Framing Majismo: Art and Royal Identity in Eighteenth-Century Spain 9780271076706

Citation preview

FRAMING MAJISMO

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Majismo FRAMING MAJISMO Art and Royal Identity in Eighteenth-Century Spain TARA ZANARDI

The Pennsylvania State University Press University Park, Pennsylvania

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Earlier versions of portions of this book appeared in the following publications: Tara Zanardi, “National Heroics: Bullfighters, Machismo, and the Cult of Celebrity,” in “Olympics Special Issue,” edited by Conrad Brunström, Tanya M. Cassidy, and Martha K. Zebrowski, Journal for Eighteenth-Century Studies 35, no. 2 (2012): 199–221. Tara Zanardi, “Fashioning the Duchess of Alba: Vicarious Thrills and Sartorial Flirtations During the Spanish Enlightenment,” Fashion Theory: The Journal of Dress, Body, and Culture 14, no. 1 (2010): 7–44. © Tara Zanardi 2010. Berg Publishers, by permission of Bloomsbury Publishing PLC . Tara Zanardi, “Preservation and Promotion: The State of the Arts in Eighteenth-Century Spain,” Dieciocho 27, no. 2 (2004): 303–20. Tara Zanardi, “Crafting Spanish Female Identity: Silk Lace Mantillas at the Crossroads of Tradition and Fashion,” Material Culture Review 77/78 (2013): 139–57.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Zanardi, Tara, 1971– , author. Majismo and the pictorial construction of Spanish elite identity in the eighteenth century / Tara Zanardi. pages  cm Summary: “Explores majismo, a cultural phenomenon that embodied the popular aesthetic from the late 1700s in Spain. Examines conceptions of gender, national character, and noble identity”—Provided by publisher. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0-271-06724-7 (cloth : alk. paper) 1. Art, Spanish—18th century. 2. National characteristics, Spanish, in art—History— 18th century 3. Spaniards in art—History—18th century. 4. Gender identity in art—History—18th century. 5. Elite (Social sciences) in art—History—18th century.  I. Title.

Copyright © 2016 The Pennsylvania State University All rights reserved Printed in Korea by Pacom Design & typesetting by Garet Markvoort, zijn digital Composed in Sina Nova Published by The Pennsylvania State University Press, University Park, PA 16802-1003 The Pennsylvania State University Press is a member of the Association of American University Presses. It is the policy of The Pennsylvania State University Press to use acid-free paper. Publications on uncoated stock satisfy the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences— Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Material, ANSI Z39.48–1992. Additional credits Page ii: Lorenzo Tiepolo, An Elegant Couple from Madrid, ca. 1770, detail. Palacio Real, Madrid. Photo: Bridgeman Images. Page vi: Lorenzo Tiepolo, People from Madrid, 1750, detail. Private collection, Spain. Photo: Album / Art Resource, N.Y.. Page viii: Lorenzo Tiepolo, Popular Types, ca. 1770, detail. © Patrimonio Nacional.

N7106.Z36 2016 709.46’09033—dc23 2015014239

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for José

FOR JOSÉ

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Contents CONTENTS

Illustrations ix Acknowledgments xi Introduction 1 1

Majismo, the Spanish National Character, and the Elite Cultivation of Cultural Patrimony  15

2

Swaggering Majos: Performing the Masculine Ideal  39

3

Performing the Bullfight: Spanish Bodies as Noble Spectacle  79

4 Majas, Elites, and Female Agency  109 5 Majismo and Royal Identity  149 Conclusion 193 Notes 209 Bibliography 221 Index 231

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Illustrations I L L U S T R AT I O N S

1

Juan de la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla, Barber Majo, Playing Music, 1777  2 2 Juan de la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla, Maja, 1777 3 3 Antonio Rodríguez, Petimetre with a Cloth Frock Coat, Cotton Tights, and Ankle Boots, 1804 4 4 Juan de la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla, Petimetra with Mantilla During Holy Week, 1777  5 5 Throne room of the Palacio Real in Madrid  14 6 Detail of Giambattista Tiepolo, Glorification of the Spanish Monarchy, 1766  17 7 Francisco de Goya, The Family of Charles IV, 1801  29 8 Juan de la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla, Orange Vendor, 1777 36 9 Luis Paret y Alcázar, Party in Front of the Botanical Garden, ca. 1790  37 10 Anonymous, Majo/Torero, ca. 1790  40 11 Mariano Salvador Maella, Charles III Dressed in the Uniform and Robe of His Order, 1784  41 12 José del Castillo, The Painter’s Studio, or the Boys Playing with a Cat, 1780  47 13 Lorenzo Tiepolo, Soldier with a Majo from the Back, ca. 1770  50 14 Lorenzo Tiepolo, Two Majos and a Country Woman, ca. 1770  51 15 Nicolas Arnoult, Homme de qualite en habit d’êpée, 1683–88 54 16 Francisco de Goya, A Walk in Andalusia, 1777  57 17 Carel Allard, Madrid, [170?]  58 18 Juan de la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla, Andalusian Man, 1777  59

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19 Marcos Téllez, Dress that Contrabandists Use, ca. 1790  59 20 José Camarón Bonanat, Romería, ca. 1785  65 21 Francisco de Goya, Even He Cannot Make Her Out, 1799  74 22 Francisco de Goya, Poor Things!, 1799  77 23 Isidro Carnicero, Bullfight in the Air, 1784  80 24 Francisco de Goya, A Spanish Gentleman Kills a Bull After Losing His Horse, 1816  82 25 Francisco de Goya, El Cid Campeador Spearing Another Bull, 1816  82 26 Gregorio Tapia y Salcedo, Spearing Exercises, 1643  83 27 Francisco de Goya, Charles V Spearing a Bull in the Plaza of Valladolid, 1816  84 28 Francisco de Goya, The Spirited Moor Gazul Is the First to Spear Bulls According to the Rules, 1816  86 29 Antonio Carnicero, frontispiece to Colección de las principales suertes de una corrida de toros, 1790  94 30 Antonio Carnicero, Picador Preparing to Lance a Bull, 1790  95 31 Luis Fernández Noseret, Death of a Bull, 1792  96 32 Juan de la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla, Costillares, 1778  99 33 Detail of Juan Cháez, The Matador Pepe Hillo Wounded Accompanied by Two Bullfighters, ca. 1789  100 34 Francisco de Goya, The Daring of Martincho in the Plaza de Madrid, 1816  102

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35 Francisco de Goya, Pedro Romero, 1795–98  104 36 Antonio Rodríguez, For Me There Is No Courageous Bull. Bullfighter on Foot, 1801  106 37 Antonio Rodríguez, Bring the Horse. Bullfighter on Horse, 1801  106 38 Francisco de Goya, Virile Valor of the Celebrated Pajuelera in Zaragoza’s Ring, 1816 107 39 Francisco de Goya, The Picnic, 1776  114 40 Lorenzo Tiepolo, The Cherry Vendor, ca. 1770  115 41 Francisco de Goya, The Cherry Vendor, 1778–79  116 42 Anonymous, The Petimetra on the Prado of Madrid, n.d.  119 43 Francisco de Goya, Maja Showing Off in Front of Three Others, 1796–97  125 44 Lorenzo Tiepolo, Popular Types, ca. 1770  127 45 Juan de la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla, Dressmaker,  1779­­–83  131 46 Francisco de Goya, The Laundresses, 1779–80  134 47 Francisco de Goya, Good Advice, 1799 136 48 Francisco de Goya, Hush, 1799 137 49 Francisco de Goya, Strolling Majas, 1796–97  138 50 Francisco de Goya, Two Majas Dancing, 1796–97  143 51 Luis Paret y Alcázar, The Shop of Geniani, 1772  146 52 Francisco de Goya, The Duchess of Alba as a Maja, 1797  148 53 Jean-Marc Nattier, Madame Adelaïde-de-France as Diana, 1745  150 54 Anton Raphael Mengs, Isabel Parreño, Marquise of Llano, ca. 1773  154 55 Lorenzo Tiepolo, The Orange Vendor, ca. 1770  156 56 Francisco de Goya, Blindman’s Buff, 1789  159 57 Francisco de Goya, Duchess of Alba, 1795  169 58 Francisco de Goya, Nude Maja, ca. 1797–1800  172 59 Francisco de Goya, Dressed Maja, ca. 1800–1805  172 60 Francisco de Goya, Queen María Luisa in a Mantilla, 1799  175 61 Francisco de Goya, Isabel de Porcel, 1805  177 62 Detail of Zacarías González Velázquez, service staircase mural, ca. 1802  179

63 Francisco de Goya, Charles IV in Hunting Dress, 1799  181 64 Francisco de Goya, Gaspar Melchor de Jovellanos, 1798  183 65 Francisco de Goya, Carlos José Gutiérrez de los Ríos Sarmiento de Sotomayor, the Seventh Count of Fernán Núñez, 1803  185 66 Francisco de Goya, María de la Soledad Vicenta Solís Lasso de la Vega, 1803  186 67 Antonio Rodríguez, Petimetra with a Muslin Mantilla and Twill-Weave Basquiña Adorned with Velvet, 1804  189 68 Antonio Rodríguez, To the Bullfight. Majo with a Short Jacket and a Cape, 1801  191 69 Antonio Rodríguez, Good Day for Enjoying the Sun! Petimetre with Cape, 1801  191 70 Antonio Rodríguez, Do I Look Like Some Currutaco to You? Worker from Burgos, 1801 191 71 Manuel Cabral y Aguado Bejarano, Alfonsito Cabral with a Cigar, 1865  197 72 John Frederick Lewis, Sierra Nevada and Part of the Alhambra, 1835  199 73 Ignacio Zuloaga y Zabaleta, Nude with a Red Carnation, 1915  203 74 Joaquín Sorolla y Bastida, Seville. The Dance, 1911–19  206 75 Pablo Picasso, plate 1 of Dream and Lie of Franco I, 1937  208

x  Illustrations

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Acknowlegments ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

AS FAR AS GRADUATE ADVISORS GO, I lucked out. When I began my graduate

studies at the University of Virginia, I had limited background in the eighteenth century, but that quickly changed when I took a seminar on art and politics in the revolutionary period with Christopher Johns during my first semester. Throughout that course and the many that followed, Christopher was an inspiration, and I discovered that this period provided (and still provides) a rich and largely untapped source of art-historical material for research. As a doctoral student, I wed my long-standing love of Spanish art with my new appreciation of the eighteenth century. While in Spain, Christopher joined me for an art march to countless museums and churches, which proved to be a wonderfully unique opportunity to learn about the field. As a graduate student and now as a professor, I owe a tremendous debt for my development as a scholar of eighteenth-century art history to Christopher. He is a model mentor, impeccable scholar, and brilliant professor, and I am delighted to know him as a colleague. I am especially grateful for his continued generosity, support, and humor. There were many wonderful professors at the University of Virginia with whom I had the pleasure to study, making my years in graduate school both challenging and rewarding. Paul Barolsky, John Dobbins, Lawrence Goedde, and Howard Singerman—all in the McIntire Department of Art—were great advocates of my work, and David Gies—in the Department of Spanish, Italian, and Portuguese—was instrumental in my early navigation of sources and scholars in Madrid. As a literary Hispanist of the eighteenth century, he offered helpful insights into the period. In the field of the eighteenth century, Mary Sheriff served on my dissertation committee as an outside reader (making the trek from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill for my doctoral defense) and remains an exceptional mentor and champion of my work. Both Mary and Christopher introduced me to the American Society for Eighteenth-Century Studies. For more than a decade, I have thoroughly enjoyed participating in the annual conferences and have benefited from their interdisciplinary

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nature. These conferences have yielded scholarly discussion and academic camaraderie. Through the society, I have met countless scholars in whose company I am honored to be, including Jeffrey Collins, Elisabeth Fraser, Jennifer Germann, Carolyn Guile, Melissa Hyde, Christina Lindeman, Meredith Martin, Wendy Roworth, Heidi Strobel, and Janis Tomlinson, among many others. Extra-special thanks goes to Andrew Schulz, who guided me through Spain’s Biblioteca Nacional and provided wonderful support for my work early on, and to Michael Yonan for generously reading parts of this manuscript and for his good friendship. I have profited from the outstanding counsel and kindness of many of my colleagues, past and present, including Nebahat Avcioğlu, Emily Braun, Sara Butler, Hendrik Dey, Cynthia Hahn, Eugenia Paulicelli, Maria Antonella Pelizzari, and Howard Singerman (now at Hunter College, CUNY ). My fellow Hispanist Amanda Wunder graciously read my book’s introduction, and I want to thank her for her suggestions. I also want to extend my utmost gratitude to Wen-Shing Chou and Lynda Klich for their tough love in reviewing parts of the manuscript. Their critical scrutiny was especially helpful in reworking certain chapters and for improving the book overall. In addition, I want to express my warm thanks to Elizabeth Franklin Lewis, who read through the manuscript in its entirety twice and offered incomparable advice for its betterment. Without the outstanding contributions of these individuals, this book would not have been conceivable. I am grateful to the institutions and foundations that have made the research for and writing of this book possible. At Hunter College, I received a PSC -CUNY grant to support the acquisition of images and a subvention from the Presidential Fund for Faculty Advancement. In addition, I was awarded a publication subvention from the Historians of Eighteenth-Century Art and Architecture. In the early stages of my book research, the American Association of University Women granted me a major postdoctoral award. I not only conducted the majority of the new research for this book but also wrote much of the manuscript during that year as an American postdoctoral fellow. In Spain, I received assistance from countless individuals. The research librarians in the Biblioteca Nacional, Real Academia de Bellas Artes de San Fernando, Museo del Traje, and Archivo General del Palacio facilitated the progress of my book. I would also like to extend a special thanks to Jesusa Vega, who has always been a generous and kind colleague. Select portions of this manuscript were previously published in various forms. They are excerpted here by permission of the following academic journals: Dieciocho, Fashion Theory, Material Culture Review, and the Journal for Eighteenth-Century Studies. I am grateful to these journals for allowing me to reprint the passages in manuscript form. Finally, I want to give thanks to my family for their encouragement, humor, and kindness as I worked on this project. My eldest sister, Stephanie, reviewed the entire first draft and lent her expert editing skills to improve the manuscript overall. My mother offered countless weekend hours to play with her newest grandchildren so xii  Acknowledgments

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that I could steal away to my office and write. Her generous support was invaluable for the completion of this project. My niece Catherine “the Great” Zanardi (a blossoming architectural student) gently nudged me to move along in the manuscript’s progress, and I value her thoughtful motivation. My two children brought me great joy, and I always appreciated coming home to their warm hugs and laughter. My deepest appreciation is reserved for my husband, José Alemán, to whom I dedicate this book as a gesture of my love and gratitude. His unconditional love and plentiful smiles sustained me. Without him, this book would not have been possible.

Acknowledgments xiii

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Introduction INTRODUCTION

When my eldest sister, Stephanie, returned home from her semester abroad in Spain, I was just a little girl. She arrived armed with Christmas presents, most of which I do not recall. My gift was exquisitely wrapped. When I opened it, I found a Barbie-esque flamenco dancer whose voluminous flounced skirt and matching red bodice were flecked with gold and proudly displayed by her affected pose. While living in Madrid for doctoral research, I saw many such dolls lining souvenir shops. That this dancer kindled my interest in Spain is probable. What is more important, however, is that this type, the female flamenco dancer, is part of a constructed artistic vision of Spanishness that developed in the eighteenth century. The flamenco dancer is a recognizable icon of pictorial costumbrismo—the Romantic depiction of local customs and characters—from the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, as well as a familiar type associated with Spain whose dress and style have historical roots prior to 1800. Despite her current kitsch appeal as a mass-produced doll, the flamenco dancer is not the first type to embody purportedly customary Spanish traits. Visual depictions of majos (fig. 1) and majas (fig. 2) from the eighteenth century—popular, urban, and plebeian characters regarded as quintessentially Spanish—confirm that the history of types who supposedly epitomize qualities deemed as traditional originated not in the 1800s, but earlier. These “Spanish” traits were based partially on Enlightenment understandings of national character and race. To account for differences among peoples, specific traits were affiliated with a particular group (or nationality or region of the globe) as part of the broader Enlightenment project of categorizing human variety. Majos and majas, the popular types who were associated with Spanish cities, primarily Madrid, and served as artisans and vendors, were often romanticized and given an affected regality in visual representations. Artists exaggerated their gestures, foregrounded their employment in local industries, and depicted them as active participants in traditional customs, ultimately making them models of an idealized notion of Spanishness. The process by which majos and majas came to epitomize lo castizo (pure Spanishness) included their pictorial differentiation from those types representing the

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FIGURE 1

Juan de la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla, Barber Majo, Playing Music, in Colección de trajes de España, tanto antiguos como modernos, que comprehende todos los de sus dominios, vol. 1 (Madrid: Casa de D. M. Copin Carrera de S. Geronimo, 1777). Biblioteca Nacional de España, Madrid. © Biblioteca Nacional de España.

foreign, such as the petimetre and petimetra (figs. 3 and 4), who falsified a high social status, feigned cosmopolitan airs, and were the source of satire. Lo castizo was attributed to traditional customs and peoples, making the majo and maja the embodiment of customary values and practices. I use the terms “popular,” “traditional,” “customary,” and lo castizo interchangeably. These terms are not directly linked to nationalism, which is typically associated with the nineteenth century. In the 1700s, patriotic sentiment was often fueled by collective traits common to a specific group, based on Enlightenment ideas of national character. The idea of lo castizo did not 2  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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FigURE 2

Juan de la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla, Maja, in Colección de trajes de España, tanto antiguos como modernos, que comprehende todos los de sus dominios, vol. 1 (Madrid: Casa de D. M. Copin Carrera de S. Geronimo, 1777). Biblioteca Nacional de España, Madrid. © Biblioteca Nacional de España.

necessarily exist across Spain, where regional identity prevailed, making the concept of “nationalism” problematic. Thus, I foreground the eighteenth-century nomenclature of national character instead of nationalism. Visual representations of majos and majas, including paintings, tapestries, pastels, prints, and drawings, emphasize purportedly unique Spanish characteristics, often embodying but also confounding prevailing gender stereotypes based in part on eighteenth-century theories of pathognomy, physiognomy, and national character. By the end of the 1700s, gender difference was rooted in new perceptions of the Introduction 3

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Figure 3

Antonio Rodríguez, Petimetre with a Cloth Frock Coat, Cotton Tights, and Ankle Boots, 1804. Biblioteca Nacional de España, Madrid. © Biblioteca Nacional de España.

body stemming from biological study; this further articulated separate spheres for men and women, generating a “two-sex” model, according to Thomas Laqueur.1 More recently, Erin M. Goss has addressed the issue of sexual differentiation. Like Laqueur, she argues that eighteenthand nineteenth-century anatomical discourse and theories of physiology sought to establish fundamental distinctions between male and female bodies (by way of their skeletal and muscular structures) in order to “naturalize extant assumptions of the differences they claim to explain.”2 Recognizing the obvious differences between masculine and feminine, lo castizo and the foreign, popular and royal, and tradition and modernity, I believe that majos/as and other types were frequently described and depicted in similar ways, complicating the clear divisions they were meant to exemplify. Majos and majas simultaneously represented a link to the past and embodied contemporary Spain by honoring and renovating Spanish practices and by wearing supposedly traditional garb, often in conjunction with new trends. Many eighteenth-century Spaniards contested majos/as’ claims to authenticity, especially as elites appropriated the clothing and customs of popular types, obscuring class divisions and undermining expected aristocratic behavior. Artists visualized majos/as as incarnations of early modern Spanish nobility, through their somatic affectations and dress. Such reciprocity between elites and plebeians contributed to the blurring of social distinctions. Majismo, a cultural phenomenon that embodied the popular aesthetic from the second half of the eighteenth century, was partially a xenophobic reaction to the perceived boost in outside influence on Spain, as well as a challenge to the progressive reforms instituted during the Enlightenment. More significantly, majismo served as a means to “regain” Spanish heritage, although debate over what constituted Spanish ancestry problematized the emphasis on authenticity, which majos and majas were supposed to embody. For example, in the Encyclopédie, a multivolume text published between 1751 and 1777, Denis Diderot commented on Spain’s heterogeneous past, listing the Romans, Goths, Vandals, and Arabs as important participants in the country’s development.3 The Encyclopédie aimed to encourage critical thought, and this collaborative effort made it a watershed work by the “men of letters” who characterized the Enlightenment. Spain’s multiethnic heritage further complicated claims that majos/as better personified the Spanish national character than their 4  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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FigURE 4

Juan de la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla, Petimetra with Mantilla During Holy Week, in Colección de trajes de España, tanto antiguos como modernos, que comprehende todos los de sus dominios, vol. 1 (Madrid: Casa de D. M. Copin Carrera de S. Geronimo, 1777). Biblioteca Nacional de España, Madrid. © Biblioteca Nacional de España.

royal, “foreign” superiors (the Bourbons). Definitions of the Spanish national character varied, making evaluations of who embodied such qualities more difficult to assess. Imagining popular types as models of an authentic Spanishness, artists often portrayed them as the inheritors of Spain’s early modern heroes, highlighting their dress, their contributions to Spain’s economy as laborers, and their maintenance of customary practices, such as bullfighting and Spanish dances. Introduction 5

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Majismo, as expressed via artistic means, conferred on Spanish “citizens” the pictorial ideal of a shared national character, regardless of the debate over what did or did not constitute Spain’s national character. The communal aspects of majismo are significant, including the celebration of traditional festivals, customs, and corresponding dress, as well as the championing of urban neighborhood pride and laboring artisans. Pictorial majismo helped forge a perception of a collective Spanishness. Artists depicted majos and majas wearing garments viewed as historically Spanish, performing as bullfighters, and contributing to national industries in their capacities as artisans or street vendors. Spanish elites’ appropriation of certain traditional attributes typified by majos/as solidified this invented “national spirit,” even if that spirit did not exist at the national level. Images devoted to themes of majos and majas contributed to the conceptualization of Spanishness by highlighting characteristics that were, in fact, rooted in collective climatic, religious, and cultural commonalities. Visual examples of majismo and lo castizo often glorified urban laborers. Many of these images—in painting or decorative art form—were destined for an elite audience or for foreign consumption. Underscoring qualities deemed fundamentally Spanish, such images of types and traditional practices reinforced stereotypes with regard to the national character. However, majos and majas were predominantly associated with urban sites and were arguably not representative of all Spanish traits. In 1734, the Diccionario de la lengua castellana defined majos as “those who typically live in the outskirts of this Court,” referring to Madrid. The term majo could also be used to describe a person who “affects beauty and bravery in his actions and words,”4 pointing to majos’ position outside of official society and to their heightened affectation, in an effort to compensate for their “marginalized” status.5 Rebecca Haidt emphasizes that these outcasts could be “depicted as idlers, allies of criminals, underminers of law and order; or (as is often the case in sainetes and tonadillas) underprivileged people trying to keep their spirits up and their bellies full.”6 She also argues that these groups “became aestheticized through late eighteenthcentury texts and images depicting them as emblematic of national character.”7 The aestheticization of types in visual works was particularly appropriate when the images were created for a royal audience, as romanticized versions were considered decorous. The discrepancies in differing accounts and characterizations of majos accentuated the problem faced by artists in the last half of the 1700s; types yielded myriad descriptions and affiliations—not one fixed definition. While artists codified traits to identify types, these qualities could also be reordered, complicating the means of recognizing such groups. Types were essentially unstable cultural and social tropes that could be manipulated to relay fears or express pride. This book seeks to isolate and uncover the nuances of their representation in order to propose that the visualization of types was a multifarious and challenging project undertaken at precisely the moment when definitions of national character and gender were shifting during the 1700s. Majismo offers a trove of popular imagery that points to 6  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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underlying societal tensions between class and gender and between tradition and modernity. My purpose is twofold. First, I aim to identify and interrogate pictorial constructions of gendered Spanishness in which stock figures were strategically used to convey Spanish elite identity and lo castizo. Second, I demonstrate the political and personal reasons why elite patrons commissioned popular-themed objects and had their portraits painted wearing forms of traditional garb. Women were the active instigators in this sartorial trend and often used dress to challenge the hierarchies of gender. When considered thus, visual examples of majismo emerge as critical and often contentious sites for navigating eighteenth-century conceptions of gender, national character, and noble identity. Ultimately, I seek to understand how majismo recast the elite persona as Spanish, how it forged a novel sense of common identity that was equally grounded in tradition and conceived of as modern, and how it often mythologized lo castizo. The visual richness of majismo was a vital ingredient in the overall shaping and expression of the phenomenon and warrants sustained study, so that majismo’s art-historical component is given its due. By looking to pictorial constructions of the popular, I hope that my study enriches the overall conversation about majismo and also sheds new light on its understudied yet vibrant visual contribution, which merits its own analysis grounded in an art-historical discipline and is embedded in the images’ complexity as works of art. Framing Majismo: Art and Royal Identity in Eighteenth-Century Spain attempts to extricate the discussion of the majo and maja from the restrictions placed on these types as purely “national,” partisan stereotypes, and to situate these stock figures within other, more productive frames of reference, including artistic ones. My book does not provide a comprehensive survey of the visual output of majismo. Instead, it considers certain images of popular types as exemplary of critical issues surrounding heightened national sentiment, the intellectual exploration of Spain’s history and culture, the elite fascination with the folk, and the upper-class appropriation of popular customs and dress as a vehicle for expressing Spanishness. This book is an inquiry into particular modes of elite fashioning via the popular type. I am also deliberately selective, singling out specific works and unraveling the ways in which Spanish noble identity can be located in them. By appropriating dress and the “performative” swagger of majos/as, the Bourbon royal family and other elites usurped the imagined associations of these types in order to suggest their “authenticity” as the legitimate rulers of Spain. This book focuses on the “ennobling” of popular types by members of court, who saw them as a viable means of establishing themselves politically and socially as “Spanish.” Artists responded to the elite desire for supposedly traditional imagery but did not always follow standard visualizations (which they often helped codify). In fact, artists frequently subverted images of types to point to the types’ greater complexity; for instance, not all majos and majas who migrated to the capital originated from the same region, despite their proud identification with specific Introduction 7

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neighborhoods in Madrid, a topic that Haidt thoroughly investigates.8 Popular types and customs in fact encouraged artistic innovation, serving as thoroughly novel subjects that artists could explore in a diverse array of media—paralleling the varied characterizations of the types themselves, who are discussed here as figures tied to the past and as definitively modern. That elites identified with these lowerclass types in works they commissioned or in portraits in which they dressed in customary garments complicates the broader meanings of majismo. My intention is that this study will stimulate a reassessment of monarchical and elite imagery in Bourbon Spain and contribute a new model for evaluating majismo. It is the pictorial relationship established between elites and the popular that anchors my book. This study is principally an inquiry into the upper-class fascination with and appropriation of the practices and types associated with majismo, and how this connection impacted the formation of a Spanish royal identity, especially during the reigns of Charles III (1759–88) and Charles IV (1789–1808). Thus, the images I have chosen assisted in mediating noble enthusiasm for castizo-themed objects. Not all Spanish aristocrats or members of the upper bourgeoisie showed interest in popular types and customs, nor do all visual manifestations of majismo relate to the fashioning of elite identities. Since my study primarily concerns the artistic depiction of popular types and elite identity formation via these figures, I foreground discussions of majismo that pertain to the understanding of how this phenomenon was manipulated by people concerned not with the daily plight of urban laborers, but with their symbolic value. Although evaluating the pictorial expressions of majismo from a socioeconomic perspective would make for a compelling book, it is beyond the scope of this study. I do examine, however, the ways in which labor issues and the socioeconomic circumstances of the actual urban poor had a vital impact on many of the images I discuss, especially since majos/as supported themselves as factory workers, as unskilled laborers, or as street vendors. Although artists sometimes portrayed majos/as at work, they also represented them at play—engaged in time-honored customs—and in confrontations. Such diversity in the depiction of majos/as indicates their disparate meanings and associations. Since much of my discussion hinges on imagery commissioned by an elite audience and made by artists trained in the Real Academia de Bellas Artes de San Fernando (hereafter RABASF ), I highlight an aristocratic patronage system and an academic milieu. Even artists engaged in creating costume albums and fashion plates that circulated popularly were academically trained. For example, Juan de la Cruz y Holmedilla studied in Paris in order to learn the latest printmaking techniques. Although many of the images in print form were consumed by the middle classes or viewed by all, the artistic context for the crafting of the images I examine favors a knowledgeable and upper-class public. Such privileging, from the works’ origins to their destinations, underscores their role in the formation of a Spanish elite identity and the construction of a pictorial ideal of Spanishness that benefited members of court. 8  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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With the French Revolution and subsequent political upheavals and wars in the 1790s and early 1800s, the potential questioning of monarchical divine right spurred Spanish royals to fashion themselves as patriots for their own political gain and to separate themselves from the French Bourbons, with whom they shared familial bonds. By commissioning artists to depict popular subjects in various media for their homes and by dressing in traditional garments associated with majos and majas in their portraits, aristocrats and the upper bourgeoisie could manipulate to their advantage the fashionability of types and their purportedly “indigenous” heritage—which elites could not always rightly claim, since many of them descended from Italian or French lineages. Portraiture was a particularly useful method of crafting elite identity, but the portrait’s limited audience and private display often made it an object for privileged consumption, not for a general audience. Although Spain’s RABASF maintained an unjuried annual exhibition from 1793 to 1808, which functioned as a public forum for presenting works of art, these shows were much smaller in scale than their juried French counterpart.9 Unless artists had prints made after their paintings to distribute among a wider audience, many of the objects representing popular themes were not seen by the public. In addition, many of the royal factories—glass, porcelain, and tapestry—almost exclusively produced their wares for aristocratic consumption. Such a restricted group of buyers played a key role in image construction; when artists supplied designs for the manufacture of decorative objects or created single works, such as portraits, for elite residences, the theme of majismo had a clear bent toward noble use and had vital political meaning for the patrons. The works’ application in the fashioning of elite identity for political or personal purposes, therefore, has significant ramifications for my investigation of the pictorial manifestations of majismo. The absence of a lengthy art-historical bibliography on majismo necessitates an interdisciplinary approach and a scholarly foundation consisting of material culture, literary history, and kingship and queenship studies. My book is the first to foreground majismo as a major subject for artists, and it examines many of their works (some familiar, some not) in novel ways. Thus, I seek to enliven the debate on majismo from an art-historical perspective. Such artistic depictions do require crossdisciplinary connections. But, as an art historian, I highlight the images, which merit their own contextualized investigation, since artistic representations exist not only in the larger cultural expressions of a phenomenon but also in their own disciplinary framework. My book, then, combines an emphasis on the visual expressions of customary Spanish subject matter with close analyses of artists’ treatment of traditional types as more nuanced than previously recognized. The majority of scholarship on majismo treats text-based examples and offers fruitful models for evaluation, including the work of Alberto González Troyano, Josep María Sala Valldaura, and Joaquín Álvarez Barrientos, who consider theatrical texts.10 Haidt’s seminal work Embodying Enlightenment has proven to be profoundly influential. Her discussion of the literary manifestations of the masculine ideal that Introduction 9

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“embodied Enlightenment,” in contrast to the feminized fop, has direct value for my interpretations of how artists visualized different masculine types. Haidt’s recent book Women, Work, and Clothing and article “Los majos, el ‘españolísimo gremio’ del teatro popular dieciochesco” provide exceptional guides to addressing the socioeconomic context of Madrid laborers. Her studies point out the actual ways in which laborers toiled and serve as a foil to the often-romanticized images that are the subject of my analysis. Haidt’s work enables me to enrich my discussion of issues of authenticity and the traditional characteristics that types were thought to embody, especially through her evaluation of workers’ often-exaggerated attempts to epitomize “community belonging” and to maintain “decency” in their appearances. Art historians who have explored majismo in the context of larger projects have also informed my project. Janis Tomlinson’s substantial oeuvre on Francisco de Goya contributes to my attention to the challenges posed by imagery of popular customs and types, especially as definitions of any national character could be contested. Tomlinson’s Francisco Goya: The Tapestry Cartoons and Early Career at the Court of Madrid illuminates the rich imagery of the tapestries that Goya (and others) designed for royal patrons and investigates the objects’ relationship to popular theater. She bases her serious scrutiny of the cartoons on an examination of the artist’s borrowing from both emblematic and literary traditions. From the perspective of dress, Álvaro Molina and Jesusa Vega explore the connections between garments and identity in prints, paintings, and drawings. Although they do not highlight majismo as their central subject, their discussion of artistic examples coupled with sartorial issues and social practices serves as an instructive model for my project, especially since I emphasize conceptualizations of identity as they relate to fashionable expression. Key to my book is an understanding of the theoretical construction of royal identity. For example, kingship and queenship studies have foregrounded images in which the elite self is fashioned and promoted. While visual representations do exist as part of the larger myth making of aristocratic identity, Spain’s elites strategically looked to popular types in order to fashion themselves as definitively “Spanish” during the late 1700s, when nationalistic sentiment intensified and geographical boundaries became less fluid. Elites’ endorsement of a union with those Spaniards deemed to represent lo castizo proved useful. Beginning with Ernst Kantorowicz’s groundbreaking theory that European monarchs possess two bodies—one natural and subject to decay and the other political and permanent11—historians of all disciplines have been fascinated by elite bodies and identities. Addressing the French Bourbon body in the 1700s, Sara E. Melzer and Kathryn Norberg argue that “courtiers’ bodies became symbolic surfaces upon which Bourbon rule was inscribed.”12 It was vital for nobles to learn the proper ways in which to conduct themselves and how to dress for survival at court. In turn, Spanish Bourbons found that the affected posing of majos and majas and their corresponding clothing in visual representations facilitated their formulation of a specific Spanish persona. Such imitation was 10  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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just as calculated as the learning of formal dances by French courtiers under Louis XIV for the purpose of maintaining courtly status. Stephen Greenblatt’s classic text on Renaissance self-fashioning evaluates elite construction at a time of increased “self-consciousness about the fashioning of human identity as a manipulable, artful process.”13 By forging an invented alliance with majos/as through visual means, Spanish nobles created an aura of “purity,” in part to set themselves in opposition to the foreign. As Greenblatt states, “Self-fashioning is achieved in relation to something perceived as alien, strange, or hostile.”14 In the 1790s, Spanish elites had compelling reasons to distance themselves from the foreign, especially the French. Current thinking has continued in these scholars’ footsteps and incorporated new methods for examining the crafting of the elite self. Joyce de Vries looks to the fifteenth-century Italian noble Caterina Sforza as an example of elite fashioning due to her patronage and her participation in cultural spectacles and performances. De Vries argues, “Nobles led splendid lifestyles, commissioned works of art and architecture, and embellished their homes with lavish decorations to demonstrate their beneficent, pious, intelligent, and therefore authoritative personae.”15 Both noblemen and noblewomen took part in cultural endeavors and understood the benefits of “well-cultivated display” as a principal ingredient in their self-invention. Like Sforza, the Spanish Bourbons viewed culture as central to their cultivation of a Spanish identity. By lauding majos/as as cultural signifiers of lo castizo in works of art that adorned their homes, as models in dress, and as practitioners of customs, Spanish Bourbons and other members of court artfully generated their own image as patrons and as prominent Spaniards who personified and dictated definitions of Spanishness—even if all Spaniards’ definitions of Spanishness were not the same. Adriana Zavala’s recent work on postrevolutionary Mexico and the integration of the indigenous body into the mainstream as a means of forging national unity offers a productive example of how to draw constructive connections among lo castizo, gender, and self-fashioning. Mexican intellectuals and artists such as Frida Kahlo manipulated dress in images as a way of engaging “in the cultural debates of the day”; Kahlo alternately portrayed herself as an Indian woman and as a modern feminist.16 Zavala argues that the boundary between these two “principal archetypes of femininity” was actually “fluid and abstract,” and that they were “mutually constitutive, one relying on the other for definition.”17 In a similar fashion, I address the maja and her apparent opposite, the petimetra. Despite their supposed differences, the two share many similarities, including the wearing of certain garments deemed customary, such as the mantilla and the basquiña. The petimetra was often satirized for her lack of industriousness and for her attempts to maintain appearances. As Haidt points out, petimetras were generally not associated with the elite class and often lived on credit since they refused to work.18 Zavala posits that the indigenous woman was a “sign for cultural authenticity,” which parallels my own discussion of the maja (or majo), whose association with “genuine” Spanishness could be utilized for political purposes by the upper classes. Zavala notes that indigenismo was lauded Introduction 11

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as the “root of a unique national identity, termed mexicanidad.”19 Like Spanish elites and their fascination with popular types, Mexican intellectuals may have assigned “important symbolic value to Mexico’s indigenous heritage,” while also ensuring that social hierarchies were maintained.20 Spanish aristocrats may have understood the value of championing popular customs and garments in conveying a pictorial alliance with the urban poor, but they did not necessarily engage directly with them. While the indigenous woman was truly tied to tradition, the maja (or majo) existed at the intersection between the customary and the modern, complicating the typical understanding of lo castizo as something solely rooted in the past. My inquiry begins with an analysis of the Spanish national character and race. Eighteenth-century investigations into these concepts provide a foundation for evaluating pictorial examples of types that embodied the national character. A country’s national character was generally tied to its climatic and cultural conditions; in the final decades of the 1700s, it was also linked to new understandings of race. In the nineteenth century, race studies acquired greater scientific “rigor,” but prior to 1800 race was interwoven with the overarching discussion of national character. I examine the varied artistic interventions in such debates in hopes of understanding the constructed imagery of majismo. The play between tradition and modernity, and the tensions that existed between them, is central to my discussion. In chapters 2 to 4, I separate masculine and feminine types according to their prescribed gender. I also investigate connections between them, since artists generally portrayed them together. By segregating majos and majas, I examine the broader political, social, and cultural concerns unique to men and to women and also consider issues that transcend sexual difference. In chapter 2, I address various images that foreground the majo, whose passionate patriotism, bravado, and macho regality offered a model of popular, traditional conduct. Building on visual examples of the majo, in chapter 3, I discuss the majo in action—as the hero of the bullfight. The explicit corporeality of the bullfight presented an ideal arena for the display of brave gestures, which artists and authors exploited beginning in the 1780s. Artists visualized bullfighters’ bodies in order to reconstruct specifically customary practices and heroism—likening contemporary fighters to former early modern kings. Despite its lengthy history, aristocratic heritage, and association with traditional Spanish culture, by the mid-eighteenth century, bullfighting, in its newly transformed style and with its plebeian champions, served as a modern and popular subject for artists drawn to its overt corporeality and performativity. The fighter’s modern costume, the traje de luces, was closely related to the traditional dress of majos, underscoring his showmanship and chic sense of style. In chapter 4, I focus on the maja, whose body served not only as an object of beauty and desire, but also as a vehicle to communicate a proud Spanish sassiness. She used her clothing—supposedly traditional garb such as the mantilla—as part of her tantalizing seduction and as a means of identifying herself as the model for popular feminine conduct. In chapter 5, I incorporate visual representations of 12  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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both sexes to address the elite appropriation of popular dress in the context of the overarching engagement with Spain’s heritage and folkloric traditions. Both men and women adopted certain “Spanish” garments for daily wear or as masquerade costumes, but only women utilized popular dress to express a fashionable Spanishness in portraits, providing a crucial distinction between the genders. I explore the tensions that existed between differing motivations for donning the clothes of the popular class and propose that elites were privileged agents in the production of their own image. In these chapters, I emphasize three central topics. First, the majority of the projects I discuss were commissioned or consumed by nobles, and all of the artists were members of the RABASF . Aristocrats patronized artists in order to adorn their palaces with works featuring Spanish subject matter, providing themselves with delightful visions of popular types and activities safely viewed from the confines of their homes. Second, I underscore images that celebrate urban Madrid, which was often meant to stand in for the broader Spanish public. Third, I showcase objects that point to anxieties about the types’ multifarious nature. While some examples romanticize and sanitize traditional types engaging in Spanish practices and sporting elegant versions of native garb, others suggest concerns about majos’ “marginalized” status. In the conclusion, I briefly examine the heritage of these eighteenth-century issues by considering nineteenth- and early twentieth-century examples of popular types, such as the Spanish dancer clad in flounced skirts and embroidered shawls. My own flamenco dancer is the modern mass-produced progeny of eighteenthcentury processes of visualizing traits—in pose and dress—that were meant to epitomize Spain. I investigate to what extent these types continued to embody lo castizo, despite dramatic political and social changes. I examine how such types could be used to subvert popular traditions and to criticize the foreign appreciation of stereotypical Spanish spectacle. Majismo’s affinity to costumbrismo established an essential link between eighteenth- and nineteenth-century imagery. In conclusion, I evaluate how popular types, formed in the 1700s, served Spain in both positive and negative ways. I argue that, as a cultural phenomenon, majismo succeeded as an effective visual tool for portraying newly invented imagery that signified customary traits, values, and practices. At a fundamental level, majismo inspired artists to create a mode of expression that conveyed recognizable features of the Spanish national character promoted and appropriated by elites in their self-invention.

Introduction 13

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Figure 5

Throne room of the Palacio Real in Madrid. Photo: Album / Art Resource, N.Y.

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CHAPTER 1

Majismo, the Spanish National Character, and the Elite Cultivation of Cultural Patrimony

Giambattista Tiepolo’s Glorification of the Spanish

Monarchy, a fresco in the throne room of the Royal Palace in Madrid (fig. 5), features an allegorical representation of Spain’s colonial domain, which spanned the globe and was established over the course of several centuries. Composed with the assistance of Tiepolo’s two sons, Domenico and Lorenzo, the fresco (finished in 1766) includes personifications of Spain and its empire, in addition to depictions of notables such as Christopher Columbus and celestial entities, all set against the backdrop of a pale-blue sky. In the context of the newly erected palace and the seat of royal formal authority, the personifications of the Spanish kingdom are juxtaposed with images of regional types who pay homage to Spain’s sovereignty, creating a harmonious vision of the country’s regal might and diverse peoples. After the old Royal Palace burned completely in 1734, the Spanish Bourbons sought to modernize the former structure with a classicizing design that commanded a stately presence; this was carried out under the leadership of two Italian architects, Filippo Juvarra (1676–1734) and Giovanni Battista Sacchetti (1690–1764). The new palace afforded an opportunity to promote a Spanish Bourbon agenda through visual and architectural means. The royal family employed countless artists and artisans from Spain and abroad in that pursuit. Tiepolo’s fresco showcases the recasting of history through its implication that the Spanish Bourbons are

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central to the continuation of the country’s legacy. Beneath the heavenly vision of Spain’s paternal protection, figures from both the patria and its empire are arranged in various vignettes along the edges of the fresco to reinforce the impression of Spain’s extensive powers, which are further justified by depictions of religion and fame. The inclusion of Spanish types in conjunction with representatives of Africa, Asia, and the Americas suggests not only that all of these peoples are part of the expansive Spanish realm, but also that types—like personifications—represent a generalized idea and a group’s typical traits, which could be cultivated to promote the imperial image. Through iconographic devices such as dress, accompanying animals, and accessories, Tiepolo creates an exotic array of recognizable figures who shoulder the divinities above and legitimize those below—most importantly, the monarchical pair who hold audience in the throne room. Though the individual groupings may not share cultures, they are unified under the wing of the Spanish Bourbons, providing a visual example of Spain’s magnificence and royal supremacy. Tiepolo celebrates the Spanish nation, hinting at the mother country’s regional variety as well as the domain’s diversity. The fresco’s jubilant vision is complemented by the room’s carved gilt furniture, velvet walls, and golden lions, which created a sumptuous setting for welcoming official guests. The throne room’s purpose was ceremonial, and it functioned under Charles III as the most significant space in the palace, where the king received formal visits. Tiepolo’s triumphant painting serves as an appropriate image praising Spain’s global conquests, while the palace provided the ideal location for the viewing of such aggrandizing imagery and for the fashioning of elite, particularly Spanish Bourbon, identity.1 Although the artist joins together multiethnic groupings for the benefit of the Spanish monarchy, he differentiates between Spanish types (fig. 6) and representations of other continents, denoted through standard iconographic traditions. The Spanish figures sport combinations of wide-brimmed hats, montera caps, capes, and triangular-shaped ponchos that distinguish them as traditional types, but with greater geographical specificity, balancing a global vision with local references. Catherine Whistler argues that Tiepolo’s son Lorenzo was responsible for the depiction of several of the popular types, such as the group of shepherds, and that the younger artist played a significant role in the overall creation of the fresco. That Lorenzo was interested in the representation of urban and rural types is further evidenced in his pastels of popular figures and his facility for visualizing individuals in portraits.2 Regardless of whether these representations were completed by the elder Tiepolo or his son, their appearance alongside personifications of Spanish territories is noteworthy. During his travels through Spain and following his visit to Madrid’s newly decorated royal palace, Henry Swinburne commented on the inclusion of types in a ceiling fresco devoted to “the triumph of Spain.” He observed that “round the cornice the artist has placed allegorical figures of its different provinces, distinguished by their productions, and attended by several of their inhabitants in the provincial habit.”3 In this fresco devoted to the glorification of Spain—as viewed 16  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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through the lens of an empire founded primarily under the Trastámaras and the Hapsburgs—the Bourbons hoped to convey a direct lineage from one monarchy to the next to guarantee their position and to reinforce their identity as Spanish. Spain underwent extensive changes during the eighteenth century, significantly including a shift in the ruling dynasty from the Spanish Hapsburgs to the French Bourbons in 1700. Not only did this event provide the impetus for the War of the Spanish Succession (1701–14), but it also occasioned greater cultural exchange between France and Spain. When Philippe d’Anjou, the grandson of Louis XIV, became the first Bourbon king of Spain (Philip V; r. 1700–1746), the Sun King was said to have proclaimed, “The Pyrenees no longer exist.” Throughout the 1700s, Spain benefited from a cosmopolitan milieu and an influx of foreigners; at the same time, it encouraged an introspective study of its own history and cultural origins. Majismo functioned as one aspect of this complex process in which scholars, authors, and artists evaluated and constructed a Spanish national character and identity. Tensions

Figure 6

Detail of Giambattista Tiepolo, Glorification of the Spanish Monarchy, 1766. Throne room of the Palacio Real, Madrid. © Patrimonio Nacional.

Majismo, National Character, and Cultural Patrimony 17

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between tradition and modernity and the local and international generated debate as part of the larger Enlightenment project of identifying and classifying a nation’s characteristics. In conjunction with these broad themes, Tiepolo implied that the new Bourbons were the legitimate heirs to the Spanish throne in an imposing fresco that defies reproach. In comparison to the exotic variety of the colonial personifications, the Spaniards shown represent tradition, labor (as shepherds or farmers), and a sartorial tie to the past. Their presence among imperial allegories allows for differentiation between patria and empire; however, it was through the union of both kinds of Spanish subjects that the Bourbons projected a unified vision of their realm and crafted an image of absolute authority. The fresco’s provincial types are not representations of urban majos, but they introduce the pictorial convention of portraying local types that rapidly became fashionable in various media produced for an elite audience beginning in the 1770s. Tiepolo’s fresco includes elements of the popular decorative scheme of the four continents, a common subject for palatial frescoes, including the one he executed at the Residenz in Würzburg prior to his stint in Madrid. In the Spanish fresco, the design corresponds to Spain’s empire, so the four continents signify more than just generic allegorical figures. As Felicity Nussbaum observes, the four quadrants, often depicted as female personifications of colonial imagination, typically represented the European vision of the global world and the universalism of the Enlightenment. She looks at texts, such as George Henry Millar’s New and Universal System of Geography: Being a Complete Modern History and Description of the Whole World (1782), that claimed to “formulate a comprehensive worldwide knowledge” emblematic of this period and of the theme of the four continents.4 In attempting to find the nuances between the global and globalization, Nussbaum argues, “The scopic nature of that knowledge [that is, a Eurocentric view of the world], given the contending iconographic representations employed, was itself problematic since it was inevitably linked to an Enlightenment impulse to master and classify the objects of its scrutiny.”5 In Tiepolo’s Madrid fresco, Spanish dominion over diverse places and peoples highlights this worldview, since Spain’s colonies are categorized in decorative, not anthropologically accurate, fashion for the pleasure of the Bourbon monarchy’s constant gaze and for the bolstering of royal identity. Drawing comparisons between the patria and the New World, Magali Carrera states that, under the Bourbons, colonists’ “New Spanish identity was derived from the king” and they belonged to the “corporate body of monarchy.”6 In a similar manner, Spaniards in the mother country were meant to seek identity via their royal “family.” By crafting a vision of imperial harmony and including types that epitomize lo castizo, Tiepolo’s fresco endorses the royal couple as the rightful sovereigns of all Spaniards, in the mother country and across the empire. Tiepolo also provides a global context for the customary types who represent contemporary Spain. In an environment of increasing fascination with national character across Europe and abroad, artists participated in the construction of identities, offering pictorial 18  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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visions of a group’s national, racial, and gendered selves. The eighteenth-century obsession with national character points to an intense desire to define a country’s traits and find appropriate models of such traits. By identifying and expressing characteristic qualities of a national group based on collective climatic and cultural behaviors, writers and artists helped distinguish one populace from another. As part of this larger Enlightenment project, majismo enabled Spaniards to reconnect with indigenous practices and folkloric traditions—a potent strategy that elites appropriated in their self-promotion as Spanish. Majismo also spurred a positive cultural renaissance in an era of profound questioning about individual and collective identities. Tiepolo’s fresco does not emphasize majismo as its central subject, but the pictorial representation of local types in a site vital for the promotion of a new Spanish royal identity was fundamental to the development of visual expressions of majismo. One of the central ways in which Spaniards delved into such questions was by celebrating their country’s history via the documentation and preservation of cultural riches in travel writing and artistic projects.7 Through a process of investigation, evaluation, cataloguing, and preservation, Spaniards actively promoted their cultural treasures in order to advance a modern image of Spanishness as diverse and linked to ancient civilizations. More importantly, Spain’s cultural patrimony served to sanction nobles as the rightful conservators and benefactors of this heritage. For example, the royal collecting of works by Spain’s Golden Age artists generated a vital connection between the Bourbons and their predecessors. Contemporary artists contributed to the appreciation of Spanish patrimony by copying works of art in the royal collection for dissemination in print form, by creating modern works that featured famous Spanish monuments and landscapes, and by looking to earlier Spanish artists, such as Diego Velázquez, for inspiration. Sponsored either directly by the monarchy or through its royally funded institutions, these means of documentation and preservation had a dual goal: to conserve the memory of the cultures and monuments essential to the history of Spain and to advance contemporary Spanish interests. That artists played a key role in this agenda is significant; it also proved to be an integral tactic employed by elites. In this chapter, I consider eighteenth-century discussions of national character and the forging of identity, and how the conceptions of these broad themes impacted the visual expression of majismo and its emphasis on popular “Spanish” subjects. In examining contemporary ideas of Spanishness, I investigate how the concept of “character” is deeply connected to customs, history, cultural expressions, and religious beliefs, and how these notions fueled the artistic fashioning of elites as Spanish—via their patronage, collecting, and depiction in works of art. Pictorial constructions of lo castizo intended primarily for a noble audience provided the groundwork for the creation of an elite image. Spanish artists (or foreign artists working in Spain) contributed to the increasing fascination with national, gendered, and racial identities by visualizing shared and distinct attributes as a means Majismo, National Character, and Cultural Patrimony 19

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of negotiating the varying cultural and social conflicts among distinct groups in eighteenth-century Spain. I propose that Spaniards from the popular class were alleged to embody more authentically Spanish characteristics in this pictorial fashioning of Spanishness and elite identity. Nobles supported these visual constructions by commissioning works featuring popular subjects with which to decorate their homes, and by endorsing projects that sought to preserve Spain’s artistic heritage. Such beneficence foregrounded elite interests; national patrimony was used to bolster the reputation of the Spanish Bourbon court as urbane, suggesting that members of court were indeed aware of current debates about national character and intentionally employed visual representations to craft their royal identity. In examining these issues, I look to modern scholarly writing to provide a framework for exploring Enlightenment concepts of individual and collective identities. While much scholarly attention has been devoted to evaluations of racial studies from the 1800s, less has been given to conceptions of race during the Enlightenment.8 Recent scholarship has addressed some of these shortcomings. The 1700s did not merely serve as a precursor to more “scientific” interpretations of racial difference. Rather, the Enlightenment actively shaped novel ideas about identity—racial and otherwise. Bruce Baum’s The Rise and Fall of the Caucasian Race looks to social, cultural, and political forces that impacted scientific knowledge of race. Baum states that “the ‘Caucasian race’ category was a product of the European Enlightenment and late eighteenth-century natural history,”9 as well as anthropology and ethnology. He evaluates the leading race scientists of the 1700s, including Carolus Linnaeus, Immanuel Kant, and Georges-Louis Leclerc, comte de Buffon, who were interested in racial classifications that hierarchically distinguished fair-skinned people from “nonwhite” or non-European peoples. These three scholars, among others, followed monogenism, one of the major theories that framed the development of racial thought in the eighteenth century. As monogenists, they “affirmed the biblical view of a single human origin and systematically positioned human beings within the broader animal kingdom. They used ‘race’ to signify natural divisions within a singular human species. ‘Race’ for them indicated something like ‘varieties’ or ‘subspecies’ of the human species.” In contrast, polygenists (such as Voltaire) claimed that “Negroes” and the “Indians” of the Americas were separate species from Europeans.10 Denise Eileen McCoskey additionally states that racial differences were emphasized to account for numerous perceived differences that Europeans noted in their encounters with others: “Often premised on alleged empirical observation, these racial structures of thought allowed European writers to account for a range of traits they perceived as vastly different from their own . . . casting Europeans as racially superior . . . and providing an important rationalization in the rise of European colonialism and the African slave trade.”11 The evaluation of a group’s national character was closely tied to these conceptions of race, since both were supposedly formed by cultural and climatic conditions. Within Europe, although general racial characteristics were viewed as similar, each country’s national character was 20  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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regarded as distinct. Thus, Spaniards were considered to be racially linked to other Europeans, but the Spanish national character was unique to them. In these terms, majos/as, as representatives of allegedly traditional traits, could be visualized as ideal examples of the country’s national character, making artistic works that featured these types instrumental in forging Spanish identity. Pictorial depictions of popular types did not overtly emphasize their “racial” qualities; such characterizations became more pronounced alongside more stringent definitions of race in the 1800s, when Spaniards (especially those from the south) were sometimes referred to as “half Arabic” or “half African.” In connection to Enlightenment notions about race and national character, Dror Wahrman evaluates the rise of modern individualism and extends his discussion of the eighteenth-century “self ” to the formation of more rigid racial and gendered identities. Wahrman posits that by the end of the 1700s conceptions of both race and gender became less malleable, linking his ideas to Laqueur’s “two-sex” model.12 Along these lines, Erin M. Goss looks to the Enlightenment’s effort to codify “bodily experience” (in terms of gender or race) so that the “named body” would make “particular bodily experience available to conceptualization.”13 This argument has resonance with artists who forged exaggerated constructions of types, making the majos/as’ performance of lo castizo pictorially recognizable. Elite men and women emulated positive aspects of popular types and the corresponding gendered distinctions in their championing of local traditions, in their sartorial choices, and in their patronage of popular subjects, and this strategy proved to be advantageous in legitimizing their authority. Moreover, Wahrman argues that the eighteenth century witnessed tension between two complementary constructions: identity as a unique individual and identity as shared, placing the person within a larger group.14 My investigation of how elites looked to visual representations of the popular to fashion their own image corresponds to these key issues regarding identity. As beliefs about a country’s national character shifted and as racial and gendered identities accrued greater rigidity, pictorial constructions of customary types both responded to and challenged these concepts. Although artists visualized majos and majas in distinctly gendered terms, they also played with standard definitions of masculinity and femininity, often generating a more nuanced fluidity that challenged eighteenth-century beliefs about national character and collective identities, which I address in chapters 2 through 5.

National Character and the Forging of Identity The Enlightenment provoked new understandings of individual and group identities and a heightened sense of community belonging. These novel sentiments shaped the ways in which certain types could be constructed to epitomize collective identities. Communal traits were generally perceived as emblematic of a group’s national character. Eighteenth-century intellectuals such as Johann Gottfried Herder, Majismo, National Character, and Cultural Patrimony 21

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Immanuel Kant, David Hume, Benito Jerónimo Feijóo y Montenegro, and CharlesLouis de Secondat, baron de La Brède et de Montesquieu, attempted to identify the origins of a shared national experience and the characteristics of a people through a variety of linguistic, racial, cultural, geographical, and climatic connections. Herder’s translations of folk poetry and his various writings (for example, Treatise on the Origin of Language [1772] and Ideas for a Philosophy of the History of Mankind [1784–91]) facilitated an appreciation of local customs and the vernacular in the characterization of a nation. Herder’s ideas correspond to the Spanish Bourbons’ method of employing art that depicted customary types and themes in order to showcase their interest in the indigenous, as seen in Tiepolo’s incorporation of rural laborers in his fresco. Herder’s work was profoundly influential for the development of cultural nationalism, since, in his model, the bonding together of community members did not require political unity. He proposed that a joint consciousness of cultural identity based on a common language ultimately constituted a valid reason “for claiming the right to political self-government.”15 Herder also believed in the constant reinterpretation of traditions and languages by community members.16 In Spain, the retooling of bullfighting—formerly an aristocratic practice—as a national sport provides the quintessential example of such “reinterpretation” of past traditions. Herder’s ideas have informed modern scholarship’s analysis of eighteenthcentury conceptions of national character. James Van Horn Melton views the spread of nationalism as “inextricably bound up” with the rise of the public sphere and its “networks of communication and socialibility” in the 1700s.17 E. Inman Fox argues that a shared culture creates a sense of unity and is “invented” or “derived from cultural artifacts or cultural products like history, literature, or art.”18 Thus, the participants in a particular culture or nation play an active role in the formation of a national identity. Ross Poole evaluates scholarship devoted to nationalism and identity, and he dates the concept of culture to the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, when nationalism formed as a “self-conscious political project.” He argues that a common cultural experience, including the way in which a group dressed, offered a means of communication and recognition, so that nation building became a form of “self-consciousness”; a group’s national culture “provides a moment of self-recognition through which we both confirm our individual existence and become conscious of ourselves as having a collective existence.”19 By wearing garments viewed as indigenous in their portraits and by commissioning art in which popular types performed customary practices while dressed in customary clothing, elites forged communal ties and benefited from such “recognition.” Both Poole and Wahrman address the dual development of individual and collective identities, which is relevant to elites who promoted themselves as Spanish through their visual identification with types representing lo castizo and their encouragement of projects that lauded the country’s patrimony. Not only did nobles fashion themselves

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as Spanish in individual terms, but they also forged a collective royal identity as the leaders of Spain and its empire. Scott Eastman investigates the origins of Spanish nationalism in the patria and its colonies across the Atlantic; he sees it as having been tied to “new discourses of national identity, preached by reformist clerics.” Eastman argues that Spanish nationalists during the French Revolution “reaffirmed their adherence to the church by grounding national identity and citizenship in their common Catholicism.”20 While the majority of Spanish nationalists he considers are members of the clergy, he suggests that notables assisted the clergy in forging a patriotic spirit based on a shared Christian faith. This idea parallels my discussion about the Bourbons defending their divine-right position in the wake of revolution in the 1790s by establishing themselves as definitively Spanish and as the rightful monarchs of the nation. Eastman places religion at the center of a new nationalist narrative that derived from eighteenth-century ideas about a national character shaped by collective cultural traits, including Catholicism: “The Enlightenment, as the bearer of modernity, provided the ideological foundations for the new rhetoric and political sociability of patriotism and nationalism.”21 Spanish intellectuals (ilustrados) participated in a similar investigation by exploring aspects of national character and Spain’s diverse historical roots. Benito Jerónimo Feijóo y Montenegro, an erudite Benedictine monk, contributed to the discussion of the origins of national character in the early eighteenth century in various texts, such as “Amor de la patria y pasión nacional” (1729) in Teatro crítico universal. Feijóo promoted Bourbon reform as key to Spain’s modern national identity, in which “the Austrian idea of monarchy as a collection of nations that carries out a universal historical mission is substituted for the idea of nation as a unified State organized politically.”22 Thus, Feijóo connects the Bourbons’ more centralized “State” to a greater sense of communal belonging. The Bourbons actively formulated a more unified national identity in order to distinguish themselves as the legitimate rulers of Spain. Eastman explores the conceptions of national character and identity promoted by key Spanish figures of the Enlightenment, including Antonio de Capmany, Juan Pablo Forner, and José Cadalso. In 1778, Capmany associated el pueblo with the working classes, praising their customs and traits at a time when the term el pueblo took on respectable connotations. Eastman notes that Capmany conceptualized the popular classes’ culture as a “national heritage,” which was significant for the elites’ formation of identity and self-promotion as the rightful monarchs of Spain. Eastman considers Forner to be a Spanish patriot and enlightened elite who defended Spain in Amor de la patria (1794), just as the idea of the patria was being venerated. He also posits that Cadalso “clearly bound the idea of the Spanish character to religious devotion.”23 Eastman suggests that both Forner and Cadalso advocated a patriotic and traditional view of Spain and its cultural heritage.24

Majismo, National Character, and Cultural Patrimony 23

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In a more famous example, Forner published the Oración apologética por la España y su mérito literario in 1786 in response to a 1783 article written by the Frenchman Nicolás Masson de Morvilliers for the Encyclopédie Méthodique, entitled “Que doit-on à l’Espagne?” David J. Weber explores the counteroffensive launched by eighteenth-century Spanish authors who “disparaged Spain’s sixteenth-century conquest of America” by denying wrongdoing. Spanish writers criticized Europeans for their critical attitudes toward Spain, given that Spain embraced Indians more than other nations did, including through the intermarriage of Spaniards and colonists. Weber states that under the Bourbons the colonial system became more efficient, profitable, and secure.25 Outside of Spain, many prominent figures of the Enlightenment contributed to the overarching discussion of national character and identity. David Hume’s seminal essay “Of National Characters” (1742) examines the “peculiar set of manners” of various groups, whether stemming from “moral” or “physical” causes, favoring morally based manners as holding more influence.26 He argues that while each individual has his or her own set of personal characteristics, those qualities that predominate and are shared by many will influence the national temperament. Hume views these traits as borderless, demonstrating that the populations of the Spanish, English, French, and Dutch colonies possess the same mannerisms seen in their mother countries—which relates to Carrera’s ideas about colonists’ identity deriving from the patria. In History of Ancient Art, the scholar and Hellenophile Johann Joachim Winckelmann writes more favorably about the effects of climate on the development of cultures and their artistic production. “By the influence of climate,” he states, “we mean the manner in which the conformation of the inhabitants of different countries . . . is affected by their situation, and by the temperature and food peculiar to them. Climate, says Polybius, forms the manners, the shape, and the complexion of nations.”27 In The Spirit of Laws, Montesquieu writes about climate and national temperament, suggesting that a balance exists in Europe between the northern and southern nations. He believes that this equilibrium “is maintained by the laziness of the southern nations, and by the industry and activity which she [Nature] has given to those in the north.”28 Montesquieu regards the Spanish as equally “faithful” and “lazy”—a typical combination of virtues and vices.29 Kant considers the Spanish to be “Sublime” rather than “Beautiful” and describes them as earnest, taciturn, and truthful, with a “proud soul and more feeling for great than for beautiful actions.”30 Both natives and foreigners contributed to the conversation about national character and identity in their travel writing, often reinforcing prevailing stereotypes. Indeed, in the December 1787 issue of Diario de Madrid, the author of the essay “Mode of Traveling in Order to Make the Most of One’s Trips” advised that in order to maximize the experience of foreign travel one should “pay attention to the costumes and types of people.”31 For travelers to Spain, such advice was fruitful. Many travelogues were directed primarily at a foreign audience and included descriptions 24  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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of travelers’ firsthand experiences with popular types and customs. In these publications, visitors to Spain examined local practices and increased the understanding of popular types as agents of lo castizo on an international level. As a traveler in Spain, Joseph Baretti wrote a detailed description of the dress worn by majos and majas. His observations include comments by native “Doña Paula,” who informs him that such clothing makes for popular costumes in masquerades. She states, “Their dress is one of those which the generality of us choose to assume as well as the character.”32 Spaniards’ adoption of both the sartorial and behavioral traits of majos/as in the context of such artifice points to the vital connection between dress and action. Masquerades allowed non-majos/as to perform as these types through the use of clothing and gesture, especially in an exaggerated manner; these theatrics heightened the experience. Thus, dress alone did not transform a person into the majo/a character. Doña Paula’s statement also suggests that not all Spaniards are “true” majos/as, since they require festivities to masquerade as these popular types. Baretti opines, “The Madrid Majo is a low fellow who dresses sprucely, affects the walk of a gentleman, looks blunt and menacing, and endeavours after dry wit upon every occasion. These qualities run through both sexes.” This statement indicates that majos/as emulate behaviors of the upper classes,33 making them model protagonists for elites fashioning their own identity at masked balls or in portraiture—two settings in which the wearing of traditional garb would have been regarded as more appropriate than simply sporting such clothing in public (see chapter 5). As Baretti notes, the upper and lower classes, aristocrats and majos, engage in a playful reciprocity through sartorial and performative means, an exchange that artists and authors capitalized on in the portrayal of distinct social groups and their interactions. Due to confusion as to who was the “real” dandy, artists’ and writers’ attempts to bestow “national” characterizations on types proved challenging, evidencing the slippery nature of defining and visualizing types overall. While in many ways this inability to pin down an exact definition of a majo/a, whether through literary or visual means, was problematic, it also supplied artists with flexible subject matter that could be fashioned into myriad forms, as they visualized different ways in which types could embody lo castizo. Travelers romanticized both the people and the landscape of Spain, in part inspired by the ubiquitous Don Quijote (1605 and 1615), which experienced a revival in the eighteenth century with new editions illustrated by Antonio and Isidro Carnicero, Luis Paret y Alcázar, and José Camarón Bonanat, among others. While in La Mancha, Major William Dalrymple wrote, “I have been told before, and I find it true, that to read Don Quixote with satisfaction, a man must visit this province; for the people are almost as romantic now as in his days.”34 Having visited the Plaza Mayor in Madrid, the German traveler Christian Augustus Fischer commented on its former state as the location for bullfights and autos-da-fé and its present usage as a marketplace: “Here the stranger must often stand still for a few minutes, to study the original character of the Spanish plebeian! Here, he will for the first time, learn to Majismo, National Character, and Cultural Patrimony 25

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understand properly many a chapter in Don Quixote.”35 This highly expressive view was typical of eighteenth-century travelers who believed that plebeians maintained traditional Spanish customs, performed lo castizo best, and provided the most authentic model of Spain’s national character. All of these varied assessments about the formation of national character impacted the pictorial constructions of types that were meant to visualize collective and gendered characteristics, which I address more thoroughly in the following chapters. For example, Kant’s description of Spaniards as “proud” and “taciturn” corresponds to visual representations of majos/as in which their defiant attitude and cool reserve are embodied in their gestures, poses, and manner of dress. Such assessments also correlate with the study of a country’s cultural patrimony and historical roots during the Enlightenment. Most significant is how Spain’s cultural heritage and purportedly communal traits molded Spanish elite identity through collecting, sponsorship, and patronage.

