Art an Artist and His Her Work

Goya: Man and Myth

Every society has its myths, stories that explain the time-honored order of things. Humankind does what it does now because of ancient prototypes. As Man does, so did the gods. But what of a society in a state of turmoil? What of a man whose very life is filled with questions? Saturn devours his children, subverts the natural order of the universe. With brutal forthrightness, Goya used an ancient myth to capture the questions of his times and of his life. Humanity is but the plaything of a capricious fate, a helpless doll in the hands of a wild-eyed giant. Yet not only the subject of the painting, but even the manner in which it is painted speak to the horrors of Goya's age and to the hidden darkness of his own mind. Quick brush strokes, sketchy outlines, colors merging into shadow, all comprise the anguished cry of a man lost in a world without easy answers, a world where nothing is black and white, where the line between dream and nightmare is hopelessly blurred.

Francisco Jose de Goya y Lucientes was born in a small village in the bleak Spanish province of Aragon in the year 1746. Blue skies and golden sun, brown earth and sun-parched stone -- such were the colors of the Spanish landscape. The Spain into which Goya was born was a land of religion and despotism, a place where ancient pride and past glory gave meaning and substance to a state in decline, to a people increasingly cut off from the mainstream of European thought and culture. Goya's family was of the Hidalgo class; petty noblemen who had no more than a name, and so were forced to make their own way in the world. (Buchholz p.8) Thus for Goya the painter, church and court were the logical patrons. His early works were religious subjects and capricci for the royal palaces. Observing the canvases of Tiepolo and Mengs, he imbibed the two streams of mid-eighteenth century art -- the Rococo and the Classical. Buoyant theater and studied reason, the two masters' works encompassed the full range of the Spanish experience. For in his lifetime, Goya would witness the crumbling of the world he knew. Enlightenment would break through Spain's medieval night, and deafness would bring to Goya, the gregarious man, a time of dark self-examination. The lightness of his early works would give way to representations of the nightmare world both within himself and outside.

Saturn Devouring His Children is an image of great power. The gigantic figure of the ancient god rears up out of the darkness clutching the headless and bloody figure of one of his children. The child's arm, the white of the flesh, and the red of the blood, merge with the monster's tongue. There is no clear distinction of form. The same is true of Saturn's briskly painted hair. It falls like a mane over his body, disappearing into the darkness of his chest. Somewhere in that darkness lies buried his heart, but Saturn has no heart. He has no compassion. "The god [is] a fear-crazed old man, acting out of a blind instinct for self-preservation." (Gowing et al. p.753) Goya applies the effects of light and shadow to draw us toward the creature's eyes -- hideous, staring ovals of light, the dark pupils rough-edged and crudely delineated. Reason is replaced by passion, order by chaos. In the commission of this "inhuman" act Saturn is like the King of Spain, Ferdinand IV who, in the wake of the Napoleonic invasion attempts to destroy his own people...his children, by crushing free thought and turning back the clock. And Saturn is also like Goya himself, who in choosing to depict the horrors of the regime, cuts himself off from his patrons and from his world. He devours his own children -- the successful career he has built up at the Spanish court. In his last years in exile in France, Goya is like a man cut off from his family. He is Saturn destroying his offspring to save himself.

Saturn is a far cry from the dreams of Goya's youth. The myths that sustained them seem lost in another time and place. The bright colors and soft forms of The Parasol speak to a world of simple pleasures and few cares. It is the never-changing world of the Spanish aristocracy. The bright yellow of the girl's dress, the blue of her bodice, are warm and gentle colors that give to the scene a luminous quality. The girl is the focus of the picture, the center of her world. With arm outstretched, and an enigmatic yet inviting expression, she welcomes the viewer into the scene. This combination of mystery and invitation is created by Goya's careful use of light and shadow. Just as in Saturn, he employs light to represent or conceal emotion. The girl's face and arm are shaded by the parasol held by the young man. Are they lovers out for a pleasant afternoon? Or, is the young man a gallant squire holding an umbrella over his queen? We do not know. But then this is all a part of the game...the myth of courtly society. While the two figures themselves are carefully delineated, the background is vague and indistinct -- a tree behind the young man, a rough splash of green beyond. Nature is but a prop, a stage set to be changed at will. The King, the Queen, all of Goya's royal and noble patrons are actors in a drama of their own creation. Yet even here in this idyllic scene, there is a certain foreboding. The dark, almost formless wall to the girl's left is strangely ominous. (Buchholz p.21) She seems to point towards it. Is it an obstacle? Is there something on the other side of that wall that threatens to intrude on this sunlit world? Perhaps even then, Goya saw that the aristocracy lived in a place cut off, or maybe he is telling us of his own demons lurking somewhere beyond that wall, beyond the wall we all erect to separate our inner selves from the selves we wish to project. Even in the realm of light, the dark passions of Saturn are never far behind.