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Madrid's Prado Museum

The Prado Museum

The Prado (pron: PRAH-doh) is the greatest painting museum in the world. If you like art and you plan to be in Europe, a trip to Madrid is a must. In its glory days, the Spanish Empire was Europe's greatest, filling its coffers with gold from the New World and art from the Old. While there are some 3,000 paintings in the collection, we'll be selective, focusing on just the top 1,500 or so.

The Prado Expansion: The museum is currently undergoing an extensive expansion project that will create exhibit space for many works long hidden in storage. The first extension, inaugurated in 2007, was partially constructed in the cloister of the 15th-century San Jerónimos church. The spacious addition should house 18th- and 19th-century paintings (ask at the information desk) and serve as a concert space. Further additions in the works will provide space for sculpture and decorative arts.

This expansion, and any current special exhibits, may cause curators to jumble the museum's layout, making many of the directions to my self-guided tour inaccurate. Most likely, you'll enter the old building through the central Velázquez door, but that could change. Pick up a detailed map when you enter the museum, consider renting an audioguide, and enlist the help of a guard if you're unable to find a particular work of art. Most can point you in the right direction if you say, "¿Dónde está...?" and the painter's name as Españoled as you can (e.g., Titian is "Ticiano" and Bosch is "El Bosco").

Orientation

Cost: €6, free all day Sun, free anytime to those under 18.

Hours: Open Tue–Sun 9:00–20:00, closed Mon, last entry 30 min before closing. Most crowded on Sun. Lunchtime, from 14:00 to 16:00 is least crowded. The Murillo (south) entrance — at the end closest to the Atocha train station — often has shorter lines.

Getting there: It's located on Paseo del Prado, a 15-minute walk from Puerta del Sol; buses: #9, #10, #19, #27, #34, #45; Metro to Banco de España or Atocha stops and a 5-10-minute walk; for taxis (say "moo-SAY-oh del PRAH-doh") and insist on using the meter.

Information: €3 audioguide, tel. 913-302-800, http://museoprado.mcu.es.

Length of this tour: Three hours.

Cloakroom: Your bags will be scanned (just like at the airport) before you leave them at the free and mandatory baggage check (no water bottles allowed inside).

Photography: Allowed but no flash and no tripods.

Cuisine art: There's a cafeteria in the basement (at the Murillo end). For picnicking, the royal gardens are just south, and the huge, pleasant Retiro park is three blocks east.

Starring: Bosch, Goya, Titian, Velázquez, Dürer, El Greco.

New World Gold — Old World Art

Heaven and earth have always existed side by side in Spain — religion and war, Grand Inquisitors and cruel conquistadors, spirituality and sensuality, holiness and horniness. The Prado has a surprisingly worldly collection of paintings for a country in which the medieval Inquisition lasted up until modern times. But it's just this rich combination of worldly beauty and heavenly mysticism that is so typically Spanish.

Gold from newly discovered America bought the sparkling treasures of the Prado. Spain, the most powerful nation in Europe in the 1500s, was growing rich on her New World possessions just about the time of the world's greatest cultural heyday, the Renaissance.

The collection's strengths reflect the tastes of Spain's cultured kings from 1500 to 1800: (1) Italian Renaissance art (especially the lush and sensual Venetian art which was the rage of Europe); (2) Northern art from what was the Spanish Netherlands; and (3) their own Spanish court painters. This tour will concentrate on these three areas, with a special look at some individual artists who are especially well-represented: Velázquez, Goya, Titian, Rubens, El Greco, and Bosch.

Medieval Spanish Art

Spanish religious devotion and fanaticism are legendary. Look around. In this whole room, is there even one painting that isn't of saints or Bible stories? I found one once. It showed heretics being punished by the Inquisition during an auto-da-fé — a combination revival meeting and barbecue (coals provided, B.Y.O. sinner). An estimated 2,000 enemies of God were burned alive during the reign of one notorious Grand Inquisitor.

One reason for Spanish fanaticism is that they had to literally fight for their religion. It took centuries of fierce warfare (711-1492) for Spain's Christians to finally drive their Muslim rulers (the Moors) out. Later, in the Counter-Reformation (16th and early 17th century), Catholic Spain had to battle a new set of "infidels," the Protestant threat. The iron-strong Spanish faith was forged in the fires of those wars.

