Habsburg Madrid: Architecture and the Spanish Monarchy 9780271091891

Citation preview

Hab s b u rg Madr i d

HABSBURG MADRID Architecture and the Spanish Monarchy JEsÚs Esc o b a r

The Pennsylvania State University Press University Park, Pennsylvania

Publication is made possible in part by a gift from Elizabeth Warnock to the Department of Art History at Northwestern University. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Escobar, Jesús Roberto, 1967– author. Title: Habsburg Madrid : architecture and the Spanish monarchy / Jesús Escobar. Description: University Park, Pennsylvania : The Pennsylvania State University Press, [2022] | Includes bibliographical references and index. Summary: “Explores buildings and public spaces in seventeenth-century Madrid as reflections of political ideas about the grandeur of the Spanish monarchy, situating monuments in the Spanish capital within a network of cities in Spain, Europe, and the Americas”—Provided by publisher. Identifiers: LCCN 2021052569 | ISBN 9780271091419 (cloth) Subjects: LCSH : Architecture—Spain—Madrid—History—17th century. | Public architecture—Spain—Madrid—History—17th century. | Palaces—Spain— Madrid—History—17th century. | Madrid (Spain)—Buildings, structures, etc.—History—17th century. | Madrid (Spain)—History—17th century. Classification: LCC NA 1310 .E 83 2022 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021052569 Frontispiece: Pietro Maria Baldi, Madrid dalla parte del Rio, detail (fig. 24). Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana, Florence, Ms. Med. Palat. 123/1, c. 50bis. Su concessione del M iBACT . E’ vietata ogni ulteriore riproduzione con qualsiasi mezzo. Copyright © 2022 The Pennsylvania State University Press All rights reserved Printed in Lithuania by BALTO Print Book design & typesetting by Garet Markvoort, zijn digital Published by The Pennsylvania State University Press, University Park, PA 16802–1003 The Pennsylvania State University Press is a member of the Association of 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   z 39.48–1992.

Contents

List of Illustrations  vii Preface and Acknowledgments  xiii Notes on Documents and Sources  xix List of Abbreviations  xxi Introduction 1 1 Architecture and Grandeza 21 2 Monarchy and Governance: The Royal Palace, ca. 1620  47 3 Justice and Penance: The Court Prison, ca. 1640  93 4 Town Versus Court: The Town Hall, ca. 1660  135 5 Regency and Renovation: Palaces and Plazas, ca. 1680  167 Conclusion: Madrid of the Spanish Habsburgs  201 Appendix: Madrid’s Town Jail  217 Glossary 225 Notes 227 Bibliography 245 Index 259

Illustrations

1.

Nicolas Guérard, after Filippo Pallotta, Aspecto del Real Palacio de Madrid y sv Plaza, 1704  2

14.

Anton van den Wyngaerde, View of Madrid, ca. 1562  30–31

2.

Juan Bautista de Toledo, Juan de Herrera, and others, Monastery of San Lorenzo el Real, El Escorial, 1563–84, aerial view from the southwest  3

15.

Antonio Manzelli, Verdadero Retrato del Suntuoso Edificio de la Placa de la muy noble Villa de Madrid, 1623 33

16.

Pedro Teixeira, Topographia de la Villa de Madrid, detail of the Plaza Mayor and environs  36

3.

Diego Velázquez, Las meninas, 1656  6

4.

Diego Velázquez, King Philip IV of Spain, 1644  9

17.

5.

Juan Carreño de Miranda, Queen Mariana of Austria, 1670  9

Pedro Teixeira, Topographia de la Villa de Madrid, detail of allegorical dedication to Philip IV  37

18.

Juan Carreño de Miranda, King Carlos II in Armor, 1681 10

Unknown maker, View of the Plaza Mayor of Madrid During a Bullfight, ca. 1650  38

19.

Pedro Perret, after Juan de Herrera, Scenographia totivs fabricae S. Lavrentii in Escoriali, 1587  12

Pietro Maria Baldi, Madrid dalla parte del Rio, 1668 40–41

20.

Jusepe Leonardo, View of the Palace and Gardens of the Buen Retiro, ca. 1636–37  13

Pietro Maria Baldi, Madrid dalla parte del Retiro, 1668  40–41

21.

Jan van Kessel III, View of the Carrera de San Jerónimo and Paseo del Prado, ca. 1680  43

22.

Pedro Teixeira, Topographia de la Villa de Madrid, detail of the Carrera de San Jerónimo and its approach to the Buen Retiro Palace  44

23.

Carrera de San Jerónimo, Madrid, view looking east toward the Palacio del Congreso de los Diputados and the Church of San Jerónimo  45

6. 7. 8. 9.

10.

Luis Pablo, accounting for construction and labor at the Court Prison, Madrid, January 1640 to January 1641  17 Juan de la Corte (attr.), Royal Festival in the Plaza Mayor of Madrid, 1623  20

11.

Pedro Teixeira, Topographia de la Villa de Madrid, 1656  24

12.

Juan Schorquens, frontispiece to Gil González Dávila, Teatro de las grandezas de la Villa de Madrid (Madrid: Tomás Iunti, 1623)  26

24.

Pietro Maria Baldi, Madrid dalla parte del Rio, detail of the Puente de Segovia, Palace Park, and the Royal Palace  46

13.

Roberto Cordier, frontispiece to Jerónimo de Quintana, A la muy antigua, noble y coronada Villa de Madrid (Madrid: Imprenta del Reyno, 1629)  28

25.

Pedro Teixeira, Topographia de la Villa de Madrid, detail of the Royal Palace quarter  48

26. Fray Alberto de la Madre de Dios, Royal Convent of La Encarnación, Madrid, 1611–16, church façade and atrium  49

Illustr ations

27.

Filippo Juvarra, Giovanni Battista Sachetti, and others, Palacio Real Nuevo, Madrid, 1738–64, view of the west façade as seen from the Campo de Moro 52

28.

Palacio Real Nuevo, Madrid, view of the south façade and forecourt  53

29. Anton van den Wyngaerde, View of Madrid, detail of the Real Alcázar  54 30.

Alonso de Covarrubias and others, Puerta Nueva de Bisagra, Toledo, exterior (north) façade, 1550s  55

31.

Gaspar de Vega, plan of the main story of the Real Alcázar of Madrid, ca. 1540  56

32.

Alonso de Covarrubias and others, Tavera Hospital, Toledo, begun 1548, view of courtyards and arcaded passageways  57

33.

Anton van den Wyngaerde, Palaçio Real de Madrid, 1569 58

34.

Pedro Perret, after Juan de Herrera, Ortographia de la entrada del Templo de S. Lorencio el Real del Escvrial, y seccion interior del Convento y Colegio, 1587  59

Girolamo Rainaldi, Bartolomeo Avanzini, and others, Palazzo Ducale of Modena, begun 1634, main façade  73

44. Juan Gómez de Mora, plan of the Royal Palace of Madrid main floor, 1626  76 45.

Unknown Madrid artist, Philip II and His Children, ca. 1583–85  77

46. Royal Palace of Madrid, detail of the mainfloor sector used for the king’s residence, meeting rooms, and office, after Juan Gómez de Mora, 1626  78 47.

Juan Gómez de Mora, plan of the Royal Palace of Madrid ground-floor and mezzanine level, 1626 82

48.

Royal Palace of Madrid, ground-floor plan after Juan Gómez de Mora, 1626  83

49. Royal Palace of Madrid, ground-floor plan after Juan Gómez de Mora, 1626, detail of the government sector  86 50.

Unknown maker, Tribunal of the Sala de Mil y Quinientas in Session 88

51.

Pedro de Villafranca, The Royal Council of the Indies Before the Virgin of Atocha 89

52.

Unknown maker, Three Chambers of the Council of Castile in Session During a Despacho de Semanería, 1764 90

53.

Filippo Giannetto (attr.), Inauguration of Prince Claude Lamoral de Ligne as Viceroy of Sicily in 1669 in Palermo, ca. 1669–79  91

35.

Jean Laurent, Royal Palace of Valladolid, formerly Palace of the Mendoza de los Cobos  60

36.

Francisco de Mora, Ducal Palace of Lerma, main façade, 1605–13  61

37.

Teodoro Ardemans, Orthographia de el Real Alcázar de Madrid, 1705  63

38.

Juan Gómez de Mora, plan of the ground floor of the Royal Palace of Aranjuez, 1636  66

54.

Pedro de Villafranca, Section of the Royal Pantheon at the Escorial, Facing the High Altar, 1654  67

Unknown Madrid artist, La Cárcel de Corte de Madrid, ca. 1645  92

55.

Pedro Teixeira, Topographia de la Villa de Madrid, detail of the Plaza de Provincia and environs  97

56.

Nicolás de Vergara, plan of the ground floor of the Casa de la Inquisición in Toledo, 1598  99

39. 40.

viii

43.

Unknown maker, model of the main (south) façade and rear patio towers of the Royal Palace of Madrid, ca. 1619–30  69

41.

Domenico Fontana, Giulio Cesare Fontana, and others, Palazzo Reale Nuovo, Naples, 1599–1627, façade 71

57.

Palacio de Santa Cruz, formerly Cárcel de Corte, Madrid, 1629–40, view of the main façade from the Plaza de Santa Cruz  102

42.

Unknown maker, Einzug des Printzen van Engellandt . . .  , 1623  72

58.

Palacio de Santa Cruz, Madrid, frontispiece  107

Illustr ations

59.

Sebastián de Yturbe and Luis Pablo, accounting for the weekly payroll (semanaria) at the Court Prison, Madrid, 21 January 1640  108

60. Palacio de Santa Cruz, Madrid, groundfloor plan derived from the Plano parcelario de Madrid (Madrid: Instituto Geográfico y Estadístico, 1877)  109

75.

Palacio de Santa Cruz, Madrid, exterior view of the south wall and the corridor bridge added in 1950  126

76.

Cristóbal de Villalpando (attr.), View of the Plaza Mayor of Mexico City, late seventeenth century  128

77.

Court Prison, Madrid, reconstruction of the ground-floor plan in 1640  110

Hermengildo Victor Ugarte, La Real Cárcel de Corte de Madrid, 1756  129

78.

62. Palacio de Santa Cruz, Madrid, interior view of the vestibule, looking east  111

Unknown Madrid artist, La Cárcel de Corte de Madrid, detail of the frontispiece  130

79.

Unknown artist, Façade of the Cárcel de Corte, 1675  132

80.

Juan Gómez de Mora, José de Villarreal, and others, Madrid Town Hall (Casa de la Villa de Madrid), 1643–93, view of the east façade  134

81.

Madrid Town Hall, north façade along the Calle Mayor, with the main-story colonnade, added in 1785–89 136

Unknown maker, Magistrates of the Royal Household and Court in Session, 1764  115

82.

Cañete Palace and the Madrid Town Hall along the Calle del Duque de Nájera, Madrid  137

68. Court Prison, Madrid, reconstruction of the mainfloor plan in 1640  117

83.

Pedro Teixeira, Topographia de la Villa de Madrid, detail of the Plaçuela de la Villa and environs  139

69. Juan Gómez de Mora, elevation drawing with alternative dome solutions for a chapel in the Colegio Imperial, 1633  119

84.

Plaza de la Villa, Madrid, view to the southeast, with the Luján Palace, the Cisneros Palace, and the town-hall façade  140

70.

85.

Alonso Turillo, Uceda Palace, Madrid, 1613–18, view of east and north (main) façades  144

61.

63.

Unknown maker, View of the Court Prison of Madrid That Burned on 4 October 1791, 1791  111

64. Palacio de Santa Cruz, Madrid, main staircase  112 65.

Palacio de Santa Cruz, Madrid, east courtyard arcade  113

66. Palacio de Santa Cruz, Madrid, east courtyard arcade and perimeter corridor  114 67.

71.

Palacio de Santa Cruz, Madrid, view from the west courtyard through the stairwell to the east courtyard  121 Gabriel Abreu y Ranedo, section through the northwest wing of the Palacio de Santa Cruz, including the former Prisoner Courtyard, Madrid, 1900  122

86. Diego Riaño and others, Seville Town Hall (Casa del Ayuntamiento de Sevilla), begun 1526, east façade  145 87.

Juan Gómez de Mora, elevation of the north façade of the Madrid Town Hall, 1644  147 Fray Alberto de la Madre de Dios, Royal Convent of La Encarnación, Madrid, atrium portal  150

72.

Pedro de Muguruza, section through the main stairwell of the Ministerio de Estado, 1930  123

88.

73.

Court Prison, Madrid, reconstruction of the lowerlevel plan in 1640  124

89. Madrid Town Hall, a window bay along the east façade  150

74.

Palacio de Santa Cruz, Madrid, view of the lowerlevel printing shop  125

90. Unknown Madrid artist, View of the Town Hall and Plaza de la Villa with an Apparition of the Virgin of Atocha, ca. 1656  153 ix

Illustr ations

91.

José de Villarreal, plan of the ground floor of the Madrid Town Hall, 1653  155

92. José de Villarreal, plan of the ground floor of the Madrid Town Hall, 1653  155 93.

Madrid Town Hall, reconstruction of the groundfloor plan around 1660  157

94. Juan Gómez de Mora, José de Villarreal, and others, Madrid Town Hall, view of the north vestibule, built ca. 1655 and renovated 1691–93  158 95.

Teodoro Ardemans, elevation of the south wall of the Madrid Town Hall courtyard, 1691  159

96. Madrid Town Hall, view of the modified mainstaircase vestibule  159 97.

Madrid Town Hall, reconstruction of the mainfloor plan around 1660  160

98. Madrid Town Hall, view of the Salón Real  161 99. Pedro Martín Ledesma and Juan de Villegas, Arms of Madrid and the Spanish Habsburgs, 1656  162 100. Unknown Lima artist, Plaza Maior de Lima, Cabeza de los Reinos de el Peru, 1680  165 101. Lorenzo de Quiros, Proclamación de Carlos III en la Plaza Mayor de Madrid, ca. 1760  168 102. Filippo Pallotta, Aclamación del Rey Nuestro Señor Don Felipe V por la Coronada Villa de Madrid el dia xxiv de Noviembre del mdcc, 1700  169 103. Pedro de Villafranca, Anima mea illi viuet, et semen meum serviet ipsi 172 104. Pedro de Obregón, Confidit, in ea corvirisvi / Nvdricion real la Reyna N.S[eñor]a, 1671  173 105. Unknown Madrid artist, Fire at the Monastery of El Escorial in 1671, 1670s  175 106. Juan García de Gonzalo, plan for the reconstruction of the main floor of the Casa de la Panadería, ca. 1672–73  178 107. Salón Real, Casa de la Panadería, 1673–74, view looking north toward the Plaza Mayor windows and royal balcony  179

x

108. Tomás Román (attr.), plan for reconstruction of the ground floor of the Casa de la Panadería, ca. 1672–73  180 109. Tomás Román and José Jiménez Donoso, Casa de la Panadería, 1672–74, façade  181 110. Casa de la Panadería, façade detail with royal arms and ornament in an upper-story window bay  182 111. Casa de la Panadería, reconstruction of the mainfloor plan in 1674  183 112. Sala de las Damas, Casa de la Panadería, walls with Talavera tiles  184 113. Claudio Coello and José Jiménez Donoso, The Cardinal Virtues and Fame with the Arms of Carlos II, 1673–74  185 114. Casa de la Panadería, roofline gilded inscription 186 115. Pedro de Villafranca, title page of Pedro González de Salcedo, Examen de la verdad en respvesta a los tratados de los derechos de la Reyna Christianissima (Madrid, ca. 1668)  187 116. Unknown Madrid artist, View of Madrid and the Royal Palace from the Segovia Bridge, ca. 1675  188 117. Royal Palace of Aranjuez, view of King’s Garden, 1560s, with seventeenth-century alterations  189 118. Teodoro Ardemans, Orthographia de el Real Alcázar de Madrid, detail of the Plaza de Palacio  191 119. Diagram illustrating Ardemans’s plan of the Plaza de Palacio overlaid upon Teixeira’s 1656 map, schematically redrawn  192 120. Royal Palace of Aranjuez, exterior view of the sixteenth-century arcade fronting the king’s apartments and garden  192 121. Leone Leoni and Pompeo Leoni, Emperor Charles V and the Fury, 1551–55  193 122. Leone Leoni and Pompeo Leoni, María of Hungary, 1553–64 193 123. Pietro Tacca, equestrian portrait of Philip IV, ca. 1637–40  194

Illustr ations

124. Giulio Lasso, Mariano Smiriglio, and others, Quattro Canti, or Teatro del Sole, Palermo, begun 1606–17, with marble statues of kings added 1661–63 195 125. Donato Antonio Cafaro, Fountain of Carlos II, Naples, 1669–73  196 126. Unknown Madrid artist, View of the Royal Palace with the Departing Cortege of Carlos II and Juan José de Austria en Route to Pledge the Fueros of the Crown of Aragón, 1677  197 127. Giovanna Battista Falda, Piazza e portici della Basilica Vaticana . . . , 1665  199 128. Gregorio Fosman, Mantva Carpe[n]tanorvm, sive Matritum vrbs regia, 1683  202 129. Unknown Madrid artist, View of the Town Hall, detail of the partially built edifice, with incomplete portals and towers  204

134. Madrid Town Hall, main-story courtyard, view with the north and east elevations in addition to the nineteenth-century iron-and-glass ceiling  209 135. Madrid Town Hall, interior view of the chapel, with fresco decoration by Antonio Palomino, including oil portraits of Carlos II and Mariana of Neuburg on the foreground piers  211 136. Salón de Plenos (formerly Sala Principal), Madrid Town Hall, interior view looking north  212 137. Antonio Palomino, Madrid Honors Carlos II, 1692–93 214 138. Antonio Palomino, Madrid Honors Carlos II, detail of the oculus and allegory  215 139. Madrid Town Hall, view of the south façade, with the nineteenth-century addition  219 140. Manuel del Olmo, plan of the ground floor of the Madrid Town Hall jail, 1686  221

130. Teodoro Ardemans, design for the Madrid Town Hall portals, ca. 1690  205

141. Madrid Town Hall, reconstruction of the groundfloor plan ca. 1690, with the jail  222

131. Madrid Town Hall, north portal along the east façade as executed between 1691 and 1693 after designs by Teodoro Ardemans  206

142. Madrid Town Hall, street-level landing of the jail staircase, built around 1665  223

132. Madrid Town Hall, oblique view from the east along the Calle Mayor  207

143. Domingo Domínguez and unknown draftsman, elevation of an iron grille for a jail cell, with building specifications, 1699  224

133. Madrid Town Hall, reconstruction of main-floor plan around 1690  208

xi

Preface and Acknowledgments

“What does Madrid have to do with America?!” That stark question was posed to me by a prominent architectural historian in October 1992, when I first arrived in Spain to undertake archival and site research. At the time, transatlantic exchange was not the central topic of what would eventually become a dissertation and then my first book, a study about the process of town planning in Madrid after it had been chosen in the middle of the sixteenth century to serve as a court and de facto capital city. Nearly thirty years ago and still today, I could not and cannot think about architecture and urbanism in early modern Madrid without examining the city from the vantage of its larger domain. I have strived to master the local context over the years. Yet I remain convinced that Madrid’s history and architecture are better understood when the city is situated within the network of places that constituted the early modern Spanish Empire. The relation between architecture and politics has always been my primary interest as a student and a scholar, and this book builds on that theme while focusing on people and their experiences of seventeenth-century Madrid. Some Madrileños lived their whole lives there. Others, especially the court elite, moved about the empire, to and from places as near as Aranjuez, Toledo, or Seville and as far away as Naples, Brussels, or Lima. Whether in Madrid permanently or as transients, these

individuals experienced an urban environment that was in constant flux. In the 1620s and 1630s, especially, finding one’s way around from one day to the next could be a challenge, given the city’s growth and the amount of construction within its newly established limits. Prioritizing the human experience of architecture and urbanism in Madrid has helped me, I hope, avoid writing a book that might come across as a triumphalist celebration of monarchy. I have weighed the written and visual evidence of the archive against the physical evidence of surviving buildings and public spaces in order to tell a story about the architectural and spatial transformation of a city that has not been told. Moreover, because I believe Madrid has a lot to do with America, I have situated the narrative within an imperial framework. A better understanding of the city’s spaces and places can help scholars interested in the early modern Spanish world recover the dynamics of transnational and transatlantic exchange with greater specificity. Knowing the metropolis might even inspire future histories about an empire that strikes back. One of the institutions studied in the pages that follow is the Cárcel de Corte. That prison no longer functions, but if it did, there would be a cell with my name on it, given the debts I have racked up writing this book. I began research in 2004 as a Fulbright US Senior Scholar in Spain. At that time I was a member of the faculty at Fairfield

Preface an d Acknowle dgments

University, where I shared ideas about this project with generous colleagues, including Michelle Di Marzo, Philip Eliasoph, Orin Grossman, David Gudelunas, Mary Frances Malone, Gita Rajan, Marice Rose, Gavriel Rosenfeld, Kurt Schlichting, Katherine Schwab, and Carey Weber. Since 2008 my institutional home has been Northwestern University. I am grateful for research leaves granted by Northwestern’s Weinberg College of Arts and Sciences, and especially to Dean Adrian Randolph and former deans Aldon Morris and Sarah Mangelsdorf. A grant from the National Endowment for the Humanities in 2009 was meant to spur on the project’s completion, yet a report from an anonymous reader who evaluated my application made me rethink aspects of the study, which have, obviously, taken time to work out. Along the way, the book has benefited from the leadership role I played as chair of the Department of Art History at Northwestern for seven years between 2010 and 2018. The position provided a bird’s-eye vantage of art history in the making, which helped me evolve as an interpreter of buildings and images. I would like to acknowledge Northwestern colleagues past and present: Alicia Caticha, Holly Clayson, Melody Deusner, Stephen Eisenman, Hannah Feldman, Shirin Fozi, Sarah Fraser, Ann Gunter, Cecily Hilsdale, Jun Hu, Christina Kiaer, Ayala Levin, Robert Linrothe, Bilha Moor, Christina Normore, Claudia Swan, Sarah Teasley, David Van Zanten, and Rebecca Zorach. I am especially grateful to Huey Copeland and Krista Thompson for their moral support as well as friendship over the years. Working with talented Northwestern graduate and undergraduate students has been a joy, allowing me to try out some of my ideas about the interconnected built environments and visual cultures of Spain, Europe, and Latin America. For inspiring me xiv

to rethink ideas for this book, I want to especially acknowledge Zirwat Chowdhury, Ashleigh Deosaran, Olivia Dill, Claire Dillon, Laurel Garber, Aisha Motlani, John Murphy, Lucy Wang, Maureen Warren, and Emily Wood. On campus and in the greater Chicago region, I have enjoyed sharing ideas about this project with colleagues and friends as we collaborated on other sorts of ventures. My thanks go to Frances Aparicio, Niall Atkinson, Kathleen Bickford Berzock, Jill Bugajski, Peter Carroll, Francesca Casadio, Lisa Corrin, Luke Fidler, Corrine Granof, Mel Keiser, Rebecca Long, Susan Manning, Lia Markey, Dwight McBride, Mary Clare Meyer, Michelle Molina, Edward Muir, Anthony Opal, Todd Palmer, Martha Pollak, Michelangelo Sabatino, Victoria Sancho Lobis, Jean Shedd, Katherine Fischer Taylor, Martha Tedeschi, Dave Tolchinsky, Mark Walton, Liz Warnock, Ivy Wilson, and Steve Zick. A number of people and institutions in Spain have facilitated this research. My first words of gratitude go to the staff of the Archivo de Villa de Madrid and to two directors present and past, Gloria Donato Blanch and María Carmen Cayetano. Close behind is my indebtedness to the staff and leadership of the Biblioteca Nacional de España, perhaps the most welcoming scholarly environment in Spain. Its Biblioteca Digital Hispánica, a model resource for the modern scholarly age, extends the library’s generous access to rare materials across the globe. I am grateful to the other Madrid libraries where I have worked in real time as well as virtually: the Biblioteca Digital Comunidad de Madrid, the Biblioteca Histórica Marqués de Valdecilla of the Universidad Complutense de Madrid, the Biblioteca del Museo Nacional del Prado, and the library and the archive of the Real Academia de Bellas Artes de San Fernando. Other archives in

Preface an d Acknowledgments

Madrid were critical to this project, and I wish to thank the staff of the Archivo General de Palacio, the Archivo Histórico Nacional, and the Archivo del Ministerio de Asuntos Exteriores, Unión Europea y Cooperación. The Museo de Historia de Madrid and the Museo de la Real Academia de Bellas Artes de San Fernando also provided gracious assistance as I worked with drawings and prints in their collections. Studying a cosmopolitan city like Madrid requires research farther afield than the Villa y Corte itself. I am grateful to the experts who welcomed me at three extraordinary European libraries: the Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, Vatican City; the Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana, Florence; and the British Library, London. Likewise, I am indebted to librarians and staffs at fine institutions in the United States, including the Avery Architecture and Fine Arts Library, Columbia University; the Deering Library, Northwestern University; the Folger Shakespeare Library, Washington, DC ; the Hesburgh Library, University of Notre Dame; the Hispanic Society Museum and Library, New York; the Library of Congress, Washington, DC ; the Lilly Library, University of Indiana, Bloomington; the Marquand Library of Art and Archaeology, Princeton University; the National Gallery of Art Library, Washington, DC ; the Newberry Library, Chicago; and the Ryerson and Burnham Library, Art Institute of Chicago. When I began working on this book, a wise mentor advised me to speak about the project often as a means of honing my argument and sharing my findings. Happily, I got to deliver the first talk related to this book in the Seminario de Historia Cultural that the same mentor, James Amelang, cohosted with María José del Río at the Universidad Autónoma de Madrid. I am grateful to both hosts for that invitation and to many

colleagues for other invitations in the years since. Every scholarly undertaking has turning points, and I can identify three along the path of writing this book with exchanges I had at especially stimulating conferences: Politics of Space: Courts in Europe and the Mediterranean, at the Huntington Library in 2007; Urban Empire: Cities of the Early Modern Hispanic World, at Tulane University in 2010; and Inscriptions of Power: Spaces, Institutions, and Crisis, at the Graduate School of Design at Harvard University in 2015. My sincere thanks go to the organizers of those events—Laura Bass, James Boyden, Marcello Fantoni, George Gorse, Marianne Potvin, Malcolm Smuts, Justin Stern, and Adam Tanaka—and also to Matthew Restall and Amara Solari, who coorganized the most entertaining symposium in which I have ever participated, Early Urban Transatlanticisms, at the Pennsylvania State University in 2017. I am not a Nittany Lion, but Penn State has played a major role in my professional life since 2008. That year I began editing the book series Buildings, Landscapes, and Societies for Penn State University Press. The invitation to take on this fulfilling role came from a colleague who has become a dear friend, Eleanor Goodman, executive editor at the press. As our work on the series evolved, it became clear that I wanted to work with Ellie on my own book and have it stand alongside the many titles she has published on the art and architecture of the early modern Spanish world. It has been a pleasure to work with the staff at the press, including Brian Beer, Maddie Caso, Garet Markvoort, Jennifer Norton, and Laura ReedMorrisson, and with copyeditor Keith Monley. I am also grateful to Emily McKnight for an earlier copyedit of the manuscript in progress. This book includes ten new architectural plans of seventeenth-century Madrid buildings. xv

Preface an d Acknowle dgments

Although I took architecture studio courses in high school and as an undergraduate, my drawing skills were wholly inadequate for the visual program I envisioned for the book. Luckily, I live in Chicago. Illinois Institute of Technology colleague Sean Keller recommended one of his architecture students, Chris Phillips, to help me with the drawings in 2013. Seventeenth-century buildings were new to Chris back then. Our discussions and exchanges about how to represent the buildings that stand at the heart of this book—including some that no longer survive—have helped me get closer to one of this study’s principal objectives, to understand how people experienced architectural spaces in the early modern period. This book’s visual program has also been enhanced by the work of two talented photographers, Catherine Gass in Chicago and Pablo Linés in Madrid. Colleagues have listened to me discuss aspects of this book in lecture halls and cafés, and sometimes also in restaurants and bars. Their questions and feedback have been invaluable. Although I cannot acknowledge everyone by name, I owe thanks to Christy Anderson, Peter Arnade, Ángel Aterido, Lisa Banner, Laura Bass, Barry Bergdoll, Beatriz Blasco Esquivias, Diane Bodart, Miguel Caballero, Diana Carrió-Invernizzi, Swati Chattopadhyay, Michael Cole, José Luis Colomer, Tom Cummins, Sabina De Cavi, Bianca de Divitiis, Vittoria Di Palma, Savannah Esquivel, Laura Fernández González, George Flaherty, Rosario Granados, Aaron Hyman, Janna Israel, Adam Jasienski, Elizabeth Lehfeldt, John López, Francisco José Marín Parellón, Mark McDonald, Sarah McPhee, Heather Hyde Minor, Barbara Mundy, Stella Nair, Steven Nelson, Morgan Ng, Alejandra Osorio, Gabriel Paquette, Alina Payne, Felipe Pereda, Virgilio Pinto, María Portuondo, Ana Pulido Rull, Carol McMichael Reese, Tom xvi

Reese, Erin Rowe, David Roxburgh, Alessandra Russo, José Luis Sancho, Jeffrey Schrader, John Beldon Scott, Edward Sullivan, Adedoyin Teriba, Robin Thomas, Tanya Tiffany, Lisa Trever, Patricia Waddy, Michael Waters, Elizabeth Wright, and, in memory, Antonio Bonet Correa and Susan Lehre. I am especially grateful to Silvia Mitchell and Amanda Wunder, who each generously read chapter drafts and offered advice that helped me refine them. The lessons I have learned from mentors, both formal and informal, can be found all over the following pages. My special thanks to James Amelang, Jonathan Brown, David Friedman, Dorothy Metzger Habel, Richard Kagan, Thomas DaCosta Kaufmann, Fernando Marías, Joanne Pillsbury, and the late Hilary Ballon. I also wish to single out my teacher, colleague, and friend John Pinto, who remains a model for the academic citizen I strive to be. For a project this long in the making, life inevitably gets in the way. In 2015 Dr. Debra Goldstein, ophthalmologist extraordinaire, diagnosed a mysterious spinal condition it turns out I had been born with and set me on a path of treatment enhanced by Drs. Christine Hsieh and Evan Ng, plus Daniel Noyce. Then, in 2019, when I came face to face with cancer, I was fortunate to be under the care of Dr. Jose Dutra and the incredible team of medical professionals and staff at Northwestern Memorial Hospital. Getting through life’s challenges and enjoying the good times, too, has been possible owing to the constant support of friends. Some have been named already, but the list would not be complete without Adam Bresnick, Joseph Cho, Michelle Christy, Gabrielle Esperdy, Julie Hertzog, Juliet Koss, Doug Kremer, Eric Lee, Stefanie Lew, Ángel Martínez Roger, Jonathan Massey, Sally Metzler, Pat Morton, José Juan Moyano, Marc Norman, David Oppedisano,

Preface an d Acknowledgments

Meg Pinto, Evan Siegel, Marianna Shreve Simpson, Terry Todd, Theresa Trzaskoma, John Tullsen, Nick Turner, and Margaret Vendryes. Family members, too, have provided me with encouragement through thick and thin. Mil gracias to two dear cousins, Viviana de la Peña Borelli in The Hague and Gloria Escobar Seldner in Mexico City. And to the Escobar Greatorex clan in Watsonville— Marina, Martin, Ximena, Nicolás, Jeanne, and

my dear mother, Sara—my heartfelt thanks for hospitality during so many restorative visits to California. Last, I dedicate this book to Michael Schreffler, whose razor-sharp mind has helped me hone the pages you are about to read and whose easygoing demeanor has kept me grounded. Chicago, May 2021

xvii

Notes on Documents and Sources

Documentary transcriptions included in this book follow the original orthography as much as possible, with missing letters added in [brackets] and illegible passages offset by . All translations from documents and other primary sources are my own unless otherwise indicated. In the text, place-names mentioned in period documents are presented with modern spelling and capitalization such that the city recorded as madrit, for example, appears as Madrid. Streets and plazas are capitalized when referred to by name, as in Plaza de Palacio and Calle de Atocha. Names of individuals—such as the scribe and royal secretary Pedro Martínez or the author and jurist Jerónimo Castillo de Bobadilla—are spelled with modern Spanish diacritics. For the names of Spanish Habsburg rulers, I have used the English spelling for all three Philips but maintained the Spanish for Carlos II. For foreign-born women of the Spanish court, such as the regent queen Mariana of Austria, Spanish given names are employed. A glossary of frequently used Spanish-language terms appears at the end of the book. Most archives consulted for this study organize materials by files (legajos), which can comprise one or two documents but more often include greater numbers. Bound and sewn documents are usually referred to as books (libros). Madrid’s bountiful municipal archive, the Archivo de Villa de Madrid, served as the most important archival resource for this book. There I made

extensive use of two collections—the Archivo de la Secretaría (secretariat) and the Archivo de la Contaduría (comptroller). Many legajos in both of these collections comprise hundreds of folios. Documents within large legajos are often un­numbered—Contaduría files sometimes even include loose payment receipts—and for those I provide dates for transactions instead of pagination. At the same archive, the Libros de Actas, or minutes of town-council meetings, survive in duplicate books recorded simultaneously by two municipal scribes; for clarity, I have simply referred to dates for entries. At the Archivo Histórico Nacional in Madrid, the libros de gobierno in the Consejos Suprimidos section are critical resources for studying the workings of the Magistrates of the Royal Household and Court, an administrative body that plays an especially important role in chapter 3. Architectural drawings that survive at the Archivo de Villa de Madrid and Archivo Histórico Nacional have usually been removed from legajos and filed in separate sections devoted to planos, or plans, and other visual materials. Over the course of writing this book, premodern documents at the archive of the Ministerio de Asuntos Exteriores, Unión Europea y Cooperación, were relocated to the Archivo Histórico Nacional. I have not been able to verify new shelf numbers for all documents that I consulted there and so have listed a couple with their former MAEUEC numbers.

Notes on Documents an d Sources

Drawings in Spanish archives, libraries, and museums are catalogued in a range of ways, and so I have provided full citations in the captions. Measurements in period drawings are given in Castilian feet (pies castellanos), which are roughly the equivalent to today’s English and United States measures. The base unit of currency employed in the documents is the maravedí, although the silver real was the standard coin of early modern Spain. According to legislation cited by Alicia Cámara Muñoz in Arquitectura y sociedad en el Siglo de Oro (Madrid: El Arquero, 1990), a carpenter or bricklayer working in Madrid in 1610 could earn

xx

no more than six reales a day in winter (defined as the first of October until the end of February) and seven reales in summer months. A lesser-skilled worker could earn no more than three and a half reales, respective of the same seasonal calendar. These rates are consistent with the building of the Court Prison in Madrid in the 1630s, which is discussed in chapter 3 and for which accounting records are plentiful. Allowing for fluctuation during the many fiscal crises of the seventeenth century, the real equaled 34 maravedís, and a Spanish ducat (ducado) was the equivalent of 375 maravedís.

Abbreviations

The following abbreviations appear in the notes and captions:

AGI

Archivo General de Indias, Seville Indif Sección de Indiferente General MP Sección de Mapas y Planos AGP Archivo General de Palacio, Madrid Admin Administración General Real Casa AHN Archivo Histórico Nacional, Madrid Consejos Sección de Consejos Suprimidos Inquisición Sección de Inquisición Mº Exteriores Archivo del Ministerio de Asuntos Exteriores MPD Mapas, Planos y Dibujos SS Santa Sede AVM Archivo de Villa de Madrid Actas Libros de Actas Contaduría Archivo de la Contaduría Planos Sección de Planos Secretaría Archivo de la Secretaría BAV Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, Vatican City Barb. lat. Barberini latina (manuscripts) BNE Biblioteca Nacional de España, Madrid DIB Fondo de Dibujos INVENT Inventario, used for Fondo de Grabados MSS Manuscritos MAEUEC Ministerio de Asuntos Exteriores, Unión Europea y Cooperación, Madrid Archivo Archivo de la MAEUEC MHM Museo de Historia de Madrid I.N. número de inventario RABASF Real Academia de Bellas Artes de San Fernando, Madrid Archivo Archivo de la RABASF Planos Sección de Planos RB Real Biblioteca, Madrid

Introduction The Spanish Habsburg dynasty met its end in 1700. Madrid’s Royal Palace, the reign’s most symbolic building, would suffer the same fate three decades later, after a fire broke out late on Christmas Eve 1734. One palace servant lost her life in a blaze that raged at full force for four days. Material losses included numerous sculptures, more than five hundred paintings, and, of great significance to the history of architecture, a collection of drawings that documented projects built or imagined for Madrid and places far beyond. Damage to the building, which had been transformed from a medieval castle into a modern palace over the course of more than a century, was so extensive that it was demolished and then replaced. As a result, the architectural seat of government for a monarchy with territorial possessions in Europe, Africa, and the Americas, as well as islands in the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans, was lost to history. An engraving dating to 1704 provides one of the best visual records of the vanished building (fig. 1). The image depicts the south façade of the Habsburg palace as backdrop to a parade featuring Spain’s first Bourbon monarch. At west and east, four-story towers built primarily of brick, with stone ornament and slate-covered steeples, frame two palace wings built entirely of stone. At the center of the composition stands a monumental portal, or portada. Pairs of half columns in the Tuscan order adorn the main entrance at ground level and support a royal balcony, which, in the print,

is occupied by court women. Higher up still, the royal arms crown the building as a sign of royal beneficence and good government. Carved of marble, the arms are those of the Spanish Habsburgs. And so, too, the setting before which this scene plays out was one of the singular urban spaces of Habsburg Madrid. In the legend that appears at the top of the print, the engraver identifies the Royal Palace with the letter E, which appears twice along the roofline of the building’s wings. At far left, in the middle ground, the indicator G denotes the mountain range to the northwest of Madrid, before which stood another great Spanish Habsburg monument, San Lorenzo el Real de El Escorial (fig. 2). Built from 1563 to 1584, the complex encompassed a monastery, royal residence, basilica, library, and college within a highly unified composition of stone cloisters and walls as well as slate-covered roofs. The survival of this august building has made the Escorial, despite its primarily religious purpose, a point of reference for historians interested in the built legacy of the Spanish Habsburgs. Whether intentional or not, a focus on the Escorial has come at the expense of a deeper understanding of the monarchy’s secular seat of government, the Royal Palace in Madrid. Philip II (1527–1598, r. 1556–98), the ruler who oversaw the sixteenth-century transformation of Madrid’s Royal Palace and also built the Escorial from the ground up, prized both monuments. In

Figure 1  Nicolas Guérard, after Filippo Pallotta, Aspecto del Real Palacio de Madrid y sv Plaza, 1704. Engraving, 15 ½ × 21 13/16 in. (39.3 × 55.5 cm). Bibliothèque nationale de France, GE -DD 2987 (1643). Photo: BnF.

Madrid he located his office on the first story of the palace’s west tower. Its adjoining terrace, clearly visible in the engraving, allowed for optimal views in the direction of the Escorial and the mountains beyond. Legend has it that Philip II and his Habsburg successors ruled from the Escorial. It is 2

true that important legislation was signed by Spanish monarchs there and at other royal estates, such as Aranjuez, located to the southwest of Madrid, and Valsaín, situated just outside Segovia, to the north of the capital. Yet it was the Royal Palace and a variety of court spaces throughout the urban fabric of Madrid, including convents and private residences, that served as the consequential settings of Habsburg governance. Decisions made in Madrid caused ripples felt across the composite realm of the Spanish Habsburgs, an idiosyncratic grouping

Introduction

of kingdoms and domains, complete with their own laws and customs, that spread across the globe and was unified in the person of the king of Spain. The realm was called the Monarquía Hispánica, or Spanish Monarchy.1 With around one hundred thousand inhabitants in 1600, Madrid ranked among the most populous cities in early modern Europe.2 Moreover, the city covered a territory three times the area it filled when Philip II in 1561 chose it to serve as the court of the Spanish Habsburgs.3 That monarch and his successor, Philip III (1578–1621, r. 1598–1621), established building practices and laws that guided Madrid’s expansion. The decades of the 1620s and 1630s, during the long reign of Philip IV (1605– 1665, r. 1621–65), were critical to this enterprise.

Much of what had been built since 1561 was erected quickly owing to the necessity of housing the court and its vast bureaucracy as efficiently as possible. In 1628, only seven years into Philip IV’s reign, Madrid’s municipal leaders began to draw up a plan of the city’s limits and subsequently erected a nondefensive wall to curb growth.4 Although that wall would have to be repaired in 1642, building in the capital rarely surpassed its limits as municipal and court builders reshaped the city’s architectural profile. Figure 2  Juan Bautista de Toledo, Juan de Herrera, and others, Monastery of San Lorenzo el Real, El Escorial, 1563–84, aerial view from the southwest. Photo: iStock / Syldavia.

3

Habsburg Madri d

Domes, portals, and towers of churches, convents, and monasteries were easily understood signs of architectural distinction in seventeenthcentury Madrid. Religious architecture is not the focus of this book, but some initial comments are merited, given the amount of church-owned land within the confines of Madrid and the enormous impact church buildings had on the city’s overall building trade.5 Ecclesiastical patronage exploded with the settlement of the court in the 1560s, and it resumed at a rapid pace in 1606, following a five-year transfer of the court to the Castilian city of Valladolid. The move north had been brought about by the political machinations of Philip III’s valido, or royal favorite, Francisco Gómez de Sandoval, the first Duke of Lerma (1553–1625), who sought greater influence for his territorial homeland by having the court situated in northern Castile.6 In Valladolid and in his titular village of Lerma, the duke invested heavily in religious patronage, as he would do in Madrid following the court’s return. The increase in patronage of church institutions in Madrid followed from the expansion of religious orders in the early modern period and also from the private support of the elite, who considered themselves morally bound to help found religious houses.7 Mendicant orders such as the Dominicans and Mercedarians attracted patrons, as they had for centuries, while reformed orders such as the Discalced Carmelites also raised funds to build houses of worship in Madrid. Additionally, Philip III showed interest in reviving his father’s plan to build a cathedral in the city. The project was masterminded by Lerma, who is associated with an anonymous manuscript dated around 1611–16, which outlines a scheme for a large collegiate church. As with a cathedral, a religious building of this scale would have required 4

approval from Rome.8 The document suggests four possible sites for a church that would have rivaled the royal basilica at the Escorial, including one immediately south of the Royal Palace, near Madrid’s oldest parish, Santa María la Mayor. A drawing by the royal architect Juan Gómez de Mora (1586–1648) of a partial façade and bell tower inspired directly by a mid-sixteenth-century print for St. Peter’s in the Vatican has been associated with the cathedral project, although studies of the image are inconclusive, as is the seriousness with which the project was received, given Lerma’s weakening position at court. Nonetheless, planning for a cathedral was pursued anew in the early years of Philip IV’s reign, with sponsorship credited to his first queen, Isabel of Bourbon (1602–1644). Despite the preparation of now-lost drawings in 1623 and the survey of a large building site adjoining the Monastery of San Gil, located in the immediate vicinity of the Royal Palace, the project was abandoned by 1624.9 Prior efforts related to a cathedral for Madrid had faced opposition from church officials in Toledo; and it seems likely that Toledo’s powerful archbishop—who held canonical jurisdiction over Madrid—also resisted early seventeenth-century proposals. Although never realized, the cathedral project involved the studio of the Junta Real de Obras y Bosques (Royal Committee of Works and Forests), which, for simplicity, I call the Royal Works,10 and in this way, the designers responsible for the government buildings studied in this book can be understood to have been involved with religious enterprises in Madrid. The relocation of the court to Valladolid from 1601 to 1606 was a failure, and numerous officials had a lot to say about the matter, including some who directly addressed the topic of architecture. In a treatise penned in 1606 arguing for Madrid’s

Introduction

rightful role as court seat, the political theorists Juan de Jerez and Lope de Deza comment not only on the city’s sizeable population but also on the substantial size of noble households. Addressing a societal, and architectural, change of the first order, they write, “Without a doubt, the house of any grandee [in Madrid] today has as many people and offices as that of past kings.”11 Like noble residences addressed by Jerez and Deza, public architecture, too, received renewed attention after the court’s return. The seventeenth-century architect and theorist Fray Lorenzo de San Nicolás (1593– 1679) explains the importance of public buildings in his 1639 treatise Arte y uso de arquitectura.12 In a section dedicated to the proper training of builders, Fray Lorenzo contends that skilled artisans are necessary to society, as the work they do contributes to the reputation of a place: “In their kingdoms, the Catholic monarchs of Spain have palaces, alcázares, and fortresses, some to exhibit their greatness, others for life’s enjoyments, and others for the defense of their realms. All lend authority to their owners, to [the realm’s] cities, and to the reign itself, as it is an established fact that buildings aggrandize everything.” He adds that cathedral chapters and town councils also commission buildings “that stand as ornaments of the reign and the republic.”13 Ranking first among public works pursued in Madrid after 1606 was an ambitious project to redesign the south façade of the Royal Palace. But there were many more initiatives. The surviving paper trail in Madrid’s municipal archive details the construction of market buildings, granaries, fountains, and countless infrastructure projects that suggest the herculean effort to provide the court city with the services—and buildings— necessary for good government. Much of the organizational work behind these architectural

undertakings fell to the town council: the Ayuntamiento de Madrid. As part of the deal brokered to secure the court’s return from Valladolid in 1606, the municipality pledged enormous resources for projects such as renovations at the Royal Palace that primarily benefited the court.14 The economic arrangement led to the town council’s subservience to the court, a dynamic that intensified over the course of the century.15 Public buildings are the focus of this book, yet I have also endeavored to write about the lived experience of architecture by Madrid’s residents and visitors. Painted views of architecture and public spaces can help convey the impact of a monumental façade on passersby, but what about the experience of a building’s interior? As illustrated already with the Royal Palace, many of the most significant public buildings of seventeenth-century Madrid do not survive. Consequently, we have no direct way of gauging their appearance. Even though a historian can face many pitfalls by attempting to reconstruct architectural interiors that have disappeared, I have embraced this challenge in order to conjure up the ways in which people moved through corridors, along halls, and up or down staircases as they inhabited government buildings.16 The most famous image of a seventeenth-century Madrid interior is Diego Velázquez’s (1598–1660) portrait of the Spanish royal family, familiarly known as Las meninas (fig. 3). This quiet scene, painted around 1656, was set in a hall along the south façade of the Royal Palace, one located directly behind the seven westernmost mezzaninelevel windows of the building as shown in the 1704 engraving. Velázquez depicts members of the royal household surrounding the infanta Margarita (1651–73), dressed in white, with one individual caught midstep as he departs the scene. In the 5

Habsburg Madri d

Figure 3  Diego Velázquez, Las meninas, 1656. Oil on canvas, 10 ft. 6 3/8 in. × 9 ft. 2 ½ in. (321 × 281 cm). Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid, P 001174. Photo © Museo Nacional del Prado / Art Resource, New York.

left middle ground, the artist himself moves back from his canvas to take in the arrival of an unseen visitor or visitors who occupy the same space as the viewer. Reflected in the distant mirror are the queen and king, Mariana of Austria (1634–1696; regency, 1665–75) and Philip IV. Velázquez captures a private moment, one in which the royal family and their servants can hardly be more removed from the city around them. Yet the individuals pictured in Las meninas often left the Royal Palace and moved through the streets and public 6

spaces of Madrid, sometimes for mundane reasons but on other occasions to participate in civic rituals that bound the royal family and its household to their court city.17 On these outings, they beheld the concerted efforts of municipal and royal officials to mold a showcase city. Jurisdictionally, Madrid was unique among other urban entities in Spain. It was first a town, or villa, a title that signaled municipal independence. The title also indicated that the place lacked a cathedral or university, entities that would have allowed it to be called a ciudad.18 At the same time, Madrid served as the privileged seat of the corte, or royal court, an institution with an organizational structure that allowed it to function as a world unto itself.19 Madrid was thus called the Villa y Corte, or Town and Court, a title it still holds today despite having a population of more than three million inhabitants. For the early modern period, the title reflects the forced marriage of municipal and royal governments that shaped Madrid’s identity after 1561. The process of building in seventeenth-century Madrid was complicated by competing demands imposed by officials representing the town council and others acting on behalf of the Crown. Nonetheless, Madrid’s outward appearance improved as the century progressed, and the last three Spanish Habsburg rulers—Philip IV, Mariana of Austria, and Carlos II (1661–1700, r. 1665–1700)—undertook projects to enhance the city’s image. As I explore the process behind the creation of monuments between 1620 and 1700, I hope to illuminate the ways in which artists, historians, and court image makers—to borrow a notion from Peter Burke’s exemplary study of the French court of Louis XIV—came to use the arts to forge consensus among subjects from near and far about the magnificence of Spanish Habsburg rule.20 Because this

Introduction

exalted image of Madrid contrasted sharply with social crises in Spain and across its vast empire for most of the seventeenth century, the architectural projects at the heart of this book must be understood to reflect changing ideals in politics as much as in taste or style. This is not a book about baroque architecture; rather, it is one about Spanish Habsburg buildings and public spaces.

