Goya: Political Rebel
Goya — Nude Maja (La Maja Desnuda) and Clothed Maja (La Maja Vestida)

Goya remained at court because of his talent, not his political beliefs. or his morals. Rumor flew that he was fooling around with the beautiful, intelligent, and vivacious Duchess of Alba. Even more scandalous was a painting, supposedly of the Duchess in a less-than-devoutly-Catholic pose.

A maja was a hip working-class girl. Many of Goya’s early tapestries show royalty dressed in the garb of these colorful commoners. Here the Duchess has undressed as one.

The Nude Maja was a real shocker. Spanish kings enjoyed the sensual nudes of Titian and Rubens, but it was unheard of for a pious Spaniard to actually paint one. Goya incurred the wrath of the Inquisition, the Catholic court system that tried heretics and sinners. Tour guides explain that the painting caused such a stir that Goya dashed off another version with her clothes on. The quick brushwork is sloppier, perhaps because Goya was in a hurry, or because he was anxious to invent Impressionism. The two paintings may have been displayed in a double frame — the nude could be covered by sliding the clothed maja over it to hide it from Inquisitive minds that wanted to know.

Artistically, the nude is less a portrait than an idealized nude in the tradition (and reclining pose) of Titian’s Venus and the Organ Player. The pale body is highlighted by the cool green sheets, à la Titian, as well. Both paintings were locked away in obscurity, along with the Titians and Rubenses, until 1901.

* Return down the stairs. In Room 39, next to the stairs, you’ll find…

Goya — 2nd of May, 1808 and 3rd of May, 1808

Goya became a political radical, a believer in democracy in a world of kings. During his time, the American and French Revolutions put the fear of God in the medieval minds of Europe’s aristocracy. In retaliation, members of the aristocracy were determined to stamp out any trace of political liberalism.

Goya admired the French leader Napoleon, who fought for the democratic ideals of the French Revolution against the kings of Europe. But then Napoleon invaded Spain (1808), and Goya saw war firsthand. What he saw was not a heroic war liberating the Spaniards from the feudal yoke, but an oppressive, brutal, senseless war in which common Spaniards were the first to die.

The 2nd of May, 1808 and 3rd of May, 1808 show two bloody days of the war. On May 2, the common citizens of Madrid rebelled against the French invaders. With sticks, stones, and kitchen knives, they rallied in protest at Puerta del Sol, Madrid’s main square. The French sent in their fearsome Egyptian mercenary troops to quell the riot. Goya captures the hysterical tangle of bodies as the Egyptians wade through the dense crowd hacking away at the overmatched Madrilenos who have nowhere to run.

The next day the French began reprisals. They took suspected rebels to a nearby hill and began mercilessly executing them. The 3rd of May, 1808 is supposedly a tribute to those brave Spaniards who rebelled against the French, but it’s far from heroic. In fact, it’s anti-heroic, showing us the irrationality of war — an assembly line of death, with each victim toppling into a crumpled heap. They plea for mercy and get none. Those awaiting death bury their faces in their hands, unable to look at their falling companions. The central victim in luminous white spreads his arms Christ-like and asks, “Why are you doing this to us?”

Goya goes beyond sympathy for the victims. In this war, even the executioners are pawns in the game, only following orders without understanding why. The colorless firing squad, with guns perfectly level and feet perfectly in step, is a faceless machine of murder, cutting people down with all the compassion of a lawnmower. They bury their faces in their guns as though they, too, are unable to look their victims in the eye. This war is horrible, and what’s worse, the horror is pointless.

The violence is painted with equally violent techniques. There’s a strong prison-yard floodlight thrown on the main victim, focusing all our attention on his look of puzzled horror. The distorted features, the puddle of blood, the twisting bodies, the thick brushwork — all are features of the Romantic style that emphasized emotion over beauty. It all adds up to a vivid portrayal of the brutality of war. Like the victims, we ask, “How can one human being do this to another?”

Goya was disillusioned by the invasion led by his hero Napoleon. Added to this he began to go deaf. His wife died. To top it off, he was exiled as a political radical. Goya retreated from court life to his own private, quiet — and dark — world.

* To find the dark paintings, silently flagellate yourself, then go to Room 38.

Goya: Dark Stage

In 1819, Goya — deaf, widowed, and exiled — moved into a villa and began decorating it with his own oil paintings. The works were painted right on the walls of rooms in the villa, later transferred here.

You immediately see why these are the Dark Paintings — both in color and mood. They’re nightmarish scenes, scary and surreal, the inner visions of an embittered man smeared onto the walls as though finger-painted in blood.
Goya — The Witches’ Sabbath (El Aquelarre)

Dark forces convened continually in Goya’s dining room. This dark coven of crones swirls in a frenzy of black magic around a dark, Satanic goat in monk’s clothes who presides, priest-like, over the obscene rituals. The main witch, seated in front of the goat, is the very image of wild-eyed adoration, lust, and fear. (Notice the one noble lady sitting just to the right of center with her hands folded primly in her lap — “I thought this was a Tupperware party.”)
Goya — Saturn Devouring One of His Sons (Saturno)

Fearful that his sons would overthrow him as king of the gods, the Roman god Saturn ate them. Saturn was also known as Cronus, or Time, and this may be an allegory of how Time devours us all. Goya was a dying man in a dying, feudal world. The destructiveness of time is shown in all its horror by a man unafraid of the darker side.

* In Room 36…

Goya — Battle to the Death (Duelo a Garrotazos)

Two giants buried up to their knees, face to face, flail at each other with clubs. Neither can move, neither can run, neither dares rest or the other will finish him off. It’s a standoff between superpowers caught in a never-ending cycle of war. Can a truce be reached? It looks bleak. Is this really by the same artist who did the frilly Blind Man’s Bluff?

The Dark Paintings foreshadow 20th-century Surrealism with their dream images, and Expressionism with their thick smeared style and cynical outlook.

* And on that cheery note, we end our Prado tour.