Italian Renaissance (1400-1600)

Modern Western civilization began in the prosperous Renaissance cities of Italy during the years 1400 to 1600. Florence, Rome, and Venice led the way out of the Gothic Middle Ages, building on the forgotten knowledge of ancient Rome and Greece.

Unlike the heaven-centered medieval artists, Renaissance artists gloried in the natural world and the human body. They painted things as realistically as possible. For the Italians, "realistic" meant "three-dimensional," and they set out to learn how to capture the 3-D world on a 2-D canvas.

Fra Angélico — The Annunciation (La Anunciación)

Fra Angelico combines medieval spirituality with Renaissance techniques. He himself was a monk of great piety (his nickname means "Angelic Brother") living in the heart of Renaissance Florence.

This is more like two separate paintings in one — medieval on the left, Renaissance on the right. On the left are Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden just after they've eaten the forbidden fruit. Scrawny and two-dimensional, they seem to float above the foliage. Eve folds her hands nervously, scrunching down, a weak sinner waiting for her punishment from an angry God. The message is medieval, as is the detail work in the flowers — a labor of love by a caring monk who was also a miniaturist. Also medieval are the series of storytelling scenes below illustrating events in the life of Mary for the illiterate faithful.

The Annunciation scene on the right is early Renaissance. The angel tells Mary she'll give birth to the Messiah, a realistic scene set under a three-dimensional porch. The message is upbeat and humanistic, with the angel bringing the news that her son will redeem sinful man from the Fall. (Is it good news to Mary? She doesn't look too thrilled.)

Still, the painting is flat by modern standards, and the study in depth perspective is crude. Aren't the receding bars of the porch's ceiling a bit off? And Mary's hands just aren't right, like washing the dishes with two left-hand rubber gloves. Notice the serene, spiritual atmosphere of the painting. There are no harsh shadows or strong light sources. Everything is bathed in a pristine, glowing, holy light. The only movement is the shaft of light shooting down from the hands of God, bringing redemption from the Fall, connecting the two halves of the painting and fusing medieval piety with Renaissance humanism.

Mantegna — Death of the Virgin (El Tránsito de la Virgen)

A pioneer of Renaissance 3-D, Andrea Mantegna (pron: mahn-TAYN-yah) creates a spacious setting, then peoples it with sculptural figures.

The dying mother of Christ is surrounded by statue-like apostles with plates on their heads and pots in their hands. The architectural setting is heroic and spacious. Follow the lines in the floor tiles and side columns. They converge toward the window, then seem to continue on to the far horizon in the lines of the bridge. This creates a subconscious feeling of almost infinite spaciousness, bringing a serenity to an otherwise tragic death scene. You can imagine Mary's soul leaving her body and floating easily out the window, disappearing into the infinite distance.

Raphael — Holy Family with a Lamb (Sagrada Familia del Cordero)

Raphael reproduced reality perfectly on a canvas, but also gave it harmony, geometry, and heroism that made it somehow more real than reality. Combining idealized beauty with down to-earth realism, he was the ultimate Renaissance painter.

Raphael (pron: roff-eye-ELL) was only 21 when he painted this. He learned Leonardo da Vinci's technique of sfumato, spreading a kind of hazy glow around the figures (this is the technique that gives the Mona Lisa her vague, mysterious smile). He also borrowed a Leonardo trademark technique — the three figures form a pyramid, with Joseph's head at the peak.

Raphael — Portrait of a Cardinal (El Cardenal)

Compare the idealized beauty of Holy Family with the stark realism of this gritty portrait of a no-nonsense man. Raphael captures not just his face, but his personality. He's cold, intelligent, detached, and somewhat cynical, the type of man who could become a cardinal at such a young age in the Renaissance Vatican's priest-eat-priest jungle of holy ambition.

Raphael — Christ Falls on the Way to Calvary (Caída en el Camino del Calvario)

Raphael puts it all together — the idealized grace of the Holy Family and the realism of Portrait of a Cardinal. Look at the detail on the muscular legs of the guy in yellow (at left) and the arms of Simon, who has come to help Jesus carry his cross. Then contrast that with the idealized beauty of the mourning women. When this painting was bought in 1661, it was the costliest in existence.