The Span is h Habs burgs Architects, masons, and building crews were key agents behind Madrid’s transformation in the seventeenth century. Yet equally important were the Habsburg rulers, who sought to project a renewed image of their capital city to residents and visitors, as well as to distant subjects, who might experience the place through written or visual descriptions. Understanding their contributions, however, requires a reconsideration of what has been written about them. Nineteenth-century Spanish historians characterized seventeenth-century Spanish Habsburg monarchs as despotic and inept, a sentiment that was tied both to the nation’s loss of overseas imperial possessions in the 1890s and to a nostalgic recollection of Spanish expansion under Philip II in the late sixteenth century.21 The resulting myth of seventeenth-century Spain as a backwater has had a lasting influence on historiography, with the period described primarily as one of decline.22 The seventeenth century opened with the twenty-two-year-old Philip III in the second year of his reign and his government largely in the hands of the Duke of Lerma. It was at Lerma’s insistence that the court in 1601 relocated to Valladolid, where it remained for five years. Philip reigned during the so-called Pax Hispanica, a period of relative peace that began in the 1590s, during the last

decade of his father’s rule. This peace was achieved owing to noninterventionist policies that came to be perceived as a weakness at the outbreak of the Thirty Years’ War, in 1618.23 Political stability in the monarchy well into the second decade of the century helps explain the building boom in Madrid after the return of the court in 1606, as well as the many cultural achievements in arts and letters that would come to define a Spanish golden age.24 Another Philip ascended the throne of Spain in 1621, during a period of conflict throughout Europe; this period found the monarchy at war on various fronts, including in the Low Countries and northern Italy. In the early decades of his reign, Philip IV relied heavily on the advice of his valido and de facto first minister, Gaspar de Guzmán, the Count-Duke of Olivares (1587–1645). Adopting an aggressive stance that signaled a new direction for the Spanish Monarchy, Philip IV decided not to renew a truce with the Dutch that expired in 1621, and to reinforce his alliance with the Austrian Habsburgs by supplying military as well as financial support.25 By the late 1620s Philip began to be promoted by poets, artists, and political thinkers alike as the Planet King, evoking the monarch’s rule over a vast domain and embracing Olivares’s vision of a Union of Arms by which the realm’s various kingdoms and territories would share political and military objectives.26 To this end, manuscript documents as well as prints and book frontispieces defined Philip IV’s position as “King of the Spains, and the New World.” The capital city of this pluralistic realm, too, would be elevated as the “Imperial Villa de Madrid,” a term that came into use by the mid-1630s.27 The optimistic reign of the Planet King was soon met with political, as well as economic, challenges on the Iberian Peninsula. Olivares fell from power in 1643, a fate brought about in part by the revolts 7

Habsburg Madri d

of the Catalans and Portuguese against Castilian rule established three years earlier. In a number of important portraits of the era, painters associate Philip IV with the charged state of affairs.28 One arresting portrait of the king by Velázquez depicts the ruler dressed for war in the midst of the Catalan conflict in 1644 (fig. 4). The king appears in a silver shirt with a white lace neckpiece and cuffs, over which he wears a red tunic with patterns stitched in silver thread. Velázquez renders the fabric with dazzling brushwork, and yet Philip’s statue-like expression reveals the austerity and distance that are the norm for royal portraiture of the era.29 Although the conflict with Portugal challenged the king for the duration of his reign, the Catalan revolt was settled in his favor in 1652. Velázquez’s depiction of the king on the eve of victory at Fraga is one of only three paintings to depict a Spanish Habsburg monarch at war.30 It is worth recalling that Castile itself remained remarkably stable during the upheavals of the middle decades of the seventeenth century.31 Defeats and setbacks certainly led to the perception of a belittled Spain, but new research indicates that the dire situation was one the last of the Habsburg rulers managed to control with considerable success. Even the Peace of the Pyrenees, signed with France in 1659, achieved a stalemate of sorts that contributed to an eventual settlement of the Portuguese conflict by Philip’s widow, Mariana of Austria.32 News of Philip IV’s death in September 1665 was received by foreign courts as a bad omen for Spain. The unease surrounding the longevity of the Spanish Monarchy in the 1660s had a contemporary parallel in Madrid’s theaters, where performances often included royal characters teetering between lofty ideals and the grim reality surrounding an uncertain political future.33 8

Mariana of Austria, thirty-one years old at the time of Philip IV’s death, assumed the reins of a regency government owing to the minority of Prince Carlos, not yet four years old. Until recently, legend has trumped historical accuracy with regard to Mariana, in large part because of her gender and foreign origin.34 After her husband’s death, Mariana donned a widow’s habit, which court painters such as Juan Carreño de Miranda (1614–85) recorded in striking portraits like that from 1670 made for the Escorial and now in the Museo del Prado (fig. 5). Mariana’s dress, the secular habit of a Franciscan nun, was understood in its day as a sign of a royal widow’s claim to be a political heir.35 This period reading of the costume was unknown to most modern observers, who mistakenly interpreted the habit as a sign of Mariana’s extreme piety and, by extension, her inability to rule. In a letter sent to the Spanish ambassador in Rome announcing Philip’s death, Mariana acknowledges her newfound role as “tutor and caretaker of the king, my son, and governor of all the reigns and lordships of this monarchy.”36 In Carreño’s portrait, Mariana sits at a marble-top desk with quill and inkwell at hand, going about the work of governing that she proclaimed she would do in her letter to the papal court. Moreover, she carries out her duties in the most magnificent room of the Royal Palace, the Salón de los Espejos, or Hall of Mirrors, which she used as the royal office during her regency.37 With a spectacular illusionistic fresco painting overhead—unseen in the pictorial space—and rich rugs and tapestries, the very setting of the portrait stakes a claim about political power. As if to convey a message of even greater strength, Carreño includes, on the wall behind Mariana, Tintoretto’s painting of Judith in the act of slaying Holofernes.38

Despite late nineteenth-century contempt for Mariana, the historian of the early twenty-first century can see the regent queen in a new light. Recent research has revealed the ways in which she overcame many of the political challenges, both local and international, inherited from her husband and charted a course of political stability after 1670.39 This would lead to important architectural projects in Madrid. That Mariana accomplished what she did with the help of advisors

Figure 4  Diego Velázquez, King Philip IV of Spain, 1644. Oil on canvas, 4 ft. 3 1/8 × 3 ft. 3 1/8 in. (129.9 × 99.4 cm). Frick Collection, New York, Henry Clay Frick Bequest, 1911.1.123. Photo © The Frick Collection. Figure 5  Juan Carreño de Miranda, Queen Mariana of Austria, 1670. Oil on canvas, 6 ft. 11 1/16 in. × 4 ft. 1 3/16 in. (211 × 125 cm). Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid, P000644. Photo © Museo Nacional del Prado / Art Resource, New York.

9

Habsburg Madri d

was not a sign of weakness, as earlier historians claimed. Her manner of governing followed in the style of Habsburg administration instituted by Philip II, not to mention diplomatic norms exercised by all major European courts. As with Mariana’s reign, that of her son Carlos II has been undergoing notable revision.40 As the last member of the Spanish Habsburg line and a man unsuccessful in producing an heir, Carlos was subjected to judgments by eighteenth- and nineteenth-century historians that often verged on ridicule and were anything but objective. Luis Ribot, the historian who has done the most to revise the image of the king in recent years, asserts that Carlos was likely a reasonably intelligent man who worked much more diligently at matters of government than previously believed. Yet Carlos also ruled during a time of French political ascendance, which presented him with a daunting task. Nonetheless, period portraits convey messages of political strength that affirm the resilience of Carlos’s reign on the wider European political stage.41 For instance, a 1681 portrait by Carreño depicts the king in armor standing in the Hall of Mirrors (fig. 6). The armor Carlos dons in the portrait dates to the 1550s and was associated with Philip II’s victory at San Quentin over the French, a momentous military victory in earlier Habsburg history.42 Interestingly, the painting illustrated here is a copy of an original portrait made in 1679 and sent to France as part of the negotiations of Carlos II’s marriage to María Luisa of Orleans (1662–89). It can be interpreted thus to proclaim fortitude in Figure 6  Juan Carreño de Miranda, King Carlos II in Armor, 1681. Oil on canvas, 7 ft. 7 ¼ in. × 4 ft. 1 7/16 in. (232 × 125.5 cm). Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid, P007101. Photo © Museo Nacional del Prado / Art Resource, New York. 10

Introduction

light of Spain’s precarious standing vis-à-vis the court of Louis XIV. These portraits reveal that Mariana and Carlos both understood the ways in which art could be employed to shape a ruler’s image. Likewise, the rulers were profoundly aware of architecture’s potential to express messages about royal beneficence and power. They were fortunate to rule at a time during which Spain experienced an economic reprieve, which gave rise to a cultural flowering that had its greatest effect in and around Madrid, as illustrated by some of the monuments surveyed in this book. In his definitive study of Spanish painting, Jonathan Brown labels the art produced in the last decades of the seventeenth century a “grand finale” for the Spanish Habsburgs.43 This book assesses the architecture of the era with an eye toward new scholarly currents and counters earlier scholarship that judged Madrid’s buildings to be marginal and characteristic of Spain’s political decline. Madrid was a receptor of architectural developments and ideas from elsewhere in the empire, but it was also a trendsetter. It is my hope that sustained contextual attention to these buildings will reveal the Spanish Habsburg court as a place of cultural innovation.

Seventeenth - Cent u ry Arch itect ur e i n Madr i d As early as the 1550s, architects working for Philip II in and around Madrid introduced a variant of classical architecture labeled by historians with terms such as “Flemish phase,” “court style,” or even “Madrid style.”44 More recently, it has come to be called by scholars working outside Spain, myself included, the estilo austriaco to denote the House of Austria, as the Habsburgs were known in Spain.45 Indeed, Madrid’s historic core—where

the buildings discussed in this book are located— is today called el Madrid de los Austrias. The Habsburg style combined Spanish building traditions—such as symmetrical compositions with framing towers and monumental portals—with classical features derived from Italy and ornamental flourishes originating from the Low Countries. Philip and his architects encountered these architectural models firsthand during their travels. Dating to 1559–60, the Torre Dorada, or Gilded Tower, of the Royal Palace, seen at left in the engraved view that opens this introduction, was the first Madrid monument to exemplify the new style. The four-story tower was built primarily of brick that had been specially fired in the Low Countries and then imported to Spain. Stone courses divided each story, and additional stone was used for window frames and pediments, details that reveal Philip II’s appreciation of Italian classical architecture and its associations with Imperial Rome. In a nod to contemporary architectural trends in France and the Low Countries, Philip’s architects marked the tower’s corners with quoins, or dressed stones. Finally, the tower was crowned by a high-pitched wood-framed roof covered in slate, which carried an artful steeple, or chapitel, an element inspired by the architecture Philip saw in the Low Countries and Germany. This regal architecture exalted the grandeza, a period term that can be translated as “grandeur” or “magnificence,” of the Spanish Habsburgs. Like their composite domain, it was international in origin and represented the political reach of the realm. Erected at the western edge of Madrid as an appendage to a medieval fortress turned castle, the Gilded Tower and the Habsburg style that it inspired signaled a new development in Castilian architecture. It would take later generations of architects to complete the transformation of the 11

Habsburg Madri d

Royal Palace, as the building was realized by accretion over a long span of time. In contrast, the monastery-palace of El Escorial was a Habsburg monument realized as such from the start. The Escorial was built by a team of architects led first by Juan Bautista de Toledo (ca. 1515–67) and, after Toledo’s death, by Juan de Herrera (ca. 1530–97) with input solicited from other Spanish as well as Italian builders.46 Upon its completion in the 1580s, Herrera undertook a Figure 7  Pedro Perret, after Juan de Herrera, Sceno­ graphia totivs fabricae S. Lavrentii in Escoriali, 1587. Engraving, 19 1/16 × 30 5/16 in. (48.8 × 77 cm). Newberry Library, Chicago, Novacco 4F 191 (PrCt). Photo: Newberry Library.

12

printing project to promote the monument and its Habsburg patron. He prepared a set of twelve drawings and imported Pedro Perret (1555–1625), a Flemish printmaker then active in Rome, to engrave the images in Madrid. The prints, known as las estampas, and their accompanying textual description asserted Philip II’s fame by means of circulating a visual record of his architectural achievement.47 Herrera and Perret’s bird’s-eye view of the monastery-palace captures the immensity of the project (fig. 7). The image’s title appears in the pavement of the forecourt and proclaims to represent the building in its totality. Like the architecture, the letters, too, respond to the perspectival ordering of this idealized picture, which captures an imaginary privileged vantage symbolizing the

Introduction

king’s powerful gaze. Just as the monarch might stand in his city palace and look out toward the Escorial, this view indicates Madrid’s presence along the horizon, a visual reference suggesting that the king’s totalizing view encompasses his capital city and points beyond. The chief building material of the Escorial is not brick but stone. Its ornamental features, such as Tuscan colonnades or slate-covered steeples, nonetheless continue to reflect Italian and Flemish inspiration. The building served as a direct inspiration for the seventeenth-century design of Madrid’s Royal Palace façade, begun under Philip III and completed by Mariana of Austria, as well as for important religious buildings in and around the court. Although the Escorial was an undisputable model for many buildings in Madrid, one other royal project exemplifying the Habsburg style, the Buen Retiro Palace, had an impact of a different sort. Begun in 1630 and realized in slightly more than six years under the direction of the architect

Figure 8  Jusepe Leonardo, View of the Palace and Gardens of the Buen Retiro, ca. 1636–37. Oil on canvas, 4 ft. 8 ¾ in. × 10 ft. 1 ½ in. (139 × 308 cm). Patrimonio Nacional, Madrid, I.N. 10010009. Photo: Album / Art Resource, New York.

Alonso Carbonel (1583–1660), the Buen Retiro was erected alongside Madrid’s eastern limits as a royal retreat intended for recreation.48 An oil-on-canvas view of the sprawling palace adopts another idealized, godlike vantage (fig. 8). Attributed to Jusepe Leonardo (1601–1652) and made around 1636–37, the painting portrays the building’s multiple residential and ceremonial wings organized around courtyards as well as orderly gardens whose walkways connect pavilions, hermitages, and an artificial lake in the far distance. Most of the palace was destroyed in a nineteenth-century blaze. One prominent wing on the main courtyard, containing a throne room known as the Hall of Realms, survives in a modified state, as does the ballroom 13

Habsburg Madri d

known as the Casón del Retiro, built just after Leonardo painted his view. Although the architectural follies that adorned the gardens have been lost, much of the ground on which they stood remains at the core of the modern Parque del Retiro, in which one can stroll to this day. The Buen Retiro’s rapid construction was demanded by the Count-Duke of Olivares, who, as governor (alcaide) of the royal site, was the palace’s administrative overseer as well as its sponsor. The study of the building by Jonathan Brown and John Elliott establishes that Olivares pursued the Buen Retiro project in part as a diversion from mounting political crises in the Spanish Monarchy. The architecture of the Buen Retiro employed a familiar combination of brick, stone, and slate as primary building materials. Remarkably, the palace lacked a distinguished façade visible from the city. Instead, the main entrance fronted an enclosed forecourt, and Olivares’s effort to aggrandize it with marble after a design by an unnamed Venetian architect in 1637 was abandoned owing to the exorbitant cost.49 Observing the palace from the eastern limits of Madrid, a viewer was presented with stridently uniform stone and brick walls that stood in deference to the late-medieval façade of the Church of San Jerónimo, depicted at far right in the middle ground of the painted view. San Jerónimo was the preeminent monument for royal ceremonies before the construction in 1611 of the Royal Convent and Church of La Encarnación in the vicinity of the Royal Palace. Juan Bautista de Toledo, architect of the Escorial, designed royal apartments adjoining San Jerónimo in the 1560s. These formed the core of Olivares’s Buen Retiro. Without a classical façade such as the one fronting Madrid’s Royal Palace, the Buen Retiro offered architectural splendor instead in its palace interiors, as well as in the extensive gardens. Although 14

the architecture of the Buen Retiro contributed little that was novel in Madrid, its construction required vast labor forces, thus drastically affecting contemporary building projects in the capital. The construction of a new courthouse for the Council of Castile (discussed in chapter 3) was wholly intertwined with the Buen Retiro project inasmuch as Olivares co-opted the architect in charge of the former project to supervise waterworks in the latter’s gardens. Moreover, construction of the royal retreat sapped economic resources, thereby delaying construction of Madrid’s town hall—revealing a domino effect that helps explain the rising prominence of the court over the town council in Madrid’s formation. Although supervised by the Count-Duke of Olivares in his role as alcaide, the Buen Retiro Palace fell under the official jurisdiction of the powerful Royal Works. The origins of the committee can be traced to 1545, when the Holy Roman emperor and Spanish king Charles V (1500–1558; reign as Carlos I of Spain, 1516–56, and as Holy Roman emperor Charles V, 1519–56) charged his son, Prince Philip, to oversee building projects in and around Madrid. Yet it was Philip II, as king, who formalized the committee in 1578 as Madrid began to function as a permanent capital.50 The committee’s territorial jurisdiction included royal retreats such as the Buen Retiro, the Casa del Campo, and the Casa del Pardo, the latter two located amid extensive hunting grounds to the west and north of Madrid, respectively, in addition to more-distant royal palaces in Granada, Segovia, Seville, and elsewhere. Traditionally, the architecture produced in and around Madrid by the Royal Works studio has been considered insignificant when compared to that of other seventeenth-century European court cities. The mixed, and often unfavorable,

Introduction

impressions recorded by foreign visitors of the period have had a weighty impact on scholarship. Visiting the city in 1610, for instance, a Scottish nobleman considered Madrid a mere “tent for the Court.”51 The observation is understandable given widespread construction that was underway in the immediate years after the return of the court from Valladolid. Yet context is crucial when weighing the words of foreigners, who were, as recent scholars have illustrated, often understandably biased sources of information about Spain.52 Madrid in 1610 looked considerably different from the city it became by midcentury and, then again, around 1700. Still, the negative assessments of elite visitors who knew places such as Rome, Paris, or Vienna were understandable. What is surprising is that Spanish intellectuals in the later eighteenth century joined the chorus.53 In the first history of Spanish architecture, penned in the 1780s and published in 1829, Eugenio Llaguno y Amirola (1724–1799), an amateur historian and official of the Council of State as well as of the Royal Academies of History and Fine Arts, went so far as to equate late seventeenth-century architectural enterprises in Spain with child’s play. His book, Noticias de los arquitectos y arqui­ tectura de España desde su restauración (Notices on the architects and architecture of Spain since its restoration), was edited by Juan Agustín Ceán Bermúdez (1749–1829), a founder of the discipline of art history in Spain.54 For Ceán, the destructive force of Napoleonic troops was a principal impetus to publish the survey of Spanish architecture, although, following Llaguno, he had little interest in late seventeenth-century architecture, whose ornament he judged excessive and reflective of political decline. Spanish Habsburg architecture was dealt another blow during the long regime of Francisco

Franco (1892–1975), which followed the Spanish Civil War of 1936–39.55 Savaged by aerial bombing campaigns during the war, Madrid was reconstructed as the capital of a nation ruled by a Fascist dictator. Searching for historical inspiration to guide reconstruction efforts, Franco’s artistic advisors turned to the architecture of the Habsburg era, such as the Escorial and, surprisingly, the lost Royal Palace, as models for a new architecture of the state. To many observers, twentieth-century buildings faced with neo-Habsburg ornament reflected Fascist principles; actual Habsburg monuments came to be tainted by their contemporary reinterpretation. The resulting depreciation of Habsburg architecture seems to have been enough to condemn the architecture of seventeenth-century Madrid as unworthy of study for most of the twentieth century. Post–Civil War migration to Madrid pushed the physical limits of the city to new boundaries. Reconstruction included new streets and avenues as well as commercial and residential architecture, features that adversely affected what little remained of the city’s Habsburg fabric. The modern growth of the city lay behind one of the most important contributions to Madrid’s urban history, Miguel Molina Campuzano’s study of early modern maps.56 Molina Campuzano’s book was published in 1960, the same year the eminent architectural historian Antonio Bonet Correa declared in an article about Diego Velázquez’s interventions at the Royal Palace that the history of urbanism in seventeenth-century Madrid had yet to be written.57 In an influential article published in 1969, the art historian Julián Gállego wrote positively about the theatrical quality of urbanism in Habsburg Madrid but dismissed the city’s buildings as uninteresting.58 Given the extent of modern urban interventions, one wonders how 15

Habsburg Madri d

it was possible to describe the theatricality of seventeenth-century Madrid, as Gállego did, when only a few of its architectural backdrops, not to mention visual and aural delights such as street sculpture and fountains, survived. Part of the challenge in reconstructing the built environment of early modern Madrid, as this book seeks to do, is to write architectural history without architecture. The situation makes the systematic, if uneven, contributions of Virginia Tovar Martín crucial for scholars interested in early modern architecture in Madrid. Her books, the first of which appeared in 1975, the year Franco died, mined local archives to provide biographical data about late seventeenth-century architects, with a particular focus on Juan Gómez de Mora.59 Archival research contributed significantly to some of the most innovative Spanish architectural history of the late 1970s and early 1980s, scholarship that sought to integrate Spanish building practice into wider European and transatlantic contexts and in addition move beyond dominant questions about style.60 Tovar’s work on Madrid, however, was more limited because of an overwhelmingly local focus that sought to elevate the prolific Gómez de Mora as a singular genius. Subsequent researchers have qualified many of Tovar’s generous attributions to Gómez de Mora by paying greater attention to studio practice and the building trade.61 Transnational and transatlantic frameworks have driven my own scholarship on Madrid, yet, for this book, I have also stayed close to the ground owing to the richness of archival resources filled with details about individual people and their involvement with buildings and public spaces. Gómez de Mora plays a considerable role, but he is joined by an extended cast of characters, including other artists and architects, royal officials,

16

municipal bureaucrats, and private citizens. Among builders and designers alone, names such as Giovanni Battista Crescenzi, José de Villarreal, Gaspar de la Peña, José del Olmo, and Teodoro Ardemans emerge. Crescenzi and Ardemans were also accomplished painters, as were the well-known artists Claudio Coello and Antonio Palomino. Collaboration, competition, compromise—these are the characteristics that surface as constants in Madrid’s seventeenth-century transformation. It could be argued that such was the case for any major city in the early modern period; research focused since the 1990s on the politics and processes behind the shaping of cities has made these characteristics evident.62 Attention to the building process in Madrid necessarily expands the list of individuals whose labor helped Spanish Habsburg rulers refashion their capital with monumental architecture. As a rule, we know little about the men and women who toiled behind the scenes, yet their names often survive in period documents. As an example, the ledgers kept by the paymaster Luis Pablo for the Court Prison, the popular name for a Madrid courthouse, are illuminating. One graphically compelling folio summarizes spending at the work site over a seven-month period beginning mid-1640 (fig. 9). In six columns, Pablo itemizes costs and then offers a tallied summation in a seventh column, at far right. Itemized entries include expenditures for construction materials such as paving stones and brick as well as sheets of copper intended for a façade sculpture and paper used by the paymaster and scribes. Moreover, Pablo lists forty individuals by name. Countless others—whose background and race are unknown—remain anonymous in the semanarias, or weekly accounts of contracted labor, logged in the fourth column. Named individuals

Introduction

Figure 9  Luis Pablo, accounting for construction and labor at the Court Prison, Madrid, June 1640 to January 1641. Ink on paper, 8 ¼ × 11 9/16 in. (21 × 30 cm). Archivo de Villa de Madrid, Contaduría, legajo 3-614-3. Photo: Archivo de Villa del Ayuntamiento de Madrid.

include the Court Prison’s supervising architect, Cristóbal de Aguilera (d. 1648), whose salary was surpassed only by that of Bartolomé Díaz, a master mason who had succeeded his father of the same name at the site and was the grandson of a Madrid alarife, or municipal builder. Pablo also names five women: a wealthy property owner; the widow of a royal judge; two women who were likely employed as cooks; and Jerónima Navarro, the surviving daughter of a master mason who died during construction at the building. As these entries attest, Pablo’s record keeping illumines the complexity of a seventeenth-century building work site in both economic and human terms. My approach to the architecture of Habsburg Madrid combines the visual analysis of buildings,

paintings, engravings, and drawings with a careful reading of written sources ranging from town-council-meeting minutes to accounts of urban life written by novelists, royal chroniclers, and political theorists. Period drawings rarely survive for the buildings under review in this book, so I have had to produce new ones. As Patricia Waddy’s groundbreaking study of seventeenth-century Roman palaces has revealed, architectural plans allow readers to approximate the experience of architecture from a spatial perspective.63 My hope is that the plans created for this book promote an understanding of Madrid’s architecture beyond façadism and thus a recuperation of a sense of public buildings and the plazas before them as active spaces for the practice of power.64

17

Habsburg Madri d

Outli ne o f Chapter s The book opens with an exploration of the period concept of grandeza as it was manifested in seventeenth-century histories, views, and maps of Madrid. At the outset of the century, Madrid underwent a dramatic transformation. Chapter 1 illustrates the ways in which court historians, mapmakers, and artists worked alone and collaboratively to represent this evolving place to the wider world. The first printed map of Madrid appeared in 1623, within months of the publication of the city’s first official history. Both promoted Madrid’s newfound prestige at a moment coinciding with the completion of major monuments, suggesting that artists and writers alike understood architectural distinction to be essential for a city’s reputation. No greater printed testament to this idea survives than Pedro Teixeira’s tapestry-like map of Madrid issued in 1656. A thorough consideration of Teixeira’s map sets the stage for four subsequent chapters focused on sites where power was exercised in Madrid. The chapters, dealing with two palaces, a courthouse and prison, a town hall, and four monumental city squares, are organized chronologically relative to construction start dates. Yet the reader should be aware that there is considerable overlap between chapters owing to the irregular pace of construction in Madrid brought about by political, economic, and climatic crises both local and global.65 One of the book’s featured buildings was begun in the 1640s and not completed until the 1690s; another, whose story begins in the 1610s, only ends in the 1670s. Chapter 2 examines the supreme symbol of government in the capital, the Spanish Habsburg Royal Palace. Philip II’s earliest interventions in Madrid included renovations to the preexisting medieval castle known as the Real Alcázar, as well as construction of a royal armory, 18

horse stables, service buildings, gardens, and an enormous park that buffered the palace from the city and its hinterland. Modifications to the building’s façade were carried out by accretion and were given a new urgency with the return of the court from Valladolid in 1606. The chapter focuses on the façade project largely completed in the 1620s, when it came to symbolize political power in the court city and serve as a model for other buildings. Additionally, I examine how interior spaces served the purpose of government, both ceremonial and procedural. Important tribunals overseen by the Council of Castile in the Royal Palace were relocated to a new building erected over the course of the 1630s, the topic of chapter 3. Known in the seventeenth century as the Cárcel de Corte, or Court Prison, the building functioned as a courthouse for magistrates in charge of policing an array of urban matters in Madrid. It also included prison quarters, infirmaries and dormitories for both men and women, and cells for inmates of both sexes. The story of this building offers an example of the way in which monumental architecture helped redefine the prestige of a government institution in Madrid. Careful examination of the building’s interiors and façade demonstrates how the design of the Court Prison reflected Spanish Habsburg ideals of justice and beneficence throughout the monarchy. Chapter 4 pivots to consider the reputation and fortune of Madrid’s municipal government in the seventeenth century by means of a careful study of its town hall. Although conceived at the same date as the Court Prison, this building’s construction was delayed until the 1640s and then realized at a slow pace owing to the financial straits of the monarchy at midcentury. The program for the town hall included municipal chambers and offices in addition to a jail. Some of the town hall’s principal

Introduction

interiors were designated for ceremonial use by the royal household; as a result, this building’s history illustrates how Madrid’s municipality came to be co-opted by the court over the course of the seventeenth century. Chapter 5 returns to the Royal Palace with a focus on the efforts led by Mariana of Austria in the 1670s to complete the building’s façade after more than three decades of renovations to its interiors. I examine the project within the larger framework of Mariana’s regency government and the emergency reconstruction efforts she exerted following fires at the Escorial and in Madrid’s Plaza Mayor, heroic undertakings that led a prominent historian of the era to label the queen a “Spanish Deborah.”66 Whereas the Court Prison and town-hall projects were accompanied by minor

reshaping of the public spaces before them, the completion of the Royal Palace façade engendered a wholesale reconfiguration of the Plaza de Palacio that served to formalize its status as Madrid’s premier court space. The book concludes with a consideration of Madrid’s dual identity as Villa y Corte at century’s end. I do this by examining a period map of the city and analyzing the completion of the Madrid Town Hall project in the 1690s, with special attention to a fresco painted on the ceiling of that building’s principal chamber. Images such as the late seventeenth-century map and fresco conveyed messages about monarchical power similar to those communicated by the façades of buildings dedicated to government, as architecture was made to confirm and publicize Madrid as the capital of a global empire.

19

Figure 10  Juan de la Corte (attr.), Royal Festival in the Plaza Mayor of Madrid, 1623. Oil on canvas, 5 ft. 11 in. × 7 ft. 8 ½ in. (180 × 235 cm). Museo de Historia de Madrid, I.N. 2005/10/1. Photo: Ayuntamiento de Madrid / Museo de Historia de Madrid.

Chapter 1

Architecture and Grandeza Life on the streets and in the public spaces of seventeenth-century Madrid was anything but ordinary. The Flemish-born painter Juan de la Corte (ca. 1585–1662) suggests as much in his painted view of a joust-like tournament called a juego de cañas that took place in August 1623 (fig. 10). The festival was staged in Madrid’s Plaza Mayor, a vast market square lined with ground-level shops and multistory residences of uniform façades combining brick and stone with iron balconies that were used by thousands of spectators.1 The festival was planned to entertain the court and impress a visiting foreign dignitary, the English prince Charles Stuart (1600–1649). In what was a sensational case of international politics, Charles had arrived in Madrid, unannounced and incognito, five months earlier, to petition for the hand of the Spanish infanta María Ana (1606–1646).2 The surprise residency of a foreign prince caused great excitement. It led to the staging of grandiose festivities and to their commemoration in words and images, such as Corte’s monumental painting. To the left and right in the plaza proper, squadrons of noblemen on horseback observe two other teams giving chase in the middle ground with spears and shields raised. Each participant in the juego wears colorful fabrics and hats with feathered headdresses. Their horses are draped with patterned riding blankets and gilded saddle

and bridle parts. That this event was performed for a foreign prince helps explain the fine textiles gracing the plaza’s choice window balconies. These ephemeral theater boxes were occupied by ranking court officials, including judges, lawyers, and secretaries, who spoke in many tongues and governed Spain’s worldwide monarchy. In Corte’s painting, the gathered courtiers, on horseback and perched on balconies, as well as the mix of spectators coming from all walks of life, pay homage to Philip IV, who enters the plaza like an actor on stage at the painting’s lower left. A period news report (relación) identifies the teams of aldermen and ranking nobles who participated in the 1623 juego.3 As a result, one could consider Corte’s painting a massive group portrait. Yet the architecture of the Plaza Mayor also features in this image. In the middle background stands the four-story royal pavilion known as the Casa de la Panadería, completed in 1612. The Spanish term casa usually signifies a domestic residence, but in this instance it proclaims the building’s stature as a public monument with partial royal sponsorship. Framed by slate-covered towers and fronted at ground level with a stone arcade, the Casa de la Panadería took its cue from the Escorial and would, in turn, establish a model for residential architecture throughout Madrid. The most distinguished local guests at the 1623 juego—Philip’s

Habsburg Madri d

queen, Isabel de Borbón; his sister María Ana; the Prince of Wales; and the king’s brother, the cardinal-prince Fernando—appear seated in two of the building’s principal balconies festooned in red damask for the occasion. An image such as Corte’s reflects the words one can read in novels and plays as well as in news reports about the pomp and ceremony that characterized much of daily life in the Spanish Habsburg court city.4 According to the accounts of many contemporary observers, the spectacle of court life could be interpreted as evidence of Madrid’s grandeur. Other writers put forward more critical assessments, as did Antonio Liñán in his 1620 moralizing novel, Guía y avisos de forasteros (Guide and precautions for visitors). Liñán wrote the book in the form of a dialogue with three principal interlocutors, who discuss, according to the subtitle, “how to avoid the dangers of life at court.”5 In the book’s opening lines, a character known only as the Master of Arts and Theology denounces the court by employing a biblical analogy. Addressing himself to Don Diego, a young courtier newly arrived from Granada, the Master warns him to beware of the “discomfort and confusion of this Babylon that is Madrid.”6 As explained in a period dictionary—Sebastián de Covarrubias’s Tesoro de la lengua Castellaña, o Española, originally published in 1611—Babylon was a famous city whose firedbrick walls were considered one of the Seven Wonders of the World. Covarrubias notes further that the name Babylon derives from the Hebrew word for confusion and explains: “We call a place that has a great population and much business activity, and one where people from many nations come together, a Babylon in order to emphasize the great amount of commerce there, and the confusion.” He then adds, “This is especially the case where vices are rampant, and ill deeds are not castigated.”7 22

That Liñán, speaking through his fictional character, would compare Madrid to such a place reflects in part a real situation in this cosmopolitan city, where people migrated from many places to find a home, whether temporary or permanent.8 Liñán’s guidebook was concerned primarily with an individual’s moral rectitude, but he also sought to help visitors find their way through the court city’s rapidly changing built environment. An introductory ode written by the royal doctor Maximiliano de Céspedes asserts that Liñán’s words of advice derive from thirty years of experience living at court. According to the doctor, Liñán’s guidance is “necessary for new arrivals to this sea and gulf that is the Court of Spain.”9 Conjuring an image of Madrid as a place where information, both true and false, requires navigation, the writer of the ode expertly compares the work of a cosmographer, who might map a coastline, and that of a writer such as Liñán, who sought to describe a city. At the end of Guía y avisos de forasteros, Don Antonio, the book’s third interlocutor, offers a lengthy description of Madrid as a place “well adorned” with temples and churches.10 Although he claims his overview lacks “cosmographical rigor,” Don Antonio’s account is nonetheless spatial and ordered by the city’s four cardinal points of entry. He earns the following assessment from the Master of Arts and Theology: “Don Antonio has accomplished a great deal enumerating [Madrid’s] churches, although not enough in the proportion of his description. I propose that the next time we reunite, we prepare a cosmographical description [discreción] of the site and population of Madrid, of its latitude and longitude, of the land on which it is founded and the climate it enjoys, of the airs that bathe it and the number of its houses and residents, arranging each of these things in its place, such that there will be no lack of advice to

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offer a visitor.”11 With this passage, Liñán declares the need for a map of Madrid. One can wonder if his character Don Antonio might be a stand-in for Antonio Manzelli (ca. 1575–1639), an Italian-born cartographer who would publish the first map of Madrid in 1623. Evidence culled from fiction has to be taken with caution, yet Liñán’s characterization of Madrid as a Babylon was shared by other writers, suggesting that it was commonplace. Period legislation, too, attests to rampant vice in Madrid, which, Covarrubias explains, could be taken as a sign of disorder. For instance, a 1629 ban issued by the Alcaldes de Casa y Corte, or Magistrates of the Royal Household and Court, called for the reinforcement of laws in Madrid and for sheriffs to master their trade. Their decree began: “Considering the many badly occupied people, of such varied and different places and nations, and the multitude of vagabonds, thieves, and delinquents who reside here, without order or civility, [it is necessary] that these laws and pragmatics be heeded.”12 Madrid was a place where foreign-born residents might include vagabonds as well as young courtiers. The capital also counted among its residents the artists and architects who worked with locally trained builders and designers to give the city a public face. Madrid’s cosmopolitanism offers a useful framework within which to reflect upon the global reach of the Spanish Empire and the centrality of its court; it served as a locus for the circulation of goods—such as ceramics, chocolate, and textiles—that were produced or extracted from distant lands.13 It is not surprising that in contemporary fiction, authors, like jurists, sometimes scrambled to make sense of the place. The impulse to describe Madrid as the seat of a worldly court led eventually to the large-scale map Topographia de la Villa de Madrid (Topography

[or Description] of the Town of Madrid) (fig. 11), created by the cosmographer Pedro Teixeira (ca. 1595–1662).14 The map was printed in Antwerp around 1656 in twenty sheets. When assembled, the map measures six feet high and nearly nine feet wide, a scale announcing it was intended for prominent display. The extensive grounds of the royal retreat humbly called the Casa de Campo, or Country House, straddle the Manzanares River at west, or left, on the map. To the east, the sprawling gardens, ponds, and pavilions of the Buen Retiro Palace occupy nearly the entirety of the right-hand portion of the map. Whereas the Manzanares River begins at the map’s upper left and then turns to create a near-vertical line establishing the western limits of the city, the paseos, or promenades, of Atocha and of the Prado de San Jerónimo similarly mark the city’s eastern edge at right. Between the Royal Palace compound and the nearly rectangular Plaza Mayor at the city’s core, Teixeira records the curving streets that stood in place of walls once marking the limits of medieval Madrid. From the Plaza Mayor to the seven-pronged Puerta del Sol to the east, a compass arc can be drawn to demarcate what nearly defined the town’s limits in 1561. Beyond these winding streets, Madrid’s growth after its selection as Philip II’s capital can be read as a series of grid-ordered parcels contained by the city’s major traffic arteries and shaped by its uneven topography. Teixeira’s map emerged from a series of efforts to portray Madrid’s rapid transformation over the course of the seventeenth century. Its ornamental features suggest that the mapmaker also sought to convey a history lesson about the Spanish capital. In the banderole adorning the top of the map, Teixeira commemorates Madrid’s transformation from a provincial town called Mantua Carpentanorum into an urbs regia, or royal city. The notion 23

Figure 11  Pedro Teixeira, Topographia de la Villa de Madrid, 1656. Engraving in twenty folios, 5 ft. 11 in. × 9 ft. 6 in. (178 × 286 cm), with ink additions. Real Biblioteca, Madrid, ROLL /109. Photo: Patrimonio Nacional.

of “Mantua of the Carpentana” as a predecessor to Madrid was invented in the sixteenth century by humanists and then was promoted anew by contemporaries of Teixeira who worked alongside him in the Royal Palace. It is this story of persuasive representation in word and image that the present chapter narrates, beginning with a consideration 24

of early writings by humanists and cronistas reales (royal chroniclers or historians) that offered full and often embellished accounts of the city’s history. Next, I consider the venture undertaken by artists and cartographers to map Madrid. This discussion leads to a full investigation of Teixeira’s 1656 map as well as to its impact on later writers and artists. As revealed in the chapter, writing history and drawing maps—and transforming these exercises into print—were coordinated activities at court and prime examples of official image making that sought to glorify the Spanish monarchy and its capital city.

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H istory Wr iti n g Before its selection as court, Madrid was a town with some twelve thousand residents located high on the Castilian plain. Its medieval castle served occasionally as the seat of the Spanish court, and its populace included a number of powerful families and a corresponding lettered elite. Given the secondary status Madrid held among Spanish cities, early attempts to recast the city’s history relied on legends. As an example, the sixteenth-century humanist Juan López de Hoyos (1511–1583) in 1569 produced one of the first accounts of Madrid’s history as part of a brief treatise about the city’s coat of arms.15 One of López de Hoyos’s goals was to argue for Madrid’s antiquity and, by extension, to deny its actual Muslim foundation. In one passage he writes of ancient Greek settlers who left a carved image of a “frightening and fierce dragon” on the city gate known as the Puerta Cerrada, which López de Hoyos illustrates with a woodcut of a large serpent. It is hard to conclude that a period reader would have perceived ferocity in the printed image, but the humanist’s persuasive words wielded more power. By the end of the seventeenth century, dragons rendered as monstrous, chimeric beings would be carved on the façade of Madrid’s town hall. Although entire books dedicated to the history of Madrid would not appear until the 1620s, a couple of interim accounts include descriptive passages about the city’s evolution that are worthy of note. One is Diego Pérez de Messa’s reedition of Pedro de Medina’s mid-sixteenth-century tract on the grandeza of Spain, published in 1595.16 Pérez adds much to Medina’s original 1548 text in an optimistic tone meant to create the impression of a town in the midst of transforming into a great city. He takes Madrilenian cosmopolitanism for granted, describing the “masses of people

ordinarily residing in this town, of diverse nations from Spain and beyond.”17 Moreover, Pérez presents the city’s population as a matter of pride: “it is a marvelous thing the way this great town [gran pueblo] has extended and grown, with such speed that in a short time it is expected to be one of the largest in Europe and even of other parts [of the world]. At present, its great size demands admiration and dumbfounds foreigners who visit.”18 The notion of grandeza as employed by Pérez derives from late sixteenth-century theory that embraced Aristotelian ideas about a city as the locus of good government. His words are echoed by the Italian political theorist Giovanni Botero (ca. 1544–1617), whose brief treatise on the greatness and magnificence of cities was first published in 1589.19 For Botero, a city’s population was a sign of prestige, and its size was another marker of its significance. In 1606 the Spanish theorists Juan de Jerez and Lope de Deza described what made a court city great. As already noted, Jerez and Deza authored their treatise following the court’s return from Valladolid. Citing Aristotle on the importance of a city’s stability, they warned against any further moves for the Spanish court. For the authors, the matter was as much practical as it was theoretical, or even scholarly: “With a transfer of location, everything is altered. The most prominent and esteemed bookstores as well as scribes’ stands are shuttered or break down. Everything cannot be moved, nor can it be ordered and settled properly, without losing time assembling and disassembling things, packing and unpacking, and searching for comforts wherever they might be found. As a result, we lose the practice of study and contemplation, and come to long for it.”20 For Jerez and Deza, Madrid’s greatness depended on the residency of the court and what might be called the architectural stability that accompanied it. It was in the 25

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Figure 12  Juan Schorquens, frontispiece to Gil González Dávila, Teatro de las grandezas de la Villa de Madrid (Madrid: Tomás Iunti, 1623). Engraving, 11 ¾ × 7 7/8 in. (30 × 20 cm). Biblioteca Nacional de España, R/2922. Photo: Biblioteca Nacional de España.

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context of the permanent return of court in 1606, and the city’s subsequent architectural transformation, that Madrid’s first histories were written. Two hefty tomes appeared in the 1620s. Teatro de las grandezas de la Villa de Madrid, Corte de los Reyes Católicos de España (Theater of the grandeur of the town of Madrid, court of the Catholic kings of Spain) was printed in 1623. Its author was Gil González Dávila (1570–1658), a Jesuit and royal chronicler who is better known for his later ecclesiastical history of the Catholic Church in the New World published in his role as chronicler for the Council of the Indies.21 In the dedication of Te­ atro de las grandezas to Philip IV, González Dávila writes that his intention is to narrate the history of a “great court.”22 A few pages before the dedication, a frontispiece engraved by Juan Schorquens (b. 1595, active 1617–34) makes the same claim in visual terms (fig. 12). The word teatro, which the chronicler employs in his title, was often used for ephemeral monuments designed for festivals, whose architectonic nature is echoed in the frontispiece. Standing on plinths to the left and right of a title cartouche appear two Spanish kings, Alfonso VI (r. 1077–1109) and Philip II. The medieval king is credited in an inscription below him with having won Madrid from the Moors, thus implying the arrival of Christianity. The Habsburg king is praised for having brought the court to settle in Madrid, an occasion that would set the stage for the city’s modern transformation. On the ground between the two kings, Schorquens depicts the Manzanares in the form of a river god who reclines as water gushes from an urn, an allusion to Madrid’s abundant water supply. In the image’s upper zone, the Spanish Habsburg arms are held aloft between the two piers. An allegory of Madrid in the form of an armored woman occupies the place of honor

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within a rounded pediment. Seated on a throne composed of shields, trophies, and cannons, she holds a lance in her right hand and the city arms in her left. On either side of Madrid rest two cherubs supporting standards that proclaim the city to be the seat of a global empire where the sun does not set and whose name itself is praiseworthy.23 Hinting further at a message of abundance—an important feature of the Aristotelian conception of magnificence, or grandeza—two garlands filled with fruit and vegetables hang from the upper zone of the architectural frame. The structure of González Dávila’s book follows a mode of history-writing that was employed by royal cosmographers, those court officials whose duties included making maps and writing history.24 A cosmographer had to master many forms of maps, from the global to the local. Similarly, González Dávila’s first task in his history of Madrid was to describe the geography of a place before turning to its particulars. Thus, the first part of Teatro de las grandezas—called book 1 (libro prim­ ero), the first of three, by the author—opens with the city’s physical features as well as the legends surrounding Madrid’s foundation. In describing the Manzanares River, González Dávila turns the reader’s attention to an architectural monument, the impressive Segovia Bridge, built in the 1570s and 1580s. The chronicler does not mention Juan de Herrera as the bridge’s designer; instead, he declares that it was “a monument of the empire and a design of the Great Philip II.”25 With these words, González Dávila inaugurates a tradition by which architectural association with the late sixteenth-century monarch came to be prized in Madrid. Book 2 begins with a list of the city’s parishes, convents, and other religious institutions, offering brief accounts of their foundation and information about their appearance. This portion of the history

addresses the flourishing of Christianity since the time of Alfonso VI. Taking the frontispiece as a cue, González Dávila proceeds to describe the court as an institution in Madrid whose structure was owed to Philip II, while enumerating the makeup of the royal household, listing its officials, and including select biographies of prominent courtiers. Book 3 turns to governance and an examination of the royal councils in Madrid, beginning with the Council of Castile, which González Dávila considered the preeminent judicial body of Spain. The book concludes with a discussion of the Royal Works, a government body the writer describes as dedicated to the “conservation and growth of royal houses, palaces, and forests.”26 In this final chapter of a very long book, the historian lists the architectural sites under the committee’s jurisdiction, thereby highlighting the notion of the court as a place. The capstone to González Dávila’s discussion of architectural grandeza is the Escorial, or what he calls “the best edifice that is known in Spain.”27 He offers a brief description of the monastery-palace and notes its collection of relics, books, and royal bodies interred in the building’s pantheon. The final lines of the chapter list the current members of the Royal Works, underscoring the significance of this committee in overseeing the design and construction of monuments that enhanced the reputation of the monarchy. González Dávila’s history of Madrid was followed by another, published in 1629, with an even greater appreciation of the city’s spaces and places. The latter book’s author, Jerónimo de Quintana (1570–1644), was the rector of the Hospital of La Latina, whose late-medieval origin lent it great prestige in the city. In his prologue, Quintana writes that he was born to serve the king and that 27

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Figure 13  Roberto Cordier, frontispiece to Jerónimo de Quintana, A la muy antigua, noble y coronada Villa de Madrid (Madrid: Imprenta del Reyno, 1629). Engraving. Biblioteca Nacional de España, R /30941. Photo: Biblioteca Nacional de España.

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his history is the result of a ten-year effort, the amount of time “necessary to search for and read reports as well as old papers.”28 The ambitious nature of Quintana’s undertaking is captured in the book’s title, which is expressed in the form of a dedication: A la muy antigua, noble y coronada Villa de Madrid: Historia de su antiguedad, no­ bleza y grandeza (To the most ancient, noble, and crowned town of Madrid: History of its antiquity, nobility, and greatness). In the book’s frontispiece, by Roberto Cordier, a French-immigrant printmaker, allegories of Greece and Rome stand upon plinths before a central arch (fig. 13). Within the arch, pride of place is given to Our Lady of Atocha, the most revered Marian image in Madrid, one that was housed in the Dominican monastery of the same name, located on the southeastern outskirts of the city.29 In his dictionary of Spanish artists, Ceán Bermúdez describes this frontispiece as taking the form of a retablo, or altarpiece, suggesting that Cordier’s depiction of the dressed statue before a curtain might reflect the actual display of the cult image in Madrid.30 The Virgin of Atocha appears above the arms of the city and two allegorical figures of Religion and Faith. At bottom, Cordier includes a dragon and a bear, images recalling origin myths of the city as first espoused by sixteenth-century humanists. From the outset, Quintana seeks to prove that Madrid was an important place long before Philip II brought the court to reside there. He divides his history into four books. The first explores Madrid’s origins and covers a wide range of topics, from the city’s site and early monuments to the etymology of its name, and references to Madrid in ancient texts. He argues against González Dávila’s claim that the city’s name is Arabic and proposes a Latin derivation. The claim for a Latin name further

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promotes a Roman legacy for the city, something that would be taken up by mapmakers as well. In this first book, Quintana considers Madrid’s palaces, churches, and arms before offering a survey of parishes and hospitals, recalling again the effort of Liñán’s Don Antonio to define Madrid’s grandeur by enumerating its buildings. In Book 2 Quintana turns to the topic of Madrid’s nobility, opening with a discussion of local holy figures and many descriptive passages in which the author assumes a familiarity with the city’s streets and public spaces. One even senses a desire that his reader have a map of Madrid at hand. As an example, Quintana writes of a twelfth-century holy woman known as Saint Ñufla, who lived near the Puerta de Guadalajara, a medieval gate that had been transformed into a plaza following its demolition in the 1580s. Referring to the site, Quintana writes parenthetically, “today, given how much the population has grown, [it] is now in the kidney of Madrid.” He adds further quotidian details to help the reader picture the saint’s residence “along one of the last side streets from the Calle Mayor, on the right-hand side as we approach the Puerta del Sol.”31 In this way a reader is invited to walk along Madrid’s streets with the historian. Book 2 continues with many chapters on the life of the recently canonized saint Isidro Labrador and then offers an account of nobles born in Madrid as well as a catalogue of eminent persons of arms and letters, from generals and captains to bishops and writers. Claiming that earlier histories of the city fell short in revealing Madrid’s grandeza, Quintana devotes book 3 to this topic. He offers a wide-ranging narrative of political events in Madrid before turning to royal and civic architecture. Concerning Madrid’s growth, Quintana labels the urban

renovations carried out under Charles V and Philip II as the “third expansion” of the city.32 He cites the renovation of the Royal Palace as a singular contribution of the early Habsburg kings to Madrid’s identity as court. The building can no longer be called an alcazar, Quintana writes, emphasizing instead the word palacio. The former term was appropriate for the fortified castle it once was, writes Quintana, but does not reflect the palace’s current “sumptuousness.” The chronicler praises municipally funded waterworks projects and the many public fountains, private gardens, and orchards that benefited from them. His admiration for Madrid’s natural features extends to recreational grounds at the edges of the city, such as the Paseo del Prado de San Jerónimo, which offered pleasant views of the countryside. In his prologue, Quintana promises to illustrate Madrid’s greatness in the present day; he accomplishes this by describing the city as a living place while echoing period tropes about life at court. On the Convent of La Concepción Jerónima, described as a dignified edifice with one of the finest choirs in Castile, Quintana writes that it was located “amid much noise and confusion of people, in what might be called the Babylon of the Court.”33 Despite these distractions, the nuns residing there prospered, and Quintana praises their devotion. These women were not the only people putting up with the inconveniences of a rapidly expanding city, according to the chronicler. Regarding the Monastery of San Felipe, located along the Calle Mayor at what had recently been the limits of the city, Quintana confides that “at present, with [Madrid’s] expansion, it occupies the yolk of the town.”34 The all-seeing vantage adopted by Quintana suggests that he used a map while writing his history. Unlike earlier historians, he would

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have been able to do so, as the first printed map of Madrid appeared in 1623. Moreover, the map rendered buildings as seen from an imaginary bird’seye view.

Mapmaki ng As noted already, the architecture of seventeenthcentury Madrid has been understudied. In part, Figure 14  Anton van den Wyngaerde, View of Madrid, ca. 1562. Ink and color washes on paper, 15 in. × 4 ft. 2 ½ in. (38.2 × 128.5 cm). Österreichisches Nationalbibliothek, Vienna, Cod. min. 41, fol. 35r. Photo: ÖNB .

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the poor survival of period buildings—both the Convent of La Concepción Jerónima and the Monastery of San Felipe referenced by Quintana are gone—explains the slight. Although a period historian such as Quintana narrated the experience of walking Madrid’s streets, he offered few specific descriptions of buildings, with the exception of the recently debuted Plaza Mayor. The rarity of contemporary city views—whether drawn, printed, or painted—also contributes to our ability to approximate what this place looked like. By the 1620s Rome already had a long tradition of city portraits made in a range of media. Such was not the case for contemporary Madrid, which was just emerging as a place worthy of representation.

