guercino, Sassoferrato, Carlo Dolci and others of more or
less merit. Whatever may be thought of these painters individually, it
is scarcely to be denied that the principle underlying their art had in
it nothing of original growth. It was dishing up the past, instead of
providing meat for the present.
Meanwhile, outside of the “Eclectics,” the spirit of the present was
asserting itself in a reaction from Classicalism to Naturalism--to use a
hackneyed term, in a return to nature. That the stronghold of the
Naturalists became Naples, which was under Spanish rule is a significant
fact. It was an instance, by no means single, of the Spanish influence
reacting upon Italy. The movement however was started by the Italian
Caravaggio, a man of impetuous temperament and possibly coarse tastes,
who by way of bringing the Bible story into touch with every day life,
peopled his sacred scenes with personages drawn from the slums of
Naples. How great a painter he could be upon occasions is shown in that
handsome canvas in the Dresden Gallery, _The Card Players_. However, the
style usually associated with his work and that of his followers is one
of violent types and exaggerated dramatic energy. The “Naturalists” were
also addicted to the use of dark shadows, which gained for them the
nickname of “Darklings.” Between them and the “Eclectics” there was
perpetual rivalry, waged with that intensity which only Latin peoples
can put into an artistic controversy. On the part of the Neapolitan
naturalists it was war literally to the knife, for they did not scruple
to employ the bravo and his stiletto in their efforts to hold Naples
against the enemy. It was to the leadership in a fight of this sort that
the young Ribera succeeded, and he went into it with an unscrupulous
ferocity that has left on his memory the blot of a very discreditable
episode.
The Chapel of St. Januarius in the Cathedral of Naples was to be
decorated. A cabal was formed between Ribera, a native Neapolitan,
Giambattista Caracciolo, and a painter of Greek birth, Belisario
Correnzio. The last named had already made so bitter an attack on
Annibale Caracci that the latter had been driven out of Naples. The
three now determined to secure for themselves the decorating of the
chapel. The commissioners at first assigned the work to one, Cavaliero
d’Arpino, who had been Correnzio’s teacher. He was assailed with
persecution, and forced to take refuge in the Benedictine monastery of
Monte Cassino. Then
[Illustration:
HERMIT SAINT RIBERA
THE PRADO]
Guido was selected. Two hired bravos set upon his servant, thrashed him,
and ordered him to tell his master that a similar fate was in store for
himself should he begin the decoration of S. Januarius. Guido fled the
city; and his pupil, Gessi, was chosen as a substitute. He arrived in
Naples with two assistants, who were inveigled on board a boat in the
bay and never seen again. The commissioners now yielded and gave the
commission to the triumvirate. But a little later they revoked the order
and offered Domenichino a handsome remuneration, with a promise of
protection, if he would undertake the work. He consented and became
immediately the target of an insidious persecution. Threatening letters
were sent to him; his character was slandered and his ability as a
painter impugned; the plasterers were bribed to mix ashes with the
mortar on which his frescoes were to be painted; and finally Ribera
prevailed on the viceroy to order some pictures of Domenichino. These
were carried from his studio before they were finished, or retouched and
ruined before reaching the viceroy. At length, in despair, Domenichino
fled to Rome; but was induced to return and shortly afterwards died
under suspicion of having been poisoned. The cabal, however, failed of
its purpose. The Neapolitan died the same year as Domenichino; the Greek
two years later and Ribera painted only one altarpiece for the chapel,
_The Martyrdom of S. Januarius_. The decorations were executed by one,
Lanfranco.
For his share in this disgraceful intrigue, and because of his being a
foreigner, Ribera incurred the hatred of a large number of Neapolitans.
To this, probably is to be attributed the story which passed into a
tradition, that Don Juan of Austria, while on a visit to Naples, induced
Ribera’s daughter to elope with him; and, soon growing tired of his
victim, placed her in a convent. In consequence of shame and grief,
Ribera, so the story goes, sank into a profound melancholy, until one
day he left his home and was never again heard of. This is now believed
to be a mere fabrication of Neapolitan hatred; the true facts being that
Ribera settled down to a life of honor and prosperity and finally died
in Naples in 1656.
* * * * *
In the popular imagination Ribera is associated with pictures of martyrs
and ascetics, with scenes of cruelty and suffering and the portrayal of
old and wasted bodies. The impression is justified, for the taste of his
time demanded these revolting subjects, and Ribera’s own temperament
made him more than acquiesce. He represented them with a zest that
proves he revelled in his opportunities. But this is only one aspect of
Ribera, and even in itself not complete, for it is prone to take no
account of the superb artistry with which he invested the unpleasantness
of these themes.
Thus, in the example, selected for reproduction here, because it is
characteristic of Ribera’s best known subjects, the original has a
beauty which in the reproduction may possibly escape observation. The
head of this _Hermit Saint_ is of extreme nobility both of technique and
expression. In the suggestion of the powerful skull, the boldly modeled
flesh and the clustering masses of grizzled hair and beard, there is an
unusual feeling for and realisation of the dignity of human form. It is
not merely that the artist has selected a model with a fine head, and
rendered its benign and grave distinction, but he has heightened the
expression by the expressiveness of the technique. The artist’s
sympathetic imagination and extraordinary reverence, not for the
saint-idea in his theme but for humanity in its relation to art, have
informed the technique with a noble sympathy, grand imagination and a
sovereign reverence. For the point, difficult to put into words, is that
technique such as this, while it is magnificent as mere representation,
achieves the higher quality of expression, and the measure of the latter
is the quality of the artist’s conception not only of his subject but
even more of his art, as one of the noble mediums of expression. So, in
the presence of a work like this, the spectator forgets his dislike of
the subject and finds his imagination kindled and his capacity of
abstract appreciation heightened. Even the Saint’s back though you may
not believe it from the photograph, which has reduced the transparent
shadows to opacity and robbed the flesh of its glorious luminosity, adds
its quota to the stimulus of the intellectual-esthetic sense. For, in
this capacity, not only to delight the sense perception but to stimulate
also the intellectual conception of beauty in the abstract, Ribera
belongs in the company of Velasquez. He occupies a lower rank because
his art, like himself, was less self-centered and controlled; more
dependent upon subject and at the mercy of his own impetuous
temperament. In the art of both naturalism was lifted mountain-high;
but, while Velasquez was the summit, aloof, unapproachable, Ribera is
the torrent, racing, often madly, to the valley. Yet in its career there
are level pools of quiet pause, and it is these that the general
estimation of Ribera has overlooked.
I am not thinking of his portrayals of the _Immaculate Conception_ or
his _Assumption of the Magdalen_ in the Academy of San Fernando. These
are rather examples of the concessions that Ribera was obliged and
perhaps willing to make in the direction of obvious beauty. They
satisfied the Spanish taste in female loveliness, but have little
abstraction of expression; and are inclined to be sentimentally pretty.
It is rather when you visit the gallery in the Prado devoted to Ribera’s
works, that you experience a new impression of this artist. With the
exception of a powerful but ghastly _Martyrdom of S. Bartholomew_, the
general suggestion of the gallery is the reverse of the violent and
sensational. A sense of grave dignity prevails, which one begins to
discover is largely the result of a fine reserve and frequent subtlety
in the color schemes. For example, there is a canvas of life-size
figures, representing the Holy Trinity. On the Father’s knees lies the
limp form of the Christ. It is grievously disfigured with grossly
naturalistic blood stains; but one gradually loses the insistence of
this in admiration of the elevated beauty of the picture as a whole. The
Father’s head, benign and tranquil, is seen against a sky in which are
faintly discernible the flocking heads of cherubs. From his shoulders
floats a silvery plum-colored drapery, while a mantle of pale rose,
lined with violet, lies over the shadowed lapis-lazuli of the under
robe. It is a color scheme of choice splendour, full of subtle stimulus
to the intellectual-esthetic imagination.
A very interesting canvas is the _S. John the Baptist in the Desert_ for
the feeling of it is pagan, a trait rarely met with in the art of Spain,
which had so rigorously opposed the Humanistic movement. The figure,
nude nearly to the waist, is that of a shepherd youth, with large
smiling mouth and eyes glancing to one side. The face sets one to
thinking of the so-called _S. John the Baptist_ of the Louvre,
attributed to Da Vinci. The Ribera has something of the faun-like
suggestion; only it is less subtle, piqueing less to mystery; the
suggestion being rather of wild, young animal life, a creature of
silent, vacant places, not afraid yet watchful. The figure is at the
foot of a big tree-trunk, a red drapery covering the upper part of the
legs and the stone on which it is seated. The arms are extended; one
aloft, holding a staff, the other lowered to feed a lamb; both forming
pliant loops which increase the suppleness of the whole design. In its
blend of classical and naturalistic composition and feeling, and the
character of the thought which prompted it, the canvas is probably
unique in the Spanish School as an example of the direct influence of
Humanism.
One turns to a _Penitent Magdalen_ (Prado, 980), not to endorse her very
lady-like sentiment, but to admire the way in which the beautiful brown
hair is rendered and the exquisite color and texture of the old-rose
drapery. A similarly choice treatment of this delicate color, shot with
silver light and dove-grey shadows, appears in _Isaac Blessing Jacob_.
Then for another fine example of color one may note a half length, _S.
Simon_. Here again is a head of magnificent character; black hair and
beard, ruddy features, massive brow, a characterization, generously
masculine and vigorous. A warm brown drapery hangs over the slightly
yellow-tinted brown of the robe, which shows below it the collar and
cuff of a grey shirt; all this placed against a dark olive background.
The tonality, organised with extreme delicacy, is in its ensemble
superb. Another choice passage of color occurs in _S. Bartholomew_,
where the saint is shown, life size, seated beneath a cliff. He holds
across his body a white drapery; or such is your first impression of the
hue. But study reveals a more subtle tissue of smoked ivory and grey,
woven into the pallor of the white.
However, the finest example of Ribera’s subtle vein of color-expression
in this gallery is in the _Jacob’s Ladder_. The sleeping figure reclines
horizontally across the foreground, a hand supporting the head, while in
the sky are faint suggestions of ascending and descending angels. The
foreground consists of slabs of rock out of which, at the back of the
figure, rises a tree-trunk, with a broken limb. The figure is clothed in
an olive-greyish-brown habit, resembling a monk’s; the hair and beard
are black in strong contrast to the pallor of the face, which is
slightly flushed with warmth and puffed with sleep. The suggestion of
sleep is, indeed, rendered with extraordinary truth; it seems no idle
fancy that one hears the breathing and watches the stir of the drapery
over the rise and fall of the chest. But the dignity of this canvas
depends upon the color scheme, cold, severe, constrained; so opposite
to the sensuous, impassioned or splendid; yet withal so stimulating to
the imagination. This picture is a grand example of the
intellectual-esthetic quality in Ribera’s finest work; placing this
artist far above the estimate popularly formed of him. It is not
difficult to discover the influence of this large, grave feeling in the
earlier work of Murillo and in almost all the work of Zurburán.
CHAPTER X
MURILLO
The most popular artist of the Spanish School is unquestionably Murillo.
He was the idol of his contemporaries in Andalusia; most admired by
connoisseurs and public in the eighteenth century, and, although during
the nineteenth century artists and connoisseurs have extolled Velasquez
and more recently Goya and El Greco at his expense, to the popular taste
Murillo is still in the ascendant.
There must be a good reason both for the depreciation of Murillo on the
part of artists and for the continuing appreciation of the public;
therefore one must try to discover them impartially. For, while the
popular estimation of any particular artist at a given period is apt to
be wrong--perhaps more often wrong, than right--it scarcely can hold its
own through the chances and changes of over two hundred years without
having in it some considerable element of right. What then is the
abiding something in Murillo’s art which makes this perennial appeal?
For my own part, I believe that, if you can sum it up in a word, it is
the spirit of Youth.
One imagines Murillo (not without plenty of justification for the idea)
as a man who, in a psychological sense, never grew old; retaining to the
end the naiveté and simple faith of a child. He continues, therefore,
to appeal to adults who have kept something of their youth with them or
to those whose study of art has not passed beyond the stage of instinct.
For, just as it is possible for a man to have matured understanding and
appreciation of a work of art, and yet be like a child amid the
intricacies of an electric power-house, wondering, admiring, but without
capacity to estimate the value of this plant as compared with another;
so a man may be full of knowledge, even to the length of sophistication,
and still exhibit the naiveté and unreasoning appreciation of a child in
the presence of a work of art. Necessity or chance determined that he
should cultivate his higher mental powers in another direction; art is
to him only an occasional distraction; his feeling toward it is
regulated solely by his instinct. As he would say himself, “I know what
I like.”
To tell such a man that he is wrong would be not only cruel but false.
From his own standpoint he is not wrong; he is very much in the right,
if the end of art is the heightening of a man’s nature through
contemplation of the beautiful. This thing is beautiful to him, and
through the beauty he sees in it he finds his nature refreshed, purified
and enlarged. What more could you advise for him at that particular
stage of his artistic development? It is true to the standpoint of his
own instinct. Would you have him substitute your standpoint for his? Are
you sure that your own leads to any better results for you than his for
him? Anyhow, unless he changes his standpoint through convictions that
have grown into his mental consciousness and been endorsed by his
experience, his last state may be worse than the first. He was honest
and sincere before; now he may be only a glib repeater of borrowed
preferences.
