The Black Paintings

Recently, Artnet headlined a story about the “dark paintings” of Goya.  Since I’m obsessed with Goya, I eagerly read the article, only to be disappointed because they only addressed two of the fourteen paintings.  This blog post corrects that egregious error.

The “Black Paintings” is a series of fourteen paintings created by Goya between roughly 1819 and 1823.  They were not painted on canvas originally, but directly on the walls of his private house—a rural villa outside Madrid called Quinta del Sordo (“House of the Deaf Man”).   Goya never intended them for public display (in fact, he never intended for them to be seen at all): they were deeply personal, private, almost confessional. 

Fifty years after his death (around 1873-1874), the murals were removed—rather clumsily—from the walls, were mounted on canvas, and were eventually donated to the Spanish state.  Today they are housed in the Museo del Prado in Madrid.

Because of their dark palette, somber mood, grotesque images, and bleak emotional tone, they became known as the “Black Paintings”.

Goya was born in 1746 and had a long, successful career as a court painter, portraitist, and official artist for Spanish royalty.   After the long period of political upheaval in Spain and personal upheaval in Goya’s life—which included war, social turmoil, repression under absolutist rule, the death of his wife, betrayal of liberal hopes—Goya grew increasingly disillusioned.  His optimism faded and was replaced by deep cynicism and a bleak view of humanity.   An artist famous for his satire became increasingly angry and depressed.

In 1819, he bought the rural villa, Quinta del Sordo.  His growing isolation, physical decline, deafness, and emotional despair seem to have catalyzed a radical shift in his art.  The Black Paintings arose out of that isolation—uncommissioned, spontaneous, and deeply personal.  Goya was no longer constrained by having to fulfill courtly commissions, by bowing to public taste, or by valuing opinions of fellow artists.  He painted for himself, trying to exorcise the monsters from within.

The Black Paintings are radically different from the bright, elegant portraits and classical commissions that made Goya famous.  Instead, these paintings are bleak, raw, expressionistic, terrifying images painted with mostly black or dark earth tones—like ochres and grays—minimal color, dramatic use of light and shadow, with an often murky or ambiguous background, giving the viewer the feeling of viewing a nightmare.

Unlike Goya’s usual works, the brushwork uses broad expressive, sometimes thick impasto or even spatula work; with less refined portraiture and more raw distortions, the paintings seem precursors to the later works of Expressionism of the 20^th Century.

It’s easy to see why the Artnet article didn’t attempt to cover all of Goya’s Black Paintings.  Beyond the practical need to keep a short piece from swelling into a full book chapter, the subjects themselves are a minefield: madness, death, despair, horror, fear, cruelty, the savagery of war, betrayal, superstition, rural terrors, demonic apparitions, and grotesque monsters.  Many of the scenes resist any comfortable interpretation, drifting somewhere between half-remembered myth and raw, bone-deep loneliness.

Okay, before we look at the paintings, there are several things you should know in advance.  First, if you click on a picture, you should be able to see a larger image.  Second, Goya did not name any of the paintings—the names were added later by “experts” who knew no more about what the paintings meant than you or I.  And last and most importantly, there is no official interpretation of any of the paintings, if you think I’m wrong in my interpretations, you may be right.  Remember, I’m just a poor dumb ‘ol country boy.

Saturn Devouring His Son.  Goya’s Saturn Devouring His Son is the sort of painting you get when an 18th-century Enlightenment intellectual decides he’s officially done with optimism.  Saturn, the mythological Titan who ate his children to avoid being overthrown, is shown here mid-snack with all the grace and charm of a man on a diet caught raiding the fridge at 3 a.m.  His eyes bulge with the intensity of someone who knows this is wrong but also knows he’s too far in to stop.  The chiaroscuro is dramatic, the horror is palpable, and Saturn himself looks like a crossover between a cave troll and a man discovering—too late—that his meal is undercooked.

Art historians often interpret this as Goya meditating on the violence of political power, but one suspects Goya was also muttering “This is what ruling Spain feels like” under his breath.  The savagery is so unfiltered that the painting doubles as a warning label for aspiring tyrants: govern carefully, or you’ll wind up looking like this.  Saturn’s child, meanwhile, has the resigned limpness of someone who didn’t expect to be eaten on a weekday.