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Around 1562 the Fleming Anton van den Wyngaerde painted a panoramic view of Madrid situated on hilly terrain and fortified with sub­ stantial walls (fig. 14). It is the most important early image of the place to survive. Produced as part of a commission from Philip II to portray the realm’s principal cities, the ink drawing with color washes captures Madrid’s likeness at a decisive moment.35 At lower left, the artist depicts the hunting grounds of the Casa del Campo, located immediately to the west. Upon one of the Campo hills, at lower center, Wyngaerde includes two figures, one seated, the other standing. Both gesture across the Manzanares River toward

the Royal Alcázar, the architectural monument that dwarfs all other buildings appearing in the view. The townscape hints at a number of notable buildings, many indicated by towers and pitched roofs, a few of them labeled for easier identification. This semirustic place would soon experience explosive demographic growth and become the metropolitan center of an empire composed of cities from Seville to Brussels, from Palermo to Mexico City. For the historian interested in visual evidence of Madrid’s transformation, surviving views are few, which is not to say they did not exist in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. An inventory

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from 1636 reveals that at least five views of Madrid—three painted, one engraved, and what was most likely an original drawing by Wyngaerde— were displayed on the walls of prominent rooms in the Royal Palace by that date.36 Additionally, the inventory mentions a painted image of Madrid’s limits, mounted in a gilt black frame.37 The document even names the maker of this land survey, the Italian architect and engineer Fabrizio Castello (ca. 1560–1617). Two large-scale painted views of Madrid taken from southern and eastern vantage points were among twenty-four views of Spanish, Italian, and Flemish cities hanging in the ceremonial room identified as the “great hall of public festivals” (Salón grande de fiestas públicas) (hereafter, the Great Hall). Each view was identified by name in the inventory, which, like the room itself, was meant to glorify the expanse of the Spanish Monarchy. The Great Hall also included three oil paintings of seventeenth-century waterworks projects carried out in the vicinity of the Royal Palace, projects that can be taken as evidence of a period estimation of what we might too hastily dismiss today as works of infrastructure. The printed image of Madrid itemized in the inventory is described as a hand-colored engraving affixed to canvas, “with the royal arms at top and, on one side, two cartouches with the arms of the town.”38 Ornamental features such as these suggest that this was the map of Madrid made by Antonio Manzelli, a cartographer born in the vicinity of Modena in northern Italy. In late 1622, only a year into the reign of the young king Philip IV, Madrid’s municipality signed a contract with Manzelli for two images, a map of the city and a view of its Plaza Mayor.39 Both were delivered by April 1623, coinciding almost precisely with the publication of González Dávila’s history of Madrid. The commission was also concurrent with the completion of 32

the four-decade-long project, led in its final phase by the Royal Works maestro mayor, or master builder, Juan Gómez de Mora, to reshape the Plaza Mayor and turn it into a singular public space. Gómez de Mora’s contemporaneous renovations at the Royal Palace also reached a critical point in 1622, when the Spanish Habsburg arms were ready to be placed on the building’s main portal. Frustratingly, Manzelli’s map, which inaugurated a cartographic tradition for Madrid, does not survive. Little can be said about a missing image, but two other works by Manzelli allow for comments about its composition and appearance. The first is a map of Valencia printed in 1608, a portrayal that combines an ichnographic street plan with a bird’s-eye view of buildings.40 Manzelli’s depiction of the city is centered on the page in order to allow ample space for textual passages and ornamental flourishes. These include a banderole at the top as well as the arms of the kingdom of Valencia and those of its capital city. In the map’s upper left corner, Manzelli includes a lengthy dedication to the city’s councilors and has signed the work. Below, he enumerates 106 of Valencia’s most important sites in an index organized into three columns. Similar ornamental features, as well as extensive textual passages, appear in Manzelli’s view of Madrid’s Plaza Mayor from 1623, the only known copy of which survives in the British Library (fig. 15).41 Graphically, the large-scale print is more sophisticated than the Valencia map, a quality owed to Manzelli’s association with court cosmographers and historians in Madrid. The title of the view, Verdadero Retrato del Suntuoso Edificio de la Placa de la muy noble Villa de Madrid (True likeness of the sumptuous building of the plaza of the most noble town of Madrid), appears within the space formed by the roofline of the Casa de la

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Panadería and its adjoining buildings at top center. Manzelli’s image highlights architectural features of the city square and supplements the accurate rendering with a good deal of ornament. A compass rose floats at the top right of the image, and a trompe l’oeil compass, like one Manzelli depicted on his Valencia map, appears at lower center, above a scale marker. Manzelli also includes figures passing through his scene, but perhaps more notably, he fills large portions of the visual field with text. The content of Manzelli’s wordy passages is strikingly similar to what one can read in González Dávila’s history of Madrid. For instance, in a cartouche at lower left, a panegyric ode penned in Latin asks, “Jupiter, looking out of the clouds upon all of the city, does he not see this most beautiful work of the vast world?”42 In this ode, the ideal viewer of the Plaza Mayor and Madrid as a whole—one with the vantage point of a deity—is the king Philip IV, whose monumental forum is

Figure 15  Antonio Manzelli, Verdadero Retrato del Suntuoso Edificio de la Placa de la muy noble Villa de Madrid, 1623. Engraving, 17 7/8 × 35 3/8 in. (45.5 × 90 cm). British Library, London, Map K.Top.73.15.c. Photo © The British Library Board.

on display. In one of the opening pages of Teatro de las grandezas, González Dávila publishes an ode to Jupiter in which the deity looks down upon Madrid and sees a great city.43 Quintana, too, underscores the association of Habsburg kings with Jupiter in the book he was still writing when Manzelli’s map appeared,44 but the correspondence between his efforts and Manzelli’s does not end there. In his book’s dedication, Quintana professes to be a proud son of Madrid who aims to write a history of the place “that would be its true likeness [verdadero retrato],” employing the same term Manzelli used for his view of the Plaza Mayor and, perhaps, also had inscribed onto his lost map.45 Maps, like the new histories, sought to meet a palpable 33

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demand to know more about the appearance of Madrid. A similar impulse toward accurate description inspired Pedro Teixeira, whose map of Madrid was printed in 1656. Like Manzelli, Teixeira was not a Madrid native but rather came from another place in the Spanish Habsburg orbit. Born in Lisbon in 1595, he arrived at the Spanish court in 1620 with his brother João.46 Together, they were charged with preparing a map of the Straits of Magellan following a celebrated expedition to South America that the Teixeira brothers might have joined. João returned to Lisbon soon after completing the map in Madrid. He had traveled across the Atlantic before and would return on many occasions; he produced some of the most important maps of Brazil made in the seventeenth century. João carried out these expeditions as a royal cosmographer, a title both brothers used to sign their map of the Straits of Magellan and one that put them in the innermost circle of scientists at the Spanish court.47 In 1620 that privileged group likely included Manzelli. It was led, however, by another Portuguese scientist whose decades-long experience in Madrid illuminates the intersection of writing histories and making maps at court. João-Baptista Lavanha (1555–1624) arrived in Madrid in 1582 from Lisbon, where the cosmographer would have first met Philip II, his monarch and future benefactor.48 Among Lavanha’s early duties in Madrid, he tutored the prince and future king Philip III, and by the opening years of the seventeenth century, he would tutor that monarch’s children, including the future Philip IV.49 All the while, Lavanha taught cosmography in the Academy of Mathematics, founded by Juan de Herrera in 1584 to foster the study of science and technical disciplines, including architecture and engineering.50 In a 1622 publication, the royal tutor and 34

cosmographer identified himself also as a royal chronicler.51 By that time this trusted courtier had privileged access to palace quarters because of his additional appointment as palace aposentador, or chamberlain. In this latter role, Lavanha installed and decorated the king’s office and library, both rooms located in the Gilded Tower of the Royal Palace. According to the 1636 palace inventory, the staircase leading to the office and library had seventeen illuminated maps or views made by Pedro Teixeira hanging on its walls.52 By this later date, Teixeira did not hold Lavanha’s title of aposentador, yet he had great prestige as the court’s senior cosmographer. Alongside artists such as Albrecht Dürer and Titian, Teixeira is one of a handful of foreigners identified by name in the 1636 inventory. It bears noting that Teixeira’s painted views adorning the staircase in the king’s office quarters included cities and ports in Spain, as well as others of French and Italian places. As the king would have to use the staircase on his way to the royal library, the display of maps can be read as a statement about the relationship between cosmopolitanism and the acquisition of knowledge, here expressed in cartographic terms. The prominent display of maps throughout the Royal Palace evinces the prestige of cosmography at the Spanish court. Given the importance of the science for both overseas commerce and governance, the office of the royal cosmographer fell under the jurisdiction of the Council of the Indies.53 Physically, that office was located within the palace. After 1612 it was situated among chambers assigned to the Council of the Indies in a newly remodeled administrative building adjoining the Royal Palace (spaces discussed more fully in chapter 2). It bears noting that cosmographers worked adjacent to historians—who also served

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the council, such as the Madrid historian turned chronicler of the Indies Gil González Dávila—and in the vicinity of the Royal Works studio. Such spatial proximity of officials carrying out tasks relating to building design, mapmaking, and history writing helps portray the court as a corporate agent that shaped a royal image for the king and his capital city. Moreover, it helps portray the courtly milieu in which Pedro Teixeira practiced his science and designed his celebratory map. Although he arrived in Madrid first in 1620, Teixeira’s true immersion into court society was delayed until late 1629, when he returned from a nine-year survey of the Iberian coast that resulted in a manuscript atlas dedicated to Philip IV, now in Vienna.54 Teixeira identifies himself on the atlas title page as a knight of the Order of Christ, an honorific for Portuguese nobles he was granted around 1632 and one that placed him in another set of elite company. With the exception of two cartographic excursions in the 1630s related to military ventures, Teixeira remained in Madrid until his death in 1662. During this time, he prepared his map of Madrid. Teixeira titled the map Topographia de la Villa de Madrid, using a term that refers specifically to images cosmographers made of local places.55 A sense of insider familiarity emerges in Teixeira’s title cartouche, which appears at the center of the map’s lower edge. There Teixeira claims to portray the length and width of each of Madrid’s streets, as well as the “corners, plazas, fountains, gardens, and orchards to which they give shape.” Furthermore, he professes to have depicted all parishes, monasteries, and hospitals, showing them “true to life, so that one can count the doors and windows of each.”56 He refers the viewer to a lengthy index at the bottom left, where Madrid’s parishes, monasteries, and convents are named and keyed.

The ordering of these religious buildings follows their description in González Dávila’s history of Madrid, with some amendments for buildings that postdated the book. Additionally, the index offers a lengthy key to the grounds of the Royal Palace, Buen Retiro Palace, and Casa del Campo, in addition to nine major public monuments and thirty-four fountains. None of the buildings included on the map dates to later than 1644, suggesting that Teixeira began his survey work in the late 1630s.57 Documents or preparatory images have yet to be found to reconstruct the cosmographer’s technique, which would have involved measuring buildings and public spaces as well as preparing elevation drawings for individual monuments.58 Composite drawings for the eventual map combined careful, scientific measurement with the artistic rendering of buildings as seen from a bird’s-eye perspective. These drawings appear to have been completed by September 1651, when Teixeira was paid the sizeable sum of 200 ducados from the royal purse as compensation for a group of drawings whose subject matter is not specified. If these were the drawings for Topographia de la Villa de Madrid, those images were sent to Amsterdam, where they were engraved in the studio of Salomon Savery.59 Teixeira’s street plan is remarkably accurate and even holds up well when compared to satellite imagery. One of the map’s central sheets presents the heart of the seventeenth-century city, the precincts surrounding the “Plaça Maior” (fig. 16). To the left of the plaza, curved streets stand in place of what once were medieval walls. The area of the city to the west of these former walls constituted a privileged zone for its residents because of its proximity to the Royal Palace, whose service buildings appear in the upper left corner. This sheet alone 35

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Figure 16  Pedro Teixeira, Topographia de la Villa de Madrid (fig. 11), detail of the Plaza Mayor and environs. Biblioteca Nacional de España, INVENT /23233. Photo: Biblioteca Nacional de España.

boasts five towers belonging to Madrid’s oldest parish churches in the medieval quarter, plus additional towers attached to private residences. To the north, east, and south of the Plaza Mayor, Teixeira records at least twenty-one additional towers. Most are located along principal thoroughfares such as the Calle Mayor, skirting the north of the Plaza 36

Mayor, and the Calle de Toledo, to its south, both of which are prominently labeled. The Calle Mayor was the site of the evening promenade, where a crush of horse-drawn coaches added to the crowd of pedestrians seeking to see and be seen every day the weather permitted. This detail of Teixeira’s map makes clear how a person taking in the spectacle of city life as it was described by Quintana would have passed, from left to right, the fountain in the Plaza de la Villa, luxury shops fronting the Platería, important residences lining the Puerta de Guadalajara and Calle Mayor, and another

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fountain (43) as well as the prominent façade of the Church of the Buen Suceso (lix ) adorning the easternmost edge of the Puerta del Sol. Within the many ample plots of land to the east and south of the Plaza Mayor, Teixeira illustrates courtyards and gardens that would have provided refuge from the chaos of the city. The second major street to intersect the Calle de Toledo is the Calle de la Concepción Jerónima, reached as one departed the southwest corner of the Plaza Mayor. It leads to the convent of the same name and its plaza (labeled with the Roman numeral xxxv ). The convent is situated in the quarter of Madrid that Quintana had characterized as the “Babylon of the Court” owing to the noise and crowds of

people. Its church stands at the south end of the plaza, with a large cloister behind it and an extensive garden to the east. Garden walls border the Calle de la Compañía, named for the Jesuit Order that owned much of the land to its immediate south. Teixeira illustrates the dome and twin towers of the Jesuit church prominently fronting the Calle de Toledo, as well at the adjacent college known as the Colegio Imperial (labeled v ). This prime location for a building project initiated in the 1620s attests to the strategic planning behind the Jesuits’ efforts to stake out a presence in Madrid.60 Yet it is but one of many institutions packed into the densely inhabited quarter. This plate of the map includes gardens and orchards associated

Figure 17  Pedro Teixeira, Topographia de la Villa de Madrid (fig. 11), detail of allegorical dedication to Philip IV. Biblioteca Nacional de España, INVENT /23233. Photo: Biblioteca Nacional de España.

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with other religious houses, private residences, and even the hospital of La Latina (mislabeled xxxv and located at the bottom of the Calle de Toledo), where Quintana had served as rector. As noted already, the banderole along the top of Teixeira’s map celebrates Madrid’s status as a royal city. This ornamental feature reveals that Teixeira sought to do much more than provide a viewer with a verdadero retrato of his adopted city. Further evidence of the cosmographer’s artistic, if not propagandistic, intentions can be seen in the dedication at the map’s upper right corner. Like a frontispiece in one of the books penned by sixteenth- and seventeenth-century humanists and chroniclers, Teixeira’s dedication relies on allegory and emblematic imagery (fig. 17). And just as frontispieces were often designed by individuals other than the authors of the books they Figure 18  Unknown maker, View of the Plaza Mayor of Madrid During a Bullfight, ca. 1650. Fresco, Castel Nuovo, Naples. Photo: Scala / Art Resource, New York.

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illustrated, so, too, this portion of the map hints at Teixeira’s collaboration with other courtiers in making his map.61 In the image, clouds part as the sun illuminates a crown held aloft by winged putti. The crown hovers above the Spanish Habsburg arms, with ribbons linking it to the heraldry in the form of a canopy. The arms, in turn, are held by cherubs who stand upon a plinth, each holding a palm frond to signal the monarch’s sacrifice for the good of his people.62 Cannons, banners, and two Habsburg lions, one at either side of the plinth, suggest the might of the Spanish king. On the face of the plinth stands a Latin text that can be translated as, “The Catholic monarch Philip IV, strong and pious, presents this, his city, and within it the whole of the world subject to him.”63 The allusion to the king’s domain, centered in Madrid and encompassing both the urbis depicted on the map and the orbis, recalls Quintana’s all-seeing Jupiter as well as sentiments from period commentators who declared the Spanish monarch to be the Planet King. Like most large-scale maps made in the early modern period, few copies of Topographia de la Villa de Madrid survive. In and around the court city, the map must have hung in the Buen Retiro and Pardo Palaces as well as at other sites where painted views of Madrid have been documented as being on display. The portable nature of the printed sheets makes it likely that the map was displayed in Rome—at the Spanish embassy, if not in the homes of Spanish officials—in addition to viceregal capitals such as Naples. A fresco painting of the Plaza Mayor of Madrid, rediscovered in the 1990s, greeted visitors to the Castel Nuovo in Naples in the late seventeenth century (fig. 18).64 Although the depiction includes inaccuracies, such as the number of stories of the plaza’s buildings, the fresco nonetheless captures a vivid impression

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of the vastness of the public space, one of the chief characteristics highlighted by Manzelli in his earlier view and something that would have been rather alien to Neapolitans. The façade of the Casa de la Panadería dates the fresco to no later than 1672, providing evidence of a Neapolitan interest around midcentury in portrayals of the Spanish court city. Correspondingly, the 1636 inventory of the Royal Palace demonstrates that multiple views of Naples were displayed in Madrid.

Repr esenti n g Gr an deza Teixeira’s map of Madrid’s wide streets, ample plazas, and sumptuous buildings sought to proclaim the modernity of the place, a theme also adopted by later chroniclers. One such historian was Alonso Núñez de Castro, author of the courtier guidebook Solo Madrid es corte, y el cortesano en Madrid (Only Madrid is court, and the courtier in Madrid). The book was first published in 1658, more or less concurrently with the appearance of Teixeira’s map. The second edition, from 1669, reveals the map’s impact.65 As restructured for the new edition, the first part of Núñez de Castro’s book devotes much more space to describing Madrid’s urban fabric. The author writes in the prologue, “I have enriched the first book, highlighting notices about the . . . royal councils, tribunals, and the royal household, as well as those concerning the adornments of Madrid as town, and as court, which I judged to be lacking and also desired by curious readers.”66 The implication is that the city’s monuments are worthy of note for a fuller understanding of the Spanish court. By embracing the language of a cosmographer, Núñez de Castro provides the sort of information one can garner from scanning Teixeira’s map: “Madrid has four hundred streets, sixteen plazas,

sixteen thousand houses (in which more than sixty thousand citizens reside), thirteen parishes, thirty convents of religious men, twenty-six monasteries of nuns, twenty-four hospitals, [and] many hermitages.”67 His list of specific monuments begins with the recently completed Chapel of Saint Isidro Labrador in the Church of San Andrés, an inclusion that illuminates the author’s effort to provide current information that could not, for instance, be learned from Teixeira’s map. Núnez de Castro goes on to describe the Plaza Mayor, then turns to the Royal Palace, Buen Retiro, and Casa del Campo, as well as public buildings such as the Court Prison and Madrid Town Hall. These latter two projects ranked among the most significant undertaken during the reign of Philip IV; both were intended to promote just and good government in the court city. Royal and public buildings were stand-out monuments for Núñez de Castro, who nonetheless admitted that most Madrid exteriors were far less flattering than what a courtier might encounter in other European court cities. Yet Núñez de Castro argued that architectural interiors in Madrid, both for their comfort and magnificence, outshone those of other places. “It is true,” he writes, “that they call Florence the dame of cities, but there are many dames.”68 His words attest to a period perception that Madrid was lacking relative to other cities, in particular to Italian ones. At the same time, he gushes about gardens, fountains, and promenades, observations emphasizing the period trope that Madrid’s grandeza was owed to its dramatic natural setting. The city’s hilly topography is a feature that stands out on Teixeira’s map; nowhere is it more pronounced than along Madrid’s edges, where the undulating Castilian plain meets the manufactured urban environment. With the exception of the esplanade adjoining the Segovia 39

Figure 19  Pietro Maria Baldi, Madrid dalla parte del Rio, 1668. Black and gray ink with gray wash on paper, 13 in. × 5 ft. 8 1/2 in (32.6 × 174 cm). Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana, Florence, Ms. Med. Palat. 123/1, c. 56bis. Su concessione del M iBACT . E’ vietata ogni ulteriore riproduzione con qualsiasi mezzo.

Figure 20  Pietro Maria Baldi, Madrid dalla parte del Retiro, 1668. Black and gray ink with brown and gray washes on paper, 13 in. × 5 ft. 8 in. (32.8 × 172.6 cm). Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana, Florence, Ms. Med. Palat. 123/1, c. 50bis. Su concessione del M iBACT . E’ vietata ogni ulteriore riproduzione con qualsiasi mezzo.

Bridge, every principal road leading to the city corresponds to a natural passage through a ravine whose contours Teixeira has carefully recorded on his map. Wyngaerde, too, had highlighted Madrid’s topography in his view from the 1560s, and later

seventeenth-century artists would do the same. An image of the sprawling capital made in 1668 from the western hunting grounds of the Casa del Campo captures those aspects of Madrid that impressed cartographers, painters, and others who sought to immortalize the city in artistic views 41

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(fig. 19). Attributed to the Italian military engineer Pietro Maria Baldi (1630–1686), the 1668 view is part of an album of Spanish and Portuguese city portraits executed in pen and ink with gray washes. It was made for the future grand duke of Tuscany, Cosimo III (b. 1642, r. 1670–1723), as a souvenir of his five-month journey to the Iberian kingdoms.69 From the southwest promontory, Baldi offers a view that situates Madrid within a hilly landscape serving as a sort of natural fortification. A wide expanse of hunting grounds at left hints at one of the delights an elite visitor such as a Medici prince would have enjoyed during his time in Madrid. Near the banks of the Manzanares River, Baldi illustrates a mule rider, pedestrians, and a series of horse-drawn coaches, approaching and departing the city, most notably along the Segovia Bridge and its esplanade, features that Teixeira also rendered in great detail on his map. Above, the bulky Royal Palace looms over a cityscape defined by domes, towers, and slate-covered steeples that rise and fall along the horizon beneath a crisp, clear sky. Baldi’s attention to the profiles of steeples throughout the city suggests that spectacular tower silhouettes—of which Baldi illustrates more than twenty—were one of the primary aesthetic experiences for visitors to Madrid. At bottom right, Baldi, or perhaps another artist, illustrates the royal arms, which appear as if carved on a plinth, the coat of arms surrounded by four putti bearing trumpets and palm fronds. On a second view made for Cosimo’s album, the royal arms appear at upper left, where they are held aloft by two putti with a banner declaring the view to be one of Madrid as seen from the Buen Retiro Palace (fig. 20). Baldi situated himself just south of the palace grounds to compose this view, whose prospect offers a stunning counterpart to Teixeira’s recording of the hilly capital. The various 42

wings of the Buen Retiro Palace, with its hermitages and garden pavilions, appear at right amid groves of trees. Beyond, in the center of the view, appear the perimeter walls of such storied properties as the tiered gardens and orchards of the Duke of Medinaceli, known as the Huerta de Lerma after its original owner, the land occupying an enormous block along Madrid’s eastern limits. From the city’s edge, streets rise toward the monumental center, where again domes, towers, and steeples animate the skyline. Both of Baldi’s views recall Teixeira’s claim to have presented Madrid with “true-to-life” accuracy. The Italian artist might have based his images on empirical observation alone, but it seems likely he also saw Teixeira’s map. Similarly, that map, which purported to allow a beholder to count the doors and windows of each depicted building, might also have served as a source for the large-scale painted view, by Jan van Kessel III (1654–1708), of a cortege making its way down Madrid’s Carrera de San Jerónimo toward the Buen Retiro Palace (fig. 21). In a canvas measuring nearly fifteen feet long and dated to around 1680, the Flemish-born immigrant painter expertly captures the mingling of the splendid and the quotidian that playwrights, proto-journalists, and diarists all recorded in their impressions of the court city.70 Van Kessel situates the view at the intersection of one of Madrid’s principal streets with the Paseo del Prado de San Jerónimo, a popular tree-lined promenade that was planted in the sixteenth century and had been continuously improved upon since. The buildings lining the Carrera de San Jerónimo include newly completed palaces as well as far humbler buildings in their proximity. For instance, at the corner where the street meets the promenade, Van Kessel depicts a sizeable residence with multiple windows and two small

towers that enhance its visibility; immediately next door, a man carrying a pail enters a single-story building whose most prominent feature is a rain gutter. Continuing up the street, one sees palaces faced in stone and topped with projecting cornices and others less finished though equally tall. Nestled among the buildings is the Monastery of El Espiritú Santo, whose church pediment rises behind a relatively flat street wall. At the far left of the painting, on the other side of the Carrera de San Jerónimo, three men stand on a balcony of the palatial residence of the Duke of Medinaceli. People and animals populate the view. In the center middle ground, a group of individuals seated on a stone bench chat under the shade of trees. To their right, a finely dressed gentleman bows before a woman whose head and shoulders, like those of her two female companions, are covered with a dark veil. Horses and mules can be seen pulling coaches, transporting goods, and drinking from a fountain. In the left foreground, Van Kessel depicts, from left to right, a trio of women riding sidesaddle on horses loaded with baskets containing merchandise, and a pair of finely dressed courtiers wearing blue who are

Figure 21  Jan van Kessel III, View of the Carrera de San Jerónimo and Paseo del Prado, ca. 1680. Oil on canvas, 5 ft. 4 ½ in. × 14 ft. 7 1/8 in. (164 × 445 cm). Museo Nacional Thyssen-Bornemisza, Madrid, CTB .1998.81. © Colección Carmen Thyssen-Bornemisza. Photo: Museo Nacional Thyssen-Bornemisza / Scala / Art Resource, New York.

tended by young pages, including one of African descent. Just behind this group, three women with long braids appear seated in the interior of a coach as a man with a black cape and an uncanny resemblance to Carlos II kneels before the vehicle, conversing with one of them. Other pairs and groups of figures go about their work, talk, or watch children and dogs play as the cortege passes. It is as if the ostentatious parade were hardly worthy of notice for many of these potential spectators. A group of twelve footmen dressed in green coats and leggings with white lace trim lead the formal procession. Directly behind them, a grandee in a black coat and white ruff rides in a coach pulled by four horses tended by pages dressed in yellow. A row of coaches follows, each more splendid than the last. At least the first five are pulled by teams of four horses, a sign 43

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Figure 22  Pedro Teixeira, Topographia de la Villa de Madrid (fig. 11), detail of the Carrera de San Jerónimo and its approach to the Buen Retiro Palace. Biblioteca Nacional de España, INVENT /23233. Photo: Biblioteca Nacional de España.

of their occupants’ high status, to judge by strict period sumptuary laws governing these vehicles.71 Van Kessel paints another group of coaches parked along the street, including one in the left middle ground cloaked with bright-blue brocade and pulled by two white steeds. Even the wheels of this vehicle are conspicuously painted blue, leaving a modern viewer to wonder about its owner. The painter’s portrait of a city as populated with people and coaches differs from the work of 44

a cosmographer, yet a comparison of Van Kessel’s view with Teixeira’s map reveals the painter’s indebtedness to the mapmaker (fig. 22). Whereas Van Kessel’s vantage is taken from the height of a tree branch, Teixeira offers a bird’s-eye view of the Carrera de San Jerónimo and its neighboring streets, clarifying the spatial relation between the city and the Buen Retiro Palace. By means of his precise recording, Teixeira allows those who view his map to appreciate the eastern edge of Madrid as a liminal zone between the city proper and the countryside, filled with gardens, orchards, and a vast royal retreat. Many of the same details recorded by Teixeira abound in the painting, such as the balcony of the Duke of Medinaceli’s garden wall and the large fountain immediately below it.

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The map also allows its viewers to peer over the walls lining the right middle ground of Van Kessel’s canvas into private gardens, lush spaces that inspired the street name Calle de los Jardines and whose trees the painter hints at with his brush. The shifting topography within the city fabric was somewhat harder for the mapmaker to convey than it was for the view painter. A modern-day photograph taken at the site of the former Convent of San Bernardo, labeled xliiii by Teixeira at upper left, reveals both the slope of the street and how much the face of Madrid has changed in the four and a half centuries since Teixeira printed his map (fig. 23). Spain’s Congress of Deputies, a Mexican consulate, and luxury hotels line this portion Figure 23  Carrera de San Jerónimo, Madrid, view looking east toward the Palacio del Congreso de los Diputados at left and the Church of San Jerónimo in the background. Photo: author.

of the street today, while a fountain dedicated to Neptune marks the intersection with the Paseo del Prado, today’s abbreviated name for the promenade and traffic artery. Although the Buen Retiro has largely disappeared, the Church of San Jerónimo that served as its core appears prominently in the distance. The church’s towers are modern additions, yet its façade retains a good deal of the aspect Van Kessel’s cortege would have seen. However, the seventeenth-century viewers would have appreciated a multitude of towers adorning the Buen Retiro, making the palace grounds look like a miniature city. Madrid’s eastern paseos presented idyllic as well as scandalous settings for seventeenth-century Madrid playwrights. Chroniclers, too, highlighted them as some of the finest delights to be experienced in Madrid. Although the groves of trees have evolved over the centuries, with many trees being replanted, the modern pedestrian can still experience the sense of the city ending and the countryside beginning at the bottom of the Carrera de San Jerónimo. In the 1620s Jerónimo de Quintana already described Madrid as a city that was continually changing and filled to the brim with activity; that city life compelled the novelist Antonio Liñán to pen a cautionary guide that sought to prevent visitors to the court from falling in with bad company while exploring Madrid’s streets. As the chapters that follow reconsider the city portrayed on Teixeira’s map, it bears remembering how much of Habsburg Madrid is gone and also how much the city was in flux over the course of the seventeenth century. We moderns may lack the full urban context for the monuments surveyed in this book, yet their significance as symbols of royal claims to the city as well as sites of justice and good government—ideas reinforced by historians, view painters, and mapmakers alike—remains. 45

Figure 24  Pietro Maria Baldi, Madrid dalla parte del Rio (fig. 19), detail of the Puente de Segovia, Palace Park, and the Royal Palace. Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana, Florence, Ms. Med. Palat. 123/1, c. 50bis. Su concessione del M iBACT . E’ vietata ogni ulteriore riproduzione con qualsiasi mezzo.

Chapter 2

Monarchy and Governance The Royal Palace, ca. 1620 As a royal residence and seat of government for the Spanish Monarchy, the Royal Palace was the preeminent built symbol of power in seventeenth-century Madrid. This symbolism is evident in Pietro Maria Baldi’s ink-and-wash drawing from around 1668 (fig. 24). Baldi depicts the palace’s siting at the top of a steep ravine on Madrid’s western edge, revealing the building’s original defensive purpose as an alcazaba, or fortified outpost. Over the course of the later Middle Ages, the building would be transformed into a castle, or alcázar, taking on royal associations by the fifteenth century. Baldi’s careful recording shows that the building was still undergoing a transformation in the second half of the seventeenth century. In his drawing, the monumental south façade includes a frontispiece, two three-story elevations with multitudes of windows, and two framing towers, one of which is unfinished. At left is the four-story Gilded Tower, with a slate-covered steeple. Built in the 1560s, the tower was the initial step in providing a new city façade for the palace. The façade would be executed in fits and starts in the late decades of the sixteenth century and then designed anew in the early decades of the seventeenth, while keeping Philip II’s Gilded Tower as a focal inspiration. Royal architects

envisioned a matching tower for the southeast end of the façade, which Baldi illustrates without an ornamental steeple, a feature that would be added in the 1670s as part of a larger project to overhaul the plaza fronting the Royal Palace. South of the palace, to the right in the view, Baldi drew the royal stables, distinguished with stepped gables, which would mark the limits of the Plaza de Palacio. Between them and the palace, Baldi also records the Monastery and Church of San Gil, a royal project undertaken in 1611 in conjunction with the new palace façade. Even in the incomplete state depicted by Baldi, the Habsburg palace dominated the fabric of Madrid; it is this formidable impression of the building as a symbol of monarchy that I seek to reconstruct in the present chapter. Baldi’s view reveals that the palace precinct was far more extensive than the building and its plaza. In the lower ground near the riverbank, the view includes groves of trees within the confines of a walled palace park. On his 1656 map, Pedro Teixeira, too, rendered the park in detail, although his map predated the formal perimeter wall and instead shows rows of trees reaching the banks of the Manzanares River, and the woods of the Casa del Campo on the river’s other side (fig. 25). In addition to the park, Teixeira records extensive

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service quarters to the east of the palace, as well as gardens and recreational grounds bordering a steep ravine, a natural feature that was frequently remarked upon by foreign guests. From the unfinished tower of the main façade, Teixeira depicts a wing added to the queen’s apartments in the 1620s, with the dome and lantern of an oratory Figure 25  Pedro Teixeira, Topographia de la Villa de Madrid (fig. 11), detail of the Royal Palace quarter. Biblioteca Nacional de España, INVENT /23233. Photo: Biblioteca Nacional de España, compiled by Pablo Linés.

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clearly visible. The next patio (6) is keyed in the map’s index as a courtyard adjoining the palace kitchens. Beyond, Teixeira depicts two wide buildings labeled collectively as the Casa del Tesoro, or House of the Treasury. Their appearance on the map is somewhat misaligned because it occurs at the corner intersection of four of the map’s twenty folios. Adjacent to the kitchen courtyard was the Casa de Oficios, a three-story building built between 1606 and 1612 comprising office suites for three royal councils and other court institutions.1 The other building, the Casa del Tesoro, was a

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multistoried conglomeration of offices and residences built atop and around earlier structures that stood on the site in the late decades of the sixteenth century.2 The first of three courtyards in the Casa del Tesoro was dedicated to the royal apothecary. The other two stood at the core of work and residential spaces for court servants ranging from bakers to wax makers to painters, in addition to sumptuously decorated suites for visiting dignitaries. Living quarters in the Casa del Tesoro included modest abodes under staircases as well as plum housing assigned to royal architects and artists.3 In the 1560s Juan Bautista de Toledo, designer of the Escorial and inaugural maestro mayor of the Royal Works, resided there; decades later Diego Velázquez, benefiting from a perk accompanying his position as first painter to the king, moved in with his family. Despite the multiple floors and wings of the Casa de Oficios and Casa del Tesoro, Teixeira’s only indicator of these important quarters is the number 7 that appears before an entrance along the street that was renamed the Calle del Tesoro for these palace quarters in the late sixteenth century. At the end of the street, Teixeira records a gallery winding northward along a wall enclosing the Huerta de la Priora, or Garden of the Priory. Known as the pasadizo of La Encarnación, the mezzanine-level gallery originated in the palace proper and then burrowed through offices and service quarters before joining the garden wall. It provided a protected means of access for palace residents making their way to the Royal Convent of La Encarnación. Labeled L and fronted by a plaza of the same name, the domed convent church and two-story cloister are prominent features on Teixeira’s map. Built from 1611 to 1616 to serve a community of Augustinian nuns, La Encarnación is the only portion of the seventeenth-century palace

Figure 26  Fray Alberto de la Madre de Dios, Royal Convent of La Encarnación, Madrid, 1611–16, church façade and atrium. Photo: author.

compound to have survived intact (fig. 26).4 The refined stonework and abstract classical ornament of the church façade linked the building directly to the Royal Palace and symbolized the extension of court space into the city. Sponsored by the Spanish queen Margarita of Austria (1584–1611) and home to many royal women, the convent church would become a principal site for court ceremonies in addition to serving its religious residents. As a complement to the exclusive confines of the Royal Palace compound, the vast Plaza de Palacio opened to the south as the most public of royal spaces in Madrid. In Teixeira’s recording, a 49

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long service gallery defines the plaza’s western limit. The corridor flanks the King’s Garden, labeled 2, which was also known as the Garden of the Emperors, so named after a series of portrait busts displayed within its wall niches. The corridor continues to the sixteenth-century stables and armory building (marked 20), at the south end of the plaza. Teixeira correctly renders the building’s stepped gable, which faced the city. In his slightly later view, Baldi turned this gable outward toward the countryside in an effort perhaps to animate the city’s profile as seen from across the river. Inspired by Flemish architectural forms, the roofline would have signaled to visitors approaching the palace that they were entering a singular environment. To the immediate west of the corridor, two enclosures—one of which is also labeled 20—served as the palace’s coach houses. In a relación of the 1593 ceremony at which Philip II bestowed the Order of the Golden Fleece on his son and future heir, an observer wrote of the crowd gathered before the Royal Palace: “Some have sworn to me that they believed there were nearly one thousand coaches in the Plaza de Palacio, something that had not been seen until then.”5 Although the claim comes across as exaggerated, it calls attention to the importance of the Plaza de Palacio as an urban setting for some of the most spectacular court festivals in Madrid. The eastern edge of the plaza remained ill-defined owing to the uneven terrain of the site. Two earth mounds indicated by Teixeira correspond to shifts in topography south of the palace that can still be experienced today. To the north of the larger mound stood the Royal Monastery of San Gil (labeled xxvii ), whose church was distinguished by a tall dome encased in a wood frame and topped by a lantern both Teixeira and Baldi took pains to record. Philip III had augmented the 50

parish church after the return of the court from Valladolid, but it does not survive. It was designed by the architect Juan Gómez de Mora in 1611 in conjunction with his efforts to transform the Royal Palace south façade.6 Like the Convent of La Encarnación, also begun in 1611, San Gil served as an important site of court ritual and ought to be considered part of the ceremonial precinct anchored at the Royal Palace. Although the palace functioned as the center of court life in Habsburg Madrid, the building has largely been forgotten in the history of architecture because of the destructive 1734 fire and the subsequent erection of the existing Palacio Real Nuevo. The new palace is a testament to the efforts of Spain’s Bourbon dynasty to provide Madrid with a building in the international classical style that emanated ultimately from Italy. The Spanish Habsburg building, built upon the remains of a medieval alcázar and modified over two centuries, ceased to exist in 1734, and historians interested in this building have struggled to understand what it looked like and how it functioned. Moreover, the Napoleonic occupation of Spain in the early nineteenth century resulted in the reshaping of the building’s environs. The gardens were transformed, and both the Casa de Oficios and the Casa del Tesoro were demolished, further impeding our ability to understand the Royal Palace’s central role in the lived experience of seventeenth-century Madrid. Archival documents, including inventories, have been mined by historians to explore the interior splendor of the Habsburg palace.7 These studies have illuminated questions about display, from the decoration of ceremonial halls with rugs, tapestries, frescoed ceilings, and framed paintings to the sparser decoration of rooms such as the Prince’s Hall, which Velázquez depicted in Las meninas.

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Inventories bear witness to the rising importance of painting over the course of the seventeenth century. For instance, the wealth of printed cartographic material described in an inventory of 1636 as covering the walls gave way to large-scale oil paintings recorded by palace officials thirty years later. Throughout the seventeenth century, tapestries were the costliest artistic objects in royal collections, a fact borne out by their prominence in inventories. All scholarship on the architecture of Madrid’s Royal Palace is ultimately a project of reconstruction. This chapter relies on the work of earlier architectural historians who have taken up this challenge. An early consideration of sixteenth-century interiors was published in 1984 by Véronique Gerard as part of a larger project that sought to illustrate the architectural transformation of the building from castle to palace after Philip II’s establishment of the court in Madrid.8 A small corpus of surviving drawings from the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries—plans and interior elevations—served as the basis of José Manuel Barbeito’s reconstruction of the building’s construction phases.9 Barbeito prepared hypothetical drawings for his study, some of which were used for an ambitious exhibition about the Habsburg palace held in multiple venues in 1993 and 1994 in an effort to bring to light the many facets of the building’s cultural significance in Madrid, from architecture and painting to music and literature.10 For Spanish architects, Barbeito’s work has inspired new studies of interiors, such as those prepared by Carmen García Reig for the now defunct project called El Museo Imaginado. That project’s primary aim was to recuperate works of Spanish art lost to history, including objects from the Madrid Royal Palace as well as their display in the building.11 More recently, the architect Ángel Martínez Díaz

has authored a deep study of the palace environs in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, for which he has created meticulous drawings that provide new evidence of great value for those looking back to the Habsburg era.12 In an astute introduction to the building’s complex history written for the 1993 exhibition, historian Fernando Checa characterizes the palace as an “aggregate of fragments” brought together as a coherent symbol of the Spanish Monarchy.13 One could extend this notion to argue that the Royal Palace interiors realized over the course of the seventeenth century sought to celebrate another kind of aggregate, that of the composite monarchy of the Spanish Habsburgs, whose governance took shape here. It is this notion of the palace as a place of government that emerges in the following exploration of select images of the building. My objective is to consider the meaning of architecture as it was experienced and embodied by seventeenth-century individuals in Madrid and, in turn, represented to a wider audience. I begin with a brief narration of the process of regularizing the palace’s principal façade, one of the features most commented upon in the seventeenth century. Its design was informed by other Spanish buildings and, via diplomatic exchange, by one of the most important architectural enterprises in the Viceroyalty of Naples. Construction and planning were coordinated in the Royal Works studio, an important institution meriting an excursus here about the spaces it occupied. I then turn to the building’s interior, making use of period architectural plans as well as presenting new drawings that seek to elucidate how the building and its public spaces reflected seventeenth-century political ideals and judicial practices. Throughout the chapter, I pay particular attention to visualizations of the building, both its 51

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façade and interior spaces. In drawings, painted views, or engravings, the Royal Palace was presented often to a viewing public. Studying these images in the context of the building’s construction history and as art objects in their own right provides insight into the intentions of their makers. No less an artist than Gianlorenzo Bernini (1598–1680) made the claim in the 1660s, while on the road to France, that grand buildings were portraits of a ruler’s soul.14 For Madrid, a variety of written sources, some of them private records from diaries and others printed as broadsheets, complement official histories of the building; an image such as Baldi’s view, made during a diplomatic mission to the Spanish court, also performs that function. Over the course of the Royal Palace’s transformation in the seventeenth century, the common appellation for the building changed from alcázar to palacio as court officials strove to enhance the image of the Spanish Monarchy and bring the palace, its seat, into line with architectural innovation elsewhere in Europe. Baldi’s view captures the period idea of a palace as a representation of a king who looks out over his city and wider domain. One of the chief gifts an early modern monarch was expected to give his people was justice, and the Royal Palace thus also came to symbolize a place of good government, wherein just rule might prevail.

E x te r io r Maje s t y One of the finest architectural views to be had in Madrid today is of the western flank of the eighteenth-century Palacio Real Nuevo as seen from the park that occupies the terrain sloping toward the banks of the Manzanares River (fig. 27). The building was erected between 1738 and 1764 on the site of the former Habsburg palace and was 52

designed by Italian architects working under the patronage of the Bourbon court. The building’s elegance is matched by terracing in the park, including a sequence of ramps and fountains that create a greater degree of formality than existed in the seventeenth century. A similar sense of order can be experienced when viewing the south-oriented principal façade and forecourt of the Palacio Real Nuevo (fig. 28). Although the façade maintains the five-part composition of the original Habsburg building, its architectural ornament bespeaks Figure 27  Filippo Juvarra, Giovanni Battista Sachetti, and others, Palacio Real Nuevo, Madrid, 1738–64, view of the west façade as seen from the Campo de Moro. Photo: Pablo Linés.

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Italian aesthetic principles about palace design derived from Rome, Naples, and the Piedmont. Above the ground floor, faced with bands of granite and a symmetrical disposition of doors and windows, colossal pilasters standing two stories high impart a vertical accent to counteract the building’s expansive width. The flat roof carries a balustrade with carved vases in lieu of the obelisks marking the roofline of the Habsburg palace. The building’s central portal reflects Italian design precedents, with robust half columns framing its three bays, including the central royal balcony, in contrast to the pilasters used along the bulk of the façade. Above the central portal, an attic level displays a clock, the royal arms, four sculpted images of kings, and an iron belfry with a bell recycled from the seventeenth-century building.

Figure 28  Palacio Real Nuevo, Madrid, view of the south façade and forecourt. Photo: author.

The main body of the south façade stands approximately sixty-five feet, or nearly twenty meters, to the north of the original southern limit of the Habsburg palace. It fronts a forecourt enclosed on two sides by arcaded service galleries and on the other by an elegant gate, all of which replaced the former Plaza de Palacio. To the east, the modern palace faces the Plaza de Oriente, a majestic promenade occupying the place of Habsburg-era kitchens, offices, service quarters, and gardens. Conjuring a mental image of the seventeenth-century building requires one to erase what is visible today and meditate on all that was destroyed by fire and subsequent rebuilding. 53

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Surviving drawings related to the eighteenth-century rebuilding of the palace are helpful in that mental reconstruction, as are a collection of plans made for the nineteenth-century erasure of former service quarters. However, challenges remain. Adding to the difficulty of visual reconstruction is the modern alteration of the original site’s uneven topography. Topography is central to the building’s history, as both the Habsburg and Bourbon palaces were built atop the remains of a medieval fortress whose creation was tied to the defense of the wider territory of Castile during a time of bellicose conflict between Christian and Muslim forces. Figure 29  Anton van den Wyngaerde, View of Madrid (fig. 14), detail of the Real Alcázar. Österreichisches Nationalbibliothek, Vienna, Cod. min. 41, fol. 35r. Photo: ÖNB .

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By the late 1530s, when Charles V turned his attention to the renovation of what was then a medieval castle, the building—then called the Real Alcázar—had long been associated with Castilian kings. That the building still maintained vestiges of its original Muslim foundation meant that it functioned in part as a reminder of Spain’s medieval past and, as seen in the histories of Madrid analyzed in the previous chapter, as a marker of the city’s antiquity. Past association of the site with royalty might have precluded any attempt to build a new palace elsewhere, but the architects working for Charles V would also have embraced its location along Madrid’s rugged western limits for the natural fortification the site provided. Anton van den Wyngaerde’s view of Madrid made around 1562 suggests the appearance of the Real Alcázar around the time Philip II brought

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his court to reside permanently in Madrid. As a detail of that view reveals, the building’s western walls included four rounded towers topped with slate-covered pinnacles (fig. 29). The irregularly placed windows, many with balconies, offered commanding views of Madrid’s hinterland. Along the building’s south façade, opened to the city, Wyngaerde records ornamental features that were part of the renovations begun in 1537 by architects working for Charles V and then, after 1545, under the future Philip II, who began supervising royal building projects as an eighteen-year-old.15 In the drawing, the palace portada, completed around 1547, is framed by two wide towers, remnants of the medieval castle. Between them, the three levels of the frontispiece are topped by cornices and adorned with paired pilasters to create three principal bays. Facing the centermost bay of the upper story are the richly sculpted imperial arms of Charles V. To gauge the impact of the façade, we can turn to surviving monuments that were then being built for the emperor-king elsewhere in Spain. The Puerta Nueva de Bisagra in Toledo was under construction at the same time as the Madrid palace. Designed by Alonso de Covarrubias (1488–1570), the city gate incorporated portions of Toledo’s medieval walls and introduced an ornamental scheme that celebrated the city’s honorific title of imperial city while also acknowledging its allegiance to Charles V (fig. 30).16 The arms of the city fill the monument’s upper story. A variant of the emperor’s own heraldry, the arms include a two-headed crowned eagle with spread wings. On its breast, the eagle is adorned with the insignia of Castile and framed by the collar of the Order of the Golden Fleece. Additionally, the twin Columns of Hercules stand in place of columns or pilasters such as the rusticated ones that frame the gate’s archway directly below.

Figure 30  Alonso de Covarrubias and others, Puerta Nueva de Bisagra, Toledo, exterior (north) façade, 1550s. Photo: Pablo Linés.

Rusticated walls and pilasters together with the city gate’s crowning pediment are all elements of mid-sixteenth-century classical architecture, inspired ultimately by architectural developments in Rome. The association of classicism with imperial power made the style appealing for architects in Spain and far beyond who designed royal and civic monuments exalting the rule of the Spanish Habsburgs. Imperial messages could be seen in architecture from the Palace of Charles V in Granada to the Castel Sant’Elmo in Naples, and even across the Atlantic Ocean on the façades of cathedrals and government buildings. As Wyngaerde’s recording of the Real Alcázar makes clear, it was also asserted in Madrid. Moreover, classical architecture was adopted as a court style in Madrid under the auspices of Prince Philip, who began at midcentury to shape what would become the Royal Works administration. Two builders, Covarrubias and 55

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Luis de Vega (ca. 1495–1562), served as the lead architects for royal building projects in Toledo and Madrid, respectively, and it was Vega who supervised the transformation of the Madrid palace, including the design of its grandiose frontispiece. The façade ornament recorded by Wyngaerde offers one way of understanding the sense of Figure 31  Gaspar de Vega, plan of the main story of the Real Alcázar of Madrid, ca. 1540. Brown ink and wash on vellum, 23 × 31 5/8 in. (58.5 × 80.5 cm). Ministerio de Cultura y Deporte, Archivo Histórico Nacional, Mº Exteriores,MPD ,158. Photo: Ministerio de Cultura y Deporte, Archivo Histórico Nacional.

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grandeur sought for the Madrid palace. Another can be found on a surviving plan of the building’s main story, now attributed to Gaspar de Vega (1523–1575) (fig. 31).17 Gaspar, son of Luis de Vega and architect in charge of renovating the Casa del Tesoro after 1556, was a key player in the nascent Royal Works studio and a trusted servant of his near contemporary, Prince Philip. Dating to around 1540, the ink-on-vellum plan depicts a rectilinear building with a series of rooms and ceremonial spaces disposed around two courtyards. At left, the draftsman records the rounded towers that would appear in Wyngaerde’s view twenty years later and a suite of rooms that had served as part of the

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royal residence in the medieval castle and would be redesigned to serve the king’s household exclusively. Vega’s plan illustrates the regularization of the courtyard adjacent to these residential quarters into a rectangle and the addition of a second courtyard, square in plan, at right. Between the courtyards, the architect draws the royal chapel and the main staircase, two of the palace’s most important ceremonial spaces. The courtyard added to the east would be called the Patio de la Reyna, or Queen’s Courtyard, given the intended use of a new suite of apartments at the easternmost end for the queen’s household. As is immediately evident, the division of the building into two parts was gendered. Specifically, the separation of households was dictated by Burgundian

Figure 32  Alonso de Covarrubias and others, Tavera Hospital, Toledo, begun 1548, view of courtyards and arcaded passageways. Photo: Pablo Linés.

court etiquette, which was employed by Charles V following the practices inherited from his father.18 The double-courtyard plan responded to courtly ritual but also had a formal parallel in major civic buildings; one such structure was the Tavera Hospital in Toledo, designed by Covarrubias and envisioned in tandem with his remodeling of the Puerta Nueva de Bisagra (fig. 32).19 Gaspar de Vega supervised construction of the hospital courtyards beginning in 1548. They are fronted by two-story arcades in the Tuscan and Ionic orders on three sides, with a central arcaded pavilion open to both 57

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and completing the double-square plan. The resulting open and light-filled space helps us reconstruct, if only in our imagination, the appearance of the contemporary and slightly less regular palace courtyards in Madrid. De Vega’s plan records a number of details about the Real Alcázar chapel and staircase. An iron grille separated the chapel from what the architect labels the “large hall above the entrance foyer” (sala grande ençima del çaguan), which would have offered a view into the richly decorated interior. Another notation indicates that a tribune was located above a spiral set of stairs at left, the means of access to this level. The sanctuary includes late Gothic ornamental forms such as corner squinches in the form of shells and an artesonado beam. The latter feature was derived ultimately from Islamic sources yet, by the late Middle Ages, had been incorporated into Castilian traditions of interior decoration.20 If the royal architects were receptive to medieval forms in the

chapel, their design for the main staircase, with five flights of stairs, is an early example of one of the most celebrated novelties of Spanish Renaissance architecture.21 With entrances from both patios, the staircase responded symbolically to the palace interior’s design as both separation and union of the king’s and queen’s households. Functionally, the staircase served as the key point of transition between what can be deemed the more public halls on the palace ground floor and the relatively private royal apartments and audience halls located on the building’s main story. Yet bodily movement up three flights of stairs along two alternative paths was anything but purely functional. Ascending or descending the staircase, instead, was envisioned by the architects as part of one’s ceremonial experience of the building. The double-courtyard plan devised by royal architects sought to impose an impression of regularity on the building’s interior. Achieving a similar sense of order for the palace’s privileged

Figure 33  Anton van den Wyngaerde, Palaçio Real de Madrid, 1569. Brown ink and color washes on paper, 10 ½ × 16 ¾ in. (26.5 × 42.9 cm). Österreichisches Nationalbibliothek, Vienna, Cod. min. 41, fol. 73. Photo: ÖNB .

