The Politics of Painting: Velázquez and
Diplomacy in the Court of Philip IV
The influence of Diego Velázquez on the history of art cannot be
overstated, but studies to date have not taken note of his impact on Spanish politics
during the mid-seventeenth century. In short, Velázquez was as much a
politician as an artist, his position in the Spanish court required both
responsibilities. In the years 1659-1660 the painter played an especially
remarkable role in the affairs of state when he was called upon to make court
preparations for the Paz de los Pirineos,
a peace accord ending nearly thirty years of war between the two reigning
European superpowers,
Eye-witness testimony through diary accounts, letters and contemporary
biographers—all of which will be detailed here—suggest that Velázquez’s
contemporaries viewed him as more than a simply a great artist. In general,
these accounts point out that Velázquez’s contributions to historical events
were overwhelmingly aesthetic. But these testimonies also indicate that
Velázquez’s artistic production combined with his proximity to unfolding
political events had a lasting impact upon diplomacy. With respect to the Peace
of the
How can simply changing decor lead to an imposition of ideology and
incite political change? Early modern European dynasties were well known for
their interest in projecting a certain attitude of greatness when confronted
with competing monarchies, especially during eras of decline. This suggests
that artistic production was ideological. Ideology corresponds to how dominant
social, political, legal, or religious institutions work through value systems,
conceptions of the world, and symbol systems in order to legitimize either the current status quo, or urge a change of the norm. In
many ways ideology requires the social adoption of ideas which are often
embedded in symbols and cultural practices. Hence, it is possible to examine
aesthetics as it acts within a socialization process of coercion or persuasion.
In The Political Unconscious, Fredric Jameson writes that the mere production and
dispersion of aesthetics is ideological: “the aesthetic act is itself
ideological, and the production of aesthetic [. . .] is to be seen as an
ideological act in its own right” (79). Similarly, Louis Althusser believed
that ideology was most effective when performed by what he called state
ideological apparatuses (political, social, and religious institutions), but
also through aesthetic forms such as painting, design or opera. Althusser
identifies culture (aesthetics) as not only are reflective but also productive
(Lenin 112). And, state ideological
apparatuses can effect change by less visible methods such as through
literature or art. Indeed, art upholds a common ideology which ensures the
stability and control of the dominant body charged with its creation: “To my
knowledge, no class can hold State
power over a long period without at the same time exercising its hegemony over
and in the State Ideological Apparatuses” (Lenin 98). This
immediately brings to mind Velázquez’s state-supported role as artist. On the
one hand, Velázquez’s artistic production extended the political agenda of the
Spanish monarchy because, quite simply, he was paid to do so. In fact, R.A. Stradling reports that Velázquez was an essential
part of the court propaganda machine, especially under the Count-Duke of
Olivares (46). On the other hand, both Althusser and Jameson believe that
artists are trapped between what is really transpiring contemporaneously and
what they expect to impart through their works of art. Naturally, the
relationship between what Velázquez was paid to depict in his artwork and the
events that were unfolding around him exposes a fundamental problem between the
real and the imagined, what Jameson deems “unresolvable social contradictions”
(79). These “unresolvable social contradictions” can be solved, according to
Jameson, by constituting themselves as symbolic acts that “find a purely formal
resolution in the aesthetic realm” (79). Following this line of thinking,
aesthetics and their creation are ideological acts with the power to offer
symbolic resolutions to determinate problems. With regard to the Peace of the
Beyond his position as Philip IV’s court painter, Velázquez occupied
various central court positions. His career as courtier and diplomat began in
1623 when he was named Pintor de Cámara,
and reached its zenith in 1652 as he took up the honored position of Aposentador Mayor de Palacio, a post he
held until his death in 1660. There were six applicants for the Aposentador Mayor de Palacio and, though
Velázquez was not originally proposed as a candidate for the position, Philip
IV named him to the post, which suggests the close relationship the king and
his painter enjoyed. Besides being Aposentador,
Velázquez also simultaneously occupied other significant court positions: Ujier, Alguacil de Corte, Ayuda de
Guardarropía, Tapicero Mayor, Ayuda de Cámara, and Superintendente de las obras reales. With the new appointment as Aposentador, Velázquez’s salary was
raised to the then-impressive sum of 5,000 ducados,
meaning he took his place among the best-paid and most important court
officials. The job, however, also signaled a respite in his vibrant career as a
painter since the new courtly duties required a great deal of his time. Having
been named to these important court positions, the artist was ever more
interested in strengthening his office and he began to search out ways to
secure a knighthood. Indeed, the height of his social and political career finally
arrived in 1659 when he was dubbed a knight in the Order of Santiago.2
Velázquez’s status and influence were especially notable for a painter.