Let’s be honest: this painting is the undisputed grandfather of modern horror imagery.  Every metal album cover, every nightmare-fueled canvas, every movie monster that looks like it hasn’t slept since the Reign of Terror owes a debt to Goya’s decision to take classical mythology and strip it of every comforting illusion.  The result is one of the most viscerally unsettling depictions of paternal instinct in all of art—so disturbing that even the Prado hangs it with the air of, “Yes, it’s here.  No, we’re not discussing it further.”

Witches’ Sabbath (The Great He-Goat).  This work is basically a corporate retreat gone to hell—literally.  A giant sinister goat presides over a group of witches who look like they came for snacks but stayed for the existential dread.  Everyone in the crowd has the hunched, fatigued posture of people who have spent far too long listening to a PowerPoint presentation about eternal damnation.  The goat, meanwhile, radiates the smug energy of a manager who knows he’s untouchable.

The whole scene is a magnificent mashup of superstition, satire, and “this meeting could have been avoided entirely if Spain weren’t spiritually exhausted.” Goya turns a satanic ritual into a painfully accurate depiction of any large bureaucratic gathering.

On the other hand, it might just be a faculty meeting.

Leocadia.  Leocadia stands wearing what can only be described as the 1820s version of “I’m exhausted, don’t test me.”  Her dark dress and mournful pose give the impression that she has not only buried someone recently, but also her patience, her hopes, and possibly several disappointing men.  She leans against a mound that may be a grave or may simply be an emotional metaphor Goya painted to avoid answering questions.

Her expression captures the mood of a woman who has seen too much, knows too much, and will absolutely spill the tea if pushed.  It’s one of the quieter Black Paintings, but its atmosphere is so thick you could spread it on toast.

Two Old Men.  Here we meet two elderly gentlemen locked in the eternal struggle of one man who wants to talk and another who desperately regrets being within earshot.  The shouting old man appears convinced he is delivering profound wisdom; his companion’s expression suggests he is hearing the same story for the 400th time and is actively planning a murder.

Goya renders the scene with the bone-deep understanding of someone who has been cornered at a party by a talker and never forgot the trauma.  The mood is grim, but also quietly hilarious in its accuracy.

Two Old Men Eating Soup.  This is the culinary sequel nobody requested.  One old man leans over his bowl with the ravenous intensity of someone who hasn’t eaten since Napoleon invaded; the other appears to be staring at the soup as if contemplating the futility of human existence.  Together, they turn a simple meal into a meditation on mortality, discomfort, and whatever was in that broth.

It is one of the most unintentionally funny of the Black Paintings — an unfiltered snapshot of what every cafeteria looks like ten minutes before closing.  Personally, I think the second man is waiting for the poison to work and spare him from the garrulous stories of the first man.

Atropos (The Fates).  The three mythological Fates drift through the air like a morbid girl group touring with themes of destiny, doom, and questionable fashion choices.  One holds scissors to cut the thread of life; another clutches a scroll; a third looks bored, possibly because she’s seen this same tragedy play out repeatedly since the dawn of time.

The painting is beautifully bleak, showing humanity’s helplessness in the cosmic bureaucracy.  Even the prisoner floating with them looks like he’s thinking, “Of course this is happening today.”

Fight with Cudgels.  Two men whack each other with massive clubs while slowly sinking into the earth—an image so apt that modern viewers tend to assume it’s metaphorical even though it wasn’t meant to be.  Their furious expressions suggest they would rather drown than stop hitting one another, which is exactly what they are achieving.

It’s the perfect visual summary of political conflict, Facebook arguments, and 90% of human history.  I think of this painting every time I see a presidential debate.

Men Reading.  This gathering of grim-faced readers looks like a committee attempting to understand a disastrous government report.  Their collective expression is one of dawning horror mixed with a bureaucratic obligation to pretend they understand what they’re reading.

One man leans forward, as if hoping that reading the document again will make it make sense.  Spoiler: it won’t.

Art historians usually assume that the men are politicians reading a newspaper article about themselves.  That would explain the growing look of dismay.

Women Laughing.  Two women mock a third figure (likely a foolish man), and they do it with the unrestrained delight of friends who have gathered specifically for the purpose of mocking someone.  Their laughter is sharp enough to peel paint, and Goya captures the moment with uncanny psychological realism.

