Velázquez (1599-1660)

For 35 years, Diego Velázquez (pron: vel-LAHS-kes) was the king of Spain’s court painters. Scan the room and you’ll see portraits in a realistic, down-to-earth style. While El Greco and other Spanish artists painted crucifixions, saints, and madonnas, Velázquez painted what his boss, the king, told him to — mostly portraits.

Unlike the wandering, independent El Greco, Velázquez was definitely a career man. Born in Sevilla, apprenticed early on, he married the master’s daughter, moved to Madrid, impressed the king with his skill, and worked his way up the ladder at the king’s court. He became the king’s friend and art teacher and, eventually, was knighted.

What’s amazing in this tale of ambition is that, as a painter, Velázquez never compromised. He was the photojournalist of his time, chronicling court events for posterity.
Velázquez — The Maids of Honor (Las Meninas)
The Maids of Honor

Velázquez has made the perfect blend of formal portrait and candid intimate snapshot. It’s a painting about the painting of a portrait. Here’s what we’re seeing:

One hot summer day in 1656, Velázquez (at left) with brush in hand and looking like Salvador Dalí (which is a little like saying that Jesus looked like John Lennon) is painting a formal portrait of King Phillip and his wife. Velazquez stares out at the people he’s painting — they would be standing where we are, and we see only their reflection in the mirror at the back of the room.

Their daughter, the Infanta Margarita (the main figure in the center), has come to watch her parents being painted. With her are her two attendants (meninas, or girls), one of whom is kneeling, offering her a cool glass of water. Also in the picture is the young court jester (far right) poking impishly at the family dog. A female dwarf looks on, as do others in the background. Also, at that very moment, a member of court is passing by the doorway in the distance on his way upstairs, and he, too, looks in on the progress of the portrait.

Velázquez knew that the really interesting portrait wasn’t the king and queen, but the action behind the scenes. We’re sucked right in by the naturalness of the scene and because the characters are looking right at us. This is true Spanish history, and Velázquez the journalist (who is shown wearing the red cross of knighthood, painted on after his death — possibly by Phillip IV himself) has told us more about this royal family than have volumes of history books.

The scene is lit by the window at right. Using gradations of light, Velázquez has split the room into five receding planes: (1) the king and queen, standing where we are; (2) the main figures, lit by the window; (3) the darker middle distance figures (including Velázquez); (4) the black wall; and (5) the lit doorway. We are drawn into the painting, living and breathing with its characters, free to walk behind them, around them, and among them. This is art come to life.

* Next to The Maids of Honor, look for…

Velázquez — Jester Portraits (Bufones)

In royal courts, dwarfs were given the job of entertaining the nobles. But some also had a more important task — social satire. They alone were given free rein to say anything they wanted about the king, however biting, nasty, or — worst of all — true. Consequently, these dwarfs were often the wittiest and most intelligent people at court, and Velázquez, who must have known them as colleagues, painted them with great dignity.
Velázquez — The Drinkers (Los Borrachos)

Velázquez’s objective eye even turns Greek gods into everyday folk. Here the Greek god of wine crowns a drinker for his deeds of debauchery. But the focus isn’t the otherworldly Bacchus but his fellow, human merrymakers.

This isn’t a painting, it’s a Polaroid snapshot in a blue-collar bar. Look how natural the guy is next to Bacchus, grinning at us over the bowl of wine he’s offering — and the guy next to him, clambering to get into the picture and mugging for the camera! Velázquez was the master at making a carefully composed scene look spontaneous.

* You’ll find more work by Velázquez in Rooms 15 and 16. In Room 15.

Velázquez — Crucifixion (Cristo crucificado)

King Phillip IV was having an affair. He got caught and, being a good Christian king, was overcome with remorse. He commissioned this work to atone for his adulterous ways. (That’s Phillip, pious and kneeling, to the left of the crucifixion.)

Velázquez’s Crucifixion must have matched the repentant mood of his king (and friend). Christ’s head hangs down, humbly accepting His punishment.

Meditating on this Christ would truly be an act of agonizing penance. We see him straight from the front, no holds barred. Every detail is laid out, even down to the knots in the wood of the crossbar. And the dripping blood! We know how long Jesus has been hanging there by how long it must have taken for that blood to drip ever so slowly down.

* In Room 16, look for the following two paintings.

Velázquez — Prince Balthasar Carlos on Horseback (El Príncipe Baltasar Carlos, a caballo)

As court painter, this was exactly the kind of portrait Velázquez was called on to produce. The prince, age five, was the heir to the throne. But the charm of the painting is the contrast between the pose — the traditional equestrian pose of a powerful Roman conqueror — with the fact that this “conqueror” is only a cute, tiny tyke in a pink and gold suit. The seriousness on the prince’s face adds the crowning touch.

While pleasing his king, Velázquez was also starting a revolution in art. Stand back and look at the prince’s costume — remarkably detailed, right? Now move up closer — all that “remarkable detail” is nothing but messy splotches of pink and gold paint! In the past, artists painted details meticulously. But Velázquez learned how just a few dabs of colors on a canvas blend in the eye when seen at a distance to give the appearance of great detail. Two centuries later this technique would eventually be taken to its extreme by the Impressionists.
Velázquez — The Surrender of Breda (La Rendición de Breda)

Here’s another piece of artistic journalism, the Spanish victory over the Dutch after a long siege of Breda, a strongly fortified city. The scene has become famous as a model of fair play. The defeated Dutch general is offering the keys to the city to the victorious Spaniards. As he begins to kneel in humility, the Spanish conqueror restrains him — the war is over and there’s no need to rub salt in the wounds. The optimistic calm-after-the-battle mood is enhanced by the great open space highlighted by the 25 lances (the painting is often called “The Lances”) silhouetted against the sky.

* From the cool objectivity of Velázquez, enter the heat and passion of Spain’s religious art of the Counter-Reformation. Start with Room 17a.