Raphael splits the canvas into two contrasting halves. Below the slanting line made by the crossbar is a scene of swirling passion — the sorrow of Christ and the women, the tangle of crowded bodies. Above it is open space and indifference — the bored soldiers and onlookers and the bleak hill in the background where Jesus is headed to be crucified.

Correggio — Don't Touch Me (Noli Me Tangere)

Raphael could paint idealized beauty, but this pushes sweetness to diabetic levels.

It's Easter morning and Jesus has just come back to life. One of his followers, Mary Magdalene, runs into him in the garden near the tomb. She's amazed and excited and reaches toward him. "Don't touch me!" (Noli me tangere) says Jesus (though he spoke neither English nor Latin).

The colors accentuate the emotion of the scene. Against the blue-green landscape, Mary Magdalene — the ex-prostitute in a fiery yellow dress and yellow hair — is hot to touch the cool Christ with his blue cloak and pale, radiant skin. The composition also accentuates the action. The painting's energy runs in a diagonal line up the rippling Mary, through Christ and his upstretched arm to heaven, where he will soon go.

Titian (c. 1490-1576)

Look around. What do you see? Flesh. Naked bodies in various poses; bright, lush, colorful scenes. Many scenes have "pagan" themes, but even the religious works are racier than anything we saw from the Florentine and Roman Renaissance.

Venice in 1500 was the richest city in Europe, the middleman in the lucrative trade between Europe and the Orient. Wealthy, cosmopolitan, and free, Venetians loved life's finer things — rich silks, beautiful people, jewels, banquets, music, wine, and impressive buildings — and Venetian painters enjoyed painting them in bright colors.

The chief Venetian was Titian (they rhyme). Titian (Tiziano in Spain) was possibly the most famous painter of his day — more famous than Raphael, Leonardo, and even Michelangelo. His reputation reached Spain, and he became the favorite portraitist for two kings, who bought many of his works.

Titian — Danae

In Greek mythology, Zeus, the king of the gods, was always zooming to earth in the form of some creature or other to fool around with mortal women. Here, he descends as a shower of gold to consort with the willing Danae. You can almost see the human form of Zeus within the cloud. Danae is helpless with rapture, opening her legs to receive him, while her servant tries to catch the heavenly spurt with a towel.

Danae's rich, luminous flesh on the left of the canvas is set off by the dark servant at right and the threatening sky above. The white sheets beneath her make her glow even more. This is more than a classic nude — it's a Renaissance Miss August. How could Spain's ultra-conservative Catholic kings have tolerated such a downright pagan and erotic painting?

Titian — Venus with the Organ Player (Venus recreándose en la Música)

A musician turns around to leer at a naked woman while keeping both hands at work on his organ. This aroused King Phillip II's interest. (For more on the king, see below.) The message must have appealed to him — the conflict between sacred, artistic pursuits as symbolized by music, and worldly, sensual pursuits as embodied in the naked lady.

Titian emphasized these two opposites with color: "cool" colors on the left, hot crimson and flesh on the right. The center of the painting is where these two color schemes meet, so even though the figures lean and the poplar trees in the background are off-center, the painting is balanced and harmonious in the Renaissance tradition.

A century after Phillip's reign, his beloved nudes were taken down from the Escorial and Royal Palace and hidden away as unfit to be seen. For more than a century these great Titians were banned.

Titian — Phillip II (Felipe II)

This is the king who bought Titian's sexy Danae and many other paintings of nudes. Phillip had a reputation as a repressed prude — pale, suspicious, lonely, a cold fish; the sort of man who would build the severe and tomb-like Escorial Palace. Freud would have had a field day with such a complex man who could be so sternly religious and yet have such sensual tastes. Here, he is looking as pious and ascetic as a man can while wearing an outfit with a bulging codpiece.

Titian — Emperor Charles V on Horseback (El Emperador Carlos V en la Batalla de Muhlberg)

Are you glad to be here? If so, then tip your book to that guy on horseback, the father of the Prado's collection.

In the 1500s, Charles was the most powerful man in the world. He was not merely King Charles of Spain, but Holy Roman Emperor with possessions stretching from Spain to Austria, from Holland to Italy, from South America to Burgundy. He was defender of the Catholic Church against infidel Turks, French kings, and in this picture, rebellious Protestants.