It’s the 19th-century version of a viral meme roasting someone who had it coming.

Many art historians believe the painting deals with masturbation, an idea that tells us much more about the art historians than the painting. 

Procession of the Holy Office.  Imagine a religious procession where every participant has realized, halfway through, that their shoes are too small and the sun is too hot.  No one looks happy to be there; even the devout appear to be reconsidering their life choices.

Goya turns what should be a pious parade into a study of exhaustion, discomfort, and the eternal human ability to look deeply annoyed in public.

Goya lost all illusions about the Church after Napoleon invanded Spain.  While the peasants of Spain openly rebelled, the church hierarchy of Spain eagerly accepted the presence of French troops. 

Pilgrimage to San Isidro.  This crowd resembles a 3 a.m. festival gathering: dazed, off balance, somewhat intoxicated, and not entirely sure why they are walking.  The faces range from blissful delirium to confused dread—a perfect snapshot of religious mania or a music festival, depending on your preference.

If you’ve ever left a concert while dehydrated and spiritually uncertain, you’ve lived this painting. 

Judith and Holofernes.  To understand the painting, you must know biblical story of Judith and Holofernes, basically the ancient world’s most dramatic lesson in “don’t underestimate a determined woman.”

Holofernes, an Assyrian general with more ego than sense, besieges Judith’s town.  Judith, a brilliant widow with excellent hair and zero patience, decides she’s had enough.  She sashays into his camp pretending to flirt, and Holofernes — thinking this is going to be the best night of his life — gets so drunk he can’t stand up.  Judith then calmly picks up his own sword, solves the military crisis by removing his head, and strolls back home with it in a bag like she’s returning from the world’s strangest farmer’s market.  The Assyrian army panics, Judith becomes a hero, and Holofernes becomes a cautionary tale about mixing alcohol, arrogance, and underestimating your date.

In the painting, Judith stands triumphantly after decapitating Holofernes, but Goya — classy man that he is—leaves the gore offstage.  Instead, we get Judith holding a sword like someone who has just finished an unpleasant household task, and her maid looking on with the weary expression of a woman who has helped Judith dispose of bodies before.

This is the biblical story retold by someone who has zero interest in glamour and every interest in moral ambiguity.

Asmodea (Asmodeus).  Two airborne figures drift over a barren landscape, pointing toward something ominous.  They look like confused tourists who have taken a wrong turn on a flying bus.  Below them, villagers panic because—well, wouldn’t you?

The painting is eerie, dreamlike, and slightly comedic: hellish dread mixed with mild directional confusion.   This is probably a good time to remind you that Goya did not intend for these paintings to be seen by the public, that he did not name them, nor ever explain them. 

To me, the mountain in the background resembles Gibraltar.  During the Peninsular War while the French had invaded Spain, many Spaniards sought asylum in British Gibraltar.  In the background, we can see the troops of Napoleon.

The Dog.  A tiny dog pokes its head above a vast slope of emptiness, staring upward with the expression of someone who has absolutely no idea what is happening but is certain it isn’t good.  It’s the perfect depiction of anxiety, vulnerability, and the universal canine hope that someone will eventually bring snacks.

Critics have written volumes on its emotional depth; is the dog sinking in quicksand, is the dog looking skyward for divine intervention, does the looming sky intensify the dogs feeling of isolation….

No one knows.  The dog himself probably just wanted attention.

Educatio Interretiālis Delenda Est

Address to the Regents of Enema U by Marcus Porcus Magnus Cato, College Professor of Eternal Annoyance

Regents, honored guests, and those who wandered in here mistaking this for the free-coffee room, I rise today with a matter so urgent, so grave, so corrosive to the very soul of learning, that I must speak plainly.
Perhaps too plainly for some.

Ergo, educatio interretiālis delenda est.  (Distance education must be destroyed.)

Yes, yes — I hear your murmurs.  “Cato, this is the budget meeting.”
“Cato, we’re discussing parking policy.”  “Cato, the cheese has slid off your panis.”  “Cato, please stop using the lectern as a siege engine.”

