Las Meninas – Diego Velázquez’s The Maids of Honor

By Edith McClintock

Las Meninas (1656), Diego Velázquez

Have you ever been fascinated, entranced—even spellbound—by a work of art? I’ve experienced it many times with dance, music, theater, even architecture. With literature, it’s too frequent to count. But it’s only happened a few times with a painting. Perhaps it’s the setting that works against paintings. Museums or galleries can be overstimulating, with too many pieces, one after another.

When rushed, as one often is when visiting a museum—either because your partner is impatient, or your schedule is tight, or the crowds are pressing you forward—the colors and textures and feelings can blend. I’ll often leave a museum or art show with a sense of enjoyment or disappointment but have little remembrance or feeling for individual pieces. (It’s especially bad when the exhibit has free mojitos sponsored by Bacardi, as is all too frequent at Art Basel Miami. Alas, those days are gone for awhile.)

There is, however, one painting I’ll never forget. I was thirteen and I’d been anticipating seeing it, but only because I’d given a presentation on Diego Velázquez in my art class the preceding year, and generally had a crush on all things Spanish. Despite that, I didn’t love the reproductions of his 1656 masterpiece I’d seen in art books. They were too dark, and I was drawn to the pretty French impressionists.

Close up of the
Infanta Margarita

I finally saw Las Meninas in 1986 during a summer trip to Madrid with my family. The atmosphere at the Prado helped. It was alone in its room and had been since 1899, in recognition of its growing acclaim as a masterwork of western painting—so important, that it has never been loaned out. It was imposing, monumental really, dominating an entire room. The figure of the Infanta (the Princess) Margarita glowed in the darkly lit space. The entire piece was luminescent and much more beautiful than I’d expected—probably because of its then-recent restoration.

But it was more than just the painterly technique. I was drawn into King Philip IV’s Spanish court: the young infanta surrounded by her maids of honor, a chaperone and bodyguard, plus two dwarves. Velázquez, the artist, looking beyond the scene to me, the audience, standing in the place of King Phillip and Queen Mariana who are possibly being painted and reflected in the mirror. Or maybe Velázquez is painting Las Meninas itself on the large canvas, reflected in a mirror that is the audience.

Meninas (1957), Pablo Picasso

The work raises questions about reality and the connection between the artist, the observer, and the artwork. It didn’t feel like an intellectual concept, though, but rather a reality under Velázquez’s gaze, the infanta’s slight preen, the direct look of the German dwarf Maria-Bárbola. Even my older sister, who’d spent most of that summer inventing ways to torment me in public, stopped her leg dragging and loud clattering in English (her own performance art piece), and fell silent in awe.

Like many great works of art, the painting has been endlessly analyzed and reinterpreted over the past 356 years, from the role of the artist in Velazquez’s time, to the history and protocol of the court, and each of its members. Up until the early 1800s, the painting was known mostly within the Spanish court circles, and Goya, another famous Spanish court painter, was one of the first to be deeply influenced by it. He used aspects in several royal portraits, including The Family of Charles IV (1800) and The Family of the Infante Don Luis de Borbón (1784). Like Las Meninas, the artist is there, possibly painting the scene, although his relationship with the royal family and audience is distant and not as inviting (see photo at bottom of blog).

Velázquez Painting the Infanta Margarita
with the Lights and Shadows of His Own
Glory (1958), Salvador Dali

Pablo Picasso may have painted the most famous reinterpretation in 1957. He shut himself up for four and a half months with a photograph of Las Meninas, producing 44 canvases, some of the painting in its entirety, but some recreating single figures or small groups. And his homage, in turn, spun its own imaginings, including Velázquez Painting the Infanta Margarita with the Lights and Shadows of His Own Glory (1958) by another Spaniard, Salvador Dali. Personally, although I’m not a huge Dali fan, I prefer his reinterpretation over the Picasso series. 

By the mid-20th century, reinterpretations of Las Meninas spread in tone, technique, and geography. In Spain, painters used humor, irony, and parody to critique the sociopolitical conditions of Franco’s Spain and its appropriation of Velázquez for propaganda. Beyond Spain, the piece inspired artists as varied as the American portrait painter, John Singer Sargent (who painted my favorite reinterpretation), Edgar Degas (who painted a version without ever having seen the original in person), and the Chilean-born multimedia artist Juan Downey, whose video, Las Meninas of 1975, was inspired by seeing the painting at the age of 22, as well as a critique of 17th century Spanish colonialism. 

Artists have continued to reinterpret, recreate, and inspire new pieces based on Las Meninas, whether in sculpture (see Manolo Valdés below), print and paintings, or video, film, literature and theater, making it not a relic of an old master, locked away in a museum, but a living, breathing, dialogue between the artists and Velázquez. And for me, 25 years later after my first look, I too have not forgotten. Perhaps one day, I’ll attempt my own reinterpretation. Or more likely just hang a print on my wall. Although neither could do the original justice.