Cultural Patrimony and Elite Identity One major aspect of the substantial self-analysis typical of the eighteenth century was the evaluation of a nation’s cultural patrimony and the support of contemporary artists. A variety of projects were sponsored by the Royal Academy (RABASF ), and several individuals, including Antonio Ponz and Gaspar Melchor de Jovellanos, were instrumental in advancing these undertakings.36 In general, two major goals emerged: the preservation of Iberia’s past glory through the documentation and examination of Spain’s cultural riches, and the promotion of contemporary artists sponsored by the Bourbons to endorse their role as benefactors and inheritors of Spain’s diverse patrimony. Such encouragement suited the elite desire to create a culturally vibrant Spain and reap the benefits that patronage engendered. By encouraging greater appreciation of Spain’s past and by promoting contemporary artists, many of whom popularized traditional themes, royals cultivated their image as principal patrons of lo castizo. Often these dual objectives were performed in unison, since artists could lend their skills to preservationist projects that championed Spain’s artistic past. The main institution encouraging this cultural renaissance was the RABASF (founded in 1752), aided by its various offshoots, such as the Real Calcografía.37 The RABASF ’s efforts to preserve and promote the arts were assisted by myriad individuals, including artists, aristocrats, and scholars—both Spanish and foreign—who sought to further artistic advancements through patronage, collecting, the engraving of Old Master paintings housed in various royal residences, the restoration of architecture, and the documentation of Spanish cultural heritage. The arts contributed to the formation of Spanish identity as part of the broader study of national character. Through stylistic and thematic links, artists from the 1700s responded to the work of “national” heroes such as Diego Velázquez and Bartolomé Esteban Murillo, promoting native 26  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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traditions at the same time that international styles such as neoclassicism garnered favor. The two often coexisted. By evaluating the RABASF ’s escalating importance in the daily practices of artistic life, I argue that the arts in eighteenth-century Spain were largely mediated by governmental control and directed by an elite agenda. Earlier artists, such as Velázquez, Murillo, and José de Ribera, served as symbols of a golden past and as models for academic emulation, despite their supposed lack of “academic” formal qualities. Richard Twiss had the special privilege of being the first English-speaking traveler to view the paintings in the newly furnished Royal Palace in Madrid in the 1770s.38 Of the collection, he states, “The Spanish painters are not behind the first masters of Italy and Flanders; whereas, in point of light and shade, and what has been called aëreal perspective, which is only the modification of these, Velazquez leaves all other painters far behind him.”39 Upon viewing the royal collection, Swinburne noted that Velázquez’s equestrian portrait of the CountDuke of Olivares was worthy of admiration, in particular the “chiaroscuro, the life and spirit of the rider,” and the “natural position and fire of the horse,” making it the “best portrait I ever beheld.”40 Bourbon patronage of artists depicting Spanish subjects could be likened to the Hapsburg cultivation of courtly identity.41 The Hapsburgs provided a model for the patronage of native and foreign artists. Heralded as key to Spanish artistic heritage, Baroque artists, such as Velázquez, enriched the Hapsburg court and fostered a recognizable image of monarchical identity under Philip IV (r. 1621–65). Although the Spanish Bourbons did not want to replicate the Hapsburg image, the early modern court offered a fertile standard for patronage. By founding the RABASF and by sponsoring various preservationist projects, the Bourbons updated the former example in tune with Enlightenment ideals. Conflicting views surrounding the benefit of previous models, in contrast to contemporary artistic styles, characterized much of the intellectual debates in the second half of the eighteenth century. What was initially a need to compete with other European nations, especially France and Italy, whose formal artistic training preceded Spain’s, later became a more self-conscious desire to lionize distinctly local traditions. At the same time, many saw the value in foreign practices and hoped to bolster their own visual culture through the emulation of others. For example, Anton Raphael Mengs, a Bohemian artist summoned by Charles III, dominated neoclassical aesthetics in Spain. Andrés Úbeda de los Cobos has argued that academicians, most notably Jovellanos and Juan Agustín Ceán Bermúdez, inspired artists to travel within Spain as an alternative to studying in Paris and Rome.42 This push to learn about specifically Spanish art foregrounds the importance assigned to native patrimony. In addition, it supported the RABASF ’s agenda of advancing a distinctly Spanish style of art— one that would compete with other countries but derive from indigenous traditions. Úbeda de los Cobos states that Spanish academicians were always faithful to the national tradition.43 He argues, “The defense of national history supposes an implicit Majismo, National Character, and Cultural Patrimony 27

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disqualification of one of the fundamental dogmas of classicism: its universalism.” Developing a distinctive Spanish art would thus negate the universality of a style that looked to antiquity for inspiration.44 Moreover, since Spain’s cultural past included ancient ruins and art, an artist’s reference to antiquity did not necessarily signify a foreign preference, which further complicates the supposed division between national and international styles. As the key cultural institution in Spain, the RABASF played a significant role in all aspects of artistic life. One major project that sought to preserve national artistic treasures was the copying of Old Master compositions in the royal collection and their reproduction as engravings. The printmaker Juan Antonio Salvador Carmona was involved in this endeavor, which was later taken up by both Mengs and Ponz. Pilar Silva Maroto observes that during Charles III’s reign Spain intensified these preservationist efforts.45 In the late 1700s, prime minister Manuel Godoy continued the production of engravings of the masterpieces in the royal residences,46 and José de Vargas Ponce called for the dissemination of these engravings and the advancement of printmaking techniques.47 The RABASF promoted the arts with the assistance of its vice-protectors (who acted as intermediaries between the king and the academy), including Godoy and José Moñino y Redondo, the Count of Floridablanca. For example, when Florida­ blanca first became prime minister in 1776, he encouraged the reproduction of the Velázquez paintings in the royal collection for European dissemination. Goya took part in this project. He ambitiously took out two advertisements in one of Madrid’s main periodicals, the Gaceta de Madrid, in 1778 (on July 28 and December 22) and released impressions of thirteen plates after Velázquez’s paintings, including Equestrian Portrait of Philip IV.48 Ponz himself discussed these etchings in his eighteen-volume Viaje de España, linking Goya’s reproductive activities with the goal of documenting Spain’s glorious artistic past: “D. Francisco Goya, professor of painting . . . has proposed to engrave the famous paintings of D. Diego Veláquez, which are located in the Royal Palace; in this he has shown his capacity, intelligence, and zeal in serving the nation.”49 Goya was a productive artist who served his country by using his talents to preserve its heritage. The copying of Velázquez’s paintings also aided the young artist as he struggled to gain patrons and courtly status. Thus, Goya’s admirable etchings after the Baroque master’s paintings were fertile enterprises for the young painter, not just copies created for the country’s benefit. By the end of the eighteenth century, Goya’s portraits, such as The Family of Charles IV (1801; fig. 7), with its allusions to Velázquez’s portrayal of the Hapsburgs in Las meninas (1656), revealed “national” inclinations. Jesusa Vega believes that works by Velázquez in the royal collection had an enormous impact on Goya as his style matured.50 Goya’s reference to Las meninas in The Family of Charles IV is a major example of his response to Velázquez’s work; it not only imbued his own portrait with nationalistic leanings but also attested to his artistic study of a painter considered to be one of the key figures in developing a Spanish aesthetic. By alluding to Velázquez’s 28  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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Figure 7

Francisco de Goya, The Family of Charles IV, 1801. Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid. Photo: Scala / Art Resource, N.Y.

painting yet changing the overall depiction and perspective, Goya generated a modern image demonstrating that his artistic ability was on par with that of the Golden Age artist. His application of Las meninas is subtle and inventive; he does not merely imitate Velázquez’s portrait. As Janis Tomlinson states, The Family of Charles IV reveals tensions “between tradition and innovation,”51 which, I would suggest, paralleled many of the conflicts inherent in the state of the arts in late eighteenth-century Spain. While the two group portraits celebrate different levels of informality in their depictions of the royal family, they more importantly situate the artist as central to the creation of the monarchy’s image. Both Goya and Velázquez validate the role of the artist in Spain (as instrumental to the fashioning of elite identity and as an intellectual), but Goya emulates the seventeenth-century portrait to elevate his own artistic skill and to engender a modern Spanish style founded partly on the champions of the Baroque. Despite the difference in dynasties, Tomlinson proposes that Goya’s visual connection to Las meninas and the Hapsburgs served as a “confirmation of the permanence of a Spanish monarchic tradition,” especially given the political uncertainties of contemporary Europe.52 Her argument supports my discussion about the fashioning of elite identity via portraiture and the eighteenth-century engagement with Golden Age prototypes to promote a new Spanish identity formulated on Enlightenment conceptualizations of national character. Majismo, National Character, and Cultural Patrimony 29

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Goya’s portrait of the royal family did not just profit the artist; it also served the Bourbon desire to forge connections to the Hapsburgs, in this case between the courts of Charles IV and Philip IV. With the help of his principal artist, Velázquez, Philip IV crafted a culturally rich court. Velázquez painted countless portraits of the Hapsburgs and was instrumental in fashioning a recognizable Hapsburg identity. Velázquez’s lively bravura technique and visual sobriety were highly celebrated. He portrayed the royal family in stylish garments (including the guardainfante and the golilla)53 that came to epitomize the height of seventeenth-century sartorial trends, and his painterly application gave the canvas a colorful vibrancy and “natural” effect that Goya and others admired. At the end of the 1700s, the Bourbons hoped to emulate such an authoritative image of Spanish royal identity by commissioning Charles IV’s main court artist, Goya, to create a work that both recalled and modernized Velázquez’s portrait. Like Tiepolo’s fresco, with its commanding depiction of monarchical divine right, Goya’s portrait champions the Bourbons. But Goya offers a less bombastic form of propaganda, appropriate for a portrait viewed primarily by a private audience. His dynamic composition is saturated with reds and blues, balanced by golds and silvers that energize the portrait. He suggestively reproduces Velázquez’s bravura technique with flecks of color that soften the overall luminous surface. The figures stand erect self-consciously (perhaps studying themselves in a mirror meant to be in the viewer’s space, as has been suggested) but command attention in their foregrounded position and richly ornamented clothing. Painted in the aftermath of the French Revolution and political turmoil of the 1790s, this image provides a reassuring depiction of royal legitimacy via its commemoration of a native artistic tradition. The portrait succeeds in its official capacity and presents an extended royal family that is more relatable to its Spanish subjects. Goya’s reference to the Baroque work highlights his awareness of his place in Spanish art history, especially since his artistic circle included such erudite scholars as Ceán Bermúdez, Jovellanos, and Ponz. Tomlinson evaluates contemporary opinion about Velázquez and Las meninas, including Antonio Palomino’s discussion of the painting’s “documentary” quality; Luca Giordano’s proclamation that it embodied the “theology of painting”; and Jovellanos’s praise of Velázquez as the best of Spain’s painters and his work as “distinguished.” Such accolades would have given Goya additional motivation to emulate Velázquez.54 Many of these ilustrados contributed to the appreciation of the Spanish artistic past through written accounts that record history and firsthand descriptions of the current state of art and architectural works, generally by region. Ponz’s Viaje de España contains detailed discussions of Spain’s diverse cultural treasures. His champion is Charles III, whom he praises for enriching the arts, associating the king directly with the academy’s dual goal of preservation and promotion. Volume 6 of Viaje de España contains Mengs’s famed letter to Ponz about the Spanish royal painting and fresco collection. The letter, signed “D. Anton Rafael Mengs, primer Pintor de Cámara de S.M.,” was 30  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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written in the context of high Mengsian neoclassicism during the 1770s. Mengs’s aesthetic ideals were disseminated through this letter, through his treatise Reflections on Beauty and Taste in Painting (1762), and through the public orations given by various academy functionaries.55 Mengs’s letter to Ponz includes a description of the painted works at the Royal Palace in Madrid and a hierarchical summary of artistic styles, descending from the sublime to the naturalistic. Mengs considered his namesake, Raphael, a paradigm of expression without the “distortion” of perfected nature.56 While in Madrid, Mengs advocated the formation of a public gallery featuring works culled from the royal collection, although the plan for the Prado Museum, which opened on November 18, 1819, did not officially crystallize until the return of Ferdinand VII to the throne in 1814. The inauguration of the Prado by Ferdinand VII and his second wife, María Josefa Amelia, gave Spain a national institution to house its monarchy’s collection.57 As Andrew Schulz notes, the Prado divided the collection according to national school, the standard method of museum installation from the second half of the 1700s, which “offered the advantage of highlighting the Spanish school of painting.”58 The museum occupied the building originally destined for the Academy of Science and adjacent to the botanical gardens founded under Charles III in 1776 on the Paseo del Prado, a major thoroughfare in Madrid constructed in the mid-eighteenth century. This verdant street, lined with trees and embellished with grandiose fountains, was part of the king’s urbanization projects, intended to modernize Madrid. The idea of the paseo (stroll) encouraged the public character of the museum and guaranteed that it would be accessible to all social classes.59 In his letter to Ponz evaluating the “Spanish school,” Mengs qualifies the concept of style, or the modo de ser, by dividing it into five main categories: “the sublime, the beautiful, the graceful, the significant, and the natural.”60 It is no surprise that he attributes the last to Velázquez, linking eighteenth-century ideas about national character (for example, Kant’s “truthful” Spaniards) to Spanish art’s “natural” aesthetic: “The best examples of the natural are in the works of D. Diego Velázquez; while Titian was superior in color, Velázquez was intelligent in his use of light, shadow, and aerial perspective, which are the necessary components in this style; these give the idea of truth.”61 Mengs uses Velázquez’s Water Carrier of Seville of 1623 to illustrate his discussion of naturalism. Velázquez’s painting features humble figures performing everyday activities; the carrier provides water to thirsty customers, much like the street vendors depicted by artists in the eighteenth century. In Velázquez’s work, the emphasis on “naturalism” is evident in expressive faces, dress, and the detailed realism of the ceramics. Unlike Mengs, Ceán Bermúdez considered Murillo to be the great naturalist and “head” of the Sevillian school. Ceán Bermúdez discussed Murillo’s aesthetic preferences in two published works, one in the form of a letter and the other a dialogue. The letter enumerates the strengths of the Sevillian artist, including bringing distinction to Spain on a regional, national, and international level.62 In the dialogue, Majismo, National Character, and Cultural Patrimony 31

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Ceán Bermúdez imagines a conversation between Murillo and Mengs. A note at the beginning of the text explains the purposeful choice of artists who represent stylistic opposites, as well as the author’s objective in making such a comparison.63 Murillo is the artist “most celebrated in Spain,” according to Ceán Bermúdez. Mengs narrates his own artistic education, stressing his training in Dresden and Rome, which focused on geometry, chemistry, perspective, anatomy, Vasari and other “art” historians, the old masters, and ancient sculpture. Murillo responds, “What a barbaric education! And without even observing nature!”64 At the end of the dialogue, the Sevillian painter has the last word, as Ceán Bermúdez honors the native over the foreign artist. During Charles III’s reign, Murillo’s paintings gained popularity in Spain, while becoming highly collectible abroad, particularly in England. In 1779, Floridablanca signed a law to protect works of art in Spain by “deceased, well-known Spanish masters”65 and to prevent their export.66 As Alisa Luxenberg indicates, this law was spurred in part by the RABASF ’s proposal of 1761, which reflected the institution’s alarm over the increased removal of Spanish old masters’ art from Spain. Luxenberg notes that just prior to the enacting of the decree, Charles-Claude Flahaut de la Billaderie, comte d’Angiviller (1730–1810), contacted both the French ambassador in Madrid and the artist Charles de la Traverse about purchasing works of art; she contends that it was “more than coincidence that the export ban was created at the same time that the French arts administrator sought to collect Spanish art for the royal collection.”67 Despite the 1779 ban and varied attempts to stop the extraction of Spanish art from Spain via stealthy means, foreign collectors still managed to transport cultural treasures to their home countries, motivating Charles IV to issue an order on October 14, 1801, that reaffirmed the original export ban. One major impetus for this foreign appreciation of Murillo and other Spanish artists was the temporary move of the court to Seville in the 1730s. Queen Isabel de Farnesio, the second wife of Philip V, purchased a number of works by Murillo while in Seville, the artist’s home city. Considered worthy offerings, some of these were gifted to ambassadors. She also collected paintings by Ribera, Velázquez, Claudio Coello, Vicente Carducho, Alejo Fernández, and others. After Philip V’s death, his collection was dispersed among his children. With Mengs’s help, Charles III added to his share of the inheritance from various sources, including the collections of the Duchess of Arcos in 1762, the Irishman Florencio Kelly in 1764, and various Spanish nobles. Through their collecting practices, Isabel de Farnesio, her son Charles III, and other Spanish Bourbons extolled the value of native artists. Their actions also helped cultivate an active international appreciation for Spanish art, despite the negative implications of losing national treasures to foreign buyers. In the context of renewed enthusiasm for Murillo’s art and other Golden Age works, artists both witnessed and contributed to the growing favor for Baroque art, which was viewed as an expression of Spanish eminence and local style and promoted the Spanish

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Bourbons as the heirs of the Hapsburgs. Even as they turned to past models as examples of lo castizo, contemporary artists used innovation to update earlier styles and themes, generating new modes suitable to the eighteenth century, many of which served elite interests.

Majismo—Tradition and Innovation in the Eighteenth Century Past sources may have provided a stimulus for projects in the 1700s, but artists additionally looked to contemporary types and customs to underscore traditional subjects and to emulate the “naturalism” purportedly inherent in Spanish art, which was lauded by scholars, artists, and the elite. Majos and majas offered quintessential models for artists who foregrounded current themes over historical ones. Although these figures suggest a tie to the past, artists depicted them in contemporary Spanish scenes to highlight their modernity. Embodying the past and present, eighteenth-century types such as the majo/a presented an opportunity to experiment with national subject matter in original ways that could recall genre works from the early modern period, without necessarily making direct reference to individual artists or works. In the spirit of an awakened nationalism on a global scale, majismo afforded artists new topics that emphasized the particular, not the universal. Many scholars have explored the origins of majismo. Some studies have looked to traditional practices and dress as important sources of its popularization in the 1700s. Charles Kany believes that the names majo and maja may have been connected to the maya, the queen of the May Day festival, and the mayo, the maypole or companion to the maya.68 In Madrid, according to this tradition, the most beautiful girl was chosen to represent the maya and to be paraded around town, accompanied by her maidens. Aileen Ribeiro discusses the maya tradition but is primarily interested in local customs and their corresponding fashion. She cites the similarities between maja (and gypsy) dress and the clothing used in Andalusian celebrations, which support the idea that majo/a garments partly originated in regional festival garb.69 In connection to southern Spain and this region’s importance to majismo’s origins, Susannah Worth defines majismo as “Andalusian popular culture,” contending that it has strong associations with flamenco and gypsy traditions and “an indigenous Romanticism which operated at all levels of society.”70 Julio Caro Baroja investigates majismo’s roots from a linguistic and etymological perspective, yet also sees a vital bond between majismo and the mayo and maya figures, who, in their festive wear, represented the epitome of elegance.71 He refers to the 1734 definition of the majo as a figure who “affects beauty and bravery in his actions and words” and notes that it closely parallels the seventeenth-century mayo or refined gentleman.72 Caro Baroja also evaluates the ilustrados’ attempts at uncovering majismo’s roots; for instance, Jovellanos claimed that the word majo originated from the Spanish

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verb majar, which in the eighteenth century meant “to bother,” an appropriate definition considering pictorial representations that emphasize the majo’s swaggering bravado and tempestuous temperament.73 José María Rodríguez Méndez evaluates majismo as an expression of popular creativity that manifested in a kind of “cultural revolution” in the 1700s. In part spurred by eighteenth-century interest in the Spanish national character and customs, the pueblo experienced a “popular renaissance” through which it gained greater exposure and more confidence in the maintenance and practice of traditions.74 This interpretation relates to the reciprocity between the lower classes and elites and the problematic issue of what came first—the resurgence of popular practices, as instigated by the lower classes, or the upper-class fascination with national customs and people, including the use of majo fashions in masquerades. The majo’s overtly showy posturing was amplified in visual and literary depictions and could thus be imitated by any Spaniard decked out a lo majo to celebrate a national holiday or custom. Rodríguez Méndez argues that the pueblo did not “create” culture, but transformed and adopted elements from previous generations—similar to the way in which eighteenth-century artists looked to Baroque works for inspiration.75 In this instance, he proposes that the pueblo played an active role in the revival of Spanish customs, some of which were eradicated during the dynastic change. I suggest that the popular class modified existing practices, such as bullfighting, and made them its own. Rodríguez Méndez does not indicate that majismo developed simply as a response to foreign interventions or to the dynastic change in 1700, but he does state that the pueblo felt responsible for its own cultural revolution. He argues that majos (or manolos, the nineteenth-century term often used for majos) cultivated majeza, promoted hombría (manliness), and stood in opposition to the “effeminized minority.”76 Rodríguez Méndez links the pueblo’s macho courage and virility to the explosion of “faith and enthusiasm” generated by the majo’s championing of Spanish traditions and dress. Similarly, Carmen Martín Gaite describes majos and majas as aggressive, vulgar, and insolent, in part to throw themselves into relief vis-à-vis the petimetre/a.77 These characteristics of popular types correspond to Kant’s descriptions of the Spanish national character and to pictorial representations that exaggerate traits of lo castizo. Ana-Sofía Pérez-Bustamante Mourier, however, challenges the mythic idea of casticismo.78 She argues that while purity is a product destined for national consumption, it also serves as a tourist spectacle for foreigners, who reinforce its definition. And despite the numerous attempts by ilustrados to curb the activities and dress of the pueblo, Pérez-Bustamante Mourier maintains that there was a simultaneous movement to defend popular traditions, leading to the later romanticization of Spanish customs and people.79 While many scholars have evaluated majismo as an expression of cultural renaissance in the context of folkloric appreciation, others have focused on its literary, particularly theatrical, manifestations. Types, including majos and petimetres, 34  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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provided stock characters for playwrights such as Ramón de la Cruz and Juan Ignacio González del Castillo, whose sainetes (bawdy one-act comedies) entertained packed audiences. Sainetes, along with tonadillas (short comic operas performed during the interval between the second and third acts of a play), presented critical issues through satire. Types were particularly useful in conveying humor through their overt physicality, speech, and dress, playing on stereotypes that related to anxieties eighteenth-century audiences felt about identity—national, gendered, or otherwise. Josep María Sala Valldaura and Joaquín Álvarez Barrientos have contributed numerous sources on sainetes and tonadillas. They evaluate the types that populate these works, their expressive language, and their exaggerated conduct, and link these characteristics and actions to broader themes, revealing such literary depictions of majismo to be more than just farce.80 In conjunction with these scholars’ contributions, Rebecca Haidt gives added nuance to the study of sainetes and tonadillas by investigating socioeconomic factors—such as labor practices, internal migration to Madrid, and urban living conditions—that affected “real” majos and petimetres and shaped the construction and reception of types in theatrical works. She emphasizes “the importance of key semantic clusters . . . in particular, those registering ideas around decency . . . and vecindad and community belonging.”81 The desire for “community belonging” and “decency” in appearance is significant, especially since the majority of Madrid’s residents during the second half of the eighteenth century were crowded into less than half of its habitable space, and the poorest neighborhoods, such as Maravillas, Barquillo, Lavapiés, and Rastro, had to endure the constant influx of immigrants.82 This ghettoization generated considerable societal tensions and harsh living conditions for artisans and laborers, providing satirical fodder for playwrights, despite the seriousness of these “unsettled populations” and their “marginal” status.83 Many scholars have highlighted the majos’ Andalusian origins and possible morisco descent, and Haidt points to theatrical works in which the dialogue specifies that actors should “utilize the broad accent and pronunciation of the south.” As she argues, however, majos migrated to Madrid from many urban locales throughout Spain, not just Andalusia.84 Their impulse to belong and to embody lo castizo once they arrived in the capital is particularly relevant for my discussion. Just as playwrights experimented with types as stock characters to address concerns about identity and national character, artists depicted majos, petimetres, and others in a variety of ways. Foreign series featuring types, street criers, or costumes circulating in Madrid provided precedents for Spanish representations.85 Juan de la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla’s Collection of Spanish Dress, Antique and Modern, that Includes All of Its Domain was the first print series in Spain devoted to the imaging of types. Between 1777 and 1788, he published seven notebooks that included a total of eighty-five engravings based on drawings executed by several Spanish artists. De la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla focused primarily on the identification of types from different regions and on depictions of vendors whose name implied the item Majismo, National Character, and Cultural Patrimony 35

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Figure 8

Juan de la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla, Orange Vendor, in Colección de trajes de España, tanto antiguos como modernos, que comprehende todos los de sus dominios, vol. 1 (Madrid: Casa de D. M. Copin Carrera de S. Geronimo, 1777). Biblioteca Nacional de España, Madrid. © Biblioteca Nacional de España.

they were selling. He had been sent by RABASF to Paris in 1752 to learn the newest techniques in printmaking; while there, he certainly would have familiarized himself with some of the print series made by French artists. Valeriano Bozal has argued that De la Cruz Cano y Hol­ medilla purposefully titled the engravings in his series in Spanish and French to make them seem more cosmopolitan.86 He generally included male and female versions of the same type—for example, Murcian Orange Vendor and Orange Vendor (fig. 8). In the frontispiece, De la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla introduces the series with theatrical elements, as a figure parts the tasseled stage curtain that functions as the background for the title. Samples of garments and accessories suggest the act of dressing up, while distinct figures crowd the bottom-right corner as if they are on the stage in front of the curtain. Like the masquerade, the frontispiece presents a level of pretense, but at the same time, the title is linked to Enlightenment taxonomies—in this case, regions divided—implying an almost scientific approach to the study of Spanish dress, workers, and types. The titular phrase Antique and Modern speaks to the series’ inclusion of antiquated garments from previous eras and their potential incorporation into modern clothing. The intermingling of past and present, men and women, and regional distinctions illustrates a broad vision of Spain. By incorporating past styles into a series focusing primarily on present-day dress, the artist provides greater background for the eighteenth-century types shown, suggesting possible sartorial connections. The final phrase in the title—that Includes All of Its Domain—points to the presence of colonial types and their dress in the series, including an image of the jibaro of Puerto Rico drafted by Luis Paret y Alcázar (1778). The integration of several colonial types with Spanish regional types links De la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla’s engravings to Tiepolo’s fresco in the throne room of the Royal Palace, in which Spain’s greatness is measured by the combination of its local and imperial populations. While print series offered identifiable images of types in a straightforward manner, artists in the 1770s began to incorporate popular types into genre works that placed urban figures, often engaging in traditional cultural practices, in a narrative context. Artists rendered types as active participants in interactions that facilitated different scenarios, exploring relationships among distinct social and gendered groups. In Luis Paret y Alcázar’s Party in Front of the Botanical Garden (ca. 1790; fig. 9), figures gather in the foreground of the painting. The neoclassical entrance to the garden, designed by architect Juan de Villanueva, and the lush rococo trees 36  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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Figure 9

Luis Paret y Alcázar, Party in Front of the Botanical Garden, ca. 1790. Museo Lázaro Galdiano, Madrid. Photo: Gianni Dagli Orti / The Art Archive at Art Resource, N.Y.

offer a scenic backdrop for this display of Madrid’s citizens on the Paseo del Prado. Paret y Alcázar celebrates the recent completion of the entrance (1789) and the earlier inauguration of the garden (1781) as a new public space that emphasized both learning and the pleasure of botanical study. Many of Paret y Alcázar’s figures arrive in carriages, but he includes a spectrum of types, including military men, an abbot, servants, petimetres/as, and majos/as—although dress does not always serve as an absolute in identifying a type, since elites often sported elegant versions of majo and maja wear. It was also traditional, regardless of class, for Spanish women to don the mantilla while in public. Although this garment engenders a specific sense of Spanishness, it would have been worn by both petimetras and majas, problematizing the relationship between these types as fixed opposites. Paret y Alcázar creates a fashionable scene in which types play a definitive role in activating new public spaces of sociability. In a similar vein, Francisco Bayeu portrays a variety of figures who picnic, stroll, and flirt in El paseo de las Delicias (ca. 1785). While there is no central focus to the groups of Spaniards who occupy the tree-lined paseo, the artist highlights their interactions. Bayeu features elegantly adorned figures who make graceful gestures, creating a harmonious vision of one of Madrid’s contemporary gathering spaces. Artists’ incorporation of the capital’s urban sites as locations for various kinds of interactions between types and genders reinforces the modernity of these subjects, through which popular activities and traditions are displayed. Laura R. Bass and Amanda Wunder examine seventeenth-century urban views that highlight Madrid as a new site of fashion and bustling urbanity. Painted scenes of this burgeoning metropolis capture fashionable centers of the capital and Majismo, National Character, and Cultural Patrimony 37

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represent them as crowded and diverse spaces where spectatorship was prevalent and clothing was an important marker. These early modern paintings, many of which were made by unknown artists, provide important pictorial precedents for late eighteenth-century works, like those by Paret y Alcázar and Bayeu, in which distinct types interact against the backdrop of major city centers. Despite their thematic similarities, eighteenth-century artists emphasize the figural element, paying close attention to the different types and their dress and gestures. These two paintings portray distinctly Spanish subjects but utilize a pan-European rococo palette and delineation. They offer a refined vision of popular types who sport combinations of fashionable and indigenous garments, and they provide positive pictorial examples of urban types and their exchanges. Both artists worked for an elite clientele; these images cater to a noble audience in their chic rendering of the capital and the interactions of distinct gendered and social types. By aligning these depictions with local themes and international styles, Paret y Alcázar and Bayeu craft works that espouse the idea that Madrid’s court celebrates both cosmopolitan and traditional aesthetic ideas. As their paintings show, majismo offered novel ways to highlight popular customs and people in distinctly eighteenth-century spaces and styles. By lauding popular themes as viable subject matter, artists’ constructions coincided with a general encouragement to seek inspiration from native artistic traditions in order to cultivate a modern national aesthetic that did not merely replicate past works. Elites tapped into this trend to create a courtly image of authentic Spanishness in the context of a burgeoning awareness about the role of cultural production in the making of national narratives and collective Spanish identities.

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CHAPTER 2

Swaggering Majos: Performing the Masculine Ideal

In Full-Length Painting of a Majo and Majo/Torero (fig. 10),

the artist (possibly Antonio Carnicero) presents the popular masculine type with regal flair.1 Against the backdrop of idyllic landscapes, both figures stand in the foreground, proudly displaying their sartorial finery. In the first painting, the majo sports a tight-fitting bold-red jacket with gold trim over a cream vest and shirt, blue breeches, white stockings, square-toed buckled shoes, a wide-brimmed hat, and a hairnet. In the second work, the majo/torero wears a softpink jacket with decorative pastel-blue ruffles on the shoulders, a matching blue sash, a cream vest and shirt, dark breeches, white stockings, buckled shoes, and a ribboned wide-brimmed hat. The artist presents these majos as chic gentlemen and urban fashionistas, despite their purportedly humble social status. While both are elegantly posed in the balletic fourth position, normally reserved for royalty, the first majo exaggerates this stance with a serpentine twist in his torso, accentuated by the large sash tied around his hips. The second places his right hand on his right hip, with his elbow jutting outward in defiance, while his left hand is delicately supported by the plum cape that sweeps around his body, landing gracefully at his feet. The artist captures each figure’s haughty demeanor, pompous posture, and swaggering masculinity by emphasizing his direct stare at the audience.

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Not only do these majos convey “decency” in their appearance (as Haidt discusses with regard to majos overall) and exhibit pride in garments associated with traditional festivals, but their bodies are displayed in a manner appealing to elite pictorial conventions. The contrapposto, slender frame, and dancer’s pose epitomize gracefulness generally associated with aristocratic bodies adorned in royal opulence, as seen in such paintings as Mariano Salvador Maella’s Charles III Dressed in the Uniform and Robe of His Order of 1784 (fig. 11). This work showcases the royal figure with all the usual flourishes of a full-length formal painting. The king commands the interior space, and the blue-and-white color scheme of his garments provides added sartorial elegance to the usual monarchical robes, scepter, and sword. Founded in 1771, the Royal and Distinguished Spanish Order of Charles III paid tribute to individuals who served the Crown and Spain with great actions and honor. Charles III’s crisp white attire accented with blue-and-silver trim depicting the Spanish coat of arms evidences the significance of the order and its patriotic spirit. The royal portrait makes for an instructive comparison with the paintings of the majos. Unlike the two majos, the aristocrat does not strike a haughty pose; instead, as a royal, he conveys a relaxed assuredness. As viewers, we are more aware of the majos’ corporeal displays of boastful arrogance, as the artist capitalizes on the type’s macho reputation. In these works, the type embodies sophistication through his clothing and carriage; his affected stance and wardrobe suggest an exaggerated sense of pride. The majos’ dress is emblematic of the type, but it is rendered in a lavish manner that alludes to the practice of elite men donning purportedly indigenous garments for the bullfight, the masquerade, or holiday celebrations. The two majos are fashioned like elite men, capitalizing on nobles’ desire to imagine themselves, via visual representations, in the guise of romanticized popular types. In these paintings, the majos appear as noble as any aristocrat, and due to their supposed link to Spain’s past, they are meant to symbolize a “truer” Spanishness than any Bourbon could—a connection that elites employed to their advantage in crafting their Spanish persona. The works, however, are not portraits, since they represent a type, not a specific person. The figures are, to a certain extent, upstaged by their clothing, emphasizing that the type depicted and what he embodies are more important than any one individual majo. The paintings function as creative and strategic expressions of the performance of the masculine popular model in style, stance, and character. The paintings are also much smaller

Figure 10

Anonymous, Majo/Torero, ca. 1790. Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid. Photo: Album / Art Resource, N.Y. Figure 11

Mariano Salvador Maella, Charles III Dressed in the Uniform and Robe of His Order, 1784. Palacio Real, Madrid. Photo: Album / Art Resource, N.Y.

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than typical royal portraits, suggesting that they may be picturesque studies of a type following a similar format to that used in costume albums and series of street criers. While the dissemination of prints reached a large audience, these singular paintings could provide private enjoyment in a domestic space, most likely for elite viewers. Furthermore, unlike most images that identify types by dress, profession, and regional origin, these majos do not rely on objects outside of their bodily frame to convey their affiliation or social status. Instead, the artist intimates the figures’ elite standing through their stately presence and daring gaze and by following the common artistic practice of portraying nobles in a landscape, generally in reference to their estates. Because the paintings do not feature known individuals or convey specific narratives, the majos themselves function as the subject. Eschewing traditional subject matter, the artist generates modern images that respond both to established artistic practices and to new themes in the 1700s. While the majos connote a particular Spanish affiliation, the lack of any story or explicit setting implies that they would have been worthy of depiction in their own right and provides a sanitized version of the traditional type for noble pleasure. Regality is generally associated with members of the royal court or lesser nobles, but in many images majos embody a majestic air suggesting that their lineage far surpasses their humble origins, whether they are represented at work, at play, or engaged in customary acts such as the bullfight. There is a close link between visual representations of majos and toreros, as suggested by the similarities in their clothing, class, and insolent posturing (perhaps explaining why the title of fig. 10 refers to both). Many of the items characteristic of majo dress may be seen in the bullfighter’s traje de luces (suit of lights), including the short jacket with shoulder embellishments, the hairnet, and the colorful sash around the waist; this outfit underscores the torero’s showmanship and stylishness. While the bullfight itself is a spectacle of heroics, the traje de luces exaggerates the performative quality of the torero’s actions. Artists were aware of both the majo’s and the bullfighter’s bodily performance as stereotypical models of the Spanish national character and as keepers of traditional practices. Like the majo, the popular hero of the bullfight had roots in the laboring class and offered the pueblo a native figure to champion. Bullfighters gained celebrity status in the last third of the eighteenth century, bolstering their viability as models of Spanish male behavior. Despite the majo’s machismo (in fig. 10), the slight frame articulated with an affected posturing and the modish garments also point to supposed feminine traits, creating a gendered dualism that makes this type more complex and nuanced than is often assumed, complicating Laqueur’s “two-sex” model. Bullfighters likewise embodied not only a virile masculinity but also a feminine grace in their highly theatrical and stylized movements; however, these dual qualities do not necessarily read as negative, as is the case with petimetres, whose effeminacy was considered dangerous and satirical. Aristocratic portraiture, such as that of Louis XIV, emphasizes the haughty refinement of royal bodies, whose arrogance is mainly conveyed 42  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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through physical means and reiterated in the sumptuous nature of their dress and authoritative stare. In The Book of the Courtier (1528), Baldassare Castiglione commended Spanish men of noble distinction for their elegant reserve, identifying them as models for all elite gentlemen during the Renaissance.2 Thus, images of majos that underscore both masculine and feminine qualities hearken back to portraits of monarchs praised for their courtly sprezzatura, although the majo exhibits greater affectation than most depictions of Spanish Hapsburg kings. The majo’s arm akimbo recalls similar gestures of elite gentlemen who possessed an elegant swagger, drawing a significant connection between majos and aristocratic men. Joaneath Spicer examines Renaissance portraits in which the subject is similarly positioned, suggesting that this gesture indicates “boldness,” “control,” and “the assertion of success or defiance.” Moreover, she comments on the popularity of the gesture in sixteenth-century portraits of men with military associations, as such works sought “to convey manly virtues—through both attributes and body language.”3 By looking to earlier examples of elite portraiture, eighteenth-century artists emphasized the majo’s “nobility,” crafting suitable visual standards for Spanish noblemen. While the majo was imagined to be the epitome of popular pride, the petimetre, on the opposite end of the spectrum, was portrayed as feminized and foreign. His affinity for fashionable French items and his narcissistic bodily presentation were heavily ridiculed by artists and authors; however, since both the majo and petimetre embodied exaggerated extremes (urban pride versus foreign otherness) in dress, preferences, and bodily expression, the two types are not so easily categorized. Instead, they offered unstable boundaries, allowing artists to manipulate the various meanings and associations of these types in order to contend with issues such as xenophobic anxieties, the blurring of social class, increasing nationalist sentiment, and gender distinctions—as Spain was then experiencing varied reactions to governmental reform, changes in relations between the sexes, the greater presence of women in the public sphere, new modes of sociability, and the assertion of the lower classes. Ultimately, it is difficult to assess one type (the majo) without his apparent opposite (the petimetre), since they are often grouped together in artistic and literary works to generate a dramatic or satirical narrative. Artists capitalized on the majo’s urbanity, including his stylish dress, sophistication, neighborhood pride, and occupation as a street vendor or an artisan, which allowed for greater public contact and potential confrontation. While majos are sometimes depicted as emblems of local traditions, they are also imagined as modern figures. Artists did not limit their visualizations of majos to members of the lower class, although the majo was seen as a champion of the pueblo; the mutability of this type suggests that social status is not a definite means of identifying types. In creating decorous art for elites, artists often romanticized portrayals of urban laborers by emphasizing their aristocratic bearing and by depicting them in sumptuous versions of traditional garb. With Spain’s urban centers rapidly becoming more cosmopolitan, the majo provided fertile ground for artistic experimentation with newly Swaggering Majos 43

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invented symbols of traditional Spain, as evidenced by his sporting of garments viewed as customarily Spanish (such as the cape) and his role in the bullfight’s transformation from noble pageantry to national sport. He was also viewed as a trope of contemporary masculinity. This dualism, between tradition and modernity, made the majo an ideal subject for artists interested in current themes and in the historical development of the Spanish national character. Despite the significant efforts made by the Bourbon government to regulate their dress and practices, as in the Esquilache riots of 1766 (see below), majos served as a major source of artistic material as champions of national pastimes. I examine the visual construction of majos and investigate elites’ fascination with and appropriation of this type in their attempts to craft a Spanish persona. Artists depicted majos in newly furbished metropolitan centers as street vendors and as active participants in traditional customs. While artists created modern scenes of types and customs, their images both stimulated and responded to current theatrical representations of such types. Sometimes artists highlighted the negative connotations of the majo, emphasizing his swaggering bravado or suggesting an indolent nonchalance. Artists employed differing corporeal gestures or poses to embody certain characteristics, in addition to garments such as the long cape and widebrimmed hat, both of which could give the majo an air of mystery and stylish pomp. Since dress is vital to the construction of the majo, I study the dress associated with the type and the politicization of supposedly traditional garments that were repeatedly banned during the eighteenth century. Despite the bans, certain items continued to appear in images of types and traditional practices, implying the popularity of the styles. Regardless of the real majo’s humble status, artists frequently depicted this type wearing fabrics of higher quality, decorated with luxurious details and accessories, to placate the patrons of lo castizo—the Bourbon monarchy and other Spanish elites. In considering these issues, I address the varied perceptions of the majo—how he could be regarded as a model of Spanish masculinity with ties to the past and, simultaneously, as potentially criminal, dangerous, and in need of regulation. These conflicting views are manifested in visual representations, many of which were consumed by a noble audience. The tensions surrounding the majo and the oftenromanticized depiction of this type call into question his supposedly autochthonous characteristics.

Imagining Majos in the 1770s and 1780s By the 1770s, numerous artists, such as José del Castillo, Goya, and Lorenzo Tiepolo, were already exploring popular themes in their works. The majo figured as a central character in these images. During the 1700s, immigrants moved to Madrid and populated particular neighborhoods near the Puerta del Sol and the Plaza Mayor, including Lavapiés, Barquillo, Rastro, Antón Martín, and Maravillas.4 With the influx 44  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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of groups—both Spanish and foreign—into the capital, depictions of majos often foregrounded neighborhood honor, as they became intertwined with the city and defined themselves as madrileños. As artisans, street vendors, or bullfighters, majos were portrayed in a variety of guises, and their contact with the public exposed them to a wide range of individuals from different social, regional, and ethnic backgrounds. To highlight the differences among these groups, artists fashioned majos as distinctly traditional, crafting visual representations that sought to articulate and define supposedly indigenous characteristics and interests. Artists thus established “universal” qualities of majos, in terms of dress, gestures, and activities; these visual attributes were often used to convey a narrative and address contemporary issues, reinforcing the modernity of the subjects. Images of majos, despite their link to the past, related current anxieties by underscoring differences among groups, genders, and social classes. Yet, while artists attempted to codify the majo’s physical and sartorial features, many variances remained. Visual cues provided a reference for viewers; however, these only partially supplied meaning, since artists also played with variable boundaries, sometimes resulting in ambiguity. As majos were made mutable by artists, they (and other groups) provided more engaging subject matter, in contrast to the simplistic dichotomy of native versus foreign type. The anxieties surrounding the majo, as the exemplar of traditional Spanish traits, complicated the images of this popular figure created for elites seeking to construct their persona as patrons of lo castizo. De la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla’s Collection of Spanish Dress mainly features single figures placed in minimal landscapes, with identifying captions in both Spanish and French. Barber Majo, Playing Music (fig. 1) provides the viewer with a focused depiction of the majo. This image categorizes the majo’s characteristic traits in terms of dress, occupation, and preferences, as the remainder of the series does for other types. The implication of movement is seen in the barber’s step, activating the composition despite the lack of a defined context. The guitar-playing majo recalls images and descriptions of the popular blind guitarist, whose literary roots were venerable. Modern artists (for example, see Goya’s Blind Guitarist of 1778) depicted this famed type in an updated format by placing him next to more decidedly contemporary figures, such as majos, thereby creating new associations for old types. Moreover, the combination of old and new reinforces types such as majos as the true inheritors of Spanishness and as the authoritative examples of local identity. In the case of the barber majo, the type merely calls to mind the image of the blind guitarist, since the artist does not place the two figures together. The artist depicts the majo as aesthetically pleasing, via his carriage, stylish flair, and youthful face, making him an appropriate model for elites to celebrate. In the French caption, the word majo is translated as “elegant,” which relates to the 1734 definition of the majo as one who “affects beauty and bravery in his actions and words.”5 The artist represents the type’s elegance with vibrant and stylish garments and a balletic pose. Unlike the majo in Majo/Torero (fig. 10), the barber sports a tricorn hat, associated Swaggering Majos 45

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primarily with French fashion and perhaps depicted in response to the various decrees banning the wide-brimmed hat (see below). While his identification as a barber associates this figure with the artisanal class, his refined clothes and carefree finesse seem to intimate a different social status, reinforcing the variability of meanings that such images conveyed and the ease with which the majo could circulate among all members of society. Moreover, the visual link to elite men’s portraits, in this type’s sumptuous clothes and delicate posture, points to the print’s utility for establishing the majo as a decorous image of lo castizo. De la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla’s series generally showcases one figure at a time, while other artists grouped majos with different figures to portray a narrative. The Royal Tapestry Factory of Santa Barbara provided an effective opportunity to gain aristocratic patronage and notice, and many artists began their careers designing cartoons for the weavers. These tapestries adorned the walls of the royal palaces used in the colder months, serving as decorative embellishments and a source of insulation.6 As a major contributor of tapestry cartoons, Goya presented a lighthearted vision of majos in The Kite of 1778, destined for the dining room of the princes of Asturias in the Pardo palace. In a pastoral landscape, the figures engage in warmer-weather pursuits. The group of majos forms a distinct triangle, creating a stable composition despite each majo’s pose or action. The bottommost majo, who glances upward as he takes a drag on his cigarette, relaxes comfortably on the ground while the others focus on the kite in the sky. Each majo wears similar dress, in varied color combinations. Behind the main scene, Goya depicts individuals conversing, including a man with his cape pulled up over his face and a woman who seems more interested in the kite than her companion. Such a harmonious vision of popular types offered a suitable image for noble consumption. In Castillo’s The Painter’s Studio, or the Boys Playing with a Cat of 1780 (fig. 12), the figures are not specifically identified as majos; however, their dress implies a definite link. Each of the young men wears a variation on the staple majo outfit as depicted by De la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla, including a hairnet, a short tight jacket, buckled shoes, and a cape. The man on the right leans against the center figure’s chair, his blue cloak falling to one side. His sophisticated pose indicates aloofness normally reserved for aristocratic portraiture. Although generally represented as artisans or street vendors, in this example the majos are artists, enjoying a leisurely moment with a cat. The portfolios of drawings, the bust sculpture, and the pinned-up sketch of a nude suggest that the setting is the exterior of an artist’s studio. The nude’s twisted form complements the seated figure with the hairnet, who pivots to observe the scene. In Spain, the separation between mechanical and fine arts, and their forms of instruction (guild versus academy), was not new to the eighteenth century. Despite endeavors to increase the status of artisans, they were not considered on par with artists. Guild workers were regarded as manual laborers.7 And while some of the bias against artists had waned, especially due to the efforts of Diego Velázquez in 46  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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the court of Philip IV and the establishment of the RABASF in 1752, artists were still sometimes judged as socially inferior to other humanists. The economist Pedro Rodríguez, Count of Campomanes (1723–1802), was one of several individuals who supported the mechanical arts by attempting to professionalize the various trades. His Discourse on the Promotion of Popular Industry (1774) and Discourse on the Popular Education of Artisans and Their Promotion (1775) encouraged domestic industry and agriculture. He saw agriculture and factory employment, particularly in various textile industries, as important occupations for both men and women and as crucial to the betterment of the Spanish economy. In terms of the professionalization and improvement of the mechanical arts, Campomanes advocated for the establishment of drawing schools in each provincial capital, promoting this fundamental skill as equally essential to designers of patterns and clothes as to those engaged in traditional artistic practices. His contemporary, the author Luis de Eijoecente, makes a similar case in Book of Taste, arguing that all artisans (tailors, carpenters, cabinetmakers) want their apprentices to study drawing so that they can learn proportion and copy forms correctly. Campomanes attributed the near ruin of Spain’s fabric industries to the expulsion of the Moors, who had traditionally carried out the majority of its cotton production and spinning. With the dearth of trained artisans in Spain, Spanish workers

Figure 12

José del Castillo, The Painter’s Studio, or the Boys Playing with a Cat, 1780. Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid. © Madrid, Museo Nacional del Prado.

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had difficulty competing with laborers from France, England, and the colonies, who exported many of their textiles to the Iberian Peninsula, to the obvious detriment of the Spanish economy.8 Like Campomanes, Francisco de Sousa Congosto argues that the seventeenth century saw a number of difficulties result from the expulsion of the Moors, who had functioned as a significant body of skilled laborers. Many shops closed due to worsening economic and commercial problems, especially with the increasing importation of foreign products from France, Italy, and the Netherlands. Internal crises, such as the rigid regulation of the guilds and escalating taxes, also created hindrances to the development of the native textile industries (see also chapter 4).9 Despite the predicaments generated in previous centuries, the Bourbon government did make attempts to improve conditions for Spanish workers, such as lifting the heavy regulations on various cloths. The School of the Major Art of Silk in Valencia, the historic center for silk production in Spain, with the help of the Royal House Factory, facilitated a heightened zeal and competition that ultimately enhanced the techniques of its students and led to the creation of the Academy of Saint Charles (founded in 1768) for draftsmen.10 In addition to the removal of regulations, the government adjusted the apprenticeship process, the master’s examination, guild costs, and taxes to improve the quality of the fabrics made by native silk workers, who had been forced to lower the standards of their work and materials to keep up with the impressive quantity of both superior and less expensive fabrics imported into Spain in the 1700s.11 The artisanal structure had been in place for centuries, and it tended to favor quality products (and the professional dignity associated with the work) over speed of production.12 Although this view sometimes made it difficult for laborers to respond to the pressures of expanding production, it was more aligned with the nature of art making. Thus, during the 1700s, links between artisans and artists were viewed as beneficial for the Spanish economy. In The Painter’s Studio, Castillo portrays his artists in various popular majo garments, potentially generating a connection between majos and creativity, which hearkens back to Rodríguez Méndez’s evaluation of majismo as a “popular renaissance” (see chapter 1). While majos are normally rendered as bullfighters, guitar players, or artisans—who are creative professionals as well—Castillo depicts them as participants in the pursuit of drawing, with an allusion to the additional practices of sculpture and painting. As such, Castillo elevates the majo, or at least the suggestion of this type, to a noble practitioner of the fine arts, perhaps implying that despite the majo’s unprivileged background, he has the potential to socialize with intellectuals and other elites based on his talent. This painting also relates to theatrical characterizations of majos: ultimately, majos are not easily typecast, nor are they one-dimensional; they can be represented with lesser or greater wealth, as street criers, as men with no obvious occupation, or even as artists. None of these cartoons features the majo as overtly arrogant or antagonistic, reinforcing the idea that majos could offer acceptable standards for emulation. Artists helped construct general identifying traits of majos through sartorial markers and 48  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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popular themes, but as seen with theatrical majos, these types could signify more than one trait, be manipulated depending on the context, and represent different kinds of swaggering masculinity, whether explicitly or subtly gallant, boastful, or both. This dualism is expressed in countless examples of travel literature. For example, Christian Augustus Fischer called the majos “bullies” who displayed a combination of “gallantry and brutality.”13 Jean-François Bourgoing included a lengthy account of majos in his travelogue, referring to many of their characteristics: “The Majos are beaux of the lower class, or rather bullies, whose grave and frigid pomposity is announced by their whole exterior. They have an accent, habit and gesture peculiar to themselves. Their countenance, half concealed under a brown fluff bonnet . . . bears the character of threatening severity . . . which seems to brave persons the most proper to awe them into respect. . . . The officers of justice scarcely dare attack them.”14 Such a description suggests that majos exuded an exaggerated machismo and ostentatiousness that challenged others. Jesús Cañas Murillo confirms this view by referring to them as defiant. Like Bourgoing, he argues that majos had their own form of walking, dressing, and speaking, and he locates their origins partly in Andalusia.15 Writing in the nineteenth century, Enrique Rodríguez-Solís described majos as valiant. He argued that they leaned toward exaggeration, were enthusiastic about their country, and were enemies to all things foreign.16 For a more definitive description, he looked to Nicolás María Serrano’s Universal Dictionary, which specifies that the word majo was used primarily in Andalusia to designate a townsperson who distinguished himself from others via “typical” dress, a sprightly comportment, graceful manners, bravery, beauty, and a regal air.17 These varied descriptions made the majo potentially problematic for elites. By capitalizing on his regality and elegance, artists constructed a laudable masculine type. But many pictorial representations alluded to the type’s negative associations, indicating the real conflicts that majos sometimes encountered in their daily lives in Madrid. Lorenzo Tiepolo visualized the majo’s machismo—highlighting the complexity that it could generate within a work—in the numerous pastels he composed while living in Madrid during the 1770s and employed by the royal family. The majority of these pastels were made for the future Charles IV and Charles III’s youngest brother, Prince Luis Antonio Jaime, the Count of Chinchón, around 1770 to 1773, and most are conserved in the Spanish national patrimony’s collection. Soldier with a Majo from the Back (fig. 13) points to a likely confrontation between majos and soldiers. Tie­polo’s half-length figures are pushed close to the picture plane, allowing him to show details in dress and a variety of expressions, many of which are directed toward the viewer. The majo, seen from behind, turns his head to the left and looks at the soldier, who glances up while he pours himself a beverage; the soldier’s expression is serious, yet expectant, as if he is preparing for an encounter. With scruffy stubble (as opposed to the cleanly groomed mustaches of the soldiers), his hair pulled back in a delicately embellished cofia, a tricorn hat, a short jacket (the sleeves appropriately tied on with ribbons), and a cape on one shoulder, the majo is Swaggering Majos 49

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Figure 13

Lorenzo Tiepolo, Soldier with a Majo from the Back, ca. 1770. Private collection. Photo: Album / Art Resource, N.Y.

a play between gruff and graceful. While the potential for conflict between different types is common in Tiepolo’s pastels, Ramón de la Cruz’s play The Confrontation of the Majos from 1766 shows that these types often fought among themselves, especially in the defense of one’s neighborhood or woman.18 The combination of sumptuous garments and untidy facial hair corresponds to Haidt’s analysis of majos who felt pressure to “represent decency” in their “active performance of identity of urban belonging,” especially once they immigrated to Madrid. She states, “Majos arrive at the capital aware of urban expectations regarding ‘decency’ and prepared to employ whatever contacts and skills might be necessary to begin the process of integration 50  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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into their new barrios.”19 In addition, Haidt argues that it was not inconceivable for majos to sport luxurious fabrics with intricate ornamentation, since many lowerclass laborers worked in textile-related jobs and had access to the same rich cloth and threads they used to fabricate garments for elites.20 Despite its sanitized depiction of the majo’s garb, Tiepolo’s pastel points to broader societal issues affecting the daily lives of migrants and their desire to assimilate. This pastel may have been destined for royalty, but Tiepolo does not shy away from conflating elegantly garbed popular types with possible conflict. Although such amalgamations may seem antithetical to works of art produced for elites, many of Tiepolo’s pastels offer insight into the anxieties of urban life and an opportunity to study popular apparel. In Two Majos and a Country Woman (fig. 14), Tiepolo portrays two majos leaning away from a woman. We are not privy to the nature of their encounter or the reason why the men appear tensely guarded. Instead, and to contrast the tension, Tiepolo flaunts richly rendered fabrics. Here, as in many of his pastels, he positions the figures in a cramped space and crops them, and he does not supply any specific contextual information for the scene. Úbeda de los Cobos views such pastels as oddly composed, sometimes filled with heads in an impossible space. He links these works to academic studies of heads and the passions, as Tiepolo emphasizes varied gestures, expressions, and faces.21 While I

Figure 14

Lorenzo Tiepolo, Two Majos and a Country Woman, ca. 1770. Palacio Real, Madrid. © Patrimonio Nacional.

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agree with this connection, in his pastels Tiepolo does not exaggerate the figures’ faces; in fact, most of them are fairly serene and some playfully engage the viewer, in contrast to the highly expressive nature of Charles LeBrun’s academic studies of the passions.22 Úbeda de los Cobos attributes the pastels’ artificiality to the aristocratic nature of the individuals shown. These figures are not true likenesses, as one would see in a portrait, nor are they meant to represent specific elites, even though they were consumed primarily by a royal audience. Like Úbeda de los Cobos, Álvaro Molina and Jesusa Vega see the lack of any narrative or background as unnatural and compare the spaces depicted by Tiepolo to display cabinets filled with similar figures rotated into different poses, like mannequins exhibiting an array of clothes, designs, and fabrics for aristocratic pleasure.23 Additionally, they maintain that the figures show no connection to the reality of Madrid. Through a process of abstraction, “reality is transformed into something conventional, first through the medium of costume and then through painting.” By sanitizing the figures and removing them from any semblance of a realistic setting, Tiepolo creates a novel iconography—figures meant to be identifiable and identified with the new modern society.24 Most artists do not render majos as particularly dirty and generally place them in pleasing environments, although there are exceptions, such as Miguel Gamborino’s Gritos de Madrid (1798). Many works, however, feature majos in the act of smoking, including Antonio Carnicero’s Picnic at the Beach, in which a nonchalant majo is centrally placed between two women. Although the street crier is the prominent figure in Tiepolo’s The Cherry Vendor (fig. 40), the majo in the right foreground, who smiles at the young woman, stands out as a characteristic model. He wears a gold-embroidered cofía and a long cape, and he carries a cigarette. Smoking was one practice that majos used to evidence their cool reserve; it contrasted with the elite tradition of taking snuff. In Tiepolo’s pastels, the clothes displayed share ties with indigenous dress, but the fashions are rendered in an opulent and highly detailed manner, in part to convey character or create difference among the individuals depicted. With the pastels’ close-up views—filled with minor action and no particular narrative—and the seeming isolation of the figures, the types themselves and the diverse fabrics of their clothing play the key role. Thus, I propose that while the images constitute appropriate objects for elite consumption, they do not avoid depicting the reality of Madrid; they showcase urban types cramped together and often in conflict, making them much more complex pictorial examples of majismo than previously discussed.

Dress, Politics, and Social Ambiguity Dress functions as a crucial identifying element in the portrayal of majos. The relationship among historical, popular, regional, and fashionable attire is a significant one, providing artists with a means to differentiate figures and represent a narrative; however, as noted earlier, the conflation of these categories of dress often leads to 52  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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the effacing of social boundaries and calls into question clothing’s ability to distinguish rank. Despite the instability of dress as a finite marker of social class, type, and even gender, its role in associating the majo with earlier Spanish male types is more credible if certain garments are seen as having (or have) a connection to the past, even if they are combined with newer styles and garments to create an updated look. For example, how do images of majos from the 1700s relate to portraits or visual representations of Spanish men from previous centuries? In royal portraiture, Hapsburg kings, such as Philip IV, generally opted for subdued images of aristocratic refinement. The preference for black, and its embodiment of Spanish elegance, was praised and emulated by Europeans (see chapter 5). The famed golilla (a starched square-shaped collar) favored by Philip IV became a staple of Spanish regal fashion beginning in 1623.25 Prior to the eighteenth century, this neckpiece was the quintessential element of Hapsburg dress in Spain and regarded as the epitome of Spanish gravity, though it was generally reserved for court officials and elite men, not worn by the working class.26 Although the first Bourbon king, Philip V (r. 1700–1746), preferred his native country’s dress, he occasionally wore the golilla, which suggests that he relied on tailors in both Spain and France for his multinational wardrobe.27 As Amalia Descalzo Lorenzo confirms, “In order to cover the different needs of his attire, Philip V counted on the Spanish tailor Juan de la Bareada until 1707, the date in which he had already begun to organize his royal home, and with it the packages sent from Paris that were disclosed in the accounts of his wardrobe.”28 Portraits of the king, such as Hyacinthe Rigaud’s Philip V (1701) and Miguel Jacinto Meléndez’s Philip V Hunting (1712), reveal this oscillation in dress, although he soon abandoned Hapsburg attire completely. As Molina and Vega propose, the shifting nature of dress styles throughout the eighteenth century profoundly altered the customs and behaviors of Spaniards, from the relationships among the different social classes to the manners of expressing oneself, especially in corporeal ways.29 Thus, stylistic changes on an official level had ramifications for all classes. As groups sampled novel fashions, many of which provided added comfort and a better range of motion, new modes of movement and gestures became possible. While the norm for signally Spanish masculine identity was the traje de golilla, in the 1700s many refuted this idea, including José Cadalso in his epistolary novel Cartas marruecas (Letter XXI ) and Diego de Torres Villarroel in Visions and Visits with Don Francisco de Quevedo Around the Court (1726–27). The latter discredits the golilla and pokes fun at this antiquated style.30 In his critique of this fashion, in particular regarding its discomfort, Cadalso calls into question its national origin, arguing that it was brought to Spain by the Austrians.31 In contrast, José Deleito y Piñuela argues that the golilla was created by a tailor from Madrid.32 While images of the Hapsburgs provided common examples of this style, many Spaniards in the 1700s, especially outside of metropolitan areas, continued to incorporate the golilla into their daily dress, in part expressing pride in this tradition. De la Cruz Cano y Swaggering Majos 53

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Figure 15

Nicolas Arnoult, Homme de qualite en habit d’êpée, in Recueil des modes de la cour de France (Paris, ca. 1683–88). Los Angeles County Museum of Art, Los Angeles.

Holmedilla’s series features an image of a government official, the baliff, whose allblack ensemble includes the golilla and long cape. In contrast to the waning popularity of the traje española a la golilla, French fashions were first introduced with great fervor during Charles II’s reign (1665–1700) and reinforced by his marriage to Marie Louise of Orléans (1662–1689) in 1679. From 1660 onward, Versailles set the standard in taste, creating uniformity in European court style. The Sun King strove for “sartorial splendor” in part to contrast the “sobriety of Spanish court dress” and promoted the idea of the “Frenchness” of fashion beginning in the 1670s.33 During Charles II’s rule, French and Spanish official dress coexisted, and Louis XIV adopted aspects of military uniforms, including the long outer jacket. In 1678, Charles II acquired a French tailor, Joseph Capret, so that he could alternate between Spanish and French styles, the latter of which features in Claudio Coello’s depiction of the king in The Adoration of the Holy Eucharist (1685–90).34 The marshal Friedrich Hermann, first duke of Schomberg (originally Schönberg; 1615–1690) helped introduce military-inspired dress to the Iberian Peninsula via his campaigns in Portugal in 1660. Additionally, in 1669, Mariana of Austria (Philip IV’s second wife; 1634–1696) formed a regiment, the Guardia Chamberga, that adopted the dress of Schomberg’s army (a la chamberga). Dressing a lo militar or in the French style required three basic pieces, the foundation for the modern structured suit: a long jacket generally worn to the knees with wide embellished sleeves, a tighter-fitting interior jacket or vest, and breeches. Nicolas Arnoult’s (ca. 1671–1700) Homme de qualite en habit d’êpée (fig. 15), from a series of hand-colored engravings entitled Recueil des modes de la cour de France (ca. 1683–88), depicts a sumptuously dressed man whose richly textured outfit features several expensive fabrics, including lace. This print displays a highly elegant version of the jacket; the red-heeled buckled shoes and casually calculated pose also point to the wearer’s status. Molina and Vega view Spanish men’s adoption of the military style in the first half of the 1700s as evidence of the important role played by dress in the search for a collective identity, which they believe corresponded with the threat to valued traditions.35 That French styles were imported to Spain and met with great popularity before the dynastic change complicates the argument that majo dress developed in response to xenophobic sentiments. While the enhanced cosmopolitan nature of Spain’s cities assuredly contributed to antiforeign expressions, it certainly does not account for 54  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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the full story, especially if certain pieces of majo dress originated in the conflation of Spanish and French styles. Majo dress is not directly linked to the regal fashions of the Hapsburgs; the majo does not sport a golilla or dress all in black. Rather, vibrant colors dominate the different parts of the ensemble, composed of a variety of fabrics, linking majo dress to traditional festival clothing, which tended to favor bright hues and ornamentation to convey celebratory sentiments. Amelia Leira Sánchez considers dress styles during Charles III’s reign; she maintains that while French attire was worn by men of various social classes, majo dress featured some similar garments—breeches and the tight-fitting jacket and accompanying vest—with additional elements such as the sash, hairnet, and long cape. She notes, too, that even elite men would wear majo clothing, especially when attending bullfights or other festivities, reinforcing the associations among popular pastimes, majo dress, and social ambiguity.36 Thus, majo garb, albeit with costly fabrics and design, was considered appropriate for elite men during traditional events or holidays, as it promoted a sense of collective Spanish identity. The garment that most typified Spanish style was the long cape (capa or capote), generally in brown or black, which was owned by all men regardless of class, though it varied in quality and fabric. In the sixteenth century, the cape had long sleeves and a hood, offering better insulation than the eighteenth-century version.37 Haidt stresses that the poor relied on capes to fill multiple needs—not only practical purposes but also the desire to hide their “impoverished appearance.”38 Majismo’s incarnations in dancing and bullfighting, as well as the majo’s characteristic gallantry, bravery, and insolence, reinforce the physical nature of this phenomenon. All of these practices and traits emphasize performance. From them, according to Descalzo Lorenzo, emerged a style of dress and gestures a lo majo, which would imply that men from all social backgrounds could potentially don the clothes of the majo and learn the corresponding corporeal movements to achieve a majo-esque style.39 While the majo embodied popular traits of the 1700s, as a modern figure invented in part to counter escalating foreign influence in Spain, he was also an imagined historical figure whose dress was meant to recall Spanish valor, confidence, and virility—traits viewed as lacking in the French Bourbons and in the too-polished manners of petimetres. In his evocation of the past and simultaneous modernity, the majo served as a suitable model for elite men constructing a Spanish persona. One of the most controversial garments featured in the majo’s attire was the wide-brimmed hat (sombrero gaucho or sombrero chambergo); while this was not the only option for clothing the head, its popularity is evident in numerous artistic depictions from the 1700s. Sousa Congosto describes the item as a flexible, winged felt hat. He suggests that both the hat and its name originated in the uniform of Schomberg’s troops.40 The chambergo could be worn with the flaps left wide, or with one or both of them pinned and decorated with a feather or other ornament. If the chambergo was ultimately a foreign fashion made popular in Spain in the Swaggering Majos 55

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seventeenth century, this complicates the traditional connotations of this headwear in the majo wardrobe. Despite its appropriation by Spanish men in both the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries and its reputation as a gentlemanly style, artists used the chambergo, in conjunction with other garments, to portray majos as elegant, especially in works commissioned by elites. However, at the same time that this hat conveyed sophistication, in the 1700s the government saw it as problematic (as discussed below) due to its ability to conceal its wearer, when it was worn with both sides open and partially covering the face. Consequently, artists often used the chambergo to evoke themes of mystery and bravado in images of majos. Goya capitalizes on the dangerous associations of the long cape and chambergo in his portrayal of roguish subjects in A Walk in Andalusia of 1777 (fig. 16). Although the title suggests a calm stroll through the Andalusian countryside, the seated male figure, with his cape pulled up to his eyes beneath the shadow of his chambergo, has just complimented the young woman, who smiles in a fetching manner, according to Goya’s invoice submitted to the tapestry factory.41 The woman’s companion has exposed the weapon hidden under his cloak to challenge his potential opponent. Two men in the background, one with a feather-adorned chambergo pinned up on one side and the other with an Andalusian montera cap, watch in anticipation. The young woman, however, seems to point forward, perhaps to suggest to her escort that he should forget the incident. Goya’s cloaked men have artistic and literary precedents, further establishing these eighteenth-century figures as traditional types. The man hidden behind his long cape was a theatrical trope in both Lope de Vega’s and Pedro Calderón de la Barca’s plays, such as the latter’s The Hidden Man and Veiled Woman. Vega and Calderón de la Barca held prestigious places in Spain’s literary past and, like Golden Age painters, provided a model for Spanish dramatists. Vega was particularly famous for his “cloak and dagger” tragicomedies, in which both cape and weapon played a part in the romance, much as they do in images of caped majos from the late 1700s. By tapping into this “Spanish” genre, Goya and others invoked an important archetype of Spanish masculinity that was equally daring and romantic—an appealing combination for elites. Caped men were not limited to the theater. They frequent seventeenth-century images, including Juan Bautista Martínez del Mazo’s View of Zaragoza (1647). Men and women form groups across the picture plane, and many are clad in capes and hats. Martínez del Mazo painted several such panoramas. In A Hunting Scene in Aranjuez (ca. 1635), the man at center in the foreground is shown in profile, with one arm akimbo. His plumed chambergo is tilted away from the viewer, and resting on his left shoulder is a long cape. All of these components make him the epitome of Spanish elegance, despite the conflation of garments. In Orbis habitabilis oppida et vestitus centenario numero complexa, summo studio collecta (ca. 170?), Carel Allard composed a series of city views with figures in the foreground. Allard offers a global vision of cities spanning such diverse sites as Europe, the Americas, and North 56  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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Figure 16

Francisco de Goya, A Walk in Andalusia, 1777. Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid. Photo: Scala / Art Resource, N.Y.

Africa. Many of his prints share the same formula: two figures (a man and a woman) dominate, with the cityscape serving as a backdrop. A carefully placed inscription of each city’s name hovers like a waving banner, emphasizing the two-dimensionality of the image, despite the great expanse suggested by its view. Because Allard Swaggering Majos 57

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Figure 17

Carel Allard, Madrid, in Orbis habitabilis oppida et vestitus centenario numero complexa, summo studio collecta (Amsterdam: C. Allard, [170?]). Rare Books Division, The New York Public Library, Astor, Lenox and Tilden Foundations. Figure 18

Juan de la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla, Andalusian Man, in Colección de trajes de España, tanto antiguos como modernos, que comprehende todos los de sus dominios, vol. 1 (Madrid: Casa de D. M. Copin Carrera de S. Geronimo, 1777). Biblioteca Nacional de España, Madrid. © Biblioteca Nacional de España. Figure 19

Marcos Téllez, Dress that Contrabandists Use, ca. 1790. Biblioteca Nacional de España, Madrid. © Biblioteca Nacional de España.

foregrounds the figures, their dressed bodies take on a greater role than simple ornamentation. In Madrid (fig. 17), an elegant man strides forward, his cape thrown over one shoulder, as he gazes at an equally fashionable veiled woman—much like their theatrical counterparts in Baroque plays. Although this man is not a majo, his graceful swagger provides a corporeal model for eighteenth-century Spanish men to follow, as he represents an optimal expression of masculinity and the national character. Key to the conception of Spanish masculinity and femininity in this print is the location: as the capital city, Madrid is regarded as the quintessential locale for visualizing the urban pair, just as it continued to be in the 1700s. In A Walk in Andalusia, Goya prefers the southern countryside, not the urban sites of Allard’s series. As can be surmised from the setting and Goya’s short commentary, the figures are gypsies, not majos, despite the obvious sartorial link in their hairnets, silk sashes, long capes, tight jackets, and hats. Two of the figures wear the montera, a tall, pointed hat that covers the ears. Ruth de la Puerta defines it as a cap of velvet or some other cloth that assumed diverse forms and was worn by men beginning in the sixteenth century.42 The montera’s lengthy history partially justifies its depiction as a customary headpiece in images of gypsies or majos. While gypsies were not considered Spanish in the same way as majos, their appropriation in mainstream Spanish culture—as part of the country’s southern heritage—played a large part in 58  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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eighteenth-century discussions regarding Spain’s multifaceted past. By highlighting stereotypical characteristics, such as the gypsies’ quick-tempered personalities or superstitions, artists created lively subjects and models for aristocratic patrons, who could appropriate gypsy or majo dress and swagger at the bullfight, at the masquerade, or during holidays. De la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla’s Collection of Spanish Dress similarly includes types who sport the montera cap, as seen in Andalusian Man (fig. 18). This figure wears a long cape while holding a sword partially concealed underneath it. As in many of the images from this series, the artist identifies the type and his dress by region alone, despite the cape’s and hat’s use in other province-specific images, including Murcian Orange Seller, in which a cloaked figure wearing the montera sits upon a horse. Murcia is located in southern Spain, east of Andalusia and southwest of Valencia. By featuring the same cap in two different images of types with distinct geographical origins, De la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla shows that fashions have cross-regional possibilities, suggesting their broader national use. In Miguel Garrido in Gypsy Costume, however, he refers to the theater by placing one of Spain’s famed eighteenth-century actors in gypsy costume, as he would have appeared onstage. Garrido wears baggy breeches and a sleeveless poncho-like jacket (gabardina), a

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garment also seen in Velázquez’s Water Carrier of Seville. By presenting the viewer with a known actor in gypsy guise, De la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla emphasizes theatricality as a major component of his prints. A similar “gypsy” outfit is depicted by Marcos Téllez in Dress that Contrabandists Use (fig. 19), although with decorative tassels and embroidery. Each contrabandist poses with hand on hip and various weapons. The male contrabandista at left places his right foot forward in a gesture reminiscent of royal portraits; this motif was used by artists in depicting popular types, making them visually appealing to an aristocratic audience. The finery of the contrabandists’ exterior garments and their slender frames suggest regality, not ruffian outlaws. Contrabandists bore a connection to rural Spain; however, these vagabonds were not always seen in a positive light, similar to how gypsies were regarded as existing on the periphery of society but were sartorially linked to it by artists. Goya features the contrabandist in The Tobacco Guards of 1779–80. The conflation of garments worn by the guards (including the hairnet, poncho, and tight-fitting jacket) makes an easy identification of types problematic and points to the artistic freedom to combine clothing for creative purposes. It also sheds light on the unstable nature of these types. Goya depicts the standing contrabandist in an overtly masculine pose, from his triangular-shaped montera down to the wide expanse of his legs, solidly placed on the ground. Complementing his staunch machismo, he bears an array of weapons and a knowing grin. Many of the garments worn by majos and others were subject to myriad prohibitions throughout the eighteenth century, although these account for only some of the legislation addressing sartorial and sumptuary concerns. For example, a royal decree in November 1723 addressed the use of luxury materials and adornments (for example, silk bordered with gold). This decree also sought to distinguish social status based on dress and fabrics, suggesting wool and baize for the lower classes and reserving expensive materials for elites.43 Like many of the bans that followed, these rulings had very little effect on people’s fashion choices or on the tailors who made the garments. Laws prohibiting chambergos and capes were passed under Philip V in 1716, followed by bans in 1719, 1723, 1729, 1737, 1740, 1745, and January 1766. In March 1766, the government executed its first royal order outlawing all garments that covered the face or hid weapons, except during specified masked balls or carnival parties.44 Majo, maja, gypsy, and contrabandist dress styles were popular choices for elite costumes, causing further social-class confusion despite the obvious nature of dress-up at masquerades. While the performative nature of role play may have entertained nobles wearing ornately festooned versions of lower-class styles, many felt that such behavior degraded aristocrats’ social station, resulting in the royal decree of May 5, 1784. Instigated by Pedro Pablo Abarca de Bolea, Count of Aranda, the decree sought to discourage the upper classes from wearing the attire of popular types. It points to the government’s attempts to regulate elites’ behavior with regard to their emulation of majos, even in the confines of masquerades. The 60  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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style of the garments themselves was not the only cause for concern. The decree also speaks about the fabrics used and the “ridiculous” manner in which the clothes have been “stitched” or “embroidered” in various colors, highlighting the decorative nature of the costumes.45 This description relates to depictions of these types’ attire in Lorenzo Tiepolo’s pastels, where plush detailing implies rich craftsmanship and great expense, considered more appropriate for elites than the working class. That controversial garments such as the chambergo and long cape were included in tapestries and pastels intended for palatial residences indicates their popularity and the sumptuary laws’ ineffectiveness in deterring the wearing of such clothes. Government regulation of dress occurred among all social classes and both genders. While the primary target in the royal order of March 1766 was garments worn by residents of the court and at imperial sites, any item covering the face of either a man or woman was seen as potentially suspect. The new rule decreed that no person could be seen in public—whether on foot, on horse, or in a coach—without the dress suitable to his social and professional condition. If wearing a cape, he must sport a tricorn hat; otherwise, according to José Andrés Gallego, his hair must be worn “without gorro, cofia, montera, sombrero chambergo, nor any head covering.”46 This rule applied to all citizens, although the penalties were more severe for court employees. The government argued that public safety was its principal concern and proposed that certain garments evidenced threatening and clandestine behavior, such as the cape, wide-brimmed hat, and even some female head coverings (see chapter 4). With the increasing influx of migrants, the prohibition on specific garments was directly targeted at those individuals who did not meet the standards of “decency” or whose clothing made them potential obstacles to maintaining order in the capital. As Haidt states, the new grand houses built along the southern portion of the Paseo del Prado abutted some lower-class neighborhoods, prompting extra policing of cloaked and disheveled vagrants.47 While the security of Madrid’s streets was important, the Bourbons also wanted to better the image of the court. The monarchy saw dress regulations as part of Madrid’s overall transformation; its myriad urbanization projects were aimed at making it more secure and pleasing. Moreover, the Bourbons launched attacks on poor hygiene, as wearing one’s hair long and wrapped in a hairnet often indicated a lack of washing.48 Certainly, maintaining Madrid’s sanitation and safety were major concerns for the government, but it was particularly preoccupied with dress’s ability to generate confusion in the identification of different social classes. Dress threatened the natural division of people based on ancestry, occupation, and social station, constituting, the government believed, a real danger.49 The person responsible for publishing the edict on March 10, 1766, during Charles III’s reign, was the minister of agriculture (from 1759) and war (from 1763), Leopoldo de Gregorio, Marquis of Esquilache, an Italian originally named Squillacci. This royal order forbade the use of specific garments because of their supposed surreptitious associations. The government believed that long capes and chambergos Swaggering Majos 61

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could hide criminals’ identities and conceal weapons; indeed, earlier that year (January 22), the government had placed a prohibition on the long cape. As Haidt indicates, the capes worn by the poor and by majos were transformed into indicators of suspicious activity in the 1766 edict and in previous legislative measures.50 Such measures sparked the Esquilache riots in March 1766—although, Haidt emphasizes, more important than the trimming of hats and cloaks, the riots occurred in the context of “hunger and desperation.”51 The policing of dress, especially garments that covered the face, was nothing new, as I discuss below and in chapter 4. Since all Spanish men wore capes, class differentiation by means of sartorial clues was difficult.52 As Leira Sánchez points out, the 1766 rulings did not wish to curtail the use of the cape, but simply to adjust its length.53 The majo’s clothing took on symbolic value and political self-consciousness after the Esquilache riots,54 regardless of its secondary role in the cause of the uproar. Bourgoing criticized both the Marquis of Esquilache’s tactics and the mob’s violent behavior: “A minister of the present reign has made the sad experiment. The long cloaks and round hats pulled over the face favoured disorders, and particularly those which endangered the safety of the citizens. He wished to use coercive means, and even open force, to prevent their being worn for the future in the capital. The people mutinied, and the minister was sacrificed; in the manner of dress so suddenly attacked [sic], was in part continued after his disgrace.”55 The riots began on March 23, 1766. Soon thereafter, Charles III replaced Esquilache with a Spanish minister, the Count of Aranda. The king claimed that the riots had been carefully planned with the help of the Jesuits, who wanted to dethrone and replace him with his brother Luis. In 1767, the Society of Jesus was expelled from Spain. However, a likely contributing factor to the protests against the foreign minister was the price of bread, which had increased. In terms of xenophobia, Esquilache would have been an easy target for the Spanish populace, and Charles III’s tactic of replacing him with a native prime minister helped soothe the tense situation in Madrid. Laura Rodríguez addresses several key factors that may have contributed to the riots. She examines the Jesuit conspiracy theory; the unrest surrounding food shortages; the idea that the elite class instigated the riots in part because of its dislike of Esquilache and his reforms; xenophobic sentiments; and the ire over dress regulation, which was seen as an assault on popular customs. Rodríguez looks to contemporary accounts of the riots that identify dress as a direct marker of political alliance, regardless of class, and as a means of expressing defiance, which I would argue reinforces the view of majos as defenders of Spanish traditions against foreign influence and government intrusion.56 While these various issues all contributed to the Esquilache riots, Rodríguez proposes that the Spanish nobility’s resentment toward not only foreign ministers but also those who held powerful positions at court, despite their hidalgo lineage, was the primary culprit.57 Gallego likewise views aristocratic opposition to the royal decree as a major factor in the uprising. If the 62  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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Spanish upper classes prompted the riots (in part by funding the rioters) or at least helped instigate the violence, this would suggest that the events were not merely the result of lower-class anger over surging food prices and dress stipulations. Noble participation on any level would also imply that majos were not the only defenders of local customs. However, while elites may have championed the cause in part to express their appreciation for the popular styles that they often wore, they also felt threatened by the many reforms put forth by Charles III’s government, which they saw as endangering some of their privileges. From a sociocultural perspective, José Miguel López García evaluates the riot’s potential causes and the scholarly trends in addressing the specific triggers for revolt. He views Madrid’s shifting demographics in the mid-1700s as key to the uprising. With a sizeable number of migrants entering the city, tensions among different social groups increased, including the expansion of criminal behavior and the subsequent desire for policing.58 Not only did the new nocturnal illumination system established in 1765 benefit individuals enjoying nighttime activities, but it also aided urban authorities in their patrols.59 In addition to this closer monitoring of the poor, López García argues that a rise in chronic malnutrition, contagious diseases, and subsequent mortality rates escalated mobilization and urban protest, creating an environment ripe for riots in 1766.60 Within this tense context, many saw dress regulation as an attack on the nation’s traditions and economy, especially when military attire was proposed as a replacement for garments such as the wide-brimmed hat and the long cape. For example, the government recommended a shorter cape, an early version of the redingote, and the tricorn hat. While fabrics, embellishments, and particular styles were subject to class differentiation, the government hoped to establish general guidelines for all citizens. But these modifications were rejected and the pueblo drafted its own set of demands, including the ousting of Esquilache, less policing, and no interference in a person’s choice of dress.61 This volatile backdrop forms an instructive framework for interpreting Lorenzo Tiepolo’s pastels, made less than a decade after the riots. Their allusions to friction in the city and to urban monitoring of the lower classes indicate that they are more than simply romanticized visions of popular subjects. Although they do not feature majos in violent brawls with the urban militia, which would not have been an appropriate subject for images composed for elite consumption, they hint at real conflicts experienced by the “marginalized” in society. In conjunction with the politicization of popular garments, French dress presented the optimal style for Spanish elites and was promoted as a fitting choice for their social position beginning in the late 1600s. With the appearance of Frenchinspired heels and wigs in the Spanish court at the end of the seventeenth century, the golilla was not the only garment subject to satire by the early 1700s; the French mode of dress was often mocked as effeminate.62 This criticism draws a constructive parallel to similar assessments launched at petimetres, who favored French fashions later in the eighteenth century. It also encouraged the idea that majo dress, by Swaggering Majos 63

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comparison, was “masculine”—a problematic connection since majo garb included vibrant colors and flamboyant accessories. However, for many nobles and intellectuals, French dress was not their only inspiration, as English styles gained popularity beginning in the 1780s. English attire typically emphasized functionality, simplicity, and country elegance, which coordinated with Enlightenment ideals—the return to nature and the good health and happiness of men.63 While many nobles followed English trends, the minimal ornamentation of this dress greatly appealed to ilustrados, who preferred to emphasize their scholarly capacities over any interest in fashion, especially since such concerns were associated with aristocratic idleness.

