Goya: Monsters and Matadors
Sadly for us, these works are as important now as when they were created nearly 200 years ago.
| 10 Feb 2007
Important', much like 'interesting', is one of those airy, vague adjectives that is used far too often but seldom means very much at all. The field of visual art – a minefield of bullshit and vacuous rhetoric at the best of times – is a particularly bad offender in this respect. Conceited journalistic caveats disposed of, I can say with equanimity that Monsters and Matadors – a disarmingly modest wee exhibition in the basement of the National Gallery – is a very important exhibition indeed.
Francisco Goya was an artist of huge range and diversity, His portraits, history paintings and commissions for the Spanish crown made him famous, but it was his concurrent private explorations of satire, social commentary and nightmarish fantasy that confirmed him as an artist ahead of his time; one of those rare individuals whose significance cannot be diminished by the passing of time. By focusing only on his printmaking, the curators have cut to the core of what made Goya so extraordinary: namely his gripping synthesis of fascination, outrage and pity for humanity, which is manifested so lucidly in this collection of etchings.
Though many visitors will undoubtedly be repulsed by the idea of the bullfight, the uncensored brutality of Goya's Tauromaquia series of prints – which open the exhibition – nevertheless paints a fascinating portrait of man's relationship with the natural world. Goya's objective portrayal of these acts is accentuated by the eerie, untouched areas of blank space, which serve as a barren foil against which to contrast the scenes of theatrical madness. Although these plates were clearly intended partly as entertainment, Goya was notably the first artist to end a series of bullfighting images by depicting the death of a matador – here depicted with a singularly dispassionate hand: Goya could never be accused of sentimentality.
In stark contrast to the documentary nature of the Tauromaquia, Goya's Disparates series (sometimes called Proverbios, as the artist makes reference to certain proverbs) is a tour de force of wit, imagination and social invective. These dark visions pour scorn upon human folly and weakness, each plate seemingly more damning than the last. In one etching Goya portrays an unsuitable pairing of man and woman who have become freakishly entwined into one wretched hybrid. At the side of the image a ghoulish priest earnestly gives his blessing to the unholy couple, even as they scream out for salvation.
If the Disparates give us a taste of Goya's genius for the macabre, they do not prepare us for the traumatic power of his Disasters of War. Created in response to the bloody Peninsular War (1808-1814), which saw French forces invade Spain, the series documents a litany of inhuman atrocities and is quite without parallel in the history of art. Goya's hand does not flinch from presenting us with the unbelievable horror of conflict; his mark-making as precise as always; his observational powers not for one moment dulled by his own species' genius for violence.
Inevitably, a feeling of degradation and hopelessness pervades these images, but there is a sense that these images are also a warning: a courageous creative response to an unimaginable series of horrors. We know that Goya himself cannot have witnessed the events he depicts, yet his images of mutilated bodies and debased humanity are so extraordinary because they resonate so strongly within us. Staring into the face of death, Goya found the courage to create great art – a fact that is as astonishing as it is awe inspiring.
Clearly, mankind has not outgrown its desire for self-destruction. Sadly for us, these works are as important now as when they were created nearly 200 years ago.
Francisco Goya was an artist of huge range and diversity, His portraits, history paintings and commissions for the Spanish crown made him famous, but it was his concurrent private explorations of satire, social commentary and nightmarish fantasy that confirmed him as an artist ahead of his time; one of those rare individuals whose significance cannot be diminished by the passing of time. By focusing only on his printmaking, the curators have cut to the core of what made Goya so extraordinary: namely his gripping synthesis of fascination, outrage and pity for humanity, which is manifested so lucidly in this collection of etchings.
Though many visitors will undoubtedly be repulsed by the idea of the bullfight, the uncensored brutality of Goya's Tauromaquia series of prints – which open the exhibition – nevertheless paints a fascinating portrait of man's relationship with the natural world. Goya's objective portrayal of these acts is accentuated by the eerie, untouched areas of blank space, which serve as a barren foil against which to contrast the scenes of theatrical madness. Although these plates were clearly intended partly as entertainment, Goya was notably the first artist to end a series of bullfighting images by depicting the death of a matador – here depicted with a singularly dispassionate hand: Goya could never be accused of sentimentality.
In stark contrast to the documentary nature of the Tauromaquia, Goya's Disparates series (sometimes called Proverbios, as the artist makes reference to certain proverbs) is a tour de force of wit, imagination and social invective. These dark visions pour scorn upon human folly and weakness, each plate seemingly more damning than the last. In one etching Goya portrays an unsuitable pairing of man and woman who have become freakishly entwined into one wretched hybrid. At the side of the image a ghoulish priest earnestly gives his blessing to the unholy couple, even as they scream out for salvation.
If the Disparates give us a taste of Goya's genius for the macabre, they do not prepare us for the traumatic power of his Disasters of War. Created in response to the bloody Peninsular War (1808-1814), which saw French forces invade Spain, the series documents a litany of inhuman atrocities and is quite without parallel in the history of art. Goya's hand does not flinch from presenting us with the unbelievable horror of conflict; his mark-making as precise as always; his observational powers not for one moment dulled by his own species' genius for violence.
Inevitably, a feeling of degradation and hopelessness pervades these images, but there is a sense that these images are also a warning: a courageous creative response to an unimaginable series of horrors. We know that Goya himself cannot have witnessed the events he depicts, yet his images of mutilated bodies and debased humanity are so extraordinary because they resonate so strongly within us. Staring into the face of death, Goya found the courage to create great art – a fact that is as astonishing as it is awe inspiring.
Clearly, mankind has not outgrown its desire for self-destruction. Sadly for us, these works are as important now as when they were created nearly 200 years ago.
National Gallery of Scotland, Edinburgh until 25 Feb. Free.