Titian shows him in the classic equestrian pose of a Roman conqueror. His power is accentuated by his control over his rearing horse and the lance with its optimistic tilt. Once Charles met Titian and saw what he could do, he never wanted anyone else to paint him. And the story goes that, while sitting for a portrait one day, this greatest ruler in the world actually stooped over to pick up a brush Titian dropped.

El Greco (c. 1540-1614)

The first great Spanish painter was Greek. El Greco (Spanish for "the Greek") was born in Greece, trained in Venice, then settled in Toledo, Spain. The combination of these three cultures, plus his own unique personality, produced a highly individual style. His paintings are Byzantine icons drenched in Venetian color and fused in the fires of Spanish mysticism.

Phillip II, the ascetic king with sensual tastes who bought so many Titians, didn't like El Greco's bizarre style (perhaps because the figures — thin and haunting — reminded him of himself). So El Greco left the Spanish court and moved south to Toledo, where he was accepted. He spent the rest of his life there. If you like El Greco, make the 60-minute trip to Toledo.

El Greco — Christ Carrying the Cross (Cristo Abrazado a la Cruz)

Even as the blood runs down his neck and he trudges toward his death, Christ accepts his fate in a trance of religious ecstasy. The crossbar points upward. Jesus hugs the cross lovingly, sights along it like a navigational instrument to his destination — heaven.

The upturned eyes are close to tears with humility and sparkle with joyful acceptance. (Warning: Do not get too close to this painting. Otherwise you'll see that the holy magic in the eyes is only a simple streak of white paint.)

El Greco — The Adoration of the Shepherds (La Adoración de los Pastores)

El Greco painted this for his own burial chapel in Toledo, where it hung until the 1950s. It combines all of his trademark techniques into a powerful vision.

The shepherds gather to adore baby Jesus. Their long bodies and expressive hands are stretched upward, flickering like flames toward heaven, lit from within by a spiritual fire. Christ is the light source, shining out of the darkness, giving a sheen to the surrounding colors. These shepherds will never be able to buy suits off the rack.

Notice El Greco's typical two-tiered composition — earth below, heaven above. Over the Christ Child is a swirling canopy of clouds and angels. Heaven and earth seem to intermingle, and the earthly figures look as though they're about to be sucked up through a funnel into heaven. There is little depth to the picture — all the figures are virtually the same distance from us — so our eyes have nowhere to go but up and down, up and down, linking heaven and earth, God and humankind.

El Greco — The Nobleman with His Hand on His Chest (El Caballero de la Mano al Pecho)

Despite the surreal mysticism of many of his paintings, El Greco was not a mystic, but a well-traveled, learned, sophisticated, down-to-earth man who could paint realistic and probing portraits like this. The sitter is an elegant and somewhat arrogant gentleman, who was obviously trying to make an impression. The sword probably indicates the portrait was done to celebrate his becoming a knight.

El Greco reveals the man's personality in the expressive eyes and in the hand across the chest. The middle two fingers touch — El Greco's trademark way of expressing elegance (or was it the 16 th-century symbol for "Live long and prosper"?). Look for it in his other works.

The signature is on the right in faint Greek letters — "Domenicos Theotocopoulos," El Greco's real name.

Northern Art

Master of Flemalle (Robert Campin) — St. John the Baptist (San Jaun Bautista)

The meticulous detail is the first thing we notice in Northern art. Not only are the wood, the glass, and the cloth done with loving care, but look at the curved mirror in the middle — the whole scene is reflected backwards in perfect detail!

Roger Van Der Weyden — Descent From the Cross (El Descendimiento)

Christ is lowered from the Cross by his heartbroken followers. Each of the faces is a different study in grief. Joseph of Arimathea (holding Christ's feet) seems to be asking, "Why do the good always die young?" The bulging veins in his forehead signal his distress. Mary has swooned in the same S-curve as Jesus' body — t he death of her son has dealt her a near-fatal blow as well. But the overwhelming tone of the scene is one of serenity. These are people of Northern piety who know and accept that Jesus must die.

Along with Titian's nudes, this was one of Phillip II's favorite paintings — quite a contrast! Yet this Descent and Titian's Danae both have the power to send us into ecstasy. Hmm.