* * * * *
Bartolomé Estéban Murillo was born in Seville in 1618, probably on the
first day of January. The official catalogue of the Prado begins its
reference to the artist’s career with the following significant words:
“When this great artist came into the world, his parents, Gaspar Estéban
Murillo and Maria Perez, were living in a humble house in the Calle de
las Tiendas. It was but three months since the Virgin Mary, in the
mystery of her Immaculate Conception, had been proclaimed the patroness
of the Dominions of Philip IV. Under such happy auspices was born the
_Painter of the Conceptions_.”
This dogma of the Conception, which for centuries had occupied the minds
of theologians and scholars and captivated the imagination of the
faithful, was nowhere held in greater honor than in Spain, and the
center of the cult was Seville. Meanwhile, the authority of the Church,
as expressed in Councils and Bulls, had maintained a neutral attitude
toward the question. When, however, at the end of 1617, Paul V, yielding
to the repeated urging of the Crown and Church of Spain, issued a Bull
which forbade teaching or preaching in opposition of the dogma, the joy
of the Spanish people was profound. Seville herself celebrated the glad
tidings in a frenzy of religious rejoicing. A magnificent ceremony was
performed in the Cathedral and amid the strains of choir and organ,
salvoes of artillery and a
[Illustration:
MIRACLE OF THE LOAVES AND FISHES MURILLO
HOSPITAL DE LA CARIDAD, SEVILLE]
[Illustration:
MOSES STRIKING THE ROCK MURILLO
HOSPITAL DE LA CARIDAD, SEVILLE]
pæan of the bells of the cathedral and churches, Archbishop de Castro
swore to maintain and defend this peculiar tenet of his see. It was
followed by a splendid entertainment in the bull-ring, where in the
presence of enormous throngs the nobles appeared, accompanied by
magnificent retinues, and one in particular, Don Melchior de Alcázar,
attended by his dwarf and four gigantic negroes, performed prodigies of
valor and dexterity. It was recognised that a new era had commenced;
that the old dark days of inquisitorial rigor were passed and love and
gentleness were to reign henceforth. It was into this atmosphere of
sweet religious ecstasy that Murillo was born, destined to become the
artist who best succeeded in expressing it.
Murillo’s only teacher was his uncle, Juan de Castillo, who gave his
pupil a thorough grounding in drawing, though his own style could not do
much to help his pupil’s advance in painting. After a time Juan moved to
Cadiz and his nephew, without father or mother, was left to face life
alone. He gained a living by painting “bodegones,” or still-life
subjects, and pictures of saints, which he sold in the _feria_ or weekly
market. His ambition was to study in Rome and, as a first step, to visit
Madrid. Having saved a little money, he made his way on foot to the
capital and presented himself to his fellow townsman, Velasquez. The
latter received him kindly and obtained permission for the young man to
paint in the royal galleries. Here Murillo studied and copied the works
of Titian, Rubens, Van Dyck, Ribera and Velasquez himself, to such
purpose that the last-named advised him to go to Rome. But Murillo, who
had now been three years away from Seville, determined to return
thither. The same independent spirit which had enabled him to shift for
himself and to leave home and study in wider fields, now assured him
that he had gained what he needed without further travel. From the
various influences which he had experienced, he discovered a style for
himself. He returned to Seville without friends or influence, but
opportunity presented itself. The monks of the convent of S. Francis
wished their cloister decorated. Murillo applied to them for the
commission. They would have preferred a well known artist of the city,
but, having little money to offer, engaged the young, unknown painter.
Murillo spent three years on this work, and, when it was completed,
found himself the most famous painter in Seville. He had taken something
from the several styles of the artists he had studied and imprinted upon
it his own individuality. This expressed itself particularly in an
ability to give reality to his picturing of the story involved in the
legends of S. Francis. He had proved himself to be a great illustrator.
This term to-day perhaps involves a certain depreciatory significance.
Men are often illustrators because they cannot find a market for their
easel-pictures; or, having obtained a reputation as illustrators, are
ambitious to be painters. The fact is, that illustration to-day is
confined to books and magazines, and from the publisher’s point of view
is designed rather to attract attention to the text than to illuminate
it. But in Murillo’s day, as in Raphael’s, illustration was a noble and
honored art, the readiest and most efficient way of bringing the sacred
truth home to the minds of the unlettered masses, and permitted so grand
a scope, that it was also a decoration to monumental buildings. Thus the
value of an illustration at that date, while it incidentally might be
decorative, depended primarily on the appeal which it made to the hearts
and understandings of the people. Murillo was a sincere Catholic; he
could feel his subject in accordance with the Church’s teaching, and
moreover he had the gift of telling the story in the vernacular;
depicting it in familiar guise and investing it with those touches of
everyday life that pique and hold the interest of the simplest mind.
To be indifferent to the genius and value of such a gift is to admit
oneself a careless student of human nature. It is either that we refuse
to be interested in what interests the masses, or that we underrate the
virtue of the latter being thus interested. To-day, in our modern
experience, there are thousands of illustrators; but if one looks back,
say, twenty years, how many are there who have been leaders, in the
sense that they have caught the spirit of the age for the first time and
given it an expression which the educated and unlearned alike recognise
as something vital? This is the point. For the thousands who can
perpetuate a tradition, imitate somebody else, or carry on the accepted
convention, there will be found but one or two who can synthetise the
time-spirit into a new expression. And for the worth-while of doing
this? I repeat that, to-day, illustration is mainly a method of amusing
vacant minds. But it was not so in the seventeenth century, any more
than during the early and the great days of the Renaissance. It was
something that influenced the lives of millions in their attitude to
what, then at least, was of supreme moment, religion. Therefore, to
estimate the genius and value of Murillo’s gift of illustration we must
not judge it from the standpoint of to-day, but in the light of the
needs and desires of his contemporaries. Then we shall realise that what
Murillo did for the simple, religious folk of Seville is akin to
Raphael’s contribution to the mingled Humanistic and Christian needs of
Rome. Both were great illustrators, whose subject matter was religion,
and who told their story in the medium that appealed to the sympathy and
understanding of the largest number of people of their day. But the very
freedom from Humanistic influence which characterised Murillo’s art
encreased its value to the people of Seville. It was essentially Spanish
in its naturalism and specifically Andalusian in its sentiment.
* * * * *
Murillo’s method of painting has been described as exhibiting three
styles--cold, warm and vaporous. According to this arrangement, the
first style (_estilo frio_) is distinguished by cold coloring and dark
shadows; the second (_estilo calido_) by warmth of coloring, stronger
contrasts of luminous light and shade, and by increased plasticity of
form; the third, (_estilo vaporoso_) by the vaporous or misty effects of
atmosphere, enveloping the whole or part of the composition. But while
his works show this variety of method, they cannot be distributed into
periods, definitely characterised by one or another style. Nor will it
repay the student to try to docket the different pictures according to
any such pigeon-hole
[Illustration:
SS. JUSTA AND RUFINA MURILLO
PROVINCIAL MUSEUM, SEVILLE]
system of division. He will rather become aware that, as Murillo
attained to facility and confidence in his own way of rendering his
intentions, he perfected his pictorial representation both of the
naturalistic motive and of the spiritualised conception, which in whole
or in part for the time being occupied his imagination. In some pictures
you find the naturalistic motive either predominating or in complete
control; in others it is combined with the spiritualised motive; while
again, particularly in the _Conceptions_, the spiritualised intention is
exclusively apparent. Whether it satisfies your own spiritual sense is
another matter.
Nor can these varieties of motive be assigned to special periods of
Murillo’s career. For example, after he had established his reputation
as a painter of _Conceptions_, he executed the series of works for the
Hospital de La Caridad, in Seville. Two of these are produced on page
150. They were selected because they redounded to the reputation of
Murillo in his lifetime, and yet exhibit a weakness which more or less
is evident in all his works of illustration.
Neither the _Miracle of the Loaves and Fishes_, nor _Moses Striking the
Rock_, contains any spiritual suggestion; for to the modern imagination
at least the figure of Christ in the one and those of Moses and Aaron in
the other seem to be invested only with a little symbolical distinction.
Further, even the significance of the events is not suggested. If you
take away the Christ, whose importance in the composition is already
belittled by the group of women on the right, is there anything in the
action of the figures and the expression of their faces to indicate
that they are witnesses of a miracle? The scene becomes nothing more
than a huge picnic, conducted on an absurdly meagre commissariat. So
too, in _Striking the Rock_--where is the hint of the agony of thirst or
of high-wrought emotion at the miraculous deliverance? But for the two
central figures, whose impressiveness, such as it is, is confined to
themselves, the incident might be simply that of a party of people
gathered about a spring. To myself a very suggestive indication of the
shallowness and insincerity of the whole conception is the introduction
of the small boy on the sleek plump horse. It is a mere studio device
for getting a spot on which to concentrate the light and for lifting one
figure above the line of the others.
Another example of this series of Hospital subjects is the very famous
_S. Elizabeth of Hungary_, now in the Prado. The scene is being enacted
in the shadowed arcade of an imposing classical building. The saintly
Queen, attended by two young ladies, charmingly attired, is washing the
scalp of an urchin, who leans over a silver basin. A beggar sits on the
ground removing a bandage from a festering sore, and a boy, with an
expression on his face of exasperated distress, scratches his head and
chest. Meanwhile an old woman sits looking up in worshipful gratitude at
the face of the queen, who possibly returns her gaze. For she is turning
her head away from the business in which she is engaged, as well as she
may, since the head she is bathing shows a disgusting sore. Perhaps you
may say that such details are incidental to a clinic, and may quote the
example of Rembrandt’s _Clinic of Dr. Tulp_. But the latter is frankly
a naturalistic picture in which the cadaver forms the explanation and
focus of the group of eager, intellectual heads, absorbed in the
instruction of the master-surgeon. But Murillo’s is an academically
disposed composition, involving splendid classical accessories. It is,
in the manner of its form, idealised according to the Italian tradition,
while in its details grossly naturalistic. Yet Théophile Gautier, moved
to a characteristic burst of sentiment, exclaims--“In his picture of S.
Elizabeth Murillo takes us into the most thorough-going reality. Instead
of angels we are here shown lepers. But Christian art, like Christian
charity, feels no disgust at such a spectacle. Everything which it
touches becomes pure, elevated and ennobled, and from this revolting
theme Murillo has created a masterpiece.” This begs the question which
still remains:--Is the reality in this case so rendered, that it becomes
“pure, elevated and ennobled”? The answer will depend upon the
individual student’s temperament and intellectual attitude.
This picture, indeed, and many others in the Prado arouse a suspicion
which becomes more pronounced, when we visit the Museum and the Church
of the Hospital de La Caridad in Seville, that, after all, Murillo was
not so great a naturalist as he is credited with being. His Street
urchins, such as appear in the National Gallery, Dulwich Gallery and the
Munich Pinakothek are vigorous transcripts of nature, racy with
Sevillian character; but in the _Holy Family_, called _Pajarito_ (little
bird) of the Prado, one discovers already a weakening of the
naturalistic grip. The types are local, and the scene, as the mother
stops in the winding of her thread to watch the child playing with a
dog, while the father holds him tenderly, is such as might be enacted in
any happy home of the people. But why the voluminous yellow mantle
spread in graceful folds over Joseph’s knees? It is a recollection of
Raphael that has inspired this solecism in the everyday naturalness of
the scene. Similarly, in one picture after another of Murillo’s you can
find the realities of the scene sacrificed to the picture-making devices
learned from the Italians. Frequently, as in the _Vision of S. Antony of
Padua_, and corresponding subjects, the miraculous nature of the
incident gives a plausibility to these formal designs, which I venture
to believe is lacking in the _S. Elizabeth_, _Loaves and Fishes_ and
_Striking the Rock_.
Nor is much of the nobility of the Italian method reproduced in
Murillo’s use of it. Too frequently its stateliness is invaded by a
homeliness which borders on the commonplace. One finds little or nothing
of the aristocrat in Murillo’s equipment. He views his subject with the
naiveté of an untutored mind and represents it with a simple disregard
of anything that might lift it above the commonplace. And this is
practically as true of his technique as of his mental approach. There
are beautiful passages of color scattered through his works; fine
rendering of textures, and precious _morceaux_ of still-life. But his
color-schemes are regulated by temperament rather than by knowledge and
calculation; his brush-work is rarely distinguished and his chiaroscuro
frequently has grown blackened with time. It would be impossible to view
one of his acknowledged masterpieces beside even a work of secondary
interest by Velasquez, without realising at once the hopelessly
unbridgeable gulf both of mentality and execution that separates them.