Although he painted less, it was within the politically-charged ambience of the
Spanish court that he managed to create some of the most significant works of
his life, such as his masterpiece Las
meninas.
With his knighthood and numerous bureaucratic offices, the painter was
developing into a prominent politician since his work required contact with the
most powerful and influential court officials of the Spanish crown. Velázquez
enjoyed special access to powerful court representatives such as Philip IV’s
favorite, Don Gaspar de Haro, the Marqués de Heliche, or to other royal
appointees such as Juan Gaspar Alonso Enríquez de Cabrera, Admiral of Castile.
Since Velázquez was charged with preparing for state visits and audiences with
Philip IV, he was privy to important political happenings and perhaps even
shaped their outcome. J.E. Varey reports that Velázquez had the opportunity—and
obligation—to speak regularly with the king (419). Similarly, Muñoz González
states that the painter enjoyed a very close relationship with the Spanish
Monarch that allowed him to “contribuir a crear un determinado tipo de ambiente”
(547). This access can be considered especially unfettered if we remember that
the painter took up residence in an apartment in the Treasury House which was
connected by a passageway to the
Interactions with foreign dignitaries and Spanish nobleman as well as
his multiple roles in the court suggest that Velázquez was much more than a
court painter. At times he was involved in numerous negotiations, and even made
unilateral decisions pertaining to court policy when they had to do with the
all-important production of art. It is important to remember that Velázquez was
known throughout
The Marshal [Aposentador Mayor], among his
multifarious duties, was solely responsible for all the interior arrangements
of the palace. It was his duty to inspect all the details of lighting, heating,
sanitation, decoration, etc.; to assign apartments to the various persons in
waiting; to organise all court festivities, drawing up programmes of the
entertainments for submission to the king; and finally, to act as quartermaster
during the royal progresses. Those who have travelled in Spain [. . .] will
understand what the task of transporting a luxurious court across such a
country must have been in the seventeenth century, when to the difficulties of
obtaining supplies and quarters were added the harassing minutiae of a rigid
and bewildering etiquette. (80)
Dealing with details regarding housing and its
maintenance meant that requests for repairs and improvements in décor or design
had to pass through the painter’s hands.3 Moreover, frequent court
relocation supposed that Velázquez had to be prepared to pack up and move an
incredible amount of palace possessions as the court traveled between royal residences and palaces as well as
other chief political and administrative centers such as Aranjuez, El Escorial,
or Valladolid.