Bosch (c. 1450-1516)

The work of Hieronymous Bosch can be summed up in one word — wow. It's difficult to be more articulate because his unique vision lends itself to so many different interpretations.

Bosch (rhymes with "Gosh!") was born, lived, and died in a small town in Holland — that's about all we know of him, his life being as mysterious as his work. He was much admired by his contemporaries, who understood his symbolism better than we.

Here are some possible interpretations of Bosch's work. He was: (1) crazy; (2) commenting on the decadence of his day; (3) celebrating the variety of life and human behavior; (4) painting with toxins in a badly ventilated room. Or perhaps it's a combination of these.

Bosch — The Hay Cart (El Carro de Heno)

Before unraveling the cryptic triptych The Garden of Delights , let's warm up on a "simpler" three-paneled work. Its message is that the pleasures of life are transitory, so we'd better avoid them or we'll wind up in hell.

Center Panel: An old Flemish proverb goes, "Life is a cart of hay from which everyone takes what they can." The whole spectrum of greedy, grabby humanity is here: rich and poor, monks and peasants, scrambling for their share of worldly goods. Even the pope and the Holy Roman emperor (with the sword) chase the cart on horseback. In the very center, a man holds a knife at another man's throat, getting his share by force. Two lovers on top of the cart are oblivious to the commotion but are surrounded by symbols of hate (the owl) and lust (the jug). The cart itself is drawn by Satan's demons.

With everyone fighting for his piece of the pie, it's easy to overlook the central figure — Christ above in heaven, watching unnoticed. Is He blessing them or throwing up His hands?

Left: The left panel tells us where this crazy world of temptation came from. "Read" the panel from top to bottom. At the top, God fumigates Heaven, driving Satan's vermin out and setting them loose on earth. Then God creates Eve from Adam's rib, Eve gets tempted by a (female) serpent, and finally, they're driven from Paradise. It was this first sin that brought a hay-cart's-worth of evil into the world.

Right: Here's the whole point of Bosch's sermon — worldly pleasures lead to hell. Animal-like demons symbolizing various vices torture those who succumbed to the temptation of hay cart planet Earth.

Bosch — The Garden of Delights (El Jardin de las Delicias)
The Garden of Delights

The Garden can be interpreted like The Hay Cart; that is, the pleasures of the world are transitory, so you'd better watch out or you'll wind up in hell. With so many figures, the painting is overwhelming. To make it less so, I'd suggest "framing off" one-foot squares to peruse at your leisure.

Central panel: Men on horseback ride round and round, searching for but never reaching the elusive Fountain of Youth. Lower down and to the left are two lovers in a bubble that — like love — could burst at any time. Just to their right is a big mussel shell, a symbol of the female sex, swallowing up a man. My favorite is the kneeling figure in front of the orange pavilion in the foreground — talk about "saying it with flowers!"

Bosch was certainly a Christian, but there's speculation he was a heretical Christian painting forbidden rites of a free-wheeling cult called Adamites. The Adamites were medieval nudists who believed the body was good (as it was when God made Adam) and that sex was healthy. They supposedly held secret orgies. So, in the central panel we see Adamites at play, frolicking across the meadow in twosomes and threesomes, as innocent as Adam and Eve in the garden. Whether or not Bosch approved, you must admit that some of the folks in this Garden are having a delightful time.

Left panel: This "Adamist" interpretation makes a lot of sense in the left panel. Here, the main scene, is the fundamental story of the Adamites — the marriage (sexual union) of Adam and Eve. God himself performs the ceremony, wrapping them in the glowing warmth of His aura.

One of the differences between The Hay Cart and The Garden of Delights is Columbus. Discoveries of new plants and animals in America gave Bosch a whole new continent of sinful pleasures to paint — some real, some imaginary. Check out the cactus tree in the Garden of Eden and the bizarre two-legged dog near the giraffe.

Right panel: Hell is a burning, post-holocaust wasteland of genetic mutants and meaningless rituals where sinners are tortured by half-human demons. Poetic justice reigns supreme, with every sinner getting his just desserts — a glutton is eaten and re-eaten eternally, while a musician is crucified on a musical instrument for neglecting his church duties. Other symbols are less obvious. Two big ears pierced with a knife blade mow down all in the way. A pink bagpipe symbolizes the male and female sex organs (call Freud for details). At lower right a pig dressed as a nun tries to seduce a man.