Majos, Petimetres, and Gender Performance In numerous visual examples, majos are represented in the act of doing something—playing guitars, challenging others, dancing, smoking, selling goods, or bullfighting—which ties these characters to specific actions that carry traditional and gendered associations. More subtly, types also convey such associations through the positioning of their bodies, in conjunction with their gestures, garments, and facial expressions. Majos are depicted as performers of popular masculinity, and expressions of this are varied, unstable, and complex. While the majo functions as part of a larger, more nuanced pictorial narrative meant to define the Spanish national character as courageous, arrogant, and independent, the type himself embodies an affected machismo, which is theatricalized to make him more identifiable and, thus, easier to imitate. Although the shifting nature of majos in images and onstage would imply that these types are not fixed, their gestures, movements, speech, and wardrobe could be studied and mimicked, further complicating the division between “real” and “pretend” majos. Majos themselves are partly an artificial construction of masculine Spanishness, as imagined by artists and writers and played by actors (as directed by playwrights). Both the majo and the petimetre exemplify the performative nature of gender. By exaggerating traditional traits in the majo’s dress and corporeal maneuvers, artists provided visual examples of masculinity, which were reaffirmed by audiences who recognized these characteristics and their meanings. José Camarón Bonanat painted several images of majos dancing, many of whom exhibit affected gestures and movements. Although the pictorial representation of action presented challenges, dancing and the performance of other pastimes provided suitable means for artists to articulate a majo’s swaggering bravado. However, in paintings such as Majos in a Garden and Romería of ca. 1785 (fig. 20), Camarón Bonanat particularly emphasizes the figures’ lean bodies, outfitted in highly elegant attire. The artfully constructed landscape, soft rococo hues, and slender forms imply that the figures are, in fact, aristocrats frolicking in a bucolic setting. In Romería, the two dancers seem frozen in space—the majo is depicted in midair—while the other figures busy themselves with flirting, smoking, or music making. If Camarón Bonanat took his cue from the stage, then the dual performance—figures dancing 64  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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while also performing the role of majos, petimetras, or other types—complements the sainete, in which popular dances, such as the zorongo, bolero, fandango, ole, and chandé, served as a means of showing Spanish bodies in action.64 As Haidt indicates, in many tonadillas and sainetes, the maja who performed autochthonous peninsular dances and songs with her entire “soul” best embodied “Spanishness.”65 Artists represented majos with a codified set of traits, despite their often-flexible nature, in part responding to and inspiring theatrical representations of this popular type. As Alberto González Troyano states, the short length of the sainete necessitated the public’s immediate recognition of types based on their language, dress, and bodily posturing; however, despite the generic traits and catalogued images of types, not all majos (or others) are the same.66 Following general guidelines, actors reproduced (and helped invent) the corporeal and verbal language of majos, complemented by artistic depictions and actual figures (“real” or artificial) whom

Figure 20

José Camarón Bonanat, Romería, ca. 1785. Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid. Photo: Album / Art Resource, N.Y.

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Spaniards might encounter on the street. The public’s identification with this type reinforced the majo’s historical credibility as a modern model of Spanish masculine bravery. While the majo in sainetes represented an idealized paradigm of purity, majismo became the optimal method of evoking a traditional image.67 Actors were not the only ones who had to learn how to move, speak, and dress like majos and other types. In several sainetes, the characters themselves attempt to learn the gestures and speech of majos, generating humorous scenarios and providing social commentary. For instance, in The Ill-Fated Dance and the Master Pezuña by Juan Ignacio González del Castillo, the maestro dresses “‘like a traditional majo, with a cap, blue cape with a ribbon, and a white hat,’ and ‘smokes a pipe,’” linking the eighteenth-century majo to a historical figure who embodied masculine valor, thereby legitimizing the majo’s claim to be a modern model of customary values.68 One of the most famous examples of a character’s endeavors to replicate the majo’s conduct is González del Castillo’s The Master of Idle Life, which may be viewed as a practical manual of majismo.69 His title, however, reinforces stereotypes of majos as lazy loiterers. One of the main characters, Curro Retranca, operates as the exemplar, instrucing Don Juanito, a member of the elite class, in the proper manner of dressing, posing, spitting, and grasping his knife like a majo, albeit with great affectation. González del Castillo underscores dress as vital to the study of becoming a majo: in the opening scene, Don Juanito enters the room wearing European attire, including a frock coat, and changes into “the clothes of a braggart,” including the montera and cape.70 However, Curro Retranca must still make adjustments to Don Juanito’s comportment and way of wearing the majo items, such as tilting the montera toward one eyebrow (“esa montera a la ceja”). This correction indicates that majos have a unique style; the clothes themselves are significant, but the manner in which they are worn signals the type.71 If one character can teach another the appropriate mannerisms and how to wear the garments of a majo, then certainly the audience can learn this as well. Since majos tended to be haughty, their language, intonation, and pronunciation could intensify the often-violent encounters between groups, in a manner similar to the scenes depicted in the pastels of Lorenzo Tiepolo. Onstage, aggressiveness may be further suggested by actors’ affected gestures; thus, bodily expression underscores the assertive quality of the dialogue. Linguistic embellishments are often included for comic effect, but these also offer a means of identifying characters. Josep María Sala Valldaura looks to the work of Manuel Seco, who defines popular language as urban and metaphoric, frequently given to hyperbole.72 The exaggeration in gesture, dialogue, and dress in sainetes also reinforces any social criticism, ensuring that the audience is aware of the underlying messages. In this sense, types are defined as “collective protagonists” who carry the plot and convey the varied observations and significant concerns of the playwright, via verbal and physical means.73 Both artistic and theatrical representations of majos call into question the ideological issue of “being” a majo. For example, Sala Valldaura argues that while there 66  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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exists “a form of ‘being’ [estar] majo” in wardrobe, language, and comportment— characteristics that can be learned and replicated—he questions whether we can infer a kind of “‘being’ [ser] majo.”74 The difference is found in the use of the two Spanish verbs that translate as “to be.” While estar refers to a temporary state of being, ser encompasses an unchanging part of a person’s core. If being a majo is temporal, achieved through certain garments, poses, and manners of speech, then this would reinforce the idea that anyone can attempt the role, including aristocrats. Miguel Antonio Maldonado Felipe considers the important practice of dressing up for traditional celebrations in central Spain, referred to as “becoming majo.”75 The act of becoming majo by donning festive clothing relates to the theatricality of this type in visual and dramatic works and connects him directly to local customs, further justifying the majo as a model of lo castizo, regardless of the fleeting nature of his performance. It was through performance that the majo embodied an ideal, albeit embellished, form of popular masculinity, whether that performance took place onstage, at masquerades, in works of art, or in public. By providing an exaggerated model of comportment, the majo exemplified codified gendered and Spanish characteristics that related to current ideas about the nature of gender and identity. Judith Butler discusses ideas of gender performativity and the materiality of the body, concepts she believes are not predetermined but rather temporally constructed. She describes the dynamic role played by the material body—as an active and productive agent and as a more useful model in feminist studies. She also discusses the construction of gender in relation to the exterior and interior of one’s body, the body being “a surface whose permeability is politically regulated, a signifying practice within a cultural field of gender hierarchy and compulsory heterosexuality.”76 More importantly, she links one’s gendered body to certain corporeal styles, which signify specific associations according to one’s sex. This concept of the gendered body and performative styles has direct relevance for the bodily spectacles of both majos and petimetres, as models of Spanish purity or, conversely, as anti-models. Other scholars have looked to masculinity studies to understand how gender is performed and socially constructed. Calvin Thomas stresses the importance of scholarship devoted to the construction of masculinity, arguing that “men are no less gendered than women, that masculinity is no less a social construction or performative masquerade than is femininity.”77 Both Warren Steinberg and Roger Horrocks evaluate masculinity from a psychoanalytical perspective. Steinberg suggests that gender roles “are personality characteristics of men and women developed in accordance with the psychological need to be a man or a woman,” and any deviation from this tradition often leads to individuals being ostracized from mainstream society.78 In eighteenth-century Spain, such snubbing was directed toward petimetres, whose behavior was viewed as suspect for its lack of appropriate manliness. Horrocks differentiates between physical traits—assigned at birth based on sex—and gender as an “unconscious formation,” asking, how do men become masculine?79 In addition, Swaggering Majos 67

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he suggests that boys construct an armor against femininity; the boastful quality of machismo is a performance of masculinity in its overt and traditional sense.80 This definition of machismo relates to my own examination of majos as explicitly arrogant; however, majos also possess feminine qualities that are valued as integral to their showmanship. Joan Wallach Scott also looks to psychoanalysis to illuminate novel understandings of sexual difference and identity. For her, “this new approach takes gender to be the history of the articulations of the masculine/feminine, male/female distinction, whether in terms of bodies, roles, or psychological traits.”81 Scott’s ideas relate to the complexities surrounding types and complicate the binary methods for evaluating them: in the case of majos and petimetres (similar to majas and petimetras), both types exhibit qualities typically associated with masculinity and femininity, so they are not just traditional opposites. As for the relationship between gender and national character, Scott argues that nationalist ideologies suppress differences within the nation and insist on distinctive behavioral traits as markers of national membership.82 In Spain, artists portrayed majos as embodying “national” characteristics more successfully than their foppish counterparts. Nevertheless, as Adriana Zavala remarks, “visual images are always mediated and are therefore rarely, if ever, transparent reflections of socio-historical phenomena. . . . They help us to order and produce reality.” In her examination of modern Mexico, Zavala discusses works of art in the context of gender and race in order to understand how images “operate in a dynamic interrelation with politics and identity.”83 Regardless of the approach to the study of gendered identities—whether socially constructed, performance based, or psychoanalytic—these methods offer useful models for considering the pictorial construction of majos in the second half of the eighteenth century and how they are interconnected with their social, political, and gendered context. In Majo/Torero (fig. 10), for example, the majo is rotated to form a slight curve, reminiscent of noble portraiture, especially by mannerist artists who employed heightened elegance for aesthetic purposes; however, his balletic pose also conveys a haughty eroticism, combining virility and grace. The play between masculine and feminine is central to images of majos in which feminine qualities are seen as complementary to the projection of boastful vanity. Such a body, especially when performing Spanish dances or bullfights or dressed in supposedly indigenous garments, is not only a physical entity but also, as Susan Bordo stresses, a “cultural form that carries meaning with it.” She also suggests that the body “carries human history with it.” 84 As I have argued, while the majo may be partly an invention of the 1700s, he possesses significant ties to the past through sartorial, gestural, and literary means, as visualized by artists. In his bodily posturing, the majo is meant to convey Spanish values and characteristics. Through his performance of supposedly traditional practices, he represents a paradigm of Spanish culture, in contrast to the petimetre and his preferences for nonnative customs. As Haidt suggests, petimetres came to embody foreignness, above all in the aristocracy.85 The Spanish term 68  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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petimetre derives from a French type known as the petit-maître, considered to be an effeminate man by the end of the seventeenth century.86 The English variant in the late eighteenth century, the macaroni, shared similar characteristics. The Spanish male version of this type was later called the currutaco and, after the Bourbon restoration, the lechugino. Heavily ridiculed, these types were an exaggerated embodiment of negative cultural and social associations and the antithesis of lo castizo. They were also distinguished from the Spanish gentleman who exhibited positive masculine virtues, such as good taste, reserve, and personal modesty.87 Like the majo, the petimetre had a seventeenth-century prototype, though he was even more defined than the majo’s cloaked ruffian ancestor. Called lindos (pretty boys), these youths were similarly preoccupied with issues of fashion and gallantry and were considered a contributor to Spain’s perceived degeneracy. The most notable lindo was Don Diego, a character from Agustín Moreto y Cavana’s (1618–1669) El Lindo Don Diego of 1662. Haidt compares these Golden Age “typological forerunners” to petimetres, arguing that the eighteenth-century figures were criticized for the “unstable gendering of their bodies.”88 Sousa Congosto considers the creation of the lindo in relation to male fashion in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. With the increased quantity of goods imported in the 1600s, men began to incorporate greater adornment and excess into their dress and pay closer attention overall to their physical appearance, which Sousa Congosto views as instrumental in the development of the petimetre’s precursor.89 Lindos’ attire exhibited exaggeration, and they relished all the accoutrements of the toilette. Deleito y Piñuela refers to Bartolomé Ximénez Patón’s Treatise of the Tufos, Copetes, and Calvas (1639), which constitutes an indignant diatribe against the adornments favored by these men. More importantly, Deleito y Piñuela suggests that Ximénez attempts to pinpoint the origins of lindos in remote and imagined characters from the Orient.90 In doing so, Ximénez associates effeminacy with exoticism. Such a link, invented or not, reinforces the idea that the eighteenth-century petimetre, in contrast to the majo, had lost his Spanish and gendered self in part by looking to foreign sources of inspiration. Luis Antonio de Villena sees petimetres as the antecedents to the dandies of the 1800s. Although there are clear differences between the two, the dandy’s “androgyny” is appropriate for describing the petimetre’s ambiguously defined gender.91 Haidt investigates the petimetre’s body in various eighteenth-century texts. She is chiefly interested in how this type was regarded as an effeminized version of masculine “norms,” due to his tendency to exhibit “womanly” behavior and taste. These external signs pointed to an obsession with items and a conduct not viewed as traditionally masculine; the petimetre was thus seen as an “unnatural” imitator of masculinity. In terms of the division of types according to gender, petimetres generated complications, since they did not follow the rules of “normal” male behavior. Haidt views the effeminacy of their actions as undermining both gender guidelines and social stability. She discusses petimetres not as specific people but as figures who embody cultural tensions regarding gender. Haidt proposes that to see them as Swaggering Majos 69

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individuals is particularly problematic because of how they displayed themselves— in relation to society at large, not just as single figures existing in their own space.92 Molina and Vega echo this assessment and argue that the petimetre was ultimately a representation constructed to ridicule men obsessed with their appearance.93 The petimetre’s narcissicism offered limitless satirical material in the 1700s. Cadalso states, “For each petimetre who sees himself changing fashions each time his hairdresser orders it, there will be one hundred Spaniards who have not altered even one bit of their old outfit.”94 In the third edition of the Diccionario de la lengua castellana, the petimetre is defined as “the youth who takes care of himself too much and follows fashions.”95 This suggests that it is through superfluous grooming and the following of trends that petimetres lose their manliness and become effeminate. The excessive use of fragrances, powders, jewelry, and other means to adorn the body constitutes the most common motif expressed by authors, who were troubled by the effeminizing effect of these items on men. Torres Villarroel describes these perfumed bodies by associating them with luxury and fornication. In this instance, the gender of petimetres (like the lindos before them) is constructed as nearly female; they are effeminized by manipulating their bodies for the purpose of attracting others and for their own personal enjoyment.96 In The Cadiz Thinker (1763), Beatriz Cienfuegos refers to these doll-like men as “Men-Women,” who are just as subject to the desires of luxury and fashion as women.97 Similarly, Juan Antonio Gómez Arias, in Moral, Political, and Precise Recipes in Order to Live in the Court with the Advantage of All Types of People (1743), suggests that petimetres “affect their voice with effeminate characteristics.”98 Petimetres had been mocked consistently in satiric discourse since the 1720s.99 They exemplified the anti-model, a character who indulged in narcissistic practices and weakened the country. In the 1790s, Juan Antonio de Iza Zamácola y Ocerín and Juan Fernández de Rojas exchanged witty letters in the widely circulated newspaper Diario de Madrid, in which they ridiculed currutacos. The two friends generally used humorous pseudonyms, the two most famous being “Don Preciso” for Iza Zamácola and “Don Currutaco” for Fernández. In addition to the articles published in the newspaper, they also wrote books on various subjects relating to the effeminization of men and Spanish traditions. One of their books published in multiple editions was the Book of Fashion, or Essay of the History of Currutacos, Pirracas, and Newly Minted Madamitas (sometimes referred to as Book of Fashion in the Fair); it was first printed in 1795 and is generally attributed to Fernández, though it features contributions from both authors. A satiric print, Pant Machine, appears opposite the title page. This elaborate contraption, along with two assistants, helps currutacos put on their pants wrinkle-free during their morning dressing ritual; however, the authors warn that despite the “utility” of the machine, it requires a minimum of two hours to complete the task. The book also offers currutacos advice on how to construct the perfect tocador (toilette), on the order of using the products, and on the numerous rituals necessary to obtain a pleasing exterior.100 The authors draw biting 70  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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contrasts between currutacos and men, arguing that the two “beings” (seres) are not the same. In fact, the authors see few similarities, especially when comparing the exquisite delicacy of the currutaco’s body to the robustness of man’s form. For example, the currutaco’s legs are humorously described as “two round and shapely sausages stuffed in a delicate and transparent silk,” implying that his body is fit for refined fabrics and pleasures but not vigorous labor.101 In addition to these corporeal differences, men are defined as having understanding and judgment, while the currutaco is unfaithful and superficial and lacks real traditions.102 Thus, the authors connect physical appearance and comportment with character. Juan Jacinto Rodríguez Calderón also pokes fun at currutacos and their effeminized bodies in Personal Scene: Don Líquido, or the Currutaco Dressing Himself. With sarcastic comments such as “without the hairdresser, the currutaco is nobody” and “dressing fashionably is a science,” Rodríguez Calderón foregrounds the character’s seemingly ridiculous fascination with his appearance.103 Knowing the kinds of criticism launched at currutacos, however, Don Líquido argues, “I am a good Spaniard, unsuspectingly I strike you all as a doll. Fainthearted, clumsy, and effeminized you make me seem, when the strength that is common in my age would make my country know of my valor.”104 In this impassioned commentary, Don Líquido refutes the notion that he is not Spanish, despite the common opinion that his body is doll-like and lacking in heroism. Rodríguez Calderón thereby asserts the common anxieties expressed about the currutaco’s lack of masculine virility and patriotic morality. Ilustrados attempted to regulate petimetres’ behavior through various legislative reforms. Gaspar Melchor de Jovellanos, among others, argued for the improvement of education, especially among the idle aristocrats, whom he considered a hindrance to the development of national projects.105 José Clavijo y Fajardo similarily critiqued petimetres for their lack of occupation beyond diversions that satisfied various pleasures of the body.106 Despite petimetres’ association with the nobility, many came from the middle or lower classes; their behavior was therefore akin to putting on airs. Clavijo y Fajardo comments on the artificiality of petimetres who attempt to dance: “It is true that he does not understand dancing with grace, or know how to carry his body, his head, or his arms with the air of elegance and nobility that the dance requires to be pleasing.”107 Thus, although petimetres have studied the latest dances and wear fashionable clothing, they are frequently remiss in the execution of masculine refinement. Unlike the majo, this type has pretensions but lacks the bodily stature to perform moves successfully, so he could not serve as an appropriate model for Spanish elite men constructing a national masculine identity that was both suave and virile. González Troyano views the theatrical manifestations of the petimetre as a means of provoking nationalistic sentiment, suggesting that the creation of a figure who personified the foreign was an easy way to express fears of non-Spanish influences.108 Like González Troyano, Sala Valldaura analyzes theatrical representations of petimetres, arguing that they had two main off-putting qualities: the excessive Swaggering Majos 71

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care of their bodies and the use of a Frenchified language. Their careful attention to their appearance is described as grotesque, and their rejection of majismo was seen as immoral.109 The petimetre was considered to be a failed man who subverted typical masculine traits, such as courage, aggression, and strength, all of which the majo possessed. Michèle Cohen similarly evaluates the English fop, described as neither feminine nor homosexual, but rather effeminate. She defines effeminacy as a “category of meanings expressing anxiety about the effect women—or the feminine—on the one hand, and desire, on the other, might have on the gentleman.”110 The reformist project in Spain, as in England, was to discipline such men into behaving as proper gentlemen. With the majo as an exaggerated opposite, the petimetre’s unnatural characteristics and foreign preferences were emphasized. Haidt convincingly argues that, in seeking foreign pleasures, petimetres opted for a form of “national forgetting.”111 Iza Zamácola discussed a similar notion in the derisive Elements of the Science of the Contradance, a text devoted to the popular dance and this newly formed social type. He also suggested that the practice of the contradance encouraged Spaniards to neglect their own dances, such as the seguidilla.112 Considered a defender of customary dances and a pioneer in the study of Spanish musical folklore, Iza Zamácola studied the seguidilla and other Iberian dances. He was concerned about the corruption of local dances and music due to foreign influence, which contaminated the Spanish character.113 In an attempt to reestablish taste for Spanish music, he compiled a collection of seguidilla lyrics, which was first issued in 1797.114 The seguidilla, in reality, is both song and dance, and Iza Zamácola attributes its origin to sixteenth-century La Mancha. He considers majo clothing most appropriate for the seguidilla, since it allows the dancers to show off the most beautiful attitudes of this dance.115 Here, he links fashion, type, and corporeal expression, suggesting that—as Camarón Bonanat implies in his images of Spaniards dancing—the majo, even if only through his attire, facilitates a better appreciation of lo castizo, relating eighteenth-century individuals to the past through bodily movement. Essentially, majo dress enables the proper performance of Spanish dances, as noted by elites who preferred to wear traditional attire at masquerades or at the bullfight. It is instructive to compare majos and petimetres in terms of their somatic styles, in order to emphasize their vying traits. This mode of discussion, however, highlights the problematic relationship between these supposed opposites. Their origins were complicated and support Martín Gaite’s ideas about their highly embellished manifestations in the eighteenth century, which sought to underline difference. Haidt argues that this contrast further complicates the understanding of petimetres as representing antagonism toward Spanish purity. Leira Sánchez points to the overly simplified contrasts between the two types, especially given that majos and petimetres wore similar items depending on the time of day or activity attended; for bullfights or other customary celebrations, Spanish men sometimes donned the complete attire of the majo. Leira Sánchez suggests that the popularity of French 72  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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styles worn by all classes of Spaniards was related to the “democratization of dress,” whereby one’s garb no longer explicitly indicated social status.116 Such sartorial swapping created confusion and implied that if clothes could be exchanged, then so could a type’s conduct. For example, Fernando Díaz-Plaja asserts that majos tended to their physique and fashions just as closely as petimetres did; despite the majo’s “manly” characteristics, his finished look was an equally thoughtful construction.117 Unlike majos, whose balletic elegance is complemented by strength and assertiveness, pictorial representations of petimetres reveal a lopsided emphasis on refinement, implying that these figures are off-balance. In Elements of the Science of the Contradance, Iza Zamácola included an image of a currutaco standing proudly in his dressing room and admiring himself in a handheld mirror. His skinny, bowlegged form makes him look less masculine than the sturdy majos. This print is complemented by discussions in the Book of Fashion in the Fair about “the science of the mirror,” according to which currutacos were supposed to practice executing postures and moves with sophistication in front of a mirror.118 Highly regulated bodily poses are described in detail, offering advice for any reader willing to practice the difficult steps and stances. Goya made numerous drawings and prints of petimetres/currutacos in the 1790s. In Even He Cannot Make Her Out (fig. 21), from the series Los Caprichos (1797–99), the man examining the maja reflects the social criticism petimetres received during the late eighteenth century. In this instance, the currutaco is fooled by the maja’s charming powers. She is most likely a prostitute, but even with his optical apparatus he is unable to detect her “true” character.119 The joke is ultimately on the currutaco, who is too blind to “see” reality. Goya depicts him fancily attired in the latest imported English fashions, including the frock coat. The title of the work highlights the theme of identification, here made difficult. With social class, gender, and type blurring, Goya implies the problem of using only sight as a way to detect and know a person, even with the help of a visual tool. Goya also composed six drawings of individual figures gazing into a mirror at their animal reflections (1797–99), sometimes referred to as the “magic screen” or “magic mirror” drawings. Although the drawings constitute a series, there is no established order. According to Victor I. Stoichita and Anna Maria Coderch, the magic mirror images—particularly the one featuring a student reflected as a frog—evidence Goya’s knowledge and “interpretation” of Johann Caspar Lavater’s Essay on Physiognomy, particularly the philosopher’s illustration of the evolution from reptile to man.120 However, Andrew Schulz has argued against the idea that Lavater’s ideas were popular within Goya’s circle in the late eighteenth century.121 Although the connection between the animal and human does suggest physiognomic theories, it is also possible that Goya was acquainted with other sources on the subject. Goya represents the currutaco in Dandy: Monkey and in a variant entitled The Dandy’s Torture. The fashionable currutaco in these images sports items such as the frock coat and large cravat. In the first image, a monkey mimics the posture of a man Swaggering Majos 73

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Figure 21

Francisco de Goya, Even He Cannot Make Her Out, in Los Caprichos (Madrid: Goya, 1799). The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Gift of Walter E. Sachs, 1916, 16.4.11.

who leans forward and balances himself on a cane.122 Haidt regards the comparison of petimetres (or currutacos) and monkeys as a means of proposing the former’s flamboyant comportment: “Petimetres are inferior to men, for they come to resemble women; and they are inferior to women, for they exceed them in their ‘affectations.’ Inferior to both, petimetres are no human sex; therefore, they are more like animals— in this case, like monkeys.”123 74  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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Monkeys were typically used in eighteenth-century art—including many works by Jean-Baptiste-Siméon Chardin—to mock different types, such as art critics and antiquarians, for their apparent pretentions and to parody human behavior in general. They were also playfully integrated into rococo decorative arts and interiors, often dressed in fashionable clothing.124 Simply by donning suitable dress, monkeys could assume the role of any profession or type, including the petimetre and majo. This capacity for transformation was inherent in their humorous imitation of human conduct. The primatial comparison between monkeys and majos is appropriate given the type’s mimicry of nobility through ostentatious dress and pompous posturing, although there are no specific pictorial works showing majos as monkeys. Thus, the artifice that petimetres embodied can also be attributed to majos. In turn, the supposedly indigenous characteristics epitomized by majos were imitated by nobles in works of art or at masquerades; the elite, then, were equally monkey-like in their aping of majos. If monkeys could be linked to both petimetres and majos in the 1700s, despite their seemingly contrary nature, the distinction between them became less pronounced. While this association with monkeys could illustrate a type’s arrogance, as René Andioc argues, it also represents lasciviousness.125 The Dandy’s Torture shows a man staring blankly at a mirror, presumably practicing his learned moves and admiring his appearance. His pointed shoes, frock coat, and elaborate cravat indicate his stylish sense; however, his hunched pose suggests that he may be in pain. Here, fashion in excess functions as a form of torture, manipulating the body to achieve specific poses. Complementing this figure, the dandy’s mirrored reflection features a woman in a highly agitated state, her body rigid from her torture with the garrote, a common means of execution in eighteenth-century Spain.126 The garrote is intended to resemble the high-necked scarf worn by the currutaco. Goya’s play between the article of clothing and the instrument of torture makes a visual crack at these types. His use of the mirror also echoes the frequent criticism directed at currutacos and their self-absorbed behavior. Further complicating the relationship between the majo and his effeminized yet equally flamboyant opposite is the division between petimetres and currutacos. Despite the similarities attributed to these types, Elizabeth Amann considers a number of important distinctions between them, providing a nuanced study of the effeminized male of the 1790s. In evaluating the wry texts of Fernández and Iza Zamácola on the currutaco, she detects a conscious effort to remove the type’s Francophile associations, in part to contrast the petimetre. As she argues, “In these early texts, currutaquería involves a conscious Hispanizañon of the petimetre figure, a repression of its Frenchness. This is clear even in the name of the figure. . . . The word currutaco derives from curro (a nickname for Francisco, which came to designate a majo, or affected, Andalusian man) and retaco (small).”127 This connection between the Spanish fop and the majo in works penned by Fernández and Iza Zamácola further unhinges the division between the two types. Swaggering Majos 75

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Figure 22

Francisco de Goya, Poor Things!, in Los Caprichos (Madrid: Goya, 1799). The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Gift of M. Knoedler and Co., 1918, 18.64(22).

As visualized by Goya, the currutaco is generally a clueless narcissist, but no more deserving of criticism than majos, as evidenced by the artist’s universal social satire in Los Caprichos. In Poor Things! (fig. 22) from this series, Goya depicts two women with cloaked heads, preventing the viewer from seeing their faces. Through their bowed heads (possibly indicating shame), the suggestive title, and the generally seedy scene, he alludes to the sordid world of prostitution, a common societal trope in his work. Goya sets his scene under an arch and beside a stone wall—most likely a bridge—to emphasize the shady nature of the characters and their activities, which transpire outside of reputable public spaces. Goya does, however, provide access to the majos’ faces. The figure on the left looks disdainfully toward the women. Goya makes him repugnant in his overt smugness. Like most majos, this figure wraps his cape around his body, holding it tightly with one hand, while his other hand is placed on his hip. In this image, Goya’s depiction of majos does not highlight their local pride or position them as a positive model to follow. While the predominant majo certainly embodies a shrewdness that is lacking in the currutacos, he does not seem to personify a celebration of Spanish heritage; rather, he expresses the arrogance associated with the type. Many scenes associate the majo with native dances or the bullfight to visualize his castizo, but in this instance, his cool reserve and affected posture embody a gendered performance of traditional machismo that plays on the type’s pride and taciturn temperament, viewed especially by foreigners as characteristically Spanish. Thus, even in images that present a negative side of the Spanish male type, he still epitomizes Spanishness for many. In comparing Poor Things! from Los Caprichos to the drawing from Album B on which it is based, there are noticeable differences. Instead of majos, Goya originally portrayed soldiers, which hearkens back to the monitoring of the poor by the urban militia, as portrayed in Lorenzo Tiepolo’s pastels. The original drawing was situated in the context of various images treating the theme of prostitution, and, indeed, the caption more directly links the women to this activity. It reads, “Poor things, how many others deserve this more! What’s going on? It’s clear that they are being taken off to the San Fernando workhouse.” As Juliet Wilson-Bareau indicates, San Fernando was a well-known workhouse in Madrid.128 Haidt argues that women who were deemed vagrants or accused of prostitution were confined in San Fernando, where they were forced to work in the institution’s textile occupations.129 As in Poor Things!, the women in the drawing bow their cloaked heads, but the two soldiers seem to be escorting them away; thus, their humbled gesture coincides with the soldiers’ presence and the title’s directive. In the final version, the replacement of the soldiers with majos creates ambiguity, since majos did not generally have the authority to round up such women for the same purpose. Does Goya place them in the position of the detached critic, as in his self-portrait in the frontispiece of Los Caprichos? Or do the majos contribute to the women’s fate? While they may not share the currutaco’s naïveté, they are most likely not innocent bystanders. Moreover, the

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title’s simplification to Poor Things! does not imply the women’s destination, but it certainly communicates that these women warrant the spectator’s empathy. By representing majos in various guises, Goya and other artists suggested the complex nature of types and the associations they carry. While majos are often visualized by artists as champions of Spanish pride and serve as antidotes to the petimetre’s or currutaco’s paucity of customary sentiment, they can also be depicted as embodying Spanish pride in a less positive manner, ultimately revealing a far more nuanced picture of types overall and their encounters. Such malleability intimates the complexity of these new social types and the urban spaces in which they interacted. While these modern subjects supplied artists with novel material, they also pointed to the shifting nature of types in general, whose stability artists explored and questioned. The diverse nature of pictorial examples of majos complicates their function as purely pleasurable decoration for elite homes and as models for noble dress and conduct.

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CHAPTER 3

Performing the Bullfight: Spanish Bodies as Noble Spectacle These combats [bullfights], to which the Spanish nation has the strongest attachment . . . are considered by many Spaniards as one means of preserving, in their nation, the energy by which it is characterized. —Jean-François Bourgoing, Travels in Spain: Containing a New, Accurate, and Comprehensive View of the Present State of That Country (1789) Here we’re eating each other alive between “Costillarists” and “Romerists.” One hears no other conversation. —Tomás de Iriarte to E. Ramos in Paris, Madrid (1779), quoted in Ezquerra del Bayo, La Duquesa de Alba y Goya

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Bullfighting served as a rich source for artists due

to its overt corporeality; it was the ultimate subject for visualizing the performing majo body. Although images featuring bull-related themes, by both native and foreign artists, existed prior to 1700, it was not until the second half of the eighteenth century that taurine subjects became fashionable in Spanish visual culture, especially in the graphic arts. From single images to print series by artists such as Antonio Carnicero, Isidro Carnicero, and Goya, among many others, the depiction of the spectacle’s newly plebeianized format, rituals, and fighters took on heightened significance in the popular imagination of Spaniards and outsiders alike. Bullfighting’s traditional display and highly charged theatrical presence, replete with balletic movements and flamboyant gesturing, presented artists with a variety of actions, costumes, physiognomic flair, and compositional possibilities. As the fighters achieved celebrity status, their heroics were often considered in distinctly patriotic terms, as if they recalled a valiant Spanish past lost as a result of the dynastic change and the “foreign” Bourbon influence. While Spanish elites no longer performed as fighters, they applauded the new popular heroes from the stands, often dressing in traditional garb to reinforce the fight’s gallantry and aristocratic lineage. Not all Spanish monarchs or elites enjoyed the bullfight, but this custom offered a communal means of embracing Spanish traditions in which the public mixed and dress was not a stable marker of class.

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Figure 23

Isidro Carnicero, Bullfight in the Air, 1784. Biblioteca Nacional de España, Madrid. © Biblioteca Nacional de España.

Here, I consider the moment in which bullfighting was transformed from aristocratic pageantry to an artistic sport of the popular classes; this occurred with the advent of the Bourbon dynasty in Spain in 1700. I examine bullfighting’s aristocratic roots, since eighteenth-century matadors were often compared to former noble heroes, many of whom were Hapsburg kings or medieval knights. I also investigate key locations—in particular Ronda, Seville, and Madrid—and their role in shaping the new sport; the formation of specific fighters; and the rivalries that existed among them. I look at the construction of bullrings designed exclusively for the corridas de toros. The bravado and crowd-pleasing acts of the bullfighters exemplified their bodily performance of machismo. Such corporeal machismo was regarded by many as an expression of Spanish pride and was directly linked to a bullfighter’s rising fame and social status. I also discuss the cult of celebrity that surrounded the bullfight during the late eighteenth century, particularly the rivalry within the famed triumvirate of Pedro Romero Martínez (1754–1839); Joaquín Rodríguez (1746–1799), nicknamed “Costillares” (rib cage); and José Delgado Guerra (1754–1801), nicknamed “Pepe-Hillo.” I am especially concerned with how artists participated in the visual construction of the bullfighter as celebrity. While artists helped generate the national craze over the spectacle and its heroes, they also responded to the transformation of the fight’s format, players, and augmented professionalism. The bullfight provided an arena for elite role-play, a decorous subject for art displayed in noble homes and a popular topic at salon gatherings. Isidro Carnicero’s etching Bullfight in the Air of 1784 (fig. 23) illustrates bullfighting’s intimate relationship to spectacle. Floating high above the crowd are a picador astride a horse and a bull, both suspended by balloons. Below, viewers point and cheer as the picador prepares for a swift stab with his lance, but there is no ring for the bull to charge. The inability of the bull to escape the attack signifies that this etching is a whimsical interpretation of the sport in which the challenge has been totally removed. Carnicero’s print, however, has sparked some debate; the meaning of such a scene is unclear, especially since the characters appear more like marionettes suspended in the air than real figures.1 The print lacks the matador and banderilleros (dart throwers) who normally completed the set of players. Carnicero captures the novel sport’s suspense and drama—two fundamental factors in sparking the audience’s enthusiasm. Displayed like a circus act, the etching visualizes the public’s sense of marvel and 80  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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its adoration of bullfighters. In addition, the print invokes the popular eighteenthcentury diversion of balloon lifts.2 In 1784, Isidro’s brother, Antonio Carnicero, painted several scenes of balloon flights, including The Elevation of a Montgolfier Balloon, which documents the Montgolfier brothers’ ascent in 1784 in the presence of the Spanish royal family at Aranjuez. His pendants Bullring and Ascension of a Montgolfier Balloon (ca. 1784) further connect bullfighting and ballooning—new subjects that highlighted modern society and its practices. Both champion human ingenuity and provide entertainment. They also engender feelings of awe, elation, and pride at the communal level.

Noble Heroes: Aristocratic Bullfighting Before 1700 Prior to the eighteenth century, noblemen dominated bullfighting. While these events often marked the celebration of royal weddings and births or the inauguration of a king’s reign, bullfighting also facilitated the training of elites in equestrian skills and the arts of weaponry. Aristocrats generally performed on horseback, while members of the plebeian classes lent assistance on foot. These lackeys were referred to as chulos.3 Noble fighters occasionally killed their own bulls, and the chulos waited in the wings in case of a mishap. Goya includes these past regal practices and noble figures in his Tauromaquia series (1816; thirty-three etchings and aquatints). The aristocratic bodies function as the reference point for late eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century heroes. By incorporating historical figures into the series, Goya establishes a direct link between early modern champions and contemporary bullfighters, as the preservers of this popular tradition and as the modern source of Spanish honor. He legitimizes celebrity bullfighters in his own time by creating a direct visual correlation between their bodies and those of past fighters. Although the style and players of the bullfight changed, its ability to bestow hero worship on the brave fighters did not. In A Spanish Gentleman Kills a Bull After Losing His Horse (fig. 24), the bullfighter forcefully stabs the bull. Despite the gruesome gesture, Goya depicts the fighter as elegant in his movement, leaning in for the kill. More representative of aristocratic practice is El Cid Campeador Spearing Another Bull (fig. 25). The hero stays on his horse and uses a long lance to fend off the charging animal. The lance featured in this print is characteristic of the aristocratic style of bullfighting. Celebrated fighters such as the Duke of Medina Sidonia and the Count of Villamediana were innovative in their decision to wear “eye-catching” clothing instead of the customary armor.4 The introduction of such changes affected the style of mounting and riding the horse, which transitioned from the traditional jineta or gineta to the brida.5 Philip IV and Charles I/V (Spanish reign: 1516–56) participated in many bullfights, equating their physical prowess with their divine right to be king. A city’s main square generally provided the backdrop for bullfights, prior to the construction of bullrings in the 1700s.6 In Madrid, Philip IV made a dramatic entrance as Performing the Bullfight 81

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Figure 24

Francisco de Goya, A Spanish Gentleman Kills a Bull After Losing His Horse, in Tauromaquia (Madrid: Goya, 1816). The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Rogers Fund, 1921, 21.19.9. Figure 25

Francisco de Goya, El Cid Campeador Spearing Another Bull, in Tauromaquia (Madrid: Goya, 1816). The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Rogers Fund, 1921, 21.19.11.

he stood up in the stands and descended into the plaza to fight. Designed by Juan Gómez de Mora in ca. 1617 and later refurbished by Juan de Villanueva after the fire of 1790, the temporary seating in Madrid’s Plaza Mayor provided an ample view for much of the capital’s population and created an ideal location for the king to transform himself from spectator to principal actor; descending into the center of the action, he could observe his subjects, while they in turn watched him.7 The site—in 82  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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this case the main square—was crucial for publicly legitimizing and ritualizing the bullfight as a traditional Spanish custom performed by elites.8 While Madrid’s Plaza Mayor symbolically represented Spain’s national power, the Plaza de San Francisco in Seville, for example, marked the location of civic authority. Although the public could watch together as these displays unfolded, the hierarchical structure of the bullfight divided society into clearly organized parts, since only those with aristocratic lineage could fight on horseback. However, the nobility itself spanned various social levels. The privileged elite could join the military orders, while the lower nobility formed the maestranzas de caballería, chivalric fraternities that occupied a position between these military orders and the religious confraternities.9 Many of the maestranzas were established during the seventeenth century, including those of Seville (1670), Granada (1686), and Valencia (1697). In response to Philip II’s (r. 1556–98) royal mandate of September 6, 1572, the nobles of Ronda founded the Maestranza de Caballería, the first such organization. The official decree instructed all members to train for war through equestrian tournaments, the spearing of bulls, and other athletic competitions. Local aristocrats in Seville, for example, had continually participated in bellicose exercises since the thirteenth century, primarily in order to oust the Moors from Andalusia. The members of the maestranzas also honed their skills through performances in public. Exercises on horseback, initiated during the reign of Alfonso X (1221–1284), were considered exclusively noble, and the statutes governing them remained the same until 1731.10 Gregorio Tapia y Salcedo’s Spearing Exercises of 1643 (fig. 26) is one of several engravings depicting the bullfight and most likely represents the first set of Spanish prints on this theme. Tapia y Salcedo’s print, engraved by María Eugenia de Beer, is part of a treatise entitled Equestrian Exercises, which includes rules for fighting bulls

Figure 26

Gregorio Tapia y Salcedo, Spearing Exercises, engraved by María Eugenia de Beer in Exercicios de la gineta (Madrid: Por Diego Diaz, 1643). © Patrimonio Nacional.

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Figure 27

Francisco de Goya, Charles V Spearing a Bull in the Plaza of Valladolid, in Tauromaquia (Madrid: Goya, 1816). The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Gift of Walter E. Sachs, 1916, 16.4.2.

on horseback and corresponding engravings. The treatise and its instructive prints were geared toward noblemen, including Prince Baltasar Charles (1629–1646), the eldest son of Philip IV and his first wife, Elizabeth of France (1602–1644). In Spearing Exercises, the horseman uses a lance to stab at the charging animal in order to practice his technique while maintaining his balance. In contrast to the stiffness of Tapia y Salcedo’s figure and the series’ emphasis on pedagogy, Goya’s Charles V Spearing a Bull in the Plaza of Valladolid (fig. 27) depicts a spectacular clash, as the king forcefully jabs his lance into the attacking bull. This pivotal moment is further dramatized by the dark-wash tones on the right side of the print and by baroque diagonals that provide heightened theatricality. However, despite Goya’s interest in portraying famous early heroes, his attempts often include anachronisms. Charles V’s costume, for example, has been likened to the clothing of fighters who attempted to dress in an “antique” manner during Goya’s time; these are not the actual garments the emperor would have worn.11 In part, Goya’s images serve as a response to the heated debate about bullfighting’s Spanish origins and cultural role. The artist places contemporary heroes in a Spanish historical context. They perform the modern version of the bullfight but recall Hapsburg, medieval, and Moorish 84  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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practitioners of bull-related sport and less formalized bullbaiting practices. Goya’s print series Tauromaquia relates directly to numerous works circulating in Madrid that offered both positive and negative commentaries—such as Nicolás Fernández de Moratín’s Historical Letter and José de Vargas Ponce’s Dissertation on the Bullfight—more of which will be discussed below.12 Both Spaniards and foreigners cited Moorish, Roman, or medieval antecedents of the bullfight. By tying bullfighting to these past civilizations, eighteenth-century Spaniards consciously attempted to construct their own multifaceted history, even if many of these distinct cultures were integrated within the dominant narrative that gave preference to historic Castilian roots. Spanish authors speculated about bullfighting’s connection to antiquity. While Jovellanos associated it with the chivalric valor of the Middle Ages, both Moratín and Vargas Ponce stressed a tie to their Spanish ancestors.13 Vargas Ponce looked to Caesar and Rome as having transformed certain aspects of bullfighting, which came to more closely resemble Spain’s version.14 He allied the royal bullfight to notions of conquest, citing Charles V’s participation as a bullfighter.15 Moratín gave more detailed information as to when these events included royal participation, linking the spectacular equestrian feats to a chivalric past and bolstering the legitimacy of eighteenth-century elites’ fascination with the sport. Kings such as Henry IV, Charles V, Philip III, and Philip IV all played active roles as fighters.16 Moratín credited El Cid as the first matador.17 In addition to ancient Roman and medieval sources, many ilustrados argued for Moorish influence. Moratín noted the similarities between Spanish and Moorish bullfighting on horses, while Vargas Ponce gave reasons for why he thought this assessment was inaccurate, specifically noting tenets of the Islamic religion and the supposed docility of their bulls.18 Vargas Ponce argued that after the exile of the Moors, many of their traditions were adopted by Christian Spaniards—those he referred to as “primitive Spainards”—who forged the fight’s initial developments.19 By associating it with ancient cultures, progressives such as Moratín could justify bullfighting. In response to these debates, Goya portrayed ancient Spaniards and Moors established in Spain as the first bullfighters, whose various methods for taunting the bull correlated to the rules, stages, and weapons of the modern bullfight. These precursors to the bullfighters of his period foreshadowed corporeally the athletic moves necessary for distracting and conquering the animals. Ultimately, Goya not only links current and early modern fighters but also provides a lengthy lineage from which his contemporaries supposedly descended. Consequently, the Moors represented in his work are enveloped in a framework that invokes past Spaniards. As Schulz states, Goya “ascribes to the Moors a central role in the evolution of this quintessentially Spanish pastime . . . [and] smoothed out the heterogeneity of history, establishing a genealogy for the bullfight that elides cultural as well as temporal differences and suggests that the nine centuries of Muslim presence in the Iberian Peninsula played a crucial role in shaping the identity of the Spanish nation.”20 For example, in Origin of Harpoons or Banderillas, Goya credits the derivation of darts Performing the Bullfight 85

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used in the bullfight to the Moors. The dart thrower wears “Moorish” clothing consisting of a turban and wide-flaring pants, which resemble the outfits worn by the Mameluke cavalry in Goya’s Second of May (1814). In The Spirited Moor Gazul Is the First to Spear Bulls According to the Rules (fig. 28), Goya depicts Gazul on horseback, charging a bull while thrusting a lance into its back and through its abdomen. Gazul foreshadows the noble equestrian fighters of the early modern period and the picadors of the 1700s. Among these riders from different times, Goya visualizes a connection between similar bodily expression and action to justify the sport as venerable and characteristically Spanish. In the first section of the Tauromaquia, in which antique precedents establish visual associations with contemporary practices, Goya also depicts past Spaniards hunting bulls. This social practice had ramifications particularly for the noble participants in the fight. While hunting could be conducted privately by the king and his closest companions, this sport was frequently performed in front of audiences in enclosed spaces that removed much of the difficulty associated with the tracking and killing of animals. Such events usually stressed spectacle over skill. Jan van der Straet, a Flemish artist active in Italy, made the first known print of a gentlemanly bullfight in the context of a hunt. He produced numerous hunting scenes that were later combined into a single series, known as the Venationes ferarum, avium, piscium pugnae bestiariorum & mutuae bestiarum, which was engraved by various artists, including Philip Galle, around 1578. The 104 prints (and frontispiece) feature a variety of hunts and combat on land and sea, and even depictions of mythical creatures. The range of geography and peoples represented underscores the universality of the hunt and the struggle between man and beast or among different species of

Figure 28

Francisco de Goya, The Spirited Moor Gazul Is the First to Spear Bulls According to the Rules, in Tauromaquia (Madrid: Goya, 1816). The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Rogers Fund, 1921, 21.19.5.

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animals. Combat in the Arena Between a Lion, Bear, Bull, and Two Wolves portrays spectators watching as the animals snarl, leap, and tear at one another for the pleasure of the audience. In Bull Hunt and Bull Hunt on Horse, however, the fight has left the arena’s stage and moved into natural surroundings. While Bull Hunt features fighting men both on the ground and on horseback, Bull Hunt on Horse focuses on the latter, who rein in the bulls with lassos. Bull Hunt shows several dogs, which were not only customary in hunting expeditions but also a crucial component in the bullfight throughout the eighteenth century.21 While the link between royalty and hunting continued well into the age of Enlightenment and beyond, the connection between the aristocracy and bullfighting did not. The reasons for why this link was broken are of great interest in understanding the visual culture of bullfighting in the 1700s and the changing role of elites from fighters to audience members. The chulos represent another key factor in the development of the modern bullfight. Although references to their participation in monarchical bull-related spectacles exist prior to the seventeenth century, it was during the reign of Philip IV that their numbers increased; that their playful taunting of the bulls, especially with capes, became more varied and distinct; and that their general assistance to the nobles gained prominence.22 These plebeian fighters commonly entertained the crowd during popular festivities, where they performed some of the moves (suertes) that would be perfected in the eighteenth century with the birth of modern bullfighting. Moreover, the increasing importance of the chulos during the 1600s and their growing rapport with the audience anticipated the future protagonist of the fight.23 Ultimately, the popular or rural form of bullbaiting existed separately from yet simultaneously with the noble tradition of fighting on horseback.24 When they were staged together, the chulos often completed the spectacle by killing the bull for the nobleman, who would rarely dismount. Timothy Mitchell resituates the bullfight in its sociohistorical context. Arguing for the bullfight’s importance to overall Spanish identity, Mitchell associates the practice and its related bullbaiting activities with various festivals throughout the country. Festivals—including patron saint celebrations such as San Fermín in Pamplona, which incorporated the still-trendy encierro (running of the bulls), and the nuptial bull fertility rites that were common among the working classes in rural Spain—serve as widespread points of reference for the bullfight’s development. The significant connection between bull-related activities and Spanish events suggests the national value of modern manifestations of the bullfight; it was not just a regionor city-specific phenomenon. Mitchell proposes that “animal-baiting has been an important part of Spanish fiestas for many centuries,” including the capea, an informal practice that may take place in any enclosed space.25 The capea was performed by locals (not aristocrats) and involved various techniques of taunting, harming, and killing the bull. As Mitchell notes, “Capeas are indeed the showcase for colorful personalities.”26 They offered a perfect training ground for the showmanship crucial to the eighteenth-century bullfight. Performing the Bullfight 87

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Naturally, the animals themselves—the toros bravos—were essential players in these various activities. It is still claimed that the toro bravo descends from the original untamed bull of Europe, whose wild and fierce qualities are encouraged by breeders. As Carrie B. Douglass states, the bull’s “willingness to charge is celebrated in Spain and is the basis of the many taurine games. A bull’s nobility (nobleza) is based on his ‘honesty’”—meaning that he makes a significant effort to challenge the bullfighter’s attempts to command him.27 Complementing the animal’s aggressive behavior, the fighter follows the strict order of the corrida, performing his passes in a controlled fashion so as to confuse the bull; this allows the fighter to turn his back, walk away, and bask in the audience’s applause. Douglass argues that such “dominance has an aristocratic bearing,”28 a connection that modern bullfighters desired to highlight, as the custodians of this cultural practice, and a quality in which eighteenth-century elites took pride, despite their supporting role. A bull’s ferociousness helped fashion a fighter’s reputation. In the ring, the fighter’s noble demeanor and courageous acts, in direct relation to the bull’s ferocity, increased his celebrity status.

Dynastic Change and the Origin of Modern Bullfighting With the change in dynasties in 1700, bullfights played a decreasingly important part during regal ceremonies. None of the Bourbon kings had experience or interest in serving as the fight’s protagonist. In 1704, Philip V consented to a bullfight in Madrid’s Plaza Mayor to commemorate his arrival from Portugal, but he consistently requested that such spectacles be removed from public royal festivities (for instance, at the birth of his son Charles in 1716).29 Since bullfights had traditionally been an integral part of dynastic jubilations, the monarchy’s clear distaste for them persuaded nobles to pursue other forms of exercise. Philip V attempted to stimulate zeal for nontaurine equestrian games, according to French taste. Seville’s maes­ tranza organized his preferred activity, the juego de cabezas, in 1729.30 After Philip V’s brief abdication in 1724, his son ruled as Luis I (and soon died); upon Philip’s return to the throne in 1725, the first Spanish Bourbon king agreed to include bullfights in the ensuing celebrations as a sign of “peace and alliance” with Madrid and the imperial realm in general.31 The king clearly understood that this diplomatic move could repair his reputation among the Spanish public, setting an important standard for future Bourbon monarchs. In general, Ferdinand VI (r. 1746–59) exercised a more tactful approach to the bullfight, despite banning it in 1754. He paid for the construction of one of the wooden bullrings in Madrid and donated it to the Royal Council of Hospitals, so that the fights’ animal products would go directly to the hospitals, a precedent Charles III would follow.32 Such an act attempted to diffuse criticism of the “barbarism” of the sport. The Bourbons made various efforts to discourage the populace’s zeal for bullfighting and, in turn, to curb the disparaging attacks Spaniards received from foreigners 88  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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regarding this violent tradition. However, bullfighting and other bull-related activities coincided with religious festivals. These sacred connections made it more difficult for the Bourbons to limit the custom. The ritualistic nature of the bullfight—its opening procession, the staged fight broken into acts with distinct players, and the final sacrifice—contributed to its sense of being a deeply ingrained tradition in the everyday life of Spaniards. That the bullfight and other taurine-themed events related in part to the liturgical calendar suggests a definite relationship between these customs and the Spanish Catholic Church on a local and national level. Prior to the change in dynastic rule in 1700, however, several members of the Spanish religious community, including the Society of Jesus in the seventeenth century, opposed all bullfighting practices.33 José María de Cossío traces the anti-taurine attitude back to antiquity and gladiator battles. Among the first Spanish theologians to express his opposition to bullfighting was Cardinal Juan de Torquemada in Summa de Ecclesia (1489). He criticized bull-related customs on moral grounds, which served as the foundation for this line of thinking.34 Other writers based their censure of taurine games on economic reasons—as did Gabriel Alonso de Herrera in General Agriculture (1513). However, the religious or moral basis for criticism played a more important role in the centuries prior to 1700. Ecclesiastical writers condemned the risk of death to individuals combating the bulls, the sheer brutality involved, the promiscuity of the energized crowd, and the pleasure derived from viewing these inhumane acts. The archbishop of Valencia, Santo Tomás de Villa­ nueva (1488–1555), spoke of such issues in his sermons.35 Of the two motives for voicing opposition, the utilitarian or agricultural one became the popular choice for ilustrados in the eighteenth century, though criticism of the bullfight’s apparent lack of moral dignity continued. One of the most famous anti-taurine authors during the period of early Bourbon rule was Father Martín Sarmiento, whose writings express both forms of disapproval. Attempts to ban bullfighting, in conjunction with debates surrounding its purpose and popularity throughout the eighteenth century, also contributed to the decline in noble participation.36 Many intellectuals, such as Jovellanos, León de Arroyal, and Vargas Ponce, felt that its bloodthirsty aspects tarnished Spain’s reputation abroad. They questioned its nationalistic appeal, its violence, its entertainment value, its effect on the lower classes, and the mixing of crowds (comprising both genders and all social classes), and they decried the financial waste. At the same time, apologists for the various bullfighting traditions hoped to justify the sport’s place in Spanish history and to validate its importance in contemporary Spain, especially as more foreigners traveled to the Iberian Peninsula. Visitors to Spain witnessed bullfights and sometimes included images of these events in their travel accounts. These texts reveal a fascination with the action, the players, and the spectators. Reverend Edward Clarke described Madrid’s main square, festooned for the “Bull-Feast,” on the occasion of Charles III’s entrance into the capital on July 15, 1760. He states, “The square, which is large, was thronged Performing the Bullfight 89

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with people; the balconies all ornamented with different coloured silks, and crouded from the top to the bottom of the houses; the avenues to the square were built up into balconies, and a sort of sloping scaffolding was placed round for the common people.”37 In contrast to Clarke’s observations, Richard Twiss and Henry Swinburne commented on the lackadaisical monarchical response in their travel books. After attending several fights, Twiss wrote that “neither the king, nor any of the royal family, are ever present at the bull-fights,” while Swinburne noted that “none of the royal family ever appear at these favorite amusements of the Spanish nation: the nobility no longer pique themselves upon their strength, courage, or dexterity, in these rough exercises.”38 Christian Augustus Fischer considered bullfighting a means of uniting Spaniards: “All ranks, and all the different costumes of Spain, will be found united here on such occasions.”39 Although he suggests a unified Spain, he does not specify whether the royal family was present at the gatherings he attended. Such accounts represent a broad range of experiences, in part dependent on dates and locations. Regardless of the pejorative sentiments associated with the bullfight and the lack of noble performance, it flourished. Given the apathy of the Bourbons at the beginning of the century, the lower classes asserted themselves in order to create standards for the sport and maintain its traditions. The bullfight underwent a complete makeover primarily at the hands of the plebeians; it provided a means for them to rise in social position and gain access to elite circles, where literary, artistic, and theatrical celebrities mingled with intellectuals and nobles. Accompanying these significant changes to the spectacle, new structures were built—of wood and then of less flammable materials—in numerous cities that ultimately made up the bullfighting circuit, including Seville, Ronda, Valencia, Málaga, Cádiz, and Madrid. These enclosed spaces replaced the temporary stands in main squares, compensating for the increasing number of fights, and therefore had the capacity to house the paying public. Bullfights no longer required monarchical occasions, since they themselves became the spectacle, drawing large crowds eager to witness the daring moves of professional players. The standardization of bullring design was also crucial to bullfighting’s modern form. Modeled in part after ancient Roman amphitheaters, rounded bullrings became the norm for both aesthetic and practical reasons—as opposed to square or rectangular plazas mayores. Several Roman ruins survive throughout Spain, including the amphitheaters in Mérida (in Extremadura) and in Itálica (north of Seville), both of which could have inspired the bullrings in Seville, Ronda, Aranjuez, and other places. With the excavations of Pompeii and Herculaneum begun under Charles III, who had reigned as king of Naples and Sicily from 1753 to 1759 before ascending to the Spanish throne, the popularity of the antique became more pronounced, reinforcing the bond between Spain and southern Italy. The visual correlation between Roman amphitheaters, such as the Colosseum, and the bullrings of the 1700s created a natural link between gladiators and bullfighters. The showcasing 90  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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of spectacular heroics for an impassioned audience in eighteenth-century Spain would certainly have called to mind ancient fighters battling dangerous beasts under similarly perilous conditions. Because of the constant maintenance required by preexisting rings, the improvements in design, and new construction, it is difficult to establish the chronology of each arena.40 Zaragoza’s bullring, La Misericordia, was built with the help of Ramón Pignatelli and inaugurated in 1764.41 Ronda’s maestranza opened its bullring on May 19, 1785. Although there has been debate as to its architect, many scholars consider José Martín de la Aldehuela to be responsible. He was a master mason from Aragon who directed the New Bridge in Ronda, among other projects in Andalusia. Seville’s initial wooden plaza dates to 1730 and was followed by numerous replacements (1733, 1739, 1759). Finally, in 1761–62, the first phase of construction on a more solid bullring began under Francisco Sánchez de Aragón. Throughout the ring’s erection in the 1770s and 1780s, other architects modified the original plans, including several members of the San Martín family. Like Ronda’s ring, Seville’s plaza de toros features a neoclassical design. Certain details recall a rococo aesthetic, such as the top section of the prince’s balcony, with its shell-like motif.42 Although the royal box received the most ornamentation, making it the symbolic as well as aesthetic focal point in the interior façade, the rest of Seville’s bullring, as in all bullfighting stadiums, was divided into various sections. A seat’s location dictated the price of the ticket; for instance, seats in the shade always cost more than those in the sun. Charging customers to attend a bullfight—a typical condition of any modern sporting or cultural event—financed the various expenses of the maestranzas. No longer the stars of the spectacle, the lower nobility played only an indirect role in the bullfight. Aristocrats presided over the fights, managed the needs of the bullrings, and supplied the animals from local breeders, many of whom were wealthy landowners and members of the maestranza.43 While these individuals stood in the background, the plebeian heroes took center stage, performing according to the newly established format of the fight. Gone was the direct association between equestrian exercises and training for war, since professional bullfighters learned their skills for the sole purpose of public performance. Although the professional fighters could not profess the same noble bloodlines, their corporeal performances asserted their “aristocratic” bearing and lengthy “Spanish” pedigree. Bullfighters’ virile masculinity and macho theatrics relate to the “highly esteemed virtues” of Spanish nobility in former ages of conquest.44

Performing Majos and Celebrity Bullfighters The bullfighting celebrities of the eighteenth century helped generate a mania for this spectacle with their creation of distinct regulations, modes of participation, and costumes. The fascination with celebrities and the cult of celebrity from the early modern period to the present has generated considerable recent scholarly activity.45 Performing the Bullfight 91

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The idea of celebrity did not exist on the same level in the late eighteenth century as it does now; however, this does not negate the significant stardom that several fighters achieved by the 1770s. Stella Tillyard points to the 1760s as a key moment in which “something approaching a cult of celebrity did sweep Europe,” elevating “aristocrats, courtesans [and] naval captains,” and suggests that this fascination was feverish, sensationalist, and evanescent.46 Shearer West argues that the “mechanisms of publicity” that facilitated celebrity invention—“image-making, puffing, idolatry, the collapse of distinctions between public and private, and an obsession with the body”—were already in their nascent stage in the eighteenth century.47 Celebrity performers such as actors, dancers, and bullfighters were given “agency” in the public sphere; with it came a great deal of social power, much of which was supplied by their audiences. P. David Marshall states that celebrities “help embody ‘collective configurations’ of the social world,” making them representatives of particular groups. As such, Marshall argues that celebrities become “heroes of popular culture” who “simultaneously offer hope for everyone’s success.”48 This view extends to bullfighters, since their humble roots placed in high relief their triumphs in the ring. The local hero, whose origins would normally have prescribed an arduous life, mingled with artists, musicians, actors, and other notables. That a lower-class bullfighter could gain entrance into such illustrious company relates to West’s distinction between “achieved” and “ascribed” celebrity.49 Socially privileged individuals had the benefit of mere luck of birth, but bullfighters, actors, dancers, and other public figures had to earn their fame. Like British stage actors, bullfighters acquired their new stature in part from their performance of aristocracy, which in turn was complemented by elites’ patronage of bullfight imagery and dressing a lo majo in the stands. While actors Sarah Siddons and David Garrick played the roles of queens and kings using verbal expression and facial and bodily manipulation, bullfighters employed gymnastic movements that recalled the noble heroes of Spain’s past. Ultimately, the “construction of theatrical celebrity as a form of alternative monarchy” functioned similarly to the showmanship of bullfighters, as their spectacle was equally dramatic and as much of a performance as acting in the theater.50 In the 1790s, as the Spanish monarchy was plagued with rumors of Charles IV’s (r. 1788–1808) ineptitude and María Luisa’s (1751–1819) affairs, matadors provided much-needed healing for the nation; arguably, they frequently engendered more patriotic fervor than their regal counterparts, appearing in newspapers and attending salons. Bullfighting heroes came from myriad locations, but the Andalusian cities of Ronda and Seville produced the most famous fighters of the eighteenth century, in part because of their rich chivalric traditions and large pastures, where animals were raised for the bullfight. Ronda was the hometown of the Romero bullfighting dynasty. The first of these fighters, Francisco Romero y Acevedo, was born in Málaga in 1665; although purportedly a member of the shoe guild by trade, he moved to Ronda and became an assistant to the noble fighters of its maestranza. As a chulo,

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his role was to aid the mounted fighter by distracting the bull. Goya includes an example of such activity in the Tauromaquia, showing the chulos on foot and the nobleman on horseback. Fernando Díaz-Plaja argues that at the turn of the century these plebeians invented their own rules.51 Encouraged by their increasingly relevant role in the previous century and given the Bourbon aversion to performing as fighters, the chulos explored new means to tease and tire the animals based on their own bull-related traditions, coupled with their experiences with the maestrantes. Using darts or harpoons (banderillas) to weaken the bulls, for instance, led to the development of the second act in bullfighting, featuring the banderillero. Furthermore, battling bulls on foot inspired Francisco Romero to invent the muleta, a special cape used to direct the bull.52 To give the cape the necessary stiffness and the fighter a place to grip it, a wooden stick was attached to one end. Mitchell suggests that the banderillas and capes, both of which play significant roles in modern bullfighting, did not exist in the aristocratic mode of fighting on horses. Rather, they “originated in the nuptial bull fertility rite and were commonly used in the modest fiesta de toros that villagers conserved during the whole time nobles were showing off with their lances in the cities.”53 In Harpoons with Firecrackers, from the Tauromaquia, Goya portrays a favorite local tradition in which fiery darts were used in place of traditional ones. The implementation of fire elevated the spectacle for the audience and heightened the danger for the fighters. Antonio Carnicero visualized the new techniques and cast of fighters in Main Maneuvers of a Bullfight, the first print series concerning this sport, which was published in 1790–91 and featured twelve hand-colored etchings.54 Copies of Carnicero’s series were produced in Spain, Italy, England, and France, evidencing its success and the sport’s popularity on both national and international levels.55 As Cossío states, Carnicero’s series was an “immediate” retail sensation and provided a fountain of inspiration for subsequent taurine prints.56 The frontispiece displays two main heroes. The seated figure dressed as a picador gestures to the title inscription, while a matador casually smokes and gazes down at him (fig. 29). The matador’s nonchalant swagger suggests a macho confidence and corporeal awareness, as if he is modeling the cape draped over his shoulder—a typical way of wearing the cape and of depicting a majo. In the remaining images, Carnicero stresses the performativity of the fighters, rather than offering a historical overview such as the one Goya includes in the Tauromaquia. Carnicero’s emphasis on fighters’ bodily positioning is important because it helps associate somatic expression with specific players. The mechanical quality of the compositions and the figural movements lend themselves to a more didactic purpose, as opposed to a purely artistic one. Eleanor Sayre calls Carnicero’s compositions “unstructured and episodic,” noting that the figures resemble painted wooden toys.57 However, I would like to consider this series within the broader category of etiquette manuals, which were popular in the eighteenth century and served as a common vehicle for disseminating knowledge to a wide

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Figure 29

Antonio Carnicero, frontispiece to Colección de las principales suertes de una corrida de toros (Madrid, 1790). Biblioteca Nacional de España, Madrid. © Biblioteca Nacional de España.

community, often making accessible information normally reserved for elites. The distribution of information about the fight’s rules and players reflects the democratization of the sport. Etiquette manuals typically foreground visual examples to “illustrate” correct deportment, gesture, and dress; these images are complemented by verbal discussion. Emphasis is purposefully placed on the appropriate positions of the body, accomplished in bullfighting manuals through a reduction of figures in the pictured plaza and a near elimination of spectators. Carnicero underscores the correct execution of the passes, helping educate the public about each act of the fight, similar to dancing masters who published treatises to demonstrate the steps to various dances. Carni­ cero’s emphasis on suertes, or stages of the bullfight, reflects his attention to the manual aspects of the sport, neatly categorized for the viewer. In visualizing the new format and by favoring the plebeian champions over former royal heroes, Carnicero stresses the modernity of his subject. The first print in Main Maneuvers of a Bullfight shows the opening of the fight and the bull being released into the center of the arena; it is followed by a basic chronology of the fight’s various acts. Displayed as a graceful master of the lance and horse in Picador Preparing to Lance a Bull (fig. 30), 94  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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the heroic figure of the 1790s descends directly from the ancestral “picadors,” the former nobles and heroes of Spain. He performs with great ease, making difficult moves look effortless. For fans in Seville, José Delgado Guerra, or “Pepe-Hillo,” commanded hero worship, and he received one of the highest salaries for a bullfighter. In order to formalize his relationship to Seville’s maestranza, he signed a multiyear contract in 1784. Because of Charles III’s prohibition of the sport, however, the agreement ended before the 1787 season began.58 Prior to Delgado’s spectacular death in the bullring in Madrid in 1801, which solidified his celebrity forever, he authored a guide to the various stages of bullfighting. His pragmatic treatise of 1796, Bullfighting, or the Art of Bullfighting on Horse and on Foot, includes historical background and covers the various stages of the corridas.59 Having a vested interest in the bullfight’s contemporary practice, Delgado discusses trademark moves associated with specific fighters. His own specialty was the challenging “pass with a cape,” in which the bullfighter forces the animal to pass behind him, ensuring that for several seconds the matador is dangerously positioned without knowing the bull’s exact location or path.60 In the treatise’s second edition (1804), thirty prints similar to Carnicero’s etchings facilitate a better understanding of Delgado’s descriptions. For example, the final act, the death of the bull, is explained as the move with the most merit due to its difficulty— and one that offers complete satisfaction for the audience. The corresponding image shows this climactic moment. In the last print, Instruments of Bullfighting, the tools of the fight are displayed in an organized fashion. Delgado comments on past matadors, including Charles V and Philip IV, ultimately placing himself in the lineup of these royal champions.61 According to Delgado, the bullfight’s transformation from regal recreation to its eighteenth-century form was aided by significant contributions from such individuals as José Cándido, Juan Conde, and Delgado’s two main

Figure 30

Antonio Carnicero, Picador Preparing to Lance a Bull, in Colección de las principales suertes de una corrida de toros (Madrid, 1790). Biblioteca Nacional de España, Madrid. © Biblioteca Nacional de España.

