Episode #81: Cursed Art: Velázquez's Rokeby Venus (Season 9, Episode 5)
In our ninth season, in a topic suggested by you, our listeners, we’re uncovering the backstory behind some of the world’s most famed “cursed” objects in art, architecture, and archaeology. Today, we’re continuing with the ArtCurious debut of one of the greatest Spanish painters of all time—and his controversial painting that, some say, has driven people mad: Diego Velázquez’s Rokeby Venus.
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Episode Credits:
Production and Editing by Kaboonki. Theme music by Alex Davis. Logo by Dave Rainey. Additional writing and research help by Jessica Wollschleger.
ArtCurious is sponsored by Anchorlight, an interdisciplinary creative space, founded with the intent of fostering artists, designers, and craftspeople at varying stages of their development. Home to artist studios, residency opportunities, and exhibition space Anchorlight encourages mentorship and the cross-pollination of skills among creatives in the Triangle.
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Recommended Reading
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Links and further resources
The National Gallery, London: The Rokeby Venus, Velázquez's Only Surviving Nude
BBC: Rokeby Venus: The painting that shocked a suffragette
Daily Art Magazine: Painting of the Week: Diego Velázquez, The Rokeby Venus
Artsy: In 1914, a Feminist Attacked a Velázquez Nude with a Meat Cleaver
Sartle: Art History Tales of Terror: 7 Paintings with Spooky Secrets!
Museo del Prado: Velázquez, Diego Rodríguez de Silva y (biography)
Episode Transcript
Late in 2019, I took a quick trip to Washington, D.C. for work--and one of the best parts of my current life is that “work,” in lots of cases, just means visiting a lot of museums and galleries, which is pretty much what I’d want to do in my off-time, anyway. But sometimes, after full days of art, even my brain needs a big ol’ break, so one of my favorite things to do is to mix things up. I’ll go to a music performance, or a cinema museum, or something like that-- but most often, it’s a science or natural history museum, a place that allows me to focus an entirely different spot of my mind. So, I ended up at the Smithsonian National Museum of Natural History, and toured around their vast, beautiful geological and gemological holdings. And that’s when I ended up in a gallery teeming with people, all rubbernecking around one single display. And with hardly a second thought, I knew exactly what they were looking at--because even though lots of amazing, HUGE jewels were in nearby cases and in nearby galleries--sparklier things, more colorful things-- I knew immediately that this one item was getting all the attention. It was the world-famous Hope Diamond, a gorgeous-carat blue diamond set into a platinum necklace and ringed with dozens of smaller white diamonds. I mean, it’s beautiful, to be sure, but that isn’t the reason for its immense popularity. No--people rubberneck at the Hope today so that they can catch a glimpse of something potentially evil, because, as the old story goes, the Hope Diamond is supposedly cursed.
Some people think that visual art is dry, boring, lifeless. But the stories behind those paintings, sculptures, drawings and photographs are weirder, more outrageous, or more fun than you can imagine. This season, season nine, is all about curses in fine art and archaeology, a topic that was suggested by you, our listeners. And today we’re continuing with a supremely chilling painting by an English master, and the urban legends, equally chilling, that surround it-- today, it’s the premiere of the great Diego Velázquez on our podcast--is his famous Rokeby Venus actually cursed? This is the ArtCurious Podcast, exploring the unexpected, the slightly odd, and the strangely wonderful in Art History. I'm Jennifer Dasal.
The fact that the Hope Diamond is still one of the big draws today at the National Museum of Natural History can really be attributed--if not totally, at least in part--because of the tales of its cursedness, this belief that it only brought ruination and tragedy upon the lives of the individuals who owned it. As we have learned in this season of ArtCurious thus far, this same kind of story has been lobbed at art and archaeological items as well, and has been rumored to be true of today’s star painting, the Rokeby Venus.