In the center of this wonderful nightmare, hell is literally frozen over. A creature with a broken eggshell body, tree trunk legs, a witch's cap stares out at us — it's the face of Bosch himself.

Northern Renaissance (1500-1600)

The sunny optimism of the Italian Renaissance didn't quite penetrate the cold Northern lands. Italian humanists saw people as almost like Greek gods — strong, handsome, and noble — capable of standing on their own without the help of anyone, including God and the Catholic Church. Northern artists concentrated on the flip side of humanism — ordinary folks and their folly and travails.

Brueghel — The Triumph of Death (El Triunfo de la Muerte)

The brief flowering of the Renaissance couldn't last. In the 16 th century, the bitter break between the Catholic Church and the "Protest"-ants sparked wars across Europe. In Germany alone, a third of the population died. The battles were especially brutal, with atrocities on both sides — the predictable result when politicians and generals claim God is on their side.

Pieter Brueghel (pron: BROY-gull) the Elder chronicled these violent times. His message is simple and morbid — no one can escape death.

The painting is one big chaotic, confusing battle. Death in the form of skeletons (led by one on horseback with a scythe) attacks a crowd of people, herding them into a tunnel-like building (prescient of a Nazi death camp). Elsewhere, other skeletons dole out the inevitable fate of all flesh. No one is spared. Not the jester (lower right, crawling under the table), not churchmen, not the emperor himself (at lower left, whose gold is also plundered), not even the poor man (upper right) kneeling, praying for mercy with a cross in his hands.

Matsys — Ecce Homo (Cristo Presentado al Pueblo)

The mob — a menagerie of goony faces — razzes the prisoner Christ before his execution. Christ seems quite fed up with it all. The painting is especially effective because of our perspective. We're looking up at Christ on the balcony, making us part of the hooting mob.

Dürer — Self-Portrait (Autorretrato)

Before looking into the eyes of 26-year-old Albrecht Dürer, look first at his clothes and hairdo — they say as much about him as his face. With his Italian hat and permed hair, he's clearly a mod/hip/fab/rad young guy, a man of the world. The meticulous detail-work (Dürer was also an engraver) is the equivalent of preening before a mirror. Dürer (pron: DEWR-er) had recently returned from Italy, and wanted to impress his bumpkin fellow Germans with all that he had learned.

But Dürer wasn't simply vain. Renaissance Italy treated its artists like princes, not workmen. Dürer learned not only to paint like a great artist, but to act like one as well.

Now look into his eyes, or rather, look up at his eyes, since Dürer literally looks   down on us. We see an intelligent, bold, and somewhat arrogant man, confident of his abilities. The strong arms and hands reinforce this confidence.

This is possibly the first true self-portrait. Sure, other artists used themselves as models and put their likeness in scenes (like Bosch in hell), but it was a whole new thing to paint your own portrait to proudly show your personality to the world. Dürer painted probably ten of them in his life — each showing a different aspect of this complex man.

Dürer put his mark on every painting and engraving. Note the pyramid-shaped "A.D." (D inside the A) on the windowsill.

Dürer — Adam and Eve (two separate panels)

These are the first full-size nudes in Northern European art. It took the boldness of someone like Dürer to bring Italian fleshiness to the more modest Germans.

The title is Adam and Eve, but that's just an excuse to paint two nudes in the style of Greek statues on pedestals. Dürer splits the (one) scene into two canvases (Eve is giving Adam the apple, and their hair is blown by the same wind) so that each "statue" has its own niche.

Compared with Bosch's smooth-limbed, naked little homunculi, Dürer's Adam and Eve are three-dimensional and solid, with anatomically correct muscles. They're a bold humanist proclamation that the body is good, man is good, the things of the world are good.

Hans Baldung Grien — The Three Graces and The Three Ages of Man

Three classical Graces teach a medieval Christian message — that all flesh is mortal and we're all on the same moving sidewalk to the junk pile.