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Figure 31

Luis Fernández Noseret, Death of a Bull, in Colección de las principales suertes de una corrida de toros ([Madrid?], 1792). Biblioteca Nacional de España, Madrid. © Biblioteca Nacional de España.

rivals, “Costillares” and Pedro Romero. With his expertise as a matador, Delgado elaborates on Carnicero’s prints and expands the range of instruction studied by the various fighters. His inclusion of recognizable contemporary names implies that their innovations and inventions were part of mainstream culture. Almost a direct copy of the Carnicero series, Luis Fernández Noseret’s Collection of the Main Maneuvers of a Bullfight (thirteen etchings; 1792) features identical subjects. His Death of a Bull (fig. 31) portrays the ultimate act in the corridas: the matador has just delivered the fatal stab. While members of the squad observe the animal’s death, the bullfighter calmly poses with arms outstretched, holding the sword and the muleta. Centrally positioned, he is the object of admiration, and the open-form posture emphasizes his heroic stature. Simultaneously macho and ele­ gant, the matador—not a king or nobleman—wins the recognition and applause of those who watch this spectacular display. Swinburne describes this dominance over the animal: “A well-made champion steps forth, with a short brown cloak hung upon a stick held out in his left hand [the muleta], and a strait two-edged sword in his right. . . . This Matador advances up to the bull, and provokes it to action.”62 The dual qualities of aggressiveness and balletic refinement enable the matador to outmaneuver the beast and recall both the aristocratic fighters of the past and the local villagers’ expertise in bullbaiting techniques. As Mitchell states, Spanish bullfighting’s body language served as a “reaffirmation of traditional virtues and old-fashioned concepts of honor and morality.”63 Noseret’s Death of a Bull visualizes the finale, referred to as the suerte de matar or suerte de estocar, which involves the unique use of the muleta and the estoque (sword). The difficulty of accomplishing such a dangerous pass is the ultimate test of the matador’s skill. Detailed knowledge of the bull’s anatomy was paramount 96  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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to the precise delivery of the thrust. In Seville, for example, the bullfight was intimately linked to the slaughterhouse, constructed just outside the city’s walls. This site constituted a tie between the material product of the farm and the cultural importance of the festival.64 Now that the bullfight’s season (spring through fall) had been regularized, breeders had a growing supply of bulls ready to meet demand. Following the bull’s execution, the audience enjoyed the communal benefit of the fighter’s skill—namely, the food it provided. By the mid-eighteenth century, the neighborhood hero turned the killing of an animal into a daring, praiseworthy, and aesthetic act. The theatrical finale, along with the modern rules of the bullfight, highlighted its new champions. The various bullfighters—the picadors, banderilleros, and matadors—constituted a squad. Francisco Romero’s son, Juan de Dios Sebastian Romero de los Santos, born in 1727, continued the family bullfighting dynasty and was the first to organize his own team. The older system employed assistants from the town or maestranza, who were hired for a particular event.65 The development of a cohesive group under the direction of the main fighter resulted in a greater trust and knowledge of one another’s skills. Not only did this change give more power to the squad’s leader (the matador or primer espada), but it also lent a greater professionalism to the practice. Mitchell writes about the machismo of the team, likening the head matador to the chief of a band of warriors or a gang of bandits; this leader “legitimated his authority in his all-male group by being more male—more willing to kill or be killed in confrontations with rivals.”66 Born in 1754, Pedro Romero grew up surrounded by heroes of the bullfight as one of Juan Romero’s sons. Such familial connections naturally helped his career and gave him a taste of stardom on a local and national scale, especially at his presentation fight in Madrid in 1775, where he encountered Costillares, one of his greatest adversaries.67 At age sixteen, he performed as a banderillero for his father and soon became second matador.68 Romero owed his success to his flawless style and temerity. He often vied for top matador against Costillares and Delgado, both from Seville. The competition among these three superstars, often from the perspective of city pride, generated gossip and controversy both inside and outside the bullring. In reference to the competitive spirit of the fight and allegiances to one player or another, Romero stated, “Sevillians always root for him [Delgado] until we begin to work. . . . I put myself at great risk not for [Delgado], but because the audience inflamed my passion.”69 Such bravado suggests one hero attempting to outdo another. Peter Thomson considers rivalry and its publicly controversial aspects to be key ingredients in inventing celebrity.70 Public opinion often helped fuel rivalries among fighters. Other venues for encouraging competition among fighters existed outside the bullring. Both the Duchess of Alba and the Duchess of Osuna, two patrons of Goya, regularly attended bullfights. Each had her own balcony and favorite matador, evidencing noble support of individual heroes and the bullfight overall. While Osuna favored Pedro Performing the Bullfight 97

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Romero, Alba placed Costillares under her protection. Moreover, in 1779, word on the street—spread in the form of a popular tune—was that Alba and Osuna had each had illicit affairs with a bullfighter, which both women denied.71 Their protestations even led to the arrest of the Catalan composer Pablo Esteve y Grimau, after the singer La Caramba denied responsibility for the offending song.72 Such gossip involving aristocratic women and celebrity matadors underscores the level of fame that Romero, Costillares, and other fighters achieved in the late 1700s, as well as their significance to the fashioning of elite identity as promoters of Spanish customs. According to Theresa Ann Smith, besides politics, the newest books, popular music, and famous actors, the latest “bullfighter in vogue” was a popular subject at the salons of Osuna.73 These bullfighters were treated not only as entertainers but as national heroes with access to celebrity cliques, and they provided the elite with suitable models to venerate. Opponents Costillares (fig. 32) and Pedro Romero both appear in De la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla’s Collection of Spanish Dress. In the notebook published in 1778, the artist groups contemporary celebrities together, in contrast to the format of other notebooks that feature anonymous types. The famed actors and singers included are Aldovera (“El Duende”), Miguel Garrido, José Espejo, María Antonia Vallejo Fernández (“La Caramba”), and María Ladvenaut, all admired by Madrid’s theater aficionados. While Romero and Costillares did not appear on the traditional stage, their performances were equally theatrical, making their inclusion in such company logical. De la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla positions the two figures similarly, as they proudly display the traje de luces; its flashy colors reflect the sun’s light, and the tight fit prevents the bull’s horns from catching the fabric. While Pedro Romero descended from the great Romero dynasty, Costillares was known for his invention of the volapié, a bullbaiting technique that consists of wounding the beast while running. In the prints, both matadors hold various objects associated with their profession, including the sword and the muleta, and are accompanied by a slain bull. Costillares poses in the balletic third position, with the cape flying behind him. Upon viewing these two images in 1778, Francisco Bayeu vulgarly expressed his obvious bias for his favorite, Costillares: “Here are the two portraits of the heroes, the one of Romero is scared-shitless, and the one of Joaquín seems as though he dances, valiantly wild from that which he has accomplished, and ultimately, Joaquín calls a buffoon a buffoon.”74 In the context of a series devoted to popular types, it is interesting to note that the actors and bullfighters are the only named individuals in this notebook, defying the notion of a generalized type. How much these prints are true portraits is debatable; however, by including the names of Costillares, Pedro Romero, and the other performers, De la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla augments the cultural cachet of his series. The famed triumvirate fought together in various rings across Spain, each attempting to win the crowd’s favor. As part of the celebratory functions surrounding Charles IV’s accession to the throne in 1789, bullfights were held over the course 98  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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Figure 32

Juan de la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla, Costillares, in Colección de trajes de España, tanto antiguos como modernos, que comprehende todos los de sus dominios, vol. 2 (Madrid: Casa de D. M. Copin Carrera de S. Geronimo, 1778). Biblioteca Nacional de España, Madrid. © Biblioteca Nacional de España.

of several days in Madrid’s main square, recalling previous Spanish kings under whose rule bullfights marked royal events. By connecting himself to former Spanish monarchs and their inaugural festivities, Charles IV used the bullfight as a legitimizing tactic through which to claim his place as the rightful sovereign. All three bullfighters took part in these regal events. In one such fight, Pepe-Hillo was gored by a bull and promptly carried from the arena by two fighters. In his memoirs, Romero recounts the scene in which he helped bring the wounded matador to the Duchess of Osuna’s balcony and then returned to the ring to kill the beast in heroic fashion.75 These inaugural bullfights inspired a series of twenty-seven polychrome wood figures, now at the National Sculpture Museum in Valladolid. Although documentary evidence is scant, the works have been attributed to Pedro Performing the Bullfight 99

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Figure 33

Detail of Juan Cháez, The Matador Pepe Hillo Wounded Accompanied by Two Bullfighters, ca. 1789. © Museo Nacional de Escultura. Photo: Javier Muñoz y Paz Pastor.

Antonio Hermoso, a sculptor from Granada, and more recently to Juan Cháez, an artist from Málaga, whose employers included Luis Antonio Bourbon (Charles III’s brother) and the Osuna family.76 These small statues reveal significant details about the costume and the cast of characters in the bullfight. Grouped according to the 100  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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acts of the bullfight and to the events and individuals involved in those regal jubilations, the series visualizes both the general nature of the spectacle and its specifics, including Pepe-Hillo’s goring, as shown in fig. 33. It is significant to note that for such an important national affair, Romero, Costillares, and Delgado would have displayed their talents before the new king in the country’s capital. Unlike Philip IV in the previous century, Charles IV never joined these celebrities in the arena to entertain the crowd—but the bullfight did offer a communal conduit through which to express his support and to promote a Spanish agenda by paying homage to a traditional monarchical custom. He preferred to remain with the spectators, like a Roman emperor; his observational role deferred to the sensational heroics of the bullfighters but still endowed him with a Spanish persona. The fact that Pepe-Hillo suffered a severe wound during this event did not undo his international reputation. The Frenchman Jean-Marie-Jérôme Fleuriot, known as L. M. de Langle, commented on the bullfight in a book on his travels in Spain. He compared Pepe-Hillo to Hercules and called him a bull’s worst enemy.77 Unfortunately, Pepe-Hillo was fatally injured in 1801 by the bull “Barbudo” while performing in Madrid. In the Tauromaquia, Goya first shows the hero playfully baiting his bestial antagonist by tipping his hat to the bull.78 Goya highlights the bold act by placing the matador in the foreground and surrounding him by his squad. As the champion gestures, the bull swerves toward him, spotting an easy target. In the second image, the team attempts to assist the matador by diverting the bull’s attention, but they arrive too late to save him from its horns. Such corporeal heroics were encouraged by the audience. The thirst for danger was quenched with crowd-pleasing performances that included trademark moves. Fighters were often associated with a specific stunt or style, reinforcing the competition among them. Goya visualizes several instances in which fighters perform acrobatic feats to entertain the crowd. In the Tauromaquia, he depicts Francisco Antonio Basson, nicknamed “Martincho,” sitting in a chair and preparing to strike at a bull ready to charge (fig. 34). Martincho’s daring act is achieved while his feet are locked together, leaving him no opportunity to run if he misses. Such courageous behavior and acrobatic talent were typical of Martincho’s lengthy career, which spanned from 1750 to 1770. He was the pride of Zaragoza, performing regularly in both Madrid’s and Zaragoza’s rings.79 In The Agility and Boldness of Juanito Apiñani in Madrid, Goya captures the moment in which the fighter Juanito flies over a bull using a pole placed between the horns of the charging animal. Juanito is depicted in midair, horizontally extended, before a captivated crowd. These figures and others like them forged the athletic artistry of bullfighting, conferring adoration upon such majos. Although not a sport in the conventional sense, bullfighting is nonetheless a live performance watched by an enthusiastic public. Beyond regional alliances, the sport created a sense of unity among many Spaniards, playing the important role that Barry Smart attributes to sports in any society: “Sport is recognized to be one of the key cultural institutions involved in the constitution of national identity.”80 Performing the Bullfight 101

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Figure 34

Francisco de Goya, The Daring of Martincho in the Plaza de Madrid, in Tauromaquia (Madrid: Goya, 1816). The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Rogers Fund, 1921, 21.19.18.

Regardless of city rivalry, these fighters had a national following. Romero’s, Rodríguez’s, and Delgado’s performances for Charles IV’s regal celebrations served to unite the public in a customary manner. The new king benefited from these communal events, which helped him assume a definite Spanish identity and win favor among his subjects as a model ruler who championed native practices. However, it was the plebeian heroes, not the monarch, who took center stage during the royal events and engendered a national cohesion among Spaniards. Much like any contemporary team sport, fans may have felt devotion to a single team (or player), but the game overall was considered a national pastime. Moreover, elements of rivalry and one-upmanship, according to Mitchell, were fundamental to the “evolution of bullfighting”81 and are part of almost any sport. With bullbaiting practices occurring throughout Spain, the bullfight’s historical and contemporary associations went well beyond two or three cities. While bullfighters are not necessarily thought of as athletes in the normative sense of the word, they have to remain in top physical and mental shape to maneuver around the bull. With the creation of the muleta and with the privileging of the lower-class fighter on foot, a new style of fighting was fashioned based on the 102  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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matador’s agility and technique, since he was much more vulnerable on foot than on a horse. In fighting face-to-face with the bull, the fighter had to be doubly aware of his body, for the purposes of self-preservation and acrobatic showmanship. Thus, the bullfighter’s body took on a heightened level of importance in the transformed sport, allowing for greater corporeal display in relation to a fighter’s personal style. Pedro Romero’s technique successfully prevented him from ever receiving a severe goring in the ring. Goya portrayed him in two painted portraits and in the Tauromaquia. The portrait from 1795–98 suggests a sense of intimacy between sitter and artist (fig. 35). Goya places the hero in an unspecified interior. Romero sports the new outfit of the bullfight: a hairnet, tight-fitting jacket, snug vest with hints of reflective material, and grand cape thrown over his shoulder. He stares out at the viewer with a quiet confidence typical of someone at the pinnacle of his career. Regardless of their celebrity status, both Goya and Romero shared a bourgeois background. Goya normally painted portraits of the aristocracy as a court artist, but due to Romero’s celebrity in Spanish society, his humble origins would not have hindered his access to the artist. Robert Hughes’s biography of Goya, with its titillating comparisons (for example, the Duchess of Alba is likened to Cher), certainly elevates the current celebrity status of the artist and his passion for bullfighting. Hughes suggests that after Goya’s illness and resulting deafness in 1793, he became more “aware of gesture, physical expression, [and] body language” and was able to “‘read’ the signs beyond words, to perceive the minute particulars of how faces and bodies reveal themselves.”82 Such insights, albeit at the expense of sensory loss, would assuredly have aided Goya in the depiction of a bullfighter, whose achievements rest in his physical abilities. Goya’s own fascination with the sport would certainly have fuelled his desire to paint Romero; this is evidenced by the numerous images in different media created throughout his career and by the letters he wrote to his best friend, Martín Zapater. In one such letter from 1778, Goya mentions both Romero and Costillares and the rivalry that existed between them in Madrid.83 Others in Goya’s circle, including his brothers-in-law Francisco and friar Manuel Bayeu, also corresponded with Zapater, noted Goya’s interest in bullfights, and were passionate about the ongoing rivalry among the players. Romero, like Goya, socialized with elite members of Spanish society, such as the actor Isidoro Máiquez and the tenor Manuel Vicente García.84 With the protection of the Duchess of Osuna, he would have attended her important salons, a stimulating environment in which Romero could meet Goya, among other notables. The salon also served as a site where elites could mingle directly with such heroic majos; it thus provided them with another venue to promote their Spanish identity and facilitated their appreciation of popular customs. As part of this select network, the poet Nicolás Fernández de Moratín shared his passion for bullfighting in “Ode to Pedro Romero,” written near the end of the century, which metaphorically describes the fight and the role of the matador. Moratín calls on Apollo to sing loudly in honor of Romero, so that the matador’s voice stands Performing the Bullfight 103

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out as the strongest in the ring.85 The spectators and the matador share the glorious moment in which fame is brought to Spain and celebrated by the Greek god. Romero and his profession are thus elevated to quasi-divine significance. Moratín makes Romero’s contribution part of the historical continuum; just as El Cid and Charles V offered their heroism to Spain, so too does Romero. Moratín’s choice of the ode form intimates his intensely patriotic sentiment for the sport, since this genre was typically reserved for those who performed exemplary deeds for their country.86 Romero is likened to a gladiator and the sport to an Olympic event. The matador’s lineage is crucial for Moratín’s desire to promote bullfighting. The poet describes Romero’s body as both elegant and virile and historicizes the bullfighter’s gestures. Thus, Romero’s bodily performance links him to an ancient Spanish past, which justifies the sport as an example of lo castizo. Bullfighters displayed an extreme machismo in their gestures and ultimate mastery over the bull. Descending from “Spaniards” such as Charles V and El Cid, and not from the parvenu French dynasty, these bullfighters constructed their actions as a kind of “bodily” preservation of the past. Artists highlight both masculine and feminine elements in these heroic bodies, although machismo is especially stressed. Antonio Rodríguez’s General Collection of Dresses that Are Used in Spain in the Year 1801 in Madrid (1801; 112 etchings) features many champions, as in the prints For Me There Is No Courageous Bull. Bullfighter on Foot (fig. 36) and Bring the Horse. Bullfighter on Horse (fig. 37).87 The matador in the former gestures forward, imploring the audience to find him a brave bull. Immediately behind him lies a fatally wounded toro, suggesting the imminent death of any bull that endeavors to challenge his prowess. Corporeal expression is defined and depicted as an arrogant challenge to those who may oppose the brash display of Spanish valor; however, the bullfighter’s body also possesses a feminine quality, with its sinuous, graceful lines. In Bullfighter on Horse, the picador is visualized as a broader figure, whose strong legs are disproportionate to his small head. In this series, then, the picador is not rendered with the same corporeal elegance as the matador. While the latter had to be muscular to confront the bull, he also needed stamina to maintain the pace of the passes. In order to escape the horns, a slender body was preferable; it helped him stay quick on his feet, like a dancer. A bullfighter’s show in the ring displayed both of these characteristics: his macho force and his balletic swiftness—essentially, his majeza. As represented in numerous artistic examples, the gender politics theatricalized and made stereotypically overt in the bullring of the 1700s correlate to current ideas about the nature of gendered identity. Butler views gender as a cultural performance based on a “stylized repetition of acts,” as I have discussed previously.88 Such repeated performances of manly bravado in the ring, certainly stylized and exaggerated, emphasized that it was the male stars of the show who presented the ideal form of national heroism, regardless of their humble beginnings. Joanne P. Sharp adds, “Like national identity, gendered identity takes on its apparently ‘natural’

Figure 35

Francisco de Goya, Pedro Romero, 1795–98. Kimbell Art Museum, Fort Worth. AP 1966.12. Figure 36 (overleaf)

Antonio Rodríguez, For Me There Is No Courageous Bull. Bullfighter on Foot, in Colección general de los trajes que en la actualidad se usan en España. En Madrid (Madrid: Las Librerias de Castillo, 1801). Biblioteca Nacional de España, Madrid. © Biblioteca Nacional de España. Figure 37 (overleaf)

Antonio Rodríguez, Bring the Horse. Bullfighter on Horse, in Colección general de los trajes que en la actualidad se usan en España. En Madrid (Madrid: Las Librerias de Castillo, 1801). Biblioteca Nacional de España, Madrid. © Biblioteca Nacional de España.

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presence through the repeated performance of gender norms. . . . The symbols of nationalism are not gender neutral but in enforcing a national norm, they implicitly or explicitly construct a set of gendered norms.”89 With the audience in the stands to validate such gendered and nationalistic performances, bullfighters such as Delgado, Costillares, and Romero set a modern standard in part based on an ideal of Spain’s chivalric glory. Goya clearly understood this connection when he visualized contemporary bullfighters as modern embodiments of the noble heroes of Spain’s past, who could be utilized by elites to claim their embodiment and appreciation of lo castizo. To emphasize the complexity of the relationship between bullfighters and gendered identity, I would like to consider Goya’s depiction of one of the only female 106  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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stars of the bullfight, the celebrated Nicolasa Escamilla, “La Pajuelera,” in Virile Valor of the Celebrated Pajuelera in Zaragoza’s Ring (fig. 38).90 In the print, Goya does not delineate La Pajuelera’s picador costume with detailed precision. Although she is a woman, La Pajuelera wears men’s breeches, a wide sash wrapped around her waist, and a jacket with a high collar. In contrast to Rodríguez’s depiction of the picador (fig. 37), Goya does not include decorative embellishments on her jacket similar to those on the traje de luces worn by the modern heroes of the fight. Goya also renders her frame, face, and hair in standard masculine visual terms. She appears to have a receding hairline and a short hairstyle that is unadorned. Goya masculinizes the picadora’s features and body to mimic the heavyset frame of many fighters on horseback. As a woman attending the performance, she might have worn a mantilla and hairnet, but as a performer, she dons neither accessory. The lack of any hairpiece also distinguishes her from the male fighters represented in the Tauromaquia. The Moors sport turban-like headpieces, the early modern riders don elaborate hats, and La Pajuelera’s contemporaries wear various headgear—from wide-brimmed hats (such as the picador Fernando del Toro) to hairnets (such as Pedro Romero killing a bull).

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Figure 38

Francisco de Goya, Virile Valor of the Celebrated Pajuelera in Zaragoza’s Ring, in Tauromaquia (Madrid: Goya, 1816). The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Rogers Fund, 1921, 21.19.22.

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Because La Pajuelera was active in the early to mid-eighteenth century, as bullfighting was transforming into a highly popular and celebrated sport, it is likely that Goya did not see her perform.91 However, Goya does not attempt to create true likenesses for his heroes overall. He certainly would not have been able to see such fighters as El Cid or the Moor Gazul and thus had to invent generic features for many of his performers, even applying these to the ones (such as Romero) whom he would have seen countless times. In contrast to his representation of La Pajuelera in the print, in an early drawing of the same scene (Museo Nacional del Prado, D. 4309), Goya depicts her facing the viewer as she jabs at the bull; there is more detail in her dress, and she has more typically feminine facial features. Her tousled hair and blushing cheeks complement her active engagement with the bull. While artists commonly make changes from preparatory sketches to the final print, it is significant to note the difference in her appearance. The final image includes several noticeable changes (for example, a less dispersed crowd), but in La Pajuelera’s depiction, in particular, Goya seems to generalize her facial characteristics so that there is little semblance between the early drawing and the etching. To complement her masculinized facial features in the print, Goya gives La Pajuelera a sturdy build. The stocky frame is typical of artistic representations of picadors. In addition, she sits on the saddled horse as a man would ride—a more practical position for lancing the bull. As the charging bull nears her horse, the heroine lances the animal with complete control. Mitchell comments on the long lance (vara larga) used by picadors, a tool commonly employed in herding bulls. La Pajuelera follows the newly established procedure, as described by Mitchell: “Instead of galloping past the bull like the aristocrats, the so-called varilargueros reined in their mounts, held their ground, and drove the tips of their spears into the bull’s withers as he charged.”92 Unlike the barely noticeable figure standing behind her horse and out of harm’s way, the picadora sits firmly as the bull attempts to gore her horse. Goya does not ridicule La Pajuelera by making her turn in the opposite direction out of fear, nor does he depict her as too refined to handle the weapon. Instead, he stresses her “virile” characteristics, which accordingly allow her to fight the beast. Although the famed picadora is a she (not a he), Goya “compensates” for this extraordinary circumstance by equating her athletic might with her apparent masculine features. Thus, as visualized by Goya, even in the male-dominated world of bullfighting, a woman can display the corporeal performativity of machismo that was necessary for achieving celebrity status as a bullfighter in the late eighteenth century.93 If gender is a cultural performance of repeated acts, then Goya’s female bullfighter could arguably have learned the stylized movements established by her male counterparts in order to play her part in the ring. While La Pajuelera may have been likened to the majo as a virile fighter with cool reserve under pressure, her strength and showmanship also tie her to the maja, a type who flaunted an exaggerated sense of popular pride.

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CHAPTER 4

Majas, Elites, and Female Agency [The Majas’] impudent affectation is no more than a poignant allurement, which introduces into the senses a delirium that the wisest can scarcely guard against, and which, if it inspires not love, at least promises much pleasure. —Jean-François Bourgoing, Travels in Spain: Containing a New, Accurate, and Comprehensive View of the Present State of That Country (1789) A slap from a maja is better than all the sweet flattery of the ladies; the first is a proof of love and the second, sham. —Ramón de la Cruz, El careo de los majos

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Both Jean-François Bourgoing’s Travels in

Spain and Ramón de la Cruz’s El careo de los majos recount characteristic observations about the maja. She is passionate, seductive, aggressive, and a source of popular worship. Her femininity is directly aligned with her sexuality, which is dominant and desirable. In Cruz’s theatrical work, the character La Rumbona, a maja herself, compares majas with “ladies” to foreground class difference, linking distinct social backgrounds to behavior. She views elite women as frauds and proposes that majas, even if volatile, provide a truer form of love. Bourgoing voices a more skeptical opinion, pointing to the “affectation” of the type; according to his narrative, the maja’s conduct—which he, like many others, finds difficult to resist—is exaggerated for the purpose of attracting men. These commentaries conceive of majas as hot-tempered, a trait applied to other popular types in the nineteenth century, such as gypsy women and cigarreras. While such stereotypical language was employed to describe majas in a variety of literary sources, visual depictions of this type often highlight her boldness, making her the ideal counterpart for the majo. The maja appealed to many Spaniards and foreigners in part because she seemed unique—a foil to the demure, narcissistic, and fashionconscious woman who did not contribute to the betterment of her nation. At the same time, the maja as an example of Spanish femininity distressed certain Spaniards: many

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viewed her brash nature, which was imitated by elite women, as problematic, fueling detractors’ criticism. The diverse opinions and manifestations of the maja suggest that her contemporaries did not perceive her as static or uniform, affording the possibility for a richly nuanced discussion of the type and the manners in which she was visualized and defined by Spaniards and foreigners. As I propose in chapter 2 regarding the majo and the petimetre, the differences between the maja and the petimetra are not so easily categorized, fashioning a multifaceted web of characteristics that convey the complexity of the debates surrounding women, femininity, and female sexuality in the eighteenth century. I look at the popular female type, the maja, much in the same way I discuss her corresponding masculine type in chapter 2. I evaluate the maja as a pictorial model of traditional conduct and style often used for the benefit and pleasure of elites, especially when such an alliance was politically advantageous. In addition to addressing key issues such as the maja’s dress, its supposed castizo components, and its politicization, I examine the varied expressions of female agency and discussions surrounding women; female participation in the making of a modern Spain; the relationship among femininity, performance, and identity; the complex and often ambiguous differences between the maja and the petimetra; and the maja’s potential to provide an example of Spanish identity for elite women, a topic I consider more fully in chapter 5. As with the majo, not all images celebrate the maja as a positive influence or suitable example of traditional femininity, which problematizes the lauding of the maja by nobles who commissioned majismo-themed objects or emulated popular dress. Such references, however, often proved to be strategic and served as a means to express agency when conventional means of engaging in societal or governmental activities were not open to women. I explore how Spanish femininity was imagined, defined, and debated in the second half of the eighteenth century. I am particularly interested in how artists depicted women and femininity as expressions of Spanishness or, alternatively, foreignness. Artists created a wide range of images of Spanish women—whether represented as selling wares or participating in traditional customs—that provide insights into how femininity was shaped in the 1700s. Artists, in conjunction with authors, codified specific traits for majas, though these qualities could be manipulated and, as such, are not reliable markers for identifying types. Thus, the state of “being” a maja was not fixed; for example, women from all backgrounds wore the mantilla and the basquiña, garments seen as quintessentially Spanish regardless of status. Such ambiguity highlights the difficulty of knowing which figures are the “true” majas, since others could don the type’s clothes and learn her gestures and dialect. Elite women formed fashionable alliances, cultivating their Spanish identity via garments associated with majas—for example, by replacing wool mantillas with silk and lace ones. The maja embodied Spanish femininity in her dress, her actions, and her occupations, highlighting the importance of her performance as a model of castizo values 110  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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and the national character. The maja was sometimes depicted as the epitome of an assertive sensuality, viewed as dangerous and counter to notions of “natural” feminine demeanor; this was part of her appeal for some noblewomen, who saw her behavior as liberating in the context of standard gender roles and courtly expectations. Haidt views “the feisty maja with her fierce manner and passionate expressiveness” as “an icon of a supposedly authentic popular spirit” in both texts and images, suggesting that majos’ and majas’ marginalization “was simultaneously instrumental in their convention into types embodying quintessential ‘Spanishness.’”1 As street vendors, majas traversed the city. With greater public access, the maja’s seemingly limitless interactions in Madrid, paired with her confident sexuality, generated a potential connection to prostitutes. In many images, artists used subtle or sometimes more direct means to promote this link, often foregrounding the maja’s self-assuredness and shrewd street smarts to make her clients look foolish or emasculated, destabilizing the traditional relationship between men and women. Much like the majo’s dual posturing of potent masculinity and graceful femininity, the maja projected a forceful manner and, simultaneously, a charming grace. Such characteristics were praised and identified as typically Spanish by some, while others, made uncomfortable by the maja’s supposedly liberal manners, criticized her haughtiness. But the maja’s multifarious associations and popular relevance made her exceptionally mutable for elite purposes, as a cultural icon to emulate. As Mary Ann O’Farrell and Lynne Vallone state, by “exploiting the complicated and phantasmatic relationship between gender and the body for their profit in shaping the body politic and the cultural imaginary, some women have been able strategically to use gender’s fluidity in order to offset gender’s constraints.”2 The maja offered elite women greater flexibility in constructing their identities as Spanish women, as they could tap into the type’s dual connotations as traditional and modern, proud and defiant, and feminine and masculine. While traits were exaggerated and made archetypal in visual works, often for political or picturesque purposes, they equally point to the unease experienced by many who viewed this type as suspect. I do not propose that the maja exemplified a protofeminist agenda. Rather, as imagined in the second half of the eighteenth and the beginning of the nineteenth centuries, the maja posed a challenge to conventional notions of femininity in Spanish society, despite her association with customs; these were not mutually exclusive. The maja’s charms and arrogant demeanor play into the apprehensions about societal and political changes that placed women more squarely at the forefront. The maja was praised for her local pride and her contribution to the Spanish economy. In many ways, she was viewed in a conservative light—as the custodian of long-established principles and a patron of Spain’s progress. But the sheer number of images that foreground her sexuality, in conjunction with her access to the public domain and new forms of social interactions, suggests that the maja was not simply a matron of Spanish duties and an urban laborer. She was a pivotal figure between folkloric expression and modernity, Majas, Elites, and Female Agency 111

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an embodiment of both past and present whose characteristics point to the anxieties about femininity and to the significant debates about the nature and role of women in eighteenth-century Spain. That noblewomen looked to romanticized pictorial examples of the maja to assert a castizo identity underlines the importance of the visual in establishing the elite as Spanish.

Imagining Majas in the 1770s and 1780s Artists began visualizing majas in a wide range of media, whether accompanied by their male counterparts, grouped with other female types, or as single figures. The variety of subject matter and the distinct ways in which artists represented majas point to the multipurpose manner in which this type could be used to signify popular sentiments. The maja, like the majo, held strong ties to particular neighborhoods in Madrid. Her various artisanal or mercantile jobs placed the maja in the working classes; however, such classification was not always accurate, nor was she always represented as such. While artists fashioned physical, sartorial, and performative traits for the maja based partly on literary, “real,” and theatrical examples, they also varied these characteristics depending on context, producing ambiguity. This blurring of a codified set of qualities allowed for greater manipulation and artistic freedom, but it raised additional doubt about a person’s nature, which could no longer be ascertained simply by dress or by gestural clues. De la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla visualizes the maja (fig. 2) in Collection of Spanish Dress. In this print, the French translation for maja is elegante, endowing the type with sophistication generally reserved for the upper classes. The maja showcases her garments as “evidence” of her castizo persona. Wearing traditional garb, she sports a black basquiña (a petticoat or outer layer worn over the inner skirt) that reveals her ankles, buckled shoes, a white mantilla with a decorative band around the edges, a colorful bow underneath the headpiece, a striped fichu, a corseted top with tassels, and a short, tight jacket with the flaps open. Besides a necklace, her only other adornment is the closed fan held in her left hand. De la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla depicts the maja as a refined woman; her poise, slender frame, and ensemble suggest that she is indeed elegant, calling into question the notion that the type is lewd and making her a model of reserve and popular pride for elites. The corseted top and jacket emphasize her waist, complemented by the petticoat’s accentuation of her hips. These items highlight her feminine body, but the artist does not oversexualize her. He provides a set of sartorial codes by which to identify the type, proposing that she is as modish as any Spanish woman, despite her supposed inferior social rank. Unlike the guitar-playing barber majo (fig. 1), she is not performing any specific activity, nor is she given a title indicating her occupation. In this instance, she is presented as the type based solely on her attire. In fact, adorned as such, this maja bears little connection to a soiled street vendor and seems ill-suited for hard

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labor. Rather, the artist visualizes the maja with a focus on beauty, which makes her an acceptable model of Spanish female identity and urban pride. In other instances, De la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla classifies types based on region and profession. In Orange Vendor of 1777 (fig. 8), he represents one of the most common street criers, whose dress corresponds to the maja in fig. 2, though with several differences. Positioned with her hip jutting outward, the orange seller offers her fruit in one hand while holding her basket in the other. In addition to the buckled shoes, the short jacket with the open flaps, the hair bow, and the white mantilla, she wears a white delantal (apron) over the front part of her skirt.3 This item is generally associated with servants and street vendors and is typically seen in Valencian traditional dress. The orange vendor lacks the chic fashionability of the main type shown in fig. 2 but still maintains “decency” in her appearance, a vital component to community belonging, as discussed by Haidt (see the introduction and chapter 2). This “decency,” as presented by De la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla, suggests that the orange vendor and maja offer viable examples for Spanish women, despite their public interactions. By taking pride in their dress and occupations, these urban workers provide quintessential visual standards of Spanish femininity. They also uphold a new ideal of urban hygiene, in keeping with the renewal and beautification projects undertaken by Charles III to transform Madrid into an exemplary city, an effort that also included increased monitoring of the poor, as addressed in chapter 2. Orange vendors represent one of the most common pictorial subjects and are often given region-specific captions. In many instances, they are identified as Valen­ cian or Murcian, though they often appear in the setting of Madrid, which would have been appropriate since individuals from different Spanish provinces migrated to the capital. Goya’s The Picnic (1776; fig. 39), a tapestry cartoon created for the dining room of the princes of Asturias in the Pardo palace, shows a scene of merrymaking, including a group of rambunctious majos in the foreground who eat, drink, and smoke. An orange vendor has come upon them to offer her fruit and responds to their obvious compliments with seductive gestures and a smile. This innocent and playful flirtation takes place in a Spanish landscape outside the city. The vendor wears a bright red faja (sash) around her waist and a skirt that reveals her ankles and buckled shoes, while her hair is decorated with a matching red bow and a white mantilla. Unlike the street crier from De la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla’s series (fig. 8), she has been transported into a genre scene that Goya claimed was of his own “invention.”4 Now provided with a suggested narrative, the vendor is made active, engaging with her fellow Spaniards in a lighthearted banter that most likely regards more than just oranges. Janis Tomlinson looks to contemporary tonadillas and sainetes as Goya’s inspiration, since the same characters appear in all of these works. She comments on the “cheekiness” of the orange sellers in the sainetes and tonadillas, which reinforces the knowing glances among Goya’s figures—indicators of the nature of their exchange.5 Thus, this orange vendor’s swagger is given a greater specificity: her

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Figure 39

Francisco de Goya, The Picnic, 1776. Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid. Photo: Scala / Art Resource, N.Y.

ability to mingle in public by herself and her skill at joking with the group of men point to a confidence and freedom romanticized by elite women, who viewed such unreserved behavior as appealing. At the same time, the maja’s autonomy fueled criticism that such independence coincided with illicit conduct. Although Goya depicts her flirtatious encounters, he does not represent her as lacking decorum. As noted by the British author Philip Thicknesse, who had journeyed abroad in the mid-1770s, Spanish women often paraded through Madrid’s streets unaccompanied, providing ample opportunities for men to engage them in flirtatious conversation. He states, “If you meet a Spanish woman of any fashion, walking alone . . . you may join her, and enter into whatever sort of conversation you choose, without offence.”6 114  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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As vendors, majas sold many items, including acerolas (small tropical cherries). The hawker of this fruit is the central figure in a pastel by Lorenzo Tiepolo (fig. 40). Holding a basket filled with cherries, she gazes out at the viewer with her hand on her hip, undeterred by the gaze of the men around her. In addition to a long white mantilla that wraps around her left shoulder and arm, she sports a decorative striped bow, elegant jewelry (including gold-and-pearl earrings), and a silk patch on her temple, a popular gypsy fashion. Such ornamentation emphasizes her beauty and is complemented by her alabaster skin, softly painted coral lips, and delicate rouge. All of these qualities suggest that the vendor is not really a working-class woman, but an aristocrat dressed in maja garb. Such refinement could also indicate that the maja is flaunting her most elegant garments, although these were generally saved for holidays and festivals. The majority of Tiepolo’s pastels were commissioned by the princes of Asturias or other nobles in the 1770s, and this maja’s sumptuous appearance would have made her an appealing model for elites; she is

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Figure 40

Lorenzo Tiepolo, The Cherry Vendor, ca. 1770. Palacio Real, Madrid. © Patrimonio Nacional.

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not just appropriately sanitized, but the height of sophistication. Indeed, the pastel’s richly crafted surface harmonizes with the vendor’s delicately rendered complexion and dress. In Goya’s cartoon The Cherry Vendor of 1778–79 (fig. 41), a street seller coyly looks over her shoulder in the presence of majos who admire her. Made for the rooms of the prince and princess of Asturias in the Pardo palace, this tapestry would have amused its royal viewers with its suggestive, yet still decorous, subject. While the majos, dressed in capes and differing headgear, leer at the cherry vendor, she seems unaffected by their attention. The leftmost majo smiles widely and holds out his hand to request a taste of the fruit, and to sample anything else she might offer. Despite the majos’ almost confrontational presence as they tower over the petite vendor, she seems capable of teasing them, and her glance toward the spectator includes us in the game. Goya positions the acero­ lera, who is clearly aware of her charms, squarely in the center of the picture; her sturdy frame and independence (she is unaccompanied by a male escort) indicate that the maja is able to walk the streets conducting business without oversight. Images of gypsy women highlight many of the same themes. In Goya’s A Walk in Andalusia (fig. 16), the reference to Andalusia is significant, playing on eighteenthcentury stereotypes of both majos and gypsies as hotblooded—characteristics thought to partially derive from the warm climate of southern Spain. In the 1800s, travelers to Spain further romanticized these “heated” traits. In a more subdued example, Lorenzo Tiepolo features a gypsy and a cloaked man in The Fortune-Teller. The gypsy performs a divination by palm reading, and the man seems utterly entranced by her touch as he waits expectantly for news of his future. Dressed similarly to a maja, the female figure sports a white comb in her hair, which is also adorned with a coral ribbon and an array of flowers.

Figure 41

Francisco de Goya, The Cherry Vendor, 1778–79. Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid. Photo: Album / Art Resource, N.Y.

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Draped in an orange-red and yellow shawl and a white fichu, the gypsy is bejeweled with necklaces, bracelets, earrings, and rings—considerably more jewelry than that worn by majas. Taking into account its royal audience, this pastel presents a picturesque rendition of the predictable theme of fortune-telling. Bourgoing, like many travelers to Spain, criticized gypsies for leading a “dissolute life” and for engaging in “suspicious” professions (such as fortune-telling) that “take people in cunningly.”7 He made several derogatory observations about gypsies, particularly with regard to their activities as represented onstage: “They act parts striking from their originality, but the effect of which is to make vice familiar by decorating it with the flowers of mirth. . . . Their knavish tricks, their plots, and their amorous intrigues . . . are the subjects of several saynetes and tonadillas.”8 Bourgoing’s comments allude to the beautifying of the gypsy characters, which made the plays not only more palatable but also attractive; this generated a romanticized vision of the ruffian lifestyle of the popular classes and, at the same time, incorporated significant criticism of social practices. The gypsies’ varied actions and occupations correspond to the images by Goya and Tiepolo devoted to this subject and destined for an elite audience, indicating the extent to which reciprocity between dramatic and artistic works existed. Goya was particularly interested in creating an engaging environment, so that the rooms occupied by his tapestry cartoons reminded the viewer of a theatrical stage. Many of the characters in these cartoons reciprocate gestures or glances. Tomlinson notes that The Cherry Vendor was placed in the same room as The Militar and the Lady, a tapestry that showcases the petimetra, the purported anti-maja.9 She argues that Goya wanted to elevate the genre by including visual puns and by emphasizing interactions among the various types. She also likens his tapestry cartoons to Ramón de la Cruz’s sainetes. Bourgoing asserts that Goya “pourtrays [sic] in a pleasing stile [sic], the manners, customs and games of his country,”10 and he suggests that sainetes and tonadillas “bear the national stamp” in their portrayal of Spanish manners and habits.11 Both the playwright and the painter depict types as stock characters. Goya’s and others’ placement of these types in genre scenes created new subjects that both appealed and responded to an audience fascinated with Madrid’s constantly shifting demographics. Given the modern city’s influx of immigrants, such images helped categorize types and their characteristics. Sainetes provided the most common theatrical manifestation of majismo, serving as a venue to showcase the performativity of these types. Such comedies offered the public an ideal platform for exploring social issues and interactions among groups. Jesús Cañas Murillo argues that the audience would have identified with the types represented, underscoring the believability of the actors’ performance of such characters, who seemed “genuine.”12 Many visitors to Spain regarded these theatrical works as “authentic.”13 Bourgoing suggests that the characters accurately represent the comportment and the clothing of society’s lower echelons, including the “porters, flower girls, and fish-women, who have all the gestures, manners and language of those he has seen a hundred times on the street.”14 In the nineteenth Majas, Elites, and Female Agency 117

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century, travelers continued to remark on these plays. For instance, Captain S. S. Cook stated, “The sainetes are well given, and represent pure and unadulterated pictures of common life; the whole scene and actors being produced with a truth and spirit unknown on any other stage.”15 His use of the word “pictures” is significant because it connects the theater with artistic manifestations of the same theme. Alexandre Dumas opined, “The sainetes are especially worth seeing for their portrayal of national traditions, and every facet of the Andalusian character is mirrored in these delightful trifles.”16 The association among the Spanish character, popular types, and Andalusia is significant; while this connection was debated in the 1700s, it took on greater meaning in the nineteenth century, when southern Spain was viewed as emblematic of the entire country (see the conclusion). Foreigners deemed these wildly popular farces and songs as representative, colorful, and comedic. Many Spaniards, however, criticized the national associations and cultural value of sainetes and tonadillas, much as they argued against the bullfights as a source of pride. During the eighteenth century, the campaign for theater reform became increasingly vital to the widespread improvements suggested by the ilustrados, above all Jovellanos. Such dramatists as Tomás de Iriarte, Nicolás Fernández de Moratín, and his son Leandro Fernández de Moratín sought to instruct the public through their plays and to revitalize contemporary playwriting. The saineteros Ramón de la Cruz and González del Castillo also contributed to this literary reform movement. Spanish periodicals served as an instructive way to disseminate criticism against the theater. In an article in the Censor, Félix María Samaniego “spoke about ‘this vice from which even the most illustrious suffer,’ and blamed the influence of the popular comedies and short plays . . . for seducing the public with realistic portrayals of the pursuits of majos and majas.”17 Particularly worrisome was the effect that these plays had on foreigners, who expressed fascination with these types. In March 1784, the Literary Memorial published an article on the state of theatrical art in Madrid. As Charles Kany discusses, the author launched a critique on the use of fine fabrics and adornments when actors dressed as popular types, which fueled the frenzy among the upper classes, who often sported traditional attire in public spaces and at masquerades. The article addressed the plays’ presentation of popular types as inaccurate, as the theatrical garb was ill-suited to such characters based on social class.18 Viewed as detached from the lived experience of “real” street vendors, such idealized portrayals onstage relate to the numerous pictorial depictions of these types clothed in elegant dress and set in pleasing landscapes. In evaluating the theatrical representation of majas in González del Castillo’s plays, Sala Valldaura argues that this type serves as either the protagonist or the antagonist and has as her companion either a majo or a petimetre. The maja’s ability to choose between the majo and the fop supports the idea that she has greater social freedoms and that her charms influence all men. It also plays on fears of social-class mixing, creating a source of conflict between majos and other masculine types, 118  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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who fight over the majas. In an anonymous engraving, The Petimetra on the Prado of Madrid (fig. 42), the female figure is identified as the main subject; however, she stands pivotally between two apparently opposite male types, the petimetre on her arm and the disinterested majo. According to Tomlinson, the print “satirizes by juxtaposition the virile majo and the effeminate petimetre.” She points out that Goya frequently overstated such differences in his cartoons and that an eighteenth-century audience would have understood them as exaggerations, not evidence of real life,19 much like the representations of types in sainetes by González del Castillo and Ramón de la Cruz. Regarding sartorial clues used to indicate types, Sala Valldaura states that Cruz offers more specific information in his comedies than González del Castillo, including descriptions of particular garments (for example, jubón a lo majo) and materials (such as silk).20 Sala Valldaura indicates that the language of the majas, as directed by the playwrights, is aggressive, requiring emotion and assertive intonations in conjunction with exaggerated gesticulations that create “a defiant posture.”21 By linking her bodily and linguistic expression during the performances, the dramatists (and actors) reinforce the audience’s idea of the type—something also achieved through visual depictions of majas. Both playwrights and composers stressed the importance of combining the maja’s arrogant corporeal movements with her words (either spoken or sung), often to convey her embodiment of “community belonging.” In the tonadilla The Constant Maja, the singer expresses her pride as a maja: Maja was my grandmother all her life. Maja was my mother; majas are my aunts; majas my sisters; majas my neighbors, and I am also a maja.22

Figure 42

Anonymous, The Petimetra on the Prado of Madrid, n.d. Biblioteca Nacional, Madrid de España. © Biblioteca Nacional de España.

In this instance, the character foregrounds the familial, female bond of possessing majeza, further justifying the maja as a legitimate Spanish figure with a link to the Majas, Elites, and Female Agency 119

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past. The reference to “my neighbors” additionally conveys the importance of the community in which similar types lived and worked.

Dress, Identity, and Politics While the maja’s garments are meant to stress continuity from the past to the present, her garb, as imagined in the second half of the 1700s, was updated in response to fashion trends. The maja’s attire contributed to the formation of new styles, creating an exchange between indigenous dress and fashion. The twofold nature of the type’s dress metaphorically relates to the maja herself, as a figure positioned between tradition and modernity. With her increased prevalence in art, in theatrical pieces, at masquerades, and in public, the maja as a trope raised concerns about her value and her influence, especially with regard to elites. Thus, debates about the maja, her clothing, and her national worth came under scrutiny during the second half of the eighteenth century. The government regulated garments such as the mantilla and other kinds of veils, regarded as quintessentially Spanish both prior to and during the first century of Bourbon rule. As political climates evolved, maja dress was embraced as a vehicle to express popular sentiment by the mid-1790s, most notably by the Bourbons. Goya’s Queen María Luisa in a Mantilla of 1799 (fig. 60) is an authoritative statement of this royal union with the populace, as I discuss in chapter 5. With greater importance placed on dress as signifying national character and with elite women’s emulation of maja style, female attire was subjected to increased politicization. While many evaluated its putative autochthonous qualities, the government sought to regulate clothing based on social class, moral issues, and economic concerns. In their varied attempts to modernize the capital, the Bourbons initiated reforms targeted at garments, fabrics, and tailors, in part to curb luxury spending on foreign imports and to bolster Spain’s textile industries. Through the association of maja garb with Spanishness and the type with artisanal practices and textile workers, the traditional quality of the female popular type was discussed and imagined as a viable and powerful image for the benefit of the country. Such a positive perspective on clothing deemed castizo often made its inclusion in elite women’s wardrobes more acceptable. While variety existed in the maja’s attire, in general she wore a corseted bodice; a skirt (of varying colors and materials, and occasionally with decorative elements) that was sometimes called a guardapiés (for its coverage of the lower legs and part of the feet); a basquiña or saya (petticoat) that was usually black, often sheer and worn over the inner skirt, and sometimes trimmed with lace, braids, and frills; a short jacket (often referred to as a jubón); a hairnet (redecilla), a silk kerchief or hairpiece used to gather the hair (escofieta, escofía, or cofía) that was decorated with tassels or ribbons, or a comb with a large ribbon rosette; buckled shoes; and a mantilla in white or black.23 Additional items included an array of accessories, such as caps, 120  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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shawls, and fans. Regional garments impacted the standard maja garb, in part as a result of the internal migration to the capital from different provinces, each of which had its own traditional apparel and styles. Pan-European trends were also incorporated into maja dress to generate novel fashions, which were particularly appealing to elite women. Many items in the maja’s wardrobe originated before the dynastic change. While the fan has been viewed as an integral element in Spanish women’s dress prior to and during the 1700s, this accessory was also popular in other European countries and was typically associated with elites. In the eighteenth century, the French produced the largest number of fans and helped make this accessory “an object of seduction in palatial parties and during strolls.”24 Although France dominated the export market for fans in the 1700s, Spain’s history with this item began centuries earlier with an emphasis on small artisanal production, along with the importation of fans from Japan and China. For instance, the East India Company popularized the chinoiserie style through fans produced in Asia and those created in Spain in imitation of supposedly “exotic” motifs. During the first century of Bourbon rule, a more industrial production system took on the fabrication of fans, particularly in Valencia, with the foundation of the Fan Makers Guild. Valencia was also the site of the Royal Factory of Fans, already in production by 1802.25 The fan functioned as a fashionable accessory but also “encouraged new forms of gestural expression,”26 which would complement artistic depictions highlighting the maja’s performative sensuality and facilitate elite emulation of such flirtation. Another popular item associated with the East was the large hair comb, or peineta. Generally made of wood, shell, or ivory and composed of thick bristles, the peineta came in a variety of sizes and could be worn in different ways. According to Ruth de la Puerta, the Spanish comb demonstrated Philippine influence. The tall hair comb became a fashion trend in the mid-1700s and, when worn with the mantilla, was part of typical Spanish dress, countering French styles in vogue in the capital.27 Sousa Congosto states that the basquiña heralds from the fifteenth century. Its use was widespread in the 1600s, and its association with popular styles dates to the eighteenth century.28 During the Hapsburg reign, the basquiña was often used in combination with the enormous guardainfante, a wide, hooped farthingale or pannier (tontillo) made of various materials, including wire and whalebone. Seen in such works as Diego Velázquez’s Mariana of Austria (1652), the guardainfante reached the height of its popularity (and its maximum girth) during the reign of Philip IV, despite some negative associations and subsequent governmental restrictions, exemplified in the (ineffective) decree of 1639 that prohibited its use at court.29 Due to the influence of French styles in Spain over the course of Charles II’s reign, however, the guardainfante lost favor, and, for the most part, Spanish women went on to wear the basquiña without this cumbersome undergarment (though smaller tontillos persisted). During the initial years of Bourbon rule in Spain, women used falbalas (decorative flounces of varying sizes and materials) to adorn the basquiña.30 Thus, Majas, Elites, and Female Agency 121

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while the petticoat retained its presence in Spanish women’s wardrobes and its associations with national dress, its transformative use before and during the 1700s exemplifies its response to fashion trends. Part of the confusion about types and social station relates to the practice of wearing mantillas and basquiñas in public. All women wore these pieces (or some variation) while outside and in church. Even prior to the eighteenth century, black was the favored color for the basquiña, though Spanish women wore it in a variety of neutral tones. Made of any number of fabrics, the most common being silk, taffeta, velvet, and muslin, the outer skirt could be adorned with lace or fringe and constructed with flounces or pointed ends. In addition to its “national” associations and link to the Hapsburg court, by the 1790s, the basquiña had become a trendy garment that could be varied depending on the overall outfit. It was an ideal item for elite women seeking to express their pride in traditional dress and their fashionable acumen. That the basquiña was worn by noblewomen in the 1600s legitimized it as a garment worthy of use by Spanish aristocrats in the eighteenth century, though in an updated form. José María Blanco y Crespo, also known as Joseph Blanco White (1775–1841), a writer and statesman who lived in Spain and England, commented on the mantilla and the basquiña in Letters from Spain (1822). Born in Seville to a Spanish mother of former aristocratic wealth and a father of Irish Catholic background whose own family had settled in southern Spain to avoid persecution, Blanco White wrote a series of sketches about Spanish manners that were originally published in the New Monthly in 1821–22. The sketches were then collected and made available as a whole in London in 1822 as Letters from Spain. Recounting observations from his youth, Blanco White observes, “The ladies [sic] walking dress is susceptible to little variety. Nothing short of the house being on fire would oblige a Spanish woman to step out of doors without a black petticoat, called Basquiña, or Saya, and a broad black veil, hanging from the head over the shoulders, and crossed on the breast like a shawl, which they call Mantilla. The mantilla is, generally, of silk trimmed round with broad lace.”31 He thus reinforces the association of the basquiña and the mantilla as traditional female garments used by all Spanish women. Unlike the gender-specific outer and inner skirts and mantilla, the silk hair kerchief—the cofía, escofieta, or escofía—was sported by both men and women and dates to the medieval period, though obviously it underwent stylistic changes.32 The cofía’s usefulness in disguising unwashed hair—much like the hairnet, or redecilla— gave it a practical purpose, although the variety in patterns and materials used for this garment also points to its fashionability. Items such as flowers, velvet hats, and hair combs added decoration to mantillas, the cofía, and the redecilla. Like the cofía and the redecilla, the jubón was popular with both men and women. This short, tight jacket, as stylized in the eighteenth century, derived from military uniform, and by the mid-sixteenth century, women wore it in conjunction with the inner and outer

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skirts. In the 1700s, this garment was shortened and cinched at the waist, and it was incrementally associated with styles worn by majos and majas.33 The mantilla was only one of several types of head coverings and/or shawls used exclusively by women.34 Made of any number of materials, including silk, cotton, wool, tulle, felt, muslin, and taffeta, mantillas could be further enhanced with lace pattering, printed designs, gold or silver thread, embroidery, braids, fringe, and velvet borders, and were often worn with hair combs to create a dramatic cascading effect. Despite the mantilla’s traditional qualities, regional differences existed, offering infinite variations in style, size, color, and material—all of which bore emblematic meanings. Although the mantilla carried both gendered and popular associations prior to 1700, its link to the maja solidified these vital connections in the second half of the eighteenth century. The mantilla functioned as an object that recalled visions of Spain’s Golden Age of courtly elegance and traditional festivals and ceremonies, and, simultaneously, a modern Spain. The new styling of the object, coupled with complementary garments, crafted an image of Spanish femininity, particularly embodied in visual depictions of the maja, though also seen in representations of the petimetra. The mantilla conveyed several, often conflicting, associations. For example, it was worn decorously in church to bestow modesty on its wearer. The mantilla could also be used to conceal parts of the face, providing a dangerously ideal disguise for a woman conducting clandestine business; it generated mystery as to the identity of the woman underneath, making her seem more tantalizing than without the veil. In many visual examples, the maja embodies these dual characteristics, as she is revered for her national pride and also arouses attraction and possible suspicion. The artist’s particular styling or arrangement of the mantilla could alter the meaning of the work and suggest general attributes about the wearer’s character and conduct. Although this garment’s association with customary clothing has persisted, in the second half of the eighteenth century, it simultaneously became an object of fashion, as innovative designs were combined with other clothing to form new, chic styles. In its fashionable guise, elite women popularized the mantilla as an acceptable means to express their identity as Spanish. The mantilla was first documented in Spain in 1483. Carmen Bernis identifies the mantilla as a luxurious object of immense value worn only by the queen and noblewomen in the court of the Catholic monarchs Ferdinand and Isabella.35 By the seventeenth century, women of all social ranks wore it, popularizing the mantilla as distinctly Spanish. As De la Puerta suggests, from the seventeenth through the nineteenth centuries, women donned the mantilla for promenading, horseback riding, making social visits, and as a sign of respect when in mourning and while attending church or religious processions.36 According to De la Puerta, the mantilla “represented the passage from early childhood to youth” and was a symbol of beauty and distinction, as girls learned how to arrange the garment around their hair so that it would fall across the chest and torso in a pleasing manner.37 In this symbolic

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capacity, the mantilla served as a marker of Spanish femininity—a way of exhibiting a young girl’s blossoming womanhood. In Goya’s drawing Maja Showing Off in Front of Three Others of ca. 1794–96 from Album B (fig. 43), the central figure gracefully moves with her arms outstretched as if dancing, keenly aware of the gazes she draws from others. In this pose, the sheer mantilla falls delicately over her face, shoulders, and arms, while she holds her closed fan erect. With flounced layers of lace, a bow adorning the bodice, and other decorative details, the maja’s garments are assuredly a source of pride, but they are also means by which to flaunt her youthful charm, balletic refinement, and Spanishness. While she is identified as a maja via her dress, she is sumptuously adorned; moreover, her corporeal finesse recalls the somatic ease of elites, who were supposed to exhibit poise and refinement with every movement. The mantilla became a performative object through which a Spanish woman showcased her femininity, personal style, and local alliances. While such agency was often regarded favorably, the veil’s ability to grant its wearer freedom, when draped so that it concealed her identity, was generally viewed with suspicion, ushering in a series of sanctions beginning in the sixteenth century. In the 1700s, this unease came into conflict with the mantilla’s emblematic affiliations, since the wearing of the mantilla denoted Spanish identity; however, criticism and legislation were directed primarily at the manner in which the object was arranged across the face, not at the clothing itself. Foreigners commented on the mantilla’s popularity as an essential garment in Spanish women’s dress and on its potential for scandal. As Joseph Baretti notes, women had to put on both their mantillas and their petticoats before heading to church. He describes the basquiña as a “black petticoat, commonly of silk, which covers their gowns from the waist down” and the mantilla as a “muslin or cambrick veil that hides their heads and the upper part of their bodies. If they do not turn up their veils, as some of them will do both at church and in the streets, it is difficult, if not impossible, even for husbands to know their wives.”38 Baretti’s sardonic observations pertain to one of the main points of contention about the mantilla prior to and during the eighteenth century—its ability to conceal the woman underneath, generating anxiety about its use to disguise the identity of its wearer. If husbands could not even recognize their own wives, as Baretti suggests, then such a problem was deemed necessary to regulate. In a similar vein, Bourgoing connects the mantilla’s ability to mask with its seductive allure. He states, “Their veils (mantillas), the only remains of their ancient slavery, now serve no other purpose than to defend them against the sun, and to render them more attractive. A tissue at first invented by jealousy now belies its intention. Coquetry has made it one of its most seducing articles of dress, and, in favouring half-concealment, has indirectly encouraged the stolen glances of love.”39 Madrid’s theaters served as ideal places for women utilizing their veils in order to engage in clandestine behavior incognito.40 Bourgoing

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Figure 43

Francisco de Goya, Maja Showing Off in Front of Three Others, from Album B, 1796–97. Photo: Princeton University Art Museum / Art Resource, N.Y.

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assesses the veil’s contemporary use as a means to attract and invite inappropriate gazes, which corresponds to the primary reason for the restrictions on it. Although the veil was regarded as emblematically Spanish and worn by nobles and laborers alike, it was one of the most contentious garments in the history of Spanish sartorial legislation. While Baretti and Bourgoing address the dilemma posed by the mantilla in the 1700s, such disapproval was not new. Criticism launched at various kinds of mantles first surfaced during Philip II’s reign (1556–98), when the Cortes de Castilla (royal council) petitioned the king to “outlaw women from appearing in public with their faces covered—that is, from dressing as tapadas.”41 The council’s objection to this veiling technique was rooted in the freedom that women experienced when covered. They could potentially conceal their identities and social standing, creating uncertainty and the possibility for inappropriate behavior. Philip II viewed the council’s suggestion as the correct course of action and prohibited women from covering their faces outside of the home, first in 1590 and again in 1594 and 1600. This prohibition was also enforced by Philip IV in 1639.42 Ladies who concealed their heads and faces or part of their faces enough that their identities were masked experienced greater liberty when mingling with others in public; these veiled women also served as inspiration for literary and artistic works.43 In Goya’s The Cherry Vendor (fig. 41), the street crier wears her mantilla so that it drapes down her back, having been fastened to her hair with a comb and other ornaments—a style that would have been viewed as acceptable because it did not disguise the figure’s identity. In Popular Types (fig. 44), Lorenzo Tiepolo includes two semicloaked women within a larger group of Spanish types. The center figure, who peeks out from the crowd, wears a plain white mantilla that covers most of her hair and neck, and the left-most woman sports a lace-bordered black mantilla that also shades much of her head and face. The pastel is more provocative than Goya’s The Cherry Vendor due to its partially disguised women, and the glances among the group members and the center woman’s gaze at the viewer add drama to the work. While Tiepolo emphasizes the women’s appeal through their semicovered faces, the figures’ eyes are still clearly visible. He also includes a woman who opts not to wear a mantilla, but instead displays a variety of patterns and fabrics for the spectator’s pleasure. Before 1700, one of the most controversial styles was the taparse de medio ojo; women wore their veils so that only one eye was revealed. Laura R. Bass and Amanda Wunder argue that this fashion was considered “spectacularly seductive” in Hapsburg Spain and was specifically associated with Seville.44 The link among coquetry, veiled women, and Andalusia prior to the eighteenth century points to an important precedent for similar connections made during Bourbon rule. Moreover, it highlights dress’s ability to enhance a Spanish woman’s sexuality, playing on common motifs such as danger and mystery, characteristics exoticized by both Spaniards and foreign travelers in the late 1700s and early 1800s. Many scholars have examined the possible origins of taparse in Spain. Juan de la Cruz Rodríguez and José Deleito y Piñuela suggest that the female practice of 126  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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Figure 44

Lorenzo Tiepolo, Popular Types, ca. 1770. © Patrimonio Nacional.

covering the head in public dates to the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. De la Cruz Rodríguez explores the derivation of this practice by studying the writings of Spanish historians: while some called the tradition Semitic in origin, others, including the Madrid-based historian Antonio de León Pinelo (1594–1660), believed that the Spanish arrived at the taparse de medio ojo by adapting Arabic styles worn by Moorish women in Spain. De la Cruz Rodríguez states that despite its possible Moorish source, veiling served as an expression of feminine honesty and reserve under Christian rule.45 In the context of the 1639 decree against mantles, De León Pinelo published Antique and Modern Veils (1641) to shed light on the history of veiling techniques. This treatise provides vital insight into seventeenth-century attitudes Majas, Elites, and Female Agency 127

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about veiling’s history and contemporary practice. Writing from a nineteenth-century perspective, Ángel Stor points to the distinctions between veiling fashions in Spain and the rest of Europe, which he attributes in part to the pronounced “Semitic” and “Oriental” influence in the Iberian Peninsula.46 While many view Moorish-Christian contact in Spain as the potential root of such cultural exchange, Bernis proposes that the stylistic differences between the two methods of veiling reveal no direct relationship between the Arabic and Spanish traditions.47 Regardless of its origins, as Bass and Wunder suggest, the tapado fashion “was so thoroughly assimilated by the 1580s that the council banned its use, not because of any connections to the Hispano-Muslim past, but rather out of concern for the dangers that the legislators alleged it posed to the republic in the present”—namely, the “modern problem” of veils concealing the identity of the women underneath them.48 The potential for misconduct by women under the protection of veils continued to trouble the government after the dynastic change in 1700. While most scholarly attention has been directed at the notorious cape and chambergo, which underwent regulation in 1766 (see chapter 2), Esquilache’s policies also attacked female dress, politicizing veils. While the monarchy argued that public safety was the primary concern, tensions regarding class difference—for example, the inability to distinguish noble ladies from majas—prompted the restrictions against female coverings. The 1766 decree did not seek to curtail the use of veils entirely; rather, women had to wear these items in a way that made them recognizable. As discussed in chapter 2, recent scholarship has considered lower-class hunger and desperation as the more powerful motives for the riots of 1766 than the restrictions on clothing, although the garments took on symbolic value because of their associations with the rebellion. While men’s involvement in the uprisings has been documented as evidence of the tensions between authorities and the poor, working women also participated in the unrest.49 Other forms of criticism launched at female dress in general came from moralists, such as Matías Diéguez in his treatise The Mirror of the Light that Destroys the Darkness of Ignorance (1748). He chastised women for using their attire to attract male attention, associating fashion and luxury with the feminine deception of men, similar to the objections to the mantilla. Diéguez viewed women’s observance of trends as vain. Provocative dress, including corsets that emphasized the chest, was not only viewed as improper but also cited as a reason for social, specifically marital, problems.50 Such writings supported dress regulation and sumptuary laws that sought to prevent economic ruin and maintain societal harmony and decency. As De la Puerta comments, eighteenth-century moralists favored modesty in dress, which they argued would encourage women to follow a more decent lifestyle.51 Additionally, Charles III prohibited the use of mantillas and mantos that were not made of either silk or wool. He issued this royal decree on June 28, 1770, in part to discourage the use of imported fabrics, such as muslin from India, which had rapidly gained favor as a material for veils.52 Like other restrictions on textiles typical 128  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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of Enlightenment reform, the 1770 royal order sought to facilitate native production, but it was not always effective in dissuading the use of foreign-sourced items. In an attempt to prevent the importation of fabrics and garments made outside of Spain, the monarchy continued to impose regulatory policies in 1779. Because the new decree made little impact, however, it was repeated in 1783 with stricter punishments, partially contributing to the influx of foreign dressmakers and fashion merchants into Spain who only employed French seamstresses, models, and apprentices “and were therefore viewed as a menace to Spanish trade and prosperity.”53 Madrid was teeming with foreign shopkeepers, including escofieteras (coif makers), and many of them also visited individuals’ homes to sell their wares. Dolls were used to display current trends, fabrics, and patterns from Paris, but were gradually replaced by the circulation of fashion plates in Spain from 1778 onward.54 Looking to the eighteenth-century economist Eugenio Larruga and his treatise Political and Economic Report About the Products, Commerce, Factories, and Mines of Spain (1787– 1800), Kany suggests that many Spanish shopkeepers and tradesmen pretended to be French to enhance their cachet with Spanish customers, since French tailors were viewed with higher regard and French products were in vogue.55 While the Bourbons in Spain patronized Spanish tailors, they also continued to employ French designers throughout the 1700s. Despite the popularity of foreign textiles, styles, and dressmakers, Spanish artisans and tailors participated in the design and production of clothing made in Spain. While some of the raw materials were imported from its colonies, others were taken directly from local terrain. Valencia, Catalonia, Toledo, and Madrid served as the principal textile areas. Catalonia was the center of cotton production and indianas— comfortable, lightweight fabrics (cotton, muslin, or linen) printed in imitation of Indian designs or other Oriental-themed motifs. These printed fabrics were popular in the second half of the 1700s.56 They relate to the overall craze for the exotic: Spain imported embroidered silks and ivory objects and furniture from the Philippines, as well as cotton fabrics painted with delicate flowery patterns from India (which served as the basis for the indianas).57 Because the rulings against foreign textiles were generally ignored, in 1789 the government issued a decree that permitted the free entrance and use of muslin, despite its earlier opposition to this fabric.58 Valencia was the primary location of silk production, though fabrication of this material also occurred in Murcia, Toledo, Zamora, and Madrid. To boost competition against silk manufacture in France, Ferdinand VI created the Royal Silk Factory of Talavera (in Castilla–La Mancha) in 1748, under the artistic direction of Juan Rubière and with the help of French artisans and the protection of the statesman José de Carvajal y Lancáster.59 The government saw Valencia as key to the revitalization of the silk industry, given its history as a pioneering force in manufacture and artisan labor. Valencian workers produced technical manuals for the creation of silk fans, silk garments, jewelry, and shoes. By 1769, there were more than three thousand textile mills and workshops in and around Valencia, and by the end of the Majas, Elites, and Female Agency 129

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eighteenth century, there were more than four thousand.60 In addition to the School of the Major Art of Silk in Valencia, after 1753 the Royal House Factory of the Five Main Guilds of Madrid was based in Valencia to promote this city’s silk production and to utilize its prime port, seen as vital to the Spanish economy. As with other royally founded institutions, the Bourbons hired foreigners for their expertise. In the case of silk manufacture, the government brought in French artisans from Lyon (for example, René M. Lamy) to assist in the teaching of new methods, such as the production of brocaded silk woven with gold and silver. Tensions erupted between French and Spanish workers who held distinct technical, commercial, and artistic visions for the development of textile production in Valencia.61 As Antonio Bonet Correa insists, Valencian artisans not only adopted French styles and practices, especially since these were in vogue, but also shaped new methods; for instance, the workshop of Antonio Arias made garments using printed velvet.62 Valencia is one of the largest Spanish cities, and its location on the Mediterranean allowed for cultural exchange and generated wealth during the eighteenth century, especially as silk production boomed. As De la Puerta states, the textile work of artisans “conform[ed] to a world both urban and rural and feminine and masculine.”63 While women provided much of the workforce in Valencia and in other parts of Spain, labor was typically gendered. Men commonly held prominent positions in the guilds, such as master tailors, who had apprentices and their own shops. As part of a tradition that began in Renaissance Italy, many Spanish tailors wrote treatises that included practical information, such as the discussion of specific fabrics, measurements used to cut them, and lists of measurements accompanied by images of cloth pieces lined with codes (corresponding to the measurement scheme) that made up completed garments. Referred to as libros de patrón (pattern books), the appearance of the first treatises coincided with an interest in mathematics and geometry.64 In Spain, such texts from the sixteenth through the eighteenth centuries contributed to design development, the practice of dressmaking, and techniques used in the construction of dresses, lending a greater professionalism to the trade. While the artisanal connection remained important, De la Puerta argues that tailors applied scientific and technical principles to the design and cutting of garments; their interest in codifying the trade’s rules fostered a modern conception of tailoring.65 She argues that these treatises offered a superior systemization and visual method to the practice of tailoring.66 Juan de Alcega is the first-known Spanish author of a tailor’s treatise, entitled Geometry and Design (1580; republished in 1789).67 In eighteenth-century Spain, Juan Albayceta published Geometry and Designs Pertaining to the Tailor’s Office (Zaragoza, 1720), which includes patterns for and discussion of a variety of garments, including a “basquiña con rastreo, y jubon a flores para niña.” Master tailors such as Albayceta dominated the field, leaving little room for others to cut and create garments. Although women played an active role in the production and embellishment of fabrics and clothes, the transformation of raw materials into usable textiles, and the selling of various items, they were still obligated to 130  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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apply for a special permit to design and cut clothes, a position held by male tailors and protected by the guilds. On February 22, 1772, the mayor of San Felipe (part of the Valencian region) granted Francisca Tormo the necessary license to cut and sew mantles, basquiñas, and other garments.68 While Tormo’s experience was certainly exceptional, other women took part in the textile industry in a variety of ways. As mentioned previously, Pedro Rodríguez, Count of Campomanes, was an ardent supporter of both male and female contributions to national industries. He believed that women should take up light industry, arguing that their abilities could be put to good use. In a speech given to the Economic Society in 1785, Jovellanos contributed to the debate by praising Charles III’s efforts to remove guild restrictions affecting women’s freedom to participate in the manufacture of goods.69 Textile fabrication and other fashion-related work (for example, spinning and embroidering) became more closely associated with women’s labor in the second half of the eighteenth century, as part of the gendering of fashion. Haidt considers textiles a vital component of women’s work regardless of social status and challenges the notion that women’s upkeep of the household or any domestic employment implied their relegation to a strictly private existence. She views the home as a “place of liminality, of traffic between inside and outside, public and private, with women’s work, activities, and decisions impossible to confine solely to the interior.”70 María Victoria López-Cordón Cortezo explains that the textile industry employed large numbers of women throughout Europe; in Spain specifically, both Campomanes and Jovellanos viewed women as holding the key to restoring the country’s production of spun cloth.71 As Haidt proposes, women’s work encompassed all aspects of textile-related labor, from sewing in the home to selling fabrics on the street. She asserts that the main guilds and the state built a “large-scale textile production chain” in and around Madrid that employed thousands of poor women in various stages of textile production.72 One of the most typical female laborers who traversed public and private sites was the dressmaker, as depicted by De la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla in Collection of Spanish Dress (fig. 45). She held an increasingly prestigious role in the dissemination and creation of fashion trends. As Haidt suggests, some dressmakers had their own establishments and engaged in home consultations and sales to evade guild regulations “governing the display and distribution of goods, and the control of women’s work.” The dressmaker was

Figure 45

Juan de la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla, Dressmaker, in Colección de trajes de España, tanto antiguos como modernos, que comprehende todos los de sus dominios, vol. 5 (Madrid: Casa de D. M. Copin Carrera de S. Geronimo, 1779­­–83). Biblioteca Nacional de España, Madrid. © Biblioteca Nacional de España.

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“frequently depicted as an independent entrepreneur, dangerous both because she is a woman peddling fashion (and idleness) to female clients, and because she is offering goods and services outside the corporate restrictions and ordinances that controlled tailoring, seamstressing and clothing manufacture in Madrid.”73 In De la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla’s print, she wears a black basquiña, a short jacket with a highly embellished shawl, and an elaborate coif with a large white mantle that balloons outward and then cinches at her hips. With flowers and other ornaments decorating her dress and with long gloves covering her hands, the figure presents her tools to the viewer, who is bombarded with a variety of colors, threads, fabric samples, and adornments. The artist displays the endless possibilities for the fabrication and styling of garments—typical of the work performed by dressmakers.