The artist’s work in
Calderón’s opera was staged January 17, 1660 in the Coliseo
Although there are no explicit references to Velázquez in the opera,
his fingerprints are visible.5 In short, Velázquez either painted or
chose the paintings for particular positions within the Alcázar because each
exhibited themes of peace and reconciliation, love and honor, which were also
the thematic cornerstones of Calderón’s opera. In fact, the conscious choice of
the Venus-Adonis theme was most likely derived from the decorations chosen by
Velázquez for the very significant negotiations and meetings between French and
Spanish ministers. To seek out this sort of relationship between aesthetics and
historical context—the historicity of
texts as well as the textuality of
history, in Louis Montrose’s words—one must look back to 1659-1660. A
reconstruction of the socio-historical moment in which Velázquez and Calderón
created their masterpieces ultimately yields a profound perspective of the
society in which they lived, and an understanding of the cultural and political
ambience that surrounded the peace agreement. Cultural critics such as Stephen
Greenblatt or Montrose as well as theorists such as Jameson argue that
reconstruction and resituation facilitate a fuller recovery of meaning of works
under study. As Greenblatt states, “The world is full of texts, most of which
are virtually incomprehensible when they are removed from their immediate
surroundings. To recover the meaning of such texts, to make any sense of them
at all, we need to reconstruct the situation in which they were produced”
(227). Of course, Greenblatt, like most cultural theorists, uses the term text loosely; literary texts stand
alongside other cultural texts. And the recontextualization of these cultural
and literary texts, combined with remnants and vestiges of the past, fashion an
anthropological context that subsequently yields unknown or embedded
ideologies. For Montrose texts and other cultural artifacts are “ideologically
marked,” and malleable, since they are both “socially produced” and “socially
productive” (22). Painting, décor, and opera certainly emanate these qualities.
As Pintor de Cámara, Tapicero Mayor de Palacio, and Aposentador Mayor de Palacio, Velázquez
was in an excellent position to control the Crown’s message and shape public opinion.
He was charged with organizing all palace activities (theatrical events,
celebrations, musical performances, exhibitions, etc.) and he was responsible
for decorating the Hall of Mirrors of the Alcázar Real, where the visit by
French dignitaries took place in 1659. The entire negotiations and wedding pact
began earlier in the year when Philip IV’s court favorite, Luis de Haro, and
Louis XIV’s chief minister, Cardinal Mazarin, met frequently to negotiate the
terms of the Paz de los Pirineos. The
treaty was contingent upon a royal marriage rs what he needed to accomplish in
order to prepare the royal installations for the Gramont’s visit. His tasks
began with the renovation work on the Real Alcázar where his choice of artistic
works projected the Spanish Habsburgs as world leaders, even though their
dynasty was very much in decline. The painter’s main task was to redecorate the
Hall of Mirrors, the centerpiece of the Alcázar and central location of the
renovations.8 He began the renovations some years earlier and even
chose certain Italian pieces he secured during his trip to
Since Monsieur le Maréchal had wanted to see the King’s Apartments at
leisure, His Majesty ordered Don Diego Velázquez to wait on him with great
solicitude, showing him whatever was most precious and remarkable in the
Palace. […] Don Diego Velázquez showed them all [Gramont and his two sons] the
rooms in the Palace, where they found much to admire on account of the
multitude of original paintings, statues, objects of porphyry, and other
treasures with which its great fabric is adorned. (173)
As Palomino
indicates, the Marshal-Duke of Gramont was impressed with the Alcázar’s
collection, but the tour took the artist away from more pressing details
awaiting his attention.
Aesthetic theorists such as Georg Lukacs, Theodor Adorno, and Walter
Benjamin, among others, believe that in its appearance, form, and, practice,
art is political, and serves as a product and reflection of the totality of
which it is a part.9 For these critics, artwork has the power to
reveal itself as spectacle and become a commodity that can be readily consumed
by its audience. This seems to have been Velázquez’s intention as he assembled
priceless works expressly for the French visit. Among the paintings that
Gramont saw were those selected to reflect an attitude of diplomacy and
reconciliation, as well as political power. Art works depicting peace included
two by Tintoretto, El mito de Venus
and Venus y Adonis, in addition to
Veronese’s Venus y Adonis which hung
just inside the entrance to the Hall of Mirrors, and which was acquired by
Velázquez in Italy.10 That work was exhibited alongside its
companion painting, Céfalo y Procris,
which Velázquez obtained from the Museum of Strasburg (Checa 330). Finally,
Velázquez contributed his own Venus y
Adonis, today also known as La Venus
del espejo or The Rokeby Venus,
which hangs in London’s National Gallery.11 Overall, Velázquez’s
contribution was extremely important since at least four of his own paintings
formed part of the royal collection: the already-mentioned Venus and Adonis, as well as three others of relevance, Apolo y Marsias, Psique y Cupido, and Mercurio
y Argos.12 With the exception of Mercurio y Argos, the aforementioned paintings were destroyed
during a major fire in 1734 that reduced to ashes a rather large and
significant portion of the Alcázar. Mercurio
y Argos was saved only because workers were able to cut the canvas from its
frame, and carry it out before the fire consumed that part of the palace.