Diego Rodrigo de Silva y Velázquez-- or just Diego Velázquez to us--painted the Rokeby Venus-- which is its nickname, by the way, as it bears the official title of The Toilet of Venus, or Venus at her Mirror-- as he approached his fifties, having had an illustrious career as one of the premier painters to the Spanish royal court. His early life was rather uneventful but follows a lot of the basic biographical elements that we’ve explored countless times on ArtCurious: an early aptitude for the visual arts, a lot of hard work in an early art apprenticeship, and a gradual rise to fame after completing years of solid, admirable work. By the time Velázquez entered his 30s, he had been snapped up by Spain’s King Philip IV and there Velázquez remained, in the royal court, being paid handsomely and even given a pension in his later years. In short: Velázquez had it made. But it also meant that, for the most part, his art was a bit… well, not stifled necessarily, but with a few exceptions, not hugely fascinating, either. He was a portraitist, and a portraitist to the most important people in his home country, so he had to toe the line a bit when it came to appeasing his wealthy and powerful patrons. And in this, he was golden. His portraits of Philip IV, for example, are stunning in their virtuosity, a wonderful mix of realism and flattery, so much so that you can almost hear the rustle of satin capes and bodices. And certainly he did a better job at making the royal court happy than Francisco de Goya, who held the same position about 150 years later and didn’t always have his patrons’ wishes at the forefront of his mind. (You can hear more about Goya’s final years in our “shock art” episode on his painting Saturn Devouring His Son-- that’s episode #44 if you want to listen back).
All of this focus on portraiture and on the particular wishes of his clientele actually means that the Rokeby Venus holds a rather special place in the artistic oeuvre of the famed artist, because it is his only surviving nude. But it makes sense why-- Velázquez was active during the height of the Spanish Inquisition, and portraying nudes in art was generally looked down upon by the Catholic Church, who was against anything that could remotely be deemed salacious. And of course Velázquez would a) not want to get in trouble personally, and b) would not want to do something that reflected badly upon his employer, the king. And so, we’ve got the Rokeby Venus-- the only nude from the great Spanish master.
The Rokeby Venus is a true beauty, a voluptuous brunette who is shown from behind as she lounges upon her bed, an intimate scene all draped in red and white and gray silky fabrics (that gray, by the way, actually used to be a deeper purple color, but it has faded over time, which is one of the many travesties that can befall a nearly four-hundred-year-old painting. Cupid-- Venus’s son in ancient Roman mythology--stands nearby and holds a mirror up to Venus, who admires her own gaze. The position of the mirror is such that her face is reflected back at us-- so we see her looking at us, the viewers: a rather ingenious tactic that has stirred art historians into frenzies throughout the last century in particular as ideas about the gaze--G-A-Z-E-- has taken hold and we’re left to question who is looking at whom here. Who has the power? Is it us, who admire Venus’s ample behind? Or is it Venus, who eyes us, and our own potentially lascivious stares, with knowing and awareness?
What’s additionally really interesting about Venus’s reflection-and that gaze back at us-- is that Velázquez hasn’t delineated her face very clearly. We can make out a dark pair of eyes and rosy cheeks--perhaps the hint of a toothy smile--but it almost looks like Velázquez didn’t properly finish the work with the same high attention to detail typically shown in his court portraits, for example. However, this might very well have been intentional on the artist’s part-- a way of keeping the physical appearance of the Goddess of Beauty and Love-- the epitome of gorgeousness-- just vague enough that it’s our job, as viewers, to mentally fill in the details, to come up with our own ideas about idealized female beauty. I love this idea. But I also have to admit that Cupid is also a little brushier than typical for Velázquez, so, who knows-- this interpretation might very well be bunk, but I still dig it. Regardless, it provides Venus with this greater air of mystery, as we are totally unable to see any of her defining features--other than that rear end-- in any clear way. It’s a true change from other renditions of Venus throughout time, all laid bare for us to see, like in works by Italian greats like Titian and Giorgione, both of whom Velázquez admired greatly. But the Rokeby Venus is Velázquez’s own invention, and a fascinating one at that.