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south façade presented designers with a greater challenge. The façade is captured in another view by Wyngaerde, made in 1569 and labeled palacio Real de madrid at the top of the drawing (fig. 33). The frontispiece and framing medieval towers are prominent. To the west, or left in the view, Wyngaerde records the four-story Gilded Tower, which introduced the Habsburg style to Madrid with its combination of brick walls, stone ornamental features, and Flemish-inspired steeples covered in slate. The predominance of brick in the construction of the tower contrasts with the stone that was used for the new portions of the palace designed nearly thirty years earlier and still under construction to the east. Classical ornament appears in windows throughout the building, and the upper-story arcades of the eastern extension echo the loggias flanking the arms of Charles V on the palace frontispiece. The disparate parts of the building suggest that Philip II had not yet settled on a design

Figure 34  Pedro Perret, after Juan de Herrera, Ortographia de la entrada del Templo de S. Lorencio el Real del Escvrial, y seccion interior del Convento y Colegio, 1587. Engraving, 14 9/16 × 27 15/16 in. (37 × 71 cm). Biblioteca Nacional de España, INVENT /28853. Photo: Biblioteca Nacional de España.

for his palace, the appearance of which reads as somewhat haphazard. The surprising eclecticism of the Royal Palace captured by Wyngaerde could not be farther from the aesthetic Philip pursued contemporaneously at the Escorial. As noted earlier, the monastery-palace project was immortalized in the series of prints engraved by Pedro Perret after drawings by Juan de Herrera. These images capture the gravitas of the actual building, as seen, for instance, in the third image in the series, which exemplifies the building’s orderly composition (fig. 34). Herrera’s descriptive title specifies that the image displays 59

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the “elevation of the entrance to the Temple of San Lorencio el Real del Escurial and interior section of the monastery and college.” Following period practice, Herrera calls the royal basilica a temple, and it dominates the image. Its façade, framing towers, and dome appear at the center of the page, with a nearly identical pair of courtyards and a central tower pavilion at left (college) and right (monastery). Crosses and weathervanes crown the six towers as well as the church dome, deployed as a means of unifying the parts of the building into a singular whole. Uniform building materials— namely, stone and slate—further enhance the monumentality of the Escorial, which Herrera, through Perret’s artistry, attempts to convey in this image. Given the easily transportable medium of paper, the prints helped shape the image of Spanish Habsburg architecture for individuals who might Figure 35  Jean Laurent, Royal Palace of Valladolid, formerly Palace of the Mendoza de los Cobos. Photograph, 6 1/8 × 7 7/8 in. (15.5 × 20 cm). Biblioteca de Castilla y León, Valladolid, g-45536 ix. Imagen perteneciente de la Biblioteca Digital de Castilla y León.

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never visit Spain, whether they resided in Europe or across the Atlantic Ocean.22 The images, and the Escorial itself, also came to have an impact on court buildings in Madrid. Such was the case with the evolving Royal Palace. Wyngaerde’s drawing indicates that the building was already being called a palace by 1569. By the early years of the seventeenth century, following the failed attempt to relocate the Spanish court to Valladolid, Philip III determined that his residence in Madrid should actually look like one. His father’s Gilded Tower would remain standing, but the newly energized Philip wanted to see the remainder of the palace façade built in stone and in a uniform manner. The key individual in the ensuing design process was Francisco de Mora (1552–1610), an architect who had served as a resident overseer of construction at the Escorial and as Herrera’s proxy at the work site in the 1580s.23 Upon Herrera’s death in 1597, Mora was named maestro mayor of the Royal Works and continued in this position following the death of Philip II just a year later. Among the architect’s early duties under Philip III, who assumed the throne in 1598, was the supervision of works in Valladolid to prepare for the court’s transfer there in 1601. One immediate problem was finding adequate quarters to serve as a royal residence. With this in mind, Philip’s valido, the Duke of Lerma, purchased a palace built in the 1520s by Charles V’s secretary Francisco de los Cobos and his powerful wife, María de Mendoza, and then charged Mora with its remodeling.24 The building was greatly modified in the twentieth century, but a nineteenth-century photograph captures Mora’s Escorial-derived design of a stone façade with framing towers (fig. 35). Double pilasters recall the Madrid palace frontispiece, as do the loggia-like windows of the building’s top story,

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although Mora designed them in Valladolid as a variation on the serliana made popular in Italian architectural books. His disposition of windows along the façade, too, evokes Italian principles that Mora absorbed from the study of the architectural treatises he amassed for his private library. What makes these classical forms his own is the extreme abstraction and near flatness of forms that was a legacy of Juan Bautista de Toledo and Juan de Herrera’s Escorial. This new aesthetic of stone construction also guided Mora’s designs prepared in 1601 for the Duke of Lerma for his titular village, located on the road between Madrid and Valladolid. For Lerma, Mora built a monastery and a ducal palace, whose corner towers continued a long-standing tradition in Spanish palatial architecture (fig. 36).25 However, the Lerma palace towers are nearly stripped of ornament, with shallow bands of stone suggesting paired pilasters at their corners. Mora’s interest in abstraction would inform his redesign for the palace in Madrid. The Valladolid sojourn ended in 1606, and the court returned to Madrid. Three years later Mora prepared designs for a new Royal Palace façade and corresponding interiors, renovations that would be funded by Madrid’s town council. Owing to Mora’s premature death, in 1610, the architect’s project for the Royal Palace was largely completed under the direction of his nephew and successor, Juan Gómez de Mora. The elder Mora’s drawings do not survive, and thus his intentions can only be surmised from surviving images of his nephew’s executed, though now-lost, project. Echoing the ducal palace in Lerma, Madrid’s Royal Palace façade was to be symmetrical. The design incorporated the Gilded Tower built under Philip II in the southwest corner and matched it with a second tower at the southeast end. The main, three-story mass of the palace was to be fronted with rows of

Figure 36  Francisco de Mora, Ducal Palace of Lerma, main façade, 1605–13. Photo: Pablo Linés.

pedimented windows on the upper stories and a monumental portal occupying the three centermost bays. Mora’s specific intentions for the Royal Palace are unknown, and the loss of the building to fire necessarily complicates our understanding of his project. What is certain is that Juan Gómez de Mora, named maestro mayor of the Royal Works in 1611, labored over his uncle’s designs for the next two decades. More than anyone else, Gómez de Mora was responsible for the building’s enhanced image even though the entirety of his uncle’s scheme was not realized. The effort was fraught with design as well as political and economic challenges. Moreover, as noted already, the project was begun amid other initiatives in 1611 to build the nearby monastic churches of La Encarnación and San Gil, all of which resulted in a wholesale reordering of the city fabric around the palace. These projects were orchestrated by Gómez de Mora from the studio of the Royal Works, a court institution of singular importance for the study of 61

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architecture and its alliance with government in seventeenth-century Madrid.

The Royal Wor ks St u d i o Buildings, gardens, and hunting grounds were matters of monarchical government in the early modern Spanish world, owing in no small part to Philip II’s youthful and sustained engagement with architectural projects. The king assumed a lead role working with officials and designers to shape what would become the Royal Works in the 1570s.26 The chronicler González Dávila noted in 1623 that the chief purpose of this institution was to preserve the monarch’s extended network of royal palaces and recreational retreats and to preserve and augment their adjacent woods, forests, and waterways.27 Although the support staff of the Royal Works expanded in the seventeenth century, its leadership circle was small and highly selective. Four members were selected from the upper ranks of the royal household: the high steward (mayordomo mayor), the master equerry (caballer­ izo mayor), and two masters of the hunt (montero mayor and cazador mayor). They were joined by the presidents of the Royal Councils of Castile and Finance in addition to two other members of the Chamber of Castile (cámara de Castilla), an elite group of royal advisors comprising grandees. One of these grandees usually held the title of superintendent of the Royal Works. Additionally, the royal confessor held a permanent seat on the committee, although his influence seems to have diminished by the third decade of the seventeenth century. The selectivity of the committee lays bare the significance of architectural patronage to the prestige of a Spanish Habsburg ruler. In order to carry out the plans decided upon in committee, the king needed architects and builders. These individuals 62

staffed the Royal Works studio, which was led by a maestro mayor. To date, there has been no exhaustive study of the Royal Works studio to match recent research on the committee. For instance, we have a minimal understanding of the physical space of the studio, which disappeared in the nineteenth century along with the other palace dependencies that were swept away in the making of the Plaza de Oriente. Documents suggest that the studio was situated in the Casa de Matemáticas, a building located along the Calle del Tesoro, directly opposite the palace and two blocks east of the Monastery of San Gil.28 On Teixeira’s map, it appears as a two-story residence with an interior courtyard and abuts another building with a similar plan. The Casa de Matemáticas served as the seat of the Academy of Mathematics, founded in the 1580s, and also as the residence of the Royal Works maestro mayor. Francisco de Mora was likely the first resident architect at the Casa de Matemáticas, and his nephew Juan Gómez de Mora moved there after Francisco’s death. Gómez de Mora trained under his uncle at the academy, and later, as maestro mayor of the Royal Works, he was required to teach architecture at the same institution. There he made use of his uncle’s library of books on architecture and other sciences, a collection he augmented substantially over the course of his long career. The building can be considered both a residence and a school. With the Royal Works studio located there, Gómez de Mora could rarely, if ever, have escaped his duties.

Figure 37  Teodoro Ardemans, Orthographia de el Real Alcázar de Madrid, 1705. Black, blue, and brown ink with color washes on paper, 6 ft. 4 3/8 in. × 3 ft. 11 13/16 in. (163.5 × 121.5 cm). Bibliothèque nationale de France, GE AA-2055. Photo: BnF.

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In addition to architecture, the Academy of Mathematics curriculum included cosmography, a subject taught by a royal official who reported to the Council of the Indies. After 1612 that council’s offices and tribunals were located in the Casa de Oficios, a building that might also have included spaces dedicated to the Royal Works. The shape of the office building is approximated on a plan of the Royal Palace and its surroundings made in 1705. The spectacular drawing, more than six feet high, includes the palace, plaza, gardens, park, and service buildings as well as an artful cartouche with a key to important palace interiors (fig. 37).29 It was made by the Royal Works maestro mayor Teodoro Ardemans (1661–1726), who signed the drawing as chief architect of the king and royal painter (pintor de cámara).30 Ardemans portrays the palace compound unburdened by the surrounding fabric of the city and defined to the west and north by natural elements: a hilly park and an orderly garden, both rendered in hues of green and yellow. Walls delineated in light-brown ink contain these natural spaces. Ardemans uses the same color to illustrate palace service quarters such as horse stables, passageways, and kitchens, which spread like tentacles from the palace proper, whose plan appears in deep-blue ink. In his ornamental cartouche, the architect explains that the portion of the palace rendered in blue illustrates the building’s main story and the principal rooms used by the royal family. His accompanying index identifies forty-six of these interiors by name and highlights the royal chapel, identified by the letter A. Additionally, the architect indicates the two palace courtyards, with the numbers 100 and 200, suggesting that he might have originally intended to provide a more extensive key that would have included service quarters,

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many of which he records in some detail. Without this index, it is challenging to specify what transpired in these spaces, including in some rooms that might have been used by the Royal Works in the Casa de Oficios. The said office building appears near the center of the series of buildings extending from the eastern end of the palace and the Queen’s Garden, a garden Teixeira surprisingly left out of his rendering and that Ardemans depicts with four parterres and a fountain in its middle. A cluster of rooms with passageways and staircases corresponds to the palace kitchens, located immediately east of the garden. The kitchens are succeeded by the Casa de Oficios, whose ample rooms are disposed around two courtyards—one square in plan and the other rectangular—with L-shaped arcades. The next courtyard, with a large fountain, belongs to the royal apothecary, the first of many laboratories, office suites, and residences clustered around the three principal courtyards of the Casa del Tesoro. Compared to the warren-like plan of the sixteenth-century Casa del Tesoro, the layout of the Casa de Oficios is more orderly, and its interiors are larger. In the summer of 1612, the Councils of Finance and the Indies were relocated from cramped interiors in the Royal Palace to mainstory quarters in the newly completed Casa de Oficios.31 Ardemans’s plan illustrates six large halls along the north wall of the Casa de Oficios and an additional ten interiors that would have been accessed from the two courtyards, which came to be known, from left to right, as the patio del Consejo de Hacienda and the patio del Consejo de las Indias. Of the chambers pertaining to the Council of the Indies, period documents attest to three large meeting halls, secretariat and accounting offices, and an archive.32

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It is reasonable to propose that the Royal Works studio also occupied a portion of the Casa de Oficios. Surviving eighteenth-century drawings of the Casa del Tesoro illustrate that it was a three-story building; on his map, Teixeira suggests the Casa de Oficios was the same height, providing the possibility that the studio occupied halls above those dedicated to the royal councils. Northern light from the palace gardens would have created an ideal setting for the maestro mayor and his corps of draftsmen to carry out their design work. Studio space in the Casa de Oficios would also have put the royal architect in close proximity to court cosmographers, who, as officers of the Council of the Indies, had work spaces in the building. Cosmography and architecture both required specialized scientific instruments that could have been shared readily among colleagues working adjacently. Moreover, the spatial proximity of architects, cosmographers, and historians helps explain the concerted efforts by royal officials to promote a new image of Madrid by printing maps and publishing histories of the city. Neither the Casa de Matemáticas nor the Casa de Oficios survives, so we can only speculate about the appearance of the Royal Works studio. Rooms would certainly have been furnished with drawing tables as well as shelves to hold books and supplies. Maps and drawings would have abounded in the room, some of these no doubt displayed for consultation. As was the case for government councils, the Royal Works studio also had a rich archive. Drawings were constantly consulted and updated. The most valued of these images were kept in a specially outfitted room near the king’s palace office. This exceptional collection, alas, burned in the fire of 1734. The contents of the studio archive would have been less selective, yet its

disappearance has impeded a fuller understanding of Spanish architecture in the Habsburg era. The approximate makeup of the Royal Works studio personnel can be reconstructed with greater confidence. In his study of Madrid’s Royal Palace, José Manual Barbeito documents the dates of service for leading figures who contributed to the building’s design and oversaw its construction.33 These same individuals also participated in numerous concurrent building projects in Madrid and its environs. As maestro mayor, Gómez de Mora was the lead trazador, or designer, and the head of a large workforce that carried out his directives. Two important officials served directly under him: the aparejador, or second architect, and the ayuda al trazador, or assistant lead designer. Below them, the studio’s personnel would have included many apprentices and perhaps even enslaved persons. For the twenty-year period when Gómez de Mora was in charge of the Royal Palace project, a number of names can be gleaned from signed drawings or construction documents. These include Miguel Gómez de Mora, the architect’s brother (d. 1632), and Pedro de Pedrosa and Gregorio Ordoñez, who supervised work sites as the maestro mayor tended to other projects. These names and others fill notarial records and payment receipts for projects in and around Madrid, and it is likely that they signify the authors of many of the drawings usually attributed to Gómez de Mora. Although the great majority of drawings for the Royal Palace do not survive, their appearance and their use can be gauged by examining comparable surviving material. As an example, a 1636 plan for construction of the ground floor of the Royal Palace of Aranjuez includes annotations by Gómez de Mora and employs a color code that helps illuminate studio practice (fig. 38).34 The building

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Figure 38  Juan Gómez de Mora, plan of the ground floor of the Royal Palace of Aranjuez, 1636. Brown and red ink with color washes on paper, 29 ½ × 22 5/8 in. (75 × 57.5 cm). Biblioteca Nacional de España, DIB /14/17, no. 1. Photo: Biblioteca Nacional de España.

is identified at upper left, along with a notation specifying that black ink (which has browned) was used to indicate construction already realized and yellow ink to depict planned interventions in the building’s central courtyard, a second service wing, and a grand staircase. The drawing’s even and highly regular hand suggests that it was prepared 66

by one of many skilled draftsmen trained in the studio, and perhaps by Gómez de Mora. Interestingly, the drawing appears to have been copied from a sixteenth-century plan, most likely kept in the king’s collection of drawings related to the Royal Works. The draftsman has used red ink to highlight proposed changes to the building’s earlier design, such as the addition of a room in the southwest corner of the courtyard. The markings are evidence that the drawing was reviewed and discussed with building officials or Royal Works members in much the same way Gómez de Mora and his successors would have reviewed designs

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for other buildings considered in this book. Additionally, the notation “H. no. 1” at upper left provides a clue to how the drawing was shelved in an archive. Gómez de Mora, like his uncle before him, headed the Royal Works studio and served concurrently as chief architect to the Ayuntamiento de Madrid. Shared royal and municipal duties demonstrate once again the merging of town and Crown interests, as made evident in the financial arrangements for the Royal Palace renovation project. Gómez de Mora’s dueling responsibilities have given rise to knotty questions about authorship for Madrid buildings. For instance, the corps of alar­ ifes, or municipal architects, often made drawings that were signed by the maestro mayor to indicate his approval. The matter becomes more complicated after 1630, when Giovanni Battista Crescenzi (1577–1635) assumed control of the Royal Works and supplanted Gómez de Mora’s authority. Crescenzi was an Italian nobleman with diplomatic ties to the papal court, where his brother was a cardinal allied with Spanish interests. He was also an accomplished artist who helped popularize still-life painting in Rome long before he traveled to Spain, where he also advocated successfully for the genre.35 Crescenzi arrived in Madrid in 1617 and resided there until his death eighteen years later. His most important undertaking was the interior decoration of the Royal Pantheon at the Escorial, a project whose architectural design is usually attributed to Gómez de Mora and that was only completed well after both architects had died (fig. 39).36 Circular in plan, the subterranean and domed pantheon was located under the high altar of the Escorial basilica and approached by descending a steep staircase. An altar, for which a large crucifix was commissioned from Bernini, was situated opposite the staircase, with the

remaining six bays devoted to sepulchral tombs for the Habsburg dynasty.37 Crescenzi’s interior was adorned with polychrome marble and bronze relief sculpture, reflecting Italian design principles and ushering in new aesthetic ideals in Spanish architecture. The Royal Pantheon was completed in the early 1650s, prompting the music master and Figure 39  Pedro de Villafranca, Section of the Royal Pantheon at the Escorial, Facing the High Altar, 1654. Engraving. From Francisco de los Santos, Descripción del Real Monasterio de San Lorenzo del Escorial (Madrid: Imprenta Real, 1657). Biblioteca Nacional de España, INVENT/40833. Photo: Biblioteca Nacional de España.

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friar Francisco de los Santos (1617–1699) to publish a new history of the Escorial, which included nine engraved views of the monument.38 Crescenzi’s work at the Royal Pantheon helped secure his elevated status in the Royal Works, much to the dismay of Gómez de Mora. Following his appointment as maestro mayor in 1630, Crescenzi petitioned Philip IV to serve also as a member of the powerful Junta Real de Obras y Bosques. The matter was forwarded to the committee and hotly debated by its elite members, who felt that Crescenzi, despite his nobility, could not be impartial given his simultaneous service as maestro mayor.39 A few of the concerns raised in discussion had to do with Crescenzi’s status as a foreigner, although the committee was nearly unanimous in its opinion that honoring the brother of a cardinal was an astute political tactic. In the end, the king named Crescenzi to the post of superintendent of the Royal Works and granted the artist-architect a position on the committee, which he held until his death five years later. In his late eighteenth-century history of Spanish architecture, Eugenio Llaguno attributes a number of important Madrid projects to Crescenzi, basing his claims largely on faulty biographies but, what is more important, leading other scholars of seventeenth-century Spanish architecture to repeat his assumptions.40 The attributions have not all held up to the test of time, as the case of the Court Prison illustrates. However, it bears stating that Llaguno’s misunderstandings are grounded in the documentation for the Royal Works—both the royal committee and the studio—which reflects power struggles among designers. His misunderstandings also highlight the difficulties in assigning authorship for building projects, such as the Escorial Pantheon, that were realized over long periods. Many tensions between Crescenzi and 68

Gómez de Mora are revealed in the renovation of the Royal Palace.

A Hab s b u rg Palace Façad e Although the surviving visual evidence for the early seventeenth century is incomplete, Francisco de Mora’s design for the Royal Palace can be approximated in a wood and plaster model (fig. 40). The model has been dated to around 1630 and is even attributed by some scholars to Crescenzi, 41 but it is considered by others to be a modern fabrication. Despite its uncertainties, the model captures the overall goal of symmetry that Mora and the architects and builders who carried out his project desired for the palace façade. The Gilded Tower built of brick with stone ornament, iron balconies, and slate-covered steeple—an early monument in the Habsburg style—was left standing in the southwest corner. Mora reduced the tower’s projection from the main body of the façade and matched it with a new tower to the southeast. This correction is the strongest evidence of Francisco de Mora’s authorship for the façade design as it parallels the work he executed in Valladolid and Lerma, as well as at other sites near Madrid. The towers in turn frame two threestory blocks and a monumental frontispiece at the building’s center. Along the tall ground story, the palace includes three auxiliary portals, each wide enough for coaches to enter or exit the building via a series of foyers. The westernmost door, to the left of the main entrance, abuts a service gallery that separates the Plaza de Palacio from the Garden of the Emperors, located at the base of the Gilded Tower and adjoining residences. The same gallery linked the palace to the royal horse stables and armory, located at the southernmost end of the Plaza de Palacio.

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Two stories of pedimented windows correspond to ceremonial interiors on the palace’s main floor, including the New Hall (Salón Nuevo), which occupied the three central bays. Fronted by six windows, including one that gave on to the royal balcony, the soaring hall was bathed in southern light. The palace’s three-story frontispiece, crowned with the Spanish Habsburg arms at the attic level, is a striking feature, yet it appears to be more restrained than what Mora had intended in 1609. Nineteen years later the Italian art merchant Ludovico Turchi requested payment for two ten-foot-tall sculptures of Mars and Minerva that had been brought from Genoa “long ago” for the palace façade.42 The document indicates that the sculptures were to be placed on either side of the central window and beneath the royal arms. The mythological figures, male and female, would thus serve to aggrandize the king and queen. Mora had employed sculpture in his design for the church of the Convent of San José in Ávila, and stone sculpture would play an important role in other seventeenth-century government buildings in

Figure 40  Unknown maker, model of the main (south) façade and rear patio towers of the Royal Palace of Madrid, ca. 1619–30. Wood, plaster, and oil paint, 31 ½ × 13 3/8 × 9 7/8 in. (80 × 34 × 25 cm). Museo de Historia de Madrid, I.N. 3133. Photo: Ayuntamiento de Madrid / Museo de Historia de Madrid.

Madrid. At the Royal Palace, however, the project carried out by Juan Gómez de Mora abandoned figural sculpture in favor of a more austere design that employed paired pilasters, stripped of all ornament, to mark window bays and limited elaborate stone decoration to the royal balcony and window. During construction, Gómez de Mora suggested the statues of Mars and Minerva be placed in the gardens of the Casa del Campo. One notable period source on the palace façade is the diary of the Italian art collector and antiquarian Cassiano dal Pozzo (1588–1657), who served as part of a papal delegation led by Cardinal Francesco Barberini (1597–1679) to the Spanish court in 1626. In Madrid the cardinal and his party resided in richly decorated quarters in the 69

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Casa del Tesoro, described by dal Pozzo in some detail.43 Upon his return from a visit to the Royal Convent of the Descalzas Reales on 30 May, dal Pozzo entered the Plaza de Palacio in a coach and recorded his impression of the palace as follows: “When viewed frontally, the Palace of His Majesty is a most beautiful sight. It is of Italian architecture, with large windows adorned with pediments, of which there are thirty-two or thirty-three on each floor. It is richly built of stone.”44 He critiques a small tower along the palace roof—a remnant of the medieval alcázar—before adding, “[the palace] is not finished, and is continually under construction.” Cassiano dal Pozzo was correct in assessing the building’s Italian inspiration. As noted already, Mora’s library included a rich collection of architectural books, many by Italians, from which he derived design ideas. Moreover, he also worked directly with Italian artists in his capacity as head of the Royal Works studio. Gómez de Mora inherited his uncle’s interest in classical design and promoted it for the duration of his career. The Italianate quality of the Royal Palace façade, however, can be further explained by a direct example of architectural exchange between Madrid and Naples, where Spanish viceroys began building a new viceregal palace, the Palazzo Reale Nuovo, in 1599 and largely completed the project by 1627.45 The designer of the Naples palace was Domenico Fontana (1543–1607), a prolific Lombard architect and engineer who carried out major urban projects in Rome in the 1580s for Pope Sixtus V and who was lured to Naples in 1594 by the Spanish viceroy Enrique de Guzmán, Count of Olivares. Olivares would return to Spain in 1600; thus, the true impetus for the Palazzo Reale came from the succeeding viceroy, Fernando Ruiz de Castro, Count of Lemos, and his wife, Catalina de Zúñiga 70

y Sandoval. Zúñiga was the sister of the Duke of Lerma, Philip III’s valido, who was at the height of his power in the early years of the seventeenth century. These were the patrons who initiated construction in 1599 and whom Fontana would commemorate in a plaque on the building’s façade. Although the Palazzo Reale façade was altered in the eighteenth century and the public space before it was enlarged by the clearance of neighboring structures in the nineteenth century, the modular regularity of Fontana’s design remains the predominant feature of the building’s south, and principal, wing (fig. 41). Following precedents in sixteenth-century classical architecture established by Sebastiano Serlio and inspired ultimately by the Colosseum in Rome, Fontana adorned the ground story with the Doric order and the succeeding levels with the Ionic and Corinthian orders. In keeping with Roman palace-design traditions traceable to Michelangelo, the window pediments alternate rounded and triangular forms. To these Italian elements, Fontana introduced features that were Spanish in inspiration. At ground level he built an open arcade that was altered in 1753, when eight of the arches were closed with walls bearing niches for marble statues, as can be seen today. Arcades were not unusual features in Italian civic buildings, but their inclusion in important public monuments was something characteristic of Spanish royal projects, as seen in the Casa de la Panadería in Madrid, well known to Viceroys Olivares and Ruiz de Castro. The double columns and double pilasters framing the Palazzo Reale’s center bay draw attention to the principal entrance and a royal window with the Spanish Habsburg arms above, a composition suggesting the tradition of a Spanish portada. In a print dating to around 1606, Fontana included ornamental obelisks along the

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palace cornice to mark the building’s bays.46 There is no evidence these decorative elements were ever added in Naples, although they were in Madrid. Domenico Fontana worked on the palace project until his death in 1607, when his son, Giulio Cesare, inherited his post as head architect of the viceroyalty. Around 1613–16, the younger Fontana proposed a new palace wing to look out over the Bay of Naples. Drawings were sent to Madrid in 1616 for Philip III’s review, providing direct evidence that the king was following distant building projects.47 In this instance, the king might have been encouraged by his former Neapolitan viceroy, the Count of Olivares, who served among the innermost circle of royal officials in Madrid. Unfortunately, Giulio Cesare’s drawings do not survive,

Figure 41  Domenico Fontana, Giulio Cesare Fontana, and others, Palazzo Reale Nuovo, Naples, 1599–1627, façade. Photo: Robin L. Thomas.

and so it is not possible to fully weigh their impact in Madrid. Nonetheless, the instance of architectural exchange between the Spanish court and the viceroyalty casts light on Pozzo’s claim that the palace in Madrid looked Italian. Madrid’s Royal Palace façade was nearly complete by 1622, and it began to be portrayed in print, including on Antonio Manzelli’s map the next year. One early portrait of the building appears in an anonymous engraving depicting the ceremonial arrival of Philip IV with the Prince of Wales at the Royal Palace in March of 1623 71

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Figure 42  Unknown maker, Einzug des Printzen van Engellandt . . .  , 1623. Engraving, 8 5/8 × 11 5/8 in. (22 × 29.5 cm). Museo de Historia de Madrid, I.N. 2683. Photo: Ayuntamiento de Madrid / Museo de Historia de Madrid.

(fig. 42). The engraving includes an informative text in German, suggesting that the print was intended to be sent to the Austrian Habsburg court as a record of the extraordinary event.48 In this particular view, the palace serves as a backdrop to the parade of soldiers, nobles, and aldermen, as well as the latter’s accompanying musicians. Its maker appears to have taken as much interest in the staging of a comedia on an ephemeral stage in the plaza, seen at left, as in an accurate record of the palace façade. As shown, the façade includes four extra bays, which exaggerate the building’s horizontality. The frontispiece is further diminished by the relatively low scale of the building, with narrow corner towers. Yet, despite its unreliability, this early rendering of the Royal Palace includes features that would have stood out to a foreign visitor, such as 72

the balconies fronting the windows of the palace’s two upper stories. The English prince and other dignitaries would have seen balconied windows elsewhere along the procession through Madrid: these elements served utilitarian purposes but also lent themselves to ceremonial use as seating for spectators. The print also includes seven chimneys, a few of which are rendered as large as nearby church spires. These quotidian features allude to the chill in the Madrid air during the month of March, but they also attest to the comfort of the palace interior. The unknown printmaker illustrates a two-story pavilion along the roofline adjacent to the frontispiece—what Cassiano dal Pozzo would call a small tower in his diary—with a construction crane rising above it. Four bays wide, the pavilion corresponds to the width of one of the medieval towers that framed the sixteenth-century frontispiece as depicted by Wyngaerde. In his reconstruction of the Royal Palace, Barbeito argues that a second pavilion was envisioned to hide the second medieval tower, which appears to the right of the frontispiece in the 1623 engraving.49 Later views of the Royal Palace make clear that these framing pavilions were never fully realized. Over the course of later construction, the western medieval tower was demolished above ground level and in the 1640s transformed into a two-story ceremonial hall. The east tower remained incomplete until late in the seventeenth century, as can be seen in the view from 1668 that opens this chapter (fig. 24). Gómez de Mora’s, or perhaps Crescenzi’s, intentions regarding the two pavilions are unclear in the documentary record. It seems reasonable to speculate that the roof pavilions might have been envisioned in part to correct the building’s asymmetry when seen from the Plaza de Palacio. Even an underwhelmed critic of the palace such as the

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French traveler Antoine de Brunel, who visited in 1666 and found the plaza to be beautiful,50 opined that the palace façade, which was not bad, would be greatly improved by the completion of its second, framing tower. Towers were hallmarks of Spanish Habsburg palaces and other public buildings with royal sponsorship, as they helped direct a viewer’s attention to monumental portals whose surfaces were articulated with classical ornament and royal heraldry. The west façade of the Escorial offers a striking example of the tower-andfrontispiece composition, as does Francisco de Mora’s transformation of the Mendoza de los Cobos Palace in Valladolid, which served as a royal palace. Similarly, the expansive façades of the viceregal palaces of Mexico City and Lima included slightly projecting end bays that evoked the presence of corner towers. After 1622 the Madrid palace façade took on powerful symbolic value as a representation of the Spanish Monarchy, inspiring distant projects such as the Palazzo Reale of Turin and the Palazzo Ducale of Modena, a client state of the Spanish Habsburgs (fig. 43). In the case of Modena, the duke Francesco d’Este (1610–1658) employed towers for their regal associations in an attempt to elevate his status and image among seventeenth-century rulers.51 The Este duke traveled to Madrid in 1638, during which time he became the first foreign ruler to be lodged at the renovated Royal Palace. He also visited the Escorial and a new courthouse, built with prominent towers, for the Council of Castile. His design for Modena suggests the ways in which Madrid’s Royal Palace lived on in the minds of rulers in contemporary Europe who had direct experience with architecture at the Spanish court. Other idealized images of the Royal Palace were made for Spanish kings. The palace inventory of

1636 records a painting of the completed façade as well as a small object in the king’s study that can be considered a model. It is listed as an ebony box, nearly two feet long and fronted with a glass opening that allowed one to glance in upon a painted backdrop of the Royal Palace “with the two towers completed and the [royal] arms cast in bronze. And on the surface of the plaza appear[ed] many figures of men and coaches, with views also to the south gardens.”52 This diminutive image of a completed building and its urban setting, perhaps placed in the king’s office by the maestro mayor, could have been intended to remind the monarch of the end goal of the extensive urban transformation then underway at the site. Its rendering of the arms in bronze highlights their significance and also the ways in which they were intended to be noticed by seventeenth-century viewers. Unfortunately, neither the painted view nor the ebony box survives, so we must rely on written accounts to supplement the limited surviving Figure 43  Girolamo Rainaldi, Bartolomeo Avanzini, and others, Palazzo Ducale of Modena, begun 1634, main façade. Photo: Robin L. Thomas.

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visual evidence that records, however faintly, the impact the Royal Palace had on its beholders. What mattered to Cassiano dal Pozzo and the unknown maker of the wood model was the visual impression of the Royal Palace as a symbol of majesty. The same can be said of Madrid in these early years of Philip IV’s reign. As mentioned in the previous chapter, the first map of this city “continually under construction” was printed in 1623, and in that same year the first local history was published by the royal chronicler Gil González Dávila. In his book González Dávila includes a lengthy description of the Royal Palace and informs his readers that it stands on a site that “used to be the real alcázar.” The chronicler goes on to list architectural and landscape features of the building and its grounds, declaring, “to judge by what one sees on the exterior, [the palace] represents the grandeza and authority of its prince.”53 For González Dávila and writers who would cite his history of Madrid in the decades to follow, the Royal Palace impressed by means of its classical ornament, signaling authority. By insisting on calling this building a palacio, the chronicler aimed to persuade a reader of the building’s modernity in the same way that Gómez de Mora’s architecture sought to do so. It is a tangible example of the court as an institution, with historians and architects working in tandem to establish a consensus about the role of monumental buildings within the lived experience of the city. Three decades later another royal chronicler, Alonso Núñez de Castro, echoed that sentiment when he wrote about the cost undertaken “when the real alcázar of this town was rebuilt as the palace.”54 Núñez de Castro compared the effort to contemporary projects underway in Florence, Heidelberg, Turin, and Modena. In this way the historian spoke to the Madrid

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court’s assertion of its place on the European political stage.

Inte ri o rs : Ce remony an d Gove rnment Cassiano dal Pozzo was impressed by the façade of Madrid’s Royal Palace, as was, perhaps, the unknown engraver working for a German audience. Pozzo was also accustomed to seeing richly decorated palace interiors and hearing Mass in the luxurious royal chapel. He was a high-ranking visitor, and his access was different from that of most who entered the building, at least on most days. A 1657 excerpt from the diary of Francisco Jacinto de Villalpando, the Marquis of Osera, relays a festive scene on 28 November celebrating the birth of a prince, Felipe Próspero: “I went . . . to the palace, which I reached with great difficulty owing to the multitude of coaches and people. All of the doors had been opened, such that the public entered interiors rarely reached by grandees.”55 Osera’s description of people moving about the palace reveals the multipurpose nature of the building, whose functions were residential, and therefore relatively private and unseen, as well as governmental, the relatively public functions on which the remainder of this chapter focuses. Ceremonial forms of government, including royal audiences and diplomatic missions, have been well studied.56 Government of a legislative and procedural sort is less well understood. It was carried out at times in ceremonial rooms on the palace’s main story but more often transpired in courtrooms and judicial chambers located at ground level. Because the building no longer exists, observations about its interiors must necessarily be limited. Yet the importance of judicial spaces

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as a reflection of the political ideals of the Spanish Monarchy merits even a speculative attempt at understanding. For insight into government spaces in the Royal Palace in the 1620s, two surviving drawings by Juan Gómez de Mora are instructive.57 The images—plans of the main and ground stories of the building—were made for the Italian cardinal Francesco Barberini as a souvenir of his visit to Madrid as papal legate in the spring and summer of 1626. Both drawings are part of an album now in the Vatican Library that includes plans of other royal buildings as well as an extensive relación by Gómez de Mora that was intended to be read alongside the images.58 The architect’s lengthy report enumerates spaces that are labeled in red ink on the plans, offering up a wealth of details concerning how palace interiors were used. This includes information that might be considered general but also some particular details that can be labeled classified and intended for Barberini’s eyes only. During the cardinal’s delegation to Madrid, for instance, he baptized the newborn infanta María Eugenia. Gómez de Mora refers to the ceremony in labeling rooms in the southeast corner of the palace’s main story as a nursery for the newborn princess. It is as if the architect meant to jog the cardinal’s memory when he poured over the image once back in Rome. The intimate aspects of the drawing have gone largely unnoted, although they manifest the extraordinary nature of the album as a familial gift to the Barberini cardinal. Gómez de Mora’s report accompanying the Vatican Library plans charts an itinerary through the palace that begins on the main story (fig. 44). To approach this level, a visitor would first have had to traverse the Patio del Rey, or King’s Courtyard, indicated at left on the plan, and then ascend the

main staircase. From the landing, a variety of paths were possible, depending on the nature of the visit. Passing the Spanish and Swiss guards at the top of the stairs, one could proceed through a guard room (4) and waiting hall (5) before having an audience with the king in a room Gómez de Mora names the Antechamber (6), located in the northwest corner of the palace. The Antechamber is the setting for a painted scene from the 1580s depicting Philip II with his children (fig. 45). Walls are covered with wood paneling and evenly placed pilasters in the Tuscan order, features favored by the king for architectural undertakings in and around the court. Luxurious tapestries hung in many palace interiors, and a few of these prized weavings cover the wall and baldachin that define Philip’s throne. Aside from the king’s chair and a table displaying a German clock, the artist shows no furniture. Yet this spare room could be speedily transformed by palace staff for events that included the king’s weekly Friday meetings with Council of Castile magistrates or the annual Holy Thursday ceremony during which the king fed and washed the feet of some of Madrid’s humblest residents.59 The painting offers no indication of the room’s ceiling, although many interiors along the north wing retained artesonado, or intricately carved wood, from the palace’s earlier decoration. Other ceilings would be frescoed around 1564–68 by artists selected by Philip II for their expertise in the medium, which they learned in Italy: one such artist was Gaspar Becerra (1520– 1570), who worked in Rome in the 1540s and most of the 1550s.60 At right in the painting, the anonymous artist depicts a large window offering a view onto the countryside and the Guadarrama Mountains. Views were important to the king’s successors,

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Figure 44  Juan Gómez de Mora, plan of the Royal Palace of Madrid main floor, 1626. Ink and color washes on paper, approx. 19 5/16 × 24 in. (49 × 61 cm). Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, Barb. lat. 4372/15. Photo © Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana.

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and Gómez de Mora highlights them often in his report, including those onto the Plaza de Palacio and the “most delightful” view of all, to be had from the king’s office in the Gilded Tower (15). The sequence of vaulted rooms from the Antechamber to the Gilded Tower correspond to the king’s private quarters. As Gómez de Mora reports, they also served the practice of government at the highest level. These quarters have been redrawn for this book (fig. 46). Adjacent to the Antechamber containing the baldachin was a smaller Antechamber of the Ambassadors (7), followed by the king’s bedroom (8), where, according to Gómez de Mora, the monarch received new ambassadors for the first time. Three rooms are labeled 9 and hint at the way in which they would have been used by a

special palace guest such as an ambassador. The first, corresponding to a medieval turret and thus round in plan, offered another view onto Madrid’s hinterland and provided access to a staircase that led to the Royal Treasury, below. The second, another transitional space, led to the final chamber identified as 9, which served as the king’s formal dining room and in which, in red ink, Gómez de Mora has indicated the placement of a credenza. The architect’s report reveals that this dining room Figure 45  Unknown Madrid artist, Philip II and His Children, ca. 1583–85. Oil on canvas, 19 11/16 × 31 ½ in. (50 × 80 cm). Hispanic Society Museum and Library, New York, A 1838. Photo courtesy of the Hispanic Society of America, New York.

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8

7

9 9

9

18

10 11

12 17

16 36 14 13 15

Figure 46  Royal Palace of Madrid, detail of the mainfloor sector used for the king’s residence, meeting rooms, and office, after Juan Gómez de Mora, 1626. Drawing by Chris Phillips.

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doubled as a place for consultations with departing ambassadors and for the swearing of oaths by viceroys and captains general. Thus, these spaces were critical to the ceremonial transfer of power across Europe and the Atlantic Ocean. The long light-filled Gilded Gallery (labeled 10) led to the royal office (15) and the king’s library, which was located just above the office, on a separate floor of the Gilded Tower. As Gómez de Mora illustrates on the plan, a door from the king’s office opened onto a large terrace, allowing for panoramic views of the countryside.61 The architect also writes in his report that the tower’s staircase (36) permitted the king secret access to the palace park, suggesting that the monarch could often opt to experience nature directly as well as view it from his terrace.62 The natural world also found its way into the decoration of the king’s library, which (as noted in the previous chapter) had been overseen by the cosmographer João-Baptista Lavanha. In addition to maps and books, the library displayed “natural rarities from all over the world.”63 Other items in the room were categorized as curiosities. These included an array of mathematical and scientific instruments, from clocks to equinoctial compasses to automata such as one in the form of an elephant with a tower on its back.64 Above the library, the top floor of the tower offered magnificent views. In his 1633 treatise on the nobility of painting, Vicente Carducho (ca. 1576–1638) praises the vantage: “from one end, [you can take in] most of the court and, from the other, [you see] the most marvelous view of all, encompassing the banks of the Manzanares River, the Casa del Campo, the ports of Guadarrama, and the mountains . . . of the Escorial.”65 The Gilded Tower interiors provided a retreat for the king within his palace, but company was

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always close at hand. For instance, the presidents of royal councils met with the king in the chamber labeled 12, as did the administrators of the Royal Works, making this room an epicenter of government as well as architectural planning. Although the only indication of furniture in this room is a bed the king sometimes used, according to Gómez de Mora, the room would also have included a large table on which to review drawings prepared by the Royal Works studio. Conveniently, many of these drawings were kept in the turret room labeled 18, located just off the Gilded Gallery. Gómez de Mora knew this space intimately, as the notation describing this room in his report suggests: “Room in which all the drawings related to the royal houses are kept, in addition to reports on the roads pertaining to the kingdoms of Spain, which are the charge of the head designer [Traçador] of the king and master of his works.”66 The architect’s words suggest the near-circular room was little more than a storage space. Yet the description recorded by Carducho proves that it had been richly decorated with frescoes by Gaspar Becerra in the late sixteenth century.67 The artist painted the Four Liberal Arts in the vault and covered the walls in grotteschi. To store his collection of drawings, Philip II had commissioned walnut shelves whose edges were carved in relief and then gilded. The luxuriousness of the shelves corresponded to the importance the monarch assigned to architectural pursuits. As Gómez de Mora notes, they housed drawings of all Royal Works projects. Carducho adds special mention of drawings pertaining to the Escorial, some of which might have been displayed on its walls, and the Madrid palace. Furthermore, he notes that diagrammatic plans for court rituals and ceremonies, such as the annual spring processions celebrating Corpus Christi (in

which the king participated on foot), were also archived in the space. Some one hundred feet away from his epicenter of architectural knowledge, the king carried out everyday business in the Main Gallery (13), which Gómez de Mora also refers to as the King’s Gallery. The architect describes an adjoining room (labeled 16) as the place where the king kept “all that pertains to music,” including “books and instruments of different sorts and grandeur.”68 This room, in addition to the private study and library in the Gilded Tower, would have served as a space of learned retreat for the king. Just as the tower rooms offered commanding views, so did the King’s Gallery, which was lined with seven windows that opened onto a garden directly below. The garden had been envisioned in the 1560s, after construction of the Gilded Tower, to serve as part of the king’s private quarters. It was aggrandized in 1618–19 with wall niches created to display twenty-four sculpted busts of Roman emperors.69 The new sculptural program led to its renaming as the Garden of the Emperors. Documents such as ambassadorial diaries record alternative itineraries from the palace’s main staircase to important ceremonial rooms occupying the southern portion of the building, which had been built in conjunction with the redesign of the palace façade. Select visitors could, for instance, bypass the king’s private quarters and walk along the cloister of the King’s Courtyard to arrive at the Great Hall, an immense space Gómez de Mora labeled 23 on the Vatican plan. The hall was used for theatrical and musical performances and served as a setting in which, as the royal architect states, “the king and queen dine[d] in public on days when women [of the royal household] [were] married in the palace.”70 Some distinguished

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guests, interestingly, might approach the Great Hall following a private consultation in the queen’s apartments, located on the eastern end of the building, as was the case for Francesco Barberini and noted by Cassiano dal Pozzo in his diary. A retinue to the queen would make its way from the main staircase to the antechamber marked 41, located at the midpoint of the east cloister, and possibly be invited to proceed to the queen’s dining room (42) or estrado (43), a room usually reserved for women in Spanish domestic architecture.71 A long gallery beyond these rooms gave views onto the Queen’s Garden, which the monarch could enjoy privately from the interior space marked 53, adjacent to her oratory (50). The king’s or queen’s guests, along with the grandees of court, might also attend Mass in the royal chapel (30), located between the two courtyards, in a space that had been sumptuously transformed from its sixteenth-century design (discussed earlier).72 Art enlivened other ceremonial interiors, such as the Great Hall (23). In 1636, on all four of its walls, cartographic images complemented paintings in an ensemble that celebrated the global domain of the Spanish Habsburgs. Among the city portraits on display were two large views of Lisbon, most likely made during Philip III’s visit in 1619.73 On another wall, a painted view of Mexico City, noted in the palace inventory to be fourteen feet wide but without any other specifics, greeted a visitor. Views of Ghent, Milan, Amsterdam, Tunis, and other cities complemented six paintings by Hieronymous Bosch in this impressive room. From the Great Hall, a visitor would enter the New Hall (26). This two-story interior, one of Gómez de Mora’s most important contributions to the palace, corresponded to the three central bays of the palace’s city façade and offered access 80

to the royal balcony facing the Plaza de Palacio. The Vatican plan clearly illustrates the thick walls of the two medieval towers on either side of the hall, which once framed the building’s main entrance, as recorded by Anton van den Wyngaerde. Completed in 1622, the New Hall was used for audiences with important dignitaries. It was decorated with fine furnishings and some of the most treasured paintings in the royal collection, including works by Titian, Orazio Gentileschi, Peter Paul Rubens, and Jusepe Ribera.74 With two stories of south-facing windows, the interior had the potential to be bathed in light, suggesting a counterpoint to frequently repeated characterizations of the Royal Palace as a dark and gloomy building.75 Later palace renovations in the 1640s and 1650s would transform this interior space into the Hall of Mirrors, the sumptuous room in which the court painter Juan Carreño often portrayed royal subjects. But already, in the 1620s, the New Hall was a palatial setting for government of the highest order. What can be said of the more procedural forms of government performed in the Royal Palace? Grandees, ambassadors, and diplomats constituted the elite of palace visitors. Everyday citizens, too, entered the building in search of justice in the tribunals of the Council of Castile, located on the Queen’s Courtyard. Moreover, various royal councils whose presidents met with the king in his private offices carried out their routine work within chambers and suites largely situated around the perimeter of the same eastern courtyard, but also in the Casa de Oficios, immediately east of the palace. The ground-floor spaces in which day-to-day conciliar and legal work was done in the palace have been little studied. They deserve attention for the more complete picture of palace life they reveal as well as for the information they provide about

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the architecture of government in Madrid and the larger Spanish Habsburg world. Until now, scholars have given scant consideration to Gómez de Mora’s plan of the ground floor and mezzanine level (planta al andar del suelo bajo de los patios y entresuelos) of Madrid’s Royal Palace, a plan also presented to Francesco Barberini in 1626 (fig. 47). With the plan and Gómez de Mora’s accompanying report, alongside a range of other period sources, one can reconstruct with some specificity the spatial dimension of what might be called everyday government in the Royal Palace. My focus is on the council chambers and courtrooms located around the Queen’s Courtyard, the busiest sector of the palace and the most accessible for people of nearly all social classes. As a caveat, it must be noted that government in the palace evolved over the course of the seventeenth century.76 Thus, the discussion that follows has to be understood as reflective of palace functions in the decade of the 1620s, functions that would later change. As he does for the plan of the main story, Gómez de Mora uses red ink to number the ground-floor spaces discussed in his corresponding report. Depending on rank, a visitor to the Royal Palace arriving by coach in the 1620s might pass through the main door, framed by paired columns (labeled “no. 1”), which led to a monumental zaguán, or vestibule (2), the first of a sequence of vestibules used by pedestrians as well as horsedrawn coaches. The thick walls on either side of this vestibule, perfectly square in plan, correspond to the two medieval towers that framed the sixteenth-century palace frontispiece as rendered by Anton van den Wyngaerde. From this vestibule, one could proceed to the principal zaguán (labeled 3). Rectangular in plan, this grand space dated to renovations initiated during the reign of Charles V

and stood as an “ancient” part of the building that was subsequently integrated into the modern palace. Some visitors might dismount from a carriage here and proceed up three steps to one of the two palace courtyards, while a coachman would exit to the east by means of a passage labeled 51 and the door marked 46 to await his summons in the Plaza de Palacio. A third entrance, located to the left of the frontispiece, was used almost exclusively by the royal family. On the plan, Gómez de Mora labels the space beyond this entrance 14, a number that corresponds to the private apartments of the cardinal-prince Fernando (1609–1641), rooms located on the building’s mezzanine level. In his written report, Gómez de Mora explains that the zaguán was located directly below. The special entrance from the plaza provided access to a heavily guarded staircase, also illustrated on the plan, that led to the residences of the ranking males at court. Less distinguished visitors might enter the palace on foot via the main door of the palace, although they more likely would have used the building’s fourth entrance (labeled 47), situated farthest east. Gómez de Mora indicates a post at this doorway, which would have prevented entry for a coach driver while also serving as a security check for a pedestrian. The threshold led to yet another foyer—another of the new palace spaces designed by Gómez de Mora—and then to two others (52 and 53), above which ran the gallery of La Encarnación. The latter of these vestibules was known as the foyer of the Queen’s Courtyard offices (çaguan de los oficios al Patio de la Reyna). Documents indicate that pedestrian movement would have been checked at various places by palace guards as well as by chains and hefty curtains that could be drawn before the principal zaguán. Given an incident in 1636 during which a lieutenant of the Spanish Guard stormed the curtains, 81

Figure 47  Juan Gómez de Mora, plan of the Royal Palace of Madrid ground-floor and mezzanine level, 1626. Ink and color washes on paper, approx. 18 15/16 × 24 in. (48 × 61 cm). Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, Barb. lat. 4372/16. Photo © Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana.

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we might conclude that barriers discouraged but did not necessarily deny passage.77 A color-coded variant of the Vatican plan better illustrates the manifold uses of palace ground-floor spaces mentioned by Gómez de Mora in his report (fig. 48). The extensive system of vestibules along the south façade, including the one passing under the cardinal-prince’s bedroom, is left white in the diagram. Spaces assigned to the royal household off the southwest corner of the King’s Courtyard

are in green. Residences occupied by noble servants are colored pink. As a testament to the evolution of government spaces, the royal apartments along the south edge of this cloister had earlier served as meeting halls for the Council of Castile, and some would revert back to this purpose in the Figure 48  Royal Palace of Madrid, ground-floor plan after Juan Gómez de Mora, 1626. Drawing by Chris Phillips.

