By Lauren Smart
By Jane R. LeBlanc
By Lauren Smart
By Elaine Liner
By Jim Schutze
By Rachel Watts
And yet, for all the ink and artists' pigments spilled on the subject, Goya remains in many ways a mystery. His life and his politics are, as ever, the subject of intense disagreement, and his works still present seemingly insoluble koans. Many of these riddles now line the walls of the Meadows Museum of Art, which is displaying the complete set of Goya's two late, great series of etchings, La Tauromaquia and Los Disparates.
By and large, the Meadows show takes an agnostic approach, championing neither Goya, man-of-the-people, nor Goya, elitist snob. The curators take no stand on the relationship between the Spaniard's enlightenment beliefs and his dark, irrational nightmares. Instead, they throw the work out there, offering little in the way of new scholarship or theory, attempting no catalog and sidestepping even the questions presented by work in their permanent collection.
The Meadows begins the story in 1816, when the 70-year-old Goya, ill, isolated, out of royal favor and (the curators suggest) in need of wampum, published his Tauromaquia, 33 copperplates illustrating the history and contemporary practice of bullfighting in Spain. There is some evidence in the etchings themselves to support this view; several seem hastily executed and even unfinished. Unfortunately, the curators make no effort to explore Goya's seemingly contradictory attitudes, the tension between his admiration for blood and machismo and his enlightenment credentials, ignoring bullfighting's already controversial nature and its political uses during the years of the Peninsular War. Was Goya, as they suggest, simply a fan? In the wake of his 1815 scrape with the Inquisition, was he trying to mend relations with the church and the aristocracy, playing propagandist? Was he shilling for his friend Moratin, author of a book about bullfighting, or just plain pandering to the public? If the latter, what to make of his bitingly cynical views of the riffraff, displayed in several captions?
Alas, the Meadows makes no effort to reconcile these Goyas, and the result is a show that presents the Spaniard chiefly as an ironic figure. For if ever there was proof of the biblical saw that the race is not to the strong or the swift, that time and circumstance happeneth to all men, the life of Francisco Jose de Goya y Lucientes, who inveighed against the church and religious superstition, was that proof. Burning with ambition and talent, not to mention a genius for social climbing and political maneuvering, Goya negotiated his way up Spain's social food chain with ease. By the time he was 40, Goya had risen from humble origins to the very apex of success. He had fame (appointments as court painter to Charles III, the most enlightened of Spain's monarchs, as well as first painter to his son Charles IV). He had fortune (a generous royal salary, plus commissions). He had important patrons and influential friends (men like Gaspar Melchor de Jovellanos, the crème of the Spanish Enlightenment). He had a politically connected wife, a son, beautiful and impetuous mistresses, fancy carriages and a small estate outside Madrid. As Goya liked to brag, "the king [Charles IV] and queen are crazy about yours truly."
Scholars have long sparred over whether Goya's startlingly modern portraits of pompous personages are straight-up bootlicking or subtly subversive. Certainly, Goya could fawn when it suited him. At the same time, though, Goya was the most complex and contradictory of characters, with a contrarian streak that intensified as he aged; even as he painted self-important fops like the queen's lover, Prime Minister Manuel Godoy, Goya commented to a friend that, "I could never be servile."
In 1792, Goya came down with the most serious of several sicknesses that plagued him during his life. Though the exact nature of his illness is unknown--suggestions range from polio to syphilis--it rendered him temporarily paralyzed, near death and delirious. When he finally recovered, Goya was deaf. The scholarly line, which the Meadows largely parrots, is that this brush with the hereafter left Goya depressed and inwardly focused, leading to the politically charged work that followed. But whether Goya was depressed, or really believed in reformation ideals, or misread the political situation, or became too arrogant, or simply could not contain his obstinate nature, he began to produce work that threatened his privileged niche in Spanish society. He produced the series known as "the cabinet paintings," a number of smallish canvases filled with social criticism. (The Meadows' 1793-94 "Yard With Madmen," perhaps the most important painting in its collection, is from this series.) In 1797 he began engraving the copperplates for perhaps his most famous work, Los Caprichos, a series of 80 etchings ridiculing the aristocracy, the Inquisition, the church and Spanish social customs. When they were published in 1799, not even Goya's royal connections could protect him from the backlash, and he was forced to withdraw the series after selling only 27 sets. In 1803, to avoid being hauled before the Inquisition, Goya agreed to surrender the copperplates. (He did, it appears, secretly keep and sell a few copies.)