In fact, it is not until one comes to his _Conceptions_, that Murillo
acquires distinction. In these he shows an originality of idea, to which
he has moulded for himself a suitable technique. He has learned to
preserve the plasticity of form and yet invest it with a suggestion of
being impalpable, and also buoyant, so that it floats of its own
lightness. The arrangement of the subject, even to the colors, was
prescribed by the Church; being founded upon the vision, recorded in
Revelation XII. 1. “And there appeared a great wonder in Heaven; a woman
clothed with the sun, and the moon under her feet, and upon her head a
crown of twelve stars.” It is Murillo’s triumph that he dematerialized
the concrete suggestion; created about the figure the luminousness of
unearthly light and, while he took for his model a girl of the people,
invested herself and her angelic surroundings with the imagined reality
of a vision. This, it is needless to add, represents a triumph of
technique. In these subjects Murillo proved himself a superior and
original painter. As to the quality of feeling expressed in them
opinions may differ; but it can scarcely be questioned that it is
emotional rather than spiritual. There is nothing in it of soul ecstasy,
as in El Greco’s visions; it is the sweet, rapturous sentiment of the
warm-blooded, emotional South. The _Conceptions_, in fact, are the most
characteristic product of the Andalusian School and the highest
achievement of Murillo.
In conclusion let me quote the observations of the French critic, C. E.
Beulé, concerning that portrait of Murillo’s which he painted of himself
when he was in the flush of youth with all his possibilities before him.
“We find him brilliant, ardent, fresh-colored, the warm blood flowing
close under his skin; his eyes black, penetrating, full of fire and
fuller still of passion; his forehead high, and modeled with those
slight bosses which show a quick but rather feminine intelligence; the
lower part of his face (as is frequently the case with his countrymen)
less finely cut, and marred by a coarse mouth and the heavy outline of
the chin. The total impression is that of a nature in which ardor serves
instead of force, a facile but superficial rather than profound
intelligence, and, as a prime trait, highly mundane and sensual. Are not
these the very qualities we find written in his works?”
Murillo’s end was brought about by a fall from a scaffold. He lingered
for a short time, spending his days in contemplation of Campaña’s
_Descent from the Cross_ in the Church of Santa Cruz. He died on the
third of April, 1682, and was buried, in accordance with his request,
beneath this picture.
CHAPTER XI
CANO AND ZURBARÁN
Alonzo Cano was born in Granada in 1601. He belongs, however, to the
School of Andalusia, for he studied in Seville and lived there until his
thirty-sixth year. His teachers in painting were Juan de Castillo, the
master a few years later of Murillo, and Francisco Pacheco, in whose
studio Cano was a fellow-pupil of Velasquez. He also practised
architecture and sculpture. Indeed, it was in the latter art that he
particularly excelled and gained his first distinction. His teacher had
been the celebrated Martinez Montañés, whose instruction was
supplemented by the opportunities of studying the antique marbles
collected by the Dukes of Alcalá, in their palace in Seville, the _Casa
de Pilatos_. The influence of this training is perceptible in his best
paintings which are characterised by excessive refinement of drawing and
expression. Yet Cano’s own nature was inclined to violence and
lawlessness. Having fought a duel with the painter, Llano y Valdés, and
wounded him, he found it convenient to leave Seville and settle in
Madrid.
Cano, now in his thirty-sixth year, was kindly received by Velasquez and
introduced by him to the Count-Duke Olivares, who employed him in his
palace of Buen Retiro. Philip IV expressed a wish to see the
new-comer’s work and, being favorably impressed with it, gave Cano the
appointment of drawing-master to the young Prince Baltasar Carlos, and
later made him one of his own painters in ordinary. After some seven
years of success Cano’s stay in Madrid was terminated as abruptly as his
sojourn in Seville. His wife was murdered. According to the artist’s own
account, he had returned home to find her dead in bed, clutching a lock
of hair and pierced with many wounds, inflicted, apparently, with a
pocket-knife. Her jewels were missing and the Italian servant had
disappeared. Suspicion was at first directed against this man; but when
it became known that the artist had lived on bad terms with his wife,
while carrying on an intrigue with another woman, he himself was
suspected of the crime. Whether guilty or not, Cano was alarmed for his
safety and, giving out that he had left for Portugal, fled East to
Valencia. Here he took refuge in a monastery, executing works for many
of the neighbouring communities. At length, trusting that the affair had
blown over, he returned to Madrid and sought asylum in the house of his
friend, the Regidor, Don Rafael Sanguineto. He was, however, arrested
and condemned to the ordeal. Pleading his profession as a painter, he
was permitted to submit his left hand to the torture and, passing
through it without a cry, was adjudged innocent.
Six years later Cano, desiring to settle in his native city, Granada,
obtained through the King’s influence the post of minor-canon in the
Cathedral, with the proviso that he should be excused from his choral
duties if
[Illustration:
APOTHEOSIS OF S. THOMAS AQUINAS ZURBARÁN
PROVINCIAL MUSEUM, SEVILLE]
he took orders within a year. He endeavored to conciliate the very
natural objections of the Chapter by executing some sculptural
embellishments for the Coro. He also worked for the convents of the
neighborhood and for private patrons, with one of whom he came into
collision respecting the price to be paid for a statue of _S. Antony_.
The man, who held the office of auditor of Granada, had demurred at the
sum asked for a work which had occupied the artist only twenty-five
days; whereupon Cano, anticipating Whistler, retorted, “You are a bad
reckoner; I have been fifty years learning to make such a statue in
twenty-five days.” Then he dashed the _S. Antony_ to the ground and
smashed him. This was a sacrilegious offence that might have brought the
artist under the jurisdiction of the Holy Office, but the auditor,
instead of reporting the matter to that body prevailed on the Chapter to
declare Cano’s seat vacant because he had not according to agreement
taken orders. Cano appealed to the King who obtained for him from the
Bishop of Salamanca a chaplaincy which entitled the holder to full
orders, while at the same time the Nuncio consented to grant him
dispensation from saying Mass. So Cano returned in triumph to Granada,
but never again would execute any work for the Cathedral. Indeed, it was
in works of charity that the last years of his life were chiefly spent.
He was so impoverished by them that, when he was stricken with his last
sickness, the Chapter voted five hundred reals to “The Canon Cano, being
sick and very poor and without means to pay the doctor”; and a week
later added another two hundred reals to buy him “poultry and
sweetmeats.” He died on the third of October, 1667.
The Capilla Mayor in the Cathedral of Granada is enriched with
sculptural works by Cano’s hand and with some paintings. These represent
the “Seven Joys of Mary,” _Annunciation_, _Conception_, _Nativity_,
_Presentation in the Temple_, and _Assumption_. They are placed so high,
that from the floor it is very difficult to see them, while, even when
you view them from the nearer approach of the triforium, the colored
glass of the windows interferes with their effect. As far as one can
judge on the spot and with the aid of photographs they are too flimsy in
character for the monumental structure which they are intended to
decorate. That this conclusion is correct appears probable when you
study Cano’s smaller altar-pieces. Some of them are painted so thinly,
with so little variety of values of hue and so little interest of
surface, that they seem to be empty. On the other hand, his best works,
such as the _Mother and Child_ over the Altar of Bethlehem in Seville
Cathedral, and the _S. Agnes_ of the Berlin Gallery, are so exquisitely
refined that they need to be seen at close range.
The former is regarded as Cano’s masterpiece. The type of the Virgin is
of Granada, touched with Moorish warmth, a little more womanly and much
more refined than Murillo’s. But, like the latter’s and like Raphael’s
Roman Madonnas, it is beautiful only in a physical and emotional way; it
has nothing of the spirituality of El Greco’s creations, so absorbed in
the mystery of their sacred and miraculous estate. Yet among the
Madonnas of the Southern artists there is probably none so pure in its
loveliness and so lovely in its purity as this one of Cano’s. A similar
quality of exquisitely fragrant maidenhood appears in the S. Agnes. Both
this and the other canvas represent sentiment, raised to the highest
pitch of elevated feeling; yet remaining sentiment. I make the point
because Cano, no more than the other Spanish artists, for all the
religiosity of their pictures, touched the soul of religion. The only
artist of the Spanish School to do this was the alien, El Greco.
* * * * *
Francisco de Zurbarán was born in 1598 in the little town of Fuente de
Cantos in the province of Estremadura. His father, a small farmer,
convinced of his son’s talent for drawing, took him to Seville and
placed him under the teaching of Roelas. But there is little or no trace
of this painter’s influence in Zurbarán’s style. In a general way the
latter came under the spell of Ribera and Caravaggio; indeed, at one
period of his career Zurbarán in consequence of his dark shadows was
nicknamed “the Spanish Caravaggio.” But you cannot become acquainted
with Zurbarán’s various subjects without realising that he owed his
style chiefly, almost entirely, to himself; that he had shaped it to the
needs of his own temperament. He was an out and out naturalist; in a
sense the most conspicuously naturalistic painter of the Spanish School.
For there is an austerity in his point of view, which separates him from
the sentiment of Murillo, the passionate virility of Ribera and the
aristocratic distinction of Velasquez. Zurbarán consorted with Monks;
took advantage of occasional opportunities of retiring from the world
into the quiet of a monastic community; and in the simplicity and
frugality of his tastes was at heart a monk. The bare walls of a cell or
refectory, the plain habits of the brethren, and the orderly formality
of their lives, were more to him than subjects for his brush. They were
so in tune with his own instincts, that he derived from them inspiration
for his art; affecting not only his habit of seeing but his technique.
Both became characterised by largeness and simplicity and by more or
less severity.
These qualities are represented in the great altarpiece, _The Apotheosis
of S. Thomas Aquinas_, executed when Zurbarán was only twenty-seven
years old and generally considered his masterpiece. It is to be seen
to-day under very favorable conditions in the Provincial Museum of
Seville, for it is hung high in a good light and can be viewed from
various distances. These advantages of placing no doubt count in the
impression, differing so widely from the usual circumstances under which
the altar-pieces of Spain are to be studied. But the impression received
of the _S. Thomas_ is that, with the exception of the _Funeral of Count
Orgaz_, it is the noblest ceremonial picture that one has met in Spain.
It is due to the magnificence of its organic simplicity and bigness,
which give the composition an emphasis and carrying force. And what is
true of the large masses, viewed from a distance, is equally true on a
nearer view of the details. The latter resolve themselves into finely
treated surfaces of drapery and particularly into the punctuating
emphasis of keenly
[Illustration:
MIRACLE OF S. HUGO ZURBARÁN
PROVINCIAL MUSEUM, SEVILLE]
characterised heads. The altar-piece was painted for the Church of the
College of S. Thomas; whose founder, Archbishop Diego de Deza is
represented below; kneeling opposite to the Emperor Charles V, who
presumably had been a patron of the foundation. One has but to look at
the reproduction of this picture (p. 163) to feel sure that all the
heads are portraits; that of S. Thomas, “The Angelic Doctor,” being,
tradition says, a portrait of the Prebendary of Seville in Zurbarán’s
time. While each head is individualized, it is interesting to note how
they are assembled into generic groups; the monkish type represented in
the archbishop and his attendants; the man-of-the-world in the Emperor’s
group; the type of the thinker and spiritual leader in the four doctors
of the Church, Gregory, Ambrose, Augustine, Jerome. Nor is there any
less distinction of character in the S. Paul and S. Dominic, in the
right upper corner. It is less manifest, however, in the Christ, and
scarcely to be found in the figure of the Virgin. Two other points may
be noted, as helping to explain the magistral impression of this canvas.
In the first place, the effect of wide-openness in the upper part of the
composition, where the clouds of glory are thronged with cherub heads,
is carried down into the lower part by the view of the street, seen at a
distance and dotted with intentionally minute figures, so as not to
interfere with the emphasis of the groups in the foreground. The result
of this continuance of lighted space is to create a unity in the
composition, binding into an ensemble the three tiers of figures. Again,
it is remarkable with what a comprehension of large, structural
principles, Zurbarán has distributed the masses, respectively, of the
plain and of the embellished draperies. The purpose of the whole pageant
is to glorify S. Thomas and incidentally the Dominican order. The key
and climax, therefore, of the whole is S. Thomas’s black and white
habit. To secure its emphasis the cardinal’s red and the rich copes with
their sumptuously embroidered orphreys have been massed about it.
Meanwhile a portion of this enrichment is repeated below in the
archbishop’s robes and the emperor’s cloak, and more faintly in the
figures in the clouds. Here too S. Dominic supplies an echo of the black
and white, which in turn are massed in the lower foreground. It is this
fine ground-work, distribution and climax of black and white, which more
than anything give this composition so noble a distinction: a certain
chaste, choice, austere dignity.
Near this picture in the Provincial Museum of Seville hangs another fine
example of Zurbarán’s originality of composition; _The Virgin Blessing
Various Monks_. The white-frocked brothers are kneeling in two groups,
left and right of the central figure of the Virgin. She stands robed in
delicate rose, with her arms extended, each hand on the head of a monk.
Meanwhile her blue mantle, fastened at the throat with a magnificent
jewel, is held suspended by two cherubs, so that its volume forms a
canopy of protection over the kneeling groups, and the upper part,
curving like a bowl, is filled high with angel heads floating in divine
glory. Here again is architectonic simplicity, allied with grandeur, in
the distribution of the masses of white, rose, deep blue and golden
yellow, and again an extraordinary interest of characterization.