Royal Household Royal Chapel Royal Treasury Noble Residence Royal Service Government

King’s

Queen’s

Courtyard

Courtyard

Queen’s Garden

Garden of the Emperors

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1630s. Below these rooms, royal secretaries worked in semisubterranean vaulted chambers known as the covachuelas, or lower offices. The spaces identified by Gómez de Mora in his report as dedicated to royal service are denoted in brown, while government spaces are colored gray. Finally, the royal chapel appears in yellow, and the royal treasury (guardajoyas), home to the palace’s fine collection of tapestries and other luxury goods, appears in blue. Of these spaces, only those rendered in gray and the three offices dedicated to royal service along the north end of the King’s Courtyard were directly accessible from ground level. Most of Gómez de Mora’s plan depicts the mezzanine level of the palace, spaces that would have seen a greater degree of privacy. Clockwise from the main zaguán as depicted on the Vatican plan, the King’s Courtyard was lined as follows: First came two suites of apartments for Philip IV’s siblings, the cardinal-prince Fernando and María Ana of Austria (1606–1646), the future queen of Hungary. Next were residences for their ranking servants and an apartment used by the mayordomo mayor, or high steward, of the prince Carlos (1607–1632). Off the northeast corner of the courtyard, two offices numbered 111 and 112 were dedicated to the Bureo, a palace office that administered the staffs of the king’s and queen’s households.78 In his notation for room 111, the Bureo of the King, Gómez de Mora notes that the king’s mayordomo mayor met here every Monday and Friday with the other palace stewards to review matters related to palace staffing and budget. In red ink, the architect has sketched a large table with long benches on three of its sides and a more prominent seat on the fourth, used by the mayordomo mayor. Gómez de Mora’s notations of palace furnishings are limited generally to royal bedrooms or government spaces, so his detailed 84

notes for the Bureo suggest its importance as a court institution. The palace’s grand staircase was accessible from both patios, at the entries marked 5 and 7. The first landing included a door (82) providing access to the sacristy of the royal chapel (84) and another chamber that served the chapel (85), located directly above, on the main story, with access via a smaller staircase (86). Immediately south of these rooms, Gómez de Mora identifies the tribunal used by the Council of Portugal (81), which, unlike other conciliar chambers, was accessed from the King’s Courtyard, via a door marked 79. Founded in 1582, after the annexation of Portugal by Philip II, the council was the newest deliberative body of the Spanish Habsburg composite monarchy.79 Three additional rooms, all marked 80 by Gómez de Mora, served as auxiliary offices for the Portuguese Council secretaries, archivists, and other staff. Four decades after Gómez de Mora drew the plan for the Barberini cardinal and following a protracted war that led to Portugal’s independence, these rooms would be repurposed. Immediately north of the main staircase, two rooms labeled 106 and 107 were dedicated to the Council of Aragón. Members of this council, founded in 1480, included noblemen from the kingdom’s principal cities—Barcelona, Valencia, and Zaragoza—as well as members who often served concurrently on the Council of Italy, whose meeting spaces, interestingly, are not identified in Gómez de Mora’s report.80 In the 1640s, when the Principality of Catalonia challenged the government of Philip IV with rebellion and eventually allied itself with France, these chambers were the setting of tense meetings.81 For the main meeting halls of both the Council of Portugal and the Council of Aragón (81 and 107), Gómez de Mora has sketched the location of daises used by councilors

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in deliberations, yet the evidence he provided of what palace government spaces looked like was more complete for other tribunals. Early seventeenth-century travel diaries as well as contemporary plays and novels cite the liveliness of the Queen’s Courtyard, where litigants, lawyers, and judges assembled and booksellers and print vendors sold their wares from stalls and kiosks under the arcades. One late seventeenth-century French visitor characterized the environment as fair-like, a place where “all sorts of cheap things” were for sale.82 The southern end of the cloister provided access to a series of staircases. Many were used by court servants, but others were official in nature: one of the latter was the westernmost, which led to the mezzanine-level gallery linking the palace to La Encarnación, a path Gómez de Mora indicates with a dashed line and labels, at far right, as simply a pasadiço. This was much more than a passageway, as it both traversed and joined diverse portions of the palace compound. For a palace employee like Gómez de Mora, who resided in the vicinity of the Casa del Tesoro, the gallery was an essential feature of his work commute. From the southeast corner, a passageway led to a foyer (52) that served as a node for administering the queen’s household; her corresponding apartments were located directly upstairs. The elite women who tended to the queen were among the most powerful at court because of the access their positions provided; not surprisingly, in 1626 these women were relatives of the first minister, the Count-Duke of Olivares.83 Leading this service was the Marchioness of Eliche, daughter of Olivares, whose own apartments were entered from the east side of the patio via the door marked 54. Her husband’s apartments (rooms 62 through 70) were located at the ground level of the palace’s southeast tower. Another intimate member of the queen’s

household in 1626 was the Countess of Olivares; she occupied the suite marked 72 to 78 immediately north of the marchioness’s suite. The arrangement of these quarters highlights an important design aspect of the sixteenth-century palace, in which its L-shaped eastern end was intended to function in concert with the Queen’s Garden. Off the north sector of the Queen’s Courtyard was where some of the most important Spanish Habsburg government spaces were located, including a suite of offices and tribunals presided over by the Council of Castile, also called the Royal Council (Consejo Real) in this era (fig. 49).84 From the upper right corner of the courtyard, a door (87) opened to a passageway leading to a chamber labeled 89. This important room was used by the preeminent Council of State, whose eight or so members tended to political and diplomatic affairs in all corners of the monarchy. As described by González Dávila, the Council of State was “the sea where the greatest secrets and mysteries of the entire monarchy [came] to dock.”85 In the 1620s councilors included jurists, ambassadors, powerful clergymen, and even one former viceroy of both New Spain and Peru.86 Measuring twenty by thirty Castilian feet, the vaulted interior used by the council included a long table with benches, sketched in red ink by Gómez de Mora. In his written description, he identifies the space as “the room in which the tribunal of the Council of State is located, and on different days, the Council of War meets in the same tribunal.”87 The War Council’s membership overlapped significantly with that of state and dealt with matters of no lesser consequence from this chamber. In addition to carpets and rich wall hangings, the hall would also have been a prime location for the display of maps of Spanish territories. The scribes who worked from desks in this room recorded council proceedings 85

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102 98

101 97

100

107

96 99

106

103

95 91

94

104

89

92

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90

Figure 49  Royal Palace of Madrid, ground-floor plan after Juan Gómez de Mora, 1626, detail of the government sector. Drawing by Chris Phillips.

in troves of papers now housed primarily in the Archivo General de Simancas. Rooms 91 to 94 were allotted to the Council of Castile, the chief legislative body for the populous kingdom whose president was regarded as the second most powerful person in the realm after the king. Castilian law held sway over the great majority of the Iberian Peninsula and the Viceroyalties of New Spain and Peru, although many aspects of policy related to American territories were handled by the Royal Council of the Indies, whose offices were located in the Casa de Oficios. In 1626 visitors to the Council of Castile courtrooms, labeled 96 to 98, would first enter room 91, 86

93

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where porteros—namely, doormen or porters, but also courtroom bailiffs—directed their movement. From the door marked 99, these visitors could access a long corridor that led to the three tribunals, or audiencias, which were among the largest of the new spaces built as part of the palace’s expansion. A second door in room 91 led to an office for council secretaries and scribes, marked 94. Gómez de Mora indicates only a dais at one end of this room, but there would also have been desks and cabinets filled with papers, some loose and others sewn in leather volumes, and the smell of ink would have hovered in the air. Beyond this office, the Council of Castile’s main chamber (labeled 93) was intended for plenary meetings of the governing body. In the plan, the architect highlights a dais that fills the eastern limits of the chamber with benches along three

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sides and a table for the council president. The arrangement of furniture rendered this space ceremonial, a quality that would have been enhanced by rugs and wall hangings in addition to paintings and other visual objects framed for display. The inclusion of some furniture details on Gómez de Mora’s plan suggests the hierarchy of power in the government halls of the Royal Palace and the ways in which the design of architectural interiors set the stage for power plays within the building. Judges could, for instance, enter their ceremonial chamber through the corridor labeled 92, bypassing plaintiffs, petitioners, and others gathered in what must have been a noisy room 91. But as Gómez de Mora’s report implies, rank could also be pulled on the magistrates. The narrow room between the halls marked 93 and 89—labeled 104 in the original drawing—was used on occasion by the king, with private windows onto the chambers that allowed him to observe proceedings in secret.88 In his report the architect adds that from a passageway above the corridor marked 100, the king had “windows opening onto the remaining [tribunals of the] Council [of Castile] and that of Aragón,” the latter corresponding to room 106.89 The architect also notes that the corridor labeled 103 was intended for the exclusive use of the king. From their main meeting hall (93), council magistrates could enter the scribes’ chamber, labeled 94, and then proceed north along a private corridor (95) that offered access to their three courtrooms. In 1626 these corresponded to an appeals court known as the milquinientas, which Gómez de Mora has labeled 96, and two other courtrooms, labeled 97 and 98, which were overseen by a subgroup of the Council of Castile, the Magistrates of the Royal Household and Court. This judicial body’s overall charge was to govern the court. It dealt with criminal charges brought forth by any

of the royal councils and civil disputes related to courtiers residing in Madrid or within its jurisdiction, known as the court’s province (provincia), defined as the territory within a five-league radius of the court city. The civil court, labeled by Gómez de Mora as the Sala de Justicia (97), and the criminal court, or Sala de Crimen (98), at the top of the plan, were the magistrates’ principal judicial spaces. Abundant surviving documentation of the activities carried out within these chambers shows that what transpired within them brought a good deal of traffic into the palace. Less than a decade after Gómez de Mora drew his plan for the Barberini cardinal, the magistrates would relocate to a new courthouse (the topic of chapter 3). The reshuffling of Council of Castile spaces began as early as 1630. María Ana of Austria had recently abandoned her apartments on the King’s Courtyard, following her marriage to the emperor Ferdinand II and her subsequent departure for Vienna in 1629; the apartments were renovated for the council’s use.90 Shortly thereafter, between 1632 and 1635, the former courtrooms in the north wing of the palace were converted into an auxiliary office and summer quarters for the king. The renovated spaces have garnered a good deal of attention from art historians owing to the renowned works of art, including paintings by Albrecht Dürer and Pieter Brueghel the Elder as well as portraits—not the least of which was Velázquez’s Las meninas—that were installed in these spaces.91 Although Gómez de Mora’s plans are often consulted in studies of the summer apartments, little attention has been given to the prior uses of these spaces as courtrooms—and, it should be added, courtrooms of great significance for Spanish jurisprudence. An institutional history of the Council of Castile published by the magistrate Antonio Martínez 87

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Figure 50  Unknown maker, Tribunal of the Sala de Mil y Quinientas in Session. Engraving, 8 7/8 × 6 1/8 in. (22.5 × 15.5 cm). From Antonio Martínez Salazar, Colección de memorias y noticias del gobierno general y político del Consejo (Madrid: Antonio Sanz, 1764), 156. Biblioteca Nacional de España, 2/19848. Photo: Biblioteca Nacional de España.

Salazar in 1764 enables its readers to approximate the appearance of palace judicial chambers. The jurist describes some of the council’s principal tribunals and includes a series of engravings with explanatory texts. One depicts the appeals court in session (fig. 50).92 By the date of this engraving’s publication, the Habsburg Royal Palace had burned, and the Bourbon monarchs had long 88

before relocated most royal councils elsewhere. Thus, the engraving does not illustrate any of the courtrooms illustrated by Gómez de Mora in 1626. Yet correspondences between the furniture depicted in the seventeenth-century plan and those recorded in the eighteenth-century history suggest that the disposition of courtrooms changed little over the intervening period.93 In the engraving a baldachin hangs above the bench of the highest-ranking judges, with their colleagues sitting according to seniority on two other benches, arranged perpendicular to the first, so that all the men share a common table. The council’s most senior magistrate (labeled 1) presided over meetings and, as Martínez Salazar writes, had sole use of the bell displayed on the table alongside an inkwell and quill. To the right of the judges, a wood dividing wall defines a passageway to a door, in an arrangement that corresponds with courtroom entrances for judges and scribes as recorded by Gómez de Mora in his 1626 plan of the Royal Palace. A curtain is drawn above the door, and paintings hang on the walls. Compendia of legal codes and other books were needed in the room, and Martínez Salazar includes them in the engraving. At a table opposite the judges, a court recorder (relator) was required to sit between two lawyers, with the interested parties (labeled D) standing behind them, alongside two court bailiffs “with their swords at hand.” The hieratic arrangement of bodies and things in a courtroom like this reflects the ceremonial uses of palace spaces, just as they would in the king’s audience hall on the main floor of the Royal Palace. Judges sitting en audiencia were understood to be performing their duties as deputies of the monarch and distributors of royal justice. Martínez Salazar is silent about the subject matter of the paintings depicted in the appeals

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courtroom. The figures in the image at left appear to be engaged in negotiation, while the painting next to it seems to depict a seated pontiff, a pose suggesting authority. Without further information provided by Martínez Salazar, it is challenging to offer an iconographical interpretation of this imagery, although the display of objects in this room must have been intentional. Such was the case for the decoration of chambers used by the Council of the Indies in the Casa de Oficios. The ceremonial rooms were clad with wall hangings and their daises covered with fine woven mats.94 Additionally, a cast-iron set of royal arms was displayed above the chimney in the council’s new Sala Principal, or Main Hall. A 1650 image of the Council of the Indies leadership assembled in a chapel at the monastery church of Nuestra Señora de Atocha in Madrid provides helpful clues about the appearance of the council’s palace chambers (fig. 51). In the engraving, the councilors are shown kneeling on woven rugs. A weaving of the sort that adorned their palace office suite covers the altar platform. Other decorative features include two council banners that correspond to the description of wall hangings mentioned in 1598 documents regarding the council’s former quarters in the Royal Palace.95 A galleon at sea appears in each, and four additional model ships are suspended, between lanterns, from the side walls. Resting before the altar, a globe framed by the two ends of a banderole declaring “New World” symbolizes the wide reach of the council’s deliberations. Cartographic objects such as those included in the engraving would also have been displayed in the council’s ceremonial halls in the Casa de Oficios. That these conciliar chambers were decorated by the same cosmographers, architects, and aposentadores who outfitted the remainder of the palace attests once again to the collaborative effort that lay behind

the promotion of the grandeza of the Spanish Monarchy. Another engraving from Martínez Salazar’s eighteenth-century history of the Council of Castile illustrates the governing body gathered en masse for one of its weekly meetings (fig. 52).96 In this vaulted hall, the walls are covered with fabric, and a large carpet demarcates the seating area for judges. Here, too, a baldachin overhangs the most senior judges, and, in an innovation, a tall clock Figure 51  Pedro de Villafranca, The Royal Council of the Indies Before the Virgin of Atocha. Frontispiece to Antonio de León Pinelo, Oracion panegirica a la Presentacion de la Sacratissima Virgen (Madrid: Diego Diaz, 1650). Engraving. Biblioteca Nacional de España, 2/67674. Photo: Biblioteca Nacional de España.

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stands in the room to mark the pace of proceedings. Government spaces like this one were replicated in the audiencias situated across the Spanish Monarchy, with variations that reflected Spanish Habsburg policies accommodating local practices. An enormous painting now in Brussels commemorates the ceremonial inauguration of Claude Figure 52  Unknown maker, Three Chambers of the Council of Castile in Session During a Despacho de Semanería, 1764. Engraving, 8 7/8 × 6 1/8 in. (22.5 × 15.5 cm). From Antonio Martínez Salazar, Colección de memorias y noticias del gobierno general y político del Consejo (Madrid: Antonio Sanz, 1764), 69. Biblioteca Nacional de España, 2/19848. Photo: Biblioteca Nacional de España.

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Lamoral of Ligne (1618–79) as viceroy of Sicily in 1669 (fig. 53). Set in the audience hall of the Palazzo Reale in Palermo, the painting includes a number of details that illuminate viceregal government in action.97 Furniture and decorative items such as the baldachin and ornate fabrics are arranged similarly to the furnishings in judicial spaces in Madrid. In a nod to local custom, steps lead to the viceroy’s throne, with ranking courtiers seated upon them. Above them all hangs a portrait of the Spanish Habsburg king. Civic and religious leaders gather on benches along either side of the room. Boxes along the left wall accommodate trumpeters as well as an overflow audience, if not other musicians. Opposite them, the women of the viceregal court occupy boxes draped with tapestries that leave them largely hidden from view. In Madrid and the satellite centers of the Spanish Monarchy, a system of shared governance was reflected in the common disposition of government spaces and a common architectural language. Spanish Italy provides examples, but others can be found in the Caribbean, Mexico, and Peru, from the early sixteenth-century Casas Reales in Santo Domingo to the later royal palaces of Mexico City and Lima.98 These transatlantic places pertained to the Kingdom of Castile and were subject to the laws established and modified by its council. This is a topic that requires deeper exploration, but understanding governmental spaces in Madrid’s Royal Palace is a critical step. Cassiano dal Pozzo’s observation in 1626 that Madrid’s Royal Palace was “continually under construction” would hold true for another fifty years. Most later renovations affected the interior of the building, but the completion of its façade and reshaping of its plaza would be equally consequential (as discussed in chapter 5). The 1668 drawing that opens this chapter, made by Pietro

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Maria Baldi for the Medici prince, captures the incomplete state of the Royal Palace façade as well as the powerful visual impact it could have on a visitor to Madrid. The scale of the palace alone rendered the building monumental. Yet it was the spaces in which legislation and jurisprudence took place within the building that made the palace a model for other seventeenth-century buildings dedicated to good government. The palace’s transformation, however, was not completed until the late decades of the seventeenth century. A full appreciation of that project requires a consideration

Figure 53  Filippo Giannetto (attr.), Inauguration of Prince Claude Lamoral de Ligne as Viceroy of Sicily in 1669 in Palermo, ca. 1669–79. Oil on canvas, 10 ft. 9 in. × 17 ft. 11 in. (327 × 545 cm). Château des Princes de Ligne, Brussels, B 11338. Photo © KIK -IRPA , Brussels.

of seventeenth-century building projects outside the palace quarters, in the heart of Madrid, projects also informed by a heightened awareness of the potential for civic buildings to shape public life and the image of a city.

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Figure 54  Unknown Madrid artist, La Cárcel de Corte de Madrid, ca. 1645. Oil on canvas, 3 ft. 6 ½ in. × 5 ft. 4 ¾ in. (108 × 164.5 cm). Ministerio de Asuntos Exteriores, Unión Europea y Cooperación, I.N. 285398. Photo: Gobierno de España, Ministerio de Asuntos Exteriores, Unión Europea y Cooperación (Pablo Linés).

Chapter 3

Justice and Penance The Court Prison, ca. 1640 Around 1640 few places in Madrid were as lively as the Plaza de Provincia, located in front of a newly built courthouse known popularly as the Cárcel de Corte, or Court Prison. A painting by an unidentified Madrid artist captures the busy place in a scene filled with people engaged in a range of activities (fig. 54).1 In and around the basin of a fountain adorned with a statue of Apollo, individuals fill clay jars with water. To their left, picture and furniture vendors hawk their merchandise in the open air to well-heeled customers, including gentlemen dressed in black and a pair of Mercedarian monks donned in white robes who compare notes on a canvas presented for their consideration. Another picture seller has set up wares along the wall to the immediate left of the entrance to the courthouse, between two windows covered with gilded wrought-iron grilles. Three window bays further over, an image of the Virgin and Child appears, affixed to the wall of the left tower, a testament to religious street pictures that were abundant in seventeenth-century Madrid.2 At lower right, two couples enter the scene from the Plaza Mayor, one having paused before a group of flower sellers preparing bouquets. In the foreground, just left of center, a knight of the Order of Santiago rides a white steed and turns slightly as if to address the viewer.

Also populating the scene are a number of court officials tied to the Cárcel de Corte. The anonymous painter emphasizes the building’s symmetry: its towers bookend the composition, and a stone frontispiece with classical ornament, royal arms, and five sculpted figures anchors the center of the building. The framing of the frontispiece by twostory elevations, here built primarily of brick in the manner of Habsburg-style buildings first erected in the 1560s, follows the model of the Royal Palace. Stone cornices, window frames, and quoins along the edges of the towers contrast with the brick, as do the gilt window grilles and the building’s central balcony, located directly above the main entrance. Gold leaf has also been applied to the many bolas, or ornamental spheres, adorning the building’s dormers, steeples, and the wooden shell that encloses a dome, this last feature rendered faintly in the background behind the statue of an archangel crowning the façade. To the right of the three-story frontispiece, a coach pulled by two mules deposits a dignitary, who is greeted by a group of men dressed in black; these are magistrates of the Council of Castile, for whom the courthouse was erected. Groups of alguaciles (sheriffs, or officers of the law) stand with batons in hand near and under the portico

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at far right. Approaching the Court Prison’s main entrance from the left, two other sheriffs lead an apprehended man toward confinement within the building’s walls. Since the transfer of inmates to another facility in 1834, the building in this painting has been known as the Palacio de Santa Cruz, named for the parish church that once adjoined the Plaza de Provincia to the east, just out of range in this painting. In the early decades of the twentieth century, the Palacio de Santa Cruz served as the seat of the Ministry of State and, following the Spanish Civil War, was remodeled and expanded as the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. The ministry’s name changes befit a building whose own appellation has evolved considerably. The late eighteenth-century label of Palacio de Justicia perhaps best evokes the purpose of the building that was commissioned in 1629 by the Council of Castile; the building then housed offices and tribunals for the Magistrates of the Royal Household and Court, as well as a sizeable prison. Seventeenth-century visitors to Madrid often expressed incredulity that this elegant building, which stood before the Plaza de Provincia, in isolation from other structures, was a prison. For instance, the English merchant Robert Bargrave noted in a 1654 diary entry that the building appeared to be a “palace for a prince and not a jail for criminals.”3 The perception was in part a reaction to the inadequate description of this government building, which served multiple purposes. In addition to holding cells, the so-called Court Prison included judicial tribunals, office suites for magistrates and their scribes, and other offices dedicated to the financial administration of the Royal Works. The building also contained two chapels, one ceremonial and the other more mundane; two infirmaries, one for men and another for women; an

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apothecary; and apartments for resident officials, including a doctor, a warden, a porter, and possibly a public executioner. Despite the building’s manifold uses, the name Court Prison persisted in the seventeenth century, and so I adopt it here as a means of capturing a period understanding of the building.4 The Court Prison is one of the finest monuments of Habsburg Madrid to survive relatively intact, yet many questions remain, and a multitude of legends persist about the building.5 The present chapter opens with a discussion of the Magistrates of the Royal Household and Court, the assembly of judges who worked in the building, tending to the maintenance and policing of the city as well as provisioning the court. Institutions are central to the core interests of this book about architecture and power, and the Court Prison offers a welldocumented example of a building that helped define the workings of a judicial body. As noted in chapter 2, the Magistrates of the Royal Household and Court officiated in tribunals located in a wing north of the Queen’s Courtyard of Madrid’s Royal Palace before the construction of their new headquarters. Thus, the Court Prison presented the magistrates with an opportunity to re-create their working environment. That the overall plan of the new building directly evokes the architecture of the Royal Palace is intentional. Such an association of this building with monuments from the age of Philip II was heavily promoted in the 1620s and 1630s, enthusiastically so by the Count-Duke of Olivares, who looked back to what were perceived to be glory days for Spain.6 The surviving archival record allows for a careful examination of the process behind the Court Prison’s construction. Much of this documentation has been examined before, but it has not been

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analyzed systematically. Questions about design and authorship arise in a review of the building of the Court Prison. Furthermore, documents record traces of contemporary debates about the control of public space as related to the monument’s emergence in a commercial and ceremonial hub of Madrid. The presence of people in the painted view—royal magistrates, well-dressed ladies, and even an unseen prisoner who suspends a cup from his cell in the hope of receiving alms from passersby—lead me to consider the building’s interior uses. There is not enough evidence to provide a bottom-up view of daily life in the Court Prison; even a top-down analysis demands a good deal of speculation. What this chapter ultimately provides is something near the middle. It illuminates the disposition of working spaces for officials serving a range of judicial needs for the court city, as well as disciplinary spaces created for the incarcerated. Central to this analysis are new architectural plans that attempt to reconstruct the building’s interiors around the year 1640, when construction of the Court Prison was largely completed. Although the Palacio de Santa Cruz today includes ceremonial meeting spaces, most seventeenth-century spaces were altered after a devastating fire in 1791 and then again in subsequent nineteenth- and twentieth-century renovations. As a result, an attempt to reconstruct the building’s interiors requires comparison with judicial and penal spaces, including jails and prisons, under the jurisdiction of the Council of Castile in other places, from Seville to Toledo to Mexico City. Ultimately, Madrid’s singularity as a court explains the monumentality of the Court Prison, its sculptural adornment, and its majestic placement in the center of a rapidly expanding city, all in the service of symbolizing Spanish Habsburg rule.

Arch ite c t u re an d I ns tit u ti on s The Magistrates of the Royal Household and Court traced its origins to a late-medieval tribunal of the Council of Castile, which accompanied the then-itinerant court of the Kingdom of Castile. Following Philip II’s decision in 1561 to reside permanently in Madrid, the judicial body was transformed to meet the demands of a fixed court city and was reconstituted in 1582.7 Because the magistrates were associated with a royal council, their duties included not only matters of justice but those involved in securing the court’s food supply and ensuring adequate provisions for foreign ambassadors as well as resident courtiers—duties that often brought them into conflict with Madrid’s municipality. The magistrates’ responsibilities also encompassed street building and other infrastructure projects for Madrid. Philip often appointed judges who had been influential and trusted advisors. One such individual was Agustín Ximénez Ortiz (ca. 1527–1594), a jurist and member of the Council of Castile whose role as a magistrate of the Royal Household and Court in the 1580s came to encompass all aspects of urban design under the title “superintendent of public works and all that concerns the growth of Madrid.”8 Ximénez served as de facto mayor of the city, although the title “prefect,” a term used in ancient Rome for the office of a city governor, is perhaps more suitable to the humanist self-image cultivated by Ximénez and his peers. Beginning in 1585, the Magistrates of the Royal Household and Court issued an annual proclamation on good government in Madrid, the contents of which clarify members’ duties as keepers of the city.9 Codified in 1613, and with little variation for the remainder of the seventeenth century, the document was printed for wide circulation and also

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read aloud by a town crier in prominent Madrid venues. It is usually the first item to appear in each volume of the bound libros de gobierno, which can be consulted at the Archivo Histórico Nacional in Madrid and are the key sources for understanding the activities of the royal magistrates. The annual decrees touch upon the city’s arms supply, poor relief, food provisioning, and a variety of matters related to hygiene intended to curb the spread of disease. Additionally, a number of regulations pertain to trade and the spatial ordering of guild practices in the city. The magistrates even aimed to control decent behavior of men and women alike. With a corps of sheriffs reporting directly to them, policing would become a key activity of the royal magistrates, thus establishing the need for a court prison distinct from a corresponding municipal institution. At times, serious matters such as treason and espionage could be tried by the magistrates.10 A thorough study of criminality in early modern Madrid is beyond the scope of this chapter, which does not seek to survey the work of these judges; instead, my concern is to better understand the physical setting in which they carried out their duties. Moreover, attention to the lived experience of the Court Prison extends to prisoners and visitors, as well as to the staff responsible for the building’s various services and uses. A primitive court prison was founded in Madrid in 1541, during a residency of the then-itinerant court.11 It was located along the Calle del Salvador, skirting the western edge of what would later become the Plaza de Provincia. The precise design of the early prison remains a matter of conjecture, but seventeenth-century documents reveal that it occupied much of the same ground as the new building, which was rendered from the south by Pedro Teixeira on his map of 1656 (fig. 55). In Teixeira’s

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view, the new building is distinguished by two framing towers facing the Plaza de Provincia (labeled “Provinçia” on the map) and an octagonal chapel, crowned with a soaring steeple, centered on the southern side of the building. To the northeast of the plaza fountain (labeled 45), Teixeira depicts the tall bell-and-clock tower adjoining the Church of Santa Cruz, keyed with the letter M. Two other neighboring religious monuments are consequential for the history of the Court Prison. A few doors east, along the Calle de Atocha, stood the Dominican Monastery and College of Santo Tomás (labeled xi by Teixeira). To the south of the Court Prison, beyond its walled yard and a block of houses, was the Convent of La Concepción Gerónima (xxxv ), whose atrium is aligned with the busy street skirting the west end of the Court Prison. The erection of a monumental Court Prison in this well-traveled sector of Madrid can be understood to symbolize the spread of justice outward from the Royal Palace, where the magistrates formerly held court. Documents from the late 1580s imply that Madrid’s original court prison lacked dignity as a seat of royal justice. For instance, the tribunal (audien­ cia) used for the official visits required of the magistrates was well appointed with wall hangings and tapestries as well as benches for judges and writing desks for scribes, but the room lacked proper custodial care.12 If the tribunal was in acceptable shape around 1590, the remainder of the building had become an embarrassment, as can be inferred from a report signed by four magistrates in 1619.13 It was a well-known fact, according to these jurists, that the prison was filled to the brim with individuals of various social stations, in a building that was “bad, lean, and small.” In arguing the case for greater decorum, the magistrates highlighted the

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Figure 55  Pedro Teixeira, Topographia de la Villa de Madrid (fig. 11), detail of the Plaza de Provincia and environs. Biblioteca Nacional de España, INVENT /23233. Photo: Biblioteca Nacional de España.

significance of the prison as a building type and, by implication, a symbol of the preeminence of justice and the law in the Spanish Monarchy. In its current state, they argued, the “royal prison of the court” was overstretched. Individuals condemned by the Councils of State and War, or those of Italy and Portugal, among others, were all sent to the prison, leaving the Magistrates of the Royal Household and Court to oversee their care. The magistrates wrote to the king: “At the feet of Your Majesty, we plead that a court prison is one of the

most public and necessary of buildings in this republic and all the reigns of Your Majesty, and each of these buildings must be built with capaciousness, authority, and fortitude.”14 In making their case, the magistrates compared Madrid to other places in the monarchy. They argued that cities such as Barcelona, Valencia, and Zaragoza, in the Kingdom of Aragón, had prominent prisons. Moreover, the judges note that other Castilian cities with royal audiencias—Granada, Seville, and Valladolid—also had respectable

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prisons. It was the nature of a prison building in early modern Spain to be multifunctional, and it was also not unusual for a prison to occupy only a small portion of a building dedicated primarily to another use. An informative example is the jail at the Palace of the Inquisition in Toledo, for which a 1598 plan by the Royal Works architect Nicolás de Vergara the Younger (1540–1606) survives (fig. 56).15 In this pen-and-ink drawing, Vergara records details, such as changes in floor levels and hidden staircases, that suggest traffic patterns through the building. The main entrance was from a large vestibule, labeled A at the bottom center of the drawing. Five steps provided access to an upper landing from which one could ascend a staircase to an upper-story residence for the inquisitor. Secondary doors opened to the warden’s residence (B) and a sequence of hallways leading to a chapel and audience hall labeled D as well as a secret chamber (E). North of these spaces, Vergara labels jail spaces with the letter G. His plan indicates eight cells on the ground floor to the immediate north of the courtyard labeled C. This courtyard served as a nexus between judges, who might move freely in its perimeter hallways, and inmates, who might transit through this space along paths constricted by barrier walls. A notation included in the legend at lower left suggests eight additional cells were located on the building’s second story. Three of the cells depicted in the plan include walls that sealed off portions of the rooms, suggesting gallery spaces for guards who might walk along the upper portions of the room for surveillance. Elsewhere in the plan, Vergara denotes corrals for animals and properties the Inquisition hoped to acquire in order to expand its building. Expansion was also on the mind of Madrid’s royal magistrates. By 1623 the judges’ complaints about an overflow of prisoners had reached a 98

sympathetic ear. In the still-early days of Philip IV’s reign, property adjacent to the existing prison was acquired from a neighboring landowner, Diego de Contreras, in order to expand the building.16 A contemporary document reveals that prisoners were not the only occupants squeezed for space. In addition to providing offices for the royal magistrates and their attendant scribes, the original court prison also housed work spaces for a surgeon, an accountant, an overseer of poor relief, a public attorney, a bookkeeper, a warden, a chaplain, a pharmacist, and an unspecified number of cooks.17 Additionally, nearly one hundred sheriffs reported to duty in the building, although their work was mostly carried out patrolling Madrid’s streets. Policing in Madrid was organized by means of a spatial division of the city into wards. Although the practice dated to the settlement of the court in the 1560s, the process was only systematized around 1623 with the printing of a tract, authored by the magistrate Juan Enríquez, that, one can assume, was meant to be consulted alongside Antonio Manzelli’s map of Madrid also printed that year.18 By the early seventeenth century and most likely much sooner, the royal magistrates, seeking to determine jurisdictional limits, had regular recourse to maps displayed within their primary chamber.19 Thus, the familiar language about streets and public spaces employed in surviving documents likely resulted from regular consultation of maps. In 1623 the number of persons Figure 56  Nicolás de Vergara, plan of the ground floor of the Casa de la Inquisición in Toledo, 1598. Ink and color washes on paper, 22 5/8 × 16 5/8 in. (57.5 × 42.3 cm). Ministerio de Cultura y Deporte, Archivo Histórico Nacional, INQUISICION ,MPD ,54. Photo: Ministerio de Cultura y Deporte, Archivo Histórico Nacional.

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serving in the Magistrates of the Royal Household and Court increased from five to six, and it is tantalizing to think that the printing of Manzelli’s map had a direct impact on governance.20 As per Enríquez’s guidelines, a magistrate was required to reside in his respective ward, serving as its superintendent. Moreover, each magistrate was assisted by sixteen sheriffs and four scribes, who were also required to live in the ward they served, so that residents across the city had “justice readily at hand.”21 Each ward was patrolled nightly, with two sheriffs and one scribe assigned on a rotating basis. The sheriffs split their nightly duty into two shifts, while the scribe worked through the night and then reported any noteworthy activity to the ward’s superintendent the following morning.22 The Court Prison scribes were highly trained legal experts whose work fills the pages of the surviving libros de gobierno. These officials and their resulting paperwork also occupied a variety of spaces in the new building. A 1636 decree concerning the duties of ten chamber scribes (escribanos de cámara) hints at the manifold duties of these officials, who served as critical mediators between the royal magistrates and the trial lawyers (procura­ dores del número) who advocated on behalf of prisoners.23 One of these tasks was to read aloud the minutes in morning meetings, an activity that took place within an interior space of the Court Prison that is difficult to pinpoint but hints at the everyday movement of individuals within the corridors of the new building. Given their attention to policing and enforcing order in Madrid, the Magistrates of the Royal Household and Court wielded considerable power and also thought highly of themselves. An untitled pamphlet published in 1629, on the eve of groundbreaking for the new Court Prison, illustrates this point. It was authored by the magistrate Antonio 100

Chumacero de Sotomayor (1584–1636), a nobleman and knight of the Order of Calatrava.24 The pamphlet served as a defense of the magistrates’ status against the claims of the royal councilor Juan del Castillo, who had equated them with fis­ cales, meaning here not prosecutors, but finance ministers serving on royal councils. In his rebuttal, Chumacero underscored the link between the royal magistrates and the Council of Castile, outlining the magistrates’ duties in grandiose terms that evoke the practice of ancient Rome, as in this revealing passage: It is the duty of the magistrates of this court to see to the cleansing of filthy [facinorosa] people and vagabonds, who are the cause of so many harms; to prevent these harms from occurring, by assisting in night watches and appointing ministers who carry out these watches, a charge that in Roman times was given to the prefect vigilum; and to see to the sustenance of the court in the abundance and pricing of goods, a duty that political theorists judge to be primary and most necessary for the conservation of republics . . . and one in which the Romans took great care, as is well known, creating for this ministry different officers, such as that of the cereales and prefecto annonae, whose charges were linked to those of the city prefect.25 Chumacero could barely hide his disdain at being compared to treasury ministers, who, he claimed, were “so far removed from government” that they could not possibly undertake the duties performed by the royal magistrates. Chumacero’s claim for status came at a time of institutional change brought about by architecture. The magistrate was one of three commissioners

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named by Philip IV in 1629 to oversee the building of the Court Prison. His pamphlet suggests that changes in governance went hand in hand with the new building. For instance, with construction still underway in September 1632, the Magistrates of the Royal Household and Court inaugurated their principal tribunal—known as the audiencia as well as the sala del crimen, or criminal court—in the Court Prison, with Chumacero occupying the seat of honor. In a description of the ceremonial event, a scribe notes that “the said Señor Don Antonio Chumacero de Sotomayor sat on the bench of the said prison, holding a public tribunal and presiding over it.”26 With the completion of the new tribunal, Chumacero was elevated to a new position with the title of governor. The use of this title had been reserved previously for the royal appellate courts in Granada and Valladolid, as well as those presided over by the king’s viceroys in places such as Mexico City and Lima.27 The building of a new courthouse in Madrid, then, reflected the enhanced authority of the Council of Castile and its tribunal. Moreover, it reflected the role of the king as the ultimate arbiter of justice. Before Chumacero’s appointment, leadership among the magistrates had been largely ceremonial and determined by length of service, primarily to the Council of Castile. A decree issued by Philip IV on 3 September changed that practice, proclaiming that membership on the Magistrates of the Royal Household and Court was to be made henceforth by royal appointment. The institution’s composition changed again as construction at the Court Prison progressed, and further evolution would take place before the century’s end.28 In 1635 Philip IV appointed Jerónimo de Arbiru as magistrate (alcalde juez) for the Royal Works. The position had existed for some time, but Arbiru was to carry out his work from an office in

the Court Prison. Furthermore, in a novelty met with controversy, he would sit in audience with the royal magistrates before cases involving Royal Works sites and officials.29 Given the magistrates’ duties pertaining to urbanism in Madrid, the additional presence of the Royal Works judge can be taken as evidence of a further consolidation of architectural undertakings in Madrid. This restructuring of governance happened alongside the building of a new architectural monument. In this way architecture served as an agent in the crystallization of an evolving government institution.

Des i g n an d Con s tru cti on Today the Court Prison looks surprisingly similar to its depiction in the seventeenth-century painting discussed already (fig. 57). But there are differences. For instance, the silhouette of its twin towers was altered during rebuilding after the 1791 fire. The blaze also led to the replacement of the Habsburg arms with those of the ruling Bourbon dynasty. The painted view of the Court Prison includes statues of the four cardinal virtues at the upper levels of the frontispiece, made between 1637 and 1639 in the workshop of the royal sculptor Antonio de Herrera (d. 1646).30 The allegorical sculptures disappeared in the early nineteenth century, and the archangel Michael seen today atop the upper pediment is an eighteenth-century replacement of the original.31 The archival record of the building’s construction from 1629 to 1640 and subsequent decoration through 1643 is remarkably complete. A reconsideration of this evidence alongside legal records and publications related to the Magistrates of the Royal Household and Court illuminates the correspondence between the building process and the evolution of the institution. 101

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Figure 57  Palacio de Santa Cruz, formerly Cárcel de Corte, Madrid, 1629–40, view of the main façade from the Plaza de Santa Cruz, to the southeast. Photo: Pablo Linés.

Following the magistrates’ plea for a new building, Philip IV in 1623 approved the acquisition of property in the vicinity of the sixteenth-century prison. Yet actual demolition for the Court Prison would not occur until six years later, when funding for the project was secured. In ongoing appeals to the king, the magistrates noted that they had solicited monies from various royal councils to support the project but were informed that only excise taxes derived largely from foodstuffs could be used to pay for new construction. In the early 1620s ongoing work at the Royal Palace and Plaza Mayor consumed the bulk of existing revenue for architectural undertakings in Madrid funded 102

by excise taxes. Even legal fines, such as those collected by officials working for the magistrates and designated in part to cover public works, were traditionally diverted to infrastructure and waterworks projects and not to public buildings.32 With work at the Royal Palace coming to a head in July 1629, the Council of Castile forged a plan to fund the Court Prison project. Taking up the magistrates’ early advocacy for an excise tax to offset building costs, the council imposed a levy on all wine sales in Madrid, with additional revenue to be derived from the sale of precious metals.33 A receptor, or tax collector, kept meticulous accounts of the excise-tax revenue. In 1637 a certain Miguel Ruiz assumed this title, and his records for the Court Prison project until its completion in 1643 survive nearly intact in Madrid’s municipal archive.34 The documents provide day-to-day records of construction activity during a period that

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saw such features as the façade frontispiece and magistrates’ chapel brought to completion. For this five-year period, detailed accounting also survives for supplies and materials, weekly labor expenses, laundry and cooking, and payments for sculptures, paintings, and religious objects commissioned for the building’s interior and exterior. Sorting through the documentary evidence provides a surprisingly complete picture of the project, which, combined with an analysis of the building itself, points to its function and meaning. Miguel Ruiz worked in conjunction with the Court Prison paymaster, Luis Pablo, whose minute record keeping illuminates multiple aspects of the building trade in Madrid. For one year alone, fiscal year 20 January 1637 to 19 January 1638, Pablo paid out a grand total of 318,993 reales—the equivalent of just under 30,000 Spanish ducados— on the Court Prison.35 For comparison, Fray José de Sigüenza estimated the average annual cost to build the Escorial, a much larger project, to have been 160,000 ducados.36 Thus, construction of the Court Prison came in at approximately one-fifth the cost of the Escorial. Although Pablo noted that his 1637–38 report did not include his own salary, his accounting bespeaks the critical role he played in the collaborative process behind the scenes during the building of the Court Prison. This document and countless others by Ruiz and Pablo also indicate the leadership exercised at the work site by the architect Cristóbal de Aguilera. From the beginning of construction, in 1629, and for the eleven years that followed, Aguilera supervised the building of the Court Prison based on drawings he prepared and submitted to the Council of Castile for approval. Yet getting started was not easy. In March 1629, only four months before demolition, Philip IV granted the Ayuntamiento de Madrid the privilege of building a

new town hall in the Plaza de San Salvador (the subject of the next chapter). Plans soon went awry for the municipality when influential neighbors filed lawsuits opposing the scale of its proposed building. Perhaps in response, the town council protested the Council of Castile’s project for the Court Prison. In early July the municipal leaders were pressured by the Council of Castile to register their approval for the courthouse, given that demolition at the site was scheduled to commence in three days. At the behest of the royal council, Aguilera prepared a revised plan of the building one day after the objections were filed. This plan was reviewed by aldermen without delay, and their discussion was recorded in the municipal minutes.37 Unfortunately, the plan, like all others for the seventeenth-century building project, does not survive. Aguilera’s revised drawing established that the sizeable Court Prison would measure 225 Castilian feet long and 125 feet deep. The recorded discussion of the plan notes that Aguilera used yellow and brown washes to indicate alternative dimensions of the building. In their deliberations, town councilors acknowledged the “splendor, ornament, and benefit” the building would lend Madrid but reasserted an objection to its protrusion onto the Plaza de Provincia. The complaint was clearly tit for tat, as neighbors of the proposed town hall in the Plaza de la Villa had used the same rationale to challenge the ayuntamiento. Upon reviewing Aguilera’s revised plan in the company of the aldermen, Francisco Brizuela y Cardenas, Madrid’s corregidor (governor), noted that it was an improvement on an earlier design he had been shown during a site visit, and called for a vote to approve the project. The vote passed over the objections of one dissenting councilor, Juan de Pinedo. Interestingly, during the same meeting, Pinedo retracted his negative 103

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vote, a change of heart the scribe recorded in the margins of the minutes. The next day, the property of an understandably frustrated Diego Contreras, acquired for the Court Prison site six years earlier, was finally demolished.38 Two months later, on 14 September 1629, the Council of Castile hosted a public ceremony for the laying of the first stone for the Court Prison, at which Philip IV was in attendance.39 There is no evidence of another ceremony like this one in seventeenth-century Madrid, and so the extraordinary event indicates the importance of the building project. For the occasion, the Magistrates of the Royal Household and Court gathered at the site with their Council of Castile colleagues, including the cardinal and archbishop of Málaga Gabriel de Trejo (1562–1630), the council president. Among other dignitaries likely to have been in attendance was the papal nuncio Giambattista Pamphilj, the future pope Innocent X (1574–1655; papacy, 1644–55), as well as Madrid’s aldermen. The cornerstone was placed at the extreme northeast corner of the building, on the Calle de Atocha, across a narrow intersecting street from the College of Santo Tomás. Within this stone the magistrates had placed a lead container with a number of gold and silver coins as well as a set of gilded arms in miniature that had been commissioned for the occasion from the Royal Mint of Segovia. Finally, they included an illuminated manuscript, with a text that read as follows: The Majesty of King Philip, our lord, fourth of this name, king of the Spains and of the Indies, ordered this edifice erected as the royal prison of his court in the eighth year of his reign and year 1629 since the birth of Christ, Our Lord, with Urban VIII our supreme pontiff and, as president of Castile, 104

the Illustrious and Reverend señor Cardinal de Trejo, bishop of Málaga, having appeared in person to place this first stone on 14 September of the said year and declaring as patrons of the building the Holy Mother of God, the archangel Saint Michael, and Santiago, patron of Spain.40 The document does not record the presence of musicians or describe the sartorial display of the event, details that often made their way into period relaciones. Instead, the solemn text focuses on the importance of the Court Prison as a built manifestation of justice guaranteed by the king of Spain with the blessing of Rome and the larger Spanish Monarchy, as well as the saints. Notably, the dedicatory text omits any mention of the man who would build the Court Prison. Cristóbal de Aguilera, whose biography remains skeletal, was a builder with considerable experience when he took on the project.41 As early as 1616 he is documented as working at the Casa de la Panadería, in the Plaza Mayor.42 Concurrently with his commission for the Court Prison, Aguilera served the Madrid municipality in his position as “general surveyor of waterworks and fountains,” revealing a breadth of expertise and blurring of offices that was the norm for many builders in early modern Madrid. Under Aguilera’s charge, the Court Prison was realized in a relatively timely fashion. As noted, its principal tribunal was ready for use by 1632. This timing proved fortunate given the launch of construction a year later on the Buen Retiro Palace, a project that eventually engaged Aguilera, whose expertise led to his being put in charge of waterworks in the palace’s sprawling gardens. One of the most beloved features of Madrid’s Retiro Park today, the Great Pond, is Aguilera’s work.

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Collaboration and what might be called design by committee was the rule of the day in seventeenth-century Spanish building practice. In the case of the Court Prison, questions about authorship have long existed, and surprisingly, Aguilera’s name is often left out of the account. Early scholars judged the disposition of windows on the façade as Italian, and so Giovanni Battista Crescenzi, the Italian architect-courtier responsible for important interventions at the Royal Palace, has been credited with the design.43 As maestro mayor of the Royal Works at the time of the building’s conception, Juan Gómez de Mora, who would lose his post to Crescenzi shortly thereafter, in 1630, has also been proposed as the author of the Court Prison. Virginia Tovar rejected the notion of Crescenzi’s involvement in the project and advocated for Juan Gómez de Mora as the sole designer of the Court Prison, her view based on a July 1629 letter in which Gómez de Mora challenges the awarding of the building’s commission to Aguilera.44 Gómez de Mora’s lengthy letter includes construction specifications as well as recommendations for carrying out the building project. Moreover, the architect questions Aguilera’s abilities when he writes that Aguilera is a “good man and great master, but not a designer [traçador].” The informative letter illuminates many features of the contemporary building trade, but it does not prove Gómez de Mora’s authorship. For Tovar, who took Gómez de Mora’s words to heart, Aguilera was an executor of other’s projects and could not be considered a designer in his right. Instead, she argued that he might be considered on a par with a builder like Alonso Carbonel, who also occupied a middling rank in the Madrid building trade around 1629. Recent research, however, has proved that Carbonel, who held the title of aparejador mayor of the Royal

Works at the time, would soon be fully in charge of construction at the Buen Retiro Palace under the direct patronage of the Count-Duke of Olivares.45 Moreover, he was allied with the first minister, who expressed open hostility toward Gómez de Mora. That Gómez de Mora was on assignment in Salamanca when the final drawings for the Court Prison were prepared by Aguilera reveals the expert political machinations of Olivares, who was the real enemy of the maestro mayor. In 1633, when the count-duke began the Buen Retiro project with Carbonel in place as its chief builder, the latter hired Aguilera as a principal contractor and lead fountain engineer. Gómez de Mora’s fall from favor led eventually to banishment from court in 1637 after being found guilty of conspiring to steal a painting by Titian from the royal collection.46 By then Crescenzi had died. The construction narrative that follows illustrates conclusively that Aguilera remained wholly in charge of the Court Prison despite the demands of the Buen Retiro project or changes in the leadership of the Royal Works. He was, nonetheless, not immune to the whimsy of the Madrid building trade or fluctuations in the Spanish economy, and this is where Gómez de Mora’s letter of 1629 throws light on the challenging situation faced by Aguilera. One of the principal aims of Gómez de Mora’s lengthy opinion on the Court Prison was to question Aguilera’s decision to use salaried, instead of contracted, labor for the project. Hiring day laborers, Gómez de Mora argues, was an invitation to deceit, “since salaried persons have no other interest than to receive a salary” and therefore drag out their work.47 After making this point, the architect offers to provide a plan and façade elevation he had prepared for the Court Prison, noting his objection at not having had the chance to present his work earlier, given his absence from 105

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court. The remainder of Gómez de Mora’s missive lays out the roles of key players for any Madrid building site, reflecting a standard hierarchy of practice since Philip II established the Royal Works in the 1570s. He elucidates, for instance, that three principal officials—an aparejador, a site foreman, and a keeper of materials—with the assistance of a paymaster and a bailiff, were needed to guide the building project. In the end, Gómez de Mora could not wrangle the commission from Aguilera, who carried out the duties of an aparejador and, in this particular instance, was also the building’s designer. As a guarantee of timely progress on the Court Prison project, Philip IV named three commissioners (comisarios) in 1629 to guide construction: the Council of Castile judge Francisco de Tejada, the royal magistrate Antonio Chumacero de Sotomayor, and Agustín Xilimón de la Mota, a Council of Castile attorney (fiscal) who had supervised the approval process for the building’s design.48 In an interesting twist, Tejada would be appointed as superintendent of the Madrid Town Hall project in September of the same year, at the very moment that the municipal project was challenged in the courts by powerful neighbors. The realization of each of these buildings, whose histories came to intertwine, was intimately affected by Castile’s precarious economic situation. For instance, the excise taxes allotted for the Court Prison project in 1629 were reapproved in June 163049 and would continue to be allotted until the completion of the building’s decoration in 1643, when, finally, monies were made available to begin work on the town hall. Documentation is scarce for the first three years of construction at the Court Prison, a period that would have seen the entirety of the basement level completed as well as much of the ground floor. As 106

a measure of the rapid progress, the Magistrates of the Royal Household and Court held an official hearing (visita) in their new building in May 1632.50 The event took place in “one of the new halls,” in the presence of the Council of Castile president, suggesting that the chamber must have been well appointed for the occasion. Although Aguilera’s work for the Count-Duke of Olivares between 1633 and 1636 was extensive, most importantly at the Buen Retiro Palace, his efforts at the Court Prison continued apace. Documents from 1635 and 1636 indicate that new chambers and the principal tribunal were wholly functional, although cells in the old prison building continued to be used. Regular deliveries of slate for the building’s roof beginning in January 1637 further attest to timely progress on the building’s construction.51 For example, in that month Juan García Bañuelos was paid for his work alongside six assistants to begin covering the steeple of the east tower, called the Colesio, a reference to the neighboring Dominican Monastery and College of Santo Tomás.52 Stone carving for the building’s frontispiece got underway in February (fig. 58). This undertaking would occupy a team of stonemasons led by Bartolomé Díez Arias and Juan del Río until late 1639. The three-tiered portal would be the Court Prison’s most significant bearer of meaning for any passerby. Thus, masons were carefully selected for the task. When Díez Arias died, in late 1639, he was referred to in a document as a “stonemason as well as master architect.”53 In the same text, Río was also called a “master architect,” a title that remained rare in the period. It seems unlikely that the two men achieved social promotion for their work carving the Court Prison portal; instead, they were appointed to undertake this project because of their previous reputations. That Cristóbal de Aguilera supervised them at the site suggests

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that Juan Gómez de Mora’s critique of his fellow builder deserves more than a grain of salt. Detailed semanarias, weekly payroll documents prepared by Luis Pablo, the site paymaster, affirm Aguilera’s key role in the building process. In a sample document from 1640 recorded on a sheet of stamped paper (papel sellado), Pablo registers the salaries of two builders and one unnamed peon who worked five days paving the east courtyard (fig. 59). Additionally, he records the purchase of a bucket—at a cost that was more than half of the unfortunate peon’s daily salary—and some coal. Below the itemized entries, the paymaster notes that Miguel Ruiz, the building’s aforementioned tax collector, issued payment and then signed the document. It is countersigned by Aguilera, whose signature appears at bottom left. Other semanarias allow us to date the precise placement of ornamental features such as capitals and architraves as well as the figural sculpture planned for the frontispiece. For instance, of the five marble figures—the Four Cardinal Virtues and the archangel Michael—and the portal’s royal arms that the sculptor Antonio de Herrera was commissioned to make for the building, the first two sculptures were in place by May 1639, and the entire project seems to have been completed by August, when Díez Arias and Río signed off on the first payment to two silversmiths who had been charged with making a copper sword for Herrera’s archangel as well as sheets of copper to cover its wings.54 As depicted in the anonymous view of the Court Prison that opens this chapter, the windows and balconies on the main story of the frontispiece were lavishly decorated. Significant quantities of iron for window grilles and the main balcony were purchased in May 1639 and forged in Madrid. They were in place by late November; months earlier Aguilera had issued an order that the eighteen

Figure 58  Palacio de Santa Cruz, Madrid, frontispiece. Photo: Pablo Linés. 107

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Figure 59  Sebastián de Yturbe and Luis Pablo, accounting for the weekly payroll (semanaria) at the Court Prison, Madrid, 21 January 1640. Ink on paper. Archivo de Villa de Madrid, Contaduría, legajo 3–614–3. Photo: Archivo de Villa del Ayuntamiento de Madrid.