But I tell you, Regents: while you squabble about parking lots, renovations, consultant fees, and the sixth rebranding of this institution in ten years…

Behold!  At the gates stands our true enemy — a shapeless, digital barbarian, armed not with swords but with discussion boards.

Educatio interretiālis.  (Distance education.)

Hear me, Regents, every issue we face — enrollment, retention, adjunct salaries that would embarrass a Roman slave market — ALL of them pale beside the looming shadow of the Carthaginian menace that is distance education.

Consider Canvas.  You ask why it crashes during finals week.  I ask: Have you checked for Punic sabotage?

Consider our latest strategic plan — the one written by fourteen consultants over eighteen months.  Impressive? No.  Not until we inscribe at its heart the timeless directive:

Ergo, educatio interretiālis delenda est.  (Distance education must be destroyed.)

Regents! We cannot move forward while that ancient foe — symbolic, metaphorical, possibly located in Facilities & Services — remains standing.

You ask me, “Professor Cato, what exactly is Carthage?”  Is it administrative bloat?  Is it the parking garage that has been under construction since the Peloponnesian War?  Is it the HVAC system in Breland Hall, which wheezes like a dying centurion?

Yes.  It is all of these and the specter that destroys all of education.  Distance education — in every form — must be destroyed.

Consider, Regents:  You say, “Students are busy!  Students have jobs!”  But I say: So did Roman legionaries, and they still managed to attend lectures, build aqueducts, and conquer Gaul in their free time.

You say, “Online classes create flexibility.”  I say: So does a circus contortionist, and no one asks him to teach Western Civ.

You say, “Enrollment increases with online options.  I say: Yes, but so does plagiarism, ghostwriting, and Canvas messages that begin with. “Hey prof, I didn’t know the class had started.”

In my day, Regents, learning required:  A classroom, a teacher, and scrolls.  Now students attend on their phones while driving.  Papers appear that are clearly written by a chatbot trained on the collective works of simpletons.  Half the class takes exams from the Starbucks parking lot.

This is not education.  This is academic DoorDash.

When I gaze upon this thing you call Zoom, I tremble — not from fear, but from disgust.  Shall I now teach the youth of New Mexico not with scrolls, nor with voice, nor with the piercing glare that once cowed senators and barbarians alike — but through a tiny square on a flickering screen?

Behold the horrors:

·       Students appear as shadows, ghosts, or black rectangles that speak only when startled.

·       Half the class arrives unwashed, unshaven, and still horizontal but say their camera does not work to veil the truth.

·       Their microphones carry every dog, blender, toddler, and leaf blower within three miles.

·       And when they say, “Sorry, my Wi-Fi dropped,” the lie is so obvious the very Lares and Penates turn away in shame.

Regents, this is not discourse.  This is not education.  This is a séance conducted by incompetents.

Therefore I declare:

Zoom, delendum est.  (Zoom must be destroyed.)

Regents, open your eyes!

Have you not witnessed the spectacle of Canvas Discussions?  It is a gladiatorial arena where the dull, the desperate, and the half-awake are thrown to the lions of Participation Requirements.

Behold the scene:

·       The first student enters the arena, posting: “Great point! I totally agree!” — a thrust so weak that even the most timid Gaul would laugh.

·       Another follows with the dread phrase: “Interesting, but have you considered…?” A feint copied from the previous week’s battle.

·       A third, late to the combat, posts five replies in rapid succession, each identical:  “Yes. Also, Carthage must be destroyed.”  (In this case, I approve the sentiment.)

The instructor demands “substantial engagement.”  But these are not gladiators — they are tourists who wandered into the Colosseum expecting a gift shop.

Canvas discussions do not sharpen minds.  They do not spark rhetoric.  They do not forge scholars.  They produce only misery, procrastination, and the hollow echo of forced enthusiasm.

Therefore, Regents, I proclaim:  Canvasianos ludos delendos esse.  (The Canvas Games must be destroyed.)

Therefore, I propose:  Not moderation.  Not discussion.  Not another subcommittee that will take eighteen months to say nothing.

No.

I proclaim, in the manner of my ancestors:  Educatio interretiālis delenda est.  (Distance education must be destroyed.)

Remove it root and branch, like a Carthaginian vineyard.  Strike it from the catalog, the curriculum, the very course schedule.  Let the ash of its passing fertilize the fields of real pedagogy.