The quality of intense, austere sincerity is represented also in
_Miracle of S. Hugo_ (p. 166) which is in the same Museum. Indeed, it is
in Seville that you realise the nobility of Zurbarán’s art. The examples
in the Prado are by comparison commonplace; except the _Portrait of a
Lady_ in one of the upper galleries. This introduces us to the character
of the artist’s work after he settled in Madrid, whither he was sent for
by the king. Portraits of women of fashion now occupied him. There is a
good example in the Metropolitan Museum which, in pose and style of
costume and low toned harmony, resembles the one in the Prado. In the
latter, however, the silk fall of the drapery is drawn forward over the
skirt by the lady’s hand, so that its folds are more voluminous, and the
whole figure, in consequence, is freer in design than the one in New
York. As for the other picture in the Metropolitan Museum, _S. Michael
the Archangel_, it is very hard to credit its attribution to Zurbarán.
Where else among the artist’s works can you find so palpable an attempt
to imitate Raphael? It has nothing of the originality, breadth and
determined naturalism that distinguish Zurbarán. If the latter really
painted it, he must have done so in his student days with Roelas.
Zurbarán died in Madrid, probably in 1662. He is held in high estimation
by the Spanish, but scarcely appreciated at his true worth by
foreigners. To see him at his best, alongside of Murillo’s work, as you
can in Seville, is to be disposed to question the latter’s claim to be
considered the greatest artist of the Sevillian School. Certainly, as
compared with Murillo, Zurbarán was more unequivocally the naturalist;
he was at least as good a painter; a better, one may even think; and the
qualities of his mind were superior. He had not the popular trait of
sentiment and passion; but the higher gift of intellectuality and the
rarer one of cold, dispassionate vision.
[Illustration:
CHARLES IV AND THE ROYAL FAMILY GOYA
THE PRADO]
CHAPTER XII
GOYA
From the death of Velasquez, in 1661, more than a hundred years had
elapsed when Goya made his début in Madrid. He is the unexpected
phenomenon of the Spanish School; coming as a surprise and even more
surprising in the character of his art, since it anticipated by a
hundred years an art-motive of our own times. Goya was the prophet of
modern impressionism, and arrived upon the stage when the drama of
Spanish painting seemed to have been played out.
For the great names of the seventeenth century had been succeeded by
painters of inferior ability and the positions of favor at court were
held by foreigners. The decline of painting had kept pace with national
decline. Spain under the Bourbon dynasty reaped the whirlwind that had
been sown by the Hapsburg. Trade and commerce had been reduced to
nothing; and while a few noble families had grown rich the country was
poor, even the Court being impoverished. The Church had sunk from its
high estate, and, devoted to worldly ambitions, had lost the respect of
the community. The national character was demoralised. The lower classes
had become brutalised, while society was callous and the Court openly
profligate. When Goya entered on his prime, the impotence of the King,
Charles IV, had permitted the government to slip into the hands of the
Queen’s favorite, the ex-guardsman, Manuel Godoy. He had been raised to
the rank of Duke of Alcudia and made prime minister of the realm. For
bringing to conclusion a war with France in which he had needlessly
engaged, he ostentatiously assumed the title of the “Prince of Peace.”
It has been related in a previous chapter how he ratted to Napoleon and
favored the design to place Joseph Bonaparte on the throne of Spain,
thereby subjecting Spain to the horrors of a French invasion under Murat
and to the prolonged distress of the Peninsular war.
Symptomatic of the moral atmosphere of the Court is an anecdote
mentioned in Doblado’s Letters. The King, surrounded by members of his
household, was gazing from a window of the palace, when Mallo, who
happened to be then first favorite with the Queen, drove by, handling a
fine team of horses. “I wonder,” said the King, “how the fellow can
afford to keep better horses than I can?” “The scandal goes, Sir,”
replied Godoy, “that he is himself kept by an ugly old woman whose name
I have forgotten.”
* * * * *
On to the stage of this shabby comedy of court life, set with the
scenery of a nation’s humiliation, Goya entered and made an immediate
hit. A man of violent passions, without conscience or scruples, he
played his part as if all the characteristics of his contemporaries were
represented in himself. He has left a self-portrait, painted some seven
years after his appearance on the scene. It now hangs in the Prado and
might be mistaken for the portrait of a bull-fighter. Indeed, it reminds
us that at one period of his young days Goya became efficient in the
bull-ring. The neck is short and thick; the mouth fleshy and sensual;
the nose broad; the cheeks large and heavily modeled; the cushioned
brows indicate a hot, quick sensibility; there is a general suggestion
of abounding animal force. Only the eyes, deep set and brilliant,
proclaim the man’s mentality. It is the face of a peasant, which in his
origin Goya had been.
His father was a small farmer in the village of Fuentedetodos in Aragón,
where Goya was born in 1746. Bred hardily and possessed of great
physical strength, the boy asserted his independence early and,
determining to be an artist, sought instruction from a painter in
Zaragoza. Here he soon gained notoriety for his escapades and was
distinguished among his fellow students for his daring and his skill in
the use of rapier and dagger. Finally he was wounded in some broil and
hidden away by his friends to escape the clutches of the Inquisition,
whose attention had been called to the affair. Accordingly, after his
recovery Goya found it convenient to leave Zaragoza. He made his way to
Rome, where he stayed for several years, indulging his appetite for
adventure and intrigue on a larger scale. He again fell foul of the
Inquisition, through an attempt to remove a young lady from a convent
and would have fared ill, but for the intervention of the Spanish
ambassador, who promised to see that the offending artist returned to
Spain. So in 1769 Goya arrived in Madrid. Shortly after his appearance
in the capital Goya married the daughter of the painter, Francisco
Bayeu. She must have been a lady of exceptional forbearance, since she
remained true to him notwithstanding his frequent amours and presented
him with twenty children.
Bayeu introduced his son-in-law to Raphael Mengs, who was in the height
of favor at Court. This German painter, who had been invited to Spain by
Charles III, owed his European reputation to his servile imitation of
his namesake, Raphael. He was a facile, academic mannerist; drawing
inspiration for his subjects from the Classics and rendering them with a
purity of style that was absolutely bloodless. He was, however,
sufficiently large-minded to discover value in the young Goya. The King
had requested his Court painter to make an effort to revive the Royal
Tapestry Works of Santa Barbara, and Mengs was engaging painters to
execute designs. He gave a series to Goya, who prepared the cartoons
which are now in the Prado. Some of them were executed in the weave and
can be seen in a room of the Escoriál, adjoining another, decorated with
tapestries after designs by Teniers. The latter’s example may have
influenced Goya in his choice of subjects, for he took the theme of
popular pastimes and treated them naturalistically. The significance of
this lies in its contrast to the conditions then existing. For the
tapestries which were _à la mode_ at that time both in France and Spain
were the Boucher designs, in which little court gentlemen and ladies
play at being shepherds and milkmaids, and indulge in pretty travesties
of country life, under conditions of an impossible and ridiculous age of
innocence. As we come to know Goya we are not
[Illustration:
MAIA, NUDE GOYA
THE PRADO]
surprised that this view of art had no interest for him. We find him to
have been from boyhood an eager liver, interested to the full in life;
so we do not now share the surprise that his contemporaries must have
felt when they saw these cartoons. To a society accustomed to an art of
academic imitation and rococo lackadaisicalness, they may well have been
a shock. They seem also to have come as a welcome relief, for they made
Goya popular; moreover they established for him a character of being
independent, of which he subsequently took full advantage.
The color schemes of these designs are noteworthy. While the Teniers
tapestries are based on a very naive use of the primary colors, red,
blue and yellow, and the Boucher on a subtle use of the same, in which
the sharpness of the hues is silvered down to demi-tints, the Goya
introduce the secondary colors. They involve the red, yellow and blue,
but merely as flashes of brilliance in a groundwork of plum-color,
purple, dull brown-red, deep orange and blue, and rich greens, enlivened
with white and velvety black. The schemes are intricate, varied, and
above all, positive; the work of an artist with an original, if still
unmatured, sense of color. Goya, indeed, proclaimed in this early work
the fact that he was a colorist; although, as yet, there is little
suggestion of the kind of colorist he was going to prove himself.
Following these cartoons came several commissions to provide decorative
paintings for churches. Goya executed them in the spirit of popular
genre that inspired the cartoons. Not only had he no religious feeling;
he was bitterly and openly opposed to the Church, and in these pictures
of saintly legends was at no pains to simulate a reverence that he did
not feel. To this period also belongs the _Portrait of Charles III_ of
the Prado, which shows him in the costume of a huntsman, an angular
figure with a genial but homely face. It is painted with uncompromising
naturalness; the contours as hard and bold as the coloring; a picture
separated from the Goya that we later know by a wide gap. The fact seems
to be that in this portrait Goya was painting simply what he saw; and
since the original was a man of commonplace exterior and Goya himself
viewed him in a perfectly commonplace way he produced this astonishingly
common-looking picture. It was necessary for Goya to discover some
refinement in his own point of view, before he could develop his best
artistic possibilities. The gradual steps by which he reached this goal
I do not profess to know; but a few years later, when he had been
established as Court painter to the new king, Charles IV, the true Goya
is discovered. His new style, the result of a new way of viewing his
subject, is fully developed in the group portrait of _Charles IV and the
Royal Family_.
We will postpone consideration of Goya’s mental attitude toward these
royal puppets. That is part of his general outlook upon life, as a
satirist and castigator of follies. It is his attitude toward his art
which concerns us for the moment. The reproduction of this picture (p.
171) gives little but a limited idea of its artistic beauty, but it
brings out the lack of human interest in, at least, the principal
personages and the necessary stiffness of this arrangement of the
figures. It will be noticed, however, that Goya has drawn the
straggling items into some degree of unity by enveloping the lower part
of the end groups in half-shadow. The eye is thus led to concentrate on
the center of the composition. Here for an instant our attention may be
occupied by the ungainly attitude of the Queen, and the forbidding
expression of her face, turned, as in her other portraits by Goya, in
one direction, while her eyes seek another. But it is only for an
instant. Then we are attracted by the jewels in her dark hair and on her
bosom, and by the exquisiteness of the costume--a fall of Chinese silk,
mandarin blue, embroidered in white and gold, over a white lace skirt.
Next our gaze may wander to the similar dresses worn by the princesses
on her right, which however represent subtle variations of effect
through the more or less of shadow in which they are veiled; and then to
the king’s rose-embroidered vest, the pale blue and white watered silk
ribbon, and the stars and jewels which cluster on the plum-colored
velvet coat. So gradually one becomes conscious of the loveliness of
color that permeates the whole group, a bouquet of mingled quietude and
brilliance, of low tones and sparkling keys, which one can enjoy with as
complete a detachment from any thought of the figures, as if they were a
parterre of flowers.
In fact, there is revealed here a colorist of extraordinary refinement
and subtlety; and of an imagination that is rare among painters. Goya’s
original fondness for varied and positive colors has matured into a
mastery over a few hues, treated with exquisite nuances. And the secret
of this marvelous color-expression is the artist’s new way of looking
at his subject. He has become an impressionist in the modern sense. He
stands forth, indeed, as the first of modern impressionists, the
forerunner by nearly a hundred years of the principal art-motive of the
nineteenth century.
* * * * *
Goya used to say that his only teachers had been Velasquez, Rembrandt
and Nature. It was from the first named that he learned to paint, not
the subject in front of him but the impression he had formed of it; and
in this he may have been assisted by Rembrandt’s use of chiaroscuro to
eliminate by shadow the unessentials and to heighten the saliencies by
light. Yet it is difficult to understand how Goya could have had many
opportunities of studying Rembrandt, since there is only a single
example in the Prado, and the Dutch masters were not favored in Spain.
Accordingly one is disposed to give Goya fuller credit for discovering
his own way of rendering his impressions. As it is exhibited in this
portrait group, it reveals an imagination that heightens the suggestion
of beauty in the thing recorded, and an extraordinary gift of
improvisation in handling passages of intricate detail and rendering the
effect of an ensemble. There is no such maze of luxuriant loveliness as
this in any picture by Velasquez; the nearest approach to it being,
perhaps, the breast of the little Don Carlos on horseback. The Goya
represents a more feminine sensitiveness; it is impregnated with
temperament. This is the quality of Goya’s impressionism which makes it
modern. Velasquez’s is impersonally objective; modern impressionism,
like Goya’s, is naturalism viewed through temperament; it shapes and
colors the record to the artist’s mood.
This is at once its weakness and its strength; a source of power when
the mood is high and spontaneous, of weakness when the mood is slack or
directly unsympathetic. Under the latter conditions Goya not
infrequently turned out pictures in which spontaneity and imagination
are absent, and the result is wooden, ineffective. Still oftener his
faces are lacking in expression and in subtlety of modeling; while his
hands, though one has heard them praised, are seldom expressive in
modeling or in gesture. It was the _tout-ensemble_ that interested him
and in this the costumes play a very important part and are usually
handled with incomparable mastery.