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grilles on the building façade be painted black, with gilded highlights, before Christmas Eve.55 For the two central windows and balcony, Aguilera directed that these grilles be made “with the grandeur that is desired and has been agreed upon.”56 Alongside the finishing touches on the building’s façade, Aguilera also saw to the construction and decoration of the courthouse’s ceremonial chapel, which began in 1639. In April of that year, builders prepared to vault the space and erect the framework for a tall dome. Extensive work on the chapel was carried out over the summer months and well into the autumn, when the Court Prison seems to have been fully operational. As evidence of this, in June 1639 the royal magistrates stopped paying rent on temporary prison quarters at a neighboring property and also paid for repairs at the house of María Ortiz de Salcedo, which had also been used to house inmates.57 In another sign that work on the building was nearing an end, the loyal scribe Diego de Escobar in August 1639 requested a bonus for ten years of service on the project.58 Finally, in December 1639 Cristóbal de Aguilera was paid 2,000 reales “for his occupation, assistance, and labor.”59 Aguilera’s payment was signed by the magistrate Gregorio López Madera, the paymaster Luis Pablo, and the scribe Escobar, revealing the watertight financial system of checks and balances for payments of this significance. Activity at the work site wound down considerably in the spring of 1640, when finishing touches were made in the two courtyards, and the street between the Court Prison and the College of Santo Tomás was paved.60 Documents concerning Herrera’s work on an altarpiece and other sculptures suggest that attention shifted in the early 1640s to interior chambers and offices as well as prison spaces, including cells and dormitories.

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Jud icial Inte r io r s The regularity of the Court Prison’s plan—a rectangle defined by two square courtyards with a monumental staircase at the core—hints at a straightforward use of interior spaces that was anything but. Despite extensive evidence that contemporary drawings, including plans and elevations as well as carefully rendered construction details, were made for the Court Prison, none of these images has come to light. Period drawings would help us understand functions within the building that can only now be approximated from a careful review of construction documents, records of court proceedings, and chance references in literary sources. Clues can also be inferred by comparing the extant written evidence concerning the Court Prison with surviving plans for other sixteenth- and seventeenth-century public buildings in Spain, such as the Lloctinent Palace, used by the viceroy of the Principality of Barcelona, or the Palace of the Inquisition in Toledo, whose multiple uses have been discussed already.61 Without plans such as those of Madrid’s Royal Palace by Juan Gómez de Mora and Teodoro Ardemans, which help elucidate how interiors of that building were used, an analysis of Court Prison interiors requires substantial speculation. In his survey of Spanish baroque architecture first published in German in 1908, Otto Schubert included a ground-floor plan of the Palacio de Santa Cruz that was subsequently reproduced in the 1924 Spanish-language edition of his book and in most studies of the building thereafter (fig. 60).62 Although later scholars attribute the plan to Schubert, its source, as the author himself acknowledged, was the Plano parcelario de Madrid published in 1877 by the Instituto Geográfico y Estadístico in Madrid. The nineteenth-century plan

captures some of the building’s principal features, such as two arcaded patios and a central staircase located on axis with the main entrance. It also includes a few confounding details. For instance, the main stairwell is encased by thick walls at its bottom landing, for which there is no corresponding documentary evidence. The plan also illustrates a lateral passageway under the staircase, an element of which there is no trace in either of the building’s courtyards. To be fair, Schubert sought to depict the Palacio de Santa Cruz more or less as it would have been seen in the early years of the twentieth century, and his discussion of the building focused on the “solemn and tranquil grandeur” of the façade, having little to say about its interior disposition. The faulty plan nonetheless remains helpful given subsequent alterations to the building made Figure 60  Palacio de Santa Cruz, Madrid, groundfloor plan derived from the Plano parcelario de Madrid (Madrid: Instituto Geográfico y Estadístico, 1877). Published in Otto Schubert, Geschichte des Barock in Spanien (Esslingen: Paul Neff, 1908), Heidelberg University Library, C 6455–30, 123. Photo: Heidelberg University Library.

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B11 B19

B18

B10

B9

B8

B7

S3

B18 B13 Prisoner

B5

Provincia Courtyard

S4

B6 S1

Courtyard

S2 B12

B17

B16

B15

B14

B1

Figure 61  Court Prison, Madrid, reconstruction of the ground-floor plan in 1640. Drawing by Chris Phillips.

in the early 1930s to accommodate an expanding Ministry of State. After suffering damages in the Spanish Civil War, the building was renovated further as the seat of a newly named Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Interior spaces as recorded in Schubert’s book and also in drawings by Pedro Muguruza Otaño (1898– 1952), the architect in charge of renovations in the 1930s and 1940s, evoke the seventeenth-century building, but further reconstruction is possible. To this end, I have prepared a new ground-floor plan based on a careful reading of surviving documents 110

B2

B3

B4

and site visits to the Palacio de Santa Cruz in 2010 and 2015 (fig. 61). The new plan aims to approximate the disposition of interiors in 1640, the year major construction on the Court Prison had been completed. From the Plaza de Provincia, a seventeenthcentury visitor entered the Court Prison through one of three doorways that opened onto a wide and vaulted zaguán (B 1), which survives largely intact today (fig. 62). Inside the vestibule, three doors opposite the façade entrances echo the tripartite arrangement of the exterior portal. Four wide steps before the central doorway, marked by a rusticated archway with pilasters and Doric capitals carved from large stones, lead to a landing

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(B 12) at the base of the building’s main staircase (S 1). The door is further monumentalized by an imposing and partially gilt reja, or iron grille. Two flanking doors with stone trim and now with paned glass lead a visitor up two steps to the level

of the courtyard corridors. Along the west wall of the zaguán, an additional door opens onto what was originally a porter’s office (B 2), which might have included a desk for the escribano de entradas, a scribe who registered all offenders and was wont

Figure 62  Palacio de Santa Cruz, Madrid, interior view of the vestibule, looking east. Photo: author. Figure 63  Unknown maker, View of the Court Prison of Madrid That Burned on 4 October 1791, 1791. Etching, 7 5/8 × 11 5/8 in. (19.3 × 29.4 cm). Museo de Historia de Madrid, I.N. 2010. Photo: Ayuntamiento de Madrid / Museo de Historia de Madrid.

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in earlier decades to falsify ledgers in exchange for bribes.63 That room leads to another, most likely used at first by sheriffs, officials whose duties included monitoring access to the warden’s office, in the northwest corner (B 4).64 Figure 64  Palacio de Santa Cruz, Madrid, main staircase. Photo: author.

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A rudimentary engraving published with a newspaper account of the Court Prison fire in October 1791 confirms the location of the warden’s office and offers other details about the building, not to mention evidence of firefighting techniques and equipment (fig. 63). By this later date, the hall labeled B 3 had been repurposed as an infirmary for women prisoners, a space formerly located on the building’s main floor.65 The legend along the bottom of the newspaper engraving reports that women were evacuated from one of two window grilles that fronted the hall, where three men can be seen helping a woman down a ladder. From the warden’s office and the cloister adjacent to rooms B 2–B 3, a staircase (S 2) near the northwest corner provided access to prison cells and other facilities. This lay along a route through the building experienced by the less fortunate to enter the Court Prison. Dignified guests, including the judges whose offices were located in the building, would proceed through the main door of the building to the landing (B 12) at the base of a monumental staircase (S 1); the staircase rises between the two courtyards in an axial arrangement that can be interpreted as an idealization of the plan of Madrid’s Royal Palace (fig. 64). Ascending the staircase, a visitor would experience dramatic changes in light, as the enclosure was bathed by sunlight that filtered in from the upper-story arcades. The current vault above the staircase was erected after the eighteenth-century fire, which also damaged a ceremonial chapel that once stood at the top of the staircase and whose splendor would also have been perceived as a visitor climbed upward. Access to the upper floors of the building, by means of the staircase, would have been restricted. In contrast, the ground level, like that of the Queen’s Courtyard at the Royal Palace, remained highly permeable. Construction documents refer

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to the patios as the Prisoner and Provincia Courtyards, labels that reflected their particular uses. Both are surrounded with two-story arcades in the Tuscan order (fig. 65). As noted earlier, this architectural order was favored for Habsburg buildings and was regarded as especially appropriate for public buildings. Cristóbal de Aguilera’s arcades, however, do not exhibit the orthodoxy with regard to the classical design principles that could be seen at other royal sites, such as at the Escorial. Although his columns are recognizably Tuscan, their entablatures vary to include an unadorned frieze at ground level and one inspired by the Doric order above. Aguilera’s choice not to vary the order on the two stories corresponds to the Court Prison façade and also to the façade, if not also the courtyards, of the Royal Palace, which ought to be considered the ultimate model for this Madrid building. An attic level with rectilinear window openings allowed light to filter into offices situated in what was in essence a third story under the building’s eaves. Between these windows Aguilera added ornamental flourishes in the form of tapered pilasters with zoomorphic capitals. These sculptural features are visually striking and would have appeared all the more so when bathed in natural light, before the addition of the modern glass and steel canopies. In a further example of the play of light that characterizes so much of Aguilera’s building, rectilinear light wells (lumbreras) between the bases of the columns at ground level allowed illumination, as well as ventilation, to reach the basement level. As a detail of the lower arcade of the east courtyard reveals, the rhythm of the arcade was marked along the cloister walls by sconce-like elements in the form of capitals (fig. 66). Called “false pilasters” in period documents, these decorative elements mark the placement of relieving arches for the

Figure 65  Palacio de Santa Cruz, Madrid, east courtyard arcade. Photo: author.

cloister vaulting.66 The photograph also captures the preponderance of doorways in the east courtyard, with four along each of the three outer perimeter walls and pairs of tall doors at each end of the main staircase wall. The design hints at the 113

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Figure 66  Palacio de Santa Cruz, Madrid, east courtyard arcade and perimeter corridor. Photo: author.

movement of individuals around this half of the building. Today it is difficult to determine the precise limits and functions of the seventeenth-century interiors. Yet finding one’s way around in 1640 would have been facilitated by sixteen plaques installed above doorways throughout the building.67 As it turns out, the east courtyard suffered great damage in the 1791 fire. Assessments of the damage situate perhaps as many as ten offices associated with the provincia, or civil court, along the perimeter of this courtyard (see fig. 61, B 14–B 18).68 In his novel Día y noche de Madrid, first published in 1663, the popular Madrid writer Francisco Santos (1623–1698) mentions kiosks or stands (puestos) in the east courtyard. A 1640 payment to a locksmith identifies three kiosks as provincias del patio, suggesting that they might have been located 114

under the courtyard arcades.69 The same document indicates that the structures had window grilles and wickets not unlike those for a modern bank teller or postal clerk, so they may have been used to collect fines, one of the many activities among those the magistrates deemed necessary to make justice “readily at hand” for Madrid’s residents. The so-called Prisoner Courtyard (patio de los presos), on the west side of the building, included a fountain in its center.70 The name given the courtyard suggests that it might have been used to house prisoners, whether in residence or in transit. However, the evidence suggests that the title simply reflects the location of most facilities pertaining to the prison, such as the warden’s office, within the western half of the building. Access to basement prison cells and related quarters was possible from the staircase in the northwest corner (S 2) and by means of two steep staircases approached from a vaulted vestibule under the main staircase (B 13). The popular name of the courtyard might also have referred to a feature newly recovered, a detaining cell for inmates (B 6) created by closing off three ground-floor arcade bays with metal grilles.71 Evidence of this cell, which has gone unremarked in the history of the building until now, can still be seen on the building’s walls and on the columns. The plan published by Schubert in 1908 includes toilets—or necesidades, to use a seventeenth-century term—in a room off the southwest corner of the courtyard (B 8). The location of such necessary amenities in the seventeenth century is hard to reconstruct with precision, although one worker on the courthouse payroll was paid in 1639 for installing a stone urinal in the building’s vestibule.72 The audiencia (B 5), the most important public chamber in the Court Prison, was situated on the ground level of the Prisoner Courtyard.73 As noted

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above, the hall used by the royal magistrates in the sixteenth-century prison displayed lavish ornaments; some of the original tapestries and wall hangings were certainly preserved for the new tribunal. Additional decorative objects were commissioned specifically for the chamber, including paintings and a sculpted portrait of Philip IV by Antonio de Herrera, the same artist responsible for the figures on the building’s frontispiece.74 Frustratingly, the intended location of the sculpture is not specified. It might have been a bust-length portrait intended for a pedestal or perhaps a fulllength portrait such as the bronze statue of the Spanish king made decades later by the Bernini workshop for the atrium of the Basilica of Santa Maria Maggiore in Rome.75 A print included in Antonio Martínez Salazar’s eighteenth-century history of the Council of Castile (introduced in chapter 2) illustrates an actual meeting of the Magistrates of the Royal Household and Court (fig. 67).76 Although the image includes a greater number of magistrates than the five or six who served in 1640, the scene is set in the Court Prison. In the image, the magistrates sit according to their seniority around a table raised on a dais. A cloth of honor (dosel) hangs behind the most senior judges, with a baldachin suspended above, suggesting for all present in the room the authority of the king as the ultimate arbiter of justice. The arrangement of the baldachin and dais parallels the one used in the magistrates’ former civil court, labeled as room 97 by Gómez de Mora in his 1626 Vatican plan of the Royal Palace (see fig. 47). Martínez Salazar uses a key to help explain the ways in which people moved about the hall. Before the spectators, who stood behind a wooden barrier guarded by a bailiff (16), the prosecution and defense gathered on benches along the left and right walls, respectively. Among the attendants seated

Figure 67  Unknown maker, Magistrates of the Royal Household and Court in Session, 1764. Engraving, 10 ¾ × 6 7/8 in. (27.3 × 17.5 cm). From Antonio Martínez Salazar, Colección de memorias y noticias del gobierno general y político del Consejo (Madrid: Antonio Sanz, 1764), 328. Biblioteca Nacional de España, 2/19848. Photo: Biblioteca Nacional de España.

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at a third bench are two scribes (6), whose writing table, as well as one ledger, are clearly visible. At right, the defendant (10) sits on a bench along the wall, with a Jesuit priest (9) on either side of him. The author notes that the Jesuits—who assumed a role played by Franciscan priests in the first half of the seventeenth century—were “commonly called prison fathers, since it was their charge to see to the care of the poor prisoners.”77 This sort of image is very rare, and Martinez Salazar’s choice to populate the room with people makes it more so. Less surprising for the period is the author’s use of emblematic language. Above the scene a banner declares, “Nulla fraus tuta latebris” (No fraud is safe lurking in any place), a motto that appeared in a book of political emblems first published in Madrid in 1653.78 The sparseness of the courtroom in the eighteenth-century engraving is misleading. In 1640 the Madrid painter Bartolomé Román (ca. 1587–1647) was paid for a large canvas depicting the Judgment of Solomon, to be hung in the “salas del crimen” of the Court Prison, a reference to interiors—in the plural—that would have included the audiencia.79 In late 1639 a woodworker framed Román’s painting, along with another depicting the Flagellation of Christ, for the same rooms and The Descent of the Holy Spirit for one of the building’s infirmaries, both by unnamed artists. Unfortunately, none of these paintings have been identified, and they are unlikely to have survived. The payment to the framer notes that each painting measured nearly twelve Castilian feet in height, which is to say they were large images meant to impress viewers. In the surviving contracts for the paintings, Cristóbal de Aguilera specifies the type of wood to be used for their frames and orders that “they are to be placed in the said halls in the places that have been indicated.”80 The directive suggests 116

that drawings probably accompanied Aguilera’s orders; moreover, it clearly illustrates the architect’s control over the decoration of the building. It seems reasonable that an image of Christ’s torture would have been hung where it could be seen by plaintiffs, while the image of Solomon might have served as a visual reminder to the magistrates of their solemn duties as representatives of the king. The cloth of honor depicted in the engraving would have served as an ideal location for a royal portrait, as such images were often displayed under baldachins across the Spanish world.81 Although the eighteenth-century engraving offers little sense of the courtroom’s original decoration, its inclusion of three windows and a small door at upper right suggests that the room was large. Earlier scholars have hypothesized that the tribunal was located on the main floor of the Court Prison, overlooking the Plaza de Provincia.82 The noisiness of the plaza would not have recommended this location, even though Martínez Salazar says that the bell tower and clock of the nearby Church of Santa Cruz were used originally to mark time for the tribunal.83 Documents such as those for the holding cell in the Prisoner Courtyard, recovered for this study, confirm that the principal courtroom that served as the audien­ cia was situated at the west end of the building’s ground floor. I illustrate the courtroom as occupying three bays (B 5), although it might also have included the room labeled B 7. Magistrates could approach the courtroom from upper-story offices by descending the main staircase (S 1) and then walking along the cloister or by using one of two secondary staircases. The first (S 3) was located to the immediate west of the main-story chapel, and the other (S 2) would have provided direct access to the courtroom via its rear door. This location for the tribunal would also have served to keep

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dome. Nonetheless, fire burned for five days, though it resulted in only minor injuries to prisoners, who were, fortunately, housed in the building’s west end. Property damage, on the other hand, was extensive, leading the Council of Castile to issue a call for rebuilding proposals. A plan was approved in January 1792 by Villanueva, who was concurrently occupied with the overhaul of the nearby Plaza Mayor following a devastating blaze a year earlier. Unfortunately, the plan has not yet surfaced to complement its extant accompanying documents. Completed in 1793, Villanueva’s project involved extensive repairs to the Court Prison as well as the acquisition of the former Convent of El Salvador, located immediately

inmates contained to the west end of the building, above the prison proper. Although a reconstruction of the main-floor plan of the Court Prison can be judged preliminary at best, it is worth exploring, given the evidence that can be mined from the archives (fig. 68). The biggest challenge to reconstructing the disposition of spaces on the main story is, without question, the October 1791 fire that broke out in the chaplain’s office (C 2), immediately adjacent to the building’s ceremonial chapel (C 1). As depicted in the already-discussed simplistic engraving of damage (fig. 63), fire consumed most of the building’s slate roof and caused particular harm to the east end, where offices on the upper stories were left in ruins. In an effort to contain the blaze, the architects Juan de Villanueva (1739–1811) and Bautista Sánchez (active around 1800) destroyed the chapel

Figure 68  Court Prison, Madrid, reconstruction of the main-floor plan in 1640. Drawing by Chris Phillips.

C1

C4

C2

C16

C15

S3

C3 C4

C14

S1 S4

S2

C5

C6

C7

C8

C9

C10

C11

C12

C13

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south, to serve as new prison quarters.84 The building’s repair and expansion resulted in the repurposing of many interiors, including those at the basement level, which would no longer serve inmates; that redistribution of use, then, provides a terminus ante quem for the building’s uses as reconstructed in this chapter. With the renovation and removal of prison cells, the building also took on a new name that spoke to its primary purpose as a palace of justice; it came to be known as the Palacio de la Audiencia de Madrid.85 As already noted, beginning in 1930 the architect Pedro Muguruza Otaño initiated a series of renovations for the Ministry of State, many of the drawings for which survive. Some hint at aspects of Cristóbal de Aguilera’s seventeenth-century interiors. Details such as vaults and fireplace moldings confirm that the large halls along the north side of the building must have served ceremonial functions for the comfort of high-ranking officials. Most evidence in these early twentieth-century plans, however, must date to the building’s renovation after 1791. Murguruza’s work transforming the ministry headquarters spanned two decades and culminated with the construction of an entire new wing on the site of lots to the immediate south that were acquired in the eighteenth century. Following its completion in 1950, a street was opened behind the former Court Prison that erased the last traces of the seventeenth-century prison yard. Although we cannot know what Aguilera’s interiors looked like with precision, it is possible to approximate the appearance of some and also understand how they functioned. One of the Court Prison’s singular interiors was its chapel (C1), whose dome was encased in a wooden frame and topped with a steeple, as recorded by Pedro Teixeira on his map. As noted, the 1791 fire broke out in the chaplain’s office (C 2), and the chapel 118

was, unfortunately, one of the first interiors to burn. Its dome rested upon an octagonal drum, which, in turn, supported a steeple with windows that allowed light to bathe the interior. For the seventeenth-century visitor, the chapel marked the endpoint of a procession route through the Court Prison that began at the ground-floor vestibule and proceeded up the main staircase. Reaching the upper-story landing, three steps led to a partially gilded wrought-iron grille with sculptural niches and two coats of arms, which marked the threshold to the chapel and offered a view of its multitiered altarpiece.86 Today one reaches the landing and faces a single-story, light-filled room that leads to a corridor bridge built in 1950 to join the seventeenth-century building to its modern wing (see fig. 64). The effect of the soaring, light-filled chapel has to be left to the imagination, but more is known about its form and decoration. First, the chapel dome’s profile was a traditional half circle, or media-naranja (half-orange), to use period terminology. The dome was encased in a wood frame (encajonado), a type of construction that derived from medieval Spanish practice and was codified in Fray Lorenzo de San Nicolás’s 1639 treatise.87 Fray Lorenzo’s review of construction options for domes are captured in a 1633 drawing by Juan Gómez de Mora for alternative designs for a chapel in the church adjoining the Jesuit Colegio Imperial, located to the immediate southwest of the Court Prison (fig. 69). Gómez de Mora accompanied the drawing with a written opinion in which he weighs the advantages of the design alternatives.88 The architect explains that the true dome, at left, would offer a grander silhouette but also cost more than the encajonado solution provided at right, a design that seems to correspond to the Court Prison’s chapel as it was built. Teixeira hints at an octagonal plan on his map, as does the

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anonymous painter of the view of the Court Prison and Plaza de Provincia discussed at the opening of this chapter; the painting also emphasizes the chapel’s great height. Once the light-filled religious space was completed, around December 1639, it was readied for decoration. That month Antonio de Herrera received the first payment for a wooden retablo he had designed and whose construction he would supervise.89 Spanish retables, which often combined sculpture with painting and were classified as works of architecture, were some of the finest works of seventeenth-century art. Although no evidence of Herrera’s design for the Court Prison monument survives, its prominence is suggested by the use of expensive brocade curtains to cover the four sides of the chapel interior to enhance the altarpiece’s display.90 Aside from the chapel, other main-story spaces, such as offices for magistrates and scribes, cannot be identified with precision. At a minimum, in 1640 the spaces marked C 4 to C 11 in figure 68 would have included workplaces for six magistrates: the five members of the Alcaldes de Casa y Corte plus the Royal Works magistrate assigned to the building in 1635. A corresponding six offices might have been required for the magistrates’ scribes unless they occupied a communal working space, as they had previously done in the Royal Palace. On Gómez de Mora’s 1626 plan of the palace, the architect describes one such room used by Council of Castile scribes (labeled 92 in fig. 49). Surviving architectural plans for another important government building in the Spanish Monarchy, the Royal Palace of Mexico City, provide illuminating clues about other spaces that might once have existed in Madrid’s Court Prison. The plans were made in 1709 to guide the rebuilding of the palace’s south section, which suffered extensive fire damage

Figure 69  Juan Gómez de Mora, elevation drawing with alternative dome solutions for a chapel in the Colegio Imperial, 1633. Ink on paper, 11 13/16 × 8 ¼ in. (30 × 21 cm). Biblioteca Nacional de España, MSS/20272/15. Photo: Biblioteca Nacional de España.

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following a riot in 1692.91 Like the Court Prison, this portion of the building housed judicial quarters as well as a prison, although the Mexico City spaces had been standing since the late sixteenth century. According to an eyewitness account, the fire-damaged interiors of the viceregal palace included the Royal Audiencia; the Sala del Crimen; the menor cuantía, or minor court; and the whole of the Royal Prison.92 With the possible exception of the minor court, the Mexico City institutions all fell under the jurisdiction of the Council of Castile, suggesting that these two government buildings located on opposite sides of the Atlantic Ocean were conjoined in their purposes and functions. The reconstruction plans for the Mexico City palace indicate that spaces serving the viceregal city’s civil court, or provincia, were situated on the ground floor and even included a storage room for stamped paper, a space that might also have to be factored into the list of Madrid’s Court Prison interiors. The Royal Audiencia and its attendant spaces were largely located on the main story of the Mexico City palace, with its archives and secondary offices dispersed on the building’s mezzanine level. An accounting tribunal was also situated on the main story, at a remove from the Royal Audiencia but close to other finance offices. Money would have been counted and also exchanged frequently in the Court Prison, suggesting that some portion of the space marked C 4 might have been reserved for storing currency safely. Interestingly, the Mexico City jail was located in the southeast corner of the palace, adjacent to the criminal court, but had its own patio. Inmates were separated by class and also by gender, a practice that had its parallel in Madrid. I propose that Court Prison interiors fronting the Plaza de Provincia served as the building’s principal offices and meeting chambers. Among 120

them was the suite labeled C 7–C 8, to be used by an official of high rank such as the governor of the Magistrates of the Royal Household and Court. A visitor to the chief judge would first enter a room tended by a porter (C 9) and then proceed to an antechamber with a scribe or secretary (C 8) before reaching the governor’s office, with its comfortable fireplace (C 7). In the other direction, the porter’s office led into a chamber that gave onto the building’s principal balcony (C 10), in a place of honor that corresponded to the king’s balcony at the Royal Palace. If the magistrates did not carry out regular business as a body in the governor’s chamber, this room might have served as a collective meeting space. A three-bay-wide vaulted hall (C 11) located to the west of the royal balcony, outfitted with a fireplace, perhaps offered an alternative meeting hall. As noted already, previous scholars have hypothesized that important tribunals were located on the main floor of the Court Prison, along the north façade. This book counters such hypotheses, arguing that this floor could not have accommodated those functions as well as the many others whose locations, as the archival record makes clear, have yet to be determined. For instance, among building renovations carried out in the early eighteenth century, a women’s infirmary was relocated from the main floor to the ground level.93 Room C 11 could have served this purpose, although its proximity to the offices of high-ranking officials makes it an improbable location for ailing inmates. Exposure to southern light and salubrious air in rooms C 15 and C 16 makes those spaces or a portion of the space marked C 14 more likely possibilities. The same document specifying the main-story location of the women’s infirmary also notes that the men’s infirmary had been located on the ground floor. Again, the exposure to light from the prison yard suggests a probable

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location for the men’s infirmary in the spaces marked B 9–B 10 (see fig. 61). Given the proposed siting of the infirmaries in the southwest quadrant of the Court Prison, the doctor’s residence may have been located in a portion of C 14, with the apothecary perhaps bordering the men’s infirmary directly below. With a double courtyard, grand central staircase, monumental chapel, and rooms arranged in sequence along its perimeter, the Court Prison shared many similarities with Madrid’s Royal Palace. Moreover, the survival of the Court Prison, more or less intact, allows a visitor to appreciate some of the spatial and visual effects of the lost palace that would otherwise be challenging to comprehend. Although the patio arcades in the

Figure 70  Palacio de Santa Cruz, Madrid, view from the west courtyard through the stairwell to the east courtyard. Photo: author.

courthouse building are only four bays wide, in contrast to the original nine in the Royal Palace, they create lively contrasts of light. A view from one courtyard through the stairwell and into the other captures a sense of the building’s airy interior (fig. 70). The arrangement of open-air patios separated by staircases echoes a widespread design tradition for hospitals, monasteries, and government buildings, too, from Madrid to Toledo to Mexico City and beyond. Despite the addition of iron-and-glass canopies over the Court Prison 121

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Figure 71  Gabriel Abreu y Ranedo, section through the northwest wing of the Palacio de Santa Cruz, including the former Prisoner Courtyard, Madrid, 1900. Print on parchment, with pencil additions. Ministerio de Cultura y Deporte, Archivo Histórico Nacional, Mº Exteriores,MPD ,161. Photo: Ministerio de Cultura y Deporte, Archivo Histórico Nacional.

courtyards in 1900, the effect of natural light in the building remains a revelatory feature today. The opinion expressed by many late seventeenth-century visitors to Madrid, that the Court Prison must have been a noble residence, gave rise to an unfounded legend that the building was intended to serve as a prison for the nobility. 122

Some individuals sentenced by the royal councils and tried by the Magistrates of the Royal Household and Court derived from the highest of social ranks, but others were vagrants and vagabonds.94 The words of a corrupt accountant from Toledo jailed in the Court Prison in 1637 indicate that conditions inside did not befit a grandee’s lifestyle. The wayward number cruncher, Diego de la Cruz, was confined to a newly constructed cell whose windows were still boarded up. The room “[is] so dark and sad,” de la Cruz writes, “it causes me much melancholy and grief.”95 Prison architecture in Europe is a topic that has been treated by scholars of the modern era, but less attention has been given to these spaces in the seventeenth century, owing largely to the lack of surviving evidence.96 Nonetheless, drawings related to the twentieth-century repurposing of Madrid’s former Court Prison and renewed attention to archival sources allow a determined researcher to approximate how the penitential spaces of this surprisingly complex building were used and experienced. The project to retrofit the former Court Prison as the official seat of the Ministry of State began around 1900. A contemporaneous section drawing through the building’s northern half reveals the building’s deep foundations and vaulted interiors within them, some of which would previously have served the prison (fig. 71). At left, the draftsman has indicated a large cell nearly the same width as the ground-floor interior space directly above. Light entered the cell from a small window located high on the north wall, opening onto the Plaza de Provincia. To the right, a corridor corresponds to the cloister above and is partially lit by one of the lumbreras, or light shafts, located along the base of the courtyard arcades. Another section drawing, this one made by Pedro Muguruza in 1930 as part of later renovations to the ministry building, cuts

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through the center of the Palacio de Santa Cruz and highlights the central well of the main staircase, with its landings and clerestory windows (fig. 72). Because this drawing depicts the entirety of the building, it highlights the dramatic shift in the ground level from the frontispiece at left to the rear door opening onto the former prison yard at right. Muguruza’s drawing also records one of two staircases, located under the main staircase, that provided access to the prison corridors. Building features included in these early twentieth-century drawings and observations from a site visit in 2015 inform the plan of the lower level of the Court Prison in 1640 prepared for this book (fig. 73). Corridors directly below the groundfloor cloisters (A 15, A 16) would have served as the

ordering features for circulation. The corridors were reached most directly by means of two steep staircases (S 1A and S 1B ). In his 1930 drawing, Muguruza indicates an incline of thirty degrees, a steepness that allowed for what would have been very dark interior spaces under the staircase (A 1). From the bottom of the stairs, one could proceed to one of the corridors under the cloisters or down

Figure 72  Pedro de Muguruza, section through the main stairwell of the Ministerio de Estado, 1930. Ink on paper laid over canvas, 18 ¾ × 28 ¾ in. (48 × 73 cm). Biblioteca de la Real Academia de Bellas Artes de San Fernando, Madrid, Pl-3513. Photo: Biblioteca de la Real Academia de Bellas Artes de San Fernando.

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A8 A10

A9

S3

A6

A7

A1 A5

A11 Provincia

S4

A15

Courtyard

Prisoner A15

S1A

S1B

Above

A16

Courtyard

A16

Above

S2

A12

A13

A14

Figure 73  Court Prison, Madrid, reconstruction of the lower-level plan in 1640. Drawing by Chris Phillips.

a narrow passage left open in the building’s foundations (labeled A 14). A 1640 invoice from the locksmith Gregorio Aparicio suggests that there were eight prison cells in the building.97 Unfortunately, the locksmith does not provide any details about their relative size or precise location, although the vaulted halls along the Plaza de Provincia façade, which received only indirect lighting, must have been a primary location for cells. Seventeenth-century views illustrate three small windows corresponding to room A 13 and larger windows at the basement-level rooms A 2 and A 3 owing to a shift in 124

A2

A4

A3

ground level. Light shafts dug under the sidewalk before the Palacio de Santa Cruz allow light to filter into the spaces labeled A 12 and A 13, but the shafts are modern modifications. In the seventeenth century, these rooms would have been very dark. They serve as archival and storage rooms presently, but it is easy to surmise that they were used originally as cells for hardened criminals, including those sent to solitary confinement. It is from this portion of the building that an unseen prisoner dangles a cup and seeks alms from passersby in the midcentury painted view of the building and plaza before it (see fig. 54). The two vaulted halls labeled A 2 and A 13 would have had multiple cells in each, with space left over for guards to use for both passage and surveillance.

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The program seems to have worked well; a series of eighteenth-century schemes for ideal town halls with jails, executed by architecture students of the Royal Academy of Fine Arts, used the plan of the Court Prison as a model, in a more recent confirmation of the plan’s utility.98 Inmates confined on the western side of the building, in the halls identified as A 2 and A 3, benefitted from additional sunlight, although the interior space within the foundations of the northwest tower (A 3) must have felt dungeon-like all the same. From this corner dungeon, a doorway gives on to the small vestibule (A 4) with a staircase (S 2) leading to the ground floor and the holding cell outside the audiencia off the Prisoner Courtyard. Another door opens into a large vaulted hall (A 5), which, like other rooms located along the sides and rear of the building, benefits from greater illumination owing to the sloping topography of the site. Today the hall occupies four of the building’s six lateral western bays and is used as a printing office for the Ministry of Foreign Affairs (fig. 74). Although altered during the late eighteenth-century rebuilding, this long room could easily have accommodated rows of beds to serve as the original prison dormitory (sala de camas) for inmates accused of lesser crimes, including debtors. It might also have been the Sala de Caballeros mentioned in accounting records from 1640.99 A hall with a similar name is identified in a later plan of the royal prison in Mexico City, with a clarifying notation that it was used to confine members of the nobility.100 The hall in Madrid was adorned with a painting of Saint James, patron of the Court Prison as well as the Order of Santiago, whose delinquent members might have done time in this room. At the rear of the building, owing once again to the change in grade, the lowest level stands fully

above ground. Faced with iron grilles, its mezzanine-height windows give on to a street paved over part of the former prison yard (fig. 75). In March 1783 the English prison reformer John Howard (1726–1790) visited Madrid’s Court Prison.101 Howard wrote that there were 180 inmates in the building at the time, including 40 women. He found the prison cells, both individual and collective, to be remarkably clean and humane. Howard also described the prison yard, which included arcades on two sides and a large basin used by prisoners to wash their clothes. The interiors lining the yard at ground level, A 6 to A 11, received considerable light, perhaps enough to accommodate loftlike quarters for inmates as recorded in payment documents issued in 1639.102 One such “prisoner apartment” space abutted the residence of the warden, a domestic space likely located in the building’s lowest level.103 An additional residence for the prison’s doctor and his family might have Figure 74  Palacio de Santa Cruz, Madrid, view of the lower-level printing shop. Photo: author.

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Figure 75  Palacio de Santa Cruz, Madrid, exterior view of the south wall and the corridor bridge added in 1950. Photo: author.

been located on the main story of the building, but spaces A 10 and A 11 have ample light that would have made them suitable for living purposes.104 A water well survives in the room labeled A 8, raising the possibility that the rear service staircase (S 3) connected this room to kitchens above. Only women are named as cooks in the surviving documents from the 1630s and 1640s. Given the separation of female from male prisoners in cells, dormitories, and infirmaries, it is reasonable to assume the same spatial practice affected these cooks. Thus, room A 8 might have served as 126

auxiliary space for kitchens located in rooms B 10 and B 11 on the ground floor. Lastly, prisoners also had access to a chapel that was distinct from the ceremonial one used by judges. The lesser chapel might have occupied room A 9, although that transitional space’s access to the yard renders it an unlikely interior to have been used for religious purposes. A more reasonable location for the prisoner chapel is the square-plan room on the ground floor labeled B 19, located directly under the grander sacred interior space on the main floor. As completed in the early 1640s, Madrid’s Court Prison was a building of many functions united by a regular, orderly plan. It was a place designed for the smooth working of justice, yet to judge by popular literature, the building could also be experienced as a place of confusion. In Francisco Santos’s late seventeenth-century novel Día y noche de Madrid (Day and night in Madrid), Madrid is called the “great Babylon of Spain.”105 Santos’s narrator is Juanillo el de Provincia, a young man born to a poor mother who sought refuge among officials at the Court Prison, where Juanillo grew up in the arms of sheriffs and scribes and, following his mother’s death, toiled in the building as a lowly laborer. In the novel, Juanillo makes the acquaintance of Onofre, a young Neapolitan recently arrived in Madrid after a period of captivity in Algiers. Like the youthful Don Diego in Antonio Liñán’s moralizing guide to Madrid written in the 1620s, Onofre is a neophyte to life in Madrid, a place he has desired to see ever since hearing tales of its grandeur in Italy. Juanillo takes him on a whirlwind tour that offers the reader a colorful and often bleak picture of urban life. On one of their outings, the two young men arrive at the Court Prison. Entering the vestibule, Onofre judges the building to be beautiful and comments on the “great comfort and relief ” it must offer prisoners.

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The Neapolitan’s remarks echo the very words that had been carved in stone on two plaques placed in 1634—and since replaced with cartouches—above the two lateral doors of the Court Prison portal. Santos puts these words into his character’s mouth in order to set up a critique of the building’s idealistic representation of royal beneficence. Eavesdropping on plea bargains between inmates and their lawyers in the vestibule, Onofre becomes confused by the corruption and injustice he witnesses inside the stately building. His guide, Juanillo, whisks him up the vestibule stairs to witness a hearing in the audiencia. The details of the proceedings provided by Santos are vague, but Onofre shudders at what he observes. Onofre asks Juanillo to lead him away, proclaiming, “My God, this building is such a labyrinth! Let’s go, as my bones shake from being in here.”106 Onofre’s experience at the Court Prison is that of a literary character; evidence of actual seventeenth-century experiences of the building’s interior is scarce. What Santos’s novel offers that is particularly valuable to a historian in this discussion of government architecture is a sense of the courthouse’s ability to instill expectations in a visitor. The Court Prison façade proclaims a promise of justice that leads Onofre to prejudge the building to be beautiful. Yet Onofre’s initial perception contrasts with his further experience of its interior, filled with people. Santos thus expresses doubt about the efficacy of monuments to serve societal good. A similar message about disrupted justice appears in a remarkable painted view of the Royal Palace of Mexico City, whose Council of Castile tribunals and Royal Prison, as discussed earlier, suffered considerable damage following a riot in 1692 (fig. 76). The late seventeenth-century painting is commonly attributed to the Mexican-born artist

Cristóbal de Villalpando (1649–1714).107 Villalpando’s view is from the west, so that the Royal Palace, occupying one side of the enormous Plaza Mayor, appears at the top of the painting. The north wing of the building, which served primarily as the residence of the viceroy and his family, stands undisturbed. From the main frontispiece to the southwest corner, where the Plaza Mayor meets the Calle de la Provincia, however, the artist displays the crumbled remains of government spaces destroyed by the riot and fire. A partially standing corner tower is visible at far right. To its left are the remains of the portada that marked the entrance to the Royal Audiencia and other courts.108 Two offices on either side of this portal, originally with windows onto the Plaza Mayor, served the provin­ cia. Although they appear in a ruinous state in Villalpando’s view, these offices would have been the most easily accessible of all palace interiors, just as civil-court spaces were in Madrid’s Court Prison. This is not, however, the only correspondence between buildings in Madrid and Mexico City. The disposition of the viceregal palace façade, with a central portal and framing towers, places the monument in formal dialogue with the Spanish Habsburg Royal Palace, not to mention public monuments in Naples and Barcelona that symbolized the promise of justice for the monarchy’s subjects. There is much evidence that Villalpando exaggerated aspects of the Mexico City palace in his painted view, from the grandeur of the main portal to, perhaps, the state of ruin displayed along the south wing. Nonetheless, the decision made by the artist or his patron to record a government building of such significance as falling apart suggests a state of emergency. Indeed, the visual shock of a building in ruins explains the very existence of Villalpando’s painting as well as that of an engraving like the one published in 127

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Figure 76  Cristóbal de Villalpando (attr.), View of the Plaza Mayor of Mexico City, late seventeenth century. Oil on canvas, 5 ft. 10 3/16 in. × 6 ft. 6 5/8 in. (180 × 200 cm). Corsham Court Collection, Wiltshire. Photo: Corsham Court, Wiltshire / Bridgeman Images.

Madrid newspapers in 1791 following the fire at the Court Prison.

S i g hts an d So u n ds o f Ju s tice In plan, the Court Prison shared many features with Madrid’s Royal Palace. The building’s main façade mirrored the royal residence in its

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composition. The regularity of the design can still be appreciated today, but its original details are captured more accurately in an engraved view made by Hermengildo Victor Ugarte (1735–after 1768) and printed in 1756 (fig. 77). Betraying his academic training, Ugarte renders the Court Prison isolated from its surroundings and floating on the page. With his stylus, the engraver aims to capture the building’s distinctive combination of materials, from stone employed for the frontispiece, base, and tower quoining to the slate used for the roof and tall tower steeples. The image includes mundane details such as two chimneys along

the roofline yet omits decorative features such as gilded ironworks. Without humans present in the view, Ugarte denies viewers a sense of relative scale as well as an intimation of the building’s impact in the early modern period. The closest he gets is in the inclusion of the façade sculptures, including the archangel Michael, at the apex of the frontispiece. Figure 77  Hermengildo Victor Ugarte, La Real Cárcel de Corte de Madrid, 1756. Engraving, 7 5/8 × 11 1/16 in. (19.5 × 28 cm). Biblioteca Nacional de España, INVENT /19340. Photo: Biblioteca Nacional de España.

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The angel also appears prominently in the anonymous painted view with which this chapter opened and in which people abound. There the unknown artist portrays the Court Prison with the doors of its frontispiece open, and people can be seen in the main vestibule as they head for the staircase and patios (fig. 78). On the façade’s main story, gilded iron screens front the window openings on either side of the principal balcony. The balcony window, too, is open, suggesting the imminent appearance of a magistrate or perhaps the eternal symbolic presence of the king. Above the empty window, the royal arms carved of white marble are framed by granite pilasters and project from the portal. In a variation of the Royal Palace frontispiece, here the whole is topped by a pediment adorned with sculpture. Herrera’s marble figures appear in two tiers. Fortitude and Justice are perched above the outermost columns of the frontispiece, to the left and right of the royal arms. At the apex of the pediment, Michael—also called the ángel de la guarda in documents109—stands with sword raised, Prudence and Temperance at his side. None of Herrera’s sculptures made for the building survives, including the Habsburg arms, which were replaced by those of the Bourbon monarchy during rebuilding from 1792 to 1793. Moreover, the figure of the angel seen today is an eighteenth-century replacement of the original, lacking the copper wings that were added to this replica in emulation of the original sculpture.

Figure 78 (opposite)  Unknown Madrid artist, La Cárcel de Corte de Madrid (fig. 54), detail of the frontispiece. Ministerio de Asuntos Exteriores, Unión Europea y Cooperación, I.N. 285398. Photo: Gobierno de España, Ministerios de Asuntos Exteriores, Unión Europea y Cooperación (Pablo Linés).

Although the intended impact of the building’s frontispiece has been diminished because of the loss of its original sculptures, it remains possible to re-create a sense of its seventeenth-century impression by considering a striking period etching of the façade made by an unknown artist (fig. 79). Unfortunately, the image is trimmed at top, resulting in the loss of a possible title. The remaining text relates that the unknown maker printed the work in the French city of Lyon in 1675. Comparison with Ugarte’s meticulous recording of the façade makes clear that the author of this etching aimed for something other than accuracy in depicting the Court Prison. First, he compresses the three bays on either side of the frontispiece and, in doing so, accentuates the monumental portal and framing towers. The artist further exaggerates the scale of the tower steeples, perhaps to fill the upper space of the printed sheet. Between the two towers, a floating banderole with a Latin text announces the judicial authority at work in the building. Deriving from one of the Seven Penitential Psalms, it can be translated as “Depart from me ye that work iniquity.”110 The words appear to be spoken by a mask that forms part of an ornamental flourish at the top of the page, but they can also be attributed to the archangel, who stands with sword raised as guardian of the people and protector of an institution dedicated to justice. The prominence of the archangel was intended from the outset of the building’s design, as revealed in the 1629 cornerstone-laying ceremony wherein Michael was named a patron of the building. In the 1630s the archangel was a protagonist in commentaries on the Apocalypse and in 1643 was even promoted by Philip IV as the protector saint of the monarchy.111 Michael’s placement at the apex of the building calls to mind the guardian figure that has crowned the Castel Sant’Angelo at 131

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Figure 79  Unknown artist, Façade of the Cárcel de Corte, 1675. Etching, 7 ¾ × 8 3/16 in. (19.8 × 21 cm). Biblioteca Nacional de España, INVENT /19342. Photo: Biblioteca Nacional de España.

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the entrance to the Vatican Quarter in Rome since the 1520s as a polyvalent symbol of justice and guardianship, as well as a protector from plague.112 In viceregal Mexico, the archangel Michael was promoted by theologians and politicians alike as God’s viceroy and so was understood to embody divinity in the same way that the holder of the

Justice an d Penance

title of viceroy represented the absent king.113 In Spanish Habsburg political theory, the king was the ultimate source of earthly justice, such as that carried out at and within the Court Prison. Yet justice was understood to be a divine gift to monarchs. It was both secular and sacred, with authority drawn from laws laid down by both church and state. The archangel Michael hovers thus between the secular and sacred realms as an intercessor who, given his placement at the top of a monumental courthouse, animates the space of the city with his presence. The unknown artist includes two other textual passages along the stone course dividing the façade’s ground and main floors. One labels the building a mala mansio (house of evil), and the other calls it a locus horribilis (terrifying place). To drive home this message, the artist emphasizes the building’s iron window grilles, which appear all the more menacing given the lack of interstitial space, which augments the sense of the building as an enclosure. This is a place one enters at the risk of not coming out again. Instead of presenting a palace whose doors are open and interiors partially illuminated, the etching recalls the “labyrinth” that

terrified the fictional Onofre in Francisco Santos’s contemporary novel. That literary character, a foreign visitor to the court invented by a Madrid author, gives voice to the seventeenth-century person on the streets of the capital confronted with a royal courthouse that was more popularly known as a prison. From the late 1630s until now, the archangel has commanded the Plaza de Provincia. As Martínez Salazar recorded in his eighteenth-century history of the Council of Castile, the clock from the neighboring tower of the Church of Santa Cruz regulated the activities of the tribunals within well into the eighteenth century. Standing in this public square, seventeenth-century individuals— flower vendors, picture sellers, and foreign visitors alike—would have understood the authoritative message that the façade, frontispiece, and towers, along with the nearby chimes of a clock, expressed. They would also have heard the clank of a cup offered by an unseen prisoner begging for alms and would have registered that sound, too, with the consequences of justice as it was meted out in this building.

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Figure 80  Juan Gómez de Mora, José de Villarreal, and others, Madrid Town Hall (Casa de la Villa de Madrid), 1643–93, view of the east façade. Photo: author.

Chapter 4

Town Versus Court The Town Hall, ca. 1660 The Casa de la Villa de Madrid, or Madrid Town Hall, stands at the intersection of the Calle Mayor, the city’s traditional “main street,” and the Plaza de la Villa, a space associated with municipal government and formerly known as the Plaza de San Salvador, after the parish church that fronted its northern end. Along the Plaza de la Villa, the two-story building is composed of nine bays and framed by imposing twin towers (fig. 80). Blocks of finely carved granite face the building’s ground level. Above, the predominantly brick walls of the main story include stone accents, arrayed in a series of pedimented window-doors fronted by iron balconies. One exceptionally long balcony fronts the three central bays of the main story. Richly carved portals hint at the building’s original interior program, which combined ceremonial spaces for royal entertainment, to the north (on the right in the photograph), and governmental chambers as well as a jail for the municipality, to the south.1 The town hall’s exterior ornament reflects the dual nature of the building: stone carvings of the Spanish Habsburg arms appear in four places on the east façade alone, two above the portals and two adorning the towers. In each instance, the royal arms are accompanied by pairs of municipal escutcheons.

Detailed specifications for building the Madrid Town Hall were issued in 1629, the same year a cornerstone was laid for the Court Prison. The guidelines were devised and signed by the Royal Works maestro mayor Juan Gómez de Mora, who would not see work started on the town hall until the early 1640s. Gómez de Mora advocated using granite and rose-colored brick as the primary building materials, resulting in the interesting color effects that can still be appreciated on the building’s façade. The pinkish hue of the walls complements the pale gray of the ground story as well as pediments and abstracted pilasters of the main story and towers. These segments are further accentuated by dark-blue slate on the building’s roof and tower spires, whose inventive forms animate the sky. Both the portals and upper portions of the towers are more richly ornamented than the main body of the building, reflecting late seventeenth-century interventions overseen by the architects José del Olmo (1638–1702) and Teodoro Ardemans, who brought the building to completion in 1693. Turning the corner onto the Calle Mayor, the town hall reveals another regularized façade framed by towers (fig. 81). Because the ground

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Figure 81  Madrid Town Hall, north façade along the Calle Mayor, with the main-story colonnade, added in 1785–89. Photo: Pablo Linés.

slopes downward to the south and to the west from the building’s northeast corner, the building’s ground floor seems to grow in height toward the south and west. Set back from the towers, the three central bays are fronted by a terrace and a long iron balcony that was expressly designed for the queen and her household to view street festivals. Multiple sets of carved arms, both royal 136

and municipal, displayed on the framing towers, amplified the royal nature of the viewing platform on ceremonial occasions when the monarch and her entourage were assembled. The openness of the terrace was disrupted in 1785–89, when the architects Mateo Guill (1753–1790) and Juan de Villanueva erected a colonnade with the intention of visually linking the town hall to other neoclassical monuments in the capital built under the auspices of the Royal Academy of Fine Arts.2 Unlike interventions elsewhere in Madrid, the town-hall colonnade does not adversely affect the building,

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although it does challenge our ability to envision the building’s use in the Habsburg era. The harmonious sense of order exhibited on the two principal façades of Madrid’s town hall masks a seven-decade effort on the part of municipal leaders to build an architectural expression of their authority in a city that had come to be dominated by the royal court. In contrast, the rear of the building bends and turns in response to the challenges over property and sightlines set forth by neighbors, as is most evident when one walks behind the building along today’s Calle del Duque de Nájera and looks up (fig. 82). One sees canted walls, as well as the ominously competing towers of the Cañete Palace at left, an opposition evocative of the “enmity” that Joseph Connors has

argued characterized much of Roman baroque urbanism.3 Markers of enmity were one possible outcome of competing claims for space in seventeenth-century Madrid. Along the Plaza de la Villa and the Calle Mayor—that is to say, in the public spaces before the town hall—the designers and patrons of this public monument projected something altogether different, an architectural expression of order and consensus. Conflicts between the municipality and royal administrators, as well as influential neighbors, lie behind the protracted planning and construction Figure 82  Cañete Palace at left and the Madrid Town Hall at right along the Calle del Duque de Nájera, Madrid. Photo: author.