In the left panel are the Three Graces in youth — beautiful, happy, in a playful green grove with the sun shining, and surrounded by angelic babies. But with grim Northern realism, the right panel shows what happens to all flesh (especially that of humanists!). The Three Graces become the Three Ages of sagging decay — middle age, old age, and death. Death holds an hourglass of that devouring army, Time.

Rubens and Baroque (1600s)

You're surrounded by Baroque. Large canvases, bright colors, rippling bodies, plenty of flesh, violent scenes. This room contains more rapes per square foot than any gallery in the world.

Baroque art overwhelms. It play on the emotions, titillates the senses, and carries us away. Baroque was made to order for the Catholic Church and absolute monarchs who used it as propaganda to combat the dual threats of Protestantism and democracy. They impressed the common masses with beautiful palaces and glorious churches, showing their strength and authority.

Peter Paul Rubens of Flanders (Belgium) was the favorite of Catholic rulers. He painted the loves, wars, and religion of Catholic kings. Like Titian before him, he became rich and famous, a cultured, likable man of the world, who was even entrusted with diplomatic missions by his employers.

Rubens — St. George Slaying the Dragon (San Jorge)

Like a Counter-Reformation king, the Christian warrior fights to save the holy Church from the dragon of Protestantism.

Rubens freezes the action just as George spears the dragon and raises his sword to finish him off. The limp damsel in distress has a lamb, the symbol of Christ and His church.

Baroque art may look like a rippling mess, but it's often anchored in Renaissance-style balance. This painting has an X-like composition, the rearing horse slanting one way and George slanting the other. Above where the X intersects are the two stars of the scene, George with his rippling plumed helmet and the horse, with its rippling mane.

All around these rooms are Rubens paintings of religious subjects. Glance at the series of smaller paintings with titles championing the Catholic cause — Triumph of the Church, Triumph of the True Catholic, and so on.

Rubens — Diana and Her Nymphs Discovered by a Satyr (Diana y sus Ninfas sorprendidas por Sátiros)

A left-to-right rippling wave of figures creates a thrilling chase scene. Four horny satyrs (half-man, half-beast — though why mythical creatures like this never have their human half at the bottom, I don't know) have crashed a party of woodland nymphos who flee from left to right. Only the Greek goddess Diana, queen of the hunt, turns to face the predatory mutants. She stands with her spear to try to stem the tide of flailing limbs.

All the elements of a typical Rubens work are here — action, emotion, sensuality, violence, bright colors, fleshy bodies, and rippling clothes and hair with the wind machine on high.

Another typical feature is that it wasn't all painted by Rubens. Rubens was in such demand that he couldn't fill all the orders himself. In his home/studio/factory in Antwerp, he put assistants to work with the backgrounds and trivial details of his huge works, then, before shipping a canvas out the doors, Rubens would bring the work to life with a few final strokes.

Rubens — The Three Graces (Las Tres Gracias)

Rubens loved cellulite. The Three Graces have ample, sensual bodies, glowing skin, rhythmic limbs, grace, and delicacy, set against a pleasant background. His young second wife, the model for the Grace at left, shows up fairly regularly in Rubens' paintings. This particular painting was for his own private collection. Remember that in later, more prudish years, many of Rubens' nudes, like Titian's, were wrapped in brown paper and locked in the closet.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Counter-Reformation Art: Fighting Back With Brushes (1600s)

Europe was torn in two by the Protestant Reformation. For 100 years, Catholics and Protestants bashed Bibles in what has been called the first "world war." The Catholic Church also waged a propaganda campaign (the Counter-Reformation) to bolster the faith of the confused, weary masses. Art was part of that campaign. Pretty pictures brought abstract doctrines to the level of the common man.

Cano — St. Bernard and the Virgin (San Bernardo y la Virgen)

Here's a heavenly vision brought right down to earth. St. Bernard is literally enjoying the "milk of paradise," a vision he had of being suckled on the heavenly teat of Mary. When God's word was portrayed in this realistic way, the common folk lapped it up.

Zurbarán — St. Peter Crucified Appearing to Peter Nolasco (Aparición de San Pedro a San Pedro Nolasco)

Zurbarán is like a bitter jolt of café solo. In Spain, miracles are real. When legends tell of a saint who was beheaded but didn't die, that isn't an allegory on eternal life to the Spanish — they picture a real man walking around with his head under his arm.