Two beautiful examples of his ability to encompass the spirit of a
subject are the pair of canvases, representing a _Maia_, or girl of the
people, in the one case nude, in the other clothed. In both the sofa is
upholstered in green velvet, spread with silvery white draperies and
cushions. But, in the case of the nude, the green is cool and bluish; in
the other, a warmer apple-green to harmonise with the costume. The
latter consists of a bolero jacket of mustard color with black and white
lace trimmings, a white gown, shaded with tones of dove-grey and
lavender, a sash of silvery hue, suffused with claret, and yellow
Turkish slippers. The black network is laid on crisply and roughly, thus
helping to set off the smoothness of the technique in the face, which
has warm red cheeks and brown eyes. On the other hand, in the _Maia
Nude_, the coloring throughout is cooler; a more delicate rose in the
face, a faintly oxidised silver shadow under the chin and over the
bosom; and similar shadows of inexpressible subtlety over other portions
of the body. The flesh is cream with the faintest suggestion of rose;
and yet not cream, for it seems to be veritable flesh. But, although
this nude is painted with a naturalism that could scarcely be exceeded,
the web of evanescent shadow in which it is clothed invests the nudity
with a veil of idealism. These shadows, absolutely indescribable in
their delicacy, are the result of a most perfect sense of values and of
a technique as sure as it is facile. They are the despair of painters
who try to copy the picture. Goya, in fact, in these two canvases,
particularly in the nude, has caught the volatile essence of young
femininity; has succeeded, as it were, in painting the fragrance of the
flower.
Another kind of femininity, more matured, he has represented in the
Andalusian beauty, _Doña Isabel Corbo de Porcel_, of the National
Gallery. Here the technique, as befits the impression, is more brusque
and vivacious. But in another example in the same Gallery, _Portrait of
Dr. Péral_, Goya has adapted to the refinement of his subject a
color-scheme and technique of unsurpassable delicacy. The features, pale
pink, shaded with grey, are set in a frame of long whitish yellow hair;
the coat is greyish drab, the vest pearly grey with green sprigs, the
figure being placed against a dark olive-black background. The
expression of the whole is of a man of rare cultivation and fine mental
poise. The scheme of color recalls the _Portrait of Francisco Bayeu_,
in the Prado, except that, in the latter, silvery blue is substituted
for the green; this note of color appearing in the sash.
By the time that Goya reached his maturity the range of his palette was
reduced to very restricted limits: blue, white, black, vermilion, some
of the ochres and burnt sienna. And his tools were correspondingly
meagre. Brushes of the rudest make served his purpose; or he would use a
sponge or stick, securing some of his subtlest effects with the ball of
his thumb. From several unfinished bust-portraits in the Prado it
appears that he worked over an under-surface of orange-red; which no
doubt accounts for the warmth and fulness of his greys. On the other
hand, the subtlety which he succeeded in giving to all his local colors,
laid on as they were in simple flat tones, is the result of a profoundly
sensitive feeling for values. Goya’s rendering of the varying qualities
of light, as they affect the hue of a surface, is different from
Velasquez’s. With the latter, if one may state it briefly, it is rather
the product of observation; with Goya, of feeling. Therefore, it is
largely influenced by temperament, which makes it akin to the modern
handling of values. In this, as in the character of his impression, Goya
is a modern of the moderns.
It is interesting to compare Goya’s equestrian portraits with those of
Velasquez. Goya’s best, in the Prado, are those of the King and Queen.
Perhaps the most noticeable difference appears in the treatment of the
horses. Velasquez, as we have seen, gave to each of his animals an
individual character and action, suitable also to the character and
psychology of the rider. A spirited small creature bears the little Don
Carlos; a showy, powerful brute the swaggering Olivares; a beast,
trained in stately menage, the proud and reserved king. With Goya,
however, there is little apparent study of the structure or character of
the animal; it is felt for its value as a handsome mass. And the rider’s
figure seems to have been felt in the same way; as if by emphasising its
mass the artist could evade the inevitable commonplace of the face.
Accordingly, in the case of the Queen, the impression we receive is of a
black beaver hat with scarlet cockade, scarlet revers and silver braid
on a black habit; black trousers against the deep green and gold of the
pummel and saddle-cloth, and of a red-bay horse with darker tail; the
whole forming a striking silhouette against a dull drab sky that deepens
to slaty grey on the right, and a tawny, pale green landscape fading
toward the horizon to silver buffs and olive. Similarly, the King’s
portrait suggests the effect of a handsome silhouette, which culminates
in a blaze of splendor amid the decorations that cover the rider’s
breast. This is artfully balanced by the brilliantly white chest of the
horse and by a paler white light in one part of the sky. Both these
portraits, in fact, are primarily color-impressions. It is as if Goya
had taken refuge in this point of view, in order to get over the
difficulty of adjusting two such undignified personages to the
monumental feeling of a large equestrian portrait. It was a case in
which he tried to keep in control his feelings as a satirist.
* * * * *
[Illustration:
QUEEN MARIA LUISA ON HORSEBACK GOYA
THE PRADO]
For Goya’s role at Court was that of an audacious satirist, censor and
chastiser of the follies and iniquities of his day. He was allowed a
free hand, for his gallantry endeared him to the ladies and his prowess
as a fighter made him feared by the men, while all, except the immediate
victim, could enjoy the adroitness and daring of his humor. His
particular _bête noir_ was Godoy, whom he mercilessly satirised. He
would amuse the idle moments of the Court by sprinkling the contents of
a sandbox on the writing table, and drawing with his finger caricatures
of the minister. On one occasion he appeared at some function during a
period of Court mourning and was refused admission by the ushers,
because he was wearing white stockings. He retired to an ante-room and
with pen and ink relieved their whiteness with funereal caricatures of
Godoy. Among the amours in which he indulged was one with the young
Duchess of Alba, who returned his passion. Their liaison aroused the
jealousy of the Queen, who banished the Duchess to her country home.
When Goya learned of it he pursued his inamorata in hot haste and caught
her up on the road, for an axle of her carriage had broken. There being
no smithy near, he himself lit a fire and repaired the damage. The
exertion was succeeded by a chill, which induced the first symptoms of
the deafness that in later life became complete. Meanwhile, the Court
could not do without its Goya, and as he would not return without his
Duchess, she too was recalled.
But Goya was far from being a mere buffoon and galliard. Although his
passionate nature with its streak of coarseness made him at home in the
petty intrigues of the court, he was a part of the wide-spread
revolutionary spirit of his day. While Europe, and particularly France,
was seething with the yeast of unrest, this solitary figure, far off in
Spain, was already in revolt. In his denunciation of the hypocrisy and
vice of his age, as exhibited alike in the Church, Society and the
middle and lower classes, he was a Voltaire and Robespierre in one,
brandishing the torch that subsequently kindled the French revolution.
In this, as in his technique, he was ahead of his age. Meanwhile, the
mental attitude which inspired him was characteristically Spanish: by
turns grim and gay, humorous and deadly serious, coarse, sensual and
cruel. In two series of etchings, _Caprichos_ (Whims) and _Proverbios_
(Proverbs), the scourge of his satire bit into the plates with a
virulence of scorn and nakedness of exposure that have never been
surpassed and, before his day, had never been attempted by an artist. In
one of his etchings, a dead man has returned to life and is writing with
his finger on the wall _nada--nothing_. Goya was a nihilist, bitter
therefore against quacks and empirics, whether priests, doctors or
lawyers. Also he laid bare the emptiness and horror of passion, a
hashish that beguiles forgetfulness and leads to impotence and
nothingness.
This idea of the nothingness of life in general, and of passion in
particular is expressed with Goya’s characteristic ferocity and lust of
the horrible in _The Fates_ (p. 182). Midway between earth and sky three
female figures are floating, their lower limbs entwined so as to form a
cradle, on which, with hands bound behind his
[Illustration:
THE FATES GOYA
THE PRADO]
back and his legs screwed up to maintain a precarious balance, sits Man.
Meanwhile, the crone on the left, a harridan of the slums, clenches in
her fist a pigmy figure, whose hands are stretched in vain supplication
to a darkened sky. Such is the beginning of Man’s destiny; to discover
the development of which another crone is peering through a spy-glass.
The third Fate, nude, younger and of opulent form, turns her face to a
lurid glare in the sky. Watching till the light fades, she holds the
scissors which will cut the thread and precipitate Man, sated with
passion, into the waters below.
This colossal travesty of life, as nothing but inchoate, chaotic, brute
nature, swayed by elemental lust, is painted with such amazing
brutality, that the pigments seem as if they might have been laid on
with a trowel. The crudity is intentional, producing a texture that fits
the monstrous irony of the conception. Moreover, before this picture one
loses sense of color, as consisting of specific hues. It is, in fact, an
apt illustration of Goya’s own paradox, that color does not exist, that
everything is light and shade of varying values. While one may discover
the application of this principle in the meagre range of color,
manipulated with nuances of value, which distinguishes all the canvases
of Goya’s maturity, it is particularly evident in his subjects of
grotesque and violent imagination such as _The Fates_. Another example,
selected for reproduction here (p. 189), is _The Scene of May 3, 1808_.
The citizens captured by Murat’s troops, in the riot of the previous
night, are being shot down in batches; the incident taking place in the
grounds of the palace of the “Prince of Peace”! The dull drab grey of
early morning hangs over the scene and seems to have impregnated the
uniforms of the soldiers and the clothes of their scared, hopeless
victims. But the dead monotony is rent with a shriek, shrilling out in
the clear, cold notes of the white shirt of the poor wretch whose arms
are raised, in the yellow breeches and the crimson pool of blood. It is
a remarkable example of color used solely for the purpose of expression;
a use most characteristic of Goya, to which we will return later.
* * * * *
In the troubles which overtook Spain, Goya proved himself neither
patriot nor hero. He swore allegiance to Joseph Bonaparte and utilised
the sufferings of his country for a series of etchings, _The Disasters
of War_, in which the horrors of the military invasion are depicted with
unexampled force and naturalism. After Wellington had expelled the
French, Goya again played the part of opportunist and pledged his fealty
to Ferdinand VII. The King, remarking that Goya’s conduct deserved
hanging but that he was a great artist and should be forgiven, restored
him to his position of Court Painter. Goya, however, was beginning to
decline. His deafness had grown upon him and with it a moroseness and
irritability of temper, which made him shun society and bury himself in
his country house. His deafness even denied him the solace of his
favorite amusement, playing on the piano. His wife was dead, and the
sole object of the old man’s affection was his little grandson, Mariano,
whose face he has commemorated in the portrait, now owned in Madrid by
the Marqués de Alcañices.
Goya at length obtained the King’s permission to visit France. He spent
some time in Paris, where he was welcomed by Delacroix and the younger
spirits of the French romantic movement. He then settled in Bordeaux,
tended and cared for by an old friend, Madame Weiss. During this period
he executed a few portraits and the lithographs, _Les Taureaux de
Bordeaux_, in which his old time vigor is displayed. When the term of
his leave of absence had expired, he revisited Madrid and was received
by the King and people with marks of the highest respect and
consideration. Goya was now in his eighty-second year, and returned to
Bordeaux, where he lingered a few months and died in the Spring of 1828.
Seventy-one years later his remains were removed from the cemetery of
Bordeaux and interred with honors in Madrid. For by this time Goya’s
reputation had become world-wide, and his influence upon modern art
thoroughly recognised.
* * * * *
Goya’s gift to the modern world is twofold: impressionism and, if one
may coin a word, expressionism. To the former we have already alluded in
comparing his kind of impressionism with that of Velasquez. While the
earlier artist with his objective vision realised an impression of
observation: Goya, influenced by temperament, recorded an impression of
feeling. This attitude toward art naturally made him welcome to the
French Romanticists, and through them brings him in touch with the
general modern tendency toward self-expression. For the modern artist
learned from Velasquez the principles of impressionistic painting, as a
foundation of technique, but later derived from Goya the secret of
impressionism for the purpose of expressing the emotion with which the
subject inspired him. To the temperamental impressionist, therefore,
Goya seems to represent the last word in technical distinction.
But to-day the impressionist himself is on trial. The world is beginning
to question the worth-whileness of his art, except as a necessary
transition-stage to something more fundamentally vital that is in
process of evolution. What this will prove to be is at present in
suspense; but we are vaguely discerning that it will be something at
once more organically basic than impressionism and more spiritualised in
motive. It may have been inevitable for the artist to depend on
temperament in an age, such as the late century has been, of religious,
mental and moral upheaval, during which the old academic, dogmatic forms
of religion and art were toppling down, the hard old conventions that
shackled social and mental betterment were being gradually
disintegrated, and old values were being reduced to a flux in the
melting pot of scientific analysis. But, as order has begun to emerge
from this confusion, the need of a new constructive faith is taking hold
of men’s minds; the need of a new consciousness of some spiritual
relation with the universe of matter. If the art of the future is to
keep pace with progress outside itself, it must shape new motives to
this need; and already there are signs that it is doing so.
It is here that Goya’s second gift to posterity appears.
