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.