Majas and Marcialidad The dressmaker was associated with the working classes. De la Cruz Cano y Hol­ medilla presents her as refined, yet her appearance is still appropriate to her social station. Despite the dressmaker’s class status, as Jennifer Jones observes, in France mar­chandes de modes, along with other urban working-class women, were just as associated with fashion and the embodiment of its styles as elites, suggesting fashion’s ability to confound social status and democratize people’s appearances.74 As Gilles Lipovetsky notes, while fashion functions as an “instrument of social discrimination and a manifest mark of social superiority, fashion was nevertheless also a special agent of the democratic revolution.”75 In a series devoted to Spanish dress, the presence of the dressmaker is decorous, since she would have been partly responsible for the fabrication, styling, and design of female attire. Like many of the vendors, the dressmaker is a modern figure of this period, but unlike some of the street criers, she suggests a relatively new type, as women were gaining slow entrée to the male-dominated realm of tailoring and marketing of clothes. While the privilege of making, cutting, sewing, and styling garments often belonged to various other laborers and was protected by the different guilds, female dressmakers increasingly participated in the production of fashion.76 While De la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla does not represent the dressmaker as behaving improperly, not all depictions and discussions present working women with such elegance. Many female laborers were viewed with suspicion for their greater freedom to mingle in different social spheres, often providing critics with ammunition in attributing bad reputations to dressmakers and vendors. Because majas often worked as street vendors and thus had freer social interactions, they were sometimes suspected of deceitful conduct and equated with prostitutes. The majas in Goya’s Poor Things! (fig. 22) may be heading to the San Fernando workhouse, where they might be tasked with various textile-related labor (see chapter 2). Despite the importance of female workers as contributors to the national economy, the criticism launched at them was in part a result of the escalating role that 132  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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women played in all aspects of Spanish cultural, political, and social life, which made many of their detractors uneasy. Smith contends that, while the idea of using women to bolster the national wealth as spinners and dressmakers focused on women from the lower classes, all Spanish women were expected, as mothers, to inculcate industriousness in their children. However, the enlistment of women in projects to curb luxury and overall consumption was specifically targeted at elites.77 The greater presence of majas in artistic works relates to their growing visibility overall. That issues such as women’s femininity and sexuality were viewed and imagined with both suspicion and fascination made them powerful subjects for artists and writers looking to experiment with fruitful and potentially subversive themes—especially as ilustrados such as Francisco Cabarrús were proposing limitations on female admission to public and government activities and regulations of their behavior, such as the plan for a national dress code presented to the Women’s Council (see chapter 5). Just as anxieties developed about veils’ obscuration of social class and individual identity, Spaniards expressed concern about the amplified presence of working women in public, despite the positive effect that textile artisans, laborers, and shopkeepers had on national industries. Tomlinson suggests that as women frequented urban spaces in eighteenth-century Spain, “they became aware of their dress and gestures, and of how they might attract attention”; she views such freedoms as a “sign of transformation of society” typical of Europe in general. She connects this self-awareness to marcialidad, “defined in an account of 1774 as the custom of speaking freely and of liberating oneself from the old-fashioned honesty and modesty of past generations.”78 Tomlinson states, “The single most important trend in late eighteenth-century Spain that influenced the imagery of women presented in Goya’s tapestry cartoons was a new visibility of women on the urban stage. . . . The new visibility of women in these settings was accompanied by a new mode of behavior.”79 Beatriz Cienfuegos suggests that marcialidad was related to Spanish women’s use of mantles and veils and, in turn, to inappropriate behavior, arguing for the direct relationship between dress and manners.80 Kany views marcialidad as the emancipation of Spanish women from traditional customs, which allowed them to appear at barred windows and walk in the street unaccompanied, although he specifically associates the petimetra with these customs.81 Regardless of class or type, women in Spain enjoyed amplified exposure and freedoms, though the working woman’s apparent autonomy was romanticized by elites, who certainly did not have to experience harsh labor conditions themselves. Noblewomen could don customary garments in order to claim their Spanish identity without having to manufacture the textiles utilized in their construction. Many artists addressed the apprehensions surrounding women’s presence in all aspects of Spanish industry and in public. The complex and often problematic relationship between gender and national character informs such images. Majas, with their notoriously vulgar language, uninhibited sexuality, and outspoken manner, Majas, Elites, and Female Agency 133

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Figure 46

Francisco de Goya, The Laundresses, 1779–80. Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid. Photo: Album / Art Resource, N.Y.

provided artists with an opportunity to engage in these debates through the depiction of such exaggerated characteristics, while these qualities were also imitated by actors and elites. Elizabeth Kowaleski-Wallace argues that “the loose tongue, the propensity toward unlicensed speech or garrulity, was supposedly linked to an unbridled sexuality, as one bodily part doubled for another”; this further associated lower-class behavior with an overstated coarseness, especially in the conduct of women.82 The maja is not a protofeminist figure but rather an embodiment of many traits newly emerging in Bourbon Spain (and Europe) and one of many manifestations of the shifting nature of women’s place in Spanish society. The connection between the maja’s sexuality and prostitution, however, is particularly challenging. It reinforced the discomfort that many felt about her alleged authority over men, as expressed by Bourgoing, who wrote about the temptation to succumb to the maja’s allure. In The Straw Manikin (1791–92), Goya portrays a typical activity in which women would toss a male puppet into the air. While this popular practice generally took place at a fair or carnival, Tomlinson notes that Goya has removed the scene from such festivities and forces the viewer to “focus on the game, which invites interpretation as an image of female dominance over an effeminized male.”83 This tapestry playfully conveys carnivalesque themes, but Goya’s subversive twist relates to contemporary worries about women’s empowerment. In some instances, depictions of popular female types reveal a direct connection among women’s public freedoms as vendors, buyers, or workers, their more openly expressed sexuality, and prostitution. Goya’s cartoon The Laundresses of 1779–80 (fig. 46) represents notorious women, despite the benign nature of their work. Contemporary washerwomen worked on the banks of the Manzanares River, a site for bathing and sometimes dubious activity. Carmen Sarasúa examines the history of laundering and the gendering of this industry beginning in the second half of the eighteenth century, since it had traditionally been a male profession in Spain. Women could wash laundry for their own households, and maids could do this work as part of their paid chores for a particular family. But professional laundresses, like the women in Goya’s cartoon, had to use public laundering sites, since their job was a recognized trade and operated under strict regulations.84 The Manzanares River was the main center for Madrid’s laundering industry 134  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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until the mid-nineteenth century, and from the mid-1700s, washing there was controlled and privatized “by means of business deals which eventually led to the creation of small companies.”85 Sarasúa argues that the physical labor of laundering was considered a “social handicap,” in part because it was “not compatible with the reserve, modesty and fragility attributed by society of the female sex.”86 Goya plays on the reputation of laundresses as vulgar and unrefined. He places the head of one of his figures on the lap of another; she apparently naps while the others employ a ram to wake her up. One of the laundresses strokes the animal’s horn, and the others smile. Such lewd gestures were eventually prohibited in a 1790 decree regarding the activities and the appearance of laborers by the river.87 The Manzanares was a popular hangout for majos and elites, who would have witnessed laundresses at work. The potential for inappropriate interactions among different social classes may have helped spur governmental reform with regard to the behavior of laundresses. Since Goya’s cartoons of popular subjects were destined for elite consumption, the tapestries offered a pleasurable means to enjoy female urban experiences. Women not only sold, designed, and fabricated items, but they also participated in the consumption of goods. In The Fair of Madrid in the Plaza de la Cebada (ca. 1770–80), Manuel de la Cruz creates a cluttered scene in which both men and women sell and shop, suggesting that women’s buying power was of equal importance to men’s. The mantilla- and basquiña-clad woman in Goya’s The Crockery Vendor seems jovial and carefree, as she gently handles a ceramic bowl while a young man confidently leans back and offers a full view of his pottery. Tomlinson has proposed that the maja’s gesture and the inclusion of the elderly woman seated next to her make a strong case that there is more to this exchange than the sale of crockery.88 Goya has purposefully recalled a well-known procuress with artistic precedence in Dutch genre scenes. In Spain, however, the allusion was more specific. The older woman in this work refers to the theatrical character Celestina from Fernando de Rojas’s La Celestina, an early sixteenth-century play (1499–1502) highly esteemed by the artist’s contemporaries. Celestina is frequently represented in Goya’s Los Caprichos. By playing on the majas’ assertive behavior, sexual allure, and Spanish dress, he locates these women between lighthearted flirtation and prostitution. In Goya’s Good Advice (fig. 47), a young girl listens to her procuress while fanning herself. A mantilla covers her eyes, adding to her mysterious appeal. While the veil wraps around her shoulders and a decorative black basquiña covers her legs, the maja’s bosom is highlighted. Charles Baudelaire understood the link between the procuress and her youthful companions, as seen in his discussion of Goya’s repetitive use of grotesque themes, including “those slim . . . Spanish girls . . . with ancient hags in attendance to wash and make them ready for the Sabbath . . . or it may be for the evening rite of prostitution, which is civilization’s own Sabbath!”89 In Hush (fig. 48), Goya depicts a Celestina figure and a maja; the young girl, covered by her dark mantilla, puts her finger to her lips, making the gesture to be quiet as she leans in toward the bent-over elderly woman. Majas, Elites, and Female Agency 135

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Figure 47

Francisco de Goya, Good Advice, in Los Caprichos (Madrid: Goya, 1799). The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Gift of Walter E. Sachs, 1916, 16.4.10.

That this maja is nearly fully cloaked relates to criticism about the use of garments to conceal one’s identity and to reforms initiated by the government.90 In Even He Cannot Make Her Out (fig. 21), the maja’s fan plays a part in the seduction, as she smiles smugly at the currutaco’s inability to identify her as a prostitute. Grasping the fan close to her face with one hand, while the other holds the ends of her mantilla across her chest, the maja utilizes her sartorial accessories and 136  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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her physical attributes, such as her outward-jutting hip, to beguile the clueless man. Playing on the maja’s reputation for charming and disempowering men, Goya’s image invokes apprehensions about the expansion of women’s presence in society. He also mocks men’s disorientation when confronted with an outward show of flirtation. Schulz examines the sensory confusion of many of the characters in Goya’s series, including this currutaco, who lacks the mental acuity to identify the maja as a prostitute, despite his use of a quizzing glass.91 The man’s disorientation, however, is in part representative of the populace’s attempts to recognize women’s greater presence in public and their changing societal roles. While Goya suggests that this maja may be a prostitute, it does not mean that every maja he depicts holds this profession, causing further confusion. Goya’s portrayals of working women relate to broader themes rendering such women as libertine and alluring, complicating noblewomen’s wearing of castizo dress in public and in portraits (see chapter 5). Although Los Caprichos proved financially unsuccessful, many of Goya’s aristocratic patrons, including the Duchess of Osuna and Manuel Godoy, purchased copies of the series. Images of popular types circulated throughout noble networks, such as the salons hosted by Osuna, the Duchess of Alba, and many others, giving elite women access to myriad depictions of majas created for critical, satirical, and emulative purposes. As imagined by Goya in his prints, drawings, cartoons, and paintings, bodily gestures and clothes were integral elements in the expression of a maja’s femininity and were often utilized to convey popular ideas about her apparent liberal sexuality; however, these material and physical elements were not used solely for this purpose. As women of all social stations gained entrance into public life and participated with more frequency in Spanish industry, society, and cultural practices, they became more aware of their corporeal displays, which artists visualized. In many examples, Goya renders the maja’s femininity as sensual and confident, though sometimes dangerous as well. By using sartorial accessories such as the fan and the mantilla, Goya heightens the maja’s appeal. In his first two drawing albums—Album A (Sanlúcar) and Album B (Madrid)—he experiments with these themes. As discussed above, in Maja Showing Off in Front of Three Others (fig. 43), the young girl struts, fully displaying her graceful form and garments; she actively performs

Figure 48

Francisco de Goya, Hush, in Los Caprichos (Madrid: Goya, 1799). The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Gift of M. Knoedler and Co., 1918, 18.64(28).

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Figure 49

Francisco de Goya, Strolling Majas, from Album B, 1796– 97. Biblioteca Nacional de España, Madrid. © Biblioteca Nacional de España.

in front of her audience. Molina and Vega view the maja’s ostentatious exhibition of her luxurious dress as an example of the rivalry among women.92 Similarly, the maja in the center of Strolling Majas (fig. 49), from Album B, forms a serpentine twist accentuated by the tilt of her hips. Her highly embellished basquiña, her wrapped-around veil, her open fan, and her playful smile all convey an awareness of 138  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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her ability to attract attention by using bodily postures, garments, and accessories to her advantage. These qualities are also related to marcialidad, as women asserted themselves more forthrightly in public. In these two drawings, Goya emphasizes performance as central to the expression of the maja’s femininity. In Maja and Celestina Waiting Under an Arch, Goya makes the subversive link to prostitution overt. The procuress holds her rosary beads and gazes downward, while the younger woman appears sleepy as she leans away from Celestina. Goya depicts the maja in an unflattering and provocative pose, with her legs spread wide and her basquiña and underskirt revealing her feet, her ankles, and part of her calves. By giving the maja an unladylike posture, Goya reinforces the stereotype of majas as crass and hints at their indecency. As in many of his drawings and prints, he experiments with incendiary subject matter, including female sexuality, prostitution, gender relations, and women’s shifting place in Spanish society, which often disrupted traditional hierarchies. Goya played with these themes in paintings such as Majas on a Balcony and Maja and Celestina on a Balcony (both ca. 1808–12). In the former, four figures wearing traditional clothing are placed behind a railing. Two majas lean on the balcony and gaze toward the street, while their male companions stand behind them in the shadows. The men are concealed not only by the darkness of the interior room but also by their hats and cloaks. All four are positioned close to the viewer’s space, and the left-hand maja seems to engage our glance, although her eyes are mysteriously veiled by a black lace mantilla. Her right arm hangs gracefully between the obscure background and the spectator’s space; however, Goya has cleverly placed a high railing between us and the figures, emphasizing the women on display. His removal of any specific scenery, besides the balcony, commands visual attention to the elaborately dressed women. Unlike the naive currutaco in Even He Cannot Make Her Out, the two majos in this painting actively participate in the suggestion of prostitution and are equally complicit with the women. Goya makes use of garments to evoke a romanticized ambience for these popular subjects. The manner in which he depicts the figures wearing their veils, capes, and hats relates to the provocations for the bans on such concealing garments. Moreover, this image echoes shifts in representations from the 1780s to the turn of the century, as the maja was portrayed as not only flirtatious but also potentially dangerous—perhaps indicative of the increased expression of female agency in late eighteenth-century Spain. The works featuring majas as prostitutes and those that hint at this possibility through the majas’ assertiveness (like the works by Goya) point to a thorny problem. If majas were sometimes represented as prostitutes or even as metaphors for freer sexual conduct, how could they also be imagined as models of the Spanish national character? Because majas were viewed as the exemplars of tradition by many natives and foreigners beginning in the second half of the eighteenth century, it is crucial to address this seemingly incongruous connection between type and manners, whether subtle or explicit. While no means of analysis can reconcile these Majas, Elites, and Female Agency 139

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often-problematic ties, I would argue that it is in these intricate and multifaceted representations—that is, in the varied expressions of the myriad ways in which majas embodied Spanish femininity—that we can begin to understand the quandary posed by the greater presence of women in public and cultural affairs and attempt to coax meaning from a dizzying array of accounts and images addressing such themes. There is not one stable meaning conveyed or one fixed mode of representing the maja, in part because she herself was a manifestation and trope of the changing position of women in the second half of the 1700s. In many instances, the maja’s supposed unbridled sexuality makes her both appealing and mysterious, seemingly unknowable yet desirable. It is her boldness, her self-confidence, and her passion that make this type an embodiment of modern female experiences in the late 1700s, as women ventured into male territory. At the same time, representations of majas that emphasize her sexuality relate to the concerns expressed during a period of tremendous transformation and modernization in Europe. Thus, there is a possible pejorative connotation in artists’ depictions of these women as defined by their sexuality or even their sex, which resonates with Laqueur’s and Goss’s arguments about the “scientific” attempts to differentiate the sexes and attribute precise meanings to women and men. In part due to the maja’s sometimes licentious reputation, many ilustrados worried about her attraction, particularly for aristocratic women such as the Duchess of Alba, who sometimes modeled her conduct and her dress after the Spanish type. I propose that such disparate and seemingly combative representations of the maja lend her a greater complexity. Shifts in women’s status were being experienced beyond Spanish borders, making the maja only one player in a broader social revolution in women’s place and in the opportunities available to women. The diverse representations of majas also shed light on the fact that Spanishness itself and Spanish femininity were not strict categories, especially as women were exerting themselves in new ways, transforming seemingly stable means of identification. While majas are described as fiery, they are also imagined as engimatic or even modest. The common element in these renditions, however, is the maja’s Spanish identity. In her pride in country or neighborhood, her contributions to artisanal production and national industry, and her preference for customary garments and practices, the maja’s appeal lies partly in her multilayered characteristics. These seemingly contrasting qualities made the maja an attractive model for elite women to follow, further enriching discussions of women’s place in late eighteenth-century Spain and reinforcing the belief that majas best performed and embodied Spanish femininity.

Majas—Performing the Popular If the common denominator is the maja’s castizo identity, and depictions and descriptions of her take on supposedly indigenous qualities, then her corporeal display—that is, her poses, gestures, dress, and activities—is of vital importance in both 140  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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works of art and literature. The variety in representations of majas corresponds to the type’s characteristics and the ways in which certain elements, such as the mantilla, or activities, such as dancing the seguidilla, could “signal” her Spanishness, pointing to her popular identity as the key factor in her imagined portrayal. For example, regarding the mantilla’s performative power, the nineteenth-century historian Enrique Rodríguez-Solís considered the allure of the Spanish headdress—as exemplified by Goya’s mantilla-covered figures—as a testament to the maja’s Spanish identity.93 He described the mantilla as the most authentically Spanish clothing item and proclaimed it to be a symbol of national character, regarding it as poetic, mysterious, and provocative. That the mantilla served as a source of traditional pride and sometimes female modesty is reinforced by the inclusion of this item in the headdresses worn by polychromed sculptures of the Virgin, such as the Virgen de la Esperanza Macarena in Seville, paraded around Spanish cities and towns during Holy Week celebrations. Images of the Virgin wearing a mantilla conjured up notions of innocence, but as mentioned previously, this garment could also be used seductively and play the primary role in a woman’s performative flirtations. In typical Romantic spirit, Stor describes Spanish women’s eyes as magnified in beauty through the addition of various mantles. The relationship among Spanishness, femininity, and clothing is thus established: “The beautiful, black, and almond-shaped eyes of the Spanish woman, smiling like the dawn of a spring day, burning like the July sun, melancholy like the end of a fall afternoon, have not shone nor will shine ever again with the same charm, seduction, and elegance as when they are half-hidden by the wrap of the mantle or the piquant grace of the mantilla, so pure and Spanish.”94 Thus, the mantilla does not carry permanent meanings in artistic works or in written accounts, except for its direct association with a woman’s Spanish identity. In the way in which majas “performed” (à la Butler) their femininity through gestures, dances, and clothing, they embodied Spanishness via corporeal means. Thus, while the mantilla, like the maja’s other garments, was both a functional and fashionable material object, it was also a performative piece that could be used to underscore enticing or demure behavior, a topic I discuss further in chapter 5. By representing majas as alluring in their traditional garments, artists responded to and engendered contemporary ideas about Spanish femininity that coincided with literary discussions of this type. Many authors remarked on the maja’s beauty and adamant pride in direct connection with her Spanishness. In fact, many regarded the maja’s beauty as “sourced” in her Spanishness. Bourgoing considered the maja “the most seducing priestess that ever presided at the altars of Venus.” As noted earlier, he regarded her affectation as no more than a means to attract the male gaze, suggesting that her charms were often deceptive.95 Rodríguez-Solís described majas as savvy temptresses whose type was signified by delicate form and natural grace.96 In terms of her Spanish identity, he suggested that the maja distanced herself from the foreign influx into Madrid and instead considered herself Majas, Elites, and Female Agency 141

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to be the “true” daughter of the capital, exhibiting a combination of Arabic fatalism, Andalusian grace, and Castilian fortitude97—a point made complex by the fact that many majas migrated to Madrid from different Spanish regions, as discussed by Haidt. The maja was regarded as not only the epitome of Spanishness but also the inheritor of its multiethnic background, as a true blend of all of Spain’s historic cultures.98 Thus, the maja herself conveyed a multifaceted set of meanings, even as she embodied a diverse heritage grounded in traditionally historic Spanishness. Such associations lend legitimacy to eighteenth-century artists’ and authors’ constructions of the maja as a modern figure with a lengthy heritage. For example, the maja was the ideal representative of Spanish dance, in particular the seguidilla and the fandango, both of native origin. Extending the maja’s seduction to Spanish dancing, Bourgoing states, “A Spanish female dancing the Seguidilla, dressed in character, accompanying the instruments with castanets, and marking the measure with her heel with uncommon precision, is certainly one of the most seducing objects which love can employ to extend his empire.”99 Like Bourgoing, Sir John K. C. Carr opines that Spanish dancing can only be appreciated when Andalusian women wear Spanish garments, linking sartorial and regional identities.100 His commentary stresses the performative effect of wearing national dress; the dance is only captivating and “authentic” when performed by southern Spaniards in traditional clothes. Thus, bodily movement takes on more precise meanings when it is paired with specific attire. In Téllez’s printed and Camarón Bonanat’s painted examples of dancers and musicians, there is a suggestion of movement, despite the stilted gestures and affected poses of many of the figures. With castanets, guitars, and castizo garments, both artists portray modern Spanish subjects (see fig. 20). Unlike images of Spaniards dancing seguidillas and boleros—subjects that increased in popularity throughout the 1800s—Goya’s Album B drawing Two Majas Dancing (fig. 50) features two young women embracing, one of whom sports a frock coat, a garment typically associated with the fashionable currutacos of the 1790s. Despite this masculine garment, both majas wear the basquiña and have long, curly hair and slender frames, bearing the emblematic trademark of Goya’s majas as examples of feminine beauty. The facial expression of the maja who faces us seems to be one of utter rapture as she gazes intently at the other woman, dressed partially as a man. In this case, the dance is not the primary subject; rather, the tender intimacy, the variation on different-gendered dancing partners through role-play, and the use of clothes as identifying (or concealing) markers are of most importance here. The use of the man’s coat adds to the complexity of the drawing’s significance, since Goya renders the figure in both male and female clothing. The proximity of the dancers and the familiarity of their movements supply added layers of meaning. Whether they are friends playing dress-up or love-struck girls is not clear: the artist does not provide a definitive interpretation of these dancing majas. However, he hints at the freedom that the coat affords the young women to role-play, at the same time that their customary clothes place them firmly in the context of other images 142  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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Figure 50

Francisco de Goya, Two Majas Dancing, from Album B, 1796–97. Princeton University Art Museum, Princeton. Photo: Princeton University Art Museum / Art Resource, N.Y.

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of majas. That the maja is the figure chosen for this and other images suggests that Goya associated the type not only with popular themes but also with a more libertine sexuality. Additionally, that these two majas are the subjects of a playfully subversive drawing is appropriate to Goya, who experimented more freely with drawing and printmaking than with other media.

The Petimetra and Type Confusion In contrast to the maja, the petimetra, the counterpart to the petimetre, preferred foreign luxuries, which was viewed as an assault on Spanish industry, mores, and authority. Closely associated with idleness, the petimetra was the subject of scathing critiques. While the maja embodied the female popular ideal, the petimetra represented vanity and a paucity of industriousness. As a result, she was regarded as one who neglected her patriotic duties. Haidt argues that the petimetra was invested in the “search for, acquisition and assemblage of exclusive things that have no relation to productivity or economic development”; this “economy of desire” yielded “only disillusion and debts.”101 As with images of majos and petimetres, however, the pictorial differences between their female counterparts are not always so easily discerned. While majas wore clothing items considered to be Spanish, the petimetra sometimes also sported mantillas and basquiñas—though often intermixed with European dress—and generally used them at church and on the paseo, a practice of all Spanish women regardless of social station. Artists depict both types as contemporary figures who populate Madrid’s urban spaces. With the combination of garments, including the styling of maja attire, the distinction between fashion and popular dress was subtle and ultimately reciprocal, often leading to social-class and type confusion. Theatrical productions also contributed to the seemingly ambiguous nature of types, since a character could don the clothes of another type for comedic or didactic purposes. Playwrights created new characters by pairing types in tonadillas—for instance, the “peti-maja” or the “gremio-majo”—ultimately creating fluidity among social types. María Antonia Vallejo Fernández, or “La Caramba,” one of the most famed Spanish actresses of the second half of the eighteenth century, performed several works that included such combinations.102 Although these examples derive from a theatrical context, in which characters could exchange clothing and alter their gestures and speech to entertain and instruct the audience, they also correspond to the real world, where dress-up and role-play were possible—again unhinging the seemingly permanent nature of class distinctions according to one’s appearance, comportment, and discourse. At the same time that sainetes and tonadillas revealed the nebulous divisions among the types, they also contributed to the stereotypical characterizations of such figures. Sala Valldaura looks at González del Castillo’s exaggerated representations of the petimetra, who was prone to fainting and imagined illnesses. She was also condemned as “crazy,” “conceited and stupid,” “haughty,” and 144  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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a “coquette.”103 In Nicolás Fernández de Moratín’s La petimetra (published in 1762), the main character, Doña Jerónima, attempts to attract a rich husband by dressing in the finery of the fashionable, even though she possesses no dowry. This character uses expensive clothes to trick another into assuming that she has a higher social standing, suggesting the multiple ways in which dress factored into plots and the portrayal of characters. Haidt suggests that petimetras, in seeking to maintain a fashionable appearance, relied on pawned clothing or on servants who could rework old clothing, or indebted themselves to dressmakers, despite their lack of funds.104 The conflation of native and foreign elements in dress is represented in De la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla’s Petimetra with Mantilla During Holy Week (fig. 4). Although she wears a mantilla and a basquiña, the petimetra’s overall dress and jewelry suggest a taste for opulence. In comparing the petimetra and the maja (fig. 2) from this series, the similarity in pose, dress, and accessories is striking. The petimetra sports gold bracelets, earrings, and a large necklace; a sheer lace mantilla featuring a delicate design, lace-trimmed sleeves, and satin decorative pieces enhance the richness of her outfit. Such finery gives the petimetra a higher social standing than the maja, although Haidt has argued that the petimetra’s elite rank is predicated on pretense, not reality. De la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla provides a more elaborate title for the image of the petrima, which identifies a specific occasion for donning the headpiece and the petticoat—namely, Holy Week. During this week, all Spanish women wore popular garments (and many still do today). Thus, the artist links castizo attire to traditional Spanish activities and emphasizes feminine modesty, viewed as particularly appropriate for Holy Week. In this instance, the mantilla serves as a decorous headpiece rather than as a means to seduce. In The Shop of Geniani of 1772 (fig. 51), Luis Paret y Alcázar stresses the connection among petimetras, luxurious consumption, and vanity. The petimetra, pausing to gaze intently at a floral-patterned tiara, is engrossed in her shopping adventure, so much so that she ignores the baby reaching toward her. She is the central figure in the composition and the source of adoration. Surrounded by onlookers and the shop’s embellished interior, the petimetra appears to have infinite time to adorn her body with material pleasures. Dressing her in a mantilla, a choker, a basquiña, a long fur-lined jacket with wide sleeves, and gold shoes, Paret y Alcázar emphasizes that this figure’s display is equal to that of the store’s ornamented space. The drapery swags, the rococo mirrors, the framed paintings, and the name of the shop (of the businessman Geniani) all contribute to a construction of the petimetra as a spendthrift seeking pricey items that she probably could not afford.105 Despite the decorative role that the interior plays, Paret y Alcázar includes a few elements that comment on the petimetra’s narcissism. For example, the theatrical masks directly above her head underscore her falsity, while the golden-hued tondo of the Virgin and Child contrasts her lack of maternal acuity. Her elegantly coiffed companion, a delicately rendered petimetre, sits adoringly by her side, suggestively placing two fingers into the eye sockets of a pink mask. The petimetra is the focal point of the Majas, Elites, and Female Agency 145

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Figure 51

Luis Paret y Alcázar, The Shop of Geniani, 1772. Museo Lázaro Galdiano, Madrid. Photo: Gianni Dagli Orti / The Art Archive at Art Resource, N.Y.

composition; she is a modern woman focusing on her own interests and liberated from conventional constraints. Such freedoms celebrate the new urban Spanish woman who could browse for and purchase a wide range of products, especially with the expansion of foreign commerce. In connection to the characterization of petimetras as vain spendthrifts, Haidt suggests that this type is more than just a stock character: the petimetra “must (also) be understood as an important reference of contemporary cultural tensions around the importing and marketing of specific types of luxury goods.”106 The relationship among foreignness, luxury, licentious behavior, vanity, and women suggests the complexity surrounding eighteenth-century apprehensions about female consumers. Along these lines, Haidt argues that petimetras are “constructed as not just 146  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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‘fashionable women,’ nor even just vain women, but as consumers who do not satisfy their needs through the wearing of Spanish items.”107 In Paret y Alcázar’s The Shop of Geniani, the main character, despite her mantilla and her basquiña, exhibits a predilection for French and Italian objects. Thus, the contentious nature of the petimetra is closely tied to her alliance with imports, which does not make her a supporter of Spanish products and, thus, not a patriot. Ultimately, the petimetra is the anti-maja not simply because she shops, but because of her voracious taste for items that do not benefit Spain. Haidt stresses that the petimetra is a “trope through which cultural uncertainties around women’s presence in the marketplace parallel tensions around luxury, domestic manufacture and imports.”108 Similar to the types used in many other images to express political, social, and cultural beliefs, Paret y Alcázar’s petimetra does not represent a specific individual, but a generalized one who would have been easily recognized by her combination of fashion, her vain conduct, and her consumption of foreign goods. That she sports a mantilla and a basquiña does not make her a good model to follow, for she also lacks the ability to perform appropriate feminine Spanish conduct. While she may wear clothes considered traditional, her excessive behavior, her lust for fineries, and her foreign taste call into question her Spanishness. In Paret y Alcázar’s work, the petimetra’s corporeal display as a self-contained unit contrasts the maja’s extroverted exhibitionism and performance of castizo dances. Pablo Minguet y Yrol evaluated petimetres and petimetras in The Art of Dancing the French Style (1758–64), an illustrious dance treatise. The dance master specifies the exact bodily postures and gestures that this type would need to learn in order to execute French dances—in contrast to the maja’s performing of seguidillas and boleros. Regardless of their differences, both types of women were viewed as delighting in their own corporeal grace, in part resulting from the benefits of marcialidad. The fashionability of both types as represented in imagery in the 1790s, however, points to the increasing ambiguity generated by the intermixing of styles made popular by Spanish elites. Just as criticism launched at majas points to their problematic classification as traditional models, it is significant to note that behavior deemed inappropriate for women—greater freedoms in public, sexual assertiveness, and independence—was associated with both types. That majas were viewed, in certain instances, as more acceptable—though not necessarily as the ideal by ilustrados— could stem from perceptions of their class and of the expected conduct of women from lower social standings. Thus, majas, despite their negative associations, were the better alternative and offered a greater sense of national respectability, countering European models of feminine beauty and behavior and their “imitation” by the petimetra. Majas not only consumed but also produced and sold national items and served as superior agents of the new urban Spanish woman.

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CHAPTER 5

Majismo and Royal Identity

Francisco de Goya’s The Duchess of Alba as a Maja

Figure 52

Francisco de Goya, The Duchess of Alba as a Maja, 1797. Hispanic Society of America, New York.

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of 1797 (fig. 52) and Jean-Marc Nattier’s Madame Adelaïdede-France as Diana of 1745 (fig. 53) feature aristocrats in role-playing portraits. Nattier’s mixed portrait shows the woman as a goddess, while Goya’s painting portrays the duchess in the guise of the lower-class type. In the work by Nattier, the reference to Diana is decorous; such mixed portraits were common to the French rococo. In Goya’s painting, however, María del Pilar Teresa Cayetana de Silva Álvarez de Toledo (1762–1802), the thirteenth Duchess of Alba, makes a bold statement with her allusion to majas. Goya is more specific in his popular reference, yet he achieves an equally flattering depiction of the sitter. Although Alba is dressed as a maja, her garments are a more elegant version of traditional Spanish clothing. Her directed stare complements her dress: Alba affects the native type in fashion and gesture. The question remains, however: Why would an aristocrat want to be depicted in this manner? In appropriating maja style and castizo garments for his portrayal of Alba, Goya crafts a distinct Spanish identity for his sitter. The Duchess of Alba received tremendous interest both from contemporary travelers, who gossiped about her in their accounts of Spain, and from modern authors, who regarded her as a source of spicy intrigue. Much of the duchess’s life has been clouded by unsubstantiated reports of love affairs not only with Goya but also with the former

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Figure 53

Jean-Marc Nattier, Madame Adelaïde-de-France as Diana, 1745. Uffizi Gallery, Florence. Photo: Scala / Art Resource, N.Y.

prime minister Manuel Godoy and various bullfighters, and her fascination with popular customs has often been treated in a similarly romanticized manner. She was consistently pitted against Queen María Luisa and María Josefa de la Soledad Alonso Pimental, the Countess of Benavente and later the Duchess of Osuna (1752– 1834).1 In contrast to the tantalizing accounts of her life, she carried out several benevolent acts, including freeing a baby girl from slavery and adopting her, and in her final will, she left her estates and an allowance to those who had worked for her.2 Despite all of the rumors about her scandalous behavior, Alba was a powerful aristocrat who hosted a well-attended salon; patronized artists, actors, and musicians; and set fashions at court, promoting traditional dress to high couture. Such practices fostered an appreciation of the indigenous among aristocratic women, who could showcase their Spanish persona by dressing in customary attire for portraits, not just via their patronage of pictorial examples of majismo. In portraits, noblewomen in particular could generate direct links between themselves and popular types. 150  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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I examine the upper-class appropriation of castizo dress in the context of a greater appreciation of popular customs by focusing on the Duchess of Alba and Queen María Luisa, who were pivotal figures in the shift away from French influences in aristocratic taste. Alba fashioned herself in part after the bold maja, whose notorious behavior could be used to vicariously experience the supposed libertine lifestyle of the lower classes. As I suggest in chapter 4, the maja, as imagined in art, embodies Spanish femininity and occupies a central place between the past and modernity, making her an attractive, though sometimes contentious, figure as a model for upper-class women. Despite the maja’s complexity, I propose that she offered elites, such as the Duchess of Alba, a means to express their fashionable individualism, which served as a form of female agency. This vicarious act—both imagined (in works of art) and real (at the bullfight)—took the form of flirtatious role-play, emblematic of aristocrats in the second half of the eighteenth century. The duchess’s behavior evidences the degree to which her self-fashioning paralleled the fascination with urban types during the Enlightenment. Like Alba, María Luisa was an active patron of the visual arts and of majismo-inspired subjects. Two years after Goya painted Alba as a maja, he painted the queen in similar Spanish-themed garb. By focusing on their promotion of indigenous subject matter in dress and art, I investigate why majismo served as an inspirational vehicle for such expression at the Spanish court in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, how this phenomenon offered a rich and multifarious source for artistic experimentation, and how it was instrumental in crafting royal identity. This chapter seeks to complicate the fashionable image of Spanish elite women (and sometimes men). Dress was vital for expressing a woman’s taste, and it also provided an opportunity for “subtle political maneuverings”3 to convey partisan alliances. In referencing the maja in their dress and in works of art that decorated their homes, elite women utilized less traditional means to engage in current political and cultural topics, including the appreciation of the indigenous, which related to broader, pan-European Enlightenment ideas. As a type, the maja did not represent any one individual, but she was not as abstracted as personifications like “Liberty,” who was promoted in revolutionary France to embody the budding republic.4 Elite women could employ the maja, traditional garments, and customary subjects to forge their Spanish identity and offer decorous models for others, often more successfully than their male counterparts. As Susan Vincent states, clothing was “fundamental to an individual’s experience and creation of self, and mediated his or her relationship with others”; for “the privileged, the manipulation of appearances was a culturally sanctioned technique for advancement, or prudent self-preservation.”5 Vincent’s argument has relevance for María Luisa’s strategic wearing of traditional dress in her 1799 portrait; as she showcases customary garments, the queen celebrates her “Spanish” self in the context of new sartorial legislation (see below). As Theresa Earenfight proposes, queens were integral to the monarchy, despite the difficulty in accounting for their position in the political sphere and in more “private Majismo and Royal Identity 151

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locations of political power and authority.”6 She argues that monarchy was a partnership in which queens played a vital role. Artists contributed to the construction of Spanish identity for and by Spanish elites, especially in distinctly gendered ways. Gender is an especially important factor to consider; although there are many literary descriptions of noblemen and noblewomen dressed in popular clothing, it was far more common for artists to represent female aristocrats in fashionable maja wear. As the primary artist for chic portraits of the Spanish upper classes in the 1790s and early 1800s, Goya created stylish images of his clients with a distinctly castizo flair. While male clients also requested portraits by Goya, they generally chose fashionable European garments, not capes or chambergos. These significant gendered representations require further examination, and I address them below. Outside the realm of portraiture, however, artists depicted anonymous men and women in Spanish and foreign garb, sometimes in fanciful combinations and often for the display of current trends. I consider the relationship between diverse genres, including the reciprocity between portraits and fashion prints. Many images purporting to represent urban laborers in Spanish dress feature extravagantly outfitted figures, providing elegant versions of popular types for the direct consumption of a privileged audience. Although Alba and María Luisa served as essential figures in the promotion of traditional themes, they were not alone. While some aristocrats may have sported Spanish garments for primarily pleasurable purposes, others may have done so for political reasons; thus, I explore the differing motivations for donning the clothes of the popular class. From masquerades and bullfights to afternoon strolls in fashionable urban centers, aristocrats could showcase their local pride, in part negating the decipherable classifications that created groups based on socioeconomic status and profession. The act of role-play created class confusion, as individuals could slip in and out of “character,” making the usual methods of identifying a person’s class problematic. Such social slippage produced anxieties for the Spanish government, which desired to control its citizens.7 It responded with various decrees to regulate dress based on social class throughout the 1700s, for fear that sartorial blurring could generate behavioral slippage, while ilustrados attempted to curb luxury spending by means of a national dress project for women, which I discuss below. While Alba may have viewed customary garments as inspirational, she certainly would have opted for silks and lace, some of which were imported, for her couture versions, fueling the critics’ desire for sumptuary reform. Goya’s portrait of Alba from 1797 was part of a broader shift in aristocratic attitudes toward folkloric traditions during the Enlightenment.8 The growing scrutiny of women’s participation in the Enlightenment has encouraged scholars to address this period as one with many, sometimes disparate, voices and ideas. While the Enlightenment is associated with notions of reason, tolerance, and emancipation, it is also characterized as “repressive and incipiently totalitarian,” often not favorable to women’s rights and causes.9 Despite the sometimes contentious nature of this 152  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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period and its varied attitudes about women, scholars continue to investigate the numerous ways in which women contributed to important social, cultural, and political developments to better understand eighteenth-century female experiences.

Majismo, Masquerades, and Courtly Role Play One acceptable venue for dressing as a popular type was the fashionable masked ball, although guests might sport “exotic,” pastoral, and historic outfits as well. Between 1767 and 1773, the Count of Aranda organized such events primarily at the Coliseo de los Caños del Peral in Madrid, one of the city’s main theaters. Paret y Alcázar depicts the popularity of the masquerade in A Masked Ball (1768), in which delicately rendered figures arrive at the Prince Theater disguised in costumes. While many individuals inspect one another on the stage, Paret y Alcázar places additional figures in the theater boxes, offering them an elevated vantage point. As Molina and Vega indicate, this painting commemorates the 1767 dance in which rules were established to dictate the behavior of masqueraders. The Instruction for the Spectators of Masquerade Balls at the Carnival in the Year 1767 attempted to balance decorous conduct with pleasurable experiences, providing the standard for future events, though these norms targeted an upper- and middle-class audience, who attended masquerades.10 The act of dress-up suggests the theatricality of such festivities, in which disguise was vital to the masking of personal identities but, in the case of popular costumes, helpful in forging a collective identity. Masked balls limited the “readability” of dress and challenged participants to categorize a person’s class or gender based on sartorial clues. Elites costumed in the garb of majos and majas could express their Spanish persona, even if for primarily pleasurable purposes. In an environment where identity was mutable and playful, such dress-up offered a safe means to self-identify as an urban type for both genders. In the case of masquerades, uncertainty was central to the whimsical nature of the event. As Dror Wahrman suggests, the “essence” of the masquerade was “identity play,” and the masquerade itself was a “sanctioned, ritualized, to a degree even conventionalized, collective exploration of the possibilities inherent in the ancien régime of identity.”11 This collective component, via the use of popular costume, was essential for cultivating a “national” spirit among the attendees. In contrast to Paret y Alcázar’s panoramic view of the masked ball, in Isabel Parreño, Marquise of Llano of ca. 1773 (fig. 54), Anton Raphael Mengs depicts the wife of the Spanish ambassador to the court of Parma in an elegant interpretation of maja garb. Masquerade costume is a common thematic trope in European aristocratic portraiture of the 1700s. Parreño wears the traditional short jacket with puffed sleeves on the shoulders, a hairnet, and a velvet cap decorated with flowers, and she holds a mask in her right hand. Molina and Vega argue that her gesture of removing the mask is particularly telling: Mengs depicts the figure in a moment of revelation, when the marquise’s true identity is shown.12 Her left hand is placed on her hip to Majismo and Royal Identity 153

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Figure 54

Anton Raphael Mengs, Isabel Parreño, Marquise of Llano, ca. 1773. Museo de la Real Academia de Bellas Artes de San Fernando, Madrid.

capture the essence of the maja’s character. The brilliant plumage of the parrot beside her contrasts the gray and black satins of her outfit. Mengs’s choice to include the parrot comments on the pretense of her costume—while parrots were known to mimic sounds, the aristocrat imitates the maja. Such a playful pun complements the mask she holds, creating an obvious reference to the nature of dress-up at masquerades. In keeping with the greater appreciation for customary garments among elite Spaniards in the 1790s, Parreño’s husband commissioned the draughtsman Manuel Salvador Carmona to create a print version of the portrait, which would have reached a wider audience than the painting.13 The central figure in Lorenzo Tiepolo’s The Orange Vendor of ca. 1770 (fig. 55) is coyer than Parreño. The vendor poses with a fruit basket while others gather around 154  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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her in a tightly composed space that highlights the figures’ refinement. Despite her role as an orange seller, she wears a black mask that would suggest that she is in disguise. Her pearl necklace and decorative pink bow indicate that this street crier is most likely an aristocrat playing the part, rather than a “real” vendor. While many of Tiepolo’s pastels feature affected figures too coiffed to be actual urban laborers, in this work the subjects of courtly role-play provide the key themes, suggesting a direct relationship between the aristocrats disguised as popular types at masquerades (who also served as the patrons of Tiepolo’s works) and those individuals represented in the pastels. The allusion to the masquerade takes the form of a flirtatious exploration, as the street crier gives a knowing glance to the spectator. In contrast to the “cheekiness” of Goya’s orange vendor in The Picnic (fig. 39), Tiepolo’s hawker is alluring in her softly rendered features, graceful presence, and modish version of popular dress with distinctive European influences. In this pastel and Mengs’s portrait, the conflation of fashions and the reference to the masquerade blend aristocratic whimsy and castizo themes, which would have appealed to an elite audience. Elegantly attired masqueraders, whether “real” or in works of art, provided elite consumers with examples of dressing as popular types. The reciprocity between the masked ball and the theater, however, complements the contribution of actors and actresses to the fashioning of Spanish dress and the popularization of such modes in privileged circles, especially since many aristocrats patronized actors. Critics argued that the garb worn by actors who played popular types was too refined and only underscored the mania for well-designed versions of such dress. Sousa Congosto suggests that the theater had a tremendous impact on clothing styles. While the outfits worn by actors provided models that others could imitate, specific garments often took the name of actors, characters, or plays or had a direct connection to particular individuals, such as the “large ribbon adorned with a hairnet” sported by one of the most celebrated actresses, “La Caramba.”14 Antonina Rodrigo states that Jovellanos criticized aristocratic appropriation of La Caramba’s hairstyle in his satire A Arnesto. Rodrigo proposes, “Writing the tonadilla ‘Los duendecillos,’ about the censors of María Antonia, the composer don Pablo Esteve refers to the commotion that had reinforced the fact that the new fashion was not the exclusive right of majas.”15 By directly associating the “new” style of majas with fashion, Rodrigo points to the problematic division between indigenous dress and current trends: one is unchanging, while the other constantly evolves. Her comments indicate that garments considered to be traditionally Spanish became part of the sartorial vocabulary in the late eighteenth century, although many of them, such as the mantilla, had lengthy histories. While such items were, in fact, not new at court, their connotation as fashionable, castizo, and potentially malleable objects is more typically associated with the second half of the 1700s. The wearing of garments such as basquiñas by elite women not only associated them with Hapsburg courtly styles but also with trends, facilitating a correlation between tradition and modernity—much like the maja herself, who embodied such apparent dichotomies. Dress styles were often reciprocal, Majismo and Royal Identity 155

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since many elites gave clothing to their favorites. That actresses could inspire clothing fads points to the significance of the stage as a vehicle for showcasing popular types as fashionable. The interchangeability among the varied sources of dress (for instance, actresses, elites, works of art, and literary descriptions) supports the idea that the formation of fashions in eighteenth-century Spain did not simply occur as one source inspired the other. Actors assuredly participated in the promotion of certain garments and modes, but such instances occurred within a rich milieu of sartorial exchange and an increase in the castizo associations of traditional attire. This was particularly true in the 1790s, when dress could convey specific political affiliations, enhancing the importance of clothing and, in turn, artistic representations of elites wearing certain clothes. As celebrities in their own right, La Caramba and her main competitor, María del Rosario Fernández, or “La Tirana,” performed in Madrid in different theaters, amassed devoted followers, appeared in popular prints and periodicals, and, much like famous bullfighters such as the triumvirate of Romero, Delgado, and Costillares, mingled with Spanish notables. In Goya’s full-length portrait of La Tirana of 1799, he depicts the actress as if she is onstage, in contrast to conventional portraits of nobles set in landscapes. Her white-and-gold ensemble includes a sheer basquiña, an empire-waist dress, and gold detailing. It is accented by a salmon-and-gold shawl that dramatically sweeps across her body. In this combination of Spanish and European garb, the fashionable La Tirana does not require elite stature to be a model of current style. By using the same full-length format for his portrait of the actress as he does for Alba and María Luisa, Goya equates these women through dress and pose, regardless of their class distinctions. The wearing of heels, as opposed to the buckled flats typically worn by majas, also places La Tirana in proximity to noblewomen. De la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla provides examples of such styles in prints such as Antique Theatrical Spanish Dress, from his Collection of Spanish Dress, which shows a woman wearing the guardainfante. By specifically referencing a seventeenth-century undergarment and linking it to the theater in the context of a series that showcases current fashions and regional dress, the artist differentiates between contemporary and outdated modes. Recognizable as historic dress, the Hapsburg outfit also provides a counterpoint to the images of modern fads that relate to the national dress project for women (see below). While the “antique dress” represents a past style, it also serves as a partial model for some of the modern fashions that women were encouraged to wear in the 1780s, facilitating a continuation of this Spanish dress through the eighteenth century, as articulated by artists. In the series, De la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla reinforces the reciprocity among the theatrical, sartorial, and visual arts. Masquerades and the theater offered diversions for Spanish luminaries that complemented majismo-themed subjects favored by elites. In many of the tapestry cartoons by Castillo, the Bayeus, and Goya that were commissioned by the royal family, social interaction and the representation of types echo upper-class fascination with Spanish folklore. Xavier Bray views the 1770s as a key moment in the transition from

Figure 55

Lorenzo Tiepolo, The Orange Vendor, ca. 1770. Palacio Real, Madrid. © Patrimonio Nacional.

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generic Dutch-inspired scenes to specifically Spanish subject matter, citing Charles III’s accession to the throne in 1759 as a major impetus.16 This decade coincides with the earliest pictorial examples of popular types, as I discuss in chapter 1. Jutta Held attributes this phenomenon to a change in attitude toward the lower classes, implying that the royal family took them more seriously during Charles III’s reign.17 In contrast to the burlesque characters who entertained the Hapsburgs, these types and their customs were valued as potential political factors that needed regulation. In Goya’s Dance on the Bank of the Manzanares of 1777, he depicts an ensemble of popular types, with the basilica of San Francisco el Grande as a landmark. The four figures wear traditional garments and dance with castanets, indicating that the group is performing a Spanish piece. Goya’s figures could be “real” majos or elites imitating their dress and practices. Their interactions are set in an idyllic environment that celebrates a freedom from court rituals. In Blindman’s Buff of 1788 (fig. 56), Goya conflates Spanish and European themes. The game itself is typically associated with French rococo works that feature graceful, fashionably coiffed figures surrounded by tranquil settings, although its historical roots date to many centuries before 1700. Scenes of blindman’s buff and other forms of entertainment were popular subjects for the decoration of Parisian townhouses or country homes, and the game was viewed as an appropriate aristocratic form of amusement and exercise; it was rejuvenated with great enthusiasm by Marie Antoinette.18 Jennifer Milam reevaluates the relationship between the traditional emblems of this game and pastoral conventions in works by Jean-Honoré Fragonard. She argues that the blindfold has a practical application for the game and also conveys a powerful symbolic quality—that of blindness as a sign of “sensual stimulation,” as play provides “physical intimacy that would otherwise be shocking.”19 While the amorous nature of such gaming provided the opportunity for ample flirtation outside of courtly settings in both visual examples and real-life play, the fact that blindman’s buff was viewed as a way to express “aristocratic notions of self-display” and served as a sign of “noble status” is particularly relevant for Goya’s work, in which elites showcase their agility and finesse through their corporeal exhibitionism,20 while wearing a combination of Spanish and European garments. In Spain, blindman’s buff is referred to as la gallina ciega (the blind hen). In Goya’s cartoon, the players circle around the blindfolded man, who lunges to the right side of the composition, but the other figures duck out of the way, including the woman who arches her back and smiles knowingly toward the spectator. Despite its decorative function in a royal residence (in tapestry form), Blindman’s Buff relates to social fears expressed by ilustrados about the elite use of clothing normally worn by the lower classes, since such sartorial mixing could potentially create behavioral slippage, causing confusion of individual identities, just as the grouped figures are unrecognizable to the blindfolded man. Goya’s cartoon correlates to aristocratic appreciation of castizo themes that also benefited the lower classes. Elite enthusiasm for popular practices and dress 158  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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Figure 56

Francisco de Goya, Blindman’s Buff, 1789. Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid. Photo: Album / Art Resource, N.Y.

ultimately increased the social prestige of majos. Foreigners fueled the promotion of popular types as well, elevating the majos’ cachet and, in turn, reinforcing upperclass interest in native traditions. Like Goya’s cartoon, in which men and women share in the appropriation of customary garments, albeit in a lighthearted manner, Antonio Alcalá Galiano (1789–1865) concludes that the attraction to the majo’s dress was seductive for both male and female elites, offering them the chance to traverse social boundaries through imitation.21 Whether at masked balls, the theater, on the Paseo del Prado, or in art, aristocratic Spaniards enjoyed the romanticized pleasures of majismo.

Sartorial Regulation, the National Dress Project, and Female Agency With the increasing importance placed on fashion during the second half of the eighteenth century, its potential for transcending social-class boundaries, its suggestions of behavioral transgressions, its associations with popular characters, its Majismo and Royal Identity 159

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“sexing,” and its use to articulate individual and group identities, the desire to regulate this potent force implies that fashion was regarded as more than simply textiles and garments. Clothing, like language, was a defining characteristic of a nation for all social strata.22 As Lipovetsky contends, “Fashion helped reinforce the awareness of belonging to a single political and cultural community.”23 It was a viable vehicle for expressing political, social, and cultural affiliations that could be manipulated to one’s advantage, but its regulation often proved difficult to enforce. Women in particular viewed fashion as a means to experience agency at a time when many traditional avenues of such expression were limited to men. Through fashion, women were able to exert influence, communicate a set of beliefs and values, and exercise their independence. As Joyce de Vries notes, women at court “constructed social bodies” through “carefully chosen costume and behavior and metaphorically through artistic and cultural patronage.”24 Dress was just as important as a noblewoman’s patronage in the cultivation of her persona. Scholars have debated the participation of women in developments of nationalistic expression, in part contesting many of the theories put forth by Benedict Anderson. Ruth Roach Pierson dissects Anderson’s main points to argue instead that gender and nation are “inextricably and ineluctably intertwined.”25 Sally-Ann Kitts proposes that the eighteenth century witnessed a noticeable preference for a more human-based perception of the world, leading to an “increasing focus on society and its origins, on the behaviour and roles of the men and women within it.”26 She is concerned with how such a shift affected the relationship between women and culture—in particular, female contributions and their greater visibility during the Spanish Enlightenment. In writing about female inclusion in Spanish nationalism in the second half of the 1700s, Smith proposes that women had several options for contributing to the general betterment of the nation through their expanding public activities, and she notes that this “coincided with two important trends in Spain: the emergence of new institutions of sociability and discourse, and a push by leading Spanish intellectuals to reinvent the Spanish nation.”27 As a case in point, Smith evaluates the pivotal role that women played in the Women’s Council (Junta de Damas), a separate and all-female committee connected to the economic societies created under Charles III to promote national industry and augment Spain’s power on the European stage.28 For example, in 1787, the council took charge of the “patriotic schools” in order to encourage female participation in textile vocations and to better lower-class women’s opportunities for meaningful employment through education and vocational training.29 These schools were especially geared toward orphans and other marginalized girls from the lower classes.30 Many Spanish elite women, such as the Duchess of Osuna, advocated their position in the Women’s Council as fundamental to the nation’s improvement. While many conventional means of directly participating in political discussion, creating reform, and cultural expression were off-limits to Spanish women, they had several options for engaging

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in national causes and contributing to artistic innovation—from membership in the council and the RABASF , to patronage of the arts, to hosting salons. Spanish intellectuals participated in debates about women’s role in society. In the first half of the eighteenth century, Feijóo y Montenegro sought to debunk superstitions and outdated views about such topics as science, differences between nations, and women in his Universal Critical Theater.31 In the essay “Defense of Women,” he discusses the criticism lodged against women by both secular and religious writers and ultimately defends women against these attacks, advocating their capacity for studying all types of knowledge.32 Elizabeth Franklin Lewis looks to Feijóo’s works as a key moment in the transformation of attitudes about women in eighteenthcentury Spain. She examines the literary contributions of three Spanish authors to highlight female participation in the Enlightenment, focusing on a concept that was important to individuals in the 1700s: the pursuit of happiness. Lewis argues that this goal was not exclusively reserved for men, since women saw the “value of their personal artistic endeavors not only to themselves, but also to their sisters in the larger Spanish society.”33 While many positive opportunities existed for Spanish women in the late 1700s, intellectuals considered dress a target for reform in the effort to curb certain female conduct. The fashionable excesses of the elite class, especially the purchasing of either imported goods or expensive fabrics, frustrated ilustrados like Jovellanos, who vehemently criticized such consumption.34 The conflict among governing bodies, critics, and individuals was expressed through literary and artistic means. Throughout the 1700s, artists fashioned the characteristics of different types, generating interest in popular themes, creating portraits of elites dressed in Spanish garments, and participating in sartorial regulation by visualizing models of clothing styles for Spaniards to follow. By representing various interests—of individual patrons, of the government, of intellectuals, and their own—artists constructed a wide range of castizo images. These images reveal the tensions that existed during the late eighteenth century as competing forces battled to dictate what and who embodied Spanishness. Charles III’s administration implemented various measures to eradicate perceived problems of luxury in the context of increased sentiments of popular pride and the appropriation of customary garments.35 Juan Sempere y Guarinos discussed the history of sumptuary laws in his seminal treatise of 1788 (History of Luxury and Sumptuary Laws). As a possible solution to the problem of luxury, he encouraged the promotion of national industry to distinguish Spain from its foreign competitors. He even attributed to clothing the power to foster Spanish production.36 However, dressing up as a majo/a in a daily context caused such a stir that in 1784 the government issued a decree that criticized aristocrats who wore popular styles, calling it a degradation of their class. The government stressed that social station should dictate dress and materials.37 Spain’s sumptuary laws not only attempted to

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curtail luxury spending among elites and the middle class, but also were designed to punish those aristocrats who aligned themselves fashionably with popular types. With this twofold approach, the government hoped to ensure that there was no class confusion. While the 1784 mandate did not discriminate based on gender, The Political and Economic Treatise on Women’s Luxury and the Project for a National Dress Code (1788) targeted women. Many scholars have discussed the treatise and the Women’s Council’s rejection of this proposal for the standardization of Spanish women’s clothing. Although the treatise was published anonymously, it was supposedly written by a lady of the court named “M.O.” (though it was possibly penned by Jovellanos). “M.O.” apparently presented a plan for a national dress code for all Spanish women to the prime minister, Floridablanca, who, having “received” her suggestions, wrote to the secretary of the Women’s Council (the Countess of Montijo) to solicit the council’s opinion on the project. Despite Floridablanca’s intentions to rid Spain of foreign imports, cultivate native factories, and improve the Spanish economy by promoting a national dress code, the council made alternative recommendations. It requested better programs to foster female education, so that women would have more opportunities to use their skills and knowledge, rather than focus on fashion.38 Leira Sánchez views the dress code project as representing the culmination of the century’s tensions between moralists who deemed luxury to be the origin of excess and modern economists who regarded expenditures on fashions as facilitating humanity’s progress and ameliorating the world’s industries and commercial interests.39 The national dress code sought to restrain indulgent behavior and dictate social station through standardized dress. Mónica Bolufer Peruga argues that the Women’s Council voted against this plan to regulate feminine fashion because of its insistence on uniformity.40 Engraved by José Ximeno (1757–1797), the prints in the 1788 treatise feature three categories of Spanish female dress based on social class—the Española, the Carolina, and the Borbonesa/Madrileña. Each group of women would have three separate outfits—one for special occasions, one for less formal events, and one for the street—and these would carry an insignia to identify the woman’s social status. Ironically, the images used to illustrate the new dress code were most likely designed by a French couturier, despite the pamphlet’s nationalistic intentions; however, the clothing items would have been produced in Spain.41 Bolufer Peruga contends that aristocratic appropriation of majo/a dress, as in Alba’s case, was part of the elite reaction against the proposal’s uniformity.42 Alba’s choice to dress in specific Spanish garments not only countered the proposal’s stylistic dictates but also showcased her identification with majas. Not all women who rejected the proposal did so because of their affinity for popular items. Some committee members, such as Osuna, did not sport customary styles but rejected the proposal for its limitations on individual expression through fashion. Regardless of favored clothing, elite women opted to maintain control of their own modish choices—whether to wear Spanish or European styles, or a mixture of both. 162  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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While the proposal itself generated a negative response from the Women’s Council, Ximeno’s prints reveal an interpretation of what constituted patriotic dress. He places each of the models in a full-length format and highlights the outfits. Although the treatise included a description of each group’s three ensembles (nine total), Ximeno produced only three prints. He makes the outfits appealing and contemporary and limits the use of jewelry to emphasize restraint. Produced in the artistic context of costume albums, his engravings also relate to fashion prints in which figures displayed new clothing trends, much in the way that small dolls had been used to showcase the latest designs; after 1778, French dressmakers preferred to disseminate current styles through engravings, broadening the audience for their designs.43 That Ximeno’s garments are meant to set an example of moderation, make use of Spanish materials and industries, and still be fashionable would seem to indicate an almost impossible situation. How could the garments remain current by responding to fashion changes and, at the same time, maintain the same design? Would new models be generated each year, and if so, how would this curb enthusiasm for chic products? With regard to their Spanishness, none of the outfits Ximeno represents includes the mantilla (or other shawls), the basquiña, buckled shoes, or the hairnet, suggesting that their design was meant to be as far removed from maja dress as possible, despite the treatise’s recommendations for wearing native clothing and textiles. Ximeno’s outfits feature standard, almost generic, garments based on primarily French examples, and so they are neither distinctly Spanish (since they do not feature particular local garments) nor modern. By looking to a French designer to provide the prevailing female outfit, Ximeno neglects to engage with the treatise’s nationalistic emphasis and call to promote Spanish industry, regardless of the clothing’s local production. For example, the treatise firmly discouraged the purchasing of foreign “chiffons” and “laces,” instead advocating Catalan Blonde (silk lace). The treatise also encouraged Spanish women to wear customary garments, such as the mantilla and the basquiña.44 Ximeno may have opted to showcase the outfits’ French design in part because France had set the tone for fashion, beginning with Louis XIV, making the ensembles seemingly more appealing even in their fairly restrained styles. But Ximeno did not respond to the increasing vogue for folkloric subjects or popular dress, and this neglect may have also contributed to the plan’s hasty demise. Ximeno composed the official images for the treatise in the same year that De la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla included two related prints in his own series (1788). Both of De la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla’s prints feature lengthy descriptions. These proposed dress styles bear a resemblance to the fashions represented in the Ximeno prints, although De la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla’s Dress of the New Spanish Woman favors a widened hoop-skirt style reminiscent of his Antique Theatrical Spanish Dress. In Carolina Dress for All and Bourbon Dress, De la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla depicts the central figure, who sports the model look, with children surrounding her, crafting a harmonious vision of motherhood and femininity. This detail ties dress to behavior: Majismo and Royal Identity 163

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as an example of patriotic feminine conduct, the good female citizen not only wears modest clothing by obeying the proposal, but also provides the ideal model for her children. While De la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla emphasizes simplicity in the design, he also incorporates a basquiña, mantilla (over a hat with feathers), and buckled shoes, which endow the outfit with traditional ingredients. In the description, he proposes that the outfit is for attending church and walking in public—activities that, according to eighteenth-century tradition, called for mantillas and basquiñas. The mantilla drapes delicately over the woman’s hat but does not conceal her identity. It is envisioned in a decorous manner. Molina and Vega note that, with his use of such garments, De la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla established a national model with Spanish components, which they view as a criticism of Ximeno’s original designs in the treatise.45 De la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla’s prints seem to call into question the Spanishness of these designs: How could the fashions depicted by Ximeno embody Spanishness if they did not incorporate any castizo garments? De la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla’s prints point to a contentious facet of the treatise’s dress code. In his versions of female outfits, the use of recognizable Spanish items, such as the mantilla, evokes authenticity and provides a better visual justification for the standardization of female clothing; these styles were already viewed, especially by foreigners, as the prevailing dress for all Spanish women. Although De la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla includes the mantilla and basquiña in Carolina Dress, he does not portray the woman as licentious or assertive, despite the garments’ associations with majas. Nor does the woman’s outfit intimate that she is a street vendor or laborer of any kind, implying both sartorial and behavioral connections to De la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla’s “decent” maja. By striking a balance between fashionable moderation and traditional assertions, he creates a model who takes pride in her Spanishness and does so with reserve. Despite the visual and sartorial bond between the women in Carolina Dress and the maja prints, De la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla does not invoke this popular type in the title of the former, nor does the treatise refer to this style as “maja dress” or “maja fashion.” In De la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla’s print, the mantilla and basquiña evidence Spanishness, even though they do not necessarily relate to majas. Moreover, given that the goal was to encourage national production, the petimetra was not necessarily implied either (particularly since she often favored foreign items). Carolina Dress in many ways exemplifies the complex negotiation between Spanish garments and types, especially considering its pictorial context in a series devoted to visualizing distinct types. De la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla’s series would have enjoyed a wider circulation than Ximeno’s prints. While individual prints of newly designed outfits promoted differing visions of Spanish female dress, the treatise specifically targeted Spaniards based on gender, reinforcing the stereotype that women’s spending habits required more regulations than men’s. As Smith argues, the treatise’s “solution” posed an “expression of how female consumption could become a patriotic act,” though only for the upper and middle classes.46 In Carolina Dress, De la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla equates good 164  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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citizenship, motherhood, and customary dress. With the visual link to his representation of a maja, he defends such dress and makes it patriotic for bourgeois and upper-class women, suggesting that the purchasing and wearing of the standard outfit would benefit Spanish industries and allow women to partake in the promotion of patriotic causes. The model in Carolina Dress does not wear the full maja outfit: there is no hairnet, velvet cap, or short, tight jacket. Instead, De la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla combines two customary garments with a standardized European style and presents the figure as refined and modest. Thus, he does not posit the model as a maja; they merely share popular associations through particular clothing items. Despite the differences between De la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla’s two prints and the official images by Ximeno, the former artist does not wrongly interpret the treatise’s objectives. As Molina and Vega state, none of the three Ximeno prints renders women wearing mantillas or basquiñas, but these garments were deemed acceptable in the mandate; the artist merely chose not to represent them.47 De la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla consciously rendered the outfit shown in Carolina Dress with traditional components to reinforce their association with feminine patriotism. Regardless of the treatise’s plan, the Women’s Council rejected the dress code, indicating its desire for choice in fabrics and garments. Although the project was a failure, its undertaking points to the seriousness of governmental hopes to regulate female appearances. That the council voted against the proposal suggests that the women viewed fashion as a vehicle to express individuality. By advocating for better educational opportunities, the council positioned itself in opposition to the idea that a standardized outfit was the only means to cultivate patriotic sentiments. Through fashionable individuality, as in the case of Alba, women could communicate their affiliations and taste.

The Fashioning of the Duchess of Alba Although Alba was an active salon hostess and an avid supporter of Spanish actors, bullfighters, and artists, she chose fashion as a central vehicle to express her native identity. Through sartorial channels, Alba and other privileged women fashioned themselves after the maja to nurture a political union with the lower classes and to achieve a level of independence at court. By opting for traditional garments, or Spanish dress in combination with other styles, Alba and others popularized a new image of the Spanish woman—distinct from her European counterparts but equally sophisticated. Artists experimented with diverse formal and thematic possibilities to generate a modern castizo image of Spanish individuals. Through portraiture, artists could disseminate a novel conception of the Spanish woman, whose clothing embodied her heritage. By combining contemporary and historical elements in the appropriation of maja attire, women like Alba, in conjunction with artists like Goya, created an image of the native woman that projected an Iberian “authenticity.” Noble and bourgeois women embraced the maja’s traditional associations in portraiture Majismo and Royal Identity 165

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to validate their own Spanishness, even though eighteenth-century conceptions of Spanishness were multifarious. Many of the portraits downplay the negative connotations of the popular type, while generally portraying Spanish women as proud, feminine, and alluring. As the main artist of elite portraits, Goya continued to depict majismo-inspired subjects in diverse media, creating potential visual overlap in all of his works from the 1790s and early 1800s. In The Duchess of Alba as a Maja (fig. 52), Goya captures the duchess’s affinity for majas; she is bold yet elegant in her traditional dress, at the same time that she assertively makes the maja persona her own. Working on both this portrait and Los Caprichos around the same time, Goya promoted subjects relating to Spanish and gendered identities as current. While the portrait of Alba is not as directly subversive as many of the images from Los Caprichos, it correlates to relevant issues regarding Alba herself and Spanish women’s experiences. Goya highlights dress as the primary means to convey Alba’s Spanish persona, complemented by her assertive pose and stare toward the viewer. While Goya was the author of this work, Alba was assuredly an active participant in the construction of her Spanish identity overall. Others may have simply donned the clothes of the maja and treated them as costume. Alba, in contrast, transformed popular dress into fashionable attire appropriate for an elite, a style quickly followed by Spanish bourgeois women. By looking to majas for sartorial inspiration, Alba also tapped into their bewitching reputation. The lifestyle of majas implied sexual freedoms romanticized by nobles such as Alba. Alba sidestepped a class-based association by aligning herself with the maja through fashionable means, but this fueled speculation about her inappropriate behavior. Through the material and stylistic link of dress, the duchess actively promoted her Spanishness as a means to support local customs. Goya’s Duchess of Alba exemplifies the aristocratic aspiration to assert a traditional attitude by dressing like a maja. This sentiment would be especially important for the recently established Bourbons. Despite the various regulations against luxury and the proposal for a national dress code for women, the emulation of the popular class supported the monarchy’s call to honor its plebeian subjects. Feeling greater ties to the lower class than to the bourgeoisie, the Bourbon court also wanted to distance itself from its Gallic cousins during the 1790s, especially with the upheavals of the French Revolution. By linking themselves to figures associated with ancestral Spaniards, the monarchs could conceivably use this connection to justify their own privileged status as rulers, as discussed in chapter 1. Through the plebeian class, they could establish a bond to Spaniards with whom they ultimately had little in common. If the cultural dynamic were primarily defined by the majos/as of Spain, then it would be beneficial for the Bourbons to follow suit. Foreigners helped fuel the mania for popular customs and dress. Bourgoing commented on the phenomenon of majos and majas setting the standard, stating, “In most countries the inferior classes think it an honour to ape their superiors; in Spain it is the contrary. . . . There are . . . persons of distinguished rank, who seek their models among the heroes of 166  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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the populace, who imitate their dress, manners, and accent, and are flattered when it is said of them, He is very like a Majo.—One would take her for a Maja.”48 Dressing and acting as a majo/a could alleviate the often-tedious courtly rituals of aristocratic daily life. It held seductive powers, giving them the opportunity to “act” a part seemingly exaggerated by the “real” types. Francisco Calvo Serraller believes that Goya’s attraction to the Duchess of Alba was in part due to her “irresistible charms . . . her poses and affectations, for instance, her majismo.”49 As a descendant of one of the oldest noble families of Spain, Alba could better identify with her Spanish brethren as a champion of their shared culture and history than the Bourbons.50 The duchess’s presentation as a maja in the 1797 portrait, her interest in Spanish practices, and her associations with national celebrities such as bullfighters exemplify her expression of majismo as an integral element of her identity. Her affirmation of her own individual character through the use of the maja persona ultimately defies what Kitts sees as one trend in the debate about women during the Enlightenment that was epitomized by José Clavijo y Fajardo’s satirical pamphlet The Women’s Court (1755): it criticized female assertion of personality “through behaviour and attitudes which had been traditionally the sole prerogative of men.”51 Alba proactively challenged conventional feminine roles and conduct, using Spanish dress to assert her individualism. Prior to her death in 1802, the duchess enjoyed an active cultural life. Her grandfather, Fernando de Silva y Álvarez de Toledo, the twelfth Duke of Alba, surrounded the young girl with music and art, exercising a lasting influence on his granddaughter despite his death in 1770, after the family moved to Madrid. His library included works by Jean-Jacques Rousseau, as well as Diderot’s Encyclopédie. Her mother, the Duchess of Huéscar, translated French comedies. As a talented draftswoman, Alba’s mother was made an honorary member of the RABASF in 1766.52 At a very young age, she married her cousin José María Álvarez de Toledo y Gonzaga, the Duke of Villafranca. Goya’s portrait of the duke from 1793 shows his passion for music, particularly the compositions of Joseph Haydn. The artist benefited from the patronage of both the duke and duchess, staying at their home in Sanlúcar de Barrameda, in Andalusia, even after José’s death in 1796. During his time at the residence of the Alba family, Goya worked on drawings (Album A, 1796) that feature a number of women in erotic poses or performing ordinary activities, a few of whom closely resemble and have been identified by some as Alba. Instead of imbuing his drawings with the formulaic quality of many aristocratic portraits, Goya captures the duchess informally. In one, she arranges her long, curly hair, a source of her beauty, as noted by travelers such as de Langle: “There is not a hair of her head that does not inspire desire.”53 In a drawing of the duchess with her adopted child, María de la Luz, Goya captures a tender moment between mother and daughter. Other drawings from Album A feature prostitutes or models he saw at the Cádiz port. That the duchess is intermixed with prostitutes without any hint of her aristocratic lineage points to the artist’s awareness of her Majismo and Royal Identity 167

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affinity for majas and the ease with which she performed the part. These drawings would seem to imply a more intimate relationship between patron and artist; however, they could also be the result of the artist’s fantasy, since he, like so many others, was captivated by her beauty and free-spirited personality. Ultimately, the drawings of the duchess, majas, and prostitutes show Goya erasing the boundaries of social class, making the transition to the 1797 portrait of the duchess dressed as a maja more plausible. Alba, as a specific individual, is, to a certain extent, concealed in the context of the artist’s private notebook, in which he could freely explore aspects of femininity. Susann Waldmann argues that the duchess embodied an ideal of feminine beauty for Goya, with her dark locks and small waist.54 Goya articulated his admiration for her in his letters to a childhood friend, Martín Zapater, stating, “Yesterday she put me in her study so that I could paint her face. . . . Certainly, I like this better than painting on canvas.”55 Besides the drawings, Goya painted two full-length portraits of the Duchess of Alba, the one from 1797 and another from 1796. The most striking difference between the images is the overt change in garb from more typical European-style attire to an elegant version of maja clothing. In the portrait of 1796 (fig. 57), Alba wears a white dress accented by red bows and a red faja, giving her outfit a Spanish flair. The simple yet elegant polka-dot dress is sheer and understated, typical of female fashionable dress of the 1790s. A small dog with a color-coordinated bow stands nearby. Dramatically contrasting with the duchess’s ensemble is her dark hair, which cascades over her shoulders. She also gestures to the sand, where Goya has signed and dated the portrait. In his portraits of Alba and her husband, Goya conveys personality and taste in different, yet distinctly gendered, ways. The duke, in the 1793 portrait, expresses a reserved intelligence in his unadorned European attire and casual pose. His comfortable yet elegant stance implies an expression of aristocracy without any need for ornament, and the inclusion of a musical score and instrument shows his preference for contemporary music. Alba’s presence, however, is more forceful and alluring—visualized through her direct engagement with the viewer, the combination of European and Spanish fashions, and her self-assured body language. In the second portrait, Alba (fig. 52) affects the role of the maja in fashion and gesture. The duchess stands facing forward with her left arm akimbo and the other pointing down with one finger, indicating the artist’s cleverly placed signature at her feet, directed at her, not the viewer. This autograph reads “Sólo Goya,” a reference to their supposed love affair and his apparent jealousy after its end. On her right hand, the duchess wears two rings, one that reads “Alba” and the other “Goya.” This personal reference further joins the two national celebrities, although “Alba” also alludes to her late husband, just as the dominance of black in her outfit could indicate her status as recently widowed. To balance the gestures of Alba’s arms, both of her feet, shod in gold-trimmed heels, are positioned facing outward. Goya uses white highlights on her bejeweled, gold-brocaded bodice to suggest the opulence of her dress. Underneath the corseted top, a white fichu partly covers her breasts. 168  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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Figure 57

Francisco de Goya, Duchess of Alba, 1795. Fundación “Casa de Alba,” Madrid. Photo: Album / Art Resource, N.Y.

