Much as we may think political image-making a product of the TV age, it’s probably almost as old as cave paintings. It was certainly a priority in the early years of Philip IV’s reign as king of Spain, when its prime practitioner was the painter Diego Rodríguez de Silva y Velázquez.
“Diego Velázquez: The Early Court Portraits,” on display at the Meadows Museum, shows the artist helping revolutionize the image of the Spanish monarchy in the second quarter of the 17th century. In the process, Velázquez became one of history’s most revered portraitists. Manet, obviously influenced by him, called him “the painter of painters.”
The “big name” might prompt expectations of a blockbuster show, but this is anything but. The product of a growing relationship between the Meadows and the Prado Museum in Madrid, curated by the Prado’s Javier Portús, it comprises only 26 works in two moderate-size galleries and one rather intimate one. Only six of the 11 paintings are by Velázquez; more than half the offerings are engravings, mostly in small books, inspired by Velázquez’s images.
Peace prevailed during the 23-year reign of Philip III, but he had shown little interest in affairs of state; corruption had flourished while money was lavished on court entertainments. When the 16-year-old Philip IV ascended to the throne in 1621, the new prime minister, Gaspar de Guzmán, the count-duke of Olivares, drafted forward-looking proposals to deal with national issues. Little of his program was enacted, but one idea that did take hold was cultivation of a more austere, more responsible royal image.
Royal paintings traditionally favored rich interiors, sumptuous clothing and other coded symbols of wealth and power. A Velázquez painting of Philip III not in the Meadows show, obviously based on an earlier painting, shows a foppish figure in a plumed hat and frilly ruff.
By contrast, these early images of Philip IV have him sternly clad in black, with a simple starched collar. With a long face, sensuous lips and steady gaze, he looks thoughtful, unassumingly in command — less kingly, perhaps, than professionally assured.
Velázquez, a native of Seville with a growing reputation, got his big break in August 1623: a chance to paint the then-18-year-old monarch. We can only guess what sealed the young artist’s appointment as court painter, but Philip and Olivares must have seen charm — and malleability — as well as skill. As years went by, Velázquez was given additional titles, and remuneration, at the court.
The Meadows’ own bust-size portrait of Philip IV might be that original audition painting or a least a template for many subsequent images. It’s not a highly finished work, the textures of hair and ripples of fabric somewhat loosely brushed in. But there’s something riveting, even unsettling, in that heavy-lidded gaze, the firm set of the jaw and the glow of the flesh.
The king looks less intense, more relaxed, in a full-length portrait from the Prado. He rests his hand on a desk, a symbol of authority, and clutches a fold of paper in his other hand, indicating his command of affairs. But again the attire is austere, its blackness relieved only by understated texturing and a small gold fob.
With the passing of years, paint from an earlier version of this image has bled through, and an X-ray of the canvas shows the revisions. For whatever reasons, the king has been given a wider stance and a narrower cloak.
If the royal image was rigidly managed, a 1622 portrait of the poet Luis de Góngora y Argote is startlingly unguarded — and evidence of Velázquez’s psychological penetration. In his early 60s, in failing health, here’s a writer who has seen and suffered much, but he still meets our eye with a defiant stare. In muted light, in a subtle virtuosity of brushwork, his skin is a complex topography of tints and textures.
Equally unguarded, in a very different way, is a far more casual painting, which may or may not be of the court jester Juan Calabazas — and may or may not be by Velázquez. The stagey pose, the enigmatic grin and the odd distortion of perspective are strangely unsettling.
By the time of Philip’s death, in 1665, a series of military misadventures and economic reverses had reduced the formidable empire to a second-class power. But the king’s love of art and his patronage of Velázquez, who died five years earlier, prove once again the old Latin adage: Art is long, life short.
Plan your life
Though Jan. 13 at the Meadows Museum at SMU, 5900 Bishop Blvd., Dallas. Hours: 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Fridays and Saturdays; 10 a.m. to 9 p.m. Thursdays; 1 to 5 p.m. Sundays. $10; $8 for seniors; free to members, SMU students, faculty and staff and children under 12. Free Thursdays after 5 p.m. 214-768-2516. meadowsmuseum.org.