You propose asynchronous learning.  Learning without time.  Classes without classes.  Students without presence.  Responsibility without accountability.

You say it “empowers the learner.”  I say it “empowers the slothful.”

You say it allows students to study at any hour.  I say it allows them to study at no hour.

You promise that modules, videos, and quizzes will guide their minds.  But I say to you:  “Nemo discit dormiens.”  (No one learns while asleep.)

And yet behold!  In asynchronous classes, entire assignments are submitted within thirty seconds of opening.  Students submit ChatGPT essays at 3:04 a.m. with the desperation of a gladiator cornered by lions.  And the discussion boards?  Dead seas filled with forced pleasantries and hastily copied Google results.

Regents, the Faculty Senate has heard enough.

I conclude, as I always conclude, as I shall conclude at commencement, at convocation, at the ribbon-cutting for the new Taco Bell on campus.

Disciplina asynchrona delenda est.  (Asynchronous learning must be destroyed.)

And consider, Regents, the matter of the Library — our proud intellectual armory, our fortress of scrolls, our last bulwark against ignorance.  Even students on campus barely enter it; they know its location only because they must walk around it to reach the Forum cafeteria.  To them it is not a treasury of wisdom, but a geographic inconvenience on the way to chili cheese fries.

But what of the online student — the wanderer of the digital wastes, the one who never sets foot upon our campus at all?  He does not walk around the Library; he does not even know it exists. He cannot smell its books, hear its silence, or glimpse the stern busts of philosophers watching him with disappointment.

Regents, what is a university when its students never cross the threshold of its Library?  It is a school without a soul. It’s a Republic without a Senate. It’s a Rome without Rome.

Whether we speak of Zoom, of asynchronous treacheries, or of the accursed Games of Canvas, I end as I always end:

Ceterum censeo educationem interretiālem esse delendam.  (Moreover, I am of the firm opinion that distance education must be destroyed.)

Thank you.  Please validate my chariot’s parking pass.

Armed Services Edition

The biggest book giveaway program in history is Dolly Parton’s Imagination Library.  To date, it has given children under the age of five an incredible 270 million books—but she is giving books away so fast that by now I’m sure that number is incorrect.  Dolly has been offered and declined the Presidential Medal of Freedom three times—twice by Trump and once by Biden.  Until we think of an even higher award to give her, perhaps you might think of donating to her program. 

Now that we have given Dolly a much-deserved plug, I can tell you about the largest giveaway program of adult books in history—the Armed Services Edition program that ran from 1943 to 1947.  Over 123 million books in 1,324 different titles were provided to the American troops fighting World War II.  This program was so successful in so many ways that I doubt that I can fit them into just one little blog post.

World War II began in 1939, and though America tried to stay out of the conflict, we knew we were eventually going to be dragged in—it was about as inevitable as a New Mexico heat wave.  The draft came back in 1940, and suddenly millions of young American men were shipped to remote training camps, where the entertainment included drilling, KP duty, and trying to figure out how to play poker with no money.  The Army asked Americans to donate books, but quickly discovered that people were sending in everything from tax law treatises to 800-page family Bibles with genealogies going back to Noah.  Worse, the books were heavy hardbacks.  Soldiers didn’t have room in their packs for a 900-page biography of Rutherford B. Hayes.

So the military created the Council on Books in Wartime, a nonprofit collaboration of the Army, Navy, seventy major publishers, and a dozen printing houses. Their job?  To create lightweight, disposable books that American soldiers could carry and read anywhere—from a hammock in the South Pacific, to a foxhole in Belgium, to the latrine outside Camp Who-Knows-Where.

The books were visually different from the average paperback:  they were wider than they were tall, roughly 6.5” wide by 4.5” tall—a shape designed to be both easier to read while lying in a foxhole or hammock and easier to fit into a cargo pocket.  The books were designed to last only long enough for one or two readings, and they were printed on high acid, thin paper, usually in two colors.  To facilitate printing, two different books were printed, one on top of the other, then the two volumes were cut apart.