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The white and gold of her bodice peek through the black mantilla, and curly locks descend from beneath it. Against the paleness of her porcelain face are thick, dark eyebrows and a silk patch applied to the right temple; its trendiness among the various classes was not merely a link to gypsy fashion. Many considered the patch to be medicinal—in this case, to cure headaches.56 Alba wears a black petticoat over her skirt that features layers of decorative flowers toward the bottom. Contrasting the darkness of her skirt, mantilla, and hair, she has tied a red sash around her waist, like the one in her earlier portrait; it shimmers with gold embroidery. Alba’s portrait of 1797 was the first representation of a fashionable aristocrat dressed as a maja without a direct allusion to the masquerade, contrasting Mengs’s portrait of the Marquise of Llano. As Molina and Vega state, nothing in the Alba portrait suggests costume; rather, they argue, the duchess’s attire underlines her modern style.57 The portrait possesses a theatrical component, an appropriate connection since she sponsored several actors and actresses in Spain, such as La Tirana. She certainly would have met Ramón de la Cruz, the author of many sainetes, in her or Osuna’s salons. Her self-fashioned persona as a maja in her salons, the theater, and at the bullfight underscores the performative aspect of her portrait. The salon would have served as a perfect “stage” for acting as a maja; perhaps Alba performed the part in one of the numerous comedies by Cruz or others, just as Marie Antoinette insisted on playing the role of the “saucy peasant or servant girl” in her productions at the Petit Trianon.58 However, despite her role-playing as an urban type, the duchess would never have been mistaken for a real maja. In Goya’s portrait from 1797, Alba wears distinctly Spanish garments, removing them from their traditional context and incorporating them into the high couture of aristocratic circles. Fashion historian Joanne Entwistle discusses the reciprocity between fashion and dress: “Fashion is an important determinant on everyday dress but fashion becomes widely recognized only when it is translated into dress on the part of individuals.”59 By fostering a fashion from the majas’s clothing, Alba created an innovative style and shaped taste. As Entwistle observes, it is through “dress or adornment” that “bodies are made social and given meaning and identity.”60 Alba conveyed her Spanish identity through sartorial and corporeal means, actively showcasing her historic roots. Through the use of popular dress, she presented herself as regal, complementing her noble birth as a member of one of the most notable families in Spain’s history, which made her the perfect model for aristocratic conduct. Alba’s flirtation with the romanticized lifestyle of majas, her passion for theater and for bullfighting, and her appropriation of indigenous dress all served as key ingredients in her stylization. The duchess flirted with majismo in the private realm and in the public sphere, as a kind of theatrical display. The portrait from 1797 champions this role-playing image of the duchess, as Goya, too, flirts with majismo, but from a more personal perspective. The artist not only had greater liberty to mingle with laborers and use them as models, but he also kept the portrait of Alba in his possession, leading to much speculation about her approval of the work and 170  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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the nature of their relationship. The suggestion of an affair, which had apparently ended by that time, was one of the many rumors that overshadowed the duchess’s life. The various scandalous tales that emerged as a result of her supposedly bohemian lifestyle would indicate that she successfully played the part of the maja. If majas were considered provocative, then the duchess’s activities may have acquired such descriptors, making it easy to assume that she crossed real boundaries of social decorum, rather than merely hinting at such transgressions. So why did Goya keep this painting, which was unlike the drawings specifically made for his own use? Did Alba reject the work because of the signature, or some other element that she deemed inappropriate? Did Goya add the signature later? Was there an agreement that he keep the work as a gift? Because we do not have the documents to answer these important questions, much speculation has circulated around this portrait. If dress “was perceived in this period as a powerful signifier of self ”—as Jennie Batchelor discusses from a literary perspective—but could also be subject to “endless reinterpretation” based on context, then it could be misread and used against women like Alba to imply wrongdoings, much in the way that the association with majas could cause speculation about an aristocrat’s behavior, whether such conduct was real or imagined.61 Although the link was not direct or necessarily based on fact, the suggestion of illicit activities invoked by popular dress coincided with the link between portraits and an overall appreciation of native traditions, underscoring the complexity of depictions of elite women fashioned as Spanish. However, if the blatant connection between an aristocrat and a maja was considered unsuitable, why was it acceptable for Goya to paint the queen in a mantilla only two years later? With María Luisa’s sartorial union with her subjects in the portrait of 1799, the political affiliation with majas became just as important for individual motives as for embodying Spanish pride. For personal reasons, the queen expressed her take on maja fashion following Alba’s trendsetting example, and for political purposes, she manifested her alliance with the lower classes, validating the use of such garments by Alba and any future aristocrat as a means to demonstrate their Spanishness. Alba has been associated with Goya’s Nude Maja of ca. 1797–1800 (fig. 58) and Dressed Maja of ca. 1800–1805 (fig. 59) because of her rumored affair with Godoy, who owned the works, and because of her contributions to his art collection, including Diego Velázquez’s Rokeby Venus (1647–51). While many have speculated about the identity of the majas, Pepita Tudó, Godoy’s mistress and later his second wife, has been considered a possible subject for Nude Maja. The women’s attire or lack thereof functioned as part of the overall erotic quality of these paintings. In contrast to the accessibility of De la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla’s print series of types or the playful interactions of Spaniards in Goya’s and others’ tapestries, these paintings had a highly limited audience. Most scholars agree that Godoy commissioned them for his personal rooms. Because of the private nature of the commission, Goya had more freedom to manipulate the type represented. Although the titles identify the sitters as “majas,” Majismo and Royal Identity 171

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Frédéric Quilliet, in his 1808 inventory, referred to them as gypsies. Part of the confusion lies in the similarity between maja and gypsy dress.62 The dressed maja wears a chemise gown with an elegant pink sash instead of a petticoat, as well as pointed shoes rather than the typical square-toed buckled ones common to majas. Her short jacket is looser in fit, and her hair is worn down. That she does not sport a mantilla could suggest that she is a gypsy and not a maja, but the lack of any hair 172  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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adornment seems particular to this image. I would propose that Goya has erased her type by modifying the basic elements associated with lower-class persons. In essence, Dressed Maja is a play both on the depiction of types and on the aristocratic fascination with these figures. In this instance, the maja makes no pretense of the ruse; the sumptuous divan and private setting only enhance the coyness of her directed stare, intended for the pleasure of the select individuals able to view the work. The association, albeit a loose one, to the maja or gypsy served the patron as a source of erotic pleasure. The private display of these two paintings, supposedly on a pulley system that first showed the dressed maja and then revealed her nude, is an important factor in discussing the works. Surrounded by two depictions of Venus (including Velázquez’s work), Goya’s paintings would have offered a contemporary representation of female beauty, since the women do not share the traditional attributes of their mythological counterparts. It seems that Goya employed these types’ sensual charm to intensify their erotic appeal, making the link to the Duchess of Alba more appropriate—despite the unlikelihood of her modeling in the nude. That is to say, if Goya saw Alba as a model of feminine beauty and sexuality, any potential visual similarity between the majas and the duchess was probably not meant to allude to her specifically. But in Nude Maja, the sitter is referred to as a specific type without the apparel. In this instance, she is like a gypsy or maja in her directed smile and frank exposure of her nude body, perhaps playing on her uninhibited reputation. Thus, dress does not always signify type. Nor does a figure’s clothing necessarily indicate social class. Despite the libertine adventure experienced when dressing as a maja, aristocratic women such as the Duchess of Alba would never have been mistaken for actual laborers. The theatrical excitement of donning the clothes of another would have helped the individual act the part more effectively—performing the appropriate gestures and speaking the dialect. David Hume argued that those from the “vulgar” class exaggerated national traits and would thus be easy to imitate.63 In many ways, majos and majas, as the exemplars of traditional comportment, considered themselves to be the purer specimens of Spanish nobility and affected a more dandified stance. The reciprocal quality of affectation between the upper and lower classes underscores the notion that Alba imitated not only “real” majas but also the idea of the maja constructed by artists, intellectuals, and writers. By linking herself to the Spanish type in clothing and attitude, the duchess also shared similar associations with the maja, many of which were damaging to her reputation during her lifetime and in subsequent decades.

Figure 58

Francisco de Goya, Nude Maja, ca. 1797–1800. Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid. Photo: The Art Archive at Art Resource, N.Y. Figure 59

Francisco de Goya, Dressed Maja, ca. 1800–1805. Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid. Photo: The Art Archive at Art Resource, N.Y.

María Luisa, Popular Dress, and the Crafting of Elite Identity If Alba was known for setting fads at court and for participating in the appreciation of native traditions, then it would make sense that María Luisa would want to follow the duchess’s lead. As a native of Parma, María Luisa’s appropriation of traditional Majismo and Royal Identity 173

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Figure 60

Francisco de Goya, Queen María Luisa in a Mantilla, 1799. Palacio Real, Madrid. Photo: Album / Art Resource, N.Y.

garments held particular significance in the crafting of her Spanish identity. And, as the queen, her sartorial choices were influential in establishing standards at court. Although Goya uses the same format for his portraits of the two women, there are notable differences between the outfits worn by Alba in The Duchess of Alba as a Maja (fig. 52) and María Luisa in Queen María Luisa in a Mantilla (fig. 60). The queen wears the mantilla and petticoat but also sports an enormous pink ribbon in her hair. She apparently loved to show off her arms and thus does not wear the short jacket or gloves, flaunting her own variation of maja clothing. In a letter to Godoy, María Luisa praises her own portrait “in a mantilla”; she requested a copy for him. The portrait was copied several times by Goya and others, including a smaller-scale version at the National Gallery of Art in Washington, D.C., perhaps by Agustín Esteve.64 With the additional copies, the portrait enjoyed greater dissemination than a single painting, adding to its political value as a means to advertise her Spanish persona. Goya’s Queen María Luisa in a Mantilla relates to a specific instance in which castizo dress and politics intersected. On March 16, 1799, Charles IV passed an official decree stating that black would be the only acceptable color for the Spanish basquiña and that silver and gold adornments were to be prohibited to placate the lower class’s anger at the display of diverse colors worn during Holy Week celebrations in 1798, which they felt should have been observed in a solemn manner.65 In her portrait, the queen promotes the royal union with the populace, since it was the citizens who demanded this ruling. In order to align herself with her people, she wore traditional garments as a means of establishing herself as Spanish and as the female head of the monarchical family. In the portrait, María Luisa embodies a proud Spanishness, motivated by politics to identify with the popular class; at the same time, she asserts her own fashion interests, making slight modifications to standard attire. Such garments not only joined her politically with the masses, but also offered her freedom from traditional courtly ensembles. Despite her Italian heritage, as queen, she adopted customs and the language of her new home, as did Marie Antoinette and Catherine the Great. As López-Cordón Cortezo proposes, in the 1700s, Spanish Bourbon queens increasingly participated in courtly activities, often having to act in the sovereign’s place. As she states, “The queen . . . at times as ruler and at times with no specific title, developed a clear political role and became a subsidiary wielder of power.”66 Such power could be further expressed in sartorial ways, as María Luisa acted as an arbiter of taste and a promoter of Spanishness, assuming an appropriate position as “mother” of her Spanish citizens. The queen’s union with the people via dress complemented earlier government rulings, including the decree of 1766, which attacked certain garments and the manner in which they were worn. As depicted by Goya, María Luisa dons her mantilla in a decorous style; the veil does not cover her face but instead appropriately frames her head, shoulders, and upper torso. She sports the garment in combination with other items deemed popular in order to position herself as the embodiment of 174  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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Spanish female identity and to align herself politically with the populace. As queen, this was a tactically astute role to assume. Of all the queens of Spain, she was “the one who best organized her own propaganda centered on the events of her life.” Such celebrations held by the Women’s Council “were important events in court life” and emphasized her “‘domestic virtues’ and her ‘heroic actions’ of great ‘public utility.’” López-Cordón Cortezo characterizes some of her actions as “shrewd,”67 which is helpful for my own analysis of her 1799 portrait. As Tomlinson notes, María Luisa was a foreigner and thus “suspect in an increasingly xenophobic age,”68 making her portrait crucial for disseminating an image of Spanishness at court. Tomlinson also proposes that the queen was often wrongly maligned because she actively engaged in politics, traditionally associated with men.69 Spanish elite women looked to imitate Alba’s and the queen’s customary style in their portraits by the equally fashionable Goya. Despite the silk bow in her hair, her matching short jacket, and her stiffly crossed arms, the Austrian Mariana Waldstein, the ninth Marquise de Santa Cruz, seems comfortable with her maja-esque style, as she engages the viewer with a smile in her portrait (ca. 1800). Her black petticoat has flounced layers and delicate patterning, while her pink jacket features silver embroidery, creating a visually stunning effect. In addition, Waldstein grasps a closed fan, a key component in the outfit. According to Priscilla E. Muller, Waldstein was Alba’s “coconspirator” at court70—hence the stylistic borrowing in their portraits, which established an alliance through fashion. In Goya’s The Marquise of Santiago (1804), the subject sports a multicolored ensemble, with the typical black lace petticoat and jacket trimmed in gold, silvery-pink shoes, and a white lace mantilla tied in front. To match her shoes, the mantilla sparkles with a salmon hue. She also wears a decorative flower in her hair, which contrasts with the heavy use of makeup on her face. Like the Duchess of Alba and the queen, each of these noblewomen stands in a landscape, most likely representing her country estate. The interplay between nature and artifice is characteristic of female portraiture of the eighteenth century, and this is made explicit in the made-up face of the Marquise of Santiago. Women from the bourgeoisie and celebrity actresses sought out Goya for portraits depicting them as fashionable members of society. Although seated, Isabel de Porcel strikes a deliberate pose in her portrait of 1805 (fig. 61), while she looks off into the distance. Her pink satin jacket and white fichu are seen through the delicately rendered black lace mantilla that dramatically sweeps across her body. Her rosy cheeks correspond with her natural hairstyle, and the hand on her hip embodies the proud attitude of a maja. In this portrait, Porcel has opted to wear her hair gathered at the back with a black velvet bow and mantilla attached. Her bangs are left unadorned. The wife of an official of the secretary of state, this bourgeoise is presented as elegant, stately, and distinctly Spanish. Her portrait was featured at the RABASF ’s exhibition of 1805, giving spectators an opportunity to view Porcel as a model of Spanish femininity. In another example (1805–6), Goya portrays the actress Antonia Zárate against the backdrop of a muted interior. Born in Barcelona 176  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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Figure 61

Francisco de Goya, Isabel de Porcel, 1805. National Gallery, London. © National Gallery, London / Art Resource, N.Y.

in 1775 to a family of actors, Zárate performed in Madrid’s theaters. In her portrait, she wears a simple and shorter mantilla, which delicately enhances the soft curls that frame her face. While her black dress features the usual lace covering, its empire waist evidences a variation on the customary outfit, combining European and Spanish styles. Traditional dress still maintained its associations with masquerades and native practices, but in these various portraits, it has been removed from such contexts and treated as real fashion, so that it can be altered to suit the individual wearer’s taste. Majismo and Royal Identity 177

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Unlike Alba and many other elite women, the Duchess of Osuna did not look to castizo dress to articulate her promotion of Spanish customs. Although never portrayed as a maja, Osuna—Alba’s supposed rival, though in reality they were close friends—equally contributed to the growing interest in Spanish history and folklore.71 She descended from noble lineage, marrying her cousin Pedro Alcántara Téllez Girón, who became the ninth Duke of Osuna in 1787. Like the Alba family, the Osuna dynasty was one of the oldest and most distinguished in Spain, dating back to the fifteenth century. The duchess had her own theater, her own orchestra, and an impressive library, including several prohibited books, which she and her husband received special permission to acquire. Unlike Alba, however, Osuna also promoted the cause of the Women’s Council and the economic societies.72 In 1786, Osuna and María Isidra Quintina Guzmán became the first two women to be admitted to Madrid’s Economic Society, further igniting the debate about female participation in government activities. Smith notes that “carving out a space for their active participation in Spain’s eighteenth-century reform was of serious concern to many Spanish women,”73 including the duchess. Osuna’s salons included some of the same prominent Spanish figures as Alba’s, such as Ramón de la Cruz, who even wrote El día de campo in honor of her birthday.74 In comparing the two women’s salons, María Dolores Arroyo emphasizes their differences yet also argues that Alba and Osuna vindicated the rights of women.75 As noted earlier, they also regularly attended bullfights and patronized Goya. Schulz suggests that the Duchess of Osuna, not her husband, was the “driving force behind Goya’s associations” with her family.76 She commissioned numerous works, including a portrait from 1785. In examining this portrait, Schulz argues that the duchess conveys a psychological engagement with the viewer, as Goya foregrounds her intelligence. As an aristocrat who frequented masculine domains such as Madrid’s economic societies, as a promoter of childhood education, and as a chief patron of Goya, Osuna made her influence known in public and private realms. Yet her sartorial choices suggest an alliance to foreign fashions in the context of Madrid’s increasingly cosmopolitan nature and because of her allegiance to French Enlightenment thought.77 Thus, she may not have sported maja-inspired dress in her portraits, although that did not negate her patriotic preoccupations. While Osuna may not have followed Alba’s fashionable lead, her dress suggests that women at court had many choices based on personal motivation and taste. And even though women wore popular garments, they did not always do so; rather, traditional styles could be intermixed with European fads. In the 1790s, women donned popular items but could alternatively wear imported styles. For instance, a neoclassicizing trend popular under the French Directory (1795–99) featured simple empire-waist dresses that were often sheer, made of gauzy materials or muslin, and tailored close to the body; draped cashmere shawls; Greek sandals; and more natural hairstyles without wigs.78 If fashion provided an opportunity for women to express political affiliations and/or personal taste, then 178  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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the exchange of one style for another or the blending of distinct trends to create new ones offered greater flexibility for creative experimentation and pointed to the influx of stylistic influences from Europe and even the colonies, since many of the fabrics were not manufactured in Spain. This exchange generated a multitude of possibilities, as nations sought to define themselves through various cultural, political, social, and even sartorial means. Maja dress was one of many fashionable options; that women often chose to wear such clothes in portraits suggests a desire to convey specific Spanish affiliations. Goya promoted the styling of aristocrats by emphasizing their traditional attire in portraits that complemented images of fashionable figures in various media. This pictorial evidence indicates that it was not only acceptable for noblewomen to be depicted in such a manner, but was, in fact, encouraged, in order to highlight both their fashionable acuity and privileged status. Such female agency reflects a specific way in which women contributed to the development of Spanish identity. Despite the numerous written accounts detailing Spanish aristocratic appropriation of castizo dress by both men and women throughout the second half of the eighteenth

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Figure 62

Detail of Zacarías González Velázquez, service staircase mural, ca. 1802. Casa del Labrador, Aranjuez. © Patrimonio Nacional.

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Figure 63

Francisco de Goya, Charles IV in Hunting Dress, 1799. Palacio Real, Madrid. © Patrimonio Nacional.

century, in portraiture, it was women who sported chic versions of maja wear, while men opted for European fashions. In Charles IV’s pleasure house, the Casa del Labrador (1791–1803), near the Royal Palace of Aranjuez and forty-eight kilometers south of Madrid, Zacarías González Velázquez painted a mural, featuring a man and woman, along the service staircase (fig. 62). This work is not meant to represent particular individuals (although, supposedly, they are the artist’s children), but it exemplifies key sartorial differences between depictions of men and women in the 1790s and early 1800s. Surrounding the figures, González Velázquez painted classicizing pilasters and antique busts. Standing in front of views of Aranjuez, the man and woman lean on a faux railing and are separated by two fluted columns. The young man points, and the woman’s gaze follows the direction he indicates, perhaps guiding the viewer’s eye as well. The scene serves as a modern vignette in the context of an antique decorative scheme, and the difference in the figures’ dress suggests the variety of styles popular at the time, though in a distinctly gendered way. Dressed in black, the young woman sports traditional items, including a mantilla. In contrast, the man wears yellow breeches, mid-calf boots, a white cravat, and a blue jacket, providing a colorful foil to her ensemble. Both individuals could be described as fashionable, but the woman’s dress includes customary garments, while the man’s outfit features pan-European styles. González Velázquez’s scene relates to portraits of men and women in which distinctions between styles are a common motif. If fashionable portraits served as a major vehicle for women to convey their Spanish identity, why did men not view portraiture in the same light? Were the means of expressing such traditional affinities different for men and women? Why was it more acceptable for female sitters to be portrayed as noticeably Spanish? Gendered distinctions surface when we look at several portraits of distinguished men by Goya and compare them to his portraits of women. While no single reason is sufficient for explaining this differentiation, there are contributing factors, including the gendering of fashion as feminine and the use of clothing to express agency and construct identities. As court painter to Charles IV, Goya composed numerous portraits of the Spanish monarchy, including a series of works between 1799 and 1801. Goya’s Charles IV in Hunting Dress of 1799 (fig. 63) shows a standard format for depicting royalty. The inclusion of the long rifle and dutiful dog is appropriate. Charles IV’s hunting attire features sumptuous detailing, and the insignia of the Royal Order of Charles III emphasizes his stately presence. Additional portraits of the king by Goya and others portray him in courtly attire with varying degrees of pomposity. In none of the images Goya painted after the 1799 decree concerning colorful dress, however, is the king dressed as a fashionable majo to complement his wife’s Spanish style. This disparity serves as a primary example of gender distinctions with regard to fashion; while María Luisa willingly showcased traditional pride through sartorial means, the king opted for conventional portraits. Why was it more acceptable for the queen to display such trends, as well as an alliance with the 180  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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populace, than the king? In part because the 1799 ruling specifically addressed the color of basquiñas, which would not have affected masculine dress, María Luisa was portrayed in the royally approved garment (fig. 60). By depicting her in the color demanded by the people, Goya visualizes her as a model for other elite women to follow, in their own support of the decree. Thus, politics and dress intersect in the queen’s portrait, making the work a powerful statement in which María Luisa plays an active role in conveying alliance and a smartly crafted Spanish persona. Kingship and queenship studies offer potential reasons for why María Luisa would have been viewed as the more suitable monarch to embody Spanishness in dress. As Regina Schulte argues, the queen’s body was often reduced to its “natural” state to limit her engagement in politics, although this could provide opportunities for more subtle maneuvers.79 It may have required the queen to find alternative avenues to participate in political debates, and her painted body in portraiture served as one way to express her affiliations. The appropriation of popular garments situates her 1799 portrait in the context of sartorial legislation, but the work also places her firmly at the helm of the court as an arbiter of taste. As Earenfight proposes, “Monarchy is two bodies—a king and a queen—occupying a single institution in which each individual is constructed in relation to the other.”80 In the case of the queen’s portrait in a mantilla and the king’s hunting portrait, the queen’s “natural” body—clothed in castizo garb—is more directly political than her husband’s conventional portrayal. María Luisa’s ensemble is almost exclusively black. While the wearing of black has typically been associated with mourning, its use in Spain has a different historic significance. The Renaissance author Baldassare Castiglione praised the Spanish preference for black as a courtly example that should be emulated. He noted the color’s relationship to the characterization of Spaniards as dignified and solemn, traits personified in Hapsburg masculine dress. As John Harvey notes, the wearing of black is associated with men’s standing, authority, and power.81 Charles V helped popularize the color black at court, but it was his son, Philip II, who became the “pivotal man in black in Europe’s history.” Philip’s preference for black dictated courtly uniform, not just in Spain but also in its colonial possessions, and this penchant was officially codified by Philip IV, who made black the standard color for court dress in 1623.82 In eighteenth-century Spain, the Spanish Bourbon kings did not follow the Hapsburg mandate; instead, they opted for international styles and a broader color palette. It was the queen and elite women, not men, who epitomized the former grandeur and sprezzatura of the Spanish past by recalling Hapsburg dress through the adaptation of maja attire. Goya visualizes María Luisa’s regality through her austere presence, made fashionable with personal touches and luxurious materials. Additionally, that the queen, and not the king, is portrayed in Spanish garb may intimate that women better served as intercessors in traditionally Catholic countries such as Spain. Although intercession is typically personified by the Virgin, in this instance, Goya presents a monarch who exemplifies the approved outfit, as dictated 182  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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by the king at the request of Spanish citizens, and who stands in unison with the popular classes. The sartorial link between María Luisa and the Virgin is significant, since both were represented in Spain wearing mantillas. The comparison works on a metaphoric level, since Goya’s portrait is not meant to communicate the same kind of spiritual intercession that the Virgin makes, nor does it include the king or Spanish citizens surrounding the queen. However, in her presentation of popular clothing within such a specific political climate, the queen conveys empathy via a fashionable partnership with the people. As John Ciofalo proposes, María Luisa was actively involved in the reform of children’s hospitals and made large anonymous donations of food and clothing to poorhouses.83 The queen’s connection to her citizens through painted means is another example of her generosity, even within the confines of royal portraiture. The subtle allusion to the Virgin, even if not purposeful, would have been appropriate for a Spanish queen. Barbara F. Weissberger addresses the frequent comparisons of the Virgin and Isabella I of Castile as part of the fifteenth-century queen’s “self-fashioning” via “moral austerity.”84 María Luisa may not have been able to claim the same piety displayed by Isabella, but her sartorial act represents a secular intercession. In addition, specific political events of the 1790s fostered a departure from the preference for imported French styles, as the government tried to close its borders to prevent revolutionary materials from penetrating Spain; this made the wearing of indigenous dress particularly strategic for the queen. Thus, the political context for her portrait relates not only to the particular circumstances of the 1799 decree, but also to the broader troubles of the late eighteenth century and the tensions between Spain and France. Goya’s portraits of male monarchs, statesmen, and cultural figures generally favor conventional styles. Overall, subdued fashions were preferred. Goya depicted the ilustrado Jovellanos in two full-length portraits, one from 1782, which places the sitter outside with ships in the distance, and a second one from 1798 (fig. 64). The latter painting provides intense psychological insight into the ilustrado’s state of mind, though both are typical of Goya’s portraits of intellectuals, which include pertinent accessories that complement the person’s profession. The weary Jovellanos leans on his desk, surrounded by paperwork and a statue of Minerva that seems to loom over him

Figure 64

Francisco de Goya, Gaspar Melchor de Jovellanos, 1798. Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid. © Museo Nacional del Prado / Art Resource, N.Y.

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Figure 65

Francisco de Goya, Carlos José Gutiérrez de los Ríos Sarmiento de Sotomayor, the Seventh Count of Fernán Núñez, 1803. Private collection. Photo: Album / Art Resource, N.Y.

in the shadowy background. Many scholars have discussed Jovellanos’s melancholic pose and the goddess’s presence in the portrait. While intellectual as well as practical pursuits keep the statesman occupied, his clothes relate a fashionable but modest style characteristic of men of his occupation and social class. The knee-length breeches, vest, white cravat, and jacket endow the sitter with a gentle reserve. Goya uses contrasting colors—golden yellows and silvery purples—to create a harmonious environment, despite the seriousness of Jovellanos’s expression. Such a portrait epitomizes the Spanish gentleman, as considered by Haidt, who states that bodies that embodied the Enlightenment were used to exhibit reformist aims and represented the ideal of masculine comportment.85 Although she looks to authoritative and popular texts and not to specifically visual examples, Haidt could be describing the qualities that Goya foregrounds in his portrait of Jovellanos, such as refinement and modesty—in contrast to the effeminized petimetre or the ostentatious majo. Was the swaggering dress of the majo too flamboyant for men in official portraits? Was the direct association viewed as problematic? These significant gendered representations require further examination. Despite the dearth of male portraits in which the sitter wears majo dress, literary examples suggest the prevalence of elite men sporting popular clothing during the second half of the 1700s. Travel writers in particular noted the phenomenon and the subsequent criticism that upper- and middle-class men received for donning attire considered to be below their social station. Describing general class divisions in terms of dress, Baretti comments, “A gentleman generally dresses after the French manner, wearing his hat under his arm. . . . But the lower class wrap themselves up to the eyes in their capas, which are brown cloaks that reach down to the ground.” He also observes that “the grandees themselves will sometimes wear those ugly capas by way of disguise,” despite the fact that Charles III disliked a man “wrapped up in a wide cloak with a flapped hat.” In contrast to the king’s wishes, Baretti observes that Spanish citizens “care but little for his majesty’s disapprobation of their unsightly dress, and meet his eyes thus accoutred [sic] with the greatest unconcernedness [sic]. Such is the force of inveterate customs, that they cannot even be abolished by the frowns of an absolute monarch, who is unwilling to force compliance by a positive command.”86 One Spanish noble who was infamous for his appropriation of majo dress was Carlos José Gutiérrez de los Ríos Sarmiento de Sotomayor, the seventh Count of Fernán Núñez (1779–1822). His father, the sixth Count of Fernán Núñez, wrote The Life of Charles III and was ambassador in Lisbon, where Carlos José Gutiérrez was born. Like his father, he held diplomatic posts for the court, serving as ambassador in London and Paris.87 As Rodrigo states, the count was not only a diplomat but also a “majo and torero” who “changed ‘the gentleman’s coat for the majo’s bolero jacket.’”88 Such a characterization of his actions relates to Spaniards’ fear that, with the exchange of one ensemble for another, real boundaries of social decorum could be crossed, even though the count’s actions could be regarded as courtly roleplay and representing a desire for fashionable variety. 184  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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Figure 66

Francisco de Goya, María de la Soledad Vicenta Solís Lasso de la Vega, 1803. Private collection. Photo: Album / Art Resource, N.Y.

Once again, a comparison of gendered distinctions in male and female portraiture is instructive here: Goya painted portraits of the count and his wife, María de la Soledad Vicenta Solís Lasso de la Vega, in 1803 (figs. 65 and 66), several years after their marriage in 1798. Both are situated in landscapes. Carlos José Gutiérrez wears a combination of the latest fashions from Europe and the Spanish cape, which blend seamlessly into a modern style. The count does not dress as a majo, but his cloak wraps around his body, endowing him with castizo flair. The debonair count looks off into the distance and poses with a cool swagger, successfully assuming a majoesque stance. In contrast to the balletic grace of the count, the countess is seated, stares directly at the viewer, and, with her hand on her hip, appears almost indignant. In addition to the pride that she displays, the countess wears an embellished outfit with a black mantilla, a headpiece with feathers and flowers, a large necklace with a miniature portrait, and a black dress with fringe and gold stripes. Although she does not sport maja dress in the traditional manner, as do Alba and the queen, her outfit represents a trendy intermingling of styles. In contrast to the countess’s overly ornamented gown and hair accessories, the count projects an ease in his clothes. Although this nobleman and others may exude a fashionable simplicity in portraiture, their dress tends to downplay their interest in appearance, as opposed to portraits of women, in which personality is often conveyed through luxurious materials, modish garments, elaborate hairstyles, and makeup. With these portrayals of the count and other Spanish men as reserved, it is left primarily to women to express persona, traditional affiliations, and individual taste through clothing. Such a distinction, however, does not signify that men did not have any fashionable preferences. The styles designed for them tended to favor a modest elegance with tailored cuts, muted tones, and functional garments—in 186  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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large part to distinguish them from the bombastic splendor of previous male styles, such as those preferred at Louis XIV’s court. While the flaunting of rich colors, ornate embellishments, and luxurious materials was viewed as typical for both men and women in earlier generations, by the end of the eighteenth century, men’s styles were often seen as distinct from women’s, and this may have impacted men’s decision to refrain from donning majo garb in portraits. Since such an ensemble may have been seen as too flashy, the count’s sporting of the customary cape offered a straightforward solution for adding a Spanish component to his attire. Regardless of some men’s taste for current trends, the consumption of fashion could evoke negative connotations, providing ample reasons for men to disassociate themselves from such pursuits. Despite the disapproval aimed at such consumption, many ilustrados lauded the benefits enjoyed by national industries when Spaniards consumed goods from both Spain and its colonies. The link between fashion and effeminacy, however, points to one of the chief reasons for why male enthusiasm for clothes would have been deemed problematic. By emphasizing men’s scholarly pursuits and professions, artists generated images of sophisticated men who did not rely on dress to express their personas. Both men and women were concerned about the “ways in which identities were constructed by clothing,” as fashion became the “problematic emblem of modernity.”89 Despite fashion’s association with both men and women, it was conceptualized as feminine. As Jones proposes, the ritual and practice of being fashionable became imperative to the development of women’s role in society and their identity, regardless of the correlation of fashion with frivolity. Thus, the modes displayed in female portraits allowed the sitters to construct fashionable identities, and the use of Spanish garments facilitated specific affiliations. Through the representation of elites who appropriated castizo garments, Goya enhanced his own social cachet as the artist for portraying Spaniards as chic. He became the consummate choice for engendering particular Spanish personas for the upper classes. One of the reasons why Goya’s portraits of Spanish nobles convey a modern sensibility is their visual relationship to popular prints that showcased current fads and that had a much broader circulation than individual paintings. Some of the types associated with the new world of fashion are included in De la Cruz Cano y Hol­ medilla’s Collection of Spanish Dress, such as the dressmaker, but the artist’s focus is eclectic; this is not a series of fashion plates, but relates to the visual tradition of street criers and costume albums. Antonio Rodríguez’s General Collection of Dresses that Are Used in Spain in the Year 1801 in Madrid more closely resembles the styles portrayed in Goya’s portraits of elites, in its combination of traditional and foreign items. Originally published periodically and with the help of three engravers— Joseph Vázquez, Manuel Albuerne, and Francisco de Paula Martí Mora—these 112 images were later collected in the complete volume, which included 4 additional prints constituting the section “Madrid Fashions from 1804”—again favoring the Spanish capital as the central location for the creation of novel styles and circulation Majismo and Royal Identity 187

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of clothing. Rodríguez is not interested in scale, as the majority of the figures are set in exteriors and tower over their landscapes, reinforcing their corporeal display and fashions as the principal focus in the series. The volume incorporates both prints that resemble fashion plates and others that emphasize regional and professional affiliations, similar to De la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla’s series. With the greater emphasis on figures’ gestures and style, identification by type plays a secondary role in the majority of Rodríguez’s prints. In many ways, his series pays homage to images of types and, simultaneously, anticipates fashion plates, which became the standard for disseminating changing fads throughout the nineteenth century. In contrast to the gendered discrepancies in portraiture, popular prints showcasing the latest trends allowed for certain artistic liberties, since the figures represented were anonymous. Thus, both men and women sport popular and European dress in opulent combinations that underscore the fashionable possibilities of cosmopolitan Madrid, though, as in the portraits, this occurs more frequently in images of women than men. With the increasing fusion of distinct fads, artists and individuals generated sartorial innovations. Rodríguez’s images sometimes convey current fashions in a whimsical manner. They are creative explorations, not just straightforward costume prints or fashion plates, since they rely on theme and variation; they employ captions in which characters question and answer one another, making gestures that indicate reciprocity among the prints, as if the series constitutes a dramatic stage for the display of the garments that the characters wear.90 For example, in plate 5, a man stands on a cobblestone street with a walking stick and gestures off toward the distance; the plate bears the title Are We Going to the Prado? Petimetre with Dress Coat and Embroidered Hat. In the following plate, a woman stands on the grass and “responds” with the title Whenever You Like, Gentleman. Petimetra with Basquiña with Straight Fringes and a White Mantilla with Trimming. While the traditional gendered distinctions seen in portraiture do not exist to the same degree in Rodríguez’s series, in this particular pairing, the man is shown in current European garb, while the woman sports a long mantilla and flounced basquiña. Joaquín Díaz proposes that geographical location has bearing on the artist’s representation of women. For instance, he suggests that women are commonly shown wearing a saya or basquiña in rural places, but the majas and petimetras in urban locales tend to wear longer skirts. Due to the diversity of styles depicted in this series, it would have been difficult to group individuals based solely on region or dress; moreover, the large number of women in Madrid and other cities who gravitated toward the basquiña made it more difficult to depict “stereotypes,” as Díaz indicates.91 The variety exhibited in the figures’ attire relates to the nature of consumption at the turn of the century, suggesting endless potential. As in the portraits by Goya, the Spanish persona, as appropriated by elites, has been made current. Although customary garments maintain their connection to the past—in part through the regional types shown—they also differentiate the wearers from their European counterparts 188  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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by embodying Spanish modernity. In Rodríguez’s series, types have been treated in fashionable terms, linking both majas and petimetras to trendy looks, though the latter more so. Other differences relate to class; while laborers dress and are labeled according to their jobs or places of origin, members of the upper echelon are shown decked out in elegant styles. This complicates the class-based association of majas, when they and petimetras are pictured with thematic connections to each other and are both associated with the realm of fashion. That garments and styles could be interchanged indicates a new sartorial and social fluidity. The fashionable figures are placed in both interiors and exteriors, and several of the captions indicate current or imminent pleasurable activities, such as strolling on the prado, attending a dance, or seeing a bullfight. The petimetra in I Am Awaiting a Guest wears an ornately designed empire-waist dress that coordinates with the pattern of the rug on which she stands; the petimetra in the following image, We’ll See Each Other at the Dance, poses outside in a garden, sporting a basquiña with a zigzag-patterned bottom and tassels that reach to her knees. Despite the latter’s use of the traditional garment, it has been fashioned in a novel way that allows for a better view of the dress underneath. In other Madrid-based examples of petimetras (fig. 67) and petimetres, particular attention is paid to the style and material of their garments, further associating these types with the consumption of fashion and the display of their modish bodies. Titles include phrases with great specificity, such as Currutaco with Frock Coat, Petimetra with Netted Basquiña and Transparent Mantilla, and Petimetra with Checkered Mantilla and Basquiña with Two Fringes. In this series, Madrid is sanctioned as the world of fashion, consumption, cosmopolitan figures, and urban laborers, while images of other regions show Rodríguez’s interpretations of customary dress, in many ways playing on the division between fashion and traditional garb. The inclusion of regional outfits creates a definite relationship between traditional and trendy garments, especially when they are combined to form new styles, as in many of the prints. Three of the final four prints, the “Madrid Fashions,” represent women, all of whom are petimetras in meticulously described garb; a single petimetre completes the set. That these works are titled “Fashions,” as opposed to

Figure 67

Antonio Rodríguez, Petimetra with a Muslin Mantilla and Twill-Weave Basquiña Adorned with Velvet, 1804. Biblioteca Nacional de España, Madrid. © Biblioteca Nacional de España.

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Figure 68

Antonio Rodríguez, To the Bullfight. Majo with a Short Jacket and a Cape, in Colección general de los trajes que en la actualidad se usan en España. En Madrid (Madrid: Las Librerias de Castillo, 1801). Biblioteca Nacional de España, Madrid. © Biblioteca Nacional de España. Figure 69

Antonio Rodríguez, Good Day for Enjoying the Sun! Petimetre with Cape, in Colección general de los trajes que en la actualidad se usan en España. En Madrid (Madrid: Las Librerias de Castillo, 1801). Biblioteca Nacional de España, Madrid. © Biblioteca Nacional de España. Figure 70

Antonio Rodríguez, Do I Look Like Some Currutaco to You? Worker from Burgos, in Colección general de los trajes que en la actualidad se usan en España. En Madrid (Madrid: Las Librerias de Castillo, 1801). Biblioteca Nacional de España, Madrid. © Biblioteca Nacional de España.

“Dress,” which is used throughout the rest of the series, specifies their purpose as images exhibiting trends. Beyond Madrid, Rodríguez includes figures from myriad regions. He refers to many of the women from Andalusian cities as majas, despite the distinctions in their styles, which incorporate both European and Spanish garments, much like the ensembles worn by petimetras from the capital. For instance, a maja from Seville wears a Spencer jacket with decorative fringe, which creates an empire waist for her long, flowing dress, while a maja from Cádiz is dressed in a flounced basquiña and patterned mantilla. The identification of these figures as majas suggests that clothing is not the ultimate defining marker, since little difference exists between the dress of majas and petimetras in the series overall. In many ways, these two types have become interchangeable in the prints, since both are portrayed as consumers of European and Spanish fashions, through which they express personal taste. The relevance of type is largely problematic. At the same time, Rodríguez calls into question the essence of “being” a maja or petimetra, since they are not based on rigid characteristics, pointing to the instability of social types and their artistic cross-fertilization. Recalling critics’ argument that sartorial blurring could lead to behavioral slippage and thus generate identity confusion, Rodríguez depicts the women in his series as participating equally in the promotion of traditional clothing as fashionable and the incorporation of European styles and fabrics. Despite the anxieties expressed about and personified by petimetras as narcissistic consumers of foreign items, in this series they are shown wearing both Spanish and European clothing, though Rodríguez does not provide information regarding where these textiles are produced. As Haidt states, prior to the 1800s, textiles functioned as the dominant industries in Europe and were crucial for a “nation’s economic health.”92 Thus, when Spaniards favored foreign purchases, this detrimentally affected the national economy. Focusing on the petimetra, Haidt suggests that this type was used as a trope of women’s luxury spending and was “employed by writers and artists during the second half of the eighteenth century to reference hot-button economic and social issues such as the need for women to contribute usefully to trade and the question of women’s responsibilities and desires as consumers.”93 With regard to different masculine types in the series, the long cape appears in prints featuring majos and petimetres. In To the Bullfight. Majo with a Short Jacket and a Cape (fig. 68), the man strides forward. His cape is thrown over his left shoulder so that viewers can see the rest of his outfit, which clearly references current bullfighting dress. In Good Day for Enjoying the Sun! Petimetre with Cape (fig. 69), the man is enveloped in a patterned cloak, making him a shadowy figure; this plays on stereotypes about majos, despite the fact that the title proposes he is a petimetre. His cape and hat reveal little of his attire and juxtapose the title’s supposition that he is out strolling to enjoy the sunshine. Rodríguez represents southern men with a cool swagger, typical of majos, as well as traditional garments, including a man from Cádiz who smokes and stares directly at the viewer, lending added ambivalence 190  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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to his nonchalant pose. In contrast to the urban majos and petimetres, one of the regional figures from Castilla la Vieja pokes fun at the fashionability of men, reinforcing negative stereotypes about men’s uneasy relationship with the world of consumption. In Do I Look Like Some Currutaco to You? Worker from Burgos (fig. 70), the figure gestures to himself as he poses the question both to the other figures in the series and to the viewer. The joke is made more humorous by the fact that no one would view this country type as the affected currutaco. Rodríguez represents the Burgos laborer as slightly awkward and wearing work-appropriate dress, which distinguishes him from the Madrid currutaco in the print I Am Going to See Her Before She Leaves. Currutaco with Frock Coat. While the title beneath the Burgos figure is witty, the question “Do I look like some currutaco to you?” points to significant issues of identity, comparing urban (fashionable) and rural (unfashionable) Spaniards, as well as to the anxieties that many felt about a man’s attention to his appearance. While the worker chooses certain clothing for primarily practical reasons, the currutaco consults his tailor and hairdresser and chooses garments for their stylishness to better exhibit his knowledge of trends. Criticism launched at women for their fashionable concerns was typical, but such preoccupations were deemed more “natural” to their gender, especially with the increasing “sexing” of the fashion Majismo and Royal Identity 191

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world. For men, however, such an association was more challenging, bordering on effeminacy. Ilustrados encouraged restraint in all forms of masculine conduct, advocating modest dress. Thus, the currutaco served as an inappropriate example for men to follow. Such an unfavorable connection certainly discouraged elite men from embracing highly embellished, overtly modish dress and swaggering like the majo. By opting for sensible styles considered appropriate for their social station, men could downplay their fashionability. Elite women’s fashionability, however, provided a notable vehicle for expressing individual preferences and agency; thus, I suggest that it could be viewed in a positive light and as a means to exert political influence. In evaluating Rodríguez’s prints of majas, Haidt proposes that they “challenge the viewer to distinguish among figures,” since “majas and petimetras share clothing and gestures” and “both display material goods whose semantic charge suggests that the women participate in shared urban networks of clothing circulation.”94 This borrowing complicated the divisions that artists created (and subverted) in order to depict types and pointed to the fluidity that types possessed at the turn of the century. The mutability of types in the prints exemplifies the reciprocity between the figures as anonymous characters displaying sartorial possibilities and specific individuals in portraits who borrowed from local and international trends and textiles. Just like portraits of elites in which artists represented a person’s particular interpretation of popular dress, Rodríguez’s prints highlight fashionable variety to counter the idea that types are always portrayed consistently. With the increased presence and acceptability of traditional garments among the upper classes, as seen in their portraits, the maja’s capacity to embody fashion and her association with an emblematic castizo made her a strategic and malleable figure for elites seeking to engender a modern image of Spanish femininity. As visualized in portraits and in prints, Spanish women became arbiters of an image of Spanish femininity as modern, chic, and having a rich historical tie to the past. The maja, as a pictorial trope of popular femininity, offered a means through which to imagine and articulate Spanishness. While the popular type provided a productive model for forging an image of Spanish identity at court in the second half of the eighteenth century, after the upheavals of the Spanish War of Independence (1808–14) and with the continued political struggles in the 1800s, majismo-themed subjects and dress became less applicable in elite circles, although they were not totally discounted. Members of the Spanish court did not necessarily look to popular types for sartorial inspiration to promote their native identity. Lo castizo became increasingly associated with foreign consumption, especially as popular imagery circulated as part of advertising campaigns and the wrapping on imports and with the rise in tourists to Spain. Additionally, the bourgeoisie became major patrons, particularly with the development of costumbrismo, and thus castizo imagery no longer functioned primarily for the pleasure of nobles.

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Conclusion CONCLUSION

The People of Spain, the so-called Lower Orders, are in some respects superior to those who arrogate to themselves the title of being their Betters, and in most respects are more interesting. The masses, the least spoilt and the most national, stand like pillars and ruins, and on them the edifice of Spain’s greatness must be reconstructed. —Richard Ford, Handbook for Travellers in Spain

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Richard Ford’s Handbook for Travellers in Spain, first

published in 1845, sold more than 1,300 copies to British tourists in three months. It was hailed as the most reliable and popular travel book about Spain in the nineteenth century, and Ford continued to revise it for an expanding audience.1 He even asked his Spanish friend Richard Gayangos to review the text to ensure its accuracy. As a leading authority on Spain, Ford aimed to provide “authentic” accounts of his experience and knowledge of this Iberian country.2 As the above quotation indicates, Ford’s most colorful descriptions focus primarily on the “Lower Orders” of Spain, to whom he devoted more attention in Gatherings from Spain.3 Ford’s equation of the “Lower Orders” with the “People of Spain” correlates with the eighteenth-century view that popular types, such as majos and majas, possessed a truer Spanish essence and gives credence to elites’ strategies of looking to traditional types to establish themselves as legitimate Spaniards. Popular types animated both the native and foreign imagination in travelogues and visual culture throughout the nineteenth and the early twentieth centuries and were regarded as picturesque and exotic. Tourists and artists viewed Spain’s allure as an antidote to the increasing industrialization of western Europe and North America. In this context, Spain was often praised for repudiating change and progress. Majismo played a role in the desire of foreigners to know and to experience Spain. In the 1800s and 1900s, costumbrismo further romanticized popular types and reinforced these figures as embodiments of lo castizo, despite

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the fact that costumbrismo themes differed from majismo in the former’s emphasis on the trivial. By favoring the anecdotal over the universal, costumbrismo lauded the everyday, seeming to capture life in a realistic manner. In its portrayal of the usual, costumbrismo could be seen as an attempt to deny modernization by championing traditional types and practices. But, with costumbrismo’s focus on the local, it relates to contemporary examples of realism in which the working classes were given preference as dignified subjects in their own right. The fascination with popular types in part stemmed from the Romantic belief that they demonstrated greater Spanish characteristics than the more cosmopolitan nobility; such figures could be manipulated or subverted for political purposes, especially as folkloric customs became linked to fascist ideologies in the 1900s. While popular types provided artists with Spanish subject matter in the second half of the 1700s, the nineteenth and the early twentieth centuries witnessed an expanding repertoire of traditionally oriented works of art, many of which were targeted at a foreign audience. Such objects fueled the tourist market and popularized Spain as a destination for pleasure or study, but they could alternatively be viewed as problematic in their repetition of certain themes, often at the expense of Spaniards. These Spanish spectacles fulfilled preconceived ideas of Spain. With images of mantillaclad women and caped, smoking men appearing on export items such as sherry and cigars, customary types persisted in conjuring visions of an authentic Spain for foreigners, despite the sweeping political and social transformations and industrialization taking place within the country. Andalusia supplied the most captivating and romanticized ideal of Spain, particularly with its proximity to Africa—a point repeatedly mentioned by travelers and employed as a literary or pictorial motif. Andalusia negotiated a metaphorical space between fantasy and reality to which foreigners turned their gaze for reinforcement of the Spanish national character. Costumbristas assisted, capitalizing on outsider desire. They tapped into the market by depicting quintessential scenes of dancing, bullfighting, and Catholic rites, although this does not negate the complexities of the scenes. Costumbrismo features the local but still plays into a larger artistic dialogue and global network of exchange. For example, the mantón de Manila, an embroidered shawl with long fringe regarded as characteristically Spanish, had its origin in China. It traveled from the Philippines (hence the name “Manila”) to Acapulco and then to southern Spanish ports via the Spanish Manila Galleons until 1815 (and by direct trade routes between Manila and Spain opened in the 1700s). The galleon ships followed this three-part route beginning in the sixteenth century. Images of Spanish women wearing the mantón de Manila—in conjunction with fans, mantillas, and arms akimbo—have a colonial subtext and reference both the popular and the global; these images were featured on export items such as moscatel wine from Málaga. In this conclusion, I briefly examine the evolving visual representations of masculine and feminine popular types. If, as I argue, majos and majas sustained artists’ interest as worthy subjects, how did their multifarious depictions transform, and 194  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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how were they replaced by new types? How did their visualizations appear simultaneously static and modern? In what ways did they refer to previous models? Do these later images offer novel ways of imagining Spanish identities? The vision of Spanishness perpetuated through the bodies of popular types negotiates a liminal space between reality and spectacle and Spanish pride and subversion. If Spanishness was envisioned as Romantic and exotic, especially via the favoritism given to the south, then the local, in many ways, usurped the national to offer a partisan view of Spain. The preference given to Madrid types in pictorial majismo is not the same as the preference shown for Andalusian types in costumbrismo. In the eighteenth century, the migrants who moved to Madrid and quickly identified with its neighborhoods came from distinct regions of Spain, adding to the cosmopolitan nature of the capital. Equating Andalusia with Spain overall belies the diversity of each region, but denotes the popularity and persuasiveness of the costumbrista image as one that seeks to visualize the “real,” even if this reality is fabricated. Popular types, practices, and sites dominated costumbrismo, augmenting the viability of its authority to disseminate values on behalf of places and people. At the same time, regional distinctions supplied many artists, such as Joaquín Sorolla y Bastida in his mural series Vision of Spain (1911–19), with fodder, while local dress was photographed to “document” garments fading from everyday use. However, even in the mural paintings of Spanish provinces, Sorolla’s work is biased toward Andalusia, which boasts four panels, more than any other region. The ubiquity of types in images speaks to their popularity, but sometimes these examples were used as vehicles to subvert traditions and to criticize foreign appreciation of stereotypical Spanish spectacle. I investigate how nineteenth- and early twentieth-century images of popular types no longer fulfilled a royal agenda. If indigenous figures were utilized by elites to craft their Spanish persona in the late eighteenth century, how were types employed in later generations, especially to appeal to foreigners? How did such a shift in the pictorial goal and destination affect the types’ representation? Novel or related types, such as cigarreras, manolos/as, and flamenco dancers, replaced majos and majas as the epitome of the popular. Many of these new types were associated directly with Andalusia, not Madrid, pointing to the south’s increased impact on the foreign fascination with Spain. No longer were urban majos and majas the central focus. With the emphasis placed primarily on Andalusia, other regions were overshadowed or totally neglected, in part because they did not fulfill foreign expectations; this relates to broader tensions among the provinces and culminated in the Franco regime (1936–75).

Costumbrismo As one significant moment that underscored the romanticization of Spanish culture, the mid-1800s saw a major influx of foreigners into Spain, including Isidore-JustinSéverin, Baron Taylor, and his agents Adrien Dauzats and Pharamond Blanchard, Conclusion 195

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who secretly sought to acquire works for the Spanish Gallery at the Musée du Louvre. This period also witnessed decided political and social shifts with the death of Ferdinand VII and the beginning of the Carlist Wars in 1833. The flood of travelers coincided with the proliferation of costumbrismo as a discrete and modern style. Andalusia was the primary production site for Spanish costumbrismo, serving as both a popular tourist attraction and an active artistic and political center. Seville was home to numerous costumbrista artists, including José Domínguez Bécquer, who portrayed Richard Ford as a majo in 1832, playing on the foreign attraction to Spanish types and Ford’s penchant for the notorious “Lower Orders” as picturesque characters. According to Calvo Serraller, the Spanish War of Independence ushered a wealth of foreigners into Iberia and facilitated a greater awareness of Spain’s potential for tourist attraction. The military and political unrest called attention to Spain, especially with the boost in foreign aid to oust Napoleon. With Ferdinand VII’s repressive return, many Spaniards went into exile, creating “systematic contacts” between the immigrants and those in their newly adopted countries.4 During the war, foreigners including Marshal General Nicolas Jean de Dieu Soult collected Spanish art. Soult looked to Ceán Bermúdez’s Historical Dictionary of the Most Illustrious Professors of the Fine Arts in Spain for assistance, particularly to satisfy his affinity for Murillo. Calvo Serraller proposes that Seville experienced an artistic flowering in the first half of the nineteenth century with the work of numerous costumbristas, including Domínguez Bécquer, Manuel Cabral y Aguado Bejarano, and José Roldán Martínez. Because costumbrista images feature figures and landscapes as allegedly naturalistic, the link between southern Spanish artists, like Murillo, and contemporary costumbristas suggested a continuation of a local aesthetic tradition from the country’s Golden Age to the 1800s. Under such a paradigm, artists like Bécquer were viewed as the inheritors of Andalusian artistic traits. As addressed in chapter 1, scholars such as Jovellanos and Ceán Bermúdez examined the merits of seventeenth-century Spanish art as a source of pride and inspiration for current artists, a trend witnessed in Goya’s The Family of Charles IV (fig. 7). As M. Elizabeth Boone states, “Murillo’s influence pervaded the work of nineteenth-century Sevillian painters,” who produced copies of the master or made “originals based on his style.”5 During the nineteenth century, outsiders journeyed throughout Iberia searching for Spanish-themed works copied from Murillo, Velázquez, and Zurbarán (among others), or contemporary costumbrismo-themed works. Costumbrista images rarely feature moralizing scenes, although they portray types and their practices in order to serve as models of the “real.” Spanish artists generated the majority of costumbrista imagery, much of which circulated outside of Spain; foreigners popularized Spanish subjects and brought them to a diverse audience abroad. Costumbrista works are traditionally associated with the mid-1800s, although several early nineteenthcentury examples by Goya and others provided a point of departure for fully fledged costumbrista artists. Despite a similarity in theme and figures, there are definite 196  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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stylistic and contextual differences between popular subjects from the 1700s and the 1800s. For example, elite Spaniards were no longer the primary patrons of traditional subjects, and they no longer relied on such images to engender their Spanish identity. The images fulfilled the needs of the bourgeoisie and foreigners whose interests and uses for them were vastly different from those of the Bourbon monarchy and other aristocrats from the 1770s to the early 1800s. Although the nineteenth century was marked by continual political conflict beginning with the Spanish War of Independence (1808–14),6 tourists flocked to Spain, regarded it with nostalgic longing, and purchased works featuring historic sites like the Alhambra or locals engaged in traditional practices like the bullfight.

Figure 71

Manuel Cabral y Aguado Bejarano, Alfonsito Cabral with a Cigar, 1865. Museo Nacional del Romanticismo, Madrid. CE 0904. Photo: Pablo Linés Viñuales.

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Such images solidified a foreign ideal of Spain and typical, picturesque subject matter that often did not overtly engage with political events or social upheavals. For example, Cabral’s Alfonsito Cabral with a Cigar of 1865 (fig. 71) shows a young boy in popular clothing. Andalusian in character, with a cigar held lightly in his right hand, a cap tilted sideways to provide added flair, a short bolero that is reminiscent of matador dress, and a jacket slung over his left arm, he possesses the confident stance of an adult. Sartorial detailing, such as gold buttons and tassels, evokes the glittery opulence of the traje de luces. The Spanish youth plays the role of a popular type. As Ford reminds his readers, the figures of the “Lower Order” were lauded for their authentic example of the Spanish character. Foreign artists contributed to costumbrismo with a similar emphasis on celebrated monuments, sites, and popular subjects. Upon his return from Iberia in 1833, the British artist John Frederick Lewis compiled lithographic prints for publication in two separate texts: Sketches and Drawings of the Alhambra (1835; dedicated to Sir Arthur Wellsley, the Duke of Wellington) and Sketches of Spain and Spanish Character (1836). The two series share commonalities in subject, number of plates (twenty-six per suite, most of which were drawn by Lewis), presentation, style, and even figures, who almost appear as a set cast of characters. In the Alhambra prints, Lewis depicts the complex’s architecture with decorative patterning and quaint rusticity, often showing it in partial ruin to heighten the Romantic appeal. A sketchbook appears in a few prints, perhaps serving as a surrogate for the artist. As Caroline Williams proposes with regard to Lewis’s later Orientalist works, the images are not only about the “other” but also about the “self.”7 Many of the figures seem just as ornamental as their accompanying scenery, while most of the images show little to no specific action. In several examples, Lewis highlights the quiet repose of solitary individuals, who, with their Spanish style of dress, offer the viewer a pleasurable vision of southern Spain and the Alhambra. Men and women, with their Edenic settings and languorous poses, tempt the spectator to visit this grand monument and reinforce stereotypes about southern European laziness. The Alhambra, shown partially deteriorating, complements the abundant vegetation, the guitars, and the figures, fashioning an image of Spain’s past glories with hints of nostalgia. In fig. 72, a man with a hairnet leans against a pillar under the shade of a trellis and looks off into the landscape beyond. The print’s focus on leisure in the context of a historic building confirms the fantasy element incorporated into these images by Lewis. In Sketches of Spain and Spanish Character, Lewis gives preference to southern Spain. The title of the work indicates an all-encompassing presentation, but there is little regional variety, a trend that persisted throughout the 1800s and early 1900s. Lewis’s favoritism of southern subjects relates to his Alhambra prints and, more important, to the general penchant for Andalusia. That Andalusia (and to a certain extent Madrid and Castile-León) supplied the most allure for artists and seemed to represent the most authentic and decidedly colorful traits of Spain is a crucial component of costumbrismo and encapsulates the view that southern Spain held 198  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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far greater “romance,” with its supposed “exotic” past. Lewis enhances the African and Middle Eastern association by invoking Spain’s Moorish heritage through subjects such as the mosque of Córdoba. The presence of such a building also evidences Spain’s multicultural history and patrimony, which was used as fodder to reinforce the notion of Spain’s difference, even in racial terms, since foreigners often compared Spaniards to people in the “Orient” or Africa in the 1800s. In Sketches of Spain, Lewis emphasizes typical themes, including Spanish religiosity, Islamic architecture, and popular types such as contrabandists. In the print Contrabandistas: Andalucía, he draws on the sublime fascination with these dangerous bandits, who caused many tourists to fear for their safety while simultaneously stirring their Romantic imagination.8 The print depicts a potential confrontation between a couple on horseback entering the town and a man and woman standing, perhaps on guard. The standing man has slung his rifle over his shoulder casually, but poses with his chest out and leg forward, holding his ground to emphasize his bravery. This image recalls Goya’s A Walk in Andalusia (fig. 16), which likewise

Figure 72

John Frederick Lewis, Sierra Nevada and Part of the Alhambra, in Lewis’s Sketches and Drawings of the Alhambra, Made During a Residence in Granada, in the Years 1833–34 (London: Hodgson, Boys & Graves, 1835). Frick Art Library, New York. Copyright the Frick Collection.

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underscores southern machismo, especially in the presence of female companions. Lewis frequently sets his Spaniards in doorways or archways or includes such architectural features as a device to enhance the voyeuristic experience, a typical trope in the Orientalist imagery that he depicted after settling in Cairo in 1841. Not only do these structural forms add drama by giving the figures (or a scene within a scene) a frame, but they also invite the viewer to peruse the image as if catching the sitters in some intimate or unplanned act. Lewis’s use of the word “sketches,” while common to the period, likens his print series to spontaneous renderings made on the spot. It emphasizes immediacy instead of overly manipulated imagery. The repetition of popular types, however, negates this connotation. Rather, Lewis highlights recognizable types and scenarios to reinforce a preconceived idea of Spain for his audience. These inclusions strongly suggest that the purpose of the sketches was more than just didactic, serving foreign curiosity. As Ford proposes, the main practitioners of customary activities, as depicted in these prints, were “more interesting” than their social superiors. Baron Taylor first traveled to Spain during the French Bourbon intervention to reinstate Ferdinand VII in 1823. In his subsequent publication A Picturesque Tour of Spain, Portugal, and Along the Coast of Africa, from Tangiers to Tetuan (1826–32), Taylor expresses his hope that his sketches will “inspire the young Artists of our brilliant French School with a desire to visit a land equally classical as lovely Italy, and at times as romantic as the misty Caledonia.”9 His “inspiring” pen portrays familiar subjects; however, there is often a disconnect between the images and their corresponding descriptions. In A Window of the Alcazar at Seville, two horseshoe arches frame the view of the city beyond, with a single classicizing column as the central support. While these architectural details coincide with the title and description, Taylor adds two popular types standing under the archway but separated by the column. The man gazes at the woman, who appears to be reading and thus does not return his glance. Their prominent place in this scene would suggest their importance; however, Taylor neglects to mention them. They do not offer any real substantive function other than scale and local color. The viewer can imagine a potential romantic interlude, which captivates and excites but does not enlighten in terms of the structure’s history. Under the leadership of the “Citizen King” Louis-Philippe, Taylor visited Spain again in 1835 on a clandestine mission—to represent the French king in selecting and purchasing works for the new Spanish Gallery at the Musée du Louvre. The gallery opened in 1838 and closed in 1849, following the July Revolution of 1848. A four-volume catalogue accompanied the Spanish Gallery’s exhibition, but it was “thin and error-filled.”10 Eight works by Goya were exhibited, including Majas on a Balcony and Two Women Reading a Letter (ca. 1812–14), which Taylor bought for 15,500 reales.11 Although the First Carlist War was plaguing Spain, he arranged to ship the pictures from various naval stations monitored by the French. In 1837, he sent nearly five hundred paintings representing a diverse group of Spanish artists to 200  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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France. Because he had traveled to Spain prior to 1835, he had made several acquaintances, and this facilitated his acquisition of art from private collectors, dealers, artists, and restorers.12 Many Spaniards actively participated in the French acquisition of Spanish works. However, these “purchases” were overwhelmingly unlawful, since they defied rulings put in place by Charles III in an effort to preserve Spain’s cultural patrimony. Bypassing these laws, Taylor’s collection received mixed reviews and negative commentaries with regard to the works’ quality. As Alisa Luxenberg states, the French public regarded the images and their similar “artistic methods, forms, and subjects” as evidence of the Spanish national character, which they did not view favorably. Their response was partially informed by the Black Legend, “which explained the downward trajectory of Spanish history through cultural tendencies toward violence and oppression, extreme piety . . . or superstition, laziness, and madness. . . . This legend perpetuated an image of Spain as an isolated, uncivilized, and poorly governed culture, which infiltrated French evaluations of the paintings in the Spanish Gallery.”13 As Luxenberg cogently argues, the Spanish Gallery spoke more to French preconceptions about Spanish art and Spanishness than representing a broad spectrum of artistic works.

Spectacle and Subversion at the Turn of the Century Throughout the nineteenth and the early twentieth centuries, tensions mounted among different factions, as seen in the creation of the 1812 constitution, its subsequent repression, and the Carlist Wars, whose tug-of-war for control culminated in the Spanish Civil War (1936–39) and iron-fisted rule by General Francisco Franco (1892–1975). The Spanish-American conflict and ensuing loss of colonies (1898) left Spain in a melancholic funk that had cultural and social repercussions. Spaniards reflected on the nature of their country’s identity, which had traditionally been associated with imperial might. The Generation of ’98, a name purportedly coined by the author José Martínez Ruiz (known as “Azorín”) in his essay “The Generation of 1898,” was a group of writers and poets who included Miguel de Unamuno, Antonio Machado, and José Ortega y Gasset. The group aimed to change Spain’s diminished status, in part by looking to the country’s Golden Age to inform the present and facilitate national cohesion. As Raymond Carr suggests, “This national humiliation released a flood of self-examination.”14 Frustration over a supposedly inept and fractured Spain epitomized the group’s ideology. Although there was a desire to compete with others in terms of industrial progress and modernization, ’98ers were often reluctant to witness traditions being uprooted, especially as they reasserted customs to promote the idea of quintessential Spanishness. As part of this reflection on Spain’s current state and future promise, the ’98ers regarded Castile as their muse. One of the subjects that occupied them was the history of Spanish art. While attempts to recuperate Spanish art were not new, the ’98ers’ response to the national crisis played a decisive role in the construction and Conclusion 201

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perpetuation of a Spanish identity with a preference for Castile, as the greatest epitome of “real” Spanishness. Just as eighteenth-century critics questioned the foreign presence in Spain as potentially detrimental, so did the ’98ers look to outside influence as corrupting Spanish art. Thus, traditional, native characteristics needed “rescue” in order to promote the works of contemporary artists. Writers such as Unamuno and Manuel Bartolomé Cossío studied previous models, including El Greco, Velázquez, Zurbarán, and Murillo, to conceive of a Spanish school—one that possessed a recognizable national style. They proposed that Goya’s penchant for popular types linked him to the realism of these artists. While the context may have differed from previous instances of such evaluation, the ’98ers were not the first to argue for (and provide definitions of ) a Spanish school, or the first to advocate primarily Golden Age painters as the creators of the national aesthetic. Their writings had relevance for contemporary artists, such as Ignacio Zuloaga y Zabaleta and Sorolla, who demonstrated a keen interest in customary subjects, “though paradoxically these same themes were developed within the context of a decidedly modern language.”15 While the emphasis placed on popular subjects was not novel, the meaning of such works in the framework of an evaluation of Spanish identity at the turn of the century had significant implications for the continued appreciation of traditional themes. Zuloaga was born in the 1870s in the Basque country and experienced the military blow to Spain’s colonial power as a young man. He relocated to Seville in 1893 and divided his time between Spain and France in the subsequent years. Many of his paintings relate to eighteenth-century images of castizo types, but generic figures are often substituted with portraits of his family set against a solemn Castilian landscape. In My Uncle Daniel and His Family of 1910, Zuloaga depicts obviously posed individuals, some of whom smile self-consciously at the viewer. All of the women in the painting flaunt typical Spanish garments, while the men are dressed in more standard European garb. The center-left woman sports a mantón de Manila, which encases her body with its floral patterning and long fringe. Its tight-knit design is distinct from the swirling brushwork of the landscape. The shawl takes pride of place and is the only source of saturated color in the work. Zuloaga displays it as a fully Spanish garment. Despite the recent loss of Spain’s last colonies, the proudly worn mantón reimagines a glorified past when Spain possessed land in all parts of the globe—or at least recalls that time. As the self-titled “painter of Spain,” Zuloaga participated in the renewed appreciation for El Greco. Dena Crossman suggests that the Basque artist saw himself as the “living heir” to the “great triad of Spanish artists of the past: El Greco, Velázquez and Goya.”16 Zuloaga directly references Goya’s Nude Maja in his own paintings, linking them not only to the art-historical tradition of the reclining female nude, but more specifically to Goya’s Spanish model. In Zuloaga’s Nude with a Red Carnation of 1915 (fig. 73), the woman sits upright with an unabashed smile. She sports an intricately laced mantilla, which drapes over her outstretched arm and is given height by a peineta. The mantilla classifies the unidentified nude as Spanish, although garments 202  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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are clearly not definitive markers, as I have previously discussed. Zuloaga gives the model signified clothing that marks her type, especially with the work’s specific reference to Goya’s Nude Maja. While the allusion to this artistic precedent is assuredly intended to add cachet to Zuloaga’s work, the painter departs from Goya’s example. The downturned flower held delicately in the sitter’s right hand hangs gingerly, as opposed to her erect posture, and its rosy pink-red tone provides the only bold color, contrasting with the painting’s primarily muted palette. The nude’s knowing expression offers a more daring engagement with the viewer. Zuloaga painted this in Paris, perhaps with greater freedom, considering Spain’s dearth of female nudes. Zuloaga experimented with the theme of the reclining nude throughout his career in works such as Spanish Courtesan with Mantilla and Reclining Maja with a Blue and Gold Macaw (both from 1913). In each painting, he adorned the nude with accessories (for instance, the shawl, comb, mantilla, and fan) to allude to her potential Spanishness, whether real or performed. In the 1916–17 Zuloaga exhibition that traveled to various locations in the United States, Reclining Maja with a Blue and Gold Macaw and Nude with a Red Carnation counted among the various nudes and seminudes

Figure 73

Ignacio Zuloaga y Zabaleta, Nude with a Red Carnation, 1915. Museo Nacional Centro de Arte Reina Sofia, Madrid. Photo: Album / Art Resource, N.Y.

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on display. During the exhibit in New York, critics not only noted the similarity between Zuloaga’s nudes and those of Goya and Manet, but also commented on the overt sensuality of Red Carnation. This painting apparently prompted letters of protest from “those who felt that it was impossible to see her without blushing or else going out and breaking a few commandments.”17 Such acute responses recall earlier observations and depictions of the purportedly explicit sexuality of the maja. Zuloaga’s nude captivates in part because he successfully taps into the heated debate surrounding the maja’s sometimes scandalous reputation. The Valencian-born Sorolla preferred a sun-infused palette for his outdoor scenes. His expressive brushwork, pastel colors, and emphasis on leisure link him to the impressionists, although there are definite formal differences. Like Zuloaga, Sorolla found inspiration in traditional practices, monumentalized in his fourteen-panel series Vision of Spain, painted for Archer M. Huntington’s newly opened Hispanic Society of America in New York City (1904). Huntington, a collector, scholar, and philanthropist, had a passion for Spain and commissioned Sorolla to paint several enormous works showcasing the distinct regions of the Iberian Peninsula. He had first seen Sorolla’s works in London at the Grafton Galleries and pursued the artist to his exhibit in New York, a critically acclaimed show held in February 1909.18 Although Huntington originally asked the artist to paint a “history of Spain,” Sorolla’s en plein air technique lent itself more to contemporary landscapes and themes. From 1911 to 1919, Sorolla travelled throughout Iberia producing hundreds of preparatory sketches and finishing the canvases for their installment in New York. Working predominantly from live models and often painting outdoors, he additionally “assembled photographs, clippings and ethnographic material to attain authenticity of detail” in his representation of the provinces’ dress styles, customs, and local flavors.19 By the early twentieth century, many of these traditions and garments were no longer practiced or worn, except during holidays or festivals. Sorolla lamented the loss of these cultural treasures, stating that “it causes me pain, enormous sadness, that we are losing this in Spain, that we are finally losing what is picturesque”20—in part linking his Vision of Spain to costumbrismo. Because Sorolla often found it difficult to locate the “picturesque” elements he longed for, he resorted to series of books devoted to types and dress. As Felipe Garín Llombart and Facundo Tomás Ferré suggest, Sorolla’s search for the “picturesque” emphasized a “reconstruction of regional clothing” and an “emblematic desire” to “build up a symbolic construct in order to justify the existence of a people through its landscape,” activities, and clothing.21 His use of photographs connects the canvases to both tourism and anthropology. This new medium was utilized for its “truthful” capturing of regional dress, and in turn, these photographs (and paintings and prints) could be displayed, along with actual clothing items, at world expositions. In 1925, Madrid witnessed the Exposition of Regional Dress, in which rooms showcased different material goods from distinct locations. Objects were organized by region to celebrate cultural treasures viewed as fading from existence. With decidedly patriotic 204  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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purpose, the director of the exhibit, Luis de Hoyos Sáinz, played an instrumental role in the ethnographic study of Spanish customs, dress, and folklore, including the founding of the Museum of the Spanish People in 1934, right before the outbreak of the Civil War in 1936. The 1925 exposition and the museum complemented Sorolla’s efforts to bring recognition to all parts of the country, even while Castile and Andalusia still held the most prestigious places and dominated the discourse about Spain’s former prowess. Although not all of the Iberian provinces are depicted in Vision of Spain, Sorolla travelled to Castile, Navarre, Aragon, Valencia, Catalonia, Extremadura, Elche, Galicia, Guipúzcoa, and Andalusia. This last region is honored with four separate murals, and Castile is given dominance through its canvas’s size—the largest of all. Two of the four images of Andalusia are devoted to bull-related themes, while the others visualize a dance in Seville and a procession of penitents during Holy Week. In Seville: The Bullfighters, Sorolla renders the opening act of the bullfight, when all the matadors and their squads present themselves to any royal guests attending the event. As in the other murals, a few of the figures gaze out toward the viewer, giving the sense that they are posing and, simultaneously, self-conscious. While bullfighting and Holy Week processions occured throughout Spain, in the series Sorolla specifically associates them with Andalusia. These images do not directly reference Andalusia in the same manner that the other murals relate to their respective provinces; rather, they combine Andalusian elements with typical Spanish scenes that took place across the entire country. Seville. The Dance (fig. 74) is an obvious exception. Sorolla depicts the Cross of May festival, in which groups of women erect house altars dedicated to the cross and collect donations for charitable purposes. They perform sevillanas in the city’s homes to encourage contributions. Sorolla portrays a festooned inner courtyard, with four dancers occupying center stage. The women sport flounced dresses, flowers in their hair, and mantones de Manila. Sorolla captures the shawls’ swaying fringe and the dresses’ flowing layers, connecting these garments not only to southern Spanish femininity but also to the dance performed—much in the way that eighteenth-century authors discussed the importance of dances that involved the wearing of supposedly appropriate native dress. In Sorolla’s murals, then, Seville and Andalusia come to represent the most easily recognizable signs of the activities, traditions, and people of Spain, as a whole. The series is “structured as a set of peripheral regions anchored to the great central plains, as it had been conceived of by the regenerationalists.”22 While Andalusia boasts four canvases, Castile claims the chief position as the country’s essential example of Spanishness. Sorolla’s Castile. The Bread Festival presents a vibrant array of regional dress and a display of Castilians as they gather for the procession. In bestowing preference on Castile and Andalusia, were Zuloaga and Sorolla pandering to foreign taste? Their depictions are sympathetic to what Luxenberg refers to as a “constructed mythology,” with the repetition of narrations and sketches.23 This response is similar to Ortega’s thoughts about Spaniards gratifying tourists’

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Figure 74

Joaquín Sorolla y Bastida, Seville. The Dance, from Vision of Spain, 1911–19. Hispanic Society of America, New York.

desire for a select representation of Spain and Spanishness. Ortega’s seminal essay, “Theory of Andalusia,” helps establish the reasons why Spaniards sought inspiration from this region and, simultaneously, critically evaluates Spain’s self-stylization.24 As Ortega notes, “During the entire 19th century, Spain lived under the dominating influence of Andalusia.”25 He adds sardonically that “there is no probability that cante hondo, or the dancer, or the smuggler, or the much advertised gayety of the Andalusian will move us. All this is Southern merchandise made for the tourist trade, which bores and annoys us.”26 Ortega proposes that Andalusians formed 206  F R A M I N G M A J I S M O

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stereotypes by making themselves “spectacles” for visitors.27 However, many of the works devoted to Spanish themes also served as a source of pride, whether produced for a local or foreign audience. This holds true especially for Zuloaga and Sorolla, whose images corresponded to a surge in national awareness, despite their favoring of Andalusia and Castile as exemplars of Spain overall.