The fascination surrounding the Rokeby Venus doesn’t just begin and end with the painting’s appearance, but also extends to its creation. Art historians have long been unsure about the exact dating of the artwork, so it’s typically listed in textbooks as belonging to the artist’s mature period, probably one of his final works, potentially pre-dating his truest masterpiece, the courtly scene Las Meninas, by only four or five years, making Rokeby a hallmark of the last decade of the artist’s life. Even more uncertain is the commission and provenance--or the history of ownership--of the work of art. Several art historians claim that the work was discovered in the inventory of a Spanish marquis who held close ties to the Spanish crown, and who apparently, quote, “Loved paintings almost as much as he loved women,” which was apparently a LOT. Other historians note that the painting was first documented in the holdings of a Madrid art dealer, but not listed as being created by Diego Velázquez. A lot of this mystery stems, probably, from the same reasoning behind the fact that this is the only surviving nude by Velázquez-- the Spanish Inquisition. It wasn’t totally illegal to paint or purchase artworks featuring sexy naked ladies, but you know, you’d want to keep such things on the down-low, just in case.
But the painting itself didn’t stay on the down-low for too terribly long. Over the centuries, the artwork kept popping up amidst rumors. Rumors that, in many ways, seemed to follow it the way that the stories of the Hope Diamond seem to stay in the front of our minds.
Coming up next: The Rokeby Venus, some say, was cursed, bringing death and devastation to many of her owners. Stay with us.
Welcome back to ArtCurious.
Like the stories of its commission, there are some mysteries about where and when the supposed Rokeby Venus curse began. Neither the Madrid art dealer, nor that Spanish Marquis who first owned the work seem to have met massive tragedy in their lives. For over a hundred years, the painting was passed down through various noble Spanish families, most notably the Duchy of Alba--another family with another link to that other great Spanish artist we mentioned earlier-- Francisco de Goya-- more on that in a second. And it seems that it’s really just the tragic story of the 13th Duchess of Alba that originally spurred the story of this supposed curse. The Duchess of Alba--whose given name and title is really, really long, but we can at least narrow it down to María del Pilar Teresa Cayetana de Silva Álvarez de Toledo y Silva Bazán, the Marquise of Villafranca and the Duchess of Alba-- was one of the most powerful women in Spain in the late 18th century, second only to the Queen, Maria Luisa of Parma. By all accounts, the Duchess of Alba was assigned all those stereotypical attributes lobbied so often at Spanish women: strong-willed, fiery, so passionate that she threw temper-tantrums when things didn’t go her way. Whether or not this was really the Duchess’s personality or simply, perhaps, a misogynistic smear campaign to make her seem unstable-- well, who can say? We do know that she was famed far and wide, known as one of the wealthiest women in Spain, and that her beauty was celebrated by all who knew her, counting her among the most beautiful women in the world during her lifetime. Certainly this tracks with the fact that the lead Spanish court painter at the time-- Goya himself-- made several portraits of her, including two famous works that describe the Duchess based on the dresses she wears in both-- one called The White Duchess and the other, The Black Duchess. Goya first met the Duchess when she was but a teenager, and Goya was quite a bit older, but they seemed to enjoy each other’s presence, becoming friends over time. Goya even apparently made himself a home at the Duchess’s villa for nearly a year, where the older, and somewhat ailing, painter found affection and laughter with the Duchess, her adopted daughter, and her wait staff. This connection with the Alba duchy was, perhaps, taken to the extreme-- as rumors circulated almost immediately that Goya and the Duchess were engaged in a passionate love affair-- a rumor driven, naturally, not only by the supposed gorgeousness of the Duchess, but also due to the apparent existence of several drawings of the Duchess in various states of undress, held within Goya’s personal effects.
And then… there’s the portraits of the so-called Nude Maja and the Clothed Maja, two scenes of a Venus-like reclining woman with dark hair and beckoning, come-hither eyes, whom some believe was based on the Duchess. That’s another one of those “who knows for sure?” tales in art history, but it sure would add fuel to the fire about a purported affair between Goya and the Duchess. But anyway: back to Velázquez’s Rokeby Venus. As part of the inheritance of the Duchy, the Rokeby Venus was claimed by the 13th Duchess of Alba as part of her own personal effects, and when the Duchess died in 1802 at the age of just 40--and under potentially mysterious circumstances-- people were left looking for answers, and some looked no further than to the Velázquez painting hanging solemnly on her wall. The Duchess, you see, could have been driven mad by the gorgeous Venus, unchanged and perfect for more than 100 years, while the Duchess herself had entered middle age and was perhaps feeling the fading of her long-praised beauty. It drove her mad, some said-- and it may even have driven her to take her own life via poisoning. Suicide inspired by painting-- it isn’t the last time we’ll hear this kind of story on the podcast this season, by the way.