Other paintings attested to the greatness of the Spanish monarchy and
counterbalanced the peaceful themes of the Venus works with scenes of Spanish
battlefield greatness, or its Catholic hegemony. These works included Titian’s Emperatriz Isabel, Carlos V con perro, Philip II
con armadura, and Santa Margarita.
Also exhibited in the Hall were paintings signifying the four Hapsburg monarchs
as warriors defending the Catholic Faith: Titian’s Carlos V en la batalla de
Mühlberg, alongside its planned companion painting, Rubens’ Philip IV ecuestre (a copy by Juan
Bautista del Mazo hangs in the Uffizi), as well as Titian’s Philip II después de la Batalla de Lepanto,
and Velázquez’s Philip III y la expulsión
de los moriscos de España.13 Dale Brown believes that these paintings were
symbolic for their Catholic themes that upheld predominant hegemonic beliefs:
“As paragons of Christian virtue, the kings of Spain possessed an assortment of
moral attributes which were exemplified in the representations of heroes of the
Bible and classical antiquity” (248). More than simply exhibiting a superior
moral or Christian value system, however, Velázquez’s task was especially
tedious considering that members of the
Faced with this problem, Velázquez must have felt as if he occupied a
precarious position as he needed to preserve the peace, save face, and project
the Habsburgs as world leaders. His artistic creations attempted to
symbolically resolve this problem by establishing a certain diplomatic mood:
for the Bourbons he featured the peaceful message of Venus paintings; for the
Habsburgs he displayed artwork that implied the enduring religious and military
legacy of the Spanish monarchy. It is through the display of these paintings
and other works of art, or palace furnishings, that one realizes that art has
the ability to illustrate a world that exists for a time, but one that does not
necessarily coincide with reality. Indeed, Althusser has suggested that art has
a powerful quality in that it does not represent social reality as it is, but
instead it represents what social reality looks like or feels like:
I believe that the peculiarity of art is to “make us see,” (. . .)
“make us perceive,” “make us feel” something which alludes to reality (. . .).
What art makes us see, and therefore gives to us in the form of “seeing,”
“perceiving” and “feeling” (. . .) is the ideology from which it is born, in
which it bathes, from which it detaches itself as art and to which it alludes
(. . .). [Great artworks thus] make us “perceive” (but not know) in some sense
from the inside, by an internal distance, the very ideology in which they are
held (Lenin 221).
According to
Althusser, the imaginary world created by art is not a scientific
representation of “the real world” and does not yield knowledge of it. This
coincides closely with Jameson’s belief that aesthetics have symbolic value
(79-81). Instead, art creates a particular view of what the real world might
“look like” or what it might “feel like.” Painting, for example, does not
depict its subject as it is or was, but rather the subject has been described
from the artist’s viewpoint—a lens that ultimately shapes how the spectator
comes to understand the world as presented in the artwork. Much has been
written, for example, that demonstrates how Velázquez was adept at painting
alternate realities in his portrayal of Baroque aesthetics. And the
preparations and work for the Paz de los
Pirineos was no different. During the French visit, the delegation was
impressed with the Hall of Mirrors, the royal collections, and the overall
state meetings that put
An interesting footnote to the French visit to Madrid is that it
included not only a tour of the royal collections, but also attendance at a comedia written by none other than
Calderón de la Barca who, like Velázquez, was well-known to the French.