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history of this building. The earliest record of construction plans makes the project’s conception contemporaneous with that of the Court Prison, which was realized by the Council of Castile between 1629 and 1640. In September 1629 Madrid’s town council appointed one of its members to serve as comisario for the town-hall project, believing that its realization would be forthcoming.4 Yet by that date the aldermen were already at battle with their neighbors over the project. Given the general financial crisis in Castile, which affected buildings elsewhere in Madrid, construction at the town hall was ultimately delayed. Thirteen years later, in 1642, town councilors even considered an alternative site for their seat of government when an opportunity for such a move arose. A straightforward construction history of the Madrid Town Hall can be gleaned from the archives; earlier historians have already published many aspects of the account.5 What remains lacking is a consideration of the building’s design as a reflection of the institutions housed within it, a lack the present chapter redresses. My analysis begins with a consideration of the setting of the town hall along one of Madrid’s most important streets and, more significantly, before one of its singular plazas. Turning then to the building’s construction, I highlight moments in the process in order to examine the challenges faced by municipal leaders and royal architects, who sought to marry spaces of local government with ceremonial interiors intended for royals and a jail meant to serve inmates of all classes. In the narrative that follows, the town hall emerges as an aspirational project undertaken by the town council in order to adorn Madrid with a monument to municipal government. At the same time, the revised story of this building reveals the absorption of local authority by the royal

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court.6 Ultimately, the score would not be settled for decades.

Local Gove rnment an d the Plaza d e la Vi lla In his influential treatise on municipal government published first in 1597, Política para cor­ regidores, the Spanish jurist Jerónimo Castillo de Bobadilla (1546/47–1605) implores men who govern cities and towns to erect handsome public buildings in which to carry out their work. He urges them to do so “without fearing any difficulties, because Fortune tends to be generous with magnanimous men.”7 Castillo de Bobadilla’s attention to architecture is notable for a book whose primary concern is to outline the preparation, skills, and duties required of an ideal corregidor, or town governor.8 In Spanish cities and towns, a corregidor worked alongside municipal councilors and outranked them by virtue of holding a royal appointment. Castillo de Bobadilla drew upon his own experience as a former holder of the office and upon the knowledge the position afforded him about the workings of local government as well as about the spaces in which this work transpired. According to Castillo de Bobadilla, town halls were necessary buildings. He reported that at the 1480 meeting of the Castilian Cortes—the near equivalent of a parliament, with delegates from the kingdom’s eighteen major cities—the Catholic Monarchs, Isabel and Fernando, issued a decree that any city or town lacking a town hall should build one. For the monarchs, this was a matter of good government, and architecture had a role to play in it. They declared that it was unjust for a city to have no “public building [casa] for the ayuntamiento or cabildo in which judges [justicias]

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and aldermen gather together to understand those matters pertaining to the republic.”9 In 1480, and in 1597 still, Madrid lacked a town hall, an oversight to which Castillo de Bobadilla’s treatise called attention. Yet the city did have a place associated with municipal government, the Plaza de San Salvador, where the ayuntamiento had met in a variety of settings since the early fourteenth century. The sixteenth-century humanist Juan López de Hoyos equated the plaza with justice, labeling it Madrid’s “audiencia and judicial forum.”10 The earliest reliable picture of this urban space appears on Pedro Teixeira’s 1656 map of Madrid (fig. 83). Teixeira depicts the plaza as trapezoidal in shape and labels it the “Plaçuela de la Villa,” reflecting a seventeenth-century appellation that came with plans for a new town hall. Until the 1580s Madrid’s town council gathered on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays in cramped quarters above the portico of the Church of San Salvador, which possessed one of Madrid’s tallest bell towers. Teixeira labels the church with the letter B, indicating its prominence among the city’s parishes, with only Santa María la Mayor outranking it. Demolished in 1842, the church was located along an extension of the Calle Mayor called the Platería, a street lined with luxury shops, including those of silversmiths (plateros). The meeting place for the aldermen, under the shadow of the bell tower, was makeshift at best, though not unlike those used by other Castilian municipalities since the late Middle Ages.11 The tower of San Salvador included one of two public clocks installed shortly after the court settled in Madrid in 1561.12 The placement of the clock hints at the prestige of the plaza before it, where some of Madrid’s most distinguished families had their principal residences. This included

Figure 83  Pedro Teixeira, Topographia de la Villa de Madrid (fig. 11), detail of the Plaçuela de la Villa and environs. Biblioteca Nacional de España, INVENT /23233. Photo: Biblioteca Nacional de España.

the Luján Palace, home to one of Madrid’s oldest noble families and the place where Francis I of France was held for a time during his captivity by Charles V in 1525–26. The building remains standing today, although it has been heavily restored (fig. 84). The palace of the Count of Los Arcos, Rodrigo Lasso de la Vega (1567–1637)— known commonly as the Cisneros Palace after its original owner, a nephew of the famed early sixteenth-century cardinal—marked the square’s southern border and remains today, with early

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Figure 84  Plaza de la Villa, Madrid, view to the southeast, with the Luján Palace to the left, the Cisneros Palace in the right background, and the town-hall façade at right. Photo: author.

twentieth-century historicist elements, including a tower with a loggia. The count had served on the Royal Committee of Works and Forests and was therefore familiar with architectural practice, knowledge that would help him in legal claims protesting the original plans to build a town hall in the 1620s. He was also, as it turns out, one of El Greco’s principal patrons in Madrid and owned many canvases by the artist, including at least three on display in his palace adjoining the Plaza de San Salvador.13 140

Along the western side of the plaza, Teixeira depicts a nearly square piece of ground labeled 25. Enclosed on three sides by barrier walls, the plot abuts an assortment of small buildings to the immediate south that served as the municipal jail. Before 1630 the corregidor’s residence was also part of this complex.14 It might appear among the buildings illustrated on the map, although it is more likely that it had been demolished by the time Teixeira undertook his survey, having once stood on part of the adjacent empty plot. In the map’s legend, the entire site is identified as the carçel de la Villa. Madrid’s town hall thus does not appear on Teixeira’s map or in his legend. This is a surprising oversight, but it can be explained by the likelihood that the design for this important public

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building had not been finalized when Teixeira prepared his map. Before the mid-sixteenth-century settlement of the court, the Plaza de San Salvador had been Madrid’s principal setting for civic ceremony. With the subsequent shaping of the Plaza Mayor, begun in the 1580s, the Plaza de San Salvador was eclipsed in prominence, although it continued to serve as the preeminent municipal space in Madrid. Its continued status as a prestige location for ritual was made evident annually during the festival of Corpus Christi, in which the king and nearly four thousand other participants processed on foot along the Calle Mayor, and temporary stages were erected in the Plaza de San Salvador for theatrical productions.15 One of the primary components of the town-hall design was the incorporation of a Salón Real, or Royal Hall, along the building’s north face. As illustrated already, the hall provided access to a terrace fronting the Calle Mayor, from which the queen could observe Corpus Christi processions. In the years leading up to the debut of the hall and terrace in the late 1650s, the queen occupied a rented balcony of the Cañete Palace— the building Teixeira depicts with twin towers to the immediate west of the town-hall plot—for this purpose. The integral role the town hall would play in the city’s ritual calendar was thus envisioned from the outset. Another important urban intervention following the arrival of the court in Madrid was the reshaping of the Platería, the street to the immediate east of the Church of San Salvador and identified by name on Teixeira’s map. Begun in 1599, the project involved straightening the street and rebuilding its residences with elevations matching those of the Plaza Mayor.16 After a fire in the Church of San Salvador and a subsequent period during which informal meetings were held within

the church, Madrid’s town councilors used the Platería project as an excuse to transfer their business immediately west into rented quarters abutting the Monastery of Santa María de Constantinopla (labeled xxxiv by Teixeira).17 Shortly thereafter, the aldermen relocated across the street to quarters within the confines of the empty plot labeled 25 by Teixeira. By 1620 the ayuntamiento demolished these new quarters in the interest of building an even grander seat. Barring the appearance of new documents or drawings, it is impossible to reconstruct what the early buildings, or portions of buildings, used by the aldermen looked like. Public notaries had set up tables and stalls in the Plaza de San Salvador since the Middle Ages, and documents suggest that more permanent kiosks fronted the plaza as late as May 1629. That month three alarifes assessed repairs needed for the ayuntamiento, making mention of scribal desks (escritorios) located along the plaza, an audience hall that appears to have faced the Calle Mayor, and a room-sized wardrobe (guardarropa) that housed ceremonial garments used by city officials as well as artworks and precious objects.18 The same document mentions a residence for the keeper of the guardarropa within the building. As with previous settings for municipal government, this iteration of a meeting place was also demolished, as aldermen decided later in 1629 to clear the site, with the intention of erecting an altogether new town hall. Their project soon stalled, and it is the site without a building that Teixeira surveyed and recorded. More than likely, the roofed structure facing the plaza on the map was used by municipal notaries whose practice continued uninterrupted here and in other quarters of the city. Teixeira, however, indicates on his map that he was aware of the ayuntamiento’s plans for a 141

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new building. From the lower edge of the structure used by notaries, Teixeira draws a straight line that defines a western edge for the plaza and records the limits proposed for the town hall’s principal façade. On his map Teixeira indicates another important feature of the area that is no longer extant: a fountain (44) begun around 1623 whose finishing touches, including the procurement of a “marble figure,” were made in late 1631.19 The stone sculpture depicted a woman, most likely Minerva, in military dress with a shield and standard. This image of a Roman goddess was one of a number of stone sculptures imported for Madrid fountains, including the one in the Plaza de Provincia adorned with a statue of Apollo.20 The Minerva Fountain, which is recorded in a later seventeenth-century painted view, included a deep basin with anthropomorphic forms ringing the main level and supporting upper basins topped by a pyramid and the sculpted figure of the goddess. In its composition, the fountain resembled contemporary designs for the gardens at royal retreats such as the Royal Palace at Aranjuez. Although the plaza fountain would be realized decades earlier than the town hall, it was envisioned concurrently with the building as part of a larger urban ensemble celebrating municipal government.

Laws uits , Litigants , an d Des i g n Despite the demolition undertaken by the ayunta­ miento in 1620, lawsuits filed by well-heeled neighbors delayed progress on the town-hall building until March 1629, when Philip IV granted a license for the project. Acknowledging the “long-standing love and fidelity” Madrid’s municipal leaders had shown the Crown, the king authorized funding from duty paid by towns in the Real de 142

Manzanares, a territory to the northwest of Madrid. Additionally, the king stipulated that a portion of the excise taxes on foodstuffs designated for public works in Madrid be directed to the project for a period of nine years.21 Given the dilapidated state of the municipal jail, the Council of Castile had proposed that a new jail be integrated into the town hall, something the king appears also to have approved without any direct mention of this in his license. At this time Gómez de Mora prepared his first designs for the building.22 The drawings do not survive, but the written specifications that accompanied them indicate that aldermen and Council of Castile judges reviewed them extensively with the maestro mayor. In a departure from the double-courtyard plans employed at the Royal Palace and Court Prison, the town hall design was organized around a single courtyard with a threestory elevation. The program included tribunals, meeting rooms for judges, offices for scribes, a city jail with its attendant facilities, a residence for the corregidor, and the previously mentioned Salón Real and terrace. Gómez de Mora must have submitted his design with some anxiety, as he was concurrently trying to wrestle away from Cristóbal de Aguilera the commission for the Court Prison, for which ground was about to be broken. With minor adjustments over the summer of 1629, Gómez de Mora’s plans for the town hall met with approval. On September 19, five days after the first stone was laid for the Court Prison, the Council of Castile judge Francisco de Tejada was named by his peers superintendent of the town-hall project.23 With much less fanfare than seen at the Court Prison, a ceremony was held at the building site. At the October event, Gómez de Mora laid cords to mark the building limits in the presence of Tejada, the corregidor Francisco

Town Versus Court

de Brizuela y Cardenas, town councilors, and all concerned parties who had challenged the municipality over the project earlier.24 The Count of Añober, for instance, represented himself and his father, the Count of Los Arcos, who had sued the ayuntamiento only two months prior, alleging that the new building threatened to alter the grandeur of the Plaza de San Salvador.25 Los Arcos, like his neighbor the Marquis del Valle, who resided along the Calle Mayor opposite the building site, felt that Gómez de Mora’s design projected too far into the plaza. By the time of the October ceremony, the design had been reduced in depth by two feet, and all parties agreed that the plans presented that day were correct. The building’s perimeter was marked according to precise measurements taken from drawings, and to add to the solemn nature of the gathering, the said drawings were signed by the corregidor and Pedro Martínez, the chief municipal scribe, who also served as a secretary to the king. Digging for the building’s foundations proceeded until July 1630, when a bad harvest led to the project’s suspension as funds were diverted to purchase wheat.26 Perhaps nervous about the continuation of construction, Madrid’s town council sounded off against the Court Prison project, which remained underway in the vicinity. In their meeting minutes, the aldermen claimed that a tax on wine had been levied to help fund the Court Prison without its approval.27 The challenge raised by the ayuntamiento was as much about taxes as it was about the prominence of the Council of Castile magistrates, who would officiate in the new Court Prison, vis-à-vis the alderman, who would serve in the new town hall. Work on the municipal building came to a standstill. In 1635 residents of the Plaza de San Salvador sued the town council again. These neighbors, along with clerics from neighboring parishes,

presented their case in one of the Council of Castile chambers located in the Royal Palace. Records indicate that this was a tense trial. The language of urban design used by the plaza residents suggests that Madrileños cared about the aesthetic experience of architecture, though perhaps, as might have been the case earlier with the Count of Los Arcos and the since-deceased Marquis del Valle, they were also concerned about losing their views. In response to the ayuntamiento’s challengers, the aldermen asserted their right “to usurp and divide private property as it has done in many past occasions.”28 Moreover, the body argued that it sought to build for la grandeça de la corte, an assertion that blurred the lines between city and court and spoke to Madrid’s evolving identity. Construction at the town hall did not resume until the early 1640s. The project’s paralysis was a matter of concern for aldermen, but others were taking note too. In September 1642 the municipal council proposed an alternative site for its building: the Uceda Palace, located at the western end of the Calle Mayor, in the vicinity of the Royal Palace and away from uncooperative neighbors (fig. 85). Attributed to the military engineer Alonso Turrillo, the palace was begun in 1613 and completed by 1618.29 In 1642 it was to be vacated by the widow and heirs of Cristóbal Gómez de Sandoval y Rojas (1581–1624), the first Duke of Uceda, who, like his father, the Duke of Lerma, had served in some of the highest-ranking positions in the government of early seventeenth-century Spain.30 The palace was never fully built as planned but remains an imposing monument in Madrid. It would serve as the palace of Mariana of Austria after November 1679, when she became queen mother, and was transformed into a seat for the royal councils in the eighteenth century.31 The main façade of the palace stands two stories high, with an attic level 143

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Figure 85  Alonso Turillo, Uceda Palace, Madrid, 1613– 18, view of east and north (main) façades. Photo: Pablo Linés.

above. Fourteen bays open before the Calle Mayor, with two large portals fronting the fifth and tenth bays. Quoining used on the end bays suggests framing towers. Owing to shifts in topography, the building gains a full ground-level story along its western and southern sides. With a combination of brick walls and classical features in granite, the palace took its cue from royal building projects and linked the Gómez de Sandoval clan with the Spanish Habsburg dynasty. In September 1642, following visits to the Uceda Palace earlier that month, Madrid’s leadership 144

voted to purchase the building.32 With the exception of one councilor, the body also approved minor renovations at the cost of 200 ducados. The minutes of the discussion include interesting comments about the intended uses of the new space, as well as about the inconveniences experienced by the governing body under the existing arrangement, meeting in rented quarters. All of this illuminates the intersection of architecture and institutional identity in early modern Madrid. In addition to accommodating the town council, the Uceda Palace would provide a residence for Madrid’s corregidor.33 The cost for acquiring the building was estimated at 1,300 ducados, conveniently the same amount paid at the time in annual rent for the council’s meeting place and the

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corregidor’s residence in the Plaza de San Salvador. Notably, the total cost, save the ducats required for upgrades, was to be assumed by the Dowager Duchess of Uceda. Following the vote, the matter was forwarded to the Council of Castile, whose approval was required. Specifically, the five señores de Gobierno of the same council—a reference perhaps to the Magistrates of the Royal Household and Court, who were by then meeting in their recently debuted audiencia in the Court Prison—issued the approval. In a broadsheet printed in Milan in 1644, an unnamed informant announced that the Ayuntamiento de Madrid was beginning work on a town jail “with such grandeur and splendor that, when finished, [it would] be one of the best buildings in the court.”34 One might conclude from this phrasing that councilors intended to relocate to the Uceda Palace, leaving their original site for a jail. However, the building project described in the broadsheet included a hall from which the queen would view Corpus Christi festivals, one of the principal features of Gómez de Mora’s project for the town hall. The Milanese reporter turns out to have been well informed. In October 1643 Madrid’s aldermen agreed once again to build their town hall in the Plaza de San Salvador. In the record of their meeting, they claimed, “There is no other example of a city in Castile suffering the indecency and notoriety of not having a town hall, as so many have been built that provide notable service to His Majesty.”35 Madrid’s stature among the realm’s other cities and towns lay at the heart of the councilors’ concerns, which were directed to the Castilian high court. For comparison, the aldermen might have turned to the enormous town hall in Seville (fig. 86).36 Begun in 1526 and never completed, the two-story building exhibits a highly decorative

façade with a lo romano ornament exemplifying an early sixteenth-century fascination with the new classical vocabulary that emerged first in Italy and was widely employed during the reign of Charles V. Classicism in Seville evoked legends of the city’s founding by Hercules and, as was Figure 86  Diego Riaño and others, Seville Town Hall (Casa del Ayuntamiento de Sevilla), begun 1526, east façade. Photo: Pablo Linés.

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the case in many other Spanish cities, promoted allegiance to the monarchy. As the writer in Milan commented, the reason for building a town hall in the court city was to “aggrandize” Madrid “with dignified and great buildings.”37 Madrid’s aldermen elected two of its members to serve as comisarios of the building project, but, significantly, the order to carry out the work came from the Council of Castile. Having recently (in 1640) completed construction at the Court Prison, the royal council was willing, at last, to move forward with the town-hall project. The decision was certainly informed by Spain’s fiscal crises of the mid-seventeenth century. Yet it further shows that the royal judges who made up the council, and not the aldermen comprising the ayuntamiento, controlled the purse strings for public building projects in Madrid. In response to the decision, Madrid’s municipal leaders assigned the architect Juan Gómez de Mora to report on the cost of the undertaking. Gómez de Mora, fresh from a period of exile from court, responded to his charge by preparing drawings and initiating the building project in earnest. In 1643 Juan Gómez de Mora’s standing in the building profession in Madrid was precarious. Since presenting his initial designs for the town hall in 1629, he had been shunned by the CountDuke of Olivares, who put the architect Alonso Carbonel in charge of the Buen Retiro Palace project in the 1630s. Gómez de Mora then got himself into hot water over the shady loan of a painting by Titian in 1636, which resulted in his dismissal from the post of palace ayuda de la furriera, the equivalent of chief palace decorator.38 With assignments in places such as Murcia and Salamanca, Gómez de Mora had suffered the equivalent of a six-year banishment from court. In 1632, perhaps

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already sensing the changing political tide running against him, he published two tracts narrating ceremonies that he had designed and orchestrated for Philip IV. These books were meant for posterity but were also intended to remind the king of the architect’s loyal service. With the decline of Olivares’s influence in the early 1640s, following political upheavals in Catalonia and Portugal as well as on the larger European front, Gómez de Mora saw his fortunes rise once again. To his chagrin, he would have to live with the Court Prison designed by Cristóbal de Aguilera, but the town hall presented him with an opportunity to design on a grand scale. Construction at the town hall would begin in 1644 and continue at an uneven pace for nearly five decades. Gómez de Mora has been credited as the designer of the building, and his drawings were the ones approved by royal authorities in the 1640s. Initial construction, however, was overseen by Aguilera, who bid for the contract and likely received the commission owing to his work at the Court Prison. Aguilera died in 1648 and was succeeded by the Madrid architect José de Villarreal (d. 1662). A protégé of Gómez de Mora’s, Villarreal assumed the title of maestro mayor in 1649, following his master’s death, and subsequently altered the town-hall design significantly. Despite many delays and setbacks, Villarreal was able to realize most of the building’s ceremonial interiors, although incorporating the town jail into his design proved more difficult. That portion of the building was completed in later decades by others (as summarized in this book’s appendix). In what follows, I offer a sampling of the building’s construction process up to Villarreal’s death, in the early 1660s. I focus on drawings, original and reconstructed, as a means of illustrating the many activities that

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took place in the town hall and the ways in which those who worked in or visited the building would have navigated its spaces. Of the few period drawings for the town hall to have survived into the twenty-first century, Gómez de Mora’s 1644 elevation of the north façade, along the Calle Mayor, is the most helpful for understanding early design ideas (fig. 87). Unfortunately, the drawing has been unlocatable since appearing

Figure 87  Juan Gómez de Mora, elevation of the north façade of the Madrid Town Hall, 1644. Black and red ink on paper, 16 5/8 × 22 ¼ in. (42.5 × 56.5 cm). Archivo de Villa de Madrid, Secretaría, legajos 2-499-1 (whereabouts unknown). From Conde de Polentinos, Las Casas del Ayuntamiento y la Plaza Mayor de Madrid (Madrid: Fototipia de Hauser y Menet, 1913). Photo: Catherine Gass.

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in a 1986 exhibition.39 Although it bears a date of 11 August 1644, the drawing corresponds to Gómez de Mora’s project of August 1643, for which bids were sought and obtained the following winter. The first allotment of funds for the project followed shortly thereafter, in October 1643.40 At the top of the drawing, a descriptive passage reads: “Front of the casa del ayuntamiento that is being built in Madrid, as seen from the street that links [the Church of ] San Salvador to [the Church of ] Santa María.” The architect depicts a three-story building and also indicates an alternative scheme with a mezzanine level, as evidenced by the two towers depicted at left. The façade is divided into five bays, with each of the end bays encompassed in a framing tower. Gómez de Mora carefully delineates the building’s main story, whose middle three windows correspond to the planned Salón Real and viewing terrace. Additionally, the architect specifies roofline elements, including dormers and chapiteles, which were decided upon early in the design process as essential elements for the building. As is usual with drawings made at an early stage of construction, the architect provides only general details as a means of laying out the building’s proportions and scale for official approval. A notation regarding the queen’s terrace calls the building a palacio, which provides a clue to the ambitious nature of the project. Further, Gómez de Mora includes greater detail about the ground floor, as this was the portion to be built first after the call for bids. To judge by the accompanying text and series of signatures added to the drawing, this image served a primarily legal purpose. The schematic design was approved on 11 August 1644 and signed by nine individuals, including the royal architect, an alderman, Council of Castile judges, members of the Royal Works administration, and 148

two priests, the Capuchin architect Diego de Madrid (active mid-seventeenth century) and Francisco Bautista (1594–1679), a Jesuit architect often consulted by Madrid’s aldermen for his expert opinion on building matters. The composition of the group of signatories reveals a blending of court and municipal officials that had pertained in other building projects in Madrid since the second half of the sixteenth century.41 Other documents name José González, a Council of Castile judge, as the superintendent of the project, yet neither he nor the corregidor, Francisco Arévalo y Zuazo, nor two alderman named comisarios for the project, signed this drawing. In the written report accompanying his drawings—the Calle Mayor elevation drawing was one of an unspecified number of images—Gómez de Mora notes that he had prepared two alternative designs for the town-hall façades. The first, according to the architect, required minimal masonry and ornament. The second, his preferred scheme, included not only stone for the entirety of the ground story but also ornamental stone pilasters and cornices for the two upper stories, “as they appear in the drawings made for this casa,” which, unfortunately, do not survive. Town councilors opted for the more ornate façade, and their choice was approved by the Council of Castile on 1 December.42 From the start, the building was called the town hall and jail (casa del ayuntamiento y cárcel de la Villa de Madrid). This duality is significant as it reflects contemporary political theory about civic authority and justice. It also suggests a newfound confidence in the municipality’s identity. Shortly after this date, the Plaza de San Salvador fronting the building began to be called the Plaza de la Villa, thereby identifying it directly with the town council and the business of civic government that occurred there. In tandem with

Town Versus Court

this development, Gómez de Mora simultaneously held the titles of chief architect for the municipality and chief architect for the Crown. His dual allegiances to city and court come to light in the design process. Following the approval of his project, Gómez de Mora prepared additional drawings and then on 1 January 1644 issued specifications for the construction of the “lower floor,” a reference to the main story in light of the original intention to build a third story.43 Six copies of the building guidelines were posted for review by builders who might bid on the project. Additionally, Madrid’s chief scribe took possession of the drawings and, following established practice, served as their gatekeeper for any builder who sought to consult them.44 The drawings, nearly all now unaccounted for, included elevation images of portals and other decorative elements. There were also at least two plans, one of the ground floor and a second of the building’s main story. In his written instructions, the architect highlights two principal rooms for the main floor. The first is a ceremonial hall facing the Calle Mayor “in which Her Majesty the Queen Our Lady is to watch Corpus [Christi] festivals.” The other is an interior space opening onto the Plaza de la Villa “where the gentlemen of the Council of Castile and of the Villa de Madrid are to watch festivals and, during the [remainder of the] year, hold [those] meetings that are [to be] held outside the [principal] chamber of the ayuntamiento.”45 This second room corresponds to a space in the building’s northeast corner, a space that would be retrofitted as part of a chapel in the 1690s. Along the ground floor fronting the Calle Mayor, Gómez de Mora designated service quarters and a vaulted office space (bobedas de los escritorios) intended, to judge from comparable arrangements in other Castilian

cities, for municipal notaries. The resolution of the building’s height relative to changes in the site’s topography occupied the architect and the town council for the next year as the expertise of other builders and engineers was sought on the design. In the end, Gómez de Mora’s three-story project was rejected, yet his specifications for construction are useful, as they shed light on the construction trade in Madrid. In describing his drawings within the lengthy text of his specifications and related documents, Gómez de Mora betrays his commitment to classical design principles. In one passage, he resorts to the ancient architect Vitruvius when he argues that his project seeks “utility, firmness, and beauty” as its desired outcome.46 One of Gómez de Mora’s drawings included details of the building’s two principal portals, for which he offers precise instructions about their design and building materials. First, he insists that builders use piedra berroqueña, the granite derived from the mountains in the vicinity of the Escorial. He specifies that each portal is to be fronted with columns whose plinths, shafts, and capitals are to be carved of single blocks of stone. Although the drawing is lost, other projects executed by the Royal Works during Gómez de Mora’s tenure as maestro mayor offer clues about the architect’s classicism. A close approximation can be seen in two lateral portals in the atrium of the convent church of La Encarnación, completed around 1616 (fig. 88). Low-relief pilasters frame the lobed doorways at La Encarnación, and elegant volutes at the level of a frieze lead the eye upward to a cornice and rounded pediment. Echoing Gómez de Mora’s specifications for the town hall, the portals are composed of large blocks of stone carved in fine layers of relief. The aesthetic was similar to that employed by Aguilera at the Court Prison, 149

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Figure 88  Fray Alberto de la Madre de Dios, Royal Convent of La Encarnación, Madrid, atrium portal. Photo: author. Figure 89  Madrid Town Hall, a window bay along the east façade. Photo: author.

which, in turn, had been inspired by the Royal Palace frontispiece. The architect further stipulates materials to be used throughout the town hall, articulating differences between façade and interior details. In describing the manner of laying brick for the two principal façades, Gómez de Mora refers to the 150

recently completed “new tower” of the Royal Palace as a model.47 Although realized after his death, the windows on the main story of the town hall’s east façade capture Gómez de Mora’s intentions (fig. 89). Paired and layered pilasters mark the window bays, while a stone frame and pediment for each of the windows set them apart from the brick walls. With Gómez de Mora in charge, classical architecture in the Plaza de la Villa would link the prestige location with royal buildings elsewhere in the capital, yet tensions between the town council and neighbors persisted. Gómez de Mora soon found himself faced with opposition from builders too.

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In the construction specifications, Gómez de Mora makes clear that he would not build the town hall. Instead, a contractor would be chosen following a bidding process. Bids from six teams of builders survive and reveal that the commission was awarded by the Council of Castile. The winning architect turned out to be Cristóbal de Aguilera, with whom Gómez de Mora had competed earlier for the Court Prison project. Coming on the heels of the successful completion of that building for the royal council, Aguilera might have been an obvious choice for the town hall. Yet one can surmise that this architect might also have been suspect to Madrid’s aldermen given his earlier work for the court. Regardless of their respective institutional allegiances, personal mistrust between Aguilera and Gómez de Mora remained, and their debates over the design of the town hall make for interesting reading in the archive. Not insignificantly, this is precisely the same period in which Bernini and Borromini lived out their great, if perhaps overhyped, rivalry in Rome. Like the tug-ofwar in Italy, Aguilera and Gómez de Mora’s tussle in Madrid helps elucidate the growing agency of architects in shaping early modern cities.48 As he began work on the building’s foundations in the spring of 1644, Aguilera found the ground beneath to be marshy.49 In a clear affront to the maestro mayor, Aguilera questioned the town-hall design on technical grounds. Gómez de Mora himself was aware of the need for strong foundations at this end of the building and had specified earlier that year that the queen’s hall be wider than other rooms and require more structural support. Aguilera nonetheless claimed to have had to dig three times as deep as Gómez de Mora had calculated in order to reach solid ground, thereby incurring extra cost and losing valuable time. Although an archaeological study would be needed to judge

the true depth of the foundations, a naked-eye assessment reveals that they are much deeper than those of other Madrid buildings, suggesting that Aguilera’s protests were not exaggerated. Aguilera continued his work on the foundations through most of 1645 before turning to the building’s ground floor. To judge by the paper trail, he spent a good deal of this time challenging Gómez de Mora’s plans. After his death, in 1648, Aguilera’s executors continued to pursue fair payment for his work on the foundations and his adjustments to the height of the principal halls of the main floor. These perceived miscalculations by Gómez de Mora offended the sensibilities, if not the reputation, of the Royal Works maestro mayor. That Aguilera was not able to complete his work might have been poetic justice for Gómez de Mora, but the royal architect also died in 1648, so the rivalry ended on a highly unsettled note. As late as March 1649, Aguilera’s widow declared her disinterest in completing the town-hall project and, in so doing, allowed the town council to find a new bidder.50 Her wishes were somewhat moot at this point, since the architect José de Villarreal, maestro mayor of municipal works, is recorded as being in charge of the project by the beginning of 1649. In January, Philip IV had also appointed the diplomat and humanist Lorenzo Ramírez de Prado (1583–1658) as the new superintendent of the town hall. Concurrently, Ramírez de Prado was overseeing plans for the autumn entry of Philip IV’s new queen, Mariana of Austria, into the capital.51 Ramírez de Prado’s immediate concern for the town hall was to see to the completion of the Salón Real, a space also associated, as noted above, with the queen. However, achieving that objective was complicated, since Villarreal was preoccupied with preparing designs for the royal entry. He had served as assistant designer (ayuda 151

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de trazador) and assistant maestro mayor under Gómez de Mora and would continue on in those posts until his promotion to aparejador mayor of the Royal Works in early 1654.52 He would be promoted at court again in 1660, when, upon the death of the painter Diego Velázquez, he was granted the title of ayuda de la furriera.53 Villarreal did not issue revised building specifications for the town hall until June 1650. The time lag owed in part to the ceremonial surrounding the arrival of the new queen at court, but the architect had also spent the interim revising the building’s design. At the outset of the design document, Villarreal proclaims that ongoing work should “continue that which has been started, while adjusting all that remains so that it conforms to the newly approved drawing.” Ramírez de Prado signed off on the specifications, as did the other members of the building committee along with two clericarchitects who served as consultants—the Jesuit Francisco Bautista and the Trinitarian Francisco de San Joseph.54 Meticulously detailed, Villarreal’s text notes that the main-floor windows along the Calle Mayor were ready to receive their balconies, while those facing the Plaza de la Villa were nearing completion and required reinforcement prior to the placement of ironworks. Despite Villarreal’s comprehensive description and instructions, the drawings to which he makes frequent reference do not survive. He refers to existing drawings for the building portals as well as inscribed plaques to be placed above their lintels and promises to provide new drawings for the cornice above the mainfaçade windows. “It is a condition that the [building] master, in order to execute this work,” the architect declares, “be given all necessary plans, elevations [fachadas], and sections [perfiles]. And if any [of these drawings] for the project’s execution

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should be lacking, they will be provided by the said José de Villarreal.”55 The architect’s conditions resulted in a call for bids and an eventual resumption of work by late summer. As earlier scholars have observed, the town-hall construction process in the 1650s was anything but smooth.56 Disputes with neighbors were an earlier problem, but limited funding and rebellion among underpaid work crews became new matters of concern for Villarreal, who was also being pressured to have the Calle Mayor hall and terrace readied for the 1652 Corpus Christi season. To that end, a new contractor, with the promising name Alejandro Magno, took over the project in March 1653.57 Challenges ensued, however, and the queen’s household was not able to use the hall until 1656. Even then its ceiling frescoes were still drying, and decorative features such as gilded bolas along the terrace were hastily put in place. Along the Plaza de la Villa, the interiors intended for the use of Madrid’s aldermen were nearly complete by February 1657, and Villarreal was able to inspect the work of the two roofers who had covered the main portion of the building with slate and secured the northeast tower up to its cornice line.58 A large-scale painted view of the Madrid Town Hall and Plaza de la Villa made around this time by an unknown artist offers a rare opportunity to corroborate the documentary record (fig. 90).59 The artist depicts the town hall with six of its plaza bays nearly complete and the final three built up to the base of the main story. With details such as pigeons taking shelter in the unfinished tower at right and masons working granite blocks, including the base of a pilaster and what appears to be a set of royal arms, at left, the view captures the sense of an active, if not wholly productive, work

site in the heart of Madrid. The combination of brick and granite used for the façade follows the specifications laid out by Gómez de Mora in 1643. In the center of the façade, three pedimented windows front what would become the building’s Sala Principal, or Main Hall, an interior space that was not completed until the 1690s. In the interim, as noted by Gómez de Mora, Madrid’s town councilors carried out business in the two

Figure 90  Unknown Madrid artist, View of the Town Hall and Plaza de la Villa with an Apparition of the Virgin of Atocha, ca. 1656. Oil on canvas, 6 ft. 10 5/8 in. × 10 ft. 1/8 in. (210 × 305 cm). Museo de Historia de Madrid, I.N. 35351. Photo: Ayuntamiento de Madrid / Museo de Historia de Madrid.

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rooms corresponding to the northern bays facing the Plaza de la Villa, which the artist shows with their iron balconies in place. Double pilasters mark the northeast corner bay and its corresponding side facing the Calle Mayor. The same stone ornament can be seen on the southwest tower, located further along the Calle Mayor. Along this façade of the building, the painter has depicted the two balconies fronting the towers but has left off the main balcony corresponding to the still-unfinished royal terrace. To recap progress, the north end of the building, with its Salón Real, notaries hall, and service spaces, was built first, then the portion of the east side that corresponded to the governmental spaces. On the interior, three of the courtyard elevations were also partially standing by 1657, leaving only the jail section to be erected. The jail presented a thorny challenge for Villarreal, the problem exacerbated by dwindling funds by the late 1650s for completion of the overall project. Two alternative drawings of the town hall’s ground floor, dating to the spring and autumn of 1653, reveal that Villarreal’s singular contribution to the building’s design was a novel treatment of interior circulation, both pedestrian and coach. The drawings were published first in 1913 and then again in 1951 but have been missing since, so I have worked with reproductions.60 Villarreal envisioned a sequence of spaces arranged around the perimeter of the building’s single courtyard. Moreover, both drawings include a monumental staircase intended for ceremonial uses. When seeking payment for his services for the town hall a year or so later, Villarreal would proudly claim that his building was unique in Spain.61 But as shown in the earlier chapters about the Royal Palace and the Court Prison, the monumental staircase occupies a prominent place in Spanish architecture of 154

the early modern period, and the one Villarreal proposed for the Madrid Town Hall befits this tradition. In the first drawing, dated May 1653, Villarreal proposes a wide staircase abutting what would have been a well-illuminated courtyard (fig. 91). The plan also includes details of ground-floor spaces such as the notarial offices along the Calle Mayor mentioned earlier and a wide vestibule fronting the Plaza de la Villa. To the south, at left in the drawing, Villarreal illustrates an orderly arrangement of rooms that would serve as offices and cells for the town jail, accessed from a vestibule that cuts through the building from east to west. The airy staircase with double flights and hefty piers dividing them offered a stately design but could hardly have been desirable, given that its south flank opened directly onto the jail corridor. As early as February 1649, Madrid aldermen discussed the importance of coach access to the building from the Plaza de la Villa, so that the queen’s equipage could enter the town hall and convey the royal visitor conveniently to the main staircase.62 Villarreal addressed this matter in his second design, dated 14 October 1653, by turning the three bays between the staircase and courtyard into a vestibule (fig. 92). In this alternative design, two flights of stairs at left and right lead to landings at which a visitor would turn ninety degrees to reach a secondary landing before turning again to ascend stairs to the building’s main story. To the rear, Villarreal includes a service staircase that seems intended for use by the jail, although the design is not fully resolved. A variation of this second design, in the form of a U and occupying two, rather than three, bays, was eventually built. Its deeper treads were in keeping with matters of decorum raised by Philip IV for another staircase, also designed by Villarreal in the 1650s, for the Casa de la

Panadería in the nearby Plaza Mayor.63 The townhall staircase was completely transformed in the late nineteenth century, when it was rebuilt and covered with an iron-and-stained-glass ceiling. Construction of the town-hall staircase had advanced enough by late 1655 that Philip IV intervened and demanded that the Salón Real be finished in time for the coming spring’s Corpus Christi festivals. Meeting this goal would be no easy task, and Villarreal, like others before him, was asked by the Council of Castile to offer an opinion on the best way to pay for the required work. Arguing in favor of daily wages over salaried labor, Villarreal’s response carried with it his authority as an official of the Royal Works, a post he had assumed a year earlier. Moreover, his

Figure 91  José de Villarreal, plan of the ground floor of the Madrid Town Hall, 1653. Ink on paper. Formerly Archivo de Villa de Madrid (whereabouts and dimensions unknown). From Conde de Polentinos, Las Casas del Ayuntamiento y la Plaza Mayor de Madrid (Madrid: Fototipia de Hauser y Menet, 1913). Photo: Catherine Gass. Figure 92  José de Villarreal, plan of the ground floor of the Madrid Town Hall, 1653. Ink on paper. Formerly Archivo de Villa de Madrid (whereabouts and dimensions unknown). From Conde de Polentinos, Las Casas del Ayuntamiento y la Plaza Mayor de Madrid (Madrid: Fototipia de Hauser y Menet, 1913). Photo: Catherine Gass.

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authoritative words conveyed a great deal about contemporary architectural practice. An alert aparejador, Villarreal argued, helps prevent fraud and promote “good government, administration, and care [buen gobierno administraçion y quidado]” at a work site. He then provided a list of other buildings in Madrid, royal projects as well as some sponsored by religious orders, that were brought to completion under the day-labor system. Although he claimed things were proceeding well with the town-hall project, Villarreal implied in his report that the lack of funding for the project was taking its toll. Further, he acknowledged the wisdom of aldermen and other officials serving as commissioners for the project while backhandedly praising their willingness to ask questions and thereby challenge work-site progress. In his testimony, Villarreal also reveals pride in his work, arguing that the building is “very regal, very strong, very beautiful, and one of the best to be seen in Madrid.”64

Inte r io r s What did the interior of Villarreal’s building look like? Weighing the archival and visual evidence, I have prepared two plans that approximate the state of construction of the building’s ground and main stories around 1660 (figs. 93 and 97).65 At ground level, Villarreal’s central courtyard is the organizing feature of the building, with its two long vestibules (A 7, A 11) serving as the principal means of circulation. Villarreal calls these spaces zaguanes, implying their intended use by coaches as well as foot traffic. The hatched lines along the south vestibule (A 11) indicate the extent of construction around 1660 as Villarreal confronted the jumble of buildings relating to the old jail. A series of rooms that served administrative purposes appear to the right of the north vestibule (A 7). 156

Villarreal includes five of these spaces in his 1653 drawings, although one was built as two separate interiors (A 5–A 6). The primary room (A 3) corresponds to the vaulted interior Gómez de Mora describes as a space intended to be furnished with desks for municipal notaries. It is impossible to reconstruct partition walls that would have existed in the space, but this notarial hall certainly would have been well lit by its large windows facing onto the Calle Mayor. Records dating to the 1650s mention offices for accountants, the master of the guardarropa, and an archive, which could explain the use of rooms A1, A2, and A4 to A6, three of which received abundant light. The documents preserved in the archive—whether it was located at this level or elsewhere in the building—would form the basis of the Secretariat and Comptroller collections in today’s Archivo de Villa de Madrid, which rest at the heart of this book’s examination of Madrid architecture. A service staircase (S 2) provides access to a basement level of considerable height. Although some natural light filters into these basement interiors from the Calle Mayor, the spaces were likely used to store everything from paper to writing instruments and perhaps even the drums and bugles used by city musicians in processions. As the town hall neared completion, in the 1690s, the guardarropa preserving the most precious of municipal possessions, including religious objects, was moved from an unspecified location to the rafters above the town hall’s main story.66 Until then, some of the items might have been stored in this basement. Along the east façade, at the bottom in the plan, the large hall (A 8)—shown only as a vestibule in Villarreal’s staircase drawings—corresponds to a sala de visitas, or visiting hall. This is where judges of the Council of Castile as well as corregidores

Town Versus Court

yard. Although there is evidence that the hall served briefly as a hearing room around 1670, it was repurposed over the course of construction when aldermen realized they would require a greater number of jail cells than originally envisioned.

heard appeals from inmates, fulfilling a critical function of the judicial system as described by Castillo de Bobadilla in his treatise on municipal government.67 As envisioned, the room would have been illuminated by natural light from the Plaza de la Villa as well as from the interior court-

Figure 93  Madrid Town Hall, reconstruction of the ground-floor plan around 1660. Drawing by Chris Phillips.

Site of Old Jail

A6

A9

S1

A10

A4

A5

Courtyard A3

S2 A11 A13

A12

A8

A7 A1

A2

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Figure 94  Juan Gómez de Mora, José de Villarreal, and others, Madrid Town Hall, view of the north vestibule, built ca. 1655 and renovated 1691–93. Photo: Pablo Linés.

Entering from the Plaza de la Villa by means of the north portal, a coach might carry a distinguished visitor along the north corridor (A 7), which survives today relatively intact (fig. 94). Changes in ground level highlight Villarreal’s attention to circulation in the building, with walkways designated for pedestrians and a wide, street-like passageway for coaches. Originally, the three arches from the courtyard—one covered by a curtain in the photograph and the other two

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now walled up—would have filled the passageway with light. The design of the courtyard elevation by Gómez de Mora and Villarreal is recorded in a drawing that dates to 1691, during the final phase of construction (fig. 95). Made by Teodoro Ardemans, the drawing represents the arcade opening onto the south vestibule (A 11), with confirmation in the architect’s accompanying report that the design conforms to the existing cloister elevations. Single and double pilasters in the Tuscan order frame the bays of the ground-level stone arcade. On the main story, Ardemans specifies a design in brick relief with abstracted pilasters framing tall lobed windows to be fronted with balconies. A stone cornice separates the main floor from the

Figure 95 Teodoro Ardemans, elevation of the south wall of the Madrid Town Hall courtyard, 1691. Ink and color washes on paper, 9 ¾ × 13 ¼ in. (25 × 33.9 cm). Museo de Historia de Madrid, ASA 2–499–8 A. Photo: Ayuntamiento de Madrid / Museo de Historia de Madrid. Figure 96  Madrid Town Hall, view of the modified main-staircase vestibule. Photo: Pablo Linés.

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Figure 97  Madrid Town Hall, reconstruction of the main-floor plan around 1660. Drawing by Chris Phillips.

Site of Old Jail

B2

S1

B3

B1

B4

B5

B6

B10

B9 B8

attic, also built of brick, with two square windows and a central round opening aligned with the arcade below. The treatment of brick in the upper stories recalls the rear façade of the Court Prison and can be considered another vestige of the Habsburg style. Light filtered from the courtyard to enhance 160

B7

the foyer (A 10) at the base of the building’s main staircase (S 1). Modern rebuilding has turned this space into a completely enclosed interior (fig. 96). Although some effort was made to evoke the classical ornament of the original building, the absence of the arcade and natural light makes it difficult to assess Villarreal’s design intentions.

Town Versus Court

On festive occasions such as Corpus Christi, the original vestibule would have been illuminated by the patio and lined with attendants for a visitor such as the queen, who would have been escorted to the building’s main story (fig. 97). Ascending the staircase, the queen and her entourage would have followed a patio corridor (B 1) to the Salón Real (B 6), which occupies most of this floor’s north half. The route to the Royal Hall bypassed one large room (B 2) likely occupied by a porter and three rooms of varying size (B 3 to B 5), including one grand interior space with windows overlooking the Calle Mayor (B 5) that, in the late nineteenth century, would serve as the office of the municipal secretariat.68 In 1656, however, the debut of the Salón Real demanded the

construction of service quarters for cooks and pastry chefs who tended to the queen and her guests. Such rooms would have required ventilation, and these upper-story spaces might well have served the royal household during ceremonies. As the plan indicates, two doors led from the largest of these service quarters (B 5) into the Salón Real (B 6), which would have been approached by more-distinguished visitors from two other doors along the corridor. Rectangular in plan, the vaulted hall was illuminated by three windows opening onto the viewing terrace (fig. 98). The room’s original decoration included a dado faced with colorful Figure 98  Madrid Town Hall, view of the Salón Real. Photo: Pablo Linés.

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Figure 99  Pedro Martín Ledesma and Juan de Villegas, Arms of Madrid and the Spanish Habsburgs, 1656. Ceiling fresco, Salón Real, Madrid Town Hall. Photo: Pablo Linés.

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Talavera tiles and white walls above, echoing a period taste for elite interiors. Additionally, municipal accounting records note payments for silk taffeta and gold thread that was used in curtains and window ornaments as well as for gold leaf that was applied to the terrace balcony and all hall-room door handles.69 The window casings date to the nineteenth century, although the gilding along the cornice might reflect the interior’s original décor. On the ceiling, a fresco celebrates Madrid and the monarchy, a scheme executed by the artists Pedro Martín Ledesma and Juan de Villegas in the spring of 1656 (fig. 99).70 Madrid’s city arms appear four times between spandrels of the vault. In the flat portion of the ceiling overhead, the arms of the Spanish Habsburgs are surrounded by a field of gilded garlands and vegetal forms against a white background. With its focus on heraldry, the ceiling fresco took its cue from decorative schemes elsewhere in Madrid; an example appeared in the Hall of Realms of the Buen Retiro Palace, where the arms of the twenty-four kingdoms composing the Spanish Habsburg realm were painted along the perimeter of the ceiling vault.71 What is distinctive about the Salón Real ceiling is its municipal heraldry, which projects a message about Madrid’s special place in the monarchy as its court city. Ledesma and Villegas’s frescoed ceiling was the last of its sort in Madrid. Two years later Italian artists would introduce an advanced form of illusionistic architectural painting, or quadratura, to the Spanish court. Despite the instances of painted grandeur to come, the Salón Real, on completion, stood as the most sumptuous of town-hall interiors. Mariana of Austria first observed Corpus Christi ceremonies from the building in 1656, although the documentary evidence suggests she might not have used the freshly painted hall. Instead, the queen occupied the room and balcony

located in what a period document refers to as the “tower of the dragon” (B 7).72 Ledesma and Villegas were also charged in 1656 to paint Madrid’s arms on the ceiling of this interior and to decorate the adjacent space that served as an oratory (B 8). By 1665 the corner hall was called the Sala Mayor. The name of the chamber owed in part to its prominent corner location but also reflected the room’s use by Madrid’s aldermen as a meeting space while its principal chamber (B 10), facing the Plaza de la Villa, remained unfinished. The Sala Mayor had lavish furnishings and was the setting for the display of such ceremonial objects as the banner of Castile. By century’s end both the hall and the oratory would be transformed into a chapel and frescoed from floor to ceiling.

M u n i ci pal Ve rs u s Royal Space As the plan of the main floor of the town hall around 1660 indicates, spaces intended for governmental and ceremonial functions took priority over spaces for a new municipal jail. Fresh quarters were desperately needed because the jail’s aging facilities had suffered structural damage from adjacent construction. Although the new jail would not be ready to accommodate inmates for two decades, it remained very much on the minds of the town hall’s chief designers and the administrators charged with assuring its completion.73 Town-hall interiors conveyed messages about municipal and royal magnificence; similar ideas were to be promoted by the building’s façade. However, around 1660 the town hall’s exterior was very much a work in progress, as suggested in a contemporaneous painted view of the building (see fig. 90). In the painting’s upper zone, cherubs hold aloft a cloudburst with an apparition of the Virgin of Atocha. Rays descend from the 163

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Virgin toward a nobleman who kneels atop a mound in the right foreground. A man wearing a gold-encrusted sash assists a young woman as she descends from a coach in the left middle ground, while much humbler figures gather at the Plaza de la Villa fountain, and a sword fight among a group of noblemen breaks out in the middle of the Calle Mayor. The unknown artist includes nine horses in the painting, as well as a pair of oxen and, curiously, a monkey in the lower left corner, who mimics the gestures of a woman and catches the attention of a passing dog. The variety of animals adds to the mysteriousness of the scene but does little to help a modern viewer decipher the image’s meaning. Amid so much activity on the ground, only one individual, the kneeling gentleman in black, appears to notice the miraculous apparition in the sky. The sword fight depicted in the right foreground bears witness to the familiar literary trope of Madrid as Babylon, a place of confusion and vice. Apparently wounded, one man has fallen to the ground. Another, standing in front of him, has just been stabbed through his shin. The completion of the town hall—and particularly its adjoining jail, appearing in the painting with only one partially erected wall—promises to amend disorder on the streets of Madrid. Along these lines, we can interpret the grandee kneeling at lower right, perhaps the same man wounded in the shin and now healed, to be an alderman or royal official assigned to direct the municipal building project. Given his role as superintendente in 1656, Lorenzo Ramírez de Prado seems a promising candidate, but he would have been nearly seventy-three years old when the painting was made, and so the younger man seen here probably captures the likeness of a different overseer whose reputation rested on

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progress with construction. Madrid’s town council repeatedly expressed concern about the decrepit state of the old jail in the 1650s and even sought divine intervention. In May 1656 the aldermen approved a payment of 100 reales to the friars of the Monastery of San Francisco, who had celebrated fifty Masses toward the timely completion of the building.74 The painting, thus, might be read as an ex-voto, a prayer for the resumption of an architectural project under the protection of a local saint. The joining of ceremonial, governmental, and carceral spaces was one of the principal features of the design of the Madrid Town Hall. The mixed program can be interpreted as one of exigency, given the constrictions of available land in the center of Madrid. Yet the design can also be understood at the symbolic level, to signify the promise of justice, which the artist of the mysterious city view seems to have appreciated. The spatial proximity of municipal leadership and correction was written into Spanish law and promoted widely in early modern political writing. Evidence can be found, for instance, in statutes such as the “Ordinances of Discovery, New Population, and Pacification of the Indies” codified in 1573.75 In these wide-ranging laws of urban design directed at overseas colonies and based on peninsular practice, Spanish jurists prescribed the adjacent placement of town hall and municipal jail on the main plaza. Adjacency was essential, as attested by Jerónimo Castillo de Bobadilla, who in his authoritative government treatise expounds at length on the role of municipal leaders in tending to jails.76 Among other things, Castillo de Bobadilla writes that the warden, jailer, and a chain of other officers all reported to the corregidor directly. Moreover, the corregidor was charged with holding audiences and

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regular hearings with prisoners as part of his solemn duties, thereby making the proximity of the jail a matter of necessity. Jails, like town halls, helped make government efficient, according to Castillo de Bobadilla. His message about the importance of municipal institutions resonated across the Spanish Habsburg world and was captured in urban images. A late seventeenth-century painted view of the Plaza Mayor of Lima, the viceregal capital of Peru, depicts one of the most important cities of the empire as an orderly place (fig. 100).77 The Royal Palace, adorned with a classical frontispiece and

Figure 100  Unknown Lima artist, Plaza Maior de Lima, Cabeza de los Reinos de el Peru, 1680. Oil on canvas, 3 ft. 6 15/16 in. × 5 ft. 6 1/8 in. (109 × 168 cm). Museo de América, Madrid, 2013/03/01. Photo: Museo de América.

gilded balcony, appears along the north range of the plaza, or at the left edge of the canvas. The archbishop’s palace and Lima’s cathedral, framed by towers, stand directly ahead of the viewer, in the middle ground. Complementing these architectural symbols of royal and ecclesiastical authority are two arcaded buildings along the south range of the plaza, structures dedicated to commerce.