Of course, it’s probably more the case that the Duchess died of something far more straightforward, and sadly, far more common, like fever, tuberculosis, or the like. But some have even suggested that she perished during a botched abortion to rid herself--wait for it--of her lover Goya’s child. Obviously that one is just a nice way to boost the illicit love affair story, and that’s been super-debunked. But the story of the supposed curse lived on.
After the Rokeby Venus left the Duchy of Alba, it again changed hands a few time, first ended up with another one of the king’s favorites, a man named Don Manuel Godoy, a minister to the king who is a fascinating figure in his own right-- but one whom may have fallen on the wrong side of history in the eyes of some Spaniards who would later criticize him. He, they said, remained far too neutral during the atrocities of the French Revolution, and by not coming to the aid of the French monarchy, he inadvertently left the door open for Spain to be overtaken by Napoleon’s Army. In short order, Godoy became the fall guy for a number of Spanish problems, including that Napoleonic invasion, the Anglo-Spanish War that raged from 1796 to 1808, and even the end of the Spanish Empire and the bankrupting of the kingdom. That’s a lot to place on one man. But some said it was all because of that hazy, unfocused gaze of the Rokeby Venus, staring down on him, day after day. It cursed him, they said. And it doesn’t always matter how improbable that explanation is-- -- sometimes it’s just easier to accept that the hand of something mysterious or paranormal is at play than to seek out a more plausible explanation.
In the early 1800s, Godoy was exiled from his home country, and naturally he had to leave a lot of his worldly goods back in Spain as he fled. And here again, the Rokeby Venus was held in this netherworld between owners. It made its way from mainland Europe over to England, where it was purchased by John Bacon Sawrey Morritt, a politician who counted Sir Thomas Lawrence-- a leading portrait painter and, later, the president of the Royal Academy, Britain’s premier art institution. (You can hear more about the Royal Academy in one of my favorite episodes, #36, on the juicy rivalry between Turner and Constable). Thomas Lawrence saw the Rokeby Venus and persuaded Morritt to purchase it for his estate, Rokeby Park--hence the painting’s most common nickname. And there it stayed, in Morritt’s home, for about thirty years… and nothing happened. By all accounts, Morritt lived a happy life with little peril, and when he met death in 1843, it was at the age of 71-- not too bad for a 19th-century gent, and certainly it wasn’t a terrible or tragic end. It was just… his time. The painting stayed hanging at Rokeby Park for a few decades, until it was acquired for the National Gallery, with funding set aside for its purchase by none other than the King of England, Edward VII, who apparently really liked the work-- especially Venus’s rounded, ample rear end. And so in a blink of an eye, the Rokeby Venus became part of the National Gallery’s collection in 1906, where it has been housed ever since, and, for all intents and purposes, the curse of the Rokeby Venus was forgotten.
But then, an opportunity-- a terrible one-- brought the curse right back into the forefront of the conversations around Rokeby. On March 10, 1914, eight comfortable years after the painting was acquired for the National Gallery, a woman named Mary Richardson snuck through the doors of the Gallery with a secret: a meat cleaver hidden on her person. When she found herself face-to-rump with the Rokeby Venus, she pulled out the cleaver, and in just a few seconds, she slashed the painting seven times, mostly damaging Venus’s back and shoulders. (And this is but one single reason why we need guards in museums, y’all). After Richardson was apprehended, she released a statement to explain her actions, which, she noted, were politically motivated, with a solid feminist bent. She noted, quote:
“I have tried to destroy the picture of the most beautiful woman in mythological history as a protest against the Government for destroying Mrs Pankhurst, who is the most beautiful character in modern history. Justice is an element of beauty as much as colour and outline on canvas. Mrs Pankhurst seeks to procure justice for womanhood, and for this she is being slowly murdered by a Government of Iscariot politicians. If there is an outcry against my deed, let every one remember that such an outcry is an hypocrisy so long as they allow the destruction of Mrs Pankhurst and other beautiful living women, and that until the public cease to countenance human destruction the stones cast against me for the destruction of this picture are each an evidence against them of artistic as well as moral and political humbug and hypocrisy.”