The range of books was impressive.  Fiction included books by Twain, Hemingway, Agatha Christie, Dashiell Hammett, and Steinbeck.  Nonfiction tackled history, psychology, economics, biography, and travel.  Some books that were banned in American libraries were shipped freely to soldiers overseas—apparently, the War Department decided the fight for democracy included the right to read something occasionally spicy.  The program’s official motto was, “Books Are Weapons in the War of Ideas.”  If that’s true, then a few of the ASE titles were probably classified as “weapons of mass distraction”.

Troops loved these books….Really loved them!  These books were read on troop transports, on submarines, in field hospitals, in foxholes, and even—with the grudging permission of camp guards—in POW camps. Some veterans claimed an ASE book was the only thing keeping them sane.  A few soldiers reportedly risked their lives to save an unfinished book during enemy attacks.  (I have students who won’t risk walking across the room to save a textbook.)

The book programs had a tremendous, unexpected post-war benefit.  Book publishers said that many of the soldiers who had never read a book before the war became new customers after the war, with the number of books purchased expanding after the war.  This, in turn, had a positive effect on the GI-Bill education explosion, with many veterans had never read literature before the war; ASEs convinced them they could succeed in college.

It is not an exaggeration to say that the program was a cultural revolution that transformed American reading habits.  At the same time, some major authors became nationally famous, especially Betty Smith (A Tree Grows in Brooklyn), John Steinbeck, and F. Scott Fitzgerald.

How popular were the books?  Soldiers requested the books more often than cigarettes.  There were several documented cases where soldiers risked their lives to save an unfinished book.  General Eisenhower wrote that the ASE program was “as important as any arms shipment.”

Today, the books are hard to find, mainly the fault of the way they were printed:   the high acid paper literally falls apart over time.  And the books were bound in a style that is called “perfect binding” (primarily because it is far from perfect).  The “perfect” refers to the “uniformly” straight edges of the paper—not that the binding was any better.  The pages were glued in, and the books usually fell apart after a couple of readings.  Printers refer to it as “imperfect binding” or “temporary binding.”

As the books’ glue dried, the spines cracked and soldiers often tore their books in half, so that two men could read the same book at once.  Most surviving copies look like they’ve spent years in a foxhole—which many of them did.  If you find one in a used bookstore, it will usually be held together with a rubber band and priced around ten bucks, which is a bargain for an artifact that has survived artillery fire, monsoons, malaria, and the U.S. Postal Service.

If these fragile, little old books could talk, they’d probably tell stories that are even better than the ones printed inside, but either way, they’d be worth listening to.

Just like Dolly…Only with fewer sequins.

Goya: Court Painter or Court Roaster?

If portraiture has a single unwritten law, it is this: the sitter must always appear handsome (or beautiful), intelligent, and possessed of great dignity.  This is simple common sense.  No one wrinkled enough to hold an eight-day rain wants to pay good money to have that image permanently recorded in oil.  In art (as in life), too much honesty can be ruinous.  Portraying folks too realistically is bad for business.

History is full of cautionary, confirmatory tales.  John Singer Sargent was all but exiled from Paris society after unveiling his portrait of Madame X.  Graham Sutherland’s portrait of Winston Churchill was despised by the prime minister and was later burned by Churchill’s wife.  Gilbert Stuart—whose Washington portrait is seen everywhere from classrooms to currency—lost the goodwill of early Americans after painting an unflinchingly accurate likeness of President John Adams.  Adams complained that the picture “has in it more of me than I quite like,” which may be the most polite way any man has ever said, “Good God, do I really look like that?”

Of course, the opposite problem could be just as dangerous.  Hans Holbein nearly lost his head after painting a flattering portrait of Anne of Cleves—so flattering that Henry VIII agreed to marry her, sight unseen.  When the king finally met Anne in person, he suspected fraud.  Holbein escaped prison only because Thomas Cromwell took the blame, and Cromwell (as was common with those who displeased Henry) eventually came to a far worse end.

Nowhere was flattery more desperately needed than in the case of Charles II of Spain, the last Habsburg ruler.  Claudio Coello’s official portrait tries valiantly to disguise the tragic results of centuries of royal inbreeding.  (Charles would have been less inbred if his parents had only been brother and sister.). If you compare it with a modern AI reconstruction, it’s painfully clear which image belongs in a museum and which belongs in a medical textbook.  The computer may actually be too kind.