Postscript The association of folkloric subjects with fascism in Spain under Franco points to a tricky dilemma. While the desire to express honor through traditions, especially as many were disappearing, was not problematic per se, the championing of select groups and customs as embodying Spanishness and the overt suppression of other regional celebrations or languages illustrate nationalism at its worst. Although Franco’s exploitation of particular manifestations of Spanishness to sponsor his own objective has been studied exhaustively elsewhere, I am interested in looking at one final example in which an artist subverts the use of purportedly customary subjects to denote all of Spain. In the twentieth century, Pablo Picasso created a series of eighteen etchings and aquatints on two copper plates (each 12 3/8 × 16 9/16 in.), collectively entitled the Dream and Lie of Franco I (1937; fig. 75). Picasso showcases the dictator in a variety of guises as he performs different (often violent) acts. In the first panel, Franco is depicted in a caricatured manner, riding on a horse whose entrails protrude from its belly, perhaps in reference to the picador act of the bullfight, a custom heralded under the regime for its national worth. The artist makes other references to bullfighting in this and other works relating to Franco. In the fourth panel, he conflates type, dress, and gender. He represents Franco as a maja, outfitted in a basquiña, mantilla, and peineta while waving a fan. Eberhard Fisch interprets this portrayal as one of “undignified disguise.”28 To reinforce the link between majas and traditional Spanish celebrations, the fan boasts an image of the Madonna, most likely in reference to Franco’s alleged loyalty to the Catholic Church. In costuming Franco as a maja and not a majo (or even a virile matador), Picasso both utilizes the art-historical precedent of this type and her incarnation of Spanish femininity and, in part, undermines the significance of the female type as a positive model of Spanishness. More important, in conjunction with Fisch’s notion of “disguise,” by clothing the dictator in feminine castizo garb, the artist plays with issues of dress and appropriation, even transvestism. Picasso’s Franco as a maja realizes the ultimate pretense of the dictator’s promotion of Spanish nationalism. Unlike the Duchess of Alba, who employed maja dress to effectively express female agency and individualism, Franco’s costume reveals him as a sham, one who manipulates folk customs at the absolute censorship of other regional expressions of Spanishness. In Picasso’s print, Franco does not successfully employ popular garments or practices to legitimize his regime, in the way that Spanish Bourbons and aristocrats were able to capitalize on such imagery in the late 1700s. In addition, Picasso’s deliberate blending of genders Conclusion 207

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references eighteenth-century pictorial examples of majos and majas in which these types epitomize both masculine and feminine characteristics in their performance of Spanishness—from the macho yet flamboyant bullfighter to the boldly seductive maja. Picasso’s Franco as a maja does not, however, exemplify positive masculine or feminine qualities, and, as a result, is neither effectively portrayed as a man or a woman, nor as a model of the Spanish national character. This is not to say that Picasso’s vision of the maja as applied to Franco dismisses the cultural and art-historical importance of majismo. Rather, I would propose that it is only because of the vital contributions of late eighteenth- and early nineteenthcentury artists and the ubiquity of nationally themed images that Picasso’s subversion of Franco as the maja is complete. Without understanding the seminal role that the maja and other types performed in visual works, Picasso’s mocking print would not generate the same effect. Picasso succeeds in his subversion because he understands that the maja represents an image of customary femininity, and Franco’s abuse of such essential traditions as flamenco and bullfighting to promote his own agenda unfortunately problematized the value of these customs to Spanish history and culture. Picasso’s use of the maja to destabilize Franco’s cunning chicanery is successfully biting and effective, ultimately commenting on the visual potency of images generated by artists who began fashioning multifaceted embodiments of Spanishness in the late eighteenth century.

Figure 75

Pablo Picasso, plate 1 of Dream and Lie of Franco I, 1937. Musée Picasso, Paris. © RMN –Grand Palais / Art Resource, N.Y.

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Notes NOTES

INTRODUCTION

1. Laqueur, Making Sex. 2. Goss, Revealing Bodies, 2–3. 3. Encyclopédie, ou, Dictionnaire raisonné des sciences, 953. Originally published in Paris from 1751 to 1765. 4. Diccionario de la lengua castellana, vol. 4 (Madrid, 1734), quoted in Caro Baroja, “Los majos,” 22. 5. See Haidt, Women, Work, and Clothing. 6. Ibid., 199. 7. Ibid., 224. 8. See ibid. 9. Tomlinson, Goya in the Twilight of Enlightenment, 48. 10. For example, see González Troyano, “La figura teatral del majo,” and Huertas Vásquez, “Los majos madrileños y sus barrios,” among many others. 11. See Kantorowicz, King’s Two Bodies. 12. Melzer and Norberg, From the Royal to the Republican Body, 4. 13. Greenblatt, Renaissance Self-Fashioning, 2. 14. Ibid., 9. 15. De Vries, Caterina Sforza, 1. 16. Zavala, Becoming Modern, 1–2. 17. Ibid., 14. 18. See Haidt, Women, Work, and Clothing. 19. Zavala, Becoming Modern, 8–9. 20. Ibid., 2–3. CHAPTER 1

1. For more information on the Spanish empire and the development of a Spanish national identity, see Paquette, Enlightenment, Governance, and Reform; Rodríguez O., Las nuevas naciones; Esdaile, Fighting Napoleon; Fusi, España; and Boyd, Historia Patria. 2. Whistler, “Lorenzo Tiepolo y el salón del trono,” 36–37. 3. Swinburne, Travels Through Spain, 2:171–72. 4. Nussbaum, Global Eighteenth Century, 2. 5. Ibid., 2–3. 6. Carrera, Traveling from New Spain to Mexico, 110.

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7. See Zanardi, “Preservation and Promotion.” 8. For a comparative study on eighteenth-century conceptions of race, see Wheeler, Complexion of Race. 9. Baum, Rise and Fall of the Caucasian Race, 58. 10. Ibid., 63. 11. McCoskey, Race, 3–4. 12. See Wahrman, Making of the Modern Self. 13. Goss, Revealing Bodies, 5–7. 14. Wahrman, Making of the Modern Self, xii. 15. Barnard, Herder on Nationality, 17. 16. Spencer, “Towards an Ontology of Holistic Individualism,” 250. 17. Van Horn Melton, Rise of the Public in Enlightenment Europe, 274. 18. Fox, “Spain as Castile,” 24–25. 19. Poole, Nation and Identity, 12–15. 20. Eastman, Preaching Spanish Nationalism, 2. 21. Ibid., 6. 22. Stiffoni, introduction to Teatro crítico universal, 44. 23. Eastman, Preaching Spanish Nationalism, 22–23. 24. Ibid., 24. 25. Weber, Bárbaros, 4–5. 26. Hume, “Of National Characters,” 244. 27. Winckelmann, History of Ancient Art, 52. 28. Montesquieu, Spirit of Laws (1762), 18. Originally published in 1748. 29. Montesquieu, Spirit of Laws (1989), 313. 30. Kant, Observations on the Feeling of the Beautiful, 97, 100. 31. “Modo de viajar para sacar fruto de los viajes,” Diario de Madrid, December 1787, 772. 32. Baretti, Journey from London to Genoa, 3:152–53. Emphasis mine. 33. Ibid., 3:152. 34. Dalrymple, Travels Through Spain and Portugal, 29. 35. Fischer, Picture of Madrid, 59–60. 36. The RABASF assumed control over all public artwork in 1777, when Charles III decreed that every project must obtain its approval.

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37. The Real Calcografía was founded in 1789, one year after the publication of Manuel Monfort’s The Plan of the King’s Engravers on February 16, 1788. 38. Stemmler, “Anglo-Irish View of Spain,” 275. 39. Twiss, Travels Through Portugal and Spain, 266. Twiss also ties Velázquez’s style to Caravaggio; see 137. 40. Swinburne, Travels Through Spain, 2:174. 41. For information about Hapsburg patronage, see Schroth, Art in Spain and the Hispanic World; Schroth and Baer, El Greco to Velázquez; Paintings for the Planet King; Velázquez en la corte de Felipe IV; and Brown, Palace for a King. 42. Úbeda de los Cobos, Pensamiento artístico, 421. 43. Ibid., 325. 44. Úbeda de los Cobos, “El mito de la escultura clásica,” 330. 45. See Silva Maroto, “La influencia del grabado.” 46. Wagner, Manuel Godoy, 249. 47. In addition to Goya’s prints after Velázquez, Salvador Carmona’s international reputation inspired Vargas Ponce’s request that Charles IV give royal protection to printmakers. Vargas Ponce also delivered the speech “Principles and Progress of the Art of Engraving” at the prize-giving ceremony of the RABASF in 1790. See Vargas Ponce, “Principios y progresos del arte de grabado,” 40. 48. Schulz discusses this endeavor as a means of supplementing the young artist’s income while he worked at the tapestry factory. See Schulz, Goya’s Caprichos, 15. 49. Ponz, Viaje de España, 8:ii. 50. Vega, “Pinturas de Velázquez,” 28. 51. Tomlinson, Goya in the Twilight of Enlightenment, 60. 52. Ibid., 75. 53. For information about the guardainfante, see Wunder, “Rise and Fall of the Guardainfante.” 54. Tomlinson looks to the third volume of Palomino’s theoretical treatise Museo pictórico y escala óptica (1724), entitled El Parnaso Español pintoresco laureado, in which Palomino recorded the “often-repeated reaction of Luca Giordano” and Jovellanos’s “Elogio de las bellas artes,” presented to the RABASF in 1781. See Tomlinson, Goya in the Twilight of Enlightenment, 67. Palomino described Las meninas as the most “illustrious” work by Velázquez. 55. Whistler, “On the Margins in Madrid,” 82–84. 56. Ponz, Viaje de España, 6:191. 57. Phillips, “Travels of an Enlightened Mind,” 231. 58. Schulz, “Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid,” 237. 59. Rogelio Buendía, “Historia del museo y de las colecciones,” 16–17. 60. Ponz, Viaje de España, 6:194. 61. Ibid., 6:205. 62. Ceán Bermúdez, Carta a un amigo suyo, 73.

63. Ceán Bermúdez, Diálogo sobre el arte de la pintura, n.p. 64. Ibid., 7–12. 65. Luxenberg, Galerie Espagnole, 109. 66. Santos García Felguera, “La escuela española,” 337. 67. Luxenberg, Galerie Espagnole, 110. 68. See Kany, Life and Manners in Madrid. 69. Ribeiro, “Fashioning the Feminine,” 78. Owing to the often-scandalous behavior that occurred during the festivals of the May Queen, both Charles III and Charles IV placed bans on them in Madrid, in 1769, 1770, and 1789, though these were largely ineffectual. 70. Worth, “Andalusian Dress and the Andalusian Image,” 13–14. 71. Caro Baroja, “Los majos,” 18–20. 72. Diccionario de la lengua castellana, vol. 4 (Madrid, 1734), quoted in Caro Baroja, “Los majos,” 22. A later dictionary gives a similar description of the majo. See Diccionario castellano con las voces de ciencias y artes. 73. Caro Baroja, “Los majos,” 21. The word majar supposedly has Moorish roots. Caro Baroja proposes that Jovellanos thought majos had descended from Spain’s Islamic past. 74. Rodríguez Méndez, Ensayo sobre el machismo español, 51–54. 75. Ibid., 73. 76. Ibid., 79–81. 77. Martín Gaite, Love Customs in Eighteenth-Century Spain, 47. 78. Pérez-Bustamante Mourier, “Cultura popular,” 128. 79. Ibid., 130–51. 80. See, for example, Sala Valldaura, Los sainetes del González del Castillo, and Álvarez Barrientos, Memoria de hispanismo. 81. Haidt, Women, Work, and Clothing, 11. 82. Ibid., 122–23. Haidt states that the majority of the immigrants who moved to Madrid in the second half of the 1700s were young, unmarried, and predominantly from Galicia, Asturias, and regions around the capital; see 165. 83. Ibid., 171. 84. Ibid., 208–9. 85. Prior to the 1700s, many of the first-known print series devoted to the labeling and depiction of types in France focused on aristocratic fashion, such as La noblesse Lorraine by Jacques Callot. Plebeian street criers were highlighted in Les cris de Paris by Edme Bouchardon (1737–46) and by Michel Poisson (1774); Giuseppe Maria Mittelli’s Gridos di Bolonia (1660); and Charles-François de la Traverse’s Gridi ed alter azzioni del popolo di Napoli (1759). In the eighteenth century, fashion almanacs provided another venue for illustrating types and their dress styles. Beginning in 1672,

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the French fashion journal Le Mercure Galant disseminated information on Louis XIV’s spectacular clothing styles and Parisian commercial culture. In 1770, the British published their first fashion periodical, the Lady’s Magazine, reinforcing the prerevolutionary period’s notion that women were especially prone to lavish expenditures on clothes. 86. Bozal, “La formación del costumbrismo,” 506. CHAPTER 2

1. These two paintings, along with several others, have been the subject of an attribution debate. While the Prado Museum (see their online collection) and María Antonia Martínez Ibáñez (Antonio Carnicero, 1748–1814) identify the artist as Antonio Carnicero, Ramón Rodríguez Culebras attributes the images to José Camarón Bonanat (José Camarón Bonanat, un pintor valenciano). 2. In the sixteenth century, the popularity of Spanish courtly dress spread throughout Europe, in part with the help of the Milanese album The Tailor’s Book. This work included images of Spaniards such as Charles V. See De la Puerta, La segunda piel, 12. See also Colomer and Descalzo, Spanish Fashion at the Courts of Early Modern Europe. 3. Spicer, “Renaissance Elbow,” 85–86, 93. 4. Kany states, “Ever since Madrid had been made the capital, poor immigrants from the slums of Sevilla, Valencia, Valladolid, Malaga, and other cities, had flocked to these sections.” Kany, Life and Manners in Madrid, 222. 5. Diccionario de la lengua castellana, vol. 4 (Madrid, 1734), quoted in Caro Baroja, “Los majos,” 22. 6. Sancho, “En busca de los espacios perdidos,” 41. 7. Jonathan Brown argues that Diego Velázquez wanted to improve the status of Spanish artists and hoped that the monarchy would establish an academy of fine arts. See Brown, “On the Meaning of Las Meninas.” 8. Rodríguez, Discurso sobre el fomento de la industria popular, 63. 9. Sousa Congosto, Introducción a la historia de la indumentaria, 137. 10. Pérez Ferra, Aportaciones didácticas del Arte Mayor de la Seda, n.p. 11. Rodríguez García, El arte de las sedas, 49–56. 12. Ibid., 57. 13. Fischer, Picture of Madrid, 206. 14. Bourgoing, Travels in Spain, 1:220. 15. Cañas Murillo, “Hacia una poética del sainete,” 218–19. 16. Rodríguez-Solís, Majas, manolas y chulas, 18. 17. Ibid., 39. See Diccionario universal de la lengua caste­ llana, ciencias y artes. 18. This sainete may be found in Colección de Sainetes Tantos Impresos como inéditos de D. Ramón de la Cruz.

Included in this play is a scene of majos and majas dancing the seguidilla. 19. Haidt, Women, Work, and Clothing, 203. 20. Ibid., 245. 21. Úbeda de los Cobos, “Los pasteles españoles de Lorenzo Tiepolo,” 66–67. 22. Charles LeBrun (1619–1690) formulated a method for painting the passions that he delivered in a series of lectures at the French Royal Academy of Painting and Sculpture in the late seventeenth century. LeBrun devoted one of these lectures exclusively to facial expression; it was published in 1698 under the title Conférence sur l’expression générale et particulière. See Ross, “Painting the Passions.” The evaluation of transient expressions and their depiction as codified pictorial signs according to LeBrun’s ideas relate to the eighteenth-century revival of physiognomy— the practice of interpreting one’s character based on one’s permanent outward appearance, particularly of the facial structure and features. The earliest-known systematic treatise on physiognomy is attributed to Aristotle, although this idea has been contested recently. 23. Molina and Vega, Vestir la identidad, 176. 24. Ibid., 177. 25. Descalzo Lorenzo, “Modos y modas en la España de la Ilustración,” 167. 26. Molina and Vega, Vestir la identidad, 20. 27. When Philip V became king of Spain, Louis XIV encouraged him to maintain the traje español a la golilla to satisfy the nation. Descalzo Lorenzo, “El traje francés,” 189. 28. Descalzo Lorenzo, “Modos y modas en la España de la Ilustración,” 167. She names additional tailors who worked for Philip V, including Juan de Montalban in 1723, who served as the sastre de cámara; in Paris, Juan Castanet was the official French tailor for the Spanish king. See Descalzo Lorenzo, “El traje francés,” 207–9. 29. Molina and Vega, Vestir la identidad, 53. 30. Ibid., 49. Many other literary examples in which authors satirized this outdated style exist; see, for example, Iriarte, “El retrato de golilla.” 31. Cadalso, Cartas marruecas, 99. 32. Deleito y Piñuela, La mujer, la casa y la moda, 214. 33. Jones, Sexing La Mode, 19. The new style, “the precursor of the three-piece suit,” was disseminated through royal portraits, mannequins, fashion engravings, and journals such as Le Mercure Galant. See pp. 20–22. 34. Descalzo Lorenzo, “El traje francés,” 191–94. 35. Molina and Vega, Vestir la identidad, 61. 36. Leira Sánchez, “El traje en el reinado de Carlos III,” 19. 37. De la Puerta, La segunda piel, 130–33. 38. Haidt, Women, Work, and Clothing, 125. 39. Descalzo Lorenzo, “Modos y modas en la España de la Ilustración,” 173.

Notes to pages 39–55 211

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40. Sousa Congosto, Introducción a la historia de la indumentaria, 158. He adds, “Since then, this word has been used to describe a type of dress along with a large dress coat. One would call it dressing a la chamberga” (A partir de entonces se utilizó esa palabra también para definir un tipo de indumentaria, con gran casaca. Se decía vestir a la chamberga). 41. Tomlinson, Francisco Goya, 46. 42. De la Puerta, La segunda piel, 211–12. She adds that in the 1800s the montera-muntera became the bullfighter’s hat and was embellished with braids and tassels; see 238. 43. Sousa Congosto, Introducción a la historia de la indumentaria, 161. 44. Molina and Vega, Vestir la identidad, 90. The Instrucción para la concurrencia de bailes en mascara en el carnival del año 1767 set the norms for such events in order to ensure social order. 45. Molina and Vega quote part of the royal order, which states, “The King has taken note (His Majesty has seen and observed this himself ) that various distinguished persons in Madrid, in a degradation of their class, have introduced the abusive practice of dressing up in coarse, gray-brown hooded cloaks (or other colors), ornamented with ridiculously sewn backstitches or embroidered with different bold colors, in felt or another equivalent fabric, and that in Castile this dress has until recently only been worn by gypsies, contrabandists, bullfighters, and butchers, who are now mistaken at each pass for the said distinguished persons who use it” (Habiendo notado el Rey haberse introducido en Madrid el abuso de disfrazarse de día, y de noche varias Personas de distinción, con degradación de su clase, (que S.M. ha visto y observado por sí mismo) con unos capotes pardos, burdos, o de otros colores, muy sobrepuestos de labores ridículas pespuntadas o bordadas de diferentes colores chocantes, con bozos de bayeta u otra tela equivalente, y que en este traje en Castilla sólo le han usado hasta ahora los Gitanos, Contrabandistas, Toreros y Carniceros, con quienes se equivocan a cada paso dichas Personas de distinción que los usan). Molina and Vega, Vestir la identidad, 184–85. 46. Gallego, El motín de Esquilache, 85–86. 47. Haidt, Women, Work, and Clothing, 123. She states that a 1745 book of instructions for the court advised those policing the city that the number of poor had substantially increased, and they were in need of regulation; see 125. 48. Molina and Vega, Vestir la identidad, 181. 49. Ibid., 89. 50. Haidt, Women, Work, and Clothing, 274–75. 51. Ibid., 265. 52. De la Puerta, La segunda piel, 130–33. 53. Leira Sánchez, “El traje en el reinado de Carlos III,” 19.

54. González Troyano, “La figura teatral del majo,” 482. Juan Sempere y Guarinos quotes from the ban, which cited public safety as a decisive factor in the decision to modify majo dress. See Sempere y Guarinos, Historia del luxo, 170–71. 55. Bourgoing, Travels in Spain, 1:139–40. 56. Rodríguez, “Riots of 1766,” 228. 57. Ibid., 235. 58. López García, El motín contra Esquilache, 19–23. 59. Ibid., 89. 60. Ibid., 94–95. 61. Ibid., 117. 62. Molina and Vega, Vestir la identidad, 54. 63. Descalzo Lorenzo, “Modos y modas en la España de la Ilustración,” 174. 64. Sala Valldaura, Los sainetes del González del Castillo, 68. 65. Haidt, Women, Work, and Clothing, 202. 66. González Troyano, “La figura teatral del majo,” 475–76. 67. Ibid., 486. 68. Sala Valldaura, Los sainetes del González del Castillo, 59. 69. Sala Valldaura argues that the majo is González del Castillo’s most richly complex character. See ibid., 57–60. 70. Ibid., 60. 71. González del Castillo, El maestro de la tuna, 78. 72. Sala Valldaura, Los sainetes del González del Castillo, 61. See Seco, Arniches y el habla popular. 73. Cañas Murillo, “Hacia una poética del sainete,” 226. 74. Sala Valldaura, Los sainetes del González del Castillo, 70. 75. Maldonado Felipe, La indumentaria tradicional de Castilla–La Mancha, 38. 76. Butler, Gender Trouble, 139. 77. Thomas, “Reenfleshing the Bright Boys,” 61. 78. Steinberg, Masculinity, 1–5. 79. Horrocks, Masculinity in Crisis, 2. 80. Ibid., 183. 81. Scott, Fantasy of Feminist History, 21. 82. Ibid., 119. 83. Zavala, Becoming Modern, 15. 84. Bordo, Male Body, 26. 85. Haidt, Embodying Enlightenment, 118–30. 86. Gaudet, Bibliotheque des petits-maitres. 87. Haidt, Embodying Enlightenment, 115. 88. Ibid., 109. 89. Sousa Congosto, Introducción a la historia de la indumentaria, 138. Juan de Zabaleta offers an alternative ancestor for the petimetre: el galán (the gallant). See Zabaleta, El día de la fiesta por la mañana (1654), 186–89.

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90. Deleito y Piñuela, La mujer, la casa y la moda, 218–24. 91. Villena, Corsarios de guante Amarillo, 24. 92. Haidt, Embodying Enlightenment, 108–10. 93. Molina and Vega, Vestir la identidad, 116. 94. Cadalso, Cartas marruecas, 98. 95. Diccionario de la lengua castellana compuesto por la Real Academia Española. 96. Torres Villarroel, Visiones y visitas de Torres, 380–81. Luis Álvarez Bracamonte provides biting commentaries on petimetres with regard to their daily practices and interests in his books Copia perfecta (si cabe perfeccion en tal copia) and Exacta copia del original mas impertinente. 97. Cienfuegos, La pensadora gaditana, 9. 98. Gómez Arias, Recetas morales, políticas y precisas, 373. 99. Prot, “Las afinidades equívocas del petimetre,” 304. 100. Fernández de Rojas, Libro de moda, 57–61. 101. Ibid., 21–25. 102. Ibid., 27–30. 103. Rodríguez Calderón, Escena unipersonal, 3–5. 104. Ibid., 7. 105. Prot, “Las afinidades equívocas del petimetre,” 313. 106. Clavijo y Fajardo, “Vida ociosa,” 464–65. 107. Ibid., 465–66. 108. González Troyano, “La figura teatral del majo,” 481. 109. Sala Valldaura, Los sainetes del González del Castillo, 101. 110. Cohen, Fashioning Masculinity, 9. 111. Haidt, Embodying Enlightenment, 119. 112. Iza Zamácola y Ocerín, Elementos de la ciencia contradanzaria, 5. 113. Iza Zamácola y Ocerín, Colección de las mejores coplas, 22. Originally published in 1789. 114. Esses, Dance and Instrumental Diferencias, 716. 115. Iza Zamácola y Ocerín, Colección de las mejores coplas, 44. 116. Leira Sánchez, “El traje en el reinado de Carlos III,” 20. 117. Díaz-Plaja, La vida cotidiana, 166. 118. Fernández de Rojas, Libro de moda, 67. 119. Of the five senses, sight was considered the most important in the eighteenth century. 120. Stoichita and Coderch, Goya, 67. 121. Schulz, Goya’s Caprichos, 59. 122. In conjunction with Goya’s visual joke relating currutacos to monkeys, Iza Zamácola published two letters, entitled “Danza de monos” (The monkey dance) and “La derrota de los monos” (The defeat of the monkeys), in 1802. 123. Haidt, Embodying Enlightenment, 144. 124. See Garnier-Pelle, Forray-Carlier, and Anselm, Monkeys of Christopher Huet.

125. Haidt, Embodying Enlightenment, 144. Andioc, “Goya y el temperamento currutáquico,” 73. 126. The garrote is an iron collar that strangled the victim. In Desastres de la guerra, Goya visualizes this execution method in numbers 114 and 115, entitled Por una navaja (For a knife) and No se puede saber por qué (Nobody knows why). His drawing El agarrotado, which entered the Real Calcografía in 1790, depicts the same theme. 127. Amann, “Scarlet Letters,” 95. 128. Wilson-Bareau, Goya, 177. 129. Haidt, Women, Work, and Clothing, 120–21. CHAPTER 3

1. El siglo de oro de las tauromaquias, 33. 2. Balloon spectacles became a popular diversion in the eighteenth century. Famed flight navigators included Vincenzo Lunardi (1759–1806) and the brothers Joseph-Michel Montgolfier (1740–1810) and Jacques-Etienne Montgolfier (1745–1799). The first balloon lift in Spain took place in 1783 in Madrid’s Casa de Campo. 3. In the Diccionario de la lengua castellana compuesto por la Real Academia Española, the word chulo was defined as “he who assists in the slaughterhouse in order to help with the confinement of the livestock. The term is also used for those in the bullfights who assist the horse riders and give them the lances” (el que asiste en el matadero para ayudar á el encierro de las reses mayores. Llámanse tambien así los que en las fiestas de toros asisten á los caballeros, y les dan garrochones). 4. Rojas y Solís, Anales de la Plaza de Toros de Sevilla, 27–28. 5. The jineta is considered to be a Spanish style of riding with links to Arab traditions. 6. Royal tournaments, autos-da-fé, and juegos de cañas (a form of jousting) also frequently occurred in Spain’s main squares. 7. Bonet Correa, “La Plaza Mayor de Madrid,” 58. 8. García-Baquero González, Romero de Solís, and Vázquez Parladé, Sevilla en la fiesta de toros, 52–53. 9. Halcón, La plaza de toros, 15. Confraternities, including San Hermenegildo in Seville, often served as precursors to the maestranzas. 10. Halcón, La plaza de toros, 23–24. 11. Medrano Basnata and Matilla Rodríguez, La tauromaquia de Goya, 112. 12. While the Carta histórica de Don Nicolás Fernández Moratín al Príncipe de Pignatelli sobre origen y progresos de las fiestas de toros was published first in 1777 and again in 1801, Vargas Ponce’s Disertación sobre las corridas de toros went unpublished for a century and a half. However, it

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was read in seven academic councils from May 15 to June 25, 1807. See Medrano Basnata and Matilla Rodríguez, La tauro­maquia de Goya, 76. 13. Jovellanos, Memoria para el arreglo, 95. 14. Vargas Ponce, Disertación sobre las corridas de toros, 11. 15. Ibid., 42. According to Sayre, the term “torero” signifies a “fighter on foot” and would thus be inappropriate for a royal fighter, since he was mounted. The “matador” was the performer who would kill the bull. Sayre argues that the proper term for the matador in the eighteenth century was primera espada. See Sayre, “Goya’s Titles to the Tauromaquia,” 511. 16. Fernández Moratín, Carta histórica, 14. 17. Ibid., 11. Many scholars have debunked Moratín’s assertion of El Cid’s prominent place in bullfighting’s history. 18. Vargas Ponce, Disertación sobre las corridas de toros, 17. 19. Ibid., 19–20. 20. Schulz, “Moors and the Bullfight,” 195. He also contrasts this approach—one of “absorbing Muslim culture into the fabric of Spanish history”—with that of the Christian Reconquest, “a paradigm founded on alterity and cultural conflict.” 21. Dogs grabbed the bulls by the ears to immobilize them. If the bulls appeared too docile to fight, dogs were sent into the ring to anger them into action. These practices occurred in Seville during the eighteenth century. See García-Baquero González, Romero de Solís, and Vázquez Parladé, Sevilla en la fiesta de toros, 72–73. 22. Rojas y Solís, Anales de la Plaza de Toros de Sevilla, 27–28. 23. García-Baquero González, Romero de Solís, and Vázquez Parladé, Sevilla en la fiesta de toros, 58–61. 24. Ibid., 55–57. In sixteenth-century Seville, some of these lower-class bull-related events were sponsored by the confraternity of Santa Ana. 25. Mitchell, Blood Sport, 25. 26. Ibid., 27–29. 27. Douglass, Bulls, Bullfighting, and Spanish Identities, 17–18. 28. Ibid., 79. 29. López Izquierdo, Madrid, Felipe V y los toros, 358–61. 30. Halcón, La plaza de toros, 39–40. 31. López Izquierdo, Madrid, Felipe V y los toros, 363. 32. Rojas y Solís, Anales de la Plaza de Toros de Sevilla, 35. 33. Morales y Marín, Los toros en el arte, 45. 34. Cossío, Los toros, 2:86. 35. Ibid., 90. 36. The numerous bans prohibiting or limiting bull-related activities did little to prevent the bullfight from blossoming. Queen Isabel was unsuccessful with her

prohibitions in the fifteenth century. In 1729, Philip V banned the sport, although he still allowed Seville to hold two fights per year. Further bans include those of 1754–59 and 1785–93. Papal censure of the bullfight began in the fifteenth century, although the majority of these bans occurred during the 1500s under such popes as Pius V (1567), Gregory XIII (1575), and Sixtus V (1583). Douglass notes, however, that Philip II “petitioned Rome to lift its ban for Spain due to the symbolic significance of the fiesta.” Douglass, Bulls, Bullfighting, and Spanish Identities, 101. 37. Clarke, Letters Concerning the Spanish Nation, 107. 38. Twiss, Travels Through Portugal and Spain, 189; Swinburne, Travels Through Spain, 2:342. 39. Fischer, Picture of Madrid, 228. 40. Halcón, La plaza de toros, 83. 41. Morales y Marín and Rincón García, Goya en las colecciones aragoneses, 88. 42. Valle Gómez de Terreros Guardiola, La plaza de toros de Sevilla, 65–66, 72. 43. Among the notable farming families in the eighteenth century were the names of the counts of Aguila, Las Amarillas, Casa Alegre, and Gerena y Mejorada, and of the marquises of Casal, Casa Ulloa, Cueva del Rey, Esquivel, Gelo, La Granja, Medina, La Motilla, Nevares, Rianzuela, Rivas, Ruchena, Tablantes, and Las Torres de la Pressa y Vallehermoso. See García-Baquero González, Romero de Solís, and Vázquez Parladé, Sevilla en la fiesta de toros, 63. 44. Ibid., 120–21. 45. For further studies on the cult of celebrity, see Wanko, Roles of Authority, and Jaffe, Modernism and the Culture of Celebrity. In Theatre and Celebrity in Britain, 1660–2000, editors Luckhurst and Moody cite some of the first uses of the words “celebrate” and “celebrity” to connote the circulation of fame; see p. 4. 46. Tillyard, “‘Paths of Glory,’” 62. 47. West, “Siddons, Celebrity, and Regality,” 191. 48. Marshall, Celebrity and Power, xi, 10. 49. West, “Siddons, Celebrity, and Regality,” 191. 50. Luckhurst and Moody, Theatre and Celebrity in Britain, 9. 51. Díaz-Plaja, La vida cotidiana, 314. 52. Guerrero Pedraza, La dinastia Rondeña, 55–56. 53. Mitchell, Blood Sport, 50. 54. Carnicero originally planned to complete two notebooks but only published the initial series. See El siglo de oro de las tauromaquias, 40. 55. By 1803 both Italian and French versions of the series existed, and by 1808 an English copy was published. Spanish artists also copied from Carnicero’s Suertes, and many artisans used his compositions and themes as the basis for their works on porcelain, furniture, and fans.

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56. Cossío, Los toros, 2:864. 57. Sayre, “Goya’s Titles to the Tauromaquia,” 512. 58. Rojas y Solís, Anales de la Plaza de Toros de Sevilla, 136–37. 59. Some scholars have suggested that Delgado had assistance writing the treatise, possibly from the author José de la Tixera. 60. Robert Hughes suggests that Pase de capa, one of Goya’s cabinet paintings from 1793–94, visualizes Delgado’s famed move. See Hughes, Goya, 133. 61. “The Cid Campeador lanced a bull. The emperor Charles V awaited a bull and then called it with a lance. Philip IV exercised this fanaticism with frequency and the same can be said for the King, don Sebastian of Portugal.” Delgado, Tauromaquia, o Arte de torear a caballo y a pie, 8. 62. Swinburne, Travels Through Spain, 2:346. Many scholars, such as John McCormick, consider Francisco Romero, who invented the muleta, to be the inventor of this final move. See McCormick, Bullfighting, 190. For a similar view, see Serrano Carvajal, Ronda, cuna del toreo, 14. GarcíaBaquero and others, however, associate the perfection of this technique with Seville (instead of Ronda) and its codification with Delgado (not Romero). See García-Baquero González, Romero de Solís, and Vázquez Parladé, Sevilla en la fiesta de toros, 90–91. 63. Mitchell, Blood Sport, 56. 64. García-Baquero González, Romero de Solís, and Vázquez Parladé, Sevilla en la fiesta de toros, 77. 65. Guerrero Pedraza, La dinastia Rondeña, 65. 66. Mitchell, Blood Sport, 140. 67. Guerrero Pedraza, La dinastia Rondeña, 80–82. 68. Serrano Carvajal, Ronda, cuna del toreo, 22. 69. Guerrero Pedraza, La dinastia Rondeña, 86. 70. Thomson, “Celebrity and Rivalry,” 135. Thomson suggests that the managers of rival playhouses would often likewise encourage the competitive behavior of their actors. 71. Bird, “Two Rumours Concerning the Duchess of Alba,” 201. For more information on the Duchess of Alba, see Zanardi, “Fashioning the Duchess of Alba.” 72. Bird, “Two Rumours Concerning the Duchess of Alba,” 201. 73. Smith, Emerging Female Citizen, 47. 74. Bayeu included this commentary in a letter to Martín Zapater, dated October 24, 1778. See Molina and Vega, Vestir la identidad, 205. 75. Guerrero Pedraza, La dinastia Rondeña, 102. See also Romero Martínez, Autobiografía de Pedro Romero. 76. Hermoso was made first sculptor to the palace in 1816 and later director of sculpture at the Royal Academy of Fine Arts in Madrid. For more information on Hermoso and nineteenth-century Spanish sculptors, see Gómez-Moreno,

Summa Artis. For more information on the scultpural series at Valladolid’s museum, see Urrea Fernández, La colección de toros y toreros del Museo Nacional de Escultura. In “La corrida de toros vista por el escultor Juan Cháez,” Urrea Fernández has proposed that the sculptural series be attributed instead to Juan Cháez. 77. Langle, Voyage en Espagne, 37–38. 78. Originally, the images from Tauromaquia did not have official, printed titles, in part because they were considered self-explanatory, but a sheet of titles was sold along with the etchings. Sayre argues that Goya’s descriptions are more succinct, “probably because Goya still clung to the idea that anyone who knew bullfighting would recognize the man from the exploit.” Moreover, she discusses the evidence that Goya took the prints to Juan Agustín Ceán Bermúdez (1749–1829) for help in editing the titles. Sayre, “Goya’s Titles to the Tauromaquia,” 513–22. 79. Morales y Marín and Rincón García, Goya en las colecciones aragoneses, 89. 80. Smart, Sport Star, 1. 81. Mitchell, Blood Sport, 73. 82. Hughes, Goya, 165. 83. Goya, Cartas a Martín Zapater, 46. 84. Guerrero Pedraza, La dinastia Rondeña, 107. 85. “Apollo’s golden lyre, of which the gods / made companion / in regal banquets, and, oh, what sacred / muse! that the forest of Mount Helicon venerates; / it is not time to rest, / but time to raise the divine song and / voice in unison to the bold sky, / with a resounding echo that surpasses / the confusing clatter and clamor, / the popular happiness / and triumphal, courteous applause, / that one hears in the distant / bloody arena of Madrid, / in whose daring bullring / the circus champion stations himself, / full of the glory that fame sings” (Cítara áurea de Apolo, a quien los dioses / hicieron compañera / de los regios banquetes, y ¡oh sagrada / musa! que el bosque de Helción venera, / no es tiempo que reposes; / alza el divino canto y la acordada / voz hasta el cielo osada, / con eco que supere resonante / al estruendo confuso y vocería, / popular alegría, / y aplauso cortesano triünfante, / que se escucha distante / en el sangriento coso matritense, / en cuya arena intrépido se planta / el vencedor circense, / lleno de glorias que la fama canta). 86. Gies states, “What was surprising about Moratín’s poem was that he had the audacity to hold up for Classical worship a mere bullfighter, whose profession was hardly respected, let alone admired.” Gies, Nicolás Fernández de Moratín, 97. 87. In the Diccionario de la lengua castellana compuesto por la Real Academia Española, “picador” is defined as “el que tiene el oficio de adiestrar los caballos.” 88. Butler, Gender Trouble, 140.

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89. Sharp, “Gendering Nationhood,” 98. 90. According to Hughes, Escamilla worked as a street vendor prior to her bullfighting career and was referred to as the “star of the Zaragoza ring in Goya’s boyhood.” See Hughes, Goya, 261. Whether Goya saw her perform is unknown. 91. Delgado y Sánchez-Arjona, Mil años del caballo en el arte hispánico, 288. 92. Mitchell, Blood Sport, 53. 93. Sarah Pink has written extensively on twentiethcentury female bullfighters and the professional difficulties they encounter. See Pink, Women and Bullfighting. CHAPTER 4

1. Haidt, Women, Work, and Clothing, 200–202. 2. O’Farrell and Vallone, introduction to Virtual Gender, 2–3. 3. Ruth de la Puerta defines the delantal as a large piece of fabric attached to the waist to protect the front part of the skirt from soiling. From the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries onward, servants and rural women wore this item, but in the nineteenth century, the apron was adapted as an aspect of Valencian regional costume. The delantal was generally made from strong cotton, canvas, or wool, and despite its practical use, the look of the apron varied depending on style trends. De la Puerta, La segunda piel, 160. 4. Ribeiro, “Fashioning the Feminine,” 103. 5. Tomlinson, Francisco Goya, 35. 6. Thicknesse, A Year’s Journey Through France and Part of Spain, 286. 7. Bourgoing, Modern State of Spain, 343. 8. Ibid., 343. 9. Tomlinson, “Mothers, Majas, and Marcialidad,” 221. 10. Bourgoing, Travels in Spain, 1:242–43. 11. Bourgoing, Modern State of Spain, 342. 12. Cañas Murillo, “Hacia una poética del sainete,” 217. 13. Bourgoing, Travels in Spain, 2:216–17. 14. Ibid. 15. Cook, Sketches in Spain, 179. 16. Dumas, From Paris to Cadiz, 128. Originally published in 1846. 17. Martín Gaite, Love Customs in Eighteenth-Century Spain, 63. 18. Kany, Life and Manners in Madrid, 307. 19. Tomlinson, Francisco Goya, 48. 20. Sala Valldaura, Los sainetes del González del Castillo, 71–72. 21. Ibid., 73. 22. As cited in Sala Valldaura, Los sainetes del González del Castillo, 77.

23. Ribeiro, “Fashioning the Feminine,” 78. 24. De la Puerta, La segunda piel, 96. 25. Bonet Correa, Historia de las artes aplicadas, 624. With the help of the French artisan Eugenio Prost and while under Floridablanca’s protection, Spanish fan production rivaled both French and Italian manufacture. 26. Rosenthal, “Unfolding Gender,” 122. 27. De la Puerta, La segunda piel, 218–19. 28. Sousa Congosto, Introducción a la historia de la indumentaria, 445–46. 29. De la Puerta, La segunda piel, 176. 30. Descalzo Lorenzo, “Modos y modas en la España de la Ilustración,” 177. 31. White, Letters from Spain, 54–55. 32. Sousa Congosto, Introducción a la historia de la indumentaria, 453. 33. Ibid., 461. 34. De la Puerta says that the mantilla’s first documented use dates to 1483. See de la Puerta, La segunda piel, 198. 35. The mantilla is “a woman’s mantle. It is mentioned in texts that refer to the dress of queens, princesses, and noble women, but not of women in general.” Bernis, Trajes y modas en la Espana de los reyes católicos, 102. 36. De la Puerta, La segunda piel, 198. 37. Ibid., 201. 38. Baretti, Journey from London to Genoa, 2:58 and 315. 39. Bourgoing, Modern State of Spain, 288. 40. Rodrigo, María Antonia “La Caramba,” 46. 41. Bass and Wunder, “Veiled Ladies of the Early Modern Spanish World,” 98. 42. The original penalty of three thousand maravedís did not deter women from covering themselves, which led to the Crown’s decision to issue a “new pragmatic, or royal sanction, in 1639 that more than tripled the previous penalties.” See ibid., 99. 43. Ibid., 106. 44. Ibid., 108–13. 45. Cruz Rodríguez, “Las tapadas en Canarias,” 225. 46. Stor, “Al tapado y las tapadas,” 322. 47. Bernis, El traje y los tipos sociales en “El Quijote,” 257. She proposes that by the time Spanish women began to use veils, there were no longer Muslims occupying the country. 48. Bass and Wunder, “Veiled Ladies of the Early Modern Spanish World,” 105. 49. See Rolón Collazo, Historias que cuentan, and Haidt, Women, Work, and Clothing, 249. 50. Diéguez, Espejo de luz, 23. 51. De la Puerta, “Moda, moral y regulación jurídica,” 205–7. 52. De la Puerta, La segunda piel, 202. 53. Kany, Life and Manners in Madrid, 200.

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54. Leira Sánchez, “El vestido en tiempos de Goya,” 165. 55. Kany, Life and Manners in Madrid, 208. 56. See Vicente, Clothing the Spanish Empire. 57. Descalzo Lorenzo, “Modos y modas en la España de la Ilustración,” 189. 58. De la Puerta, “Moda, moral y regulación jurídica,” 214. See also Leira Sánchez, “El vestido en tiempos de Goya,” 185. 59. Sousa Congosto, Introducción a la historia de la indumentaria, 162–75. 60. De la Puerta, La segunda piel, 13, 90. 61. Rodríguez García, El arte de las sedas, 83–84, 104. The Bourbons made attempts to improve Valencia’s silk production. See Real pragmática que declara el modo como se deben labrar los tejidos de oro. 62. Bonet Correa, Historia de las artes aplicadas, 368. 63. De la Puerta, La segunda piel, 90. 64. Ibid., 11. 65. De la Puerta, Historia de gremios, 124. In Spain, tailors used the measurement of the vara, which de la Puerta states is a kind of meter and the equivalent of 83.59 cm; see 133. 66. Ibid., 124. 67. Subsequent publications on tailoring include those by Diego de Freyle (Sevilla, 1588); Baltasar Segovia (Barcelona, 1617); Francisco de la Rocha (Valencia, 1617); Cristóbal Serrano (1619); Martín de Andújar (Madrid, 1640); and Juan Albayceta (Zaragoza, 1720). 68. De la Puerta, Historia de gremios, 137. 69. Smith, Emerging Female Citizen, 77–78. 70. Haidt, “The Wife, the Maid, and the Woman in the Street,” 118. 71. López-Cordón Cortezo, “La situación de la mujer,” 66. 72. Haidt, Women, Work, and Clothing, 105. 73. Ibid., 89–90. 74. Jones, Sexing La Mode, 74. 75. Lipovetsky, Empire of Fashion, 31. 76. Jones is interested in how contemporaries came to understand clothing production as “women’s work” in eighteenth-century France. She studies the history of female seamstresses, linen drapers, hairdressers, and fashion merchants, who “challenged the monopoly of several groups of clothing workers.” She argues that women’s work often took place in informal, unregulated labor markets, in opposition to the protected guilds. See Jones, Sexing La Mode, 78–81. 77. Smith, Emerging Female Citizen, 80. 78. Tomlinson, “Images of Women in Goya’s Prints and Drawings,” 56. The author looks to Ramírez y Góngora’s Optica del cortejo; see pp. 6–7. 79. Tomlinson, “Mothers, Majas, and Marcialidad,” 219.

80. Cienfuegos, La pensadora gaditana, 7–8. 81. Kany, Life and Manners in Madrid, 207. 82. Kowaleski-Wallace, Consuming Subjects, 4. 83. Tomlinson, “Goya: Images of Women,” 20. 84. Sarasúa, “‘Hardest, Most Unpleasant’ Profession,” 71–72. 85. Ibid., 73–75. 86. Ibid., 78. 87. Tomlinson argues that Goya purposefully referenced Cesare Ripa by using the sleeping woman as a representation of lust. She says that a copy of Ripa’s Iconologia existed in the library of Francisco Bayeu (Goya’s father-in-law). Tomlinson, Francisco Goya, 102. 88. Ibid., 78. 89. Baudelaire, “Some Foreign Caricaturists,” 33. 90. Held, “Between Bourgeois Enlightenment and Popular Culture,” 47. 91. Schulz, Goya’s Caprichos, 131. 92. Molina and Vega, Vestir la identidad, 102. 93. Rodríguez-Solís, Majas, manolas y chulas, 129. 94. Stor, “Al tapado y las tapadas,” 323. 95. Bourgoing, Travels in Spain, 1:221. 96. Rodríguez-Solís, Majas, manolas y chulas, 18. 97. Ibid., 33. 98. Bourgoing, Travels in Spain, 1:222; Caro Baroja, “Los majos,” 71. 99. Bourgoing, Modern State of Spain, 302–3. 100. Carr, Descriptive Travels in the Southern and Eastern Parts of Spain, 5. 101. Haidt, Women, Work, and Clothing, 55–56. 102. Rodrigo, María Antonia “La Caramba,” 76. 103. Sala Valldaura, Los sainetes del González del Castillo, 119–21. 104. Haidt, Women, Work, and Clothing, 15–16. 105. Shops that featured diverse objects, like Geniani’s, were commonplace in the second half of the 1700s, as noted by Molina and Vega in Vestir la identidad, 141. 106. Haidt, “Name of Clothes,” 72. 107. Ibid., 75. 108. Ibid. CHAPTER 5

1. Rumors at the time of Alba’s death that the queen and Godoy had poisoned her were finally debunked when the duchess’s body was exhumed in 1945 to discover the true cause of her death—meningoencephalitis. See Blanco-Soler, Esbozo psicológico, enfermedades y muerte. 2. Bird, “Two Rumours Concerning the Duchess of Alba,” 198–99. 3. De Vries, Caterina Sforza, 2.

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4. See Landes, Visualizing the French Revolution. 5. Vincent, Dressing the Elite, 5–10. 6. Earenfight, “Partners in Politics,” xv. 7. Kany suggests that the combination of Spanish and French garments led to much of the confusion about an individual’s social class. See Kany, Life and Manners in Madrid, 177. 8. Pérez-Bustamante Mourier, “Cultura popular,” 147–48. 9. Knott and Taylor, Women, Gender, and Enlightenment, xvi–xvii. 10. Molina and Vega, Vestir la identidad, 93. 11. Wahrman, Making of the Modern Self, 159–64. 12. Molina and Vega, Vestir la identidad, 96. 13. The Marquis of Llano agreed to purchase 250 prints at 24 reales each and granted the etching’s rights of ownership to the artist. See Barrena, Blas, Carrete, and Medrano, Calcografía nacional, 100–101. Maldonado Felipe claims that the marquise’s costume, referred to as mancheguita, was viewed with favor by the Austrian emperor when he saw it during a dance in Vienna. See Maldonado Felipe, La indumentaria tradicional de Castilla–La Mancha, 43. 14. Sousa Congosto, Introducción a la historia de la indumentaria, 172. 15. Rodrigo, María Antonia “La Caramba,” 109. 16. Bray, “Drawings by Giaquinto’s Spanish Followers,” 422. 17. Held, “Between Bourgeois Enlightenment and Popular Culture,” 41. 18. Milam, “Fragonard and the Blindman’s Game,” 11. 19. Ibid., 3–5. 20. Ibid., 15. 21. Alcalá Galiano, Recuerdos de un anciano, 485. 22. Bolufer Peruga, Mujeres e ilustración, 174. 23. Lipovetsky, Empire of Fashion, 33. 24. De Vries, Caterina Sforza, 3. 25. Pierson, “Nations,” 41. 26. Kitts, Debate on the Nature, 5. 27. Smith, Emerging Female Citizen, 3. 28. Ibid., 74–91. 29. Ibid., 149. 30. Capella Martínez, La industria en Madrid, 15–17. 31. Feijóo y Montenegro, Teatro crítico universal. The eight-volume text was originally published in stages from 1726 to 1739. 32. See Feijóo y Montenegro, Defensa de la mujer. 33. Lewis, Women Writers in the Spanish Enlightenment, 2–10. 34. Jovellanos, Manuscritos inéditos de Jovellanos. (There is some debate about this text’s author.) 35. Sempere y Guarinos, Historia del luxo, 167. Haidt sees luxury as a crucial factor in the debate about the corruption of national character and gender. She regards the Bourbon

ascent to the Spanish throne as detrimental to the effective control of luxury imports. Bourbon policies predictably favored French products and only encouraged the influx of foreign goods. See Haidt, Embodying Enlightenment. 36. Ibid., 208. 37. Cepeda Adán, “Tipos populares en el Madrid de Carlos III,” 495. The document specifies garments such as “brownish-gray, coarse, large, wide coats” and “collars of baize or other material,” arguing that they were considered suitable only for bullfighters, contrabandists, and gypsies. 38. To negate the criticism that women were solely responsible for Spain’s problems with luxury, Cienfuegos discussed the effeminization of Spanish men and their part in the promotion of foreign items and excessive spending in La pensadora gaditana (1763). 39. Leira Sánchez, “El vestido femenino,” 237. 40. Bolufer Peruga, Mujeres e ilustración, 172. 41. Fernández-Quintanilla, La mujer ilustrada en la España, 120. 42. Bolufer Peruga, Mujeres e ilustración, 199. 43. Leira Sánchez, “El vestido en tiempos de Goya,” 165. 44. Discurso sobre el lujo de las señoras, 42–45. 45. Molina and Vega, Vestir la identidad, 154. 46. Smith, Emerging Female Citizen, 81–84. 47. Molina and Vega, Vestir la identidad, 156. 48. Bourgoing, Travels in Spain, 2:222. 49. Calvo Serraller, “Goya’s Women in Perspective,” 39. 50. For more information on the Alba dynasty, see Kamen, Duke of Alba. 51. Kitts, Debate on the Nature, 53. 52. Waldmann, Goya and the Duchess of Alba, 10. 53. Langle, Voyage en Espagne, 21. 54. Waldmann, Goya and the Duchess of Alba, 69–71. 55. Goya, Cartas a Martín Zapater, 225. 56. Worth, “Andalusian Dress and the Andalusian Image,” 55. 57. Molina and Vega, Vestir la identidad, 111. 58. Weber, Queen of Fashion, 137. 59. Entwistle, Fashioned Body, 3. 60. Ibid., 6. 61. Batchelor, Dress, Distress, and Desire, 8–10. 62. Worth, “Andalusian Dress and the Andalusian Image,” 22–47. 63. Hume, “Of National Characters,” 244. 64. Muller, “Discerning Goya,” 179. 65. Mitchell, Blood Sport, 61. 66. López-Cordón Cortezo, “Women in Society in Eighteenth-Century Spain,” 105. 67. Ibid., 107. 68. Tomlinson, Goya in the Twilight of Enlightenment, 75. 69. Ibid., 76. Amy Freund has recently addressed the vital relationship between portraiture and politics in the

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shaping of identities during the French Revolution and the Directory in France. She identifies Jean-Louis Laneuville’s The Citoyenne Tallien in a Prison Cell at La Force, Holding Her Hair, Which Has Just Been Cut (salon of 1796) as an important, albeit contentious, moment in which the artist and sitter attempted to reconcile typical representations of women during the 1790s and to forge a new kind of portraiture. She claims that the work is an example of female agency, as Tallien endeavors to insert herself into the revolutionary story. Tallien may not have been queen, like María Luisa, but as a politically active foreigner living in France, her portrait can be usefully compared to Goya’s Queen María Luisa in a Mantilla. See Freund, Portraiture and Politics in Revolutionary France. 70. Muller, “Discerning Goya,” 183. 71. Holland argued that the Duchess of Osuna “is the most distinguished woman in Madrid. . . . She has acquired a relish for French luxuries, without diminishing her national magnificence.” Holland, Journal of Elizabeth Holland, 195. 72. Kitts, Debate on the Nature, 147. 73. Smith, Emerging Female Citizen, 148. Osuna also served as the council’s first president from 1787 to 1790 and again in 1801. 74. Fernández-Quintanilla, La mujer ilustrada en la España, 38. 75. Arroyo, Cayetana de Alba, 19. 76. Schulz, “Goya’s Portraits of the Duchess of Osuna,” 266. 77. Ibid., 269. 78. See Cage, “Sartorial Self.” 79. Schulte, “Introduction,” 1. 80. Earenfight, “Two Bodies, One Spirit,” 7. 81. Harvey, Men in Black, 10. Also see Colomer, “Black and the Royal Image.” 82. Harvey, Men in Black, 72–80. For more information on Hapsburg dress, see Colomer and Descalzo, Spanish Fashion at the Courts of Early Modern Europe. 83. Ciofalo, Self-Portraits of Francisco Goya, 48. 84. Weissberger, “Introduction,” xvi. 85. Haidt, Embodying Enlightenment, 2. 86. Baretti, Journey from London to Genoa, 2:316–17. 87. Because of Gutiérrez’s diplomatic successes, Ferdinand VI elevated his title from count to duke of Fernán Núñez. 88. Rodrigo, María Antonia “La Caramba,” 95. 89. Jones, Sexing La Mode, xvii. 90. Rodríguez was not the first artist to use prints with captions that included questions and answers. Many series that featured different social types or occupations for educational purposes or for less practical reasons throughout the eighteenth century employed this technique.

91. Díaz, El traje en Andalucía, 11. 92. Haidt, “Well-Dressed Woman,” 138. 93. Ibid., 138. 94. Haidt, Women, Work, and Clothing, 254–55. CONCLUSION

1. By 1846, the Handbook had been translated into French in two volumes. 2. Ford asked Gayangos to look over what he had written because the Spaniard would be able to evaluate it “as a native.” Undated letter in Ford, Letters to Gayangos. 3. See Ford, Gatherings from Spain. First published in 1846. 4. Calvo Serraller, La imagen romántica de España, 17–18. 5. Boone, Vistas de España, 42. 6. The Spanish War of Independence provided the opportunity for a growing liberal faction meeting in Cádiz to compose a constitution that would have served as the basis for a constitutional monarchy. Despite Ferdinand VII’s initial agreement with the 1812 document, he quickly instituted a repressive government, and many of the constitution supporters fled the country, while others were imprisoned or worse. In 1820, a mutiny against the king’s tyrannical rule led to three years of relief, followed by the reassertion of Ferdinand with French military assistance. From 1823 to 1833, known as the “Ominous Decade,” the king enacted various despotic measures and sought revenge on those who participated in his temporary fall from power. After Ferdinand VII died in 1833, his daughter, Isabel II, became queen regnant at age three. During his reign, the king had reverted from Salic Law, established by Philip V, back to the traditional Spanish rule of succession, so that his daughter could take over the throne. This move led to tensions—as witnessed in the Carlist Wars (1833–40; 1847–49; 1872–76)—between supporters of the new queen and Ferdinand’s brother, Charles, who challenged the suppression of Salic law, since the Bourbon rule would have guaranteed his place on the throne. 7. Williams, “John Frederick Lewis,” 227. 8. Bozal, Summa Artis, 690–91. 9. Taylor, Picturesque Tour of Spain, iii. 10. Luxenberg, Galerie Espagnole, 1. 11. Glendinning, “Spanish Inventory References to Paintings,” 102. 12. Scott, “Baron Taylor,” 125. 13. Luxenberg, Galerie Espagnole, 25. 14. Carr, “Liberalism and Reaction,” 224. 15. Martín Martínez, “Painting and Sculpture in Modern Spain,” 242. 16. Crossman, “Ignacio Zuloaga,” 4. 17. Read, “Zuloaga Personally Conducted,” 35.

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18. Garín Llombart and Tomás Ferré, “Joaquín Sorolla’s Vision of Spain,” 38. 19. Muller and Burke, Sorolla, 29. 20. Letter from Sorolla (1915) quoted in ibid., 64. 21. Garín Llombart and Tomás Ferré, “Joaquín Sorolla’s Vision of Spain,” 76. 22. Ibid., 50. 23. Luxenberg, “Over the Pyrenees and Through the Looking-Glass,” 13. 24. See Ortega y Gasset, Teoría de Andalucía y otros ensayos. Originally published in 1927. 25. Ortega y Gasset, “Theory About Andalusia,” 88. 26. Ibid., 90. 27. Josephs, White Wall of Spain, 4. 28. Fisch, “Guernica” by Picasso, 98.

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Index INDEX

Page numbers in italics indicate illustrations. All place names and members of royalty are located in Spain unless otherwise indicated. Academy of Saint Charles, 48 actors/actresses, 59, 215 n. 10. See also theater aristocrats’ patronage of, 13, 155, 165, 197 celebrity of, 92, 98 competition among, 176–77, 215 n. 70 Goya’s portraits of, 170, 176–77 Adoration of the Holy Eucharist, The (Coello), 54 agency. See also majas, autonomy of of celebrity, 92 female, 109–47, 159–65; depictions of, 151, 218–19 n. 69; dress expressing, 179, 180, 192, 207 agriculture, 47, 61, 89. See also farmers/farming Alba, Duchess of (María del Pilar Teresa Cayetana de Silva Álvarez de Toledo), 103, 176, 217 n. 1. See also Duchess of Alba (Goya); Duchess of Alba as a Maja, The (Goya) and bullfighting, 97–98 maja persona of, 149, 151, 162, 165–73, 207 rumors of affairs, 98, 149–50, 168, 171 salons hosted by, 137, 178 Alba, Duke of (Fernando de Silva y Álvarez de Toledo), 167 Goya’s portrait of, 168 Albayceta, Juan, Geometry and Designs Pertaining to the Tailor’s Office, 130 Albuerne, Manuel, 187 Alcalá Galiano, Antonio, 159 Alcega, Juan de, Geometry and Design, 130 Aldehuela, José Martín de la, 91 Alfonsito Cabral with a Cigar (Cabral y Aguado Bejarano), 197, 198 Alfonso X, 83 Alhambra, the, 197, 198 Allard, Carel, Orbis habitabilis oppida et vestitus centenario numero complexa, summo studio collecta, 56–58 Madrid, 58 Álvarez Barrientos, Joaquín, 9, 35 Álvarez Bracamonte, Luis, 213 n. 96

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Amann, Elizabeth, 75 ambiguity, social, 52–64. See also types, popular, social ambiguity of Andalusia, 205–7 festivals in, 33 Goya’s painting set in, 56, 57, 58–59 majos’ origins in, 35, 49 Spanishness associated with, 118, 142, 190, 194, 195, 196, 198–200 taparse de medio ojo style linked to, 126–28 Anderson, Benedict, 160 Andioc, René, 75 aprons (delantals), 113, 216 n. 3 Aranda, Count of (Pedro Pablo Abarca de Bolea), 60–61, 62, 153 Arias, Antonio, 130 aristocrats. See also elites; nobility; patronage of the arts, aristocratic; royals appropriating majo/as dress, 9, 12, 13, 43, 115, 150–52, 166, 171, 173, 208 bullfighting by, 81–88 castizo themes appreciated by, 155, 157, 158–59 role-playing by, 149, 155 Arnoult, Nicolas, Homme de qualite en habit d’êpée, 54, 54 Arroyal, León de, bullfighting opposed by, 89–90 Arroyo, María Dolores, 178 art/artists, 24, 29, 42. See also genre paintings; patronage of the arts; Real Academia de Bellas Artes de San Fernando (RABASF ); and individual styles of art and specific artists consumption patterns of, 8, 13, 44, 63, 152 contribution to national character, 26–27, 44, 201 depictions of majo/as by, 1, 4, 13, 35–36, 48 fashioning Spanishness through, 19–20, 22–23 foreign collecting of, 32, 195–97, 200–201 gender and, 68, 152 identities’ relationship to, 26–27, 153, 197 modernity and, 33, 42 Spanish school of, 28, 31–33, 202 traditional, 30, 118, 194, 202

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artisans, 35, 46–48. See also dressmakers; guilds; spinners/ spinning; tailors; textile industry gender of, 130–31 majo/as as, 1, 6, 43, 45, 112 Ascension of a Montgolfier Balloon (Antonio Carnicero), 81 authenticity. See Spanishness, authentic ballooning, 81, 213 n. 2 balls, masked. See masquerades Baltasar Charles, Prince of Spain, 84 banderilleros, 93, 97 barbers, majos depicted as, 2, 45–46 Bareada, Juan de la, 53 Baretti, Joseph, 25, 124, 126, 184 Baroja, Caro, 210 n. 73 Baroque style of art, 27, 28, 29, 30, 32, 34, 84 basquiñas (petticoats), 11, 110, 121–22, 124, 164, 165, 188 government regulation of, 174, 182 Bass, Laura R., 37–38, 126, 128 Basson, Francisco Antonio (“Martincho”), 101 Batchelor, Jennie, 171 Baudelaire, Charles, 135 Baum, Bruce, The Rise and Fall of the Caucasian Race, 20 Bayeu, Francisco, 98, 103 El paseo de las Delicias, 37, 38 tapestry cartoons, 157–58 Bayeu, Manuel, 103 Beer, María Eugenia de, 83 behavior. See also etiquette manuals actors’, 215 n. 10 bullfighters’, 42, 88, 101 currutacos’, 71, 75 dress related to, 53, 61, 133, 152, 163–64, 190 lower classes’, 134, 135 majas’, 109, 110, 111, 112, 114, 135, 147 men’s, 43, 72 petimetres’, 67–69, 71, 75 popular types’, 73, 139–40 women’s, 124, 126, 133, 147, 152, 161, 171 working classes’, 117, 134 belonging, communal, 10, 21–22, 23, 35, 50–51, 119–20 Bernis, Carmen, 123, 128, 216 n. 47 black (color), significance in Spain, 53, 55, 122, 174, 182 Black Legend, 201 Blanchard, Pharamond, 195–96 Blanco y Crespo, José María (Joseph Blanco White), 122 Blind Guitarist (Goya), 45 Blindman’s Buff (Goya), 158–59, 159 blindman’s buff (la gallina ciega), 158–59 bodies, Spanish, 79–108 bullfighters’, 12, 103, 105 dancing, 65, 147

elite, 10, 21, 170, 184 indigenous, 11–12 majas’, 12–13, 140–41 male-female distinctions in, 4, 67 petimetres’, 69–70 royal, 10, 42–43 bolero (dance), 142, 147 Bolufer Peruga, Mónica, 162 Bonet Correa, Antonio, 130 Book of Fashion in the Fair (Fernández de Rojas and Iza Zamácola y Ocerín), 70–71, 73 Pant Machine, 70 Boone, M. Elizabeth, 196 Bordo, Susan, 68 Bourbons French, 9, 10, 17, 55, 200 Spanish: appropriation of majo/as’ dress, 7, 10–11, 22–23, 120, 134; bullfighting and, 79, 88–91, 93; establishing royal identity, 5, 7, 8, 15–20, 23, 166–67, 219 n. 6; French influences on, 9, 129, 130, 166, 218 n. 35; as heirs of the Hapsburgs, 15–19, 27, 30, 33, 182; identification with lo castizo, 23, 26, 44, 182, 192; improving court image, 61, 166–67, 176; and national character, 133–34; patronage of art and artists, 26–28, 30, 32, 197; regulation of majo/as dress and practices by, 44, 120, 126–29, 174; women’s roles at court, 10, 151–52, 165–66, 174, 182–83 bourgeoisie, 9, 103, 166, 176–77, 192, 197. See also middle class Bourgoing, Jean-François, 62, 117 on majas, 134, 141–42, 166–67 on majos, 49, 166–67 on mantillas, 124, 126 Travels in Spain, 79, 109 Bozal, Valeriano, 36 Bray, Xavier, 157–58 Brown, Jonathan, 211 n. 7 bullbaiting (capea), 85, 87, 96–97, 98, 101, 102 bullfighters. See also chulos (bullfight lackeys); matadors; picadors; toreros aristocratic, 81–88, 91 behavior of, 42, 88, 101 bodies of, 12, 103, 105 Bourbons kings’ attitudes toward, 79, 81, 85, 88–91, 93, 95, 215 n. 61 celebrity of, 91–108, 157 depictions of, 79, 215 nn. 85, 86 dress of, 39, 41–42, 81, 103, 190, 212 n. 42 female, 106–8, 216 n. 90 gladiators’ link to, 90–91, 105 as keepers of Spanish traditions, 42, 43–44 machismo of, 93, 97, 103, 105

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majos as, 6, 45, 68, 76 masculinity of, 44, 91, 97 performances of, 12, 42, 88, 93, 95, 96, 101–3, 105–6 polychrome wood figures of, 99–101 rivalries among, 80, 95–96, 97–98, 102, 103 bullfighting, 79–108. See also Seville, bullfighting in in city squares, 81–83, 213 n. 6 culture of, 84, 87, 101 dangers of, 91, 95, 96 depictions of, 79–87, 194, 205, 215 n. 78 elites’ adoption of majo dress for, 44, 55, 59, 79, 82 as festival, 87, 88, 89, 93, 214 n. 36 Franco’s abuse of, 208 gendered identity and, 105–6, 178 government bans on, 214 n. 36 Goya’s passion for, 103, 106 hunting as form of, 86–87 as majismo practice, 34, 55 modern, 87, 88–91, 94, 102–3 as national sport, 22, 44, 79, 80–81, 86, 92, 118 plebeians’ transformation of, 79, 87, 90–95, 102, 103 as royal event, 87, 88, 98–99, 101–2, 158 tourists’ interest in, 197–98 Bullfight in the Air (Isidro Carnicero), 80, 80–81 Bull Hunt (Van der Straet), 87 Bull Hunt on Horse (Van der Straet), 87 Bullring (Antonio Carnicero), 81 bullrings, 81, 88, 90–91 Burgos, laborers from, 191 Butler, Judith, 67, 105–6, 141 Cabarrús, Francisco, 133 Cabral y Aguado Bejarano, Manuel, 196 Alfonsito Cabral with a Cigar, 197, 198 Cadalso, José, 23, 70 Cartas marruecas (Letter XXI ), 53 Cádiz, dress styles from, 190–91 Calderón de la Barca, Pedro, The Hidden Man and Veiled Woman, 56 Calvo Serraller, Francisco, 167, 196 Camarón Bonanat, José, 142, 211 n. 1 Majos in a Garden, 64 Romería, 64–65, 65 Cid Campeador. See Cid, El (Cid Campeador) Campomanes, Count of (Pedro Rodríguez), 47–48, 131 Cañas Murillo, Jesús, 49 Cándido, José, 95 capes. See also muletas (bullfighting capes) dangerous associations of, 56, 95 depictions of, 58, 59, 61, 66, 76, 77, 186, 187 government regulation of, 60, 61–62, 63, 128, 184 Spanishness of, 44, 55

Caprichos, Los, series (Goya), 135, 166 Even He Cannot Make Her Out, 73, 74, 136–37, 139 Good Advice, 135, 136 Hush, 135–36, 137 Poor Things!, 76–78, 77, 132 Capmany, Antonio de, 23 Capret, Joseph, 54 Carlist Wars, 196, 200, 201, 219 n. 6 Carlos José Gutiérrez de los Ríos Sarmiento de Sotomayor, the Seventh Count of Fernán Núñez (Goya), 185, 186 Carnicero, Antonio, 211 n. 1, 214 n. 54 Ascension of a Montgolfier Balloon, 81 bullfight depictions, 79 Bullring, 81 Colección de las principales suertes de una corrida de toros: frontispiece, 94, 96, 96; Picador Preparing to Lance a Bull, 94–95, 95 The Elevation of a Montgolfier Balloon, 81 Instruments of Bullfighting, 95 Main Maneuvers of a Bullfight, 93–95, 214 n. 55 Picnic at the Beach, 52 Carnicero, Isidro bullfight depictions, 79 Bullfight in the Air, 80, 80–81 Caro Baroja, Julio, 33–34 Carolina Dress for All and Bourbon Dress (De la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla), 163–64, 164–65 Carr, Raymond, 201 Carr, Sir John K. C., 142 Carrera, Magali, 18, 24 Carvajal y Lancáster, José de, 129 Castanet, Juan, 211 n. 28 Castiglione, Baldassare, The Book of the Courtier, 43, 182 Castile, 183, 198, 201–2, 205, 207, 212 n. 45 Castilla la Vieja, 191 Castillo, José del depictions of majos, 44 The Painter’s Studio, or the Boys Playing with a Cat, 46, 47, 48 tapestry cartoons, 157–58 castizo, lo, 1–7, 11–12, 69. See also costumbrismo; elites, identification with castizo types; majismo; Spanishness; types, popular aristocrats’ appreciation of, 155, 157, 158–59 Bourbon royals’ identification with, 23, 26, 44, 182, 192 bullfighting as example of, 105, 106 depictions of, 6, 19–20, 33–34, 152, 161, 165–66, 202, 207 dress of, 72, 112, 113, 164, 174, 207; elite’s appropriation of, 120, 149, 155, 157, 158–59, 179–80, 187 majas’ embodiment of, 21, 110–11, 112, 140–41, 147, 192 majos’ embodiment of, 21, 35, 46, 67, 76

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castizo (continued) traditions associated with, 157, 164 Catalonia, textile production in, 129 Catherine the Great, Empress of Russia, 174 Catholic Church, 62, 89, 182–83, 194. See also Christians Ceán Bermúdez, Juan Agustín, 27, 31–32, 215 n. 78 Historical Dictionary of the Most Illustrious Professors of the Fine Arts in Spain, 196 celebrities, 214 n. 45 bullfighters as, 91–108, 157 Cháez, Juan, The Matador Pepe Hillo Wounded Accompanied by Two Bullfighters, 100 chambergos (hats), 46, 55–56, 60, 61–62, 63, 128, 212 n. 40 character, national, Spanish, 15–38. See also identities; nationalism, Spanish; pride, national; traits, Spanish arts’ contribution to, 26–27, 44, 201 Bourbon, 133–34 definitions of, 5, 6, 10, 64 dress signifying, 120, 160 Enlightenment concepts of, 1–3, 18–19, 20–21, 21–27, 29, 31, 34 gender and, 68, 133–34, 160, 218 n. 35 Kant on, 3, 24, 26, 31, 34 majismo and, 17–18, 19 majo/as as personification of, 4–5, 7, 67, 68, 111, 123, 147 stereotypical models of, 6, 24–25, 42, 58, 59 Chardin, Jean-Baptiste-Siméon, 75 Charles II, 54 Charles III, 8, 16, 158, 160, 210 n. 69 ban on majo/as dress under, 61–62, 63, 128–29, 218 n. 37 and bullfighting, 88, 89–90, 95 curbing spending, 161–62 dress styles during reign of, 55, 184 patronage of the arts by, 27, 28, 30, 32, 201, 209 n. 36 portraits of, 41, 41 Royal and Distinguished Spanish Order of, 41, 180 urbanization projects, 31, 113 Charles III Dressed in the Uniform and Robe of His Order (Maella), 41, 41 Charles IV, 8, 30, 92, 174, 210 n. 69 bullfights celebrating accession of, 98–99, 101–2 Lorenzo Tiepolo’s pastels of majos for, 49–52 portrait of, 180, 181 preservation acts of, 32, 210 n. 47 Charles I/V, King of Spain/Holy Roman Emperor, 105, 182, 211 n. 2 bullfighting by, 81, 85, 95, 215 n. 61 portrayals of, 84, 84 Charles IV in Hunting Dress (Goya), 180, 181 Cherry Vendor, The (Goya), 116, 116, 117, 126 Cherry Vendor, The (Lorenzo Tiepolo), 52, 115, 115–16