Whoo, that was a mouthful, but essentially, Mary Richardson attacked Rokeby because she was angered at the treatment of an English suffragette named Emma Pankhurst, who had condoned--even advocated--for violence and destruction in order to draw attention to the plight of women in the early 20th century. And I mean, respect-- I support suffrage and equality for all human beings, but I’m not chill with destruction, especially the damage of works of art. But even from the start, the decision to attack Velázquez’s nude seemed somewhat fishy to some-- an all-too-convenient excuse. And indeed, as I noted in my book, ArtCurious, in reference to another famous butt in art history--be sure to grab a copy of the book if you haven’t already!-- Richardson eventually admitted in a 1952 interview that there was another reason for focusing her ire on the Rokeby Venus-- and it was all because of that rear end. She disliked the painting because she hated, quote, “the way men visitors gaped at it all day long.” The painting highlighted men’s lascivious nature, their fascination with the female body more than any other feminine attribute-- so it was a convenient symbol for her anger, however justified or unjustified it may have been. And yet, some still wondered: Was Mary Richardson herself so entranced by the painting that it drove her mad? Did its latent curse cause her to attack it? As we’d later learn, it isn’t unknown that an individual could have a negative and physical reaction to a work of art-- it’s a topic we actually covered early on in ArtCurious, in Episode #11 about art attacks and the so-called “Stendahl Syndrome”--but in this case, again, I think it was just a convenient, if regrettable way, to grab some headlines for Mary Richardson. And luckily, this all has a happy ending: the painting was thankfully repaired by the National Gallery’s chief conservator.
So what really constitutes a curse, then, when it comes to a work of art--or indeed any object? While something like the Hope Diamond was rumored to have caused several deaths of the owners of the diamond or their close family members, the Rokeby Venus’s connection to death and tragedy is less pronounced, except, perhaps, in the apocryphal case of the Duchess of Alba. More than anything, it’s a story-- and if I’ve ever said anything about art history, it’s that sometimes we just need a really good story to get us interested in it. And if we need a story of a curse to get us to stand in front of the Rokeby Venus for a few minutes longer, to consider its provenance , or to think about all the things that Venus has gazed upon throughout the last few centuries of history, then-- where’s the harm in a little fable about a supposed curse?
Thank you for listening to the ArtCurious Podcast. This episode was written, produced, and narrated by me, Jennifer Dasal, with additional writing and research help by Jessica Wollschleger. Our theme music is by Alex Davis at alexdavismusic.com, and our logo is by Dave Rainey at daveraineydesign.com. Our audio production services are provided by Kaboonki, the silliest name in superb podcasts and video. Let them help you too at kaboonki.com. The ArtCurious Podcast is sponsored primarily by Anchorlight. Anchorlight is a creative space, founded with the intent of fostering artists, designers, and craftspeople at varying stages of their development. Home to artist studios, residency opportunities, and exhibition space Anchorlight encourages mentorship and the cross-pollination of skills among creatives in the Triangle. Please visit anchorlightraleigh.com.
The ArtCurious Podcast is also fiscally sponsored by VAE Raleigh, a 501c3 nonprofit creativity incubator. For more details about our show, including the image mentioned in this episode today, please visit our website: artcuriouspodcast.com. We’re also on Twitter and Instagram at artcuriouspod. And we have podcast merchandise! You can support or show that way and get yourself some goodies, like t-shirts, tote bags, notebooks, and more. Check out the link to our TeePublic store in the show notes on this episode, or on our website.
Check back with us in two weeks when we explore the unexpected, slightly odd, and strangely wonderful with potentially cursed art and artifacts.