So, when Zurbarán paints a mystical vision, he gives it to us in photographic realism. Bam, there's the Apostle Peter crucified upside down right in front of us. Nolasco looks as shocked as we are at the reality of the vision. This is "People's Art" of the Counter-Reformation, religious art for the masses. (Zurbarán has the sort of literal-minded religion that makes people wonder things like, "When the Rapture comes, what if I'm sitting on the toilet?")

Murillo — The Immaculate Conception (La Inmaculada "de El Escorial")

For centuries, the No. 1 deity in the Christian "pantheon" was the goddess Mary. This painting is a religious treatise, explaining a Catholic doctrine that many found difficult to comprehend. The Immaculate Conception of Mary meant that, though all humans are stained by the original sin of Adam, the mother of Jesus was conceived and born pure.

The Spanish have always loved the Virgin. She's practically a cult figure. Common people pray directly to her for help in troubled times. Murillo (pron: mur-REE-oh) painted a beautiful, floating, and Ivory-Soap-pure woman — the most "immaculate" virgin imaginable — radiating youth and wholesome goodness.

Goya (1746-1828)

Francisco de Goya, a true individual in both his life and his painting style, is hard to pigeonhole, his personality and talents were so varied. We'll see several different facets of this rough-cut man — cheery apprentice painter, loyal court painter, political rebel, scandal-maker, disillusioned genius. His work runs the gamut, from pretty Rococo to political rabble-rousing to Romantic nightmares.

For convenience, let's divide Goya's life into three stages: the Court Painter (including his early years), Political Rebel, and Dark Stage.

Goya: Court Painter
Goya — The Family of Charles IV (La Familia de Carlos IV)

They're decked out in all their finest, wearing every medal, jewel, and ribbon they could find for this impressive group portrait. Goya, the budding political liberal, captures all the splendor of the court in 1800, but with a brutal twist of reality. King Charles, with his ridiculous hairdo and silly smile, is portrayed for what he was — a vacuous, good-natured fool, a henpecked husband controlled by a domineering queen. She, the true center of the composition, is proud and defiant. The queen was vain about the supposed beauty of her long, swan-like neck, and here she stretches to display every centimeter of it. The other adults, with their bland faces, are bug-eyed with stupidity. Catch the crone looking out at us bird-like, fourth from left. The look in their eyes seems to say "I can't wait to get this monkey-suit off." (I picture Goya deliberately taking his own sweet time making them stand and smile for hours on end.) Underneath the royal trappings, Goya shows us the inner personality — or lack thereof — of these shallow monarchs.

As a tribute to Velázquez' Maids of Honor, Goya painted himself painting the scene at far left. But here Goya stands back in the shadows looking with disdain on the group. Only the children escape Goya's critical eye, painted with the sympathy he always showed to those lower on the social ladder.

Goya's Early Years

Born in a small town, Goya, unlike Velázquez, was a far cry from a precocious painter destined for success. In his youth he dabbled as a matador, kicking around Spain before finally landing a job in the Royal Tapestry. The canvases in these rooms were designs made into tapestries bound for the walls of nobles' palaces.

Browse through these rooms and watch lords and ladies of the 1700s with nothing better to do than play — toasting each other at a picnic, dancing with castanets, flying kites, playing paddleball, listening to a blind guitarist, walking on stilts, or playing Blind Man's Bluff (in Room 93).

In Room 94, a more serious side of Goya's emerges. His Two Cats Fighting (Gatos Riñendo) represents the two warring halves of a human soul, the dark and light sides, anger and fear locked in immortal combat, fighting for dominance of a man's life. We're entering the Age of Romanticism.

Notice — how do I say this? — how BAD the drawing is in some of these canvases, especially the early ones. However, in the few short years he worked in the tapestry department, Goya the inexperienced apprentice slowly developed into a good, if not great, draftsman. The Parasol (El Quitasol, in Room 85) was one of his first really good paintings, with a simple composition and subtle shadings of light. Goya worked steadily for the court for 25 years, dutifully cranking out portraits before finally becoming First Court Painter at age 53.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Updated for 2008. For lots more information, check out our best-selling Rick Steves' Spain guidebook — or join us on one of our free-spirited tours in Spain.