From Madrid
ONE Was it or wasn’t it? Is it or is it done? It will be or will it not be? That is not the question but the questioning, thinks Rodríguez, Saturday morning. And Rodríguez applies that to the possible authentic falsehood of what he is contemplating with eyes wide open. Outside, the certainty of a certain type of euphoria is divided between a hangover of swifties who still wander along the Paseo de la Castellana longing for their Holy Sister; flagged prolegomena to another inevitable champion-victory of Real Madrid (because it is Real Madrid) to celebrate with Cibeles; and those who go on a pilgrimage, almost without explaining why, to the Book Fair. Inside, in El Prado, Rodríguez in front of – as it is displayed in the chiaroscuro room – “The Lost Caravaggio” when in truth, he thinks, it should be called “The Found Caravaggio”, right? Because there is that “Ecce Homo”. And, as usual, Rodríguez imagined it much larger than it is from so many photos on so many newspaper pages. But there it is now. Trio size: soldier who seems to rebuke a crowd from then (which is a crowd from now); Pontius Pilate making a gesture with poorly washed hands not of “Here is the man” but of “What do we do with this guy?”; and a Jesus Christ who is, for Rodríguez, the least accomplished of the group but, perhaps, it is said, the most interesting exactly for that reason: because ecce He is a very un-Jesuit and Christian Jesus Christ. Nothing mystical or epic, almost vulgar and boring face; as if nothing mattered to him or hurt him and with little desire to ask his father why he abandoned him but, rather, to moan a mom, when are we leaving or how long until we get there and be able to leave so as not to come back and have others follow in the next few years? two millennia and, if possible, without too much faggot, amen.
TWO And, of course, Rodríguez came to see him because he likes Caravaggio. A lot. More than twenty years ago, he had already seen the colossal exhibition at the Museum of Fine Arts in Bilbao (which coincided with Warhol’s at the Guggenheim, uniting two opposite but complementary out-of-laws); and he is here and now to add chrome to his shadow painter album so he can paint in light like no other. Yes: Rodríguez is a fan of Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio (1571-1610) as some are of Taylor Swift or the current star of the Royal White Team or that influencer who writes (or to whom they write) and gathers his hosts in those now biblio-pigeonholed paths of El Retiro. Rodríguez not only admires his work (78 paintings by his hand and brush and a few – too many that who knows if yes or no – no, because Caravaggio was not given to signing his own work); He is also fascinated by his life. His comings and goings and sketches and cross-outs of almost baroque punk and capital sinner in the provinces getting in and out of trouble with patrons/patrons, murdering in tavern fights, fugitive and exiled and depressed and ambushed and disfigured by his own myth and evil. fame, died in a hurricane of fever, martyred posthumously by Great Art and the Little Church but finally canonized in the 20th century. Caravaggio as unpainted Caravaggio and the most painted Caravaggio: devoted to the ecstatic portrait of religiously tortured and saints and virgins with the faces of sluts and sluts (for one of his Marys, it is said, he posed the corpse of a pregnant and drowned prostitute in the Tiber ) where sometimes a horse was more important than an apostle. All with an expressiveness in bodies and faces and shadows that gave birth to modern painting. And, of course, Rodríguez read poems by Thom Gunn. And a novel by Álvaro Enrigue (where he makes Caravaggio play tennis with Francisco de Quevedo with a ball made from the hair of the decapitated Anne Boleyn). And he saw Derek Jarman’s movie. And — earlier this Saturday morning at El Prado — he read all about “Ecce Homo,” this “new Caravaggio.”
THREE Painting attributed to José de Ribera and withdrawn from auction due to suspicions of Caravaggioism and declared an asset of cultural interest to prevent his Caravaggian departure from the country. And now on loan to El Prado for nine months extendable “thanks to the generosity of its new owner whose identity has not been revealed” but “a foreigner residing in Spain” (and Rodríguez cannot help but wonder if it might not be that expert forger of himself who is Tom Ripley who, in the recent Netflix series, appears more than obsessed by the Italian painter). And the “Ecce Homo” case – its doubts and assurances – joins other recent famous episodes when it comes to attesting to pictorial paternity. Like Goya’s “The Colossus”: ceasing to be and attributed, with scandal and controversy, in 2009 to “a follower” to, in 2021, be returned to the country and power of the person first responsible for it. Or the “Salvator Mundi” bought at public auction for just $10,000 and “rediscovered” in 2005 to be attributed – with great pomp and circumstance and hesitation – to Leonardo Da Vinci because none of his disciples or imitators achieved “speculation.” philosophical and subtle” of the questioned canvas in question and, suddenly, unquestionable. But who knows and, in principle and ultimately, who cares. Which Yeah What matters is that it was resold at Christie’s as the most expensive work of art ever auctioned for $450,312,500 and — it is said — is now sailing on the luxury yacht Serene, property of Mohamed bin Salmán, crown prince of Saudi Arabia.
FOUR And the history of art overflows from these intersections in which museological cliques confront each other, authenticating or condemning with manners that range from the qualified to the mafia by those who, also, they can hang a Mondrian painting upside down for 77 years without realizing it. And from there entire museums and temporary exhibitions dedicated entirely to the fine art of fake art and a whole school of “false assimilated” with bad behavior. And urban legends that whisper that up to 40% of what is exhibited in the most prestigious art galleries (in regards to pre-Columbian art the figure rises to 90%) are perfect, not fakes but reproductions; while the originals rest in the shrines of billionaires of those who, of course, also They often unknowingly pay for fake works at astronomical prices because they need something with which to fill that empty space above the fireplace. And so new form of grandmaster to collect like Han van Meegeren (“Dragged by the psychological effects of my disillusionment at not being recognized by artists and critics, one fateful day in 1936 I set out to prove my worth to the world, and decided to create a Vermeer masterpiece.“) or Elmyr de Hory (protagonist of the F for Fake by Orson Welles and who never felt like a forger but a “substitute”) or Franciso José García Lorca (who today is proud that “my Rembrandts and Van Goghs and Picassos hang in the greatest museums in the world”).
In any case, Rodríguez prefers – they are framed with purer and truer love and passion – these lies to the falsehoods that end up resulting, after the elections, in the blurred and erased promises of politicians in the campaign.
And there is a long line to buy a best-selling postcard in that place that is so important as a masterpiece: the museum store where the cheap replica mutates into an expensive one. souvenir. So Rodríguez goes back and takes a cell phone photo when the security guard looks the other way.
And Rodríguez leaves El Prado.
And look at the photo.
And, of course, it came out as unquestionable and certified and authentically and truly moved as its author.