Chinchón, Count of (Prince Luis Antonio Jaime), 49–52 Christians, 23, 85, 127, 128. See also Catholic Church chulos (bullfight lackeys), 81, 87, 92–93, 213 n. 3. See also bullfighters Cid, El (Cid Campeador), 81, 82, 85, 105, 214 n. 17, 215 n. 61 Cienfuegos, Beatriz, 70, 133, 218 n. 38 cigarreras, 109, 195 Ciofalo, John, 183 Citizen King. See Louis-Philippe, King of France (“Citizen King”) Citoyenne Tallien in a Prison Cell at La Force, Holding Her Hair, Which Has Just Been Cut, The (Laneuville), 218–19 n. 69 cityscapes, 56–58. See also landscapes Clarke, Edward, 89–90 class(es), 7, 34, 159, 168. See also bourgeoisie; lower classes; middle class; plebeians; upper classes blurring of, 4, 118–19, 135, 144, 152; through inappropriate dress, 73, 79, 133, 153, 184, 190, 218 n. 7 differences in, 109–10, 128 dress as marker of, 53, 113, 117, 145, 161–62, 173, 189; government regulation of, 60, 62–63, 120, 152, 160 classicism, 28. See also neoclassicism Clavijo y Fajardo, José, 71 The Women’s Court, 167 climate, 24, 116 clothing. See dress; dress, majo/as Coderch, Anna Maria, 73 Coello, Claudio, The Adoration of the Holy Eucharist, 54 cofias (kerchiefs), 122 Cohen, Michèle, 72 Colección de las principales suertes de una corrida de toros (Antonio Carnicero) frontispiece, 94, 96, 96 Picador Preparing to Lance a Bull, 94–95, 95 Collection of Spanish Dress, Antique and Modern, that Includes All of Its Domain (De la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla), 35–36, 59, 60, 171, 187, 188 Andalusian Man, 59 Antique Theatrical Spanish Dress, 157, 163 Barber Majo, Playing Music, 2, 45–46 Costillares, 98, 99 Dressmaker, 131, 131, 132 Maja, 3, 112–13 Miguel Garrido in Gypsy Costume, 59, 145 Murcian Orange Vendor, 36, 59 Orange Vendor, 36, 36, 113 Petimetra with Mantilla During Holy Week, 5, 145 colonies, Spanish, 20, 36 allegorical representations of, 15–16, 18 loss of, 201, 202 origins of Spanish nationalism in, 23, 24

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Combat in the Arena Between a Lion, Bear, Bull, and Two Wolves (Van der Straet), 87 combs (peineta), 121 Conde, Juan, 95 Constant Maja, The (tonadilla), 119 consumers/consumption. See also imports; luxury of art, 8, 13, 44, 63, 152 elite, 52, 133, 135, 155, 161–62 men’s patterns of, 187, 188, 191, 192 women’s patterns of, 135, 146–47, 164–65 contrabandists, 59, 60, 199 Cook, S. S., 118 Cortes de Castilla (royal council), prohibition on women covering faces, 126, 128 Cossío, José María de, 89, 93 Cossío, Manuel Bartolomé, 202 costumbrismo, 1, 13, 192, 193–95, 195–201, 204 costumes, 35–36, 60, 61, 153. See also Collection of Spanish Dress, Antique and Modern, that Includes All of Its Domain (De la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla); masquerades creativity, 34, 35, 48. See also art/artists Crockery Vendor, The (Goya), 135 Crossman, Dena, 202 Cruz, Manuel de la, The Fair of Madrid in the Plaza de la Cebada, 135 Cruz, Ramón de la The Confrontation of the Majos, 50 El careo de los majos, 109 El día de campo, 178 sainetes by, 35, 117, 119, 170 Cruz Cano y Holmedilla, Juan de la, 8, 53–54, 59 Carolina Dress for All and Bourbon Dress, 163–64, 164–65 Collection of Spanish Dress, Antique and Modern, that Includes All of Its Domain, 35–36, 59, 60, 171, 187, 188; Andalusian Man, 59; Antique Theatrical Spanish Dress, 157, 163; Barber Majo, Playing Music, 2, 45–46; Costillares, 98, 99; Dressmaker, 131, 131, 132; Maja, 3, 112–13; Miguel Garrido in Gypsy Costume, 59, 145; Murcian Orange Vendor, 36, 59; Orange Vendor, 36, 36, 113; Petimetra with Mantilla During Holy Week, 5, 145 Dress of the New Spanish Woman, 163 Cruz Rodríguez, Juan de la, 126–27 culture, Spanish, 17, 26, 33, 106, 195–96. See also patrimony, Spanish bullfighting’s role in, 84, 87, 101 gender’s relationship to, 11, 68, 105–6, 108, 160 Moorish influences, 199, 213 n. 5, 214 n. 20 role in creation of national narratives and identities, 11, 22, 38

currutacos (Spanish effeminate characters). See also effeminacy behavior of, 71, 75 confusion over prostitutes by, 73, 74, 136–37, 139 depictions of, 73–76 dress of, 142 majos and, 75, 78, 192 satires of, 70–71, 76, 213 n. 122 customs, Spanish, 133, 201–2, 207. See also bullfighting; festivals; practices, Spanish; traditions, Spanish contemporary, 33–38 depictions of, 8, 38, 44 elites as promoters of, 4, 7–8, 12, 98, 103, 150, 178 local, 1, 22, 23, 63, 166–67 Dalrymple, William, 25 Dance on the Bank of the Manzanares (Goya), 158 dancers/dancing. See also flamenco dancers/dancing; music/musicians; seguidilla (dance) depictions of, 64–66, 142, 194 dress related to, 55, 205 by majas, 141, 142, 147, 211 n. 18 by majos, 64–65, 68, 72, 76 petimetres’ lack of ability, 71 Dandy: Monkey (Goya), 73–74 Dandy’s Torture, The (Goya), 73–74, 75 D’Angiviller, Comte (Charles-Claude Flahaut de la Billaderie), 32 Dauzats, Adrien, 195–96 Death of a Bull (Fernández Noseret), 96, 96–97 decency, 10, 35, 41, 50–51, 61, 113, 128. See also moralists and morality; purity Deleito y Piñuela, José, 53, 69, 126–27 De León Pinelo, Antonio, Antique and Modern Veils, 127–28 Delgado, José (“Pepe-Hillo”), 95–96, 97, 102, 106, 157, 215 nn. 60, 62 Bullfighting, or the Art of Bullfighting on Horse and on Foot, 95, 215 n. 59 goring of, 99, 100, 101 Desastres de la guerra (Goya), 213 n. 126 Descalzo Lorenzo, Amalia, 53, 55 de Vries, Joyce, 11, 160 Díaz, Joaquín, 188 Díaz-Plaja, Fernando, 73, 93 Diccionario de la lengua castellana, majos defined in, 6 Diderot , Denis, Encyclopédie, 4–5 Diéguez, Matías, The Mirror of the Light that Destroys the Darkness of Ignorance, 128 Dieu Soult, Nicolas Jean de, 196 dogs, involvement in bullfights, 87, 214 n. 21 Domínguez Bécquer, José, 196

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Don Quijote (Cervantes), 25–26 Douglass, Carrie B., 88, 214 n. 36 Dream and Lie of Franco I (Picasso), 207–8, 208 dress, 36, 142. See also class(es), dress as marker of; dress, majo/as; dressmakers/dressmaking; fashion; National Dress Project; tailors behavior related to, 53, 61, 133, 152, 163–64, 190 bullfighters’, 39, 41–42, 81, 103, 190, 212 n. 42 contrabandists’, 59, 60 dance related to, 55, 205 festival, 6, 55, 59, 67 gendered, 53, 153, 180 gypsies’, 33, 58–60, 172, 173 Hapsburg, 53–54, 55, 122, 155, 157, 182 identity’s relationship to, 10, 12–13, 120–32, 173–92 indigenous, 52, 68, 120, 155, 170, 183 military-inspired, 54, 55, 63 national character signified by, 120, 160 patriotic, 163–64, 204–5 politics of, 52–64, 120–32, 151–52, 165–66, 171, 174, 178–79, 182–83 popular, 144, 166–67, 173–92 reciprocity with fashion, 144, 170, 171 regional, 142, 191, 195, 204–5, 216 n. 3 royal, 42–43, 53–54, 211 n. 2 self-fashioning through, 151–52, 171 traditional, 113, 150–51, 166, 177–79, 189–90, 204; in southern Spain, 122, 142, 205 types’ variation in, 38, 119 women’s, 126, 128, 141–42, 161, 192 dress, majo/as, 120–32, 152–64. See also aristocrats, appropriating majo/as dress; castizo, lo, dress of; dress; petimetras, dress of; types, popular, dress as marker of; women, elite, emulation of majas by; and individual items of majo/as dress attracting attention with, 12, 137, 139 depictions of, 39, 40, 41–42, 45, 48, 51, 135, 192 elites’ appropriation of, 4, 9, 37, 41–43, 157, 158–59, 184; Bourbons’, 7, 10–11, 22–23, 120, 134; for bullfights, 44, 55, 59, 79, 92; for costumes, 60, 153; improving court’s image, 167, 182; for masquerades, 13, 25, 34, 59, 60, 75, 118; for portraits, 46, 161, 179; Spanishness expressed by, 7, 193–94 government regulation of, 34, 46, 60–64, 136, 139, 152, 159–65, 218 n. 37; Bourbon rulers’, 44, 120, 126–29, 174 identifying element of, 11–13, 52–64, 66 masculinity of, 41–42, 63–64 origins of, 33 performativity of, 141, 142 politicization of, 44, 52–64, 151–52

regional, 121, 123, 189–90 Spanishness of, 6–7, 13, 18, 37, 120, 126, 141, 164 Dressed Maja (Goya), 171, 172, 173 dressmakers/dressmaking, 129, 130, 131–33, 187, 217 n. 76. See also tailors Dress of the New Spanish Woman (De la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla), 163 Dress that Contrabandists Use (Téllez), 59, 60 Duchess of Alba (Goya), 168–70, 169 Duchess of Alba as a Maja, The (Goya), 148, 149, 151, 152, 157, 166, 168, 170, 174 Dumas, Alexandre, 118 Earenfight, Theresa, 151–52, 179 East India Company, fans imported by, 121 Eastman, Scott, 23 Economic Societies, 160, 178 education. See women, education for effeminacy, 72, 187. See also currutacos (Spanish effeminate characters) of French dress, 63–64 of men, 34, 75, 134, 187, 191–92, 218 n. 38; petimetres, 42, 43, 68, 69, 70, 184 Eijoecente, Luis de, 47 El Cid. See Cid, El (Cid Campeador) Elevation of a Montgolfier Balloon, The (Antonio Carnicero), 81 El Greco. See Greco, El elites, 109–47. See also aristocrats; dress, majo/as, elites’ appropriation of; identities, elite; nobility; portraiture, elites’; royals; self-fashioning, elites’; women, elite becoming bullfighting spectators, 87, 92, 103 bodies of, 10, 21, 170, 184 consumption patterns of, 52, 133, 135, 155, 161–62 French dress adopted by, 63–64 identification with castizo types, 8, 10, 21, 22–23, 44– 45, 106, 137, 186–87 majismo-themed subjects favored by, 110, 157–59, 167, 170, 192 national pride in, 88, 112 plebeians gaining access to, 4, 34, 90 as promoters of Spanish customs, 4, 7–8, 12, 98, 103, 150, 178 traditions and, 152, 166, 186 Elizabeth of France, Queen Consort of Spain and Portugal, 84 England, 32 fashion styles from, 64, 69, 72, 210–11 n. 85 engravers/engravings, 28, 187. See also Collection of Spanish Dress, Antique and Modern, that Includes All of Its

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Domain (De la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla); General Collection of Dresses that Are Used in Spain in the Year 1801 in Madrid (Antonio Rodríguez); printmaking Enlightenment, 129, 184 concepts of national character and identity from, 1–3, 18–19, 20–21, 21–27, 29, 31, 34–35, 67 ideals of, 64, 151 men’s participation in, 4, 9–10 women’s participation in, 152–53, 160, 161, 167, 178 Entwistle, Joanne, 170 Equestrian Exercises (Tapia y Salcedo), 83–84 Equestrian Portrait of Philip IV (Velázquez), 28 Escamilla, Nicolasa (“La Pajuelera”), 216 n. 90 Goya’s depiction of, 106–8 Esquilache, Marquis of (Leopoldo de Gregorio), and government regulation of dress, 61–62, 128 Esquilache riots of 1766, 44, 62–63, 128 Esteve, Agustín, 174 Esteve y Grimau, Pablo, 98, 155 etiquette manuals, 93–94. See also behavior Europe, 18–19, 190. See also France; Spain fashion trends in, 121, 178–79, 211 n. 2 Exposition of Regional Dress (Madrid), 204–5 fabrics. See also tapestries; textile industry imported, 48, 128–29, 161, 163 social status distinguished by, 60, 61, 63 factories/factory workers, 8, 46, 47, 48, 129, 130, 210 n. 48. See also industry, national; textile industry; working classes Fair of Madrid in the Plaza de la Cebada, The (Manuel de la Cruz), 135 Family of Charles IV, The (Goya), 28–29, 29, 30, 196 fans, 121, 136–37, 216 n. 25 farmers/farming, 18, 97, 214 n. 43. See also agriculture fascism, 207. See also Franco, Francisco fashion, 129, 132, 155, 187. See also Colección de las principales suertes de una corrida de toros frontispiece (Antonio Carnicero); Collection of Spanish Dress, Antique and Modern, that Includes All of Its Domain (De la Cruz Cano y Holmedilla); dress; dress, majo/ as; General Collection of Dresses that Are Used in Spain in the Year 1801 in Madrid (Antonio Rodriguez); men, fashions of English, 64, 69, 72, 210–11 n. 85, 219–11 n. 85 European, 121, 178–79, 211 n. 2 as expression of individualism, 160, 165–66, 192, 207 French, 54–55, 63–64, 72–73, 129, 186, 190, 211 n. 28, 218 n. 7; at court of Louis XIV, 54, 163, 187, 210–11 n. 85, 211 n. 27 gendering of, 131, 180, 191–92

indigenous dress and, 120, 170 from Madrid, 37–38, 187–88, 189–90 modernity in, 170, 187, 189 reciprocity of dress with, 144, 170, 177 royal, 53–54 Spanish, 53, 121, 129, 217 n. 65 theater’s influence on, 56, 155, 157–59 types associated with, 9, 187, 189–90 urban vs. rural, 59, 188 Feijóo y Montenegro, Benito Jerónimo, Universal Critical Theater, 23, 161 femininity, 11, 21, 42, 58, 168. See also majas; petimetras; women masculinity differentiated from, 12–13, 43, 68, 111 performativity of, 67, 208 Ferdinand VI, 129, 219 n. 87 Ferdinand VII, 31, 88, 196, 200, 219 n. 6 Fernández de Rojas, Juan, 75 Book of Fashion in the Fair, 70–71, 73; Pant Machine, 70 Fernández Moratín, Leandro de, 118 Fernández Moratín, Nicolás de, 118, 214 n. 17 Historical Letter, 85, 213–14 n. 12 La Petimetra, 145 “Ode to Pedro Romero,” 103, 105, 215 nn. 85, 86 Fernández Noseret, Luis, Death of a Bull, 96, 96–97 Fernando de Rojas, Juan, La Celestina, 135 Fernán Núñez, Count of (seventh, Carlos José Gutiérrez de los Ríos Sarmiento de Sotomayor), 184, 219 n. 87 portrait of, 186 Fernán Núñez, Count of (sixth), The Life of Charles III, 184 festivals bullfighting’s association with, 87, 88, 89, 93, 214 n. 36 Cross of May, 205 dress connected with, 6, 55, 59, 67 Holy Week, 141, 145, 174, 205 May Day, 33 May Queen, 210 n. 69 Fisch, Eberhard, 207 Fischer, Christian Augustus, 25–26, 49, 90 flamenco dancers/dancing, 1, 13, 33, 195, 208 Fleuriot, Jean-Marie-Jérôme (L. M. de Langle), 101 flirtations, 121, 141, 155, 158 majas’, 114, 121, 135, 137, 139 Floridablanca, Count of (José Moñino y Redondo), 28, 32, 162, 216 n. 25 folklore, 72, 157–58, 178, 205, 207 food shortages, 62–63, 128 Ford, Richard Handbook for Travellers in Spain, 193, 198, 200, 219 nn. 1, 2 portrait of, 196

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foreigners/foreignness. See also tourism; travel writing mania for popular types, 2, 110, 129, 159, 166–67, 193–95 petimetra’s preference for, 147, 190 Forner, Juan Pablo, 23 Oración apologética por la España y su mérito literario, 24 Fortune-Teller, The (Lorenzo Tiepolo), 116 Fox, E. Inman, 22 Fragonard, Jean-Honoré, 158 France, 75, 121, 129, 132, 218–19 n. 69. See also Bourbons, French; fashion, French; French Revolution Spain’s relationship with, 17, 151, 183, 207 Franco, Francisco, 195, 201 Picasso’s portrayal of, 207–8, 208 French Revolution, 23, 166, 218–19 n. 69 Freund, Amy, 218–19 n. 69 Full-Length Painting of a Majo (Anonymous), 39 Gaite, Carmen Martín, 34 Galle, Philip, 86 Gallego, José Andrés, 61, 62 Gamborino, Miguel, Gritos de Madrid, 52 García, Manuel Vicente, 103 García-Baquero González, Antonio, 215 n. 62 Garín Llombart, Felipe, 204 garments. See dress Garrick, David, 92 garrotes, 75, 213 n. 126 Gaspar Melchor de Jovellanos (Goya), 183, 183–84 gender(s). See also effeminacy; femininity; majas; majos; masculinity; sexuality of artisans, 130–31 art’s relationship to, 68, 152 culture’s relationship to, 11, 16, 68, 105–6, 108 depiction of characteristics, 26, 152, 168, 184 distinctions between, 3–4, 7, 12–13, 21, 67, 73; dress as a marker of, 53, 153, 180; in portraiture, 152, 186, 187, 188 dualism in, 42, 43, 111, 208 eighteenth-century ideas on, 6, 67 fashion and, 131, 180, 191–92 fluidity of, 21, 111 identity and, 26, 68, 105–8, 166 Laqueur’s two-sex model, 4, 21, 42, 140 machismo and, 60, 64, 68, 76, 108 national character and, 68, 133–34, 160, 218 n. 35 National Dress Project associated with, 164–65 performativity of, 41, 43, 64–78, 105–6, 108, 111, 140– 44, 208 types and, 21, 37, 53, 69–70, 134

General Collection of Dresses that Are Used in Spain in the Year 1801 in Madrid (Antonio Rodriguez), 187–88, 188–90 Bring the Horse. Bullfighter on Horse, 105, 106 Do I Look Like Some Currutaco to You? Worker from Burgos, 191, 191 For Me There Is No Courageous Bull. Bullfighter on Foot, 105, 106 Good Day for Enjoying the Sun! Petimetre with Cape, 190, 191 I Am Awaiting a Guest, 189 I Am Going to See Her Before She Leaves. Currutaco with Frock Coat, 191 Petimetra with a Muslin Mantilla and Twill-Weave Basquiña Adorned with Velvet, 189 Petimetre with a Cloth Frock Coat, Cotton Tights, and Ankle Boots, 4, 4–5 To the Bullfight. Majo with a Short Jacket and a Cape, 190, 191 We’ll See each Other at the Dance, 189 Generation of ‘98, 201–2 genre paintings, 33, 36. See also art/artists Dutch, 135 Goya’s, 113, 117 gestures bullfighters’, 12, 96, 105 depictions of, 38, 188 majas’, 1, 119, 137, 139, 141, 147, 192; elite emulation of, 25, 121, 154 majos’, 44, 45, 55 royal, 42–43 Gies, David T., 215 n. 86 Giordano, Luca, 30, 210 n. 54 Glorification of the Spanish Monarch (Giambattista Tiepolo), 14, 15–19, 17, 22, 30, 36 Godoy, Manuel, 28, 137, 150, 171, 217 n. 1 Golden Age, Spain’s, 19, 29, 32, 123, 196, 201, 202 golillas (collars), 30, 53–54, 55, 63, 211 n. 27 Gómez Arias, Juan Antonio, 70 Gómez de Mora, Juan, 82 González del Castillo, Juan Ignacio The Ill-Fated Dance and the Master Pezuña, 66 majos’ depictions, 212 n. 69 The Master of Idle Life, 66 petimetras’ depictions, 144–45 plays, 35, 118, 119 González Troyano, Alberto, 9, 65, 71 González Velázquez, Zacarías, staircase mural, 179, 180 Goss, Erin M., 4, 21, 140 Goya, Francisco de, 28, 213 n. 122 passion for bullfighting, 103, 106

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patrons of, 97, 178 rumors of affair with Duchess of Alba, 149, 168, 171 Velázquez’s influence on, 28–29, 30, 210 n. 47 Works: Albums A and B, 76, 124, 137–38, 142, 167 Blind Guitarist, 45 Blindman’s Buff, 158–59, 159 bullfight depictions, 79, 85 Carlos José Gutiérrez de los Ríos Sarmiento de Sotomayor, the Seventh Count of Fernán Núñez, 185, 186 Charles IV in Hunting Dress, 180, 181 The Cherry Vendor, 116, 116, 117, 126 The Crockery Vendor, 135 Dance on the Bank of the Manzanares, 158 Dandy: Monkey, 73–74 The Dandy’s Torture, 73–74, 75 Desastres de la guerra, 213 n. 126 Dressed Maja, 171, 172, 173 The Duchess of Alba, 168–70, 169 The Duchess of Alba as a Maja, 148, 149, 151, 152, 157, 166, 167, 170, 174 The Family of Charles IV, 28–29, 29, 30, 196 Gaspar Melchor de Jovellanos, 183, 183–84 Isabel de Porcel, 176, 177 The Kite, 46 The Laundresses, 134, 134, 135 Los Caprichos series, 135, 166; Even He Cannot Make Her Out, 73, 74, 136–37, 139; Good Advice, 135, 136; Hush, 135–36, 137; Poor Things!, 76–78, 77, 132 Maja and Celestina on a Balcony, 139 Maja and Celestina Waiting Under an Arch, 139 Maja Showing Off in Front of Three Others, 124, 125, 137–38 Majas on a Balcony, 139, 200 majo/as’ depictions in, 44, 141, 165–66, 170 María de la Soledad Vicenta Solís Lasso de la Vega, 186, 186 The Marquise of Santiago, 176 The Militar and the Lady, 117 Nude Maja, 171, 172, 173, 202, 203 Pase de capa, 215 n. 60 Pedro Romero, 103, 104 The Picnic, 113, 114, 155 portraits: of elites, 152, 167, 168, 179, 187, 188; of men, 180, 183; of women, 157, 176–77, 182 Queen María Luisa in a Mantilla, 120, 151–52, 157, 171, 174, 175, 176, 182–83, 218–19 n. 69 The Straw Manikin, 134 Strolling Majas, 38, 138, 138–39 tapestry cartoons, 10, 46, 117–18, 119, 133, 135, 157–58, 171

Tauromaquia series, 85, 215 n. 78; The Agility and Boldness of Juanito Apiñani in Madrid, 101; Charles V Spearing a Bull in the Plaza of Valladolid, 81, 84, 84– 85; The Daring of Martincho in the Plaza de Madrid, 102; El Cid Campeador Spearing Another Bull, 81, 82; Harpoons with Firecrackers, 93; Origin of Harpoons or Banderillas, 85–86; Second of May, 86; A Spanish Gentleman Kills a Bull After Losing His Horse, 81, 82; The Spirited Moor Gazul Is the First to Spear Bulls According to the Rules, 86, 86; The Tobacco Guards, 60; Two Majas Dancing, 142–44, 143; Two Women Reading a Letter, 200; Virile Valor of the Celebrated Pajuelera in Zaragoza’s Ring, 107, 107; A Walk in Andalusia, 56, 57, 58–59, 116, 199–200 Greco, El, 202 Greenblatt, Stephen, 11 Gregory XIII, Pope, censure of bullfighting by, 214 n. 36 Gritos de Madrid (Gamborino), 52 guardainfante, 30, 121, 157 guilds, 46, 48, 92, 121, 130, 131, 132 guitarist, blind, 45 gypsies. See also types, popular dress of, 33, 58–60, 172, 173 female, 109, 116–17 Haidt, Rebecca, 55, 76, 190, 218 n. 35 Embodying Enlightenment, 9–10, 184 on government clothing bans, 61, 62, 212 n. 47 on immigrants to Madrid, 8, 210 n. 82 on majas, 111, 113, 142, 192 on majos, 6, 41, 50–51 on petimetras, 144, 145, 146–47, 190 on petimetres, 68, 69–70, 72, 74 on sainetes and tonadillas, 35, 65 Women, Work, and Clothing in Eighteenth-Century Spain, 10 on women’s participation in textile industry, 131–32 Hapsburgs Bourbon desire to forge connections with, 15–19, 27, 30, 33, 182 courtly dress of, 53–54, 55, 122, 155, 157, 182 depictions of, 28, 29, 43 Harvey, John, 182 hats, tricorn, 45, 49, 61, 63. See also chambergos (hats); monteras (hats) Held, Jutta, 158 Henry IV, and bullfighting, 85 Herder, Johann Gottfried, 22 Hermann, Friedrich, 54 Hermoso, Pedro Antonio, 99–100, 215 n. 76 Herrera, Gabriel Alonso de, 89

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Holland, Lady Elizabeth, 219 n. 71 Homme de qualite en habit d’êpée (Arnoult), 54, 54 Horrocks, Roger, 67 horseback riding, 83, 213 n. 5 Hoyos Sáinz, Luis de, 205 Huéscar, Duchess of (mother of Duke of Alba), 167 Hughes, Robert, 103, 215 n. 60, 216 n. 90 Hume, David, “Of National Characters,” 24, 173 hunting, of bulls, 86–87 Hunting Scene in Aranjuez, A (Martínez del Mazo), 56 Huntington, Archer M., 204 identities. See also character, national, Spanish; machismo; majismo art’s relationship to, 26–27, 153, 197 blurring of, 73, 190 collective, 21–22, 26, 38, 54, 55, 153 colonists’, 18, 24 cultural, 11, 22, 38 depictions of, 166–67 dress’s relationship to, 10, 12–13, 120–32, 173–92 elite, 11, 16, 23, 25–33, 29, 98, 103, 123, 180 Enlightenment concepts of, 18, 20–21, 21–26, 35, 67 fashioning of, 19–20, 29, 151–52, 170, 197 female, 113, 123, 176, 179, 187; majas’, 110–11, 124, 140– 41, 141–42 French, 17, 218–19 n. 69 gendered, 26, 68, 105–8, 166 indigenous, 11–12, 165–66 individual, 22, 133, 136, 153, 158 local, 45 national, 71, 87, 101–2, 201–2 National Dress Project and, 159–65 politicization of, 68, 120–32 regional, 3, 142, 191 royal: Bourbon, 5, 7, 8, 15–20, 23, 166–67, 219 n. 6; Duchess of Alba and, 165–73; fashioning of, 8, 9, 10–11, 18–20, 174; Hapsburg, 27; Queen María Luisa and, 173–92; role-playing, 153–59 sexual, 4, 12 urban vs. rural, 50–51, 191 Ill-Fated Dance and the Master Pezuña, The (González del Castillo), 66 ilustrados, 23, 30, 118, 187. See also intellectuals advocating modest dress, 24, 192 on bullfighting, 85, 89 limitations on women’s behavior proposed by, 133, 152 on majas, 140, 147 on majismo, 33–34 social fears of, 158–59 immigrants/immigration, 17, 61

to Madrid, 7–8, 63, 117, 129, 141–42 ; internal, 121, 210 n. 82, 211 n. 4 ; majos’, 35, 50–51; neighborhoods of, 44–45, 195 imports. See also fashion, French; luxury curbing spending on, 120, 161, 162, 192 of fabrics, 48, 128–29, 161, 163 petimetras’ consumption of, 147, 190 indigenous peoples. See also gypsies; majas; majos; types, popular dress of, 52, 68, 120, 155, 170, 183 elites’ interest in, 9, 22, 150, 151–52, 159 identities of, 11–12, 165–66 nobility’s imitation of, 71, 75, 110, 111, 137 traditions of, 27–28, 159 individualism, 21, 151. See also agency, female; majas, autonomy of fashion as expression of, 160, 165–66, 192, 207 industry, national, 160, 163, 164–65, 187. See also factories/ factory workers; textile industry innovation, 8, 29, 33–38, 96, 161, 188. See also modernity Instruction for the Spectators of Masquerade Balls at the Carnival in the Year 1767, The, 153 Instruments of Bullfighting (Antonio Carnicero), 95 intellectuals, 21–22, 29, 183–84. See also ilustrados Iriarte, Tomás de, 79, 118 Isabel de Farnesio, Queen of Spain, 32, 214 n. 36 Isabel de Porcel (Goya), 176, 177 Isabel II, 219 n. 6 Isabella I, Queen of Castile, comparison to Virgin Mary, 183 Isabel Parreño, Marquise of Llano (Mengs), 153–54, 154, 155, 170 Iza Zamácola y Ocerín, Juan Antonio de Book of Fashion in the Fair, 70–71, 73 on currutacos, 75, 213 n. 122 Elements of the Science of the Contradance, 72, 73 Jacinto Meléndez, Miguel, Philip V Hunting, 53 jackets (jubóns), 122–23 Jones, Jennifer, 132, 187, 217 n. 76 Jovellanos, Gaspar Melchor de, 30, 71, 118, 131, 155, 162, 210 n. 73 on bullfighting, 85, 89 Goya’s portrait of, 183, 183–84 on majismo, 33–34 patronage of the arts by, 26, 27, 196 Works: A Arnesto, 155 “Elogio de las bellas artes,” 210 n. 54 Juvarra, Filippo, 15 Kahlo, Frida, 11

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Kant, Immanuel, 20 on Spanish character, 3, 24, 26, 31, 34 Kantorowicz, Ernst H., 10 Kany, Charles, 33, 118, 129, 133, 211 n. 4, 218 n. 7 kings. See Bourbons; Hapsburgs; monarchy; royals; and individual kings Kite, The (Goya), 46 Kitts, Sally-Ann, 160, 167 Kowaleski-Wallace, Elizabeth, 134 laborers. See also artisans; dressmakers/dressmaking; factories/factory workers; laundresses; tailors; vendors, street; working classes rural, 18, 22, 43–44, 191 urban, 6, 8, 10, 35, 113, 152, 170, 189 Lamy, René M., 130 landscapes. See also cityscapes majos depicted in, 39, 45, 46, 64, 113 portraits of nobles set in, 42, 118, 157 travel writing on, 25 Laneuville, Jean-Louis, The Citoyenne Tallien in a Prison Cell at La Force, Holding Her Hair, Which Has Just Been Cut, 218–19 n. 69 Laqueur, Thomas, two-sex model, 4, 21, 42, 140 Larruga, Eugenio, Political and Economic Report About the Products, Commerce, Factories, and Mines of Spain, 129 laundresses, 134–35 Laundresses, The (Goya), 134, 134, 135 Lavater, Johann Caspar, Essay on Physiognomy, 73 LeBrun, Charles, 52, 211 n. 22 lechugino (Spanish effeminate character), 69 Leclerc, Georges-Louis, Comte de Buffon, 20 Leira Sánchez, Amelia, 55, 62, 162 Lewis, Elizabeth Franklin, 161 Lewis, John Frederick Lewis’s Sketches and Drawings of the Alhambra, Made During a Residence in Granada, in the Years 1833–34, 198–200; Sierra Nevada and Part of the Alhambra, 199 Sketches of Spain and Spanish Character, Contrabandistas: Andalucía, 199 lindos (Spanish effeminate character), 69, 70 Linnaeus, Carolus, 20 Lipovetsky, Gilles, 132, 160 Llano, Marquise of (Isabel Parreño), portrait of, 153–54, 154, 155, 170, 218 n. 13 López-Cordón Cortezo, María Victoria, 131, 174, 176 López García, José Miguel, 63 Louis XIV, King of France (“Sun King”), 11, 17 fashions at court of, 54, 163, 187, 210–11 n. 85, 211 n. 27

portraits of, 42–43 Louis-Philippe, King of France (“Citizen King”), 200 lower classes, 92, 160. See also poor people; pueblos; working classes behavior of, 134, 135 dress of, 60, 158–59, 184 as essence of Spanishness, 193–94, 196, 198–200 food shortages among, 62–63, 128 upper classes’ union with, 34, 165–66, 171, 173, 174, 176, 183 women from, 132–33 Luis I, 88 Lunardi, Vincenzo, 213 n. 2 Luxenberg, Alisa, 32, 201, 205 luxury, 128 curbing spending on, 60, 120, 133, 152, 161–62, 164–65, 218 nn. 35, 38 petimetras’ desire for, 70, 144–47, 164, 189, 190 macaroni (English effeminate character), 69, 72 Machado, Antonio, 201 machismo. See also majismo of bullfighters, 97, 103, 105 gendered performance of, 60, 64, 68, 76, 108 majos’ embodiment of, 41, 49–52, 64 Madame Adelaïdede-France as Diana (Nattier), 149, 150 Madrid, 52, 58, 58, 191, 198, 212 n. 47. See also immigrants/ immigration, to Madrid; Royal Palace (Madrid) bullfighting in, 89–90, 99, 101 cosmopolitan nature of, 178, 189, 195 fashion from, 37–38, 187–88, 189–90 majas and petimetras depicted in, 1, 112, 144 majos living in, 1, 6, 45 Manzanares River, 134–35 Paseo del Prado, 31, 37, 61, 159 Plaza Mayor, 25–26, 82–83 Prado Museum, 31, 211 n. 1 San Fernando workhouse, 76, 132 textile production in, 129, 131 transformation of, 31, 61, 113 Maella, Mariano Salvador, Charles III Dressed in the Uniform and Robe of His Order, 41, 41 maestrantes, 93, 97 maestranzas (chivalric fraternities), 83, 91 Main Maneuvers of a Bullfight (Antonio Carnicero), 93–95, 214 n. 55 Máiquez, Isidoro, 103 Maja and Celestina on a Balcony (Goya), 139 Maja and Celestina Waiting Under an Arch (Goya), 139 majas, 109–47. See also dress, majo/as; femininity, of majas; gestures, majas’; sexuality, of majas; swagger,

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majas (continued) of majo/as; types, popular; women, elite, emulation of majas by autonomy of, 114, 118–19, 133, 166 behavior of, 109, 110, 111, 112, 114, 135, 147 being, 110, 190 bodies of, 12–13, 140–41 castizo values embodied by, 21, 110–11, 112, 140–41, 147, 192 characteristics of, 109–12, 133–34, 140–41 currutacos’ relationship to, 73–76 dancing by, 141, 142, 147, 211 n. 18 dangerous image of, 111, 132, 137, 139 definitions of, 1, 25, 26 depictions of, 1–4, 3, 33, 111, 112–20, 123, 133–41, 207 elegance of, 112, 115 femininity of, 109–12, 113, 137, 140–42; depictions of, 133, 151, 192, 207 flirtatiousness of, 114, 121, 135, 137, 139 gender performativity in, 68, 111, 140–44, 208 identities of, 110–11, 124, 140–41, 141–42 and marcialidad, 132–40 masquerades and, 153–59 modernity vs. tradition in, 12–13, 110–12, 119–20, 139, 147, 155, 157 national pride in, 108, 111, 119, 122, 123, 124 petimetras as opposite of, 11, 37, 68, 110, 144, 145, 147 power over men, 114–15, 118, 122, 128, 134, 137 pride of, 108, 123, 171, 176 prostitution associated with, 111, 132, 134, 135, 136–37, 139 seductiveness of, 12–13, 109, 113, 121, 124, 126, 136–37, 141–42, 208 sensuality of, 111, 121, 134 Spanishness of, 65, 111–12, 119–20, 124, 140–42, 164, 192 stereotypes of, 7, 139 as street vendors, 1, 6, 8, 43–45, 111–16, 132–40, 216 n. 90 theatrical manifestations of, 118–19, 211 n. 18 Maja Showing Off in Front of Three Others (Goya), 124, 125, 137–38 Majas on a Balcony (Goya), 139, 200 majismo, 4–9, 13, 15–38, 55, 72, 208. See also castizo, lo; machismo bullfighting as practice of, 34, 55 depictions of, 6, 9, 19, 150, 166, 170, 195 elites’ favoring of, 110, 157–59, 167, 170, 192 foreigners’ attraction to, 193–94 of majos, 49–52 masquerades and, 153–59 origins of, 33–35, 43

royal identities and, 149–92 scholarship on, 9–11 Spanish national character and identity formation and, 17–18, 19 theatrical manifestations of, 34–35, 117–18 tradition and, 19, 33–38, 66 majos, 39–78. See also bullfighters; swagger, of majo/as; theater, majos and petimetres depicted in; types, popular arrogance of, 41, 68, 75, 76 being/becoming, 66–67 castizo values embodied by, 21, 35, 46, 67, 76 characteristics of, 34, 45, 48–49, 55, 68, 72, 75 currutacos’ connection to, 75, 78, 192 dancing by, 64–65, 68, 72, 76 dangerous image of, 42, 44, 56 definitions of, 1, 6, 25, 26, 33, 45, 49, 210 n. 72 depictions of, 1–4, 2, 26, 35–36, 37, 44–52, 119, 212 n. 69 dress styles of, 190, 211 n. 33, 212 n. 54 elegance of, 45–46, 49, 51, 56, 64, 68 femininity in, 43, 68, 111 gender performativity in, 43, 64–78, 111, 208 machismo embodied by, 41, 49–52, 64 marginalization of, 6, 13, 111 masculinity of, 34, 43, 49, 63–66, 68, 73, 111, 195 masquerades and, 153–59 national pride in, 41, 43, 53, 76, 78 origins of, 33, 35, 49, 210 n. 73 performing, 91–108 petimetres as opposite of, 55, 68, 72–73, 75, 78, 184 regality of, 39, 40, 41–42, 49, 60 seductiveness of, 124, 159, 167, 208 social ambiguity of, 52–64 Spanishness of, 2–7, 45, 64, 76 stereotypes of, 7, 66, 116, 190–91 as tradition keepers, 45, 55, 62 urban vs. regional, 43, 191 Majos in a Garden (Camarón Bonanat), 64 Majo/Torero (anonymous), 39, 40, 41–42, 45, 68 Maldonado Felipe, Miguel Antonio, 67, 218 n. 13 Mannerist style of art, 68 manolos. See majos mantillas, 123–29. See also mantón de Manila; Queen María Luisa in a Mantilla (Goya); veils government regulation of, 120, 124, 126–28, 165, 216 n. 42 maja’s use of, 12–13, 122, 133, 137, 164 origins of, 155, 216 nn. 34, 35 seductiveness of, 124, 126, 141 Spanishness of, 11, 37, 110, 121, 164, 183 taparse de medio ojo style of wearing, 126–28 wearing during Holy Week, 5, 141, 145

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mantles. See mantillas mantón de Manila, 194, 202. See also mantillas marcialidad, 132–40, 147 María de la Soledad Vicenta Solís Lasso de la Vega (Goya), 186, 186 María Josefa Amelia, Queen Consort of Spain, 31 María Luisa, Queen, 92, 150, 173–92. See also Queen María Luisa in a Mantilla (Goya) Mariana of Austria (Velázquez), 121 Mariana of Austria (wife Philip IV), 54, 121 Marie Antoinette, Queen of France, 158, 170, 174 Marie Louise of Orléans (wife of Charles II), 54 Marquise of Santiago, The (Goya), 176 Marshall, P. David, 92 Martínez del Mazo, Juan Bautista A Hunting Scene in Aranjuez, 56 View of Zaragoza, 56 Martínez Ibáñez, María Antonia, 211 n. 1 Martínez Ruiz, José (“Azorín”), “The Generation of 1898,” 201 masculinity, 10, 21, 71. See also majos; petimetres; swagger, of majo/as of bullfighters, 44, 91, 97 femininity differentiated from, 12–13, 68 models of, 41–42, 56, 58, 67–68, 184 performativity of, 41, 64, 67–68 of petimetres, 68, 69–70 regal, 39, 40, 41–43 Masked Ball, A (Paret y Alcázar), 153 masquerades, 36, 162, 177, 212 n. 44. See also role-playing elites’ adoption of majo dress for, 13, 25, 34, 59, 60, 75, 118 majismo and, 153–59 Masson Morvilliers, Nicolás de, Forner’s response to, 24 Matador Pepe Hillo Wounded Accompanied by Two Bullfighters, The (Cháez), 100 matadors, 92, 93, 95–96, 97, 101, 103, 105, 214 n. 15. See also bullfighters McCormick, John, 215 n. 62 McCoskey, Denise Eileen, 20 Medina Sidonia, Duke of, 81 Melzer, Sara E., 10 men, 161, 176, 194. See also bullfighters; currutacos (Spanish effeminate characters); effeminacy, of men; majos; masculinity; petimetres; soldiers behavior of, 43, 72 consumption patterns of, 187, 188, 191, 192 elite, 53, 55–56, 71 Enlightenment participation of, 4, 9–10 fashions of, 62, 69, 160, 179, 180, 184, 186–87, 202 majas’ power over, 114–15, 118, 122, 128, 134, 137

portraits of, 43, 180 southern Spanish, 190–91 Mengs, Anton Raphael, 27, 28, 30–31, 32 Isabel Parreño, Marquise of Llano, 153–54, 154, 155, 170 Meninas, Las (Velázquez), 28, 29, 30 Mexico, 11–12, 68 middle class, 8, 153, 162, 164–65, 184. See also bourgeoisie Milam, Jennifer, 158 Militar and the Lady, The (Goya), 117 Millar, George Henry, New and Universal System of Geography, 18 Minguet y Yrol, Pablo, The Art of Dancing the French Style, 147 Mitchell, Timothy, 87, 93, 96, 97, 102, 108 modernity of bullfighting, 87, 88–91, 94, 102–3 depictions of, 37, 45, 55 Enlightenment as bearer of, 23 fashion as emblem of, 170, 187, 189 in Spanish art, 33, 42 tradition vs., 7, 17–18, 37, 44; in majas, 12–13, 110–12, 119–20, 139, 147, 155, 157 Molina, Álvaro, 52, 70, 153, 170, 212 n. 45 on garments and identity, 10, 53, 54, 138 on Ximeno’s design for national dress code treatise, 164, 165 monarchy, 23, 30, 92. See also Bourbons, Spanish; Hapsburgs queens’ role in, 10, 151–52, 174, 182–83 monkeys, currutacos and petimetres compared by, 73–75, 213 n. 122 monogenism, 20 Montalban, Juan de, 211 n. 28 monteras (hats), 16, 56, 58, 59, 66, 212 n. 42 Montesquieu, Charles-Louis de Secondat, 24 Montgolfier brothers, balloon ascent by, 81, 213 n. 2 Moors bullfighting customs of, 85–86 Christians’ contact with in Spain, 85, 128 expulsion from Spain, 47–48, 216 n. 47 majos’ connection to, 127, 210 n. 73 Spain’s cultural heritage from, 199, 213 n. 5, 214 n. 20 moralists and morality, 71, 96, 128, 162, 183. See also decency; purity Moreto y Cavana, Agustín, El Lindo Don Diego, 69 muletas (bullfighting capes), 93, 96, 98, 102, 215 n. 62 Muller, Priscilla E., 176 Murcia, 59, 113, 129 Murillo, Bartolomé Esteban, 26, 27, 31–32, 117, 196, 202 Musée du Louvre, Spanish Gallery, acquisition of Spanish works for, 196, 200–201

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Museum of the Spanish People, 205 music/musicians, 72, 92, 167, 168. See also dancers/ dancing My Uncle Daniel and His Family (Zuloaga y Zabaleta), 202 National Dress Project, 133, 152, 157, 159–65 nationalism, Spanish, 2–3, 10, 22, 33, 106, 207. See also character, national, Spanish; patriotism colonies’ contribution to, 23, 24 theatrical manifestations of, 71–72 women’s role in, 160–61 Nattier, Jean-Marc, Madame Adelaïdede-France as Diana, 149, 150 naturalism, in Spanish art, 31, 33 neoclassicism, 31, 36. See also classicism nobility. See also aristocrats; Bourbons; elites; identities, royal; royals bullfighting as sport of, 81–88, 91 indigenous characteristics imitated by, 71, 75, 110, 111, 137 majos’ mimicry of, 4, 43, 75 male, 43, 184 patronage of the arts by, 19–20 portraits of, 42, 68, 75, 118, 150, 157 self-fashioning by, 11, 22–23 Norberg, Kathryn, 10 Nude Maja (Goya), 171, 172, 173, 202, 203 Nude with a Red Carnation (Zuloaga y Zabaleta), 202–4, 203 Nussbaum, Felicity, 18 O’Farrell, Mary Ann, 111 Oliveras, Count-Duke of, Velázquez’s portrait of, 27 Ominous Decade, 219 n. 6 Orange Vendor, The (Lorenzo Tiepolo), 154–55, 156 Orbis habitabilis oppida et vestitus centenario numero complexa, summo studio collecta (Allard), 56–58 Madrid, 58 Oriental imagery, 128, 129, 199, 200 Ortega y Gasset, José, 201, 205–7 “Theory of Andalusia,” 206 Osuna, Duchess of (María Josefa de la Soledad Alonso Pimental, Countess of Benavente), 103, 137, 150, 160, 219 n. 71 attending bullfights, 97–98, 99 emulation of majas by, 162, 165–73, 207 and Women’s Council, 178, 219 n. 73 Osuna, Duke of (Pedro Alcántara Téllez Girón), 178 Painter’s Studio, or the Boys Playing with a Cat, The (Castillo), 46, 47, 48

painting. See art/artists; genre paintings; and individual styles of painting Palomino, Antonio, 30, 210 n. 54 Paret y Alcázar, Luis A Masked Ball, 153 Party in Front of the Botanical Garden, 36–37, 37, 38 The Shop of Geniani, 145–46, 146, 147 Pase de capa (Goya), 215 n. 60 Paseo de las Delicias, El (Francisco Bayeu), 37, 38 patria, 16, 18, 23, 24 patrimony, Spanish, 15–38, 49, 201. See also culture, Spanish patriotism, 9, 147, 160. See also nationalism, Spanish; pride, national bullfighting associated with, 79, 92 dress associated with, 163–64, 204–5 women’s, 164–65, 178 patronage of the arts, 8, 19–20, 46, 92, 113, 160 aristocratic, 13, 26–28, 30, 32, 137, 155, 165, 196–97, 201, 209 n. 36 Paula Martí Mora, Francisco de, 187 Pérez-Bustamante Mourier, Ana-Sofía, 34 Petimetra on the Prado of Madrid, The (anonymous), 119, 119 petimetras, 68, 133. See also majas; types, popular characteristics of, 2–7 as consumers of luxury items, 70, 144–47, 164, 189, 190 depictions of, 5, 37, 117, 123, 144–45, 189–90 dress of, 145, 188, 189–90, 192 femininity of, 68, 147 majas as opposite, 11, 37, 68, 110, 144, 145, 147 petimetres, 70, 213 n. 96 behavior of, 67–69, 71, 75 characteristics of, 2–7, 72 comparing to monkeys, 73–75 depictions of, 4, 35–36, 37, 73–74, 119, 189–90 dress of, 63, 189, 190 effeminacy of, 42, 43, 68, 69, 70, 184 gender performance and, 64–78 majos as opposite of, 55, 68, 72–73, 75, 78, 184 masculinity of, 68, 69–70 origins of, 68–69, 212 n. 89 and purity, 67, 72 theatrical depictions of, 34–35, 44, 71–72 Petimetre with a Cloth Frock Coat, Cotton Tights, and Ankle Boots (Antonio Rodríguez), 4, 4–5 Philip II, 83, 126, 182, 214 n. 36 Philip III, 85 Philip IV, 27, 30, 47, 126, 182 and bullfighting, 81–82, 85, 87, 95, 101, 215 n. 61 portrait of, 28

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sons of, 84 wives of, 32, 54, 121 Philip V, 17, 219 n. 6 and bullfighting, 88, 214 n. 36 and majo/as clothing, 53, 60, 211 n. 27 wife of, 32, 214 n. 36 Philip V (Rigaud), 53 Philip V Hunting (Jacinto Meléndez), 53 physiognomy, 3, 73, 211 n. 22 physiology, 4. See also bodies, Spanish picadors, 86, 93, 95, 97, 105. See also bullfighters depictions of, 94–95, 95, 107, 108 Picasso, Pablo, Dream and Lie of Franco I, 207–8, 208 Picnic, The (Goya), 113, 114, 155 Picnic at the Beach (Antonio Carnicero), 52 Pierson, Ruth Roach, 160 Pignatelli, Ramón, 91 plebeians, 1, 4, 25–26, 210–11 n. 85. See also castizo, lo; lower classes; majas; majos bullfighting transformed by, 79, 81, 87, 90–91, 93, 94–95, 102 elites’ relationship with, 4, 34, 90 politics. See also dress, politics of gender, 105–6 identity, 68, 120–32 of majos, 52–64 portraiture and, 218–19 n. 69 women and, 105–6, 178–79 Polybius, 24 polygenism, 20 Ponz, Antonio, 26, 28, 30–31 Poole, Ross, 22 poor people, 8, 12, 113, 212 n. 47. See also lower classes Popular Types (Lorenzo Tiepolo), 63, 126, 127 Porcel, Isabel de, Goya’s portrait of, 176, 177 portraiture aristocratic, 42–43 costume as trope in, 153 elites’, 9, 25, 29, 42, 161; by Goya, 152, 179, 187, 188 female, 13, 157, 165–66, 176–77, 182, 188 gendered distinctions in, 152, 186, 187, 188 male, 180, 183 of nobility, 42, 68, 75, 118, 150, 157 politics and, 218–19 n. 69 royal, 53, 183 practices, Spanish, 55. See also bullfighting; customs, Spanish; majismo; traditions, Spanish depictions of, 6, 196, 204 majos’, 44, 45 traditional, 42, 177, 204 preservation, of Spanish history, 19, 26–33

pride, national. See also character, national, Spanish; nationalism, Spanish; patriotism bullfight as source of, 80, 81, 118 elites’, 88, 112 majas embodying, 108, 111, 119, 122, 123, 124 majos embodying, 41, 43, 53, 76, 78 urban, 6, 97, 113 printmaking, 8, 210 n. 47. See also engravers/engravings Prost, Eugenio, 216 n. 25 prostitution, 76, 77 majas associated with, 73, 74, 111, 132, 134–37, 139 pueblos, 34, 42, 43 Puerta, Ruth de la, 58, 121, 123, 128, 130, 216 nn. 3, 34, 217 n. 65 purity, 11, 34, 66, 67, 72. See also decency; moralists and morality Queen María Luisa in a Mantilla (Goya), 120, 157, 171, 174, 175, 176, 182–83, 218–19 n. 69 queens. See Bourbons; Hapsburgs; monarchy, queens’ role in; royals; and individual queens Quilliet, Frédéric, 172 Quintina Guzmán, María Isidra, 178 race, 1, 12, 20–21, 68 Raphael, 31 Real Academia de Bellas Artes de San Fernando (RABASF ), 8, 9, 13, 26–28, 47, 209 n. 36, 210 n. 47 Real Calcografía, 26, 210 n. 37 Reclining Maja with a Blue and Gold Macaw (Zuloaga y Zabaleta), 203–4 Renaissance, 11, 43, 48 Ribeiro, Aileen, 33 Ribera, José de, 27 Rigaud, Hyacinthe, Philip V, 53 Ripa, Cesare, Iconologia, 217 n. 87 rococo style of art, 38, 91, 149, 158 Rodrigo, Antonina, 155, 184 Rodriguez, Antonio, 219 n. 90 General Collection of Dresses that Are Used in Spain in the Year 1801 in Madrid, 187–88, 188–90; Bring the Horse. Bullfighter on Horse, 105, 106; Do I Look Like Some Currutaco to You? Worker from Burgos, 191, 191; For Me There Is No Courageous Bull. Bullfighter on Foot, 105, 106; Good Day for Enjoying the Sun! Petimetre with Cape, 190, 191; I Am Awaiting a Guest, 189; I Am Going to See Her Before She Leaves. Currutaco with Frock Coat, 191; Petimetra with a Muslin Mantilla and Twill-Weave Basquiña Adorned with Velvet, 189; Petimetre with a Cloth Frock Coat, Cotton Tights, and Ankle Boots, 4, 4–5; To the

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Rodriguez, General Collection (continued) Bullfight. Majo with a Short Jacket and a Cape, 190, 191; We’ll See Each Other at the Dance, 189 General Collection of Dresses that Are Used in Spain in the Year 1801 in Madrid (Antonio Rodriguez): For Me There Is No Courageous Bull. Bullfighter on Foot, 105 Rodríguez, Joaquín (“Costillares”), 96, 97, 98, 99, 101–2, 103, 106, 157 Rodríguez, Laura, 62 Rodríguez Calderón, Juan Jacinto, Personal Scene: Don Líquido, or the Currutaco Dressing Himself, 71 Rodríguez Culebras, Ramón, 211 n. 1 Rodríguez Méndez, José María, 34, 48 Rodríguez-Solís, Enrique, 49, 141–42 Rokeby Venus (Velázquez), 171 Roldán Martínez, José, 196 role-playing, 149, 152, 153–59, 170. See also masquerades; women, elite, emulation of majas by Romanticism, 33, 194, 195, 198, 199. See also costumbrismo Romería (Camarón Bonanat), 64–65, 65 Romero, Francisco, 103, 215 n. 62 Romero, Pedro, 96, 97–108, 107, 157 Goya’s portrayals of, 103, 104 Romero bullfighting dynasty, 92–93, 97–106 Romero de los Santos, Juan de Dios Sebastian, 97 Romero y Acevedo, Francisco, 92–93 Ronda, bullfighting in, 83, 91, 92 Rosario Fernández, María del (“La Tirana”), Goya’s portrait of, 157 Royal House Factory of the Five Main Guilds of Madrid (Valencia), 48, 130 Royal Palace (Madrid) art collection in, 27, 31 throne room fresco, 14, 15–19, 17, 36 royals. See also aristocrats; Bourbons; elites; Hapsburgs; identities, royal; monarchy, Spanish; nobility; and individual kings and queens consumption patterns of, 52, 161–62 depictions of, 53, 60, 183 dress of, 42–43, 53–54, 211 n. 2 emulation of majo/as, 39, 40, 41–42, 42–43 majismo and, 149–92 Royal Silk Factory of Talavera (Castilla–La Mancha), 129 Royal Tapestry Factory of Santa Barbara, 46 Rubière, Juan, 129 Sacchetti, Giovanni Battista, 15 sainetes (comedies), 6, 35, 65–66, 113, 117–18, 144, 170, 211 n. 18. See also theater; tonadillas (comic operas) Sala Valldaura, Josep María, 9, 35, 66–67, 71–72, 118, 119, 144–45

Salic Law, 219 n. 6 Salvador Carmona, Juan Antonio, 28, 154, 210 n. 47 Samaniego, Félix María, 118 Sánchez de Aragón, Francisco, 91 Santa Cruz, Marquise de (Mariana Waldstein), portrait of, 176 Sarasúa, Carmen, 134–35 Sarmiento, Martín, 89 satires, 35, 63, 70–71, 76, 155, 213 n. 122 Sayre, Eleanor, 93, 214 n. 15, 215 n. 78 Schomberg’s troops, dress of, 54, 55 School of the Major Art of Silk (Valencia), 48, 130 Schulte, Regina, 176, 182 Schulz, Andrew, 31, 73, 85, 137, 178, 210 n. 48, 214 n. 20 Scott, Joan Wallach, 68 Seco, Manuel, 66 seduction. See majas, seductiveness of; majos, seductiveness of seguidilla (dance), 72, 141, 142, 147, 211 n. 18 self-fashioning, 26, 171, 206 elites’, 13, 19–20, 38, 56, 103, 112, 153; emulation of popular types, 8, 10, 21, 22–23, 55, 174, 188–98; interest in indigenous peoples, 9, 150, 151–52, 159; majo/as behavior emulated by, 4, 42–43, 52, 60–61, 120, 186, 192; petimetras and, 11, 147 Sempere y Guarinos, Juan, History of Luxury and Sumptuary Laws, 161 sensuality, majas’, 111, 121, 134 Serrano, Nicolás María, Universal Dictionary, 49 Seville art/artists in, 141, 196 bullfighting in, 83, 91–92, 95, 97, 214 nn. 21, 24, 215 n. 62 depictions of, 60, 205 dress styles from, 126–28, 190 temporary move of court to, 32 sexuality, 126, 173 differences in, 4, 12, 68 of majas, 109–10, 111, 133, 134–35, 137, 140, 144, 166, 204 Sforza, Caterina, 11 Sharp, Joanne P., 105–6 Shop of Geniani, The (Paret y Alcázar), 145–46, 146, 147 Siddons, Sarah, 92 silk production, 129–30, 217 n. 61. See also textile industry Silva Maroto, Pilar, 28 Sixtus V, Pope, censure of bullfighting by, 214 n. 36 Sketches of Spain and Spanish Character, Contrabandistas: Andalucía (John Frederick Lewis), 199 Smart, Barry, 101 Smith, Theresa Ann, 98, 160, 164, 178

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sociability, 37, 160 social station. See ambiguity, social; class(es); fabrics, social status distinguished by Society of Jesus, 62, 89 soldiers, 54, 55, 63, 76 Soldier with a Majo from the Back (Lorenzo Tiepolo), 49–50, 50, 51 Solís Lasso de la Vega, María de la Soledad Vicenta (comtesse de Fernán Nuñez), portrait of, 186, 186 Sorolla y Bastida, Joaquín, 202, 207 Vision of Spain, 195, 204, 205; Castile. The Bread Festival, 205; Seville: The Bullfighters, 205; Seville. The Dance, 205, 206 Sousa Congosto, Francisco de, 48, 55, 69, 121, 155 Spain, 4–5, 206, 219 n. 6. See also Bourbons, Spanish; colonies, Spanish; Spanishness Constitution of 1812, 201, 219 n. 6 empire of, 15–19, 23, 142 France’s relationship with, 17, 151, 183, 207 Golden Age, 19, 29, 32, 123, 196, 201, 202 southern: costumbrismo in, 196, 198–200; masculinity in, 190–91; popular; types in, 33, 58–59, 116, 118; tourist trade in, 194, 207; traditional dress in, 122, 142, 205 stereotypes of, 6, 13, 24, 198, 200, 207 Spanish-American War, 201 Spanish Civil War, 201 Spanish Courtesan with Mantilla (Zuloaga y Zabaleta), 203–4 Spanishness, 6, 11, 75, 147, 166. See also castizo, lo; character, national, Spanish; culture, Spanish; customs, Spanish; dress, majo/as, Spanishness of; elites, Spanish, self-fashioning Spanishness; traits, Spanish; types, popular, Spanishness of Andalusians’ association with, 118, 142, 190, 194, 195, 196, 198–200 authentic, 10, 11–12, 38, 165–66 depictions of, 8, 19–20, 22–23, 203, 206 femininity’s relationship to, 124, 205 Generation of ‘98’s promotion of, 201–2 majas’ embodiment of, 65, 110–12, 119–20, 124, 140–42, 164, 192 majos as examples of, 2–7, 45, 64, 76 of mantillas, 11, 37, 41, 78, 110, 121, 164, 183, 193–95 tourist’s search for, 193–208 Spanish War of Independence, 196, 197, 219 n. 6 Spearing Exercises (Tapia y Salcedo), 83, 83, 84 Spicer, Joaneath, 43 spinners/spinning, 47, 131, 133 Steinberg, Warren, 67 stereotypes. See also types, popular of bullfighters, 105–6

gender, 3, 164–65 of majas, 7, 139 of majos, 7, 66, 116, 190–91 of national character, 6, 24–25, 42, 58, 59 of Spain, 6, 13, 24, 198, 200, 207 theatrical, 35 Stoichita, Victor I., 73 Stor, Ángel, 128, 141 Straw Manikin, The (Goya), 134 Strolling Majas (Goya), 138, 138–39 sumptuary laws, 161–62 Sun King. See Louis XIV, King of France (“Sun King”) swagger, of majo/as, 7, 12–13 bullfighters’, 93, 97 depictions of, 34, 39, 41, 44, 113–14, 190 elites’ imitation of, 42–43, 52, 186, 192 masculine trait of, 39, 49, 58 Swinburne, Henry, 16, 27, 90, 96 sword (estoque), 59, 96, 98 tailors. See also dressmakers/dressmaking French, 54, 129, 211 n. 28 Spanish, 53, 129, 217 n. 65; government regulation of, 60, 120; treatises by, 130–31, 217 n. 67 Tailor’s Book, The, 211 n. 2 tapestries, artists designing cartoons for, 46, 61, 210 n. 48. See also Goya, Francisco de, works by, tapestry cartoons Tapia y Salcedo, Gregorio Equestrian Exercises, 83–84 Spearing Exercises, 83, 83, 84 Tauromaquia series (Goya), 81, 215 n. 78 The Agility and Boldness of Juanito Apiñani in Madrid, 101 Charles V Spearing a Bull in the Plaza of Valladolid, 81, 84, 84–85 The Daring of Martincho in the Plaza de Madrid, 102 El Cid Campeador Spearing Another Bull, 81, 82 Harpoons with Firecrackers, 93 Origin of Harpoons or Banderillas, 85–86 Pedro Romero, 103, 104 Second of May, 86 A Spanish Gentleman Kills a Bull After Losing His Horse, 81, 82 The Spirited Moor Gazul Is the First to Spear Bulls According to the Rules, 86, 86 Virile Valor of the Celebrated Pajuelera in Zaragoza’s Ring, 107, 107 Taylor, Baron (Isidore-Justin-Séverin), 195–96, 200–201 A Picturesque Tour of Spain, Portugal, and Along the Coast of Africa, from Tangiers to Tetuan, 200 A Window of the Alcazar at Seville, 200

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Téllez, Marcos, Dress that Contrabandists Use, 59, 60, 142 textile industry, 5, 47–48, 51, 76, 100, 190. See also fabrics; silk production; spinners/spinning; tapestries women’s participation in, 120, 131–32, 133, 160, 217 n. 76 theater, 10, 58, 118. See also actors/actresses; sainetes (comedies); tonadillas (comic operas) fashion influenced by, 56, 155, 157–59 gypsy depictions in, 59–60 majos and petimetres depictions in, 34–35, 44, 48–49, 64–67, 71–72, 117–19, 144, 211 n. 8 Thicknesse, Philip, 114 Thomas, Calvin, 67 Thomson, Peter, 97, 215 n. 70 Tiepolo, Domenico, 15 Tiepolo, Giambattista, Glorification of the Spanish Monarchy, 14, 15–19, 17, 22, 30, 36 Tiepolo, Lorenzo, 15, 16, 117 The Cherry Vendor, 52, 115, 115–16 The Fortune-Teller, 116 The Orange Vendor, 154–55, 156 pastels of majos, 44, 49–52, 61, 63, 66, 76 Popular Types, 63, 126, 127 Soldier with a Majo from the Back, 49–50, 50, 51 Two Majos and a Country Woman, 51, 51–52 Tillyard, Stella, 92 Titian, 31 Tixera, José de la, 215 n. 59 Tobacco Guards, The (Goya), 60 Toledo, silk production in, 129 Tomás Ferré, Facundo, 204 Tomlinson, Janis, 133, 176, 210 n. 54 on Goya, 10, 29, 113, 117, 119, 134, 135, 217 n. 87 on Las Meninas, 29, 30 tonadillas (comic operas), 6, 35, 65, 113, 117–18, 144, 155. See also sainetes (comedies); theater toreros, 39, 40, 41–43, 214 n. 15. See also bullfighters Tormo, Francisca, 131 Torquemada, Cardinal Juan de, 89 Torres Villarroel, Diego de, Visions and Visits with Don Francisco de Quevedo Around the Court, 53, 70 tourism, 34, 192, 193–208. See also travel writing traditions, Spanish. See also customs, Spanish; modernity, tradition vs.; practices, Spanish bullfighters as keepers of, 42, 43–44 castizo’s associations with, 157, 164 depictions of, 30, 118, 194, 202 elite expression of, 152, 166, 186 indigenous, 27–28, 159 innovation and, 29, 33–38 majas’ embodiment of, 12–13, 110, 119–20, 139, 147, 155, 157

majismo’s reconnection with, 19, 33–38, 66 majos as keepers of, 45, 55, 62 native, 26–27, 30, 38 threats to, 54, 204, 208 traits, Spanish. See also character, national, Spanish; types, popular communal, 21–22, 26 majas’, 109–12, 133–34 majos’, 34, 45, 48–49, 55, 72 petimetres’, 2–7, 72 racial, 20–21 traditional, 1, 16, 19, 64 traje de luces (suit of lights). See bullfighters, dress of travel writing, 19, 24–25, 49, 89–90, 101, 109, 184. See also tourism Traverse, Charles de la, 32 Tudó, Pepita, 171 Twiss, Richard, 27, 90 Two Majas Dancing (Goya), 142–44, 143 Two Majos and a Country Woman (Lorenzo Tiepolo), 51, 51–52 Two Women Reading a Letter (Goya), 200 types, popular. See also castizo, lo; gypsies; indigenous peoples; majas; majos; petimetras; petimetres; stereotypes; traits, Spanish behavior of, 73, 139–40 contemporary, 33–38 depictions of, 7–8, 46, 60, 98, 188–89, 195–96, 200, 210–11 n. 85; artistic constructions, 6, 21, 22–23, 35–36, 42, 157 dress as marker of, 4, 51, 53, 60–61, 119, 122, 173, 187, 189–90 elites’ appropriation of, 10, 21, 153, 162 foreign interest in, 2, 110, 129, 159, 166–67, 193–95 gendered distinctions in, 21, 37, 53, 69–70, 134 local, 18, 19 native vs. foreign, 9, 45 performativity of, 117–18` regional, 118, 188, 191 royal, 39, 40, 41–42 social ambiguity of, 13, 68, 76, 78, 110, 112, 122, 144–47 southern Spain, 33, 58–59, 116, 118, 119, 157 Spanishness of, 2–7, 16, 41, 44, 76, 78, 164, 193–95, 196 traditional, 13, 16, 56 urban, 38, 52, 153 Úbeda de los Cobos, Andrés, 27–28, 51–52 Unamuno, Miguel de, 201, 202 universalism, 18, 28 upper classes, 184, 187. See also aristocrats; elites; nobility interest in indigenous traditions, 157–58, 159

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lower classes’ union with, 34, 165–66, 173, 174 majas as models for, 151, 192 women’s consumption patterns, 164–65 Valencia, 113, 121, 129–30, 216 n. 3, 217 n. 61 Vallejo Fernández, María Antonia (“La Caramba”), 98, 144, 155 Goya’s portrait of, 157 Vallone, Lynne, 111 Van der Straet, Jan Bull Hunt, 87 Bull Hunt on Horse, 87 Combat in the Arena Between a Lion, Bear, Bull, and Two Wolves, 87 Venationes ferarum, avium, piscium pugnae bestiariorum & mutuae bestiarum, 86 Van Horn Melton, James, 22 Vargas Ponce, José de, 28, 210 n. 47 bullfighting opposed by, 89–90 Dissertation on the Bullfight, 85, 213–14 n.12 Vázquez, Joseph, 187 Vega, Jesusa, 52, 70, 212 n. 45 on dress and identity, 10, 53, 54, 138, 153 on Goya, 28, 170 on Ximeno’s designs for national dress code treatise, 164, 165 Vega, Lope de, plays by, 56 veils, 56, 58, 120, 122–28, 135–36, 138–39, 174, 216 n. 47. See also mantillas Velázquez, Diego, 46–47, 196, 202, 211 n. 7 influence of, 26, 27, 28–29, 30, 210 n. 47 style of, 31, 36 Works : Equestrian Portrait of Philip IV, 28 Las meninas, 28, 29, 30 Mariana of Austria, 121 portrait of Count-Duke of Olivares, 27 Rokeby Venus, 171 Water Carrier of Seville, 31, 60 Venationes ferarum, avium, piscium pugnae bestiariorum & mutuae bestiarum (Van der Straet), 86 vendors, street. See also tailors artistic constructions of, 35–36, 52, 187 majas depicted as, 1, 6, 8, 111–16, 132–40, 216 n. 90 majos depicted as, 1, 6, 8, 43–45 orange sellers, 113, 154–55, 156 Plebeian, 210–11 n. 85 View of Zaragoza (Martínez del Mazo), 56 Villafranca, Duke of (José María Álvarez de Toledo y Gonzaga), Goya’s portrait of, 167 Villamediana, Count of, 81 Villanueva, Juan de, 36, 82

Villanueva, Santo Tomás de, 89 Villena, Luis Antonio de, 69 Vincent, Susan, 151 Virgen de la Esperanza Macarena sculpture (Seville), 141 Virgin Mary, 141, 182–83 virtues, 24, 43, 69, 91, 96, 176 Vision of Spain (Sorolla y Bastida), 195, 204, 205 Castile. The Bread Festival, 205 Seville: The Bullfighters, 205 Seville. The Dance, 205, 206 vocational training. See women, education for Voltaire, 20 Wahrman, Dror, 21, 22, 153 Waldmann, Susann, 168 Walk in Andalusia, A (Goya), 56, 57, 58–59, 116, 199–200 War of Spanish Succession, 17 Water Carrier of Seville (Velázquez), 31, 60 Weber, David J., 24 Weissberger, Barbara F., 183 West, Shearer, 92 Whistler, Catherine, 16 Williams, Caroline, 198 Wilson-Bareau, Juliet, 76 Winckelmann, Johann Joachim, 24 women, 135, 217 n. 87. See also femininity; identities, female; majas; petimetras behavior of, 124, 126, 133, 147, 152, 161, 171 in Bourbon court, 10, 151–52, 165–66, 174, 182–83 consumption patterns of, 135, 146–47, 164–65 depictions of, 133, 218–19 n. 69 dress of, 126, 128, 141–42, 161, 192 education for, 160, 162, 165 eighteenth-century Spanish, 109–12, 152–53 elite, 109–47; castizo dress embraced by, 120, 149 elite, emulation of majas by, 110–12, 114, 115–16, 120–29, 133, 137, 140, 151–52; by Duchess of Alba, 149, 151, 162, 165–73, 207; for portraits, 186–87, 188; Queen María Luisa, 171, 173–92 Enlightenment participation by, 152–53, 160, 161, 167, 168 expansion of presence in society, 133, 137–39, 140, 146, 147, 165–66 Goya’s portraits of, 176–77 gypsy, 109, 116–17 indigenous, 11–12, 151–52 luxury spending by, 164–65, 210–11 n. 85, 218 n. 38 participation in textile industry, 120, 131–32, 133, 160, 217 n. 76 patriotism of, 163–64, 204–5 political participation of, 178–79 working-class, 132–33

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Women’s Council (Junta de Damas), 160, 176 Duchess of Osuna’s involvement with, 178, 219 n. 73 and national dress code proposal, 133, 162–63, 165 working classes, 23, 87, 112, 117, 132–33, 134, 194. See also factories/factory workers; laborers; lower classes; pueblos Worth, Susannah, 33 Wunder, Amanda, 37–38, 126, 128 xenophobia, Spanish, 4, 54–55, 62, 176, 202 Ximénez Patón, Bartolomé, Treatise of the Tufos, Copetes, and Calvas, 69 Ximeno, José, designs for treatise on national dress code, 162–64, 164–65 Zabaleta, Juan de, 212 n. 89 Zamora, silk production in, 129 Zapater, Martín, 103 Zaragoza, bullfighting in, 91, 101 Zárate, Antonia, Goya’s portrait of, 176–77, 177 Zavala, Adriana, 11–12, 68 Zuloaga y Zabaleta, Ignacio, 205, 207 Works : My Uncle Daniel and His Family, 202 Nude with a Red Carnation, 202–4, 203 Reclining Maja with a Blue and Gold Macaw, 203–4 Spanish Courtesan with Mantilla, 203–4 Zurbarán, Francisco de, 196, 202

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