According to Bertaut, one of the theatre-goers, the comedia performance gave him and his delegation an opportunity to
speak with the playwright:
Por la tarde, [el señor Laisné] y el señor de
Barrièrre me vinieron a buscar para ir a una comedia Antigua que habían
representado de Nuevo, que no valía nada, a pesar de ser de don Pedro Calderón.
Fui también a ver a ese autor, que es el poeta más grande y el talento más
hermoso que al presente tengan. [...] Disputamos un poco sobre las reglas de la
dramática, que en ese país no conocen, y de las que se burlan. (616)
Readers today surely
would find it interesting—even humorous—that a nobleman from France would
question the dramatic knowledge of a playwright like Calderón, even declaring
that a Calderonian drama “no valía nada.” But, this citation is significant for
another reason. Bertaut’s words indicate that European delegations were acutely
aware of the intent and power of public spectacle and royal decor. In this
case, the French understood the persuasive visual affects of theatre. Moreover,
the French spectators questioned aloud the Spanish decision to re-perform, for
this occasion, a drama more in the tradition of Lope’s comedia nueva than classical theatre. In other words, the French
did not simply passively consume the ideological message implied within the
production, but instead questioned aspects of it. Indeed, as Terry Eagleton
reminds us, for all of their inconsistencies, a successful ideology must
communicate a version of social reality which is real and recognizable enough
not to be simply rejected out of hand (15). Based on the aforementioned
documented reports there is little doubt that while the French debated the
rules of drama or discounted the importance of royal pageantry, their
appreciation for the aesthetic production of Calderón and Velázquez was
obvious. If not, why would they have recorded their opinions?
Bertaut, an important member of the French delegation who was present
during all noteworthy royal activities, also met both Calderón and Velázquez.
Although it is unlikely that the playwright and the painter were together when
these encounters took place, evidence does indicate that there may have been
some sort of relationship between them. This connection may best be seen in the
paintings and other art works displayed in and around the Hall of Mirrors. As
already mentioned, these works reflected the Venus theme that served as the
basis for Calderón’s opera, La púrpura de
la rosa. At the same time, the mythological story of Céfalo y Procris was
not only a subject of one painting in the Hall of Mirrors, but also the theme
of Calderón’s second opera, Celos, aun
del aire, matan, performed shortly after
La púrpura. Is all of this simply a coincidence? It is certainly probable that
the decorations had an impact on the composition of the opera as Stein has
indicated (Songs 191). In fact,
Velázquez may have been a catalyst for Calderón’s selection of this particular
theme, just as he was central to the unfolding political situation. This
scenario is not unlike other reciprocal relationships between Calderón and
Velázquez. Take, for example, Calderón’s Rendición
de Breda and Velázquez’s painting of the same name. Calderón’s play
portrayed the Spanish victory over the Protestant rebels, and it is widely
thought that the drama was the foundation for Velázquez’s aesthetic treatment
of the surrender in his own painting. Moreover, Calderón knew the royal art
collections quite well, which were under Velázquez’s management. While there is
little written proof that unequivocally links Calderón and Velázquez, they must
have known each other, or at least met one another on occasion. It is known,
for example, that Calderón routinely visited the Alcázar to practice with
musicians and singers, and Velázquez’s carried out most of his work in a studio
in the Alcázar where he could supervise first-hand the renovations of the Hall
of Mirrors. We may not have direct evidence of a personal friendship between
the painter and the dramatist, but the aforementioned examples demonstrate that
each knew of the other’s work, and appreciated his talents. To make a
definitive statement describing collusion between the two artists, however, is
impossible.
Thanks to diligent research by Louise Stein, it is also known that one
significant influence on the theme of La
púrpura de la rosa was the Marqués de Heliche, Don Gaspar de Haro, a court
minister of Philip IV whose father was none other than the court valido Don Luis de Haro.14
The Marqués assisted Velázquez in the preparations for the arrival of the
French to Madrid in 1659 and boasted a formidable knowledge of the royal art
collections. According to an inventory of his own possessions carried out in
1651 and another from 1677, the Marqués owned Velázquez’s Venus y Cupido, in addition to some 300 other paintings by numerous
artists (Stein, “Three” 192). Moreover, Heliche probably was privy to details
of the negotiations being completed by his father and Cardinal Mazarini.