[Illustration:
SCENE OF MAY 3, 1808 GOYA
THE PRADO]
His influence has been working in the direction of expression, as the
painter’s goal, rather than representation. For a while, in the middle
of the nineteenth century, Velasquez’s inimitable faculty of recording a
visual impression fascinated artists. Consciously or otherwise, these
men were a part of the material and scientific tendency of the time, and
material representation seemed to them the Ultima Thule of artistic
achievement. Hence the thousands of canvases by men of all countries
which in their point of view are neither more nor less than
photographic. Their authors remained content to vie with the camera; and
then, because they had superior opportunities in color, were proud and
scornful when they beat the camera at its own game. Meanwhile, there
were painters who began to wish to play a game of their own; to rid
painting of the obsession in the matter of representation, and to make
their pictures more expressive of their own abstract sense of beauty. To
these men Goya came as a revelation. Through his impressionism of
feeling they learned principles of expression, not discoverable in
Velasquez.
It is true that the influence of Goya has tended for some time toward
solely temperamental and emotional expression. That was because the
tendency of the age ran in this direction. To-day, however, it is
pointed in a new direction, facing the actual realities of existence.
Impressionism is melting away before a new dawn of Realism. Thinking
people are beginning to re-establish themselves upon the facts of life;
not the old conventions that passed as facts, but the facts, as they are
presenting themselves to a newly awakened realisation of an
encompassing environment of spiritual facts. They are Realists, who
would study the facts of life in their spiritual relation to the
universe.
Behind this still uncertain momentum of modern thought art is groping.
If one ventures to hazard a conjecture of the outcome, it may be that
the painter will get back to a more disciplined and scientific use of
form and color, using them organically, but not, however, to the sole or
even the main end of representation. He will appeal as directly and
exclusively as possible to man’s purely esthetic perceptions, and
correlate these to his conception of universal beauty. Painting thus may
become once more, but in a new religious sense, a spiritualized
expression.
Following this train of thought one comes upon a curious analogy between
Goya and El Greco. It was no accident of changing whim that has made the
progressive artist of to-day turn from Velasquez to Goya, and has drawn
so many besides artists to admiration of El Greco. It is because both
tender to the needs of to-day. Both are artists of expression. They
share with Rembrandt the distinction of being the greatest artists of
expression that any school can show. Though Goya’s genius is confined to
a lower level of expression, it points in principle to the spiritual
altitude of El Greco’s. Both are models of suggestion for the artist of
to-day, if he is alive to the esthetic and spiritual needs of his age
and is striving to express them.
That, after its own period of greatness, it should be thus refertilizing
modern art, is the proud distinction of the Spanish School.
[Illustration:
IN THE BALCONY GOYA
COLLECTION OF THE DUKE OF MARCHENA, PARIS]
A POSTSCRIPT
Very suggestive of the force and persistence of the Spanish character is
the fact that the only Spanish artists of recent years who have become
notably distinguished are those who have remained true to the traditions
of their School. Academic encouragement has been given to the production
of historical pictures, which cover large quantities of canvas but
excite little interest. On the other hand, those painters who have
acquired a European and American reputation have all based their art on
naturalism.
The first of these in order of time was Mariano Fortuny, whose _La
Vicaria_, better known in America as _The Spanish Marriage_, when it
made its first appearance in Paris in 1870, created a sensation. The
scene, it will be remembered, is a sacristy, profusely embellished with
rococo decorations. The costumes of the figures are those of Goya’s day;
the actions and gestures piquantly natural and the characterization of
each happily individualized. But the chief charm of the picture lies in
the marvelous treatment of the light. Fortuny, after pursuing the
academic routine and capturing the _Prix de Rome_, obtained an
engagement to accompany the Spanish troops in a little war with Morocco.
The splendor of Southern coloring opened his eyes to the magic of light.
Henceforth his pictures became miracles of luminosity. The most
powerful were _La Vicaria_, _Choosing the Model_ and _The Rehearsal_;
all rococo subjects in which the light is splintered into a myriad tiny
reflections. But the finer work, in an artistic sense, is to be found in
his water-colors. These are executed with extraordinary fluency and
expression, marvels of naturalistic characterization, flooded broadly
with glowing luminosity. Fortuny lived only five years after his
remarkable début, dying in 1874 at the age of thirty-six.
Among those who were influenced by him, the most notable in imitating
his virtuosity were Edoardo Zamacois, Antonio Casanova y Estorach and
Fortuny’s brother-in-law, Raimundo de Madrazo. On the other hand, the
artist who has been most happy in uniting virtuosity with a gift of
naturalism is Francisco Pradilla. He has painted decorations full of
_joie de vivre_ and the spirit of romance: popular merry-makings,
camp-life and scenes along the sea-shore; spontaneous in execution,
abounding with zest and aglow with color. Joaquin Sorolla y Bastida has
followed in his footsteps, with a longer stride and heavier tread. His
works have the zest of Pradilla’s, but neither the refinement of
virtuosity nor the versatility and subtlety of color. His naturalism is
of the obvious type.
In contrast to him is Ignacio Zuloaga, an artist in whom has been
re-incarnated much of the diablerie and subtlety of Goya. Since the
latter no other has dipped so deeply into the grotesqueries of Spanish
life, while in a thoroughly modern vein he explores the psychology of
his subjects. These include a diversity of types of femininity, subtly
analysed and interpreted by means, particularly, of expressive
color-schemes. Zuloaga, to-day, is not only the most characteristically
Spanish of the artists of Spain, but the most advanced of them in his
feeling for expression and in his faculty of rendering it.
INDEX
Abd-er-Rahman, 9
Abencerrages, tribe of, 11
_Adoration of the Kings, The_ [Velasquez], 88, 104, 107
_Adoration of the Shepherds, The_ [Velasquez], 104, 107
_Æsopus_ [Velasquez], 115
_Agnes, S._ [Cano], 164, 165
Alba, Duchess of, 183
Alcade de los Hijosdalgos, 131
Alcalá, Duke of, 161
Alcalá de Henares, University of, 13
Alcañices, Marquis of, 187
Alcántara, bridge of, 73
Alcázar, 73, 111
Alcázar, Don Melchior de, 151
Alcudia, Duke of. See _Godoy_
Alexander VI, Pope, 13
Alfonso I, 10
Alfonso IV, 10
Alhambra, 11, 30, 34;
impressions of, 35-37;
motive of decoration, 38
Almohades, sect of, 10.
Almoravides, tribe of, 10
Alva, Duke of, 17
Andalusia, 41;
school of, study of Raphael, 46;
influence of Pedro Campaña, 47;
school of Murillo, 54;
in the seventeenth century, 64, 65;
return to naturalism, 102;
Ribera, 136;
Murillo, 148, 154, 157
_Annunciation, The_ [Cano], 164
_Annunciation, The_ [El Greco], 88
Antigua, Capella de la, 42
Antolinez, José, 62, 132;
_The Assumption_, 62;
_Glorification of the Virgin_, 62;
_Ecstasy of the Magdalen_, 62
_Antony Visiting S. Paul, S._ [Velasquez], 105, 126
_Apocalypse, The_ [El Greco], 89
_Apotheosis of S. Thomas Aquinas_ [Zurbarán], 166
_Apparition of the Virgin to a Community of Bernardine
Monks During a Ceremony of Exorcism_ [Pedro Berruguete?], 44
Aragón, kingdom and province of, 3, 40, 41, 173
Argensola, Bartolomé, 18
Arian controversy, 8
Arpino, Cavaliero d’, 140
_Assumption, The_ [Antolinez], 62
_Assumption, The_ [Cano], 164
_Assumption of the Magdalen_ [Ribera], 144
_Assumption of the Virgin_ [Cerezo], 62
_Assumption of the Virgin_ [El Greco], 69
Asturias, kingdom of, 9, 10, 131
Auto-da-fé, depicted by Francisco Rizi, 62
B
Badajoz, 48
Balearic Isles, 23
Baltasar Carlos, Prince, 162
_Baltasar Carlos, Equestrian Portrait_ [Velasquez], 105, 108
_Baltasar Carlos, Portrait of_ [Mazo], 124
_Baltasar Carlos, Portrait of_ [Velasquez], 98, 178, 182, 186
_Baltasar Carlos, Sportsman Portrait_ [Velasquez], 105
_Baptism of Christ, The_ [El Greco], 85
Barbara, Santa. See _Tapestry works_
_Bartholomew, S._ [El Greco], 79
Bavaria, Elector of, 21
Bayeu, Francisco, 174
_Bayeu, Portrait of_ [Goya], 180
_Benedict Celebrating Mass, S._ [Rizi], 61
Berlin, Kaiser Friedrich Museum, 134, 164
Bermudez, Cean, “Dictionary of Painters,” 23
Berruguete, Pedro, 44;
_Apparition of the Virgin to a Community
of Bernardine Monks During a Ceremony of Exorcism_, 44
Beruete y Moret, critic, 106, 108, 122, 123, 134
Beulé, C. E., French critic, 160
Boabdil, Caliph, 11
Bonaparte, Joseph, 23, 172, 186
Bonaparte, Napoleon. See _Napoleon_
_Borbón, Portrait of Doña Isabel de_ [Juan Pantoja de la Cruz], 55
Bordeaux, Goya retires to, 187
Borgia family, 136
Borgoña, Juan de, 44
_Borrachos, Los_ [Velasquez], 104, 107
Bosch, Hieronymus, 43
Boucher tapestries, 174
Bourbon, Constable of, 16
Bourbon family, 21, 171
Bouts, Dierick, 42
Brueghel, Pieter, 43
Buddhistic art, 85, 91
Buen Retiro, 19;
presented to the king by Count Olivares, 105;
paintings in, 60, 61, 105, 161
Burgos, city of, 10
_Burning Bush_ [Collantes], 60
Byzantine art, 85, 91
C
Cadiz, 151
Calderon, dramatist, 18
_Calle de la Reina de Aranjuez_ [Mazo], 128, 129
Calvert, Albert F., 70
Campaña, Pedro, 47;
_Descent from the Cross_, 47, 160
Canaletto, 127
Cano, Alonzo, 65;
chapter on, 161;
early years, 161;
death of his wife, 163;
dispute with chapter of cathedral, 163;
death, 164;
_Annunciation, Conception, Nativity, Presentation, Assumption_, 164;
_Mother and Child_, 164;
_S. Agnes_, 164
Cantabria, province of, 10
Capella Mayor, decorations of the, 28
_Caprichos_ [Goya], 184
Caracci, Annibale, 140
Caracci, the, 63, 137, 139
Caracciolo, Giambattista, 140
Caravaggio, Michelangelo, 137, 138, 139, 165
Caravaggio, the Spanish, 165
_Card Players, The_ [Caravaggio], 140
Carducho, Bartolomeo, 52, 55, 61
Carducho, Vicente, 55, 59
Caridad, Hospital de la, 155, 157
Carreño, Juan, 57, 62;
chapter on, 131;
portraits of the royal family, 132;
fresco paintings, 132;
_Portrait of Charles II_, 20, 134;
_Portrait of Queen Mariana_, 133;
_The Conception_, 132;
_Magdalen in the Desert_, 133;
_San Sebastian_, 133
Casa de Pilatos, 161
Casanova y Estorach, Antonio, 192
Cassel Gallery, the, 62
Castile, province of, 3, 10, 40, 41, 42, 74
Castile, school of, 41-43, 50;
Moro’s influence, 53;
review of seventeenth century, 54-63
Castillo, Juan de, 151, 161
Castillon de la Plana, 63
Castro, Archbishop de, 151
Catalonia, province of, 41
Catholic sovereigns, 3, 8, 11, 14, 16, 18, 31
_Catholic Sovereigns at Prayer with their Families before the Virgin_, 43
Caxés, Eugenio, 55
Caxés, Patricio, 52, 55
Celtiberians, 6
Cerezo, Mateo, 62;
_Penitent Magdalen_, 62;
_S. John the Baptist_, 62;
_Assumption of the Virgin_, 62
Cervantes, novelist, 17, 75
Cézanne, Paul, 90
Charles I of Spain, V of Germany, 15, 19, 31, 52, 167
Charles II, reign of, 20, 131
_Charles II, Portrait of_ [Carreño], 20
_Charles II, Portrait of_ [Claudio Coello], 19
Charles III, reign of, 22, 23, 174;
portrait of, 176
Charles IV, reign of, 23, 24, 172, 176
_Charles IV, Equestrian Portrait of_ [Goya], 182
_Charles IV and Family, Portrait of_ [Goya], 176