The Daughters of Edward Darley Boit (1882),
John Singer Sargent.

This is one of my least favorite interpretations, more because
I prefer Goya's later works on war and madness.
The Family of Charles IV (1800), Francisco Goya.

I love these sculptures by Spanish artist, Manolo Valdés.
Las Meninas, Bronze 2006, Düsseldorf, Hofgarten
Photo by Ralf Hüls

Reference note: You can find a more in-depth discussion, and the source material for artists who have reimagined Las Meninas over the years, on the Museu Picasso website. Click here for the influence of Las Meninas from 1656 through 1901, and here for a discussion of its influence during the 20th century and beyond.

For more, visit my author website and/or personal blog, A Wandering Tale. Even better, order a copy of Monkey Love & Murder on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or the Book Depository (free shipping nearly anywhere in the world).

God with His Girlfriends

Scandalous headline, no?

Well, if that puts you off, then maybe you shouldn’t look at the following picture. (You’ll have to scroll down a bit if you choose to see it. I don’t want to offend anyone who decides not to.)

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Or (blush) this one:

I know. They’re hard for me to look at too. (But made you look, didn’t I?)

They do make for a good story, though, so here goes.

These two paintings show Lord Ganesha, whom I’ve blogged about before, with a bevy of babes, some a little, ahem, closer to the mighty deity than you think would be permitted.

Of course, truth be told, if any god were going to have a harem, I would have placed my bets on Ganesha. He’s a bit of a partier, and he does like the good life. Good food, seconds of dessert, fancy dinner parties. On occasion, I’ve wondered whether he might have been (or maybe that should be “is”?) a meat-eater. Okay, that’s an unlikely theory…. like elephants themselves, the gods have to be vegetarian. Or so I’m told. He probably tipped back the occasional cocktail though. They don’t call it ambrosia for nothing.

But girlfriends? That thought certainly never crossed my mind. Until now.

I’d never seen these two particular paintings until recently, but its artist, Raja Ravi Varma, is without a doubt, one of India’s most famous painters. He was born simply as Ravi Varma in 1848 in the Kilamanoor Palace in the princely state of Travancore in Kerala, India. He wasn’t born a prince but after a maharajah recognized Varma’s talents at a young age, Varma received the maharajah’s patronage as well as training under accomplished artists, such as Dutch portraitist Theodor Jenson, and eventually the title of “raja” from Lord Curzon, Britain’s viceroy to India.

Varma melded traditional Indian subjects (particularly South Indian women as well as mythological characters) with European artistic styles. He achieved widespread fame after winning first place at the Vienna Art Exhibition in 1873 followed by two gold medals at the World’s Columbian Exhibition in Chicago in 1893. He was India’s most popular artist in his own time, and his work remains extremely popular even today.

Take a look at some of his pieces (and tell me these don’t remind you of something you might see hanging in the western art wing of the Met or even painted on the ceiling at the Sistine Chapel):            

These are among the many popular paintings Varma rendered in his lifetime, reproductions of which are often seen in Indian homes, coffee shops, book stores – even on stationary.

The paintings of Ganesha’s gals? Less common. Maybe because some folks would consider them inappropriate. So what’s the story? Did Varma just imagine Ganesha with some mojo or is there any historical basis to these renderings?

Turns out, if Ganesha had a Facebook status, it would be “It’s Complicated.” Religious scholars have differing theories on his relationships or lack of them. Unlike other major deities with goddess-wives, Ganesha is not associated with any particular consort and is typically considered a bachelor. The most prevailing myths show him as a sort of brahmacharya, a kind of celibate spiritual leader. Another pattern of myths, however, associates him with buddhi (intellect), siddhi (spiritual power), and riddhi (prosperity), and occasionally, these concepts are personified as goddesses considered to be Ganesha’s wives. Varma’s second painting from the top is entitled “Riddhi Siddhi,” representing two of those three wives. In some modern retellings, he’d fathered Santoshi Ma, the goddess of satisfaction, with them.

Then there’s the Ashtasiddhi – the eight spiritual steps achieved through yoga. The very first Varma painting up top is called “Ashtasiddhi Ganesha” and shows these eight steps or concepts as young women who surround Ganesha. But don’t read into it. It’s only a spiritual love. Of course.

There are other theories and variations, mostly depending on region and/or linguistic group, that show Ganesha with any number of females who embody his spiritual attributes. One story shows him having sons by Siddhi and Buddhi. Another says the two female deities are shaktis, divine creative forces personified as female. Yet another ancient tome specifically calls them his “wives.” In some ancient artistic depictions, he’s shown with only one shakti, with no distinct features, so it’s unclear who she might represent other than as a general consort.

Regardless, it’s hard to imagine any of these versions are quite as provocative as Varma’s very modern ones. What do you think?