According to Palomino, besides touring the Alcázar of Madrid, the Marshal-Duke
of Gramont visited Heliche’s palaces to see his collection (172). Heliche also
helped to initiate the genre of opera to Calderón and others, and he produced
both La púrpura de la rosa and Celos, aun
Due to his stunning decoration for the French contingent to
For its part, the Spanish court left Madrid on April 15th, a
week after Velázquez and his crew, in a caravan containing the royal family,
their servants, court ministers, and other administrators; the convoy extended
a distance of 32 kilometers and advanced only about 8-10 per day. Composed of
more than 70 pulled wagons, 32 smaller wagons, 70 individual horses, 500 pack
mules, and 900 riding mules, it seemed that nothing was left behind.19
According to Brown, Philip IV not only took along his most valuable jewels, but
also brought the majority of his personal belongings in 14 coaches, pulled by 6
mules each. The king also made the necessary arrangements for the travels of
four physicians, four surgeons, two bleeders, the royal barber, and his three
assistants, as well as cooks, waiters, and other servants (Riggs 291). Even the
court valido, Don Luis de Haro,
brought with him over 200 assistants (Brown 173; Riggs 291). Arthur Stanley
Riggs states that the beginning of the entourage could be seen entering Alcalá
de Henares as its tail was just leaving
The decorations which Velázquez’s transported to the border were
notable for their quality as well as quantity. In addition to some of the best
Flemish tapestries that the Spanish court possessed, the painter brought furniture,
carpets, curtains, velvet draperies, silk curtain cords, and jewels from the
royal collections, almost all of which were transported from their original
place in the Alcázar (Riggs 294; Elliott, “Twilight” 1).20 Velázquez
made sure that the tapestries fit the pavilions exactly, and each decorative
piece had a precise location. As both politician and artist, it was important
for Velázquez to choose these decorations judiciously since any error in
subject matter could offend the French and hinder the peace agreement and
marriage.
Velázquez also was responsible for the royal gifts which Philip IV gave
to Louis XIV which, according to Palomino, included “a Golden Fleece in
diamonds, a gold watch ornamented with diamonds, and other precious and exquisite
jewels of inestimable value...” (175). Without a doubt, the rich and opulent
appearance of the Spanish Court was important judging by the amount and
lavishness of clothing and jewelry, as well as by the number of ministers and
assistants who were allowed to make the trip. The Spanish contingent dwarfed
the French. And Velázquez was in charge of the entire affair. One can only
imagine the work that was to be undertaken by the artist. Yet, his success was
notable. As Stradling reports, the majority of the neutral observers later
reported that the Spanish pomp greatly influenced the impending events: “what
was fundamentally a sad and even a humiliating occasion for Philip was
compensated in part by a notable triumph of reputación”
(323). Velázquez’s ideological message was clear: he set out to show that
The matrimony finally took place in phases starting on the June 3,
1660, and ending on June 9. When the final portions of the peace treaty were
negotiated and sworn on June 7, the royal nuptials could take place. In the
wedding ceremony, Don Luis de Haro acted as a stand-in for king Louis XIV,
since a Spanish princess could not leave
Thus came to an end a tumultuous time for
The day after the wedding, an exhausted Velázquez and king Philip IV
made their way back to
The story of peace, diplomacy, and the political and ideological impact
of Velázquez’s painting does not end with the painter’s death, however. Just
after the master passed away, Cardinal Mazarini commissioned an opera to
celebrate the royal nuptials. Composed by Francesco Cavalli with a
The goal of this study has been to outline the role of Velázquez in the
important political events of 1659-1660 and to demonstrate that he was not only
a celebrated artist, but also one who could be considered a political figure.
