Deal Fell Through; Painting Lives On
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Version 0 of 1. In delicate diplomatic moments, art is sometimes called on to serve as ambassador. At just such a point in the Thirty Years’ War, the Spanish king, Philip IV, dispatched his court artist — Velázquez — to paint an Italian dignitary. Francesco I d’Este, the Duke of Modena and Reggio Emilia, was the lucky visitor. He had traveled to Madrid in 1638, hoping to secure financial assistance for his state. Philip, meanwhile, was looking for a strategic alliance; France and Spain were competing for influence in Italy. He gave Francesco a promise of funds and a warm welcome, awarding him the prestigious Order of the Golden Fleece and commissioning from Velázquez a large painting of the duke on horseback. Sometime after the visit, political interests diverged; the money from Spain never arrived, and the duke, who had been hedging his bets between Spain and France, finally chose the French. The equestrian portrait was abandoned. But Francesco already had a souvenir of his sittings with Velázquez, a smaller, bust-length study that depicts him as a swashbuckling figure in Spanish armor. That painting is now making its American debut at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, which has rolled out the museum equivalent of a red carpet; it has given “Velázquez’s Portrait of Duke Francesco I d’Este” its own room within the European Paintings galleries and is billing it as a special exhibition. Xavier Salomon, the Met’s curator of southern Baroque art, calls the Velázquez “the Mona Lisa of Modena” and “a high watermark in the history of baroque portraiture.” (Mr. Salomon organized the show in collaboration with the Soprintendenza per I Beni Storici, Artistici ed Etnoantropologici di Modena e Reggio Emilia and the Galleria Estense.) The fanfare is largely justified and has a solemn purpose. In May 2012 a series of violent earthquakes struck the Emilia-Romagna region. They took lives and damaged, among other buildings, the Galleria Estense in Modena, where the Velázquez normally hangs alongside other works from the duke’s prodigious collection. Restoration is proceeding but will require untold amounts of money. In the meantime the duke’s portrait is here to raise capital, or at least awareness, for his state. Once again, art has been pressed into diplomatic service. What this means for art lovers in New York is a chance to see another commanding Velázquez at this already well-stocked museum, and to appreciate that this artist’s politically savvy portraits are more than just tools of statesmanship. The duke undoubtedly understood this; even after his relationship with Spain had cooled, he continued to collect works by Velázquez and to admire this painting. But it was not without significant competition in his collection of ducal portraits; Francesco I was one of only two people in history to have had his portrait done by both Velázquez and Bernini (the other being Pope Innocent X). He must have loved the image this portrait projected, its Italo-Spanish blend of sensuality and starchiness. Over time, it has become a symbol of Modena, even more visible than his magisterial bust by Bernini; foodies may recognize the Velázquez from the label on a famous local product, Aceto Balsamico del Duca. The painting’s carefully contrived persona is all the more remarkable because Velázquez did not have much time to work on it; the duke was in Madrid for only about six weeks. The face is burnished to a soft, pearlescent sheen, but the sash is rendered in long, unblended streaks of red and white. The emblem of the golden fleece is a shimmering cluster of tiny dabs; it looks nothing like the more polished accessory worn by King Philip in his own Velázquez portrait at the Met. Museum visitors will have trouble making these comparisons, however, because the duke is effectively quarantined in his own gray cell. The Met’s other Velázquez paintings are several galleries away, reachable only by a distracting walk through rooms of 15th-century Italian and 18th-century French paintings. By isolating the duke, the Met is probably trying to call attention to the current plight of his state. But the single-painting display is still a peculiar choice; by comparison, Rembrandt’s self-portrait from Kenwood House was not treated this way when it was exhibited last April. Many opportunities have been missed. The duke’s portrait would, for instance, have reinforced the attribution of the Met’s “Portrait of a Man,” which was not thought to be a Velázquez until a recent cleaning. The two paintings of slightly imperious, dark-haired men share more than a superficial resemblance; both are rapidly executed studies that tell us a lot about Velázquez’s dexterity under pressure. And seeing the duke alongside “Portrait of Juan de Pareja,” which depicts a slave in the painter’s workshop, would have reminded us that Velázquez could make his subjects radiate power even when they didn’t have any. We should, despite its imperfect accommodations, treat “Portrait of Duke Francesco I d’Este” as we would a visiting head of state. It’s a fine Velázquez, commissioned to capture a political moment but painted to last. <NYT_AUTHOR_ID> <p>“Velázquez’s Portrait of Duke Francesco I d’Este: A Masterpiece from the Galleria Estense, Modena” runs through July 14 at the Metropolitan Museum of Art; (212) 535-7710, metmuseum.org. This article has been revised to reflect the following correction: Correction: April 18, 2013 <p><em>An earlier version of this review misidentified the pope who had his portrait done by both Velázquez and Bernini. He was Pope Innocent X, not Pius X.</em> |