Chicago Art Institute, 78
_Christ at the Pillar_ [Velasquez], 105
Church in Spain, the, 25, 30, 73, 125, 150, 153, 154, 171
Churrigueresque, 28
Classicism, 139
_Clinic of Dr. Tulp_ [Rembrandt], 156
Clovio, Julio, 69
Coello, Alonso Sánchez, 53, 54
Coello, Claudio, 19, 63;
_La Santa Forma_, 63
Collantes, Francisco, 58, 59;
_Vision of Ezekiel_, 59
Colonial possessions, 13, 15, 18
Columbus, 3
Comedies of Cape and Sword, 18
_Coming of the Holy Ghost, The_ [El Greco], 89
_Conception, The_ [Cano], 164
_Conception, The_ [Carreño], 132
_Conceptions_ [Murillo], 154
Cordova, University of, 9
Coro, decorations of the, 28, 148
_Coronation of the Virgin_ [unknown], 43
_Coronation of the Virgin_ [El Greco], 87, 90
Corot, 128
Corpus Christi, Church of, 63
Correggio, 137, 139
Correnzio, Belisario, 140
Cortes, the first, 10
Cota, dramatist, 13
Counter-Reformation, 80
Court of the Lions, 37
_Crucifixion, The_ [El Greco], 76, 85, 87
Cruz, Church of Santa, 47, 160
Cuevas, Pedro de las, 131
Cuyp, 125
D
“Darklings,” 140
_Death of Laocoön and his Sons_, 87
Delacroix, 187
_Descent from the Cross_ [Campaña], 47, 160
Diego de Deza, Archbishop, 167
Doblado’s letters, 172
Dolci, Carlo, 139
Domenichino, 139-141
Dominican order, 168
Doria Gallery, 105
_Dream of Life, The_ [Pereda], 58
_Dream of Philip II, The_ [El Greco], 86
Dresden Gallery, 140
Dulwich Gallery, 157
Dupré, Jules, 129
E
_Ecce Homo_ [Morales], 50
_Ecce Homo_ [Pereda], 59
Eclectics, 138
_Ecstasy of the Magdalen_ [Antolinez], 62
_El Expolio_ [El Greco], 70
_Elizabeth of Hungary_ [Murillo], 156
England, wars with, 15, 17, 22, 23
_Erasmus_ [Holbein], 95
Escoriál, the: impressions of, 30-34;
visited by Rubens, 103;
paintings in, 52;
Caxés and Carducho, 55;
Coello, 63;
El Greco, 71, 86;
frescoes by Carreño, 132;
tapestries, 174
Estilo frio, calido, vaporoso (Murillo), 154
Estremadura, province of, 165
Expression, 68, 90, 188, 189
_Expulsion of the Morescoes_ [Velasquez], 111
F
Farnese, Cardinal Nepote, 69
Farnese Palace, 137
_Fates, The_ [Goya], 184
Ferdinand VI, 22
Ferdinand VII, 186
Ferdinand and Isabella, 3, 11, 15, 18, 40
Ferdinand of Germany, 16
Fernando, Academy of San, 22;
pictures by Morales, 49;
Pereda, 58;
Mayno, 61;
Carreño, 133
_Fernando de Austria, Don_ [Velasquez], 105, 113
_Fernando Nino de Guevara, Portrait of Don_ [El Greco], 90
Fire of 1734, 131
Flanders, art drawn from, 13
Flemish School, influence of, 42, 47, 52
Florentines, 45
_Forge of Vulcan_ [Velasquez], 103, 108, 116
Fortuny, Mariano, 65, 191;
_La Vicaria_, 191;
_Choosing the Model_, 192;
_The Rehearsal_, 192
_Fountain of the Tritons_ [Mazo], 128
France, wars with, 23, 172;
alliance with, 23, 186
Francis, Convent of S., 152
Francis I of France, 15
_Francis d’Assisi, S._ [Ribalta], 64
Fuente de Cantos, 165
Fuentedetodos, 173
_Funeral of Count Orgaz_ [El Greco], 166
G
Galicia, province of, 10
Gautier, Théophile, 157
_George Gyze, Portrait of_ [Holbein], 95
Gil, Margarita, 136
Giordano, Luca, 32, 65
Giotto, 91
_Gloria_ [Titian], 16
_Glorification of the Virgin_ [Antolinez], 62
Godoy, Manuel, 23, 172, 185;
satirized by Goya, 183
Golden Age of Moorish civilization, 11
Golden Age of Spanish literature and art, 18, 54
Gongora, Luis de, poet, 18
Gonsalvo de Cordova, 13
Gonzáles, Bartolomé, 55;
_Portrait of Philip III and Wife_, 55;
_Doña Margarita of Austria_, 55;
_Doña Isabel de Borbón_, 55
Gothic invasion, 7
Goya, Francisco, 23, 65, 67, 120;
chapter on, 171;
appearance in court, 172;
early life, 173;
tapestry designs, 174;
color, 175, 177;
church commissions, 175;
point of view, 178;
methods, 181;
compared with Velasquez, 181;
rôle at court, 183;
old age, 186; death, 187;
compared with El Greco, 190;
_Portrait of Charles III_, 22, 176;
_Self-Portrait_, 172;
_Charles IV and Royal Family_, 176;
_Doña Isabel Corbo de Porcel_, 180;
_Dr. Péral_, 180;
_Equestrian Portraits of the King and the Queen_, 184;
_The Fates_, 184;
_Scene of May 3, 1808_, 185;
_Disasters of War_, 186;
_Taureaux de Bordeaux_, 187;
_Proverbios_, 184;
_Caprichos_, 184;
_Maia_, 179
Goya, Mariano, 186
Granada, 3, 10, 11, 34, 123, 161;
cathedral of, 163, 164
Granvilla, Cardinal, 52
Greco, Domenico Theotocopuli, El, 17, 45, 51, 56, 148, 164, 190;
chapter on, 66-91;
relations with the Church, 66;
with Philip II, 67;
point of view, 67, 88, 92;
letter describing, 72;
types, 74;
spiritual expression, 77;
house now museum, 79;
kinship with Oriental art, 85, 91;
_The Assumption of the Virgin_, 69, 78, 81;
_El Expolio_, 70;
_San Mauricio and his Theban Legion_, 71, 81, 87;
_San Martin_, 71, 89;
_Vista of Toledo_, 71, 73;
_Funeral of Count Orgaz_, 71, 82;
_Self-Portrait of the Artist_, 71;
_S. Jerome_, 75;
_S. Paul_, 75;
_The Crucifixion_, 76, 85, 87;
_S. Bartholomew_, 79;
_Baptism of Christ_, 85;
_The Resurrection_, 85, 86;
_Dream of Philip II_, 86;
_Virgin and Saints_, 87;
_Coronation of the Virgin_, 87;
_Annunciations, Holy Family_, 88;
_Nativity_, 88;
_Coming of the Holy Ghost_, 89;
_Death of Laocoön and his Sons_, 89;
_Apocalypse_, 89;
_Sacred and Profane Love_, 89;
_Don Fernando Nino de Guevara_, 90
_Gregory Saying Mass_ [unknown], 45
Guadarrama, Sierra, 31
Guercino, 139
Guevara, Velez de, 18
Guido. See _Reni_
H
Hague, Gallery of the, 62, 126
Hall of the Kings, Buen Retiro, 60
Hals, 94, 99
Hapsburg family, 15, 19, 21, 134, 171
Hartley, E. Gasquoine, 70
_Hermit Saint_ [Ribera], 142
Herrera, Francisco, 64, 102
_Hilanderas, Las_ [Velasquez], 105-116
Hispanic Museum, New York, 44, 50, 88, 132
Hobbema, 125
Holbein, 95, 99, 100, 101
Holland, art of, 26, 54, 125;
rivalry with, 15, 17, 18, 122
_Holy Family_ [El Greco], 88
_Holy Family_ (_Pajarito_) [Murillo], 157
Hospital de la Caridad, 155
_Hugo, Miracle of S._ [Zurbarán], 169
Humanistic movement, 145, 154
I
Iberians, 6
Ildefonso, picture in Church of San, 42
Illustration, 152
Immaculate Conception, dogma proclaimed, 150
_Immaculate Conception_ [Ribera], 144
Impressionism, 100, 114, 128, 171, 187, 188
_Innocent X, Portrait of_ [Velasquez], 90, 93, 105, 123
Inquisition, the, 14, 16, 173
_Interrio, El_ [El Greco], See _Funeral of Count Orgaz_
_Isaac Blessing Jacob_ [Ribera], 145
_Isabel Corbo de Porcel, Portrait of Doña_ [Goya], 180
Isabella, Queen, 3, 11, 13, 15, 40
Italy, art of, 42, 44, 45, 47, 52, 63, 125, 138, 140, 156
J
_Jacob’s Ladder_ [Ribera], 146
Januarius, Chapel of S., 140
Jativa, 136
_Jean Arnolfini and Wife_ [Van Eyck], 95
_Jerome, S._ [El Greco], 75
_Jerome, S._ [Pereda], 59
Jews, expelled, 14
Joanna of Austria, 15
_John the Baptist_ [Cerezo], 62
_John the Baptist_ [Da Vinci, Ribera], 145
_John the Baptist in the Desert_ [Ribera], 145
José, Church of San, Toledo, 86
Joseph Bonaparte. See _Bonaparte_
_Joseph’s Coat_ [Velasquez], 103
Juan of Austria, Don, 20
_Juan de Austria, Don_ [Velasquez], 105, 114
Juan de Juanes, 46, 63;
_S. Stephen Conducted to Martyrdom_, 46
Juan II of Castile, 42
Julius Cæsar, 6
Juste, Monastery of San, 16
Justi, Carl, 44
L
_Lady with the Fan_ [Velasquez], 164
Lanfranco, 141
León, province of, 3, 10, 42
Leonardo, José, 58, 60;
_The Surrender of Breda_, 60, 131;
_Taking of Acqui_, 60
Leopold, Emperor of Germany, 21
Llano y Valdés, 161
Lope de Vega, dramatist, 17, 18
Lorenzo, picture in Church of San, 42
Lorrain, Claude, 129, 130
Louis XIV of France, 21, 106
Louvre, the: pictures by Collantes, 60;
El Greco, 76, 87;
Mazo, 122;
Da Vinci, 145
Lucena, battle of, 11
M
Mabuse, 42
Madrazo, Raimundo, 192
Madrid, 41, 48, 49, 57, 60, 61, 62,
102, 106, 121, 133, 151, 162, 169, 171, 173
Madrid, school of, 41, 131
_Magdalen in the Desert_ [Carreño], 133
_Maia, The, Clothed, The Maia Nude_ [Goya], 179
Manet, 120
“Mannerists,” 138, 139
_Margarita Maria, Portrait of_ [Velasquez], 105
_Margarita of Austria, Doña_ [Gonzáles], 55
Maria Luisa, Queen, 23
_Maria Luisa, Equestrian Portrait of_ [Goya], 182
Maria Teresa, 21, 106
_Maria Teresa, Portrait of_ [Velasquez], 105, 114
_Mariana, Portrait of Queen_ [Velasquez], 105
Mariana de Austria, 105, 131, 134, 135
_Mariana de Austria, Portrait of Doña_ [Mazo], 123;
[Carreño], 134;
[Velasquez], 103
_Martin, San_ [El Greco], 71
Martinez, Guiseppe, “Practical Letters on the Art of Painting,” 72
_Martyrdom of S. Bartholomew_ [Ribera], 138
Mauretania, 9
_Mauricio and his Theban Legion, San_ [El Greco], 71, 87
Maximilian, Emperor of Germany, 15
Mayno, Fray Juan Bautista, 56, 61;
_Pacification of the States of Flanders_, 56
Mazarin, Cardinal, 106
Mazo, Juan Bautista del, 55, 57, 61, 102, 106;
chapter on, 121;
life, 121;
copies of Velasquez’s works, 122;
original works, 123;
landscapes, 125;
technique, 128
Memlinc, 42, 43
Mengs, Raphael, 23, 65, 174
_Meniñas, Las_ [Velasquez], 95, 105, 108, 116-119
Metropolitan Museum, New York:
El Greco, 88;
Velasquez, 98, 115;
Zurbarán, 191
_Michael the Archangel_ [Zurbarán], 169
Michelangelo, 45, 48, 91, 103, 108, 138, 139
_Miracle of S. Hugo_ [Zurbarán], 169
_Miracle of the Loaves and Fishes_ [Murillo], 155
Modena, 137
_Mœnippus_ [Velasquez], 95, 106, 115
Mohammed, 18
_Mona Lisa_ [Da Vinci], 99
Montañés, Martinez, 161
_Montañés, Portrait of the Sculptor_ [Velasquez], 105
Monte Cassino, 140
Moorish dominion, 3, 8, 74
Mor, or Moro, Antony, 52
Morales, Luis de, 48, 51;
_Pietá_, 49;
_Virgin Caressing the Infant Jesus_, 50;
_Ecce Homo_, 50;
_Presentation of the Infant Jesus in the Temple_, 50
Morescoes, expelled, 14, 17
Morocco, 191
_Moses Striking the Rock_ [Murillo], 155
_Mother and Child_ [Cano], 164
Munich Pinakothek, 62, 134, 157
Murillo, Bartolomé Estéban, 47, 54, 65, 88, 132, 146, 164, 165, 169;
chapter on, 148;
estimated, 148, 149;
life, 150;
training, 151;
motive, 153;
death, 160;
_Miracle of the Loaves and Fishes_, 155;
_Moses Striking the Rock_, 155;
_S. Elizabeth of Hungary_, 156;
_Holy Family_ (_Pajarito_), 157;
_Self-Portrait_, 160;
_Conceptions_, 159
Murillo, Gaspar Estéban, 150
Musa, 8
N
Naples, 13, 136, 137, 139, 140, 141;
cathedral of, 140
Napoleon Bonaparte, 23, 172
Nasride dynasty, 11
National Gallery: El Greco, 71, 75;
Velasquez, 97, 104, 105, 107, 114, 116, 122, 123;
Mazo, 122;
Murillo, 157;
Goya, 180
_Nativity, The_ [Cano], 164
_Nativity, The_ [El Greco], 88
Naturalism, 65, 67, 80, 88, 92, 94, 102,
136, 138, 139, 143, 157, 165, 170, 176, 178, 191
Navas de Tolosa, Las, 10
Netherlands, under Spanish rule, 16, 17;
influence of, in art, 44
O
Olivares, Count-Duke of, 18, 60, 102, 105
_Olivares, Count-Duke of, Portrait of_ [Velasquez], 105, 108, 109
Omayyad caliphate, 8
Oriental idea, 34-38
Ossuna, Duke of, 138
P
Pacheco, Francisco, 102, 107, 161
Pacheco, Juana, Velasquez’s wife, 102
_Pacification of the States of Flanders_ [Fray Juan Bautista Mayno], 56
_Pajarito_ (_Holy Family_) [Murillo], 157
Palomino, quoted, 121
Pantoja de la Cruz, Juan, 54;
_Portrait of Doña Isabel de Borbón_, 55
Pareja, Juan de, 57;
_Vocation of S. Matthew_, 58
Parma, 137
Patinir, 42
_Paul, S._ [El Greco], 75
Paul V, Pope, 150
Pavia, battle of, 16
Peninsular War, 23
_Penitent Magdalen_ [Cerezo], 62
_Penitent Magdalen_ [Ribera], 145
Pereda, Antonio, 58, 131;
_The Dream of Life_, 58;
_S. Jerome_, 58;
_Ecce Homo_, 58
Perez, Maria, 150
Pheasants, Isle of, 106
Philip, Archduke of Austria, 15
Philip II:
reign of, 17;
builds Escoriál, 30;
relations with Morales, 48;
with Rizi, 60;
with El Greco, 67;
removes Court to Madrid, 73
_Philip II, Portrait of_ [Titian], 19
Philip III: reign of, 17;
decorates Escoriál, 32;
visited by Rubens, 56
_Philip III, Portrait of_ [Coello], 20, 55
Philip IV: reign of, 18;
visited by Rubens, 57;
friendship with Velasquez, 103;
marriage, 105;
decorates Escoriál, 56, 105;
proclaims Virgin Mary patroness of dominion, 150;
patron of Cano, 161;
portraits of, 20
_Philip IV_: portraits by Velasquez: _Bust_, 95, 97;
_Young_, 104;
_Equestrian_, 105, 108;
_Sportsman_, 105, 113, 122;
_Old_, 105, 114, 123.