Few letters or official documents survive that describe his day-to-day
political activities, but several accounts indicate that he did have a
mediating effect on European affairs. Even though his duty in state policy was
not the same as, say, a court minister or Spanish grandee, Velázquez
nevertheless played an important role. His diligent work in preparation for the
French visit, especially his meticulous choice of tapestries, sculptures,
paintings, and furniture, were meant to project certain themes, and foster the
crown’s ideological agenda. Indeed, it was widely believed in
Notes
(1)
See
first-hand accounts in François Bertaut’s Diario del viaje de España
hecho en el año 1659, en la ocasión del tratado de la paz and J. García Mercadal’s Viajes de
extranjeros por España y Portugal or
those quoted in José López-Rey’s Velázquez’s Work and World, Steven N. Orso’s Philip IV and the
Decoration of the Alcázar of Madrid,
Antonio Palomino’s Lives of the Eminent Spanish Painters and Sculptors, Bernardino de Pantorba’s La vida y
la obra de Velázquez: Estudio biográfico y crítico and Abby Zanger’s Scenes from the Marriage of Louis XIV:
Nuptial Fictions and the Making of Absolutist Power.
(2) According to
Fernando Marías Velázquez’s knighthood had both a political and financial
effect since it meant that his salary was raised considerably, and he was seen
as an equal in the court: “[. . . ] significaba de inmediato el reconocimiento
de su condición de hidalgo y un honor añadido, de tipo social, que adjuntar al
real aprecio de su arte y a las mercedes económicas obtenidas de Philip IV a lo
largo de toda su carrera” (228).
(3)
Letters
containing some of the many petitions for redesign, repair, and relocation can
be found in Volume 2 of Varia Velazqueña: Homenaje a Velázquez en el
III centenario de su muerte 1660-1960.
(4)
The most complete historical background on the
opera can be found in Calderón de la Barca Tomás de Torrejón y Velasco, La púrpura de la rosa, eds. Angeles
Cardona, Don Cruickshank, and Martin Cunningham.
(5)
There
is no definitive proof that Calderón and Velázquez knew one another. However,
Stein states that the painter collaborated with various musicians and
dramatists in his work in the palace. Did he also know or work with Calderón?
According to Margaret Greer, although Velázquez did not know Góngora or Quevedo
well, the master painted their portraits, and she goes on to raise the
possibility that the painter and playwright knew each other (“Three Paintings”
185). To explore that prospect, Greer analyzes Velázquez’s Retrato
de un hombre comparing it with the only
known portrait of Calderón (from the 1677 edition of his Autos
sacramentales) in order to demonstrate
that the playwright was possibly the model (“Calderón” 151-3).
(6)
See
Thomas O’Connor’s “Infantas, Conformidad, and Marriages of State: Observations on the Loa to Calderón’s La púrpura de la rosa.” As early as 1654 the possibility of a
marriage proposal was appealing to the Spanish monarchy but
(7)
Gramont
carried various letters from Louis XIV and the queen mother, Ana de Austria
(Philip IV’s sister), to the king of
(8)
The
Hall of Mirrors’ name is owed to the eight Venetian mirrors in ebony frames
which alternated with the large windows. The overhead fresco was divided in
five sections and boasted the Fable of Pandora. The painting of various scenes
was delegated to Agostino Miteli and Michele Colonna, who were well-known
Italian fresco artists that Velázquez brought to
(9)
See
Ernst Bloch et al., Aesthetics and Politics, for a summary of these writers’ work.
(10)
Stein
believes that it was Veronese’s work, the best of the collection, which provided
Calderón with the idea and basis for his rendition of the myth in La
púrpura de la rosa (Songs 213). The Veronese Venus now hangs in the
(11)
The
painting is known as The Rokeby Venus because it formed part of the Morritt Collection at Rokeby Hall in
(12)
In
Stein’s analysis of the painting Mercury and Argos and its relationship to the decoration of the Alcázar, she indicates
that the theme of the work—the mythological story of Mercury,
(13)
Orso
points out that many scholars believe that Ruben’s equestrian portrait of
Philip IV was finished by Velázquez who may have painted the king’s face (Philip
IV 58), while others believe that
Bautista del Mazo, who worked in Velázquez’s workshop, made the copy.
