I’m largely a philistine when it comes to art, and was completely in the dark when it came to Diego Velázquez, a Spanish painter from the 1600s whose work remained tremendously influential into the 20th century. He is known for his ability to create illusions in two dimensions, for his brushworks, and for the complexity of his portraits. His work influenced painters whose names or work you probably do know, including Picasso, Dali, and Manet.
Velázquez’s magnum opus, now hanging in the Prado in Madrid, is Las Meninas, a complex scene that includes the young Infanta Margarita Teresa, the daughter of the Spanish King Philip IV; and the painter himself, at a canvas, looking out at the viewer. It is a complex image of various people, at least most of them real, in various poses and at varying distances from the viewer, a cross-section of personages at the royal palace that plays with light and focus to give the illusion of depth.
In the 1840s, a Reading, England, bookseller named John Snare purchased what he believed to be a previously unknown portrait of Charles Stuart, painted by Velázquez, at the era’s equivalent of a yard sale, paying a few pounds for a painting that should have been worth a few thousand. His story is the backbone of Observer art critic Laura Cumming’s book The Vanishing Velázquez: A 19th Century Bookseller’s Obsession with a Lost Masterpiece, in which Cumming intertwines what she could piece together of Snare’s tragic life with a history of Velázquez in general and Las Meninas in particular. It’s an interesting, erudite book that I also found intermittently confusing, as Cumming is so invested in explaining to us the importance of this still (I think) somewhat obscure Spanish painter – certainly his name and work are less known than Van Gogh, Monet, Picasso, et alia – that she often loses track of Snare’s story. I was confused at several points about what paintings she was discussing, especially since, as was the custom of the time, Snare’s portrait of Charles Stuart was untitled.
Snare eventually fled to the United States with the portrait, leaving his pregnant wife and three children behind, never to see them again. His exact reasons for doing so are unclear, and while he exhibited the painting in the United States, Cumming also can’t tell us what Snare did with the proceeds – he lived in impoverished circumstances in New York, so perhaps he sent the money back to England, but this is all speculation. He died around 1884 in New York, bequeathing the painting to his youngest son, Edward, who traveled to the United States to meet his father for the first time, but after the painting appeared at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in 1885, it vanished from sight and all records. It may still exist somewhere in a private collection, or even be stored somewhere, but its fate is unknown, and no images of the portrait survived either.
Cumming tells this story well enough given the paucity of source material, but she largely alternates chapters about Snare with those about Velázquez’s life, work, and masterpiece Las Meninas. The latter parts are informative, but I can’t say they’re interesting; even when she goes to great lengths to explain why the Spaniard’s work remains important and influential, without seeing the paintings – the book has fewer than a dozen images of his paintings, including Las Meninas and Juan de Pareja, a portrait of Velázquez’s slave who became his student and whom the painter granted his freedom – it’s hard to grasp Cumming’s finer points about brushstrokes or how the painter created the illusion of three dimensions on a canvas. Perhaps you need more of a foundation in art, or specifically in the type of baroque art in which Velázquez excelled, to fully appreciate this part of the story. I found myself a bit lost in these explanations, and for parts of the book was unsure which painting exactly Snare had found. I will say, at least, that Cumming made me want to see some of his work up close, and I’d especially love to see Las Meninas in person some day to appreciate a painting that Picasso tried to emulate in 58 separate sketches and that Manet called “perhaps the most astonishing piece of painting that has ever been made.”
Next up: Ira Levin’s A Kiss Before Dying.