Probably by Mazo:
_In Hunting Costume_, 107
Philip V, reign of, 22
_Pietá_ [Morales], 49
Pinakothek Museum. See _Munich_
Piombo, Sebastian del, 63
Pompey the Great, 6
Poussin, Nicholas, 129, 130
Pradilla, Francisco, 65, 192
Prado, the, 23, 40, 42, 55, 129;
director of the, 126, 128;
pictures in: Titian, 19, 52;
Juanes, 46;
Morales, 49, 50;
Caxés, 55;
Carducho, 55;
Mayno, 56;
Rubens, 56;
Pareja, 58;
Collantes, 59;
Pereda, 59;
Leonardo, 60;
Rizi, 61;
Antolinez, 62;
Cerezo, 62;
Ribalta, 64;
El Greco, 75, 76, 79, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89;
Velasquez, 95, 104, 105, 106, 117, 122, 124;
Mazo, 127, 128;
Carreño, 133, 134, 135;
Ribera, 144, 145, 146;
Murillo, 156, 157;
Goya, 173, 174, 176, 180, 181, 182
Prado catalogue, 55, 66, 124, 126, 150
_Presentation in the Temple_ [Cano], 164
_Presentation of the Infant Jesus in the Temple_ [Morales], 50
“Prince of Peace,” 172, 185
_Proverbios_ [Goya], 184
Province, the, 7
Provincial Museum, Seville: El Greco, 79;
Zurbarán, 166, 168, 169
Pulgar, historian, 13
_Pulido-Pareja, Admiral_, 107, 122
Puvis de Chavannes, 56
R
Raeburn, 94
Raphael, 45, 46, 62, 137, 138, 139, 152, 157, 164, 174
Realism, 80, 92, 189
Reccared, King, 8
Reformation, Protestant, 80
Rembrandt, 94, 121, 156, 157, 178, 190
Reni, Guido, 139
_Resurrection, The_ [El Greco], 85
Ribalta, Francisco, 63, 136;
_Last Supper_, 63;
_S. Francis d’Assisi_, 64
Ribera, José (Lo Spagnoletto), 54, 59, 63, 64, 65, 151, 165;
chapter on, 136;
life, 136, 137;
Italian influence, 139;
_S. Januarius_ scandal, 140;
stories associated with, 142;
point of view, 143;
_Hermits and Ascetics_, 142;
_Martyrdom of S. Bartholomew_, 138, 144;
_Martyrdom of S. Januarius_, 141;
_Hermit Saint_, 142;
_Immaculate Conception_, 144;
_Assumption of the Magdalen_, 144;
_Holy Trinity_, 144;
_S. John the Baptist in the Desert_, 145;
_Penitent Magdalen_, 145;
_Isaac Blessing Jacob_, 145;
_S. Simon_, 146;
_S. Bartholomew_, 146;
_Jacob’s Ladder_, 146
Ribera, Luis, 136
Rincon, 13
Rizi, Antonio, 60
Rizi, Francisco, 61;
auto-da-fé depicted, 62
Rizi, Fray Juan, 61;
_Portrait of Don Tiburcio de Redin_, 61;
_S. Benedict Celebrating Mass_, 61
Roelas, Juan de las, 64, 165, 169
Roman, Bartolomé, 131
Romanticists, 187
Rome, 6, 173
Rome, influence of school of, 47, 51, 66, 137, 151
“Room of the Two Sisters,” 36
Rubens, 56, 103, 121, 151
Ruisdael, 125
Ryks Museum, 62
S
Salamanca, 13
Sanguineto, Don Rafael, 162
_Santa Forma, La_ [Coello], 63
_Santiago_ [El Greco], 88
Santos Cruz, 44
Sardinia, 41
Sassoferrato, 139
_Scene of May 3, 1808_ [Goya], 185
“School of Madrid,” 106, 123, 134
Scipio the Younger, 6
_Sebastian, S._ [Carreño], 133
_Self-Portrait_ [Murillo], 160
_Seven Joys of Mary, The_ [Cano], 164
Seville, 42, 47, 62, 65, 89, 102, 150, 151, 152, 162, 164, 165, 169
Sicily, 22, 41
Siguenza, Father, 71
Silva, Juan Rodriguez de, father of Velasquez, 102
_Simon, S._ [Ribera], 146
Solis, Antonio de, poet, historian, dramatist, 18
Sorolla (Joaquin Sorolla y Bastida), 65, 192
Soult, Marshal, 23
Spagnoletto, Lo. See _Ribera_
Spain, historical sketch of, 3-24;
decline of, 171, 184;
character of art of, 4, 8, 25, 38, 39, 125, 133, 137, 145, 165, 171, 190;
source of, 41, 46;
geographical description of, 4, 5, 41, 129
“Spaniard of Jativa,” 136
Spanish character, 5, 11, 14, 27, 30, 47, 66, 87;
demoralization of, 171, 191
Spanish Succession, War of the, 22
Spinola, Marquis of, 103, 112
_Stephen Conducted to Martyrdom, S._ [Juanes], 46
Stevenson, R. A. M., 110
Stirling-Maxwell, Sir John, 71
Suetonius, 6
_Surrender of Breda_ [Leonardo], 60
_Surrender of Breda_ [Velasquez], 56, 103, 111, 126
T
Tagus, the, 73
_Taking of Acqui_ [Leonardo], 60
Tapestry works, royal, 174
_Taureaux de Bordeaux_ [Goya], 187
Telmo, San, 89
_Temptation of Adam and Eve_ [Titian], 56
_Temptation of S. Antony_ [unknown], 43
Teniers, 174
Theotocopuli, Domenico. See _Greco_
Theotocopuli, George Manuel, 71, 87, 89
_Thomas, Apotheosis of S._ [Zurbarán], 166
Thomas, S., Church of, 167
Tibaldi, Pelegrino, 52
_Tiburcio de Redin, Portrait of_ [Rizi], 61
Tiepolo, 23, 65
Tintoretto, 66, 71, 103, 108, 111, 138
Titian, 19, 52, 53, 56, 66, 67, 78, 89, 111, 121, 126, 139, 151;
_Gloria_, 16;
_Portraits of Charles I_, 19;
_Philip II_, 19, 20
Toledo, 10, 13, 42, 51, 56, 61, 66, 69, 70, 71, 74, 86, 87
Tomé, Church of San, 82
_Trinity, Holy_ [Ribera], 144
Tristan, Luis, 89
“Truth not painting,” 95, 101, 108, 120
Truth of appearances, 67, 119
Truth of representation, 92
Turner, 130
U
_Ursula_, S., 43
Utrecht, treaty of, 22
V
Valencia, province of, 10, 41;
school of, 41, 46, 54, 63, 64, 136, 162
Valladolid, 58
Van Dyke, 62, 151
Van Eyck, Jan, 94, 99
Van Goyen, 125
Van Loo, 22
Velasquez, Don Diego Rodriguez de Silva y, 19,
54, 55, 56, 57, 60, 61, 65, 67, 143, 148,
151, 157, 161, 165, 171, 178, 187, 189;
chapter on, 92-120;
point of view, 93;
“truth not painting,” 95;
artist’s vision, 96;
color, 97, 98;
impressionism, 100;
study of light, 100;
early life, 101, 102;
friendship with king, 103;
first visit to Italy, 103;
first period, 103, 104;
Aposentador Mayor, 104;
second period, 105;
second visit to Italy, 105;
Marshal of the Palace, 105;
third period, 105, 106;
death, 106;
alteration of canvases, 110;
neglect of, 120, 121;
pictures copied by Mazo, 122;
interest in landscape, 126;
compared with Goya, 181;
pictures by--first period:
_Surrender of Breda_, 103, 104, 111;
_Forge of Vulcan_, 103, 108;
_Joseph’s Coat_, 103;
_Villa Medici_, 103;
_Adoration of the Shepherds_, 107;
_Adoration of the Kings_, 107;
_Lady with the Fan_, 107;
_Los Borrachos_, 107;
_Expulsion of the Morescoes_, 111;
_Doña Maria_, 103;
_Philip IV, Young_, 107. Second period:
_Christ at the Pillar_, 105;
_Sculptor Montañés_, 105;
_Don Juan de Austria_, 105;
_Don Baltasar Carlos_, 98;
_Equestrian Portraits of Philip IV_, 105, 109;
_Don Baltasar Carlos_, 105, 109;
_Count Olivares_, 105, 108, 109;
_Sportsman Portraits of Philip IV_, 105, 113, 122;
_Don Baltasar Carlos_, 105, 113;
_Don Fernando de Austria_, 105, 113.
Third Period:
_S. Antony Visiting S. Paul_, 105;
_Las Hilanderas_, 105, 116;
_Venus_, 116;
_Æsopus_, 106;
_Mœnippus_, 106;
_The God Mars_, 106;
_The Dwarf Antonio El Inglese_, 106;
_Las Meniñas_, 95, 105, 108, 116, 119;
_Pope Innocent X_, 93, 105, 123;
_Queen Mariana_, 105;
_Doña Maria Teresa_, 105;
_La Infanta Doña Margarita Maria_, 105;
_Philip IV, Old_, 97, 105;
_Cristobal de Pernía_, 106
Velasquez, Geronimo, 102
Velasquez, Ignacia and Francisca, 102, 121
Velez de Guevara, 18
Venice, 51, 66, 74
_Venus_ [Velasquez], 105, 116
Vermeer, Jan, 126
Veronese, 121
_View of Buen Retiro_ [Mazo], 128
_View of Delft_ [Vermeer], 126
_View of the Arch of Titus_ [Mazo], 126
_View of Zaragoza_ [Mazo], 127
_Villa Medici_ [Velasquez], 103, 126
Vinci, Da, 45, 49, 99
_Virgin and Saints, The_ [El Greco], 87
_Virgin Blessing Various Monks, The_ [Zurbarán], 168
_Virgin Caressing the Infant Jesus_ [Morales], 50
Visigoths, 8
_Vision of Ezekiel_ [Collantes], 59
_Vista of Toledo_ [El Greco], 71
_Vocation of S. Matthew_ [Pareja], 58
W
Wallace collection, 104
_Weavers, The_, 105, 116
Weiss, Madame, 187
Wellington, Duke of, 23, 186
Weyden, Roger van der, 42
Whistler, 120
X
Ximenes de Cisneros, Cardinal, 13
Z
Zamacois, Edoardo, 192
Zaragoza, 173
Zegri, 11
Zucchero, Frederico, 52
Zuloaga, Ignacio, 65, 89, 192
Zurbarán, Francisco de, 44, 65, 146;
life, 165;
sympathy with monastic life, 166;
death, 169;
pictures by:
_Apotheosis of S. Thomas Aquinas_, 166;
_Virgin Blessing Various Monks_, 168;
_Miracle of S. Hugo_, 169
*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Story of Spanish Painting" ***
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