(14)
See
Stein’s “Opera and the Spanish Political Agenda” (135-36), Songs
of Mortals, Dialogues of the Gods. Music and Theatre in Seventeenth-Century
(15)
There is some discrepancy concerning when
Velázquez left Madrid but a letter of his, “Certificación de Velázquez sobre
los gajes del carpintero Martín Gajero en la jornada de Fuenterrabía” states
that they left April 8, 1660 (Varia Velazqueña 381). Other letters reveal that the following
individuals accompanied Velázquez: José de Villarreal, Maestro mayor de las
obras reales; Damián Goetens, a tapestry maker and son-in-law of Velázquez,
who, along with Juan Batista del Mazo, were Ayudas de Furriera; Martín Gajero, a carpenter; and two
sweepers, Julián Destrada and Lucas Leal.
(16)
Pantorba
describes Velázquez’s itinerary which was also that of the court: “The journey
started by way of Alcalá and
(17)
Juan Antonio Gay Nuño writes about the necessary
work that had to be carried out simply to prepare the pavillions: “Para que los
monarcas español y francés y sus respectivos ministros se entrevistasen en tan
importante coyuntura, había que alzar en la isla de los Faisanes, en el
Bidasoa, un pabellón congruentemente decorado y amueblado para recibir a los
regios conversantes y a sus más próximos colaboradores. En los muchos
testimonios documentales que hacen fe de los trabajos previos [. . . ] y el
peso todo de la compleja organización recayó sobre el aposentador mayor, esto
es, sobre nuestro Velázquez” (110).
(18)
See
Armstrong’s The Life of Velázquez (100) and Riggs’ Velázquez: Painter of Truth and Prisoner of
the King (293).
(19)
See
Camón Aznar’s Velázquez (924) and Dunlop’s Memoirs of Spain during the Reigns of Philip
IV and Charles II, from 1620 to 1700
(601). According to Dunlop, just as was the case with the royal entourage, the
infanta’s belongings also required great care: “The Infanta's trousseau, as it has been called in modern days,
required of itself no inconsiderable train. She had twelve trunks lined and
covered with crimson velvet, the hinges, locks, and keys of silver, containing
twenty-three full suits for the Princess, all extremely rich; and other twenty
trunks, covered with Russian leather, and the iron-work gilt, which were filled
with an immense quantity of all sorts of linens; also six more trunks
overspread with amber leather, and lined with crimson satin, their hinges, bars
and locks, of gold enameled,—two of them full of amber gloves, whisker cases,
purses, and other curiosities for the Duke of Anjou; the other four containing
rich presents, to be distributed among the French ladies. It required 50
sumpter horses to carry the Infanta's dressing plate and perfumes; other 25
sumpter bore most exquisite hangings and tapestry” (601-02).
(20)
The
tapestries that hung in the Spanish pavilions were chosen to project an image
of opulence and power. These were silk tapestries with hints of gold that
recounted virtuous stories: Las virtudes de Noé, Rómulo y Remo, La
Pasión de Nuestro Señor, and Ícaro
y Andrómeda (Camón Aznar 926). Among
the works known to have been exhibited were the Historia de
(21)
Le
Brun’s tapestries were designed for the Palace at
(22)
A
version of Calderón’s opera, rewritten by Tomás de Torrejón y Velasco and
performed in 1701, commemorates Carlos II’s first year as king of
(23)
These letters are compiled in Varia Velazqueña: Homenaje a Velázquez en el III
centenario de su muerte 1660-1960
(378-87).
(24)
The
opera was first performed at the Salles des Machines of the Paris Tuileries on February,
7 1662.
(25)
See
the diaries of Gramont, Motteville, Bertaut, and Montpensier contained in J.
García Mercadal, Viajes de extranjeros por España y Portugal.
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