 But to understand how royal portraiture could range from reverence to near-satire, we have to consider the two greatest group portraits in Spanish art: Velázquez’s Las Meninas (1656) and Goya’s Family of Charles IV (1800).  These two canvases—separated by 145 years—show not only different artistic temperaments, but two radically different worlds.

Velázquez painted at the height of Habsburg prestige.  Though Spain was beginning its long decline, the court still radiated majesty, ritual, and unshakable self-confidence.  Las Meninas reflects that atmosphere perfectly: elegant, mysterious, and composed with almost mathematical sophistication. (Click on the pictures for a larger image.)

Velázquez stands at his easel, and he’s calm, dignified, and almost aristocratic.  He wears the cross of the Order of Santiago, either painted later or anticipated by Velázquez himself.  His placement asserts the intellectual and social elevation of the artist.  He becomes nearly equal to the royal sitters, if not superior in subtle ways.

The Infanta Margarita stands bathed in soft light, attended by ladies-in-waiting, dwarfs, and a dog—all rendered with extraordinary dignity.  Velázquez elevates everyone.  Even those marginal to the court’s hierarchy are painted as individuals, not court amusements.  Las Meninas is portraiture as philosophy—the world ordered, luminous, and serene.

Goya painted the Bourbon monarchy in an entirely different Spain: one that was stagnant, anxious, and rattled by the aftershocks of the French Revolution.  Charles IV’s government depended increasingly on Manuel Godoy, the “Prince of Peace,” a court favorite whose influence far outstripped his abilities—and whose relationship with Queen María Luisa caused endless gossip.

Under such conditions, the conventions of royal portraiture begin to crack.  Goya’s Family of Charles IV is often called “the greatest group portrait since Las Meninas,” and it is—but with a decidedly sharper edge.

Where Velázquez stands tall and highly visible, Goya tucks himself into the dim left background, half-hidden, observant, and possibly judging.  His presence is subdued, almost ghostly.  The court he paints lacks the self-assured elegance of the Habsburgs.  Instead, his royals are arranged stiffly, awkwardly, like a family summoned for an emergency group photograph at the DMV.

Charles IV appears ruddy and mild-mannered, almost bovine in his gentleness.  María Luisa dominates the composition, larger, brighter, and forcefully present—precisely the impression foreign diplomats often recorded.  Goya didn’t invent the rumors about her alleged affair with Godoy:  he merely arranges the composition in a way that makes those whispers audible.

The princes and princesses are rendered honestly, without flattery.  No heroic light, no idealized profiles, no softened imperfections.  Goya paints people, not symbols (and in a royal portrait, that alone is subversive).

Goya was a court painter, meaning that his livelihood—and possibly his life—depended on royal favor.  He could not openly caricature the monarchy…But he didn’t need to do so:  Simply painting the royal family as they truly appeared was daring enough. His contemporaries would have caught every implication.

In the stiff poses, the theatrical lighting, the cluttered composition, and the glaring power dynamics, Goya offers a portrait of a dynasty pretending to be what it no longer is and probably never was.  Where Velázquez gives us natural majesty, Goya gives us the stage set of majesty—with the backstage ropes showing.

This is as close to open satire as a court painter could safely venture, and the miracle is that not only did Goya survive the experience, but he produced one of the most psychologically rich royal portraits in European art. 

Inevitably, we have to ask, “Is Goya laughing at them?”

Goya isn’t laughing at them in the way a caricaturist or political cartoonist would—but he is letting the viewer laugh—just a little—at the gap between how the Bourbons wished to appear and what they actually were.

He never crosses the line into open mockery (he valued his head too much for that), but he paints with a knowing eye…with the eye of a man who has seen too much of court life to believe in its pretensions.  His brush records every awkward truth:  Charles IV’s mild bewilderment, María Luisa’s dominating presence, the ill-arranged cluster of overdressed royals (who look more like actors in a provincial theater troupe than the heirs of the Spanish Empire).

So is Goya “laughing”?

Quietly and privately—yes.

Not with a grin, nor with a snicker, but with the wry, weary amusement of a court painter who has learned that truth sometimes mocks power simply by being shown.  His satire is not a joke at their expense:  it is the gentle, devastating humor of honesty without malice.