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Between them, the entrance to the Callejón de los Mercaderes is marked by an arch adorned with silver-gilt and a large gold cross. People of many races and all classes gather in or pass through the plaza. Vendors display a variety of comestible goods before the plaza’s south range and around the perimeter of a monumental fountain that had been inaugurated to great fanfare in 1651.78 To avoid any sense of confusion, the painting includes a lengthy legend denoting architectural monuments visible in the view and, in a celebration of Lima’s metropolitanism, the range of fruits and other foods sold and displayed in the plaza. At lower right, the painter pays homage to the leaders who made this orderly environment possible. The assembly of prominent officials includes one man wearing a white jacket stitched with gold thread, suggesting that he might be the Spanish viceroy. Given his location in the painting, he might, alternatively, hold the title of procurador general, signifying a leader of Lima’s cabildo.79 These grandees stand before a group of buildings that, before the picture plane, is missing in this representation of good government in Lima—the very one occupied by a town hall and its attendant jail. The view is

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taken from the vantage of the home of the municipality, the necessary complement to royal and sacred authority and an institution whose significance in the Spanish Habsburg world helps clarify why an artist in Madrid might paint an image of the Virgin and Child interceding on behalf of an unfinished architectural project. Madrid’s town hall shared much with cabildo buildings in the Spanish world, such as Lima’s. All of these buildings included spaces that were nominally royal, the monarchical presence seen as contributing to the preservation of peace in the realms. What made Madrid’s town hall different was that some of its interiors were actually occupied at times by royal bodies. As this chapter has shown, this building, ostensibly meant to serve municipal leaders, came into existence owing to the demands of court ritual and specifically the need for appropriate interiors from which the queen and royal judges could watch festivals on the streets and plaza below. Thus, the singular architectural monument to city government in Madrid was designed with the potential to be coopted by the Crown.

Chapter 5

Regency and Renovation Palaces and Plazas, ca. 1680 On 8 October 1665, three weeks after Philip IV died in Madrid’s Royal Palace, a ceremony was held in four prominent city locations to pledge allegiance to Carlos II. The “royal and public acclamation,” as the ritual was formally called, was recorded in great detail in a relación published the same year.1 Although the report praises the young king, it was written primarily to honor the ceremony’s sponsor, Ramiro Núñez de Guzmán (ca. 1600/12–1668), the Duke of Medina de las Torres, who held a number of other titles as well.2 The event began, in the late afternoon of what the anonymous author describes as a glorious day in the “imperial Town of Madrid,” with a gathering of aldermen in the town hall, a building that remained under construction. As the reporter relates, Madrid’s aldermen wore black satin waistcoats as a sign of mourning, yet these were accented with fine lace trimmings to denote happiness at the ascension of a new king. Not far away, at Núñez de Guzmán’s residence on the Calle Mayor, noblemen assembled on horseback to accompany the duke, who wore a fine jacket lined with gold trim as he set off to join municipal leaders. Upon his arrival at the Plaza de la Villa, the duke was greeted by four aldermen, who led him into the town hall’s Sala Mayor (see fig. 97, B 7).

There Núñez de Guzmán sat with the city’s most senior councilor and Madrid’s corregidor before being presented with the banner of Castile to carry in procession. Rejoining the aldermen in the plaza below, the leadership of the town and the court next paraded to Madrid’s premier public space, the Plaza Mayor. The formation was led by town buglers, drummers, and flutists, followed by sheriffs and then Spanish and German guards. Next came the grandees, mace holders, town councilors by order of seniority, and Madrid’s four sergeants at arms walking behind them. Carrying the banner of Castile, the corregidor and duke brought up the end of the procession. In the Plaza Mayor—which the writer of the relación calls “the most beautiful theater of the world [el mas hermoso teatro del mundo]”—a temporary stage had been erected before the Casa de la Panadería (see fig. 10). Measuring thirty feet long by twenty feet deep, the stage platform was covered with luxurious rugs for the occasion. A painting of the ceremony of acclamation of the Spanish Bourbon king Carlos III nearly a century later, in 1759, helps us envision the setting in 1665, although the court artist Lorenzo de Quiros’s depiction of the plaza’s architecture is surprisingly schematic (fig. 101). Quiros has reduced the plaza’s

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Figure 101  Lorenzo de Quiros, Proclamación de Carlos III en la Plaza Mayor de Madrid, ca. 1760. Oil on canvas, 3 ft. 8 1/16 in. × 5 ft. 4 9/16 in. (112 × 164 cm). Museo de la Real Academia de Bellas Artes de San Fernando, Madrid, I.N. 0843. Photo: Museo de la Real Academia de Bellas Artes de San Fernando.

vast width and, to judge by surviving reports, rendered the crowd too small. The artist’s recording of the stage before the Casa de la Panadería is also spare. It lacks the rich carpets used in earlier ceremonies, although the building’s balconies are draped in crimson fabric and an additional red curtain hangs above the royal balcony at the center of the main story. The 1665 relación specifies that the same balcony displayed the arms of 168

the Spanish Habsburgs, presumably in a painted or woven format. The sculpted arms that appear above the balcony in the eighteenth-century view were added following the rebuilding in 1672. After the ceremony in the Plaza Mayor, the procession of dignitaries departed via the Calle de Atocha, passing the Court Prison and the Monastery of San Felipe on its way to the Calle Mayor. Along the route, the exteriors of houses were richly decorated such that, as the anonymous reporter writes, “there was not a single precious object, painting, or highly valued tapestry [in Madrid] that was not on public view.”3 The entourage filed before Núñez de Guzmán’s richly decorated residence and onward to the plaza called the Puerta de Guadalajara, where the reporter describes a

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scene that bespeaks the power of images in seventeenth-century Spain: “A portrait of His Majesty dressed in mourning was placed under a splendid canopy, with such elegance, grace, and life. Yet even this lifelike image did not disturb the [procession’s] silence.”4 Following age-old ritual routes through the heart of Madrid, the procession wound its way from the Puerta de Guadalajara to the Plaza de Palacio, where another teatro, or ephemeral stage, had been erected. Having left behind “all of Madrid” in the Plaza Mayor, the narrator writes of “another Madrid” gathered in the Plaza de Palacio, filled with “coaches, dames, nobles, and plebes.” An approximation of this gathering is offered in an ink-and-watercolor drawing by Filippo Pallotta illustrating the November 1700 ceremony of acclamation for Philip V, the first Bourbon monarch of Spain (fig. 102). In his drawing, Pallotta depicts the Royal Palace’s south façade and the expansive Plaza de Palacio defined by new arcades along its western and eastern limits, a project begun in 1675, during the regency of Mariana of Austria.

A crowd fills the plaza and directs its attention to the three balconies fronting one of the palace’s singular interiors, the Hall of Mirrors. Mariana did not participate in the 1665 ceremony. Instead, the youthful Carlos II appeared before the assembled crowd on the royal balcony, draped with tapestries as in the 1700 view, along with his governess and Mariana’s high steward. During the ceremony, the king sat in a chair that had been used by the emperor Charles V, a gesture taken as a good omen by the anonymous narrator. The procession continued along the Calle del Tesoro and past the Convent of La Encarnación to reach another royal convent, the Descalzas Reales, where a third acclamation was staged in the same Figure 102  Filippo Pallotta, Aclamación del Rey Nuestro Señor Don Felipe V por la Coronada Villa de Madrid el dia xxiv de Noviembre del mdcc, 1700. Brown ink with gray washes on paper affixed to canvas, 19 9/16 in. × 4 ft. 4 in. (49.7 × 132 cm). Museo de Historia de Madrid, I.N. 9638. Photo: Ayuntamiento de Madrid / Museo de Historia de Madrid.

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manner as the previous two. This third site was the only religious setting for the ceremony, although the Descalzas Reales was as much a privileged court space as a sacred one, given its royal foundation and the number of royal women who took vows there.5 The procession then returned to the Plaza de la Villa, which was now embellished with a spectacular stage. The narrator describes the setup as a teatro sixty feet long and forty feet wide, “covered with beautiful carpets and enclosed by a perimeter wall draped in tapestries. Along the part of the stage that adjoined the town hall, one saw a trellis [emparchado] draped in velvet and damask. The remaining parts of the façade were covered in fabrics embroidered with gold. A royal canopy, whose admirable craftsmanship was revealed in the finery of its gold and the inventiveness of its art, was erected on the main balcony, at the corner of the plaza and the Calle Mayor.”6 One final ritual ensued. With all the aldermen assembled on the wooden stage, the duke and corregidor entered the town hall and placed the banner of Castile on the balcony of the Sala Mayor, where it would remain for eight days and nights. Despite pledges of allegiance to Carlos II in October 1665, the monarch was not yet four years old at the time, and it was his mother, Mariana of Austria, in her role as regent, who, with a circle of advisors, would rule the Spanish Monarchy for the next ten years. Her official title was governor, and she also performed the role of tutor to the prince.7 Additionally, she served at the time as superintendent of the Royal Works and in this capacity ordered the royal exequies for her dead husband that were staged in the Church of La Encarnación three weeks after the acclamation ceremony for her son.8 Regency governments in the early modern period were often volatile, and faced at the outset with the dire threat of Louis XIV to annex towns in the 170

Spanish Netherlands, Mariana’s was no exception. At home she had to protect a very young prince while containing a faction of Spanish nobles who rallied around Juan José de Austria, Philip’s bastard son, who in 1669 began to make inroads toward an eventual co-optation of government.9 The Plaza de la Villa remained a construction site in 1665, when the royal acclamation took place before it. Similarly, the Plaza de Palacio, another of Madrid’s premiere public spaces on which the ceremony touched, was fronted by an incomplete palace façade, even though its promontory-like setting was praised by even the most unsympathetic of foreign visitors. The transformation of this palatial setting in the 1670s and 1680s offers one of the final chapters in the story of architecture and power in Habsburg Madrid. Some of the same builders in charge of ongoing construction at the town hall would be responsible for the renewed plaza, including the Royal Works architect José del Olmo.10 The new player in the ensuing drama was Mariana, who directed the Plaza de Palacio project in its early stages and followed its ongoing progress closely. An account of Mariana’s active role in Madrid building projects remains largely uncharted by historians, who have tended to downplay any accomplishment during her regency. Although additional archival work remains to be done, preliminary evidence such as that presented in this chapter forces a reconsideration of Mariana as an architectural patron of the first order during her regency and even beyond, as queen mother. The three preceding chapters of this book revolve around prominent government buildings. My treatment of the Court Prison and Madrid Town Hall also consider the plazas and streets in their vicinity. The present chapter focuses on urbanism by examining the metamorphosis of the Plaza de Palacio and the larger regularization

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of palace grounds. In 1671 and 1672 two destructive fires—one at the Escorial and a second at the Plaza Mayor—necessitated rebuilding efforts that brought the architecture of earlier Habsburg rulers into the immediate consciousness of late seventeenth-century court architects and other officials, not the least of whom was the regent queen. These rebuilding tasks, in turn, informed Mariana’s decision to complete the façade of the Royal Palace and transform its plaza into a ceremonial forecourt, conveying a message of political might despite the precarious situation of the monarchy in the closing decades of the seventeenth century.

The Royal Palace an d the Reg ent  Q ueen As Cassiano dal Pozzo observed in 1626, Madrid’s Royal Palace was a beautiful building but also “continually under construction.”11 Some forty years later another Italian visitor had a similar impression. Lorenzo Magalotti (1637–1712), poet and diplomat, arrived in Madrid in 1668 as part of the entourage accompanying the Medici prince and future duke Cosimo III.12 According to Magalotti, the palace was built by Charles V, although its façade was modern and “finished in the Spanish manner with two brick towers adorned [with stone].” The diplomat found the building’s upper-story windows to correspond with one another but critiqued the lack of order at ground level, where he notes the “architecture has been adapted to accommodate the frequency of coaches” entering the building. Although Magalotti praises the plaza before the building, he adds that it is “not fully regularized.”13 Magalotti’s observations are helpful, yet the appearance of the Royal Palace’s exterior as Mariana began her regency must remain conjectural. One

of the painted emblems created for the royal exequies for Philip IV, celebrated in November 1665, simply reproduced the palace façade as it appeared on Pedro Teixeira’s map printed nine years earlier. The emblem was recorded for posterity in an engraving by Pedro de Villafranca (fig. 103). In the main field, Villafranca illustrates a platform upon which the banner of Castile has been raised, as it had been during the royal acclamation of Carlos II. Above, in an otherworldly realm, the crown of the new king rises upward as that of the dead king is received by heaven under a banderole inscribed with Psalm 21:31 proclaiming filial love, “For Him my soul will live, and my seed will serve Him.”14 Hovering between the two crowns is the Royal Palace as a symbol of majesty. As noted in chapter 2, the renovation of the Royal Palace façade in the 1620s was accompanied by interior renovations, which were augmented in the decades to come. The transfer of Council of Castile courtrooms to the new Court Prison in the 1630s, for instance, prompted a spatial reorganization of the king’s household and the council alike. Beginning in 1639, extensive construction took place in the ceremonial halls along the south section of the palace. Most importantly, the New Hall, whose three windows, including the royal balcony, opened onto the Plaza de Palacio, was transformed into the Hall of Mirrors in the 1650s.15 Some of the paintings listed as hanging in the New Hall in the 1636 palace inventory were rehung in the aggrandized ceremonial room. The space was further decorated with marble furniture and sculptures acquired in Italy by Diego Velázquez. The royal painter and palace aposentador had been in Italy from 1649 to 1651, engaged in diplomatic as well as artistic matters that included the recruitment of artists to decorate some of the new Royal Palace interiors. Tipped off earlier by 171

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Figure 103  Pedro de Villafranca, Anima mea illi viuet, et semen meum serviet ipsi. Engraving, 7 1/8 × 5 3/16 in. (18 × 13.2 cm). From Pedro Rodríguez de Monforte, Descripcion de las honras qve se hicieron ala Catholica Magd. de D. Phelippe Quarto (Madrid: Francisco Nieto, 1666). Newberry Library, Chicago, SC Case W 1025 .7486. Photo: Newberry Library.

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Spanish courtiers, Velázquez was particularly impressed with Pietro da Cortona (1596–1669), the Tuscan artist who had taken fresco painting to new heights by combining quadratura with his painterly figure style.16 Although Cortona was not able to travel, Velázquez became familiar with the work of two Bolognese artists, Agostino Mitelli (1609–1660) and Angelo Michele Colonna (1600–1687), who eventually arrived at the Spanish court in 1658. Fresco painting had an earlier history in Madrid; in the sixteenth century Philip II had summoned Italian as well as Spanish artists trained in Italy to decorate royal buildings.17 The arrival of the Bolognese painters in the 1650s revived the practice and inaugurated a new era of magnificence for elite Madrid interiors. Mitelli and Colonna’s first Spanish commission was for the Royal Palace, where they devised and executed a fresco illustrating the myth of Pandora to fill the vault of the Hall of Mirrors.18 Significantly, Mariana used the luxuriously transformed room as the royal office after 1665, and thus it served as the setting for official portraits of the regent queen (see fig. 5). The first five years of Mariana’s regency were fraught with challenges as she dealt with the political legacy she had inherited as well as climatic crises. Among the more consequential of her actions, Mariana ended the war with Portugal in 1668 and successfully negotiated alliances with European powers to prevent Louis XIV’s annexation of Spanish territories in the Low Countries.19 Late the following year, a plague of locusts struck the fiveleague territory known as the provincia of Madrid. Mariana issued executive orders in her son’s name in an attempt to control the damage and formed an emergency committee to survey damage to farms and orchards.20 Mariana’s achievements stirred controversy among factions at court but, as Silvia

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Mitchell has illustrated, led to her consolidation of power by 1670.21 That date coincides with the onset of the regent queen’s efforts as a patron of architecture in Madrid. A period representation of the Royal Palace in a book titled Nudrición real (Royal nutrition) alludes to the political nature of Mariana’s architectural patronage (fig. 104). The book, which summarizes the proper training of a future monarch from the age of seven to fourteen, was published in 1671 by the royal magistrate Pedro González de Salcedo (ca. 1630–1681).22 González de Salcedo was an ally of the regent queen, and his book affirms Mariana’s critical roles as substitute ruler for her dead husband and tutor to the prince and future king Carlos II. The upper portion of the engraving offers a simplified view of the Royal Palace, in which the engraver, Pedro de Obregón, aims for symmetry by leaving out the mismatched towers. Above the frontispiece an eagle—a royal symbol that would be employed consistently during Mariana’s regency—and its youngling fly from a nest. The mother eagle carries a banderole that proclaims, in Latin, “one light.” Both birds direct their attention to the sun, whose rays illuminate the Royal Palace. Below, as if on stage, the boy king and his young mother sit in a spare room. Mariana hands Carlos a plaque on which can be read three precepts: “Fear of God; Reverence to one’s Parents: Love to one’s Vassals.” All three precepts relate to Mariana’s role as tutor, but the inclusion of an image of the Royal Palace, the setting for the prince’s education, speaks directly to her title of governor. Although Nudrición real concerns itself with Carlos’s preparation for personal rule, this illustration reminds the viewer of Mariana’s authority. A proverb below the palace credits Mariana’s tutorial role as having been derived directly from Philip IV. It reads, “The heart of her husband trusts in her.”23

Figure 104  Pedro de Obregón, Confidit, in ea corvirisvi / Nvdricion real la Reyna N.S[eñor]a, 1671. Engraving, 6 15/16 × 5 1/16 in. (17.6 × 12.8 cm). From Pedro González de Salcedo, Nudrición real (Madrid: Bernardo de Villa-Diego, 1671). Biblioteca Nacional de España, R /15175. Photo: Biblioteca Nacional de España.

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Obregón’s book illustration exhibits a heightened awareness of the expressive power of architecture during Mariana’s regency. It hints also at the queen’s understanding that her reputation depended in part on architectural appearances. By omitting the framing towers from the representation of the Royal Palace, Obregón disguises the building’s asymmetry. Working with the Royal Works, Mariana would correct the building’s design flaw just a few years after the publication of Obregón’s print. However, the queen and her officials faced a more immediate task in 1671, when fire broke out at the most important dynastic monument of the Spanish Habsburgs, the monastery-palace of El Escorial.

Re bui ldi n g at the Es co rial an d  Plaza Mayo r It was late spring, on 7 June, when flames burst above the Escorial college and “in an instant,” according to an eyewitness account, “overcame the whole of its roof.”24 Fanned by heavy winds, the blaze spread and continued to ravage the building for five days, although it took nearly two weeks to die out completely. The fire caused extensive damage to the upper stories of the college and monastery, and even parts of the palace, although vaulted interiors including the library and basilica were spared. Francisco de los Santos, the Escorial chronicler, writes extensively about the fire in a 1680 history of the Hieronymite Order.25 The shock of the event was recorded for posterity in a painting whose maker and patron are unknown (fig. 105). The image accords with Santos’s account of the near ruin of the Escorial college, at lower left in the view, as it evokes the “balls of fire” and “volcano-like eruptions” described by an anonymous reporter. Before this infernal backdrop, the 174

monument’s esplanade buzzes with activity. A procession of townspeople, penitents, and Hieronymite friars enters at left bearing banners, a cross, an image of the Virgin Mary, and a baldachin. Another group of friars directs salvage efforts before the Escorial’s main portal, as teams of workers haul paintings out of the building and monks toss valuable books and manuscripts out windows. Church vestments rest piled before the main portal, while furniture and kitchen items are strewn along the façade of the monastery quadrant, at right. In the foreground, seven friars tend to reliquaries carefully lined up along the forecourt wall. The painting’s record of material damage is striking and hints at the extensive rebuilding project that the fire necessitated and that Mariana of Austria oversaw. It should be noted that Mariana had a fondness for the Escorial, where she had spent some of her first months in Spain in the company of her new spouse and her cousin, the infanta María Teresa, in the autumn of 1649.26 For some time before the fire, Mariana had been engaged in the renovation of a suite of Escorial palace interiors, a project begun in the 1650s.27 The decorative program had been left unfinished when her husband died, and it became a priority for the regent queen as she sought to prepare the halls for Carlos II’s first residency at the Escorial as king, in the autumn of 1675. With the blaze, however, the queen’s attention was expanded to the monument as a whole. Scholars have estimated that fire destroyed 90 percent of the Escorial’s roofline, whose profile had been established by Juan de Herrera in the late sixteenth century.28 As noted above, Herrera’s architecture was intimately associated with the reign of Philip II, and once again the memory of those glory days of Habsburg rule entered into contemporary debates about architectural style.

Two of the architects advising the queen, the clerics Lorenzo de San Nicolás and Francisco Bautista, had earlier consulted with Madrid’s town council about designs for the town hall. As upholders of court tradition, they proposed rebuilding schemes for the Escorial that adhered to Herrera’s original roofline so that the monastery-palace would continue to look the way it had been immortalized in print and other visual media since the publication of copper-plate engravings in the late 1580s. Other architects held contrary opinions. Concerns about fire prevention inspired novel designs, including a project by the Royal Works maestro mayor Gaspar de la Peña (d. 1676) that introduced a lower

Figure 105  Unknown Madrid artist, Fire at the Monastery of El Escorial in 1671, 1670s. Oil on canvas, 3 ft. 5 ¾ in. × 5 ft. 5 5/16 in. (106 × 166 cm). Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid, P 004012. Photo © Museo Nacional del Prado / Art Resource, New York.

roof for the building.29 A design by the Bolognese architect Dionisio Mantuano sought to introduce a bulbous silhouette closer to a Mansard roof in contemporary French architecture. In the end, Mariana allowed modifications to one tower within the core of the building as Herrera’s façade profile was rebuilt according to its original design. In this way 175

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the queen reinforced a long-standing association of the Habsburg style with religious patronage, as well as royal power. Francisco de los Santos offers only a few words about the fire in the third edition of his history of the monastery-palace, published in 1681. His book seeks instead to celebrate rebuilding and praises the eight-year rebuilding effort as an achievement of the “glorious restorer” Carlos II. His tribute compares Carlos to Old Testament kings who rebuilt the Temple of Solomon in Jerusalem following calamities.30 Santos’s flattery has to be tempered, as even he acknowledges the youthfulness of the king: “Being only nine years old at the time [of the fire], you commenced the repair of this Illustrious House of God, the most decent that exists on earth. And in the short span of eight years (when it had been judged to take centuries) you completed the main repairs and greatly enhanced the building’s ornaments.”31 By 1698, when Santos published his book’s fourth edition, Mariana had died, and so it would have been appropriate to attribute the Escorial project to the king, however young he had been when it was underway. Nonetheless, documents for the reconstruction project—and Santos’s earlier writing, too—reveal that Mariana was fully in charge. For instance, she worked with the monastery’s leadership to secure funds for reconstruction, seeking monies from the sale of vacant offices and even entertaining the Escorial prior’s suggestion that the Council of the Indies grant the monastery permission to hire eight boats to trade in the Americas, with ports from Buenos Aires to Havana.32 Writing to the council on behalf of the prior, Mariana expressed her “extreme desire [des­ seando sumamente]” to see the monastery rebuilt. That she had written the council on the matter twice suggests that the outlandish proposal did not fall on welcome ears. The council did, however, 176

expedite payment of monies owed the monastery from lands in the Viceroyalty of Peru that had been granted by Philip IV in 1654.33 This financial arrangement offers concrete evidence of the ways in which the extraction of resources in the Americas could directly benefit architectural projects in Europe. One immediate effect of the Escorial disaster was the diversion of architects and work crews from Madrid, including those involved with ongoing construction of the new jail at the town hall. In 1671 the Royal Works aparejador Bartolomé Hurtado (1620–1698) was under house arrest for failing to fulfill his duties at the town hall.34 During the resulting lull in construction, inmates were suffering in decrepit jail dependencies, and the building’s façade and towers remained incomplete. The lamentable situation continued even after Hurtado was released from confinement, since he was directed to the Escorial to assist with emergency rebuilding. Then, only fourteen months after the Escorial blaze, disaster struck in the heart of Madrid: fire broke out in the Casa de la Panadería, the royal pavilion that adorned the city’s Plaza Mayor.35 Documents report that everything above the Casa de la Panadería’s ground floor was destroyed in the August 1672 fire. The building’s aspect before the blaze can be appreciated in views such as the painting depicting a juego de cañas in 1623 (see fig. 10). It stood four stories tall with a stone arcade at ground level and framing towers topped with slate-covered steeples at its ends. By 1641 a carved set of the Spanish Habsburg arms had been placed in the window bay above the royal balcony. This display of royal largesse came only a year after the royal arms were installed on the façade of the nearby Court Prison. In 1654 it would be the town-hall project that motivated José de Villarreal

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to design a new staircase for the Panadería. These changes to the building’s exterior and interior were subtle compared to Mariana’s enhancement of the Casa de la Panadería, which reasserted a royal presence in the Plaza Mayor, transforming it into another court space in Madrid. As the embers were still cooling at the Casa de la Panadería, the administrators of the Royal Works ordered an assessment of damages and requested design proposals for rebuilding. In their call for proposals, they specified that the queen would choose the winning scheme. As with other building projects in Madrid, reconstruction would be supervised by a committee composed of royal and municipal officials. The group specified that the new building would include a reconstructed bread mart at ground level, an enhanced Salón Real, or Royal Hall, and an apartment for Madrid’s corregidor. Design proposals appeared before Madrid aldermen within a month of the fire. Among the surviving documents are two plans—one depicting the ground floor and another the main— signed by the architect Juan García de Gonzalo and reviewed on 14 September.36 Owing to a number of oddities on the García de Gonzalo plans, widely varying dates have been assigned to them. For instance, the drawings do not include the staircase proposed by José de Villarreal in 1654 to replace the original means of access to the Salón Real; that staircase was to be used by the king and queen as well as ranking courtiers when watching festivals in the plaza. Moreover, García de Gonzalo depicts a building nine bays wide instead of the actual eleven illustrated in earlier plans and in all surviving seventeenth-century depictions of the building. Discrepancies such as these suggest that García de Gonzalo’s drawings ought to be considered as part of a proposal for an entirely new building.

The architect’s plan of the main story is designed around a central courtyard with two auxiliary courtyards located to the east and west along a central horizontal axis (fig. 106). The standout space in this design is the Salón Real (labeled quartto real on the plan), a spacious interior facing the Plaza Mayor. The room is two bays deep with five doors that open onto a corridorlike hall that would serve an as antechamber to the main staircase, depicted at left. One of the central debates recorded in the documentation for the rebuilding of the Casa de la Panadería concerned how much the new design should vary from the original. García de Gonzalo’s inclusion of piers in the Royal Hall suggests that his proposal adhered closely to its predecessor. In the end, the design Mariana chose eliminated the structural elements and changed the room’s ceiling height. The resulting two-story vaulted interior is fronted by three windows giving on to balconies in a composition that echoes the relationship between the Hall of Mirrors and the Plaza de Palacio (fig. 107).37 A recently identified drawing for post-fire reconstruction at the Casa de la Panadería records a novel design that also aesthetically connects the Plaza Mayor with the Calle Mayor (fig. 108).38 The drawing is composed of five appended sheets of paper. It depicts the ground floor of the building, in which a deep arcade fronts the Plaza Mayor, at bottom, causing the Panadería to protrude further into the plaza than it had as originally built. Correspondingly, the bread mart located beyond the arcade would be markedly reduced by the insertion of a main staircase even grander than the one designed by Villarreal in 1654. The staircase is drawn on a small sheet of paper and carefully glued to one of the four larger sheets, suggesting that its design was one of the variants that received 177

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Figure 106  Juan García de Gonzalo, plan for the reconstruction of the main floor of the Casa de la Panadería, ca. 1672–73. Ink and color washes on paper, 24 1/16 × 22 7/16 in. (61.5 × 57 cm). Archivo de Villa de Madrid, Planos 3-91-24. Photo: Archivo de Villa del Ayuntamiento de Madrid.

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close scrutiny.39 The most striking novelty of the proposal is the inclusion of a large courtyard with twin fountains and an arcaded gallery opening onto the Calle Mayor. The effect of seeing the courtyard during an evening promenade along this celebrated Madrid thoroughfare, whether on foot or by coach, would certainly have drawn greater attention to the Casa de la Panadería. There were

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no comparable public settings in Madrid, and the only analogous spaces would have been courtyards with fountains such as those at the Casa del Tesoro or in private residences. The arcade would have provided an ornamental screen before the courtyard but also would have precluded building anything substantial above it. Some have tentatively attributed the inventive plan to the painter and architect José Jiménez Donoso (1628–1690), who worked on the sculptural program for the façade of the Casa de la Panadería.40 Although the early modern biographer of Spanish artists, Antonio Palomino (1653– 1726), credits Donoso as author of the building’s plan, his name does not appear among those of the architects who submitted designs for rebuilding. It

bears considering that the drawing could instead be the work of one of these men—Gregorio Terán, Juan de León, or, most likely, Tomás Román— whose projects were reviewed by aldermen in the fall of 1672.41 Román (active 1670s) would go on to win the commission to rebuild the Panadería, and he would work collaboratively with Donoso on the decoration of the façade.42 Yet the project recorded in the unsigned drawing was not the one that would be built. After much deliberation, the Casa de la Panadería committee recommended to Mariana that the Figure 107  Salón Real, Casa de la Panadería, 1673–74, view looking north toward the Plaza Mayor windows and royal balcony. Photo: Pablo Linés.

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Figure 108  Tomás Román (attr.), plan for reconstruction of the ground floor of the Casa de la Panadería, ca. 1672–73. Ink and color washes on paper, 30 ¾ × 23 5/16 in. (78.3 × 59.3 cm). Archivo de Villa de Madrid, Secretaría, legajo 1-456-2, plano 25. Photo: Archivo de Villa del Ayuntamiento de Madrid.

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new building maintain its original ground plan and not extend northward to the Calle Mayor. The commission was awarded to Tomás Román, whose drawings for the building as it stands today, coauthored perhaps with Donoso, have not yet surfaced. As with the rebuilding effort at the Escorial, the committee’s decision was both practical and political. It sought to reduce economic strain on Madrid’s town council, who would pay for reconstruction, and at the same time tread lightly with a prominent Habsburg monument dating to the era of Philip II. Additionally, the design incorporated an aggrandized Salón Real, and a richly ornamented façade, signaling a new direction in public architecture for the court city. The rebuilt Casa de la Panadería façade exemplifies the transformation of the estilo austriaco from its planar origins toward greater relief, which was in keeping with contemporary trends toward what can be called a more painterly style in late seventeenth-century Spanish architecture (fig. 109).43 At ground level, a row of stone piers with engaged Tuscan half columns echoes the preexisting building and reinforces a link to royal buildings such as the Escorial and the nearby Court Prison. Eighteenth-century interventions brought the buildings on either side of the Panadería flush with it. That change, plus the addition of stone courses and window trim on the adjacent buildings, lessens the impact of the rebuilt Panadería’s novelty as it would have been experienced in the late seventeenth century. Román and Donoso’s liberal use of stone can be seen in the cornices between floors; the vertical bands along the towers and central bay of the building; and the windows. As pre-1672 views of the building attest, windows were originally framed by low-relief bands of brick. In their reimagined state, stone is the material of choice. Lobed frames and cornices

supporting vegetal and other natural motifs were most likely designed by Donoso, although they were carved in Genoa and delivered in 1674.44 The Royal Works also commissioned a large fountain for the building’s courtyard (removed in 1880), with a statue of Diana flanked by two children and guarded by lions.45

Figure 109  Tomás Román and José Jiménez Donoso, Casa de la Panadería, 1672–74, façade. Photo: author.

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Figure 110  Casa de la Panadería, façade detail with royal arms and ornament in an upper-story window bay. Photo: iStock / Adrian Wojcik.

Stone ornament fills the central bay of the rebuilt Casa de la Panadería, including the royal balcony. As eighteenth-century painted views— such as the one that opens this chapter—attest, two scrolled volutes originally rose from the cornice on which today a plaque identifying the name of the plaza rests (fig. 110). The volutes echoed those on the Royal Palace frontispiece and also served as additional ornament for the red fabrics hung around the balcony on festive occasions. The royal arms, carved in high relief with two guardian lions at the base and a crown above, prominently occupy the 182

second and third stories within an aedicula rising above the royal balcony. This message about royal power was conveyed even more grandly to guests who experienced the building’s interior. The main floor of the Panadería housed a series of rooms to serve court ritual. Although eighteenth- and nineteenth-century renovations irrevocably altered these spaces, even a speculative plan of the principal interiors can be useful as a means of envisioning people moving about the seventeenth-century building (fig. 111).46 Important guests arrived at the Salón Real (B 4) by first ascending the building’s main staircase (S 1), accessible from a ground-floor passageway entered from the Calle Mayor. From the staircase, an antechamber (B 1) led to a large vaulted hall (B 2) that would

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a window that filtered in ambient light from the principal staircase. The Salón Real measures approximately twenty-eight by forty-five feet and soars two stories. Its three windows open onto balconies fronting the Plaza Mayor. Two auxiliary galleries along the plaza façade, each three—and perhaps originally four—bays wide, were used by courtiers and known as the Sala de las Damas (B 5) and Sala de los Caballeros (B 6). The earliest painted views of the Plaza Mayor confirm this gendered arrangement whereby women sat in the balconies stage right of the royal family and men stood in the balconies to their left. In keeping with interior decorative schemes elsewhere in Madrid, such as

have served as an assembly room from which individuals would be directed to more ceremonial interiors. Three doors led to the Salón Real, and a door opposite the antechamber would be used by staff charged with preparing meals and other entertainment in a suite of rooms occupying the large space labeled B 3. Renovations in the 1890s make it impossible to reconstruct the plan of kitchens and offices in this corner of the building, which would have benefited from its windows opening onto the building’s rear patio and a secondary courtyard to the east. These service quarters could be reached separately from a staircase located in a square well (S 3), allowing access out of sight of distinguished guests using the main staircase. A matching staircase on the other end of the building (S 2) reached upper-level residences and was closed off from the main story of the Panadería, with the exception of

Figure 111  Casa de la Panadería, reconstruction of the main-floor plan in 1674. Drawing by Chris Phillips.

Courtyard

B3 B1

B2

S1

S2

S3 B4 B5

B6

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Figure 112  Sala de las Damas, Casa de la Panadería, walls with Talavera tiles. Photo: Pablo Linés.

the Royal Palace and town hall, tiles from Talavera de la Reina were commissioned in 1673 for the lower walls of the Panadería staircase and other ceremonial rooms.47 Tiles have been reinstalled in the Salón Real and adjacent viewing galleries (fig. 112). Although the recent renovation is severe, the rooms hint at a seventeenth-century aesthetic of richly colored tiles complemented by wall hangings and, in the main galleries, fresco paintings overhead. The fresco executed by the royal painter Claudio Coello (1642–1693) and Donoso above the first hall (B 2) employed a quadratura scheme, in keeping with decorative trends introduced at the Royal Palace. The painting appears to have deteriorated over time and was freely repainted in 1901 as an illusionistic series of lunettes supporting a carved vault whose oculus opens to the sky, where angels support the arms of Madrid.48 The room below this fresco served as a transitional space; so, too, its painted vault was but an 184

overture to Coello and Donoso’s grander composition above the Salón Real, which depicts the Cardinal Virtues and Fame with the arms of Carlos II (fig. 113).49 Along the perimeter of the vault, ten lunettes interspersed with giant corbels and herms fictively support an upper story open to the sky. Hovering above the center of the room, allegories of faith, hope, and charity support the arms of Madrid, while a fourth figure in white raises a crown above them. The celestial realm is animated by billowing clouds with tumbling cherubs and a winged allegory of fame blowing her trumpet. One of the allegories breaks the picture frame with a foot that seems to occupy the real space of the hall, thereby enhancing the illusion of an apotheosis. The painted lunettes paired at each end include the Madrid arms in trompe l’oeil gilded frames. The six lateral lunettes illustrate Labors of Hercules as if carved in low relief. The theme of heroic labor echoes the decorative program for the Hall of Realms in the Buen Retiro Palace, which had been carried out forty years earlier, and it acknowledges the ongoing Spanish Habsburg association with the ancient hero.50 With Mariana’s renovation of the Casa de la Panadería, the building came to be called a pala­ cio in period documents. The appellation is one the queen most likely welcomed as her regency neared its end. Along the cornice and centered above the royal balcony and arms, a gilt-iron inscription in the form of an escutcheon topped by a crown proclaims, “Reigning Don Carlos and governing Doña Maryana, his mother, 1674” (fig. 114). A more straightforward plaque commemorating the rebuilding project was commissioned for the ground-level arcade; the façade-roofline element was so novel that it appeared prominently in all post-1674 views of the Plaza Mayor. The Lorenzo de Quiros painting that opens this chapter

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suggests that the iron balustrade along the cornice was also gilded as a means of enhancing the building’s royal nature. In yet another novelty, Pedro de Villafranca was commissioned in 1674 to prepare an engraved view of the new Casa de la Panadería façade.51 Although the image was never printed, a 1698 document in Madrid’s municipal archive indicates that a copperplate depicting the rebuilt façade existed. It was one of four plates the town council confiscated from Petronila Martínez, widow of Felipe de Felipe, a bookdealer and, presumably, printer.52 It

remains an open question whether the plate was ever put to use, but the matter is significant given that printed views of architectural monuments in Madrid were beyond rare. When they were made, they included textual passages, which in this case would no doubt have clarified the purpose

Figure 113  Claudio Coello and José Jiménez Donoso, The Cardinal Virtues and Fame with the Arms of Carlos II, 1673–74. Fresco, Salón Real, Casa de la Panadería. Photo: Pablo Linés.

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Figure 114  Casa de la Panadería, roofline gilded inscription. Photo: author.

of Villafranca’s image as a vehicle to promote the Spanish monarchs as patrons of architecture.

The Plaza de Palacio A print of the Casa de la Panadería was intended to celebrate an architectural triumph, but period images that included buildings could also serve as warnings. The unease of the early years of Mariana’s regency was expressed in a startling depiction of Madrid’s Royal Palace that appears on the title page of another book by the royal magistrate González de Salcedo (fig. 115).53 Dating to around 1668, the volume refutes the French king 186

Louis XIV’s claim to the Duchy of Brabant based on his marriage to María Teresa, the Spanish-born daughter of Philip IV. In the text, González de Salcedo summarizes the arguments made by Johann Eberhard Nithard (1607–1681), royal confessor to Mariana of Austria and a councilor of state from 1666 until his ouster by forces loyal to Juan José de Austria in February 1669.54 For the title page of this polemical book, the engraver Pedro de Villafranca depicted an allegorical figure of Truth, who blows a trumpet and pulls back a curtain, revealing a large plinth. The Spanish Habsburg arms hover above the plinth, upon which an eagle rests, with lances, a cannon, and armor strewn nearby. Crouching with claws drawn to protect a youngling while another bird flies toward her, the eagle stands in for the Reyna, Nuestra Señora, to whom the book is dedicated. Mariana, thus, is presented once again in her role as maternal guardian of the young king. Villafranca’s intricate title page also includes four emblems. The one at lower right depicts mirrored buildings with twin towers, one of which is in flames. An accompanying text reads, “Iam proximus ardet,” a Virgilian reference that ominously alludes to the threat of fire.55 With its use of the word proximus, the emblem seems prescient, given the calamity that would befall the Escorial a few years later. Yet that event postdated Nithard’s time at court, and the building Villafranca depicted in the emblem evokes instead Madrid’s Royal Palace. It is a remarkable picture intended to teach a lesson, one likely inspired by distant yet still-recent instances of architectural destruction; what comes to mind are the Fronde uprising in Paris, with resultant damage to the Louvre, and the devastating London fire of 1666, which destroyed most of Whitehall. The architectural monument in this emblem stood for the monarchy and all that Mariana

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was charged to protect in her role as governor. In the end, her success at withstanding Louis XIV’s threat proved to be the greatest political achievement of her regency and the event upon which she built further diplomatic and military policies.56 Mariana, however, would soon be tested by real fires at royal buildings. With rebuilding at the Escorial underway in 1672, she returned her attention to the court and a series of projects in the vicinity of the Royal Palace. The first matter of concern was to secure the perimeter of the palace park with stronger walls.57 Two years later, as that project progressed, Mariana ordered that the walls along Madrid’s riverbank be raised in order to better contain game animals on the grounds.58 These renovations along Madrid’s northern and western edges served as preludes to the queen’s subsequent undertakings to complete the east tower of the Royal Palace façade and transform the plaza before it. The urgency with which Mariana approached these projects can be explained by the fact that Carlos II would assume personal rule in the autumn of 1675, once he reached the age of fourteen. To date, the careful attention scholars have given the early seventeenth-century construction history of the Royal Palace has not been directed at the period of Mariana’s regency. The situation is due in part to a much less complete, or perhaps still-to-be-uncovered, documentary record for the 1670s. Yet when renovation efforts at the palace are discussed, they are almost universally assigned to the queen’s Neapolitan-born valido since 1671 and, later, first minister, Fernando de Valenzuela (1630–1692).59 Valenzuela had been an official of the queen’s household since 1661 and was elevated to the post of lead horseman in March 1673. He entered the Royal Works in 1674 with oversight of royal retreats to the north of Madrid, including the Casa del Pardo and Bosque de Segovia.60 Mariana

Figure 115  Pedro de Villafranca, title page of Pedro González de Salcedo, Examen de la verdad en respvesta a los tratados de los derechos de la Reyna Christianissima (Madrid, ca. 1668). Library of Congress, Washington, DC , Rare Book and Special Collections Division, DP 185 .G 617. Photo courtesy of the Library of Congress.

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appointed Valenzuela superintendent of the Royal Works in February 1675, leading historians to credit him with the completion of the Royal Palace façade and reorganization of the Plaza de Palacio. Although Valenzuela certainly played a role in the plaza project, work on the façade tower commenced nearly a half year before his appointment, while he was engaged elsewhere, and was completed the month after he assumed his new title. With reconstruction of the Casa de la Panadería completed in August 1674, Mariana issued the first of a series of directives ordering those individuals serving on the Royal Works to meet regularly.61 Seven months later, in March 1675, the missing tower steeple on the east end of the Royal Palace Figure 116  Unknown Madrid artist, View of Madrid and the Royal Palace from the Segovia Bridge, ca. 1675. Oil on canvas, 19 11/16 × 42 ½ in. (50 × 108 cm). Museo de Historia de Madrid, I.N. 3132. Photo: Album / Art Resource, New York.

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façade was completed, and the monument came to be called the Queen’s Tower.62 Although Gaspar de la Peña then served as Royal Works maestro mayor, it was José del Olmo, in his capacity as chief architect to the Ayuntamiento de Madrid, who supervised construction. Olmo’s role can be explained by the town council’s assumption of responsibility for the construction bill, evincing the municipality’s remaining obligation to fund building at the palace as per agreements signed when the court returned from Valladolid nearly seventy years earlier. The new tower’s design matched that of the Gilded Tower, erected in the 1560s under Philip II, signaling again the message of dynastic continuity promoted in the rebuilding of the Escorial. Once completed, the Queen’s Tower appeared prominently in contemporary views of Madrid, such as a painting by an unknown artist dated to around 1675 (fig. 116). Like earlier views, this one depicts the Royal Palace from across the Manzanares River, with the Segovia Bridge and its

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esplanade in the right foreground and the palace park to the left. The artist manipulates the vantage to draw attention to the building’s orderly south façade, with a monumental portal and matching wings now framed by towers with complementary steeples. Symmetry, however, is limited to the palace’s main façade. To the west, or left in the view, the medieval walls of the original alcázar survive as reminders of the building’s ancient history, as period historians would have it. Moreover, the view includes fragments of the medieval ramparts still standing along the steep slope of terrain below the palace in yet another nod to Madrid’s antigüedad. Other details in the painting, such as the blocky mass of the monastery church of San Gil, draw attention to Mariana’s contemporary project to reshape the Plaza de Palacio. San Gil appears along the eastern limits of the plaza, or at its upper right, on Pedro Teixeira’s 1656 map of Madrid (see fig. 25). Adjacent to the palace, at the plaza’s upper left, Teixeira also recorded the Garden of the Emperors, with four parterres and a fountain. The garden had been renovated in 1651 in conjunction with the redecoration of adjacent palace rooms. These improvements were overseen by José de Villarreal, who included on his staff the future mastermind of the new Plaza de Palacio, Gaspar de la Peña.63 A comparison with the contemporary King’s Garden at the Royal Palace of Aranjuez offers a helpful approximation of what the Madrid retreat looked like (fig. 117). As in Madrid, the stone paving at Aranjuez was redesigned during the reign of Philip IV. The Aranjuez garden also included niches for sculptured busts of Roman emperors and marble wall plaques commemorating the first Spanish Habsburg king, Charles V, and his wife, the empress Isabel of Portugal. As can be seen in the illustration, the plaques were displayed on

Figure 117  Royal Palace of Aranjuez, view of King’s Garden, 1560s, with seventeenth-century alterations. Photo: author.

either side of a marble statue of Philip II. All three of these works were made by the celebrated sculptors Leone Leoni (1509–1590) and Pompeo Leoni (1533–1608), Italian artists whose service to the Spanish Habsburgs included the design of funerary monuments for the Escorial.64 The display of the Leoni sculptures in Aranjuez advanced an imperial theme that matched the one in Madrid. Demolished in 1675, the Garden of the Emperors inspired Peña’s conception of the enlarged 189

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Plaza de Palacio as a celebration of dynasty. A straightforward accounting of this project is impossible, given that Peña died in June 1676 and that six months later twenty-three nobles joined forces with Juan José of Austria to stage a coup that led Mariana to hand over control of the government. Carlos II sent Fernando Valenzuela into exile in the Philippines and, under pressure from nobles, sent his mother into retirement in Toledo as a civil war loomed. Olmo was in charge of executing the plaza’s design, and it appears that his association with Valenzuela and the Royal Works administration caused him professional harm. Although the king named Olmo successor to Peña as maestro mayor of the Royal Works, the appointment was caught up in fraught battles involving his adversary Bartolomé Hurtado as well as the wrathful Juan José.65 The Sevillian Francisco de Herrera the Younger (1627–1685), who had been named a royal painter in 1672, assumed the position of head architect for the Royal Works in August 1677 and exercised authority as maestro mayor for a decade.66 Juan José’s influence on Carlos would be shortlived, as Juan José died in September 1679. In the meantime, Olmo proceeded with construction at the Plaza de Palacio. By January 1680, his work nearly complete, the space was readied to receive María Luisa of Orleans, Carlos II’s French bride. Designs for the royal entry were supervised by a committee and also carefully followed by the king, who found himself back in sole command. The complicated story of this plaza’s realization exposes the limits of architectural ambition in the face of a raw political struggle for power. The resulting public stage for ceremony and ritual deserves to be understood in this light. In 1675 Peña envisioned the Plaza de Palacio as an enclosed forecourt, trapezoidal in plan. The 190

highly ordered environment is best captured in the 1705 plan made by a future maestro mayor, Teodoro Ardemans (fig. 118). From the inner walls of the palace’s framing towers, Ardemans records two arcaded galleries. Each is composed of fifty-two bays, and together they define the plaza’s western and eastern limits, terminating at the royal armory and stables to the south. Busts of Roman emperors, twenty-four of which were repurposed from the former palace garden and another eighty ordered from Genoa and shipped to Madrid in three installments between October 1675 and January 1676, were displayed along the gallery balustrades.67 Documents affirm that the western arcade, called the Park Gallery, was completed around 1677, when work on the eastern Gallery of San Gil, named for the neighboring monastery, was still underway.68 At lower right, Ardemans depicts a new coach house, which would be largely completed by 1680, replacing buildings on the park grounds that had served this purpose since the sixteenth century.69 Ardemans also illustrates a monumental entrance arch, the Arco de Palacio, which Olmo erected at the meeting of the armory and coach house. Olmo’s transformation of the Plaza de Palacio can be better understood by comparing the Ardemans plan with the earlier limits of the plaza recorded by Teixeira (fig. 119). The removal of the Garden of the Emperors resulted in an oblique angle for the western arcade, thereby widening the plaza and framing the palace façade in such a way that a visitor entering from the Arco de Palacio immediately appreciated its symmetry. Further regularizing the plaza were the new arcades of matching design, an addition that approximated the forecourts in French residential architecture.70 Olmo’s sources were also local. Built of brick and stone, the arcades resembled the sixteenth-

Figure 118 Teodoro Ardemans, Orthographia de el Real Alcázar de Madrid (fig. 37), detail of the Plaza de Palacio. Bibliothèque nationale de France, GE AA 2055. Photo: BnF.

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Royal Palace Façade

Park Gate

Church of San Gil

Arco de San Gil

Coach House Park Gallery

Gallery of San Gil

Arco de Palacio

Armory and Horse Stables

Figure 119  Diagram illustrating Ardemans’s plan of the Plaza de Palacio overlaid upon Teixeira’s 1656 map, schematically redrawn. Drawing by Chris Phillips. Figure 120  Royal Palace of Aranjuez, exterior view of the sixteenth-century arcade fronting the king’s apartments and garden. Photo: iStock / Estherrr.

Horse Stables

century galleries that line the outer walls of the Royal Palace of Aranjuez and its service quarters (fig. 120). At Aranjuez the gallery offers a covered corridor protected from the elements. Above, an open walkway includes balustrades whose rhythm is marked by plinths fronted by twin pilasters and topped by gilded bolas, unmistakable features of the Habsburg style. The interior walls of the galleries feature a combination of brick panels with stucco chaînes, reflecting a centuries-old building tradition in Castile that would also have been employed in Madrid. Only the arcade facing the 192

park in the Plaza de Palacio would include an upper walkway, but both plaza arcades featured sculpture. The Park Gallery was recorded in some detail by Nicolas Guérard in his engraved view of the Plaza de Palacio that opens this book (fig. 1). Guérard depicts bust sculptures along the balustrade fronting the plaza, with urns or perhaps bolas topping the balustrade on the park side. Moreover, the view suggests a wider opening in the arcade about nine bays from the palace façade, which Ardemans identifies in his plan as the Park Gate (Puerta del Parque). Although Guérard illustrates marble busts above this threshold, Peña’s project originally included bronze sculptures that responded

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to Mariana’s objective to remake the plaza into a celebration of dynastic power at a distressed political moment. Two sixteenth-century sculptures by Leone and Pompeo Leoni were relocated to the Park Gate in 1675.71 The first was the life-size sculpture group Charles V and the Fury, an allegorical composition in which the emperor-king, dressed in armor, stands calmly over a vanquished enemy (fig. 121). The Leonis’ sculpted image of the emperor in a contrapposto pose forcefully recalls classical ideals, although its removable armor was modern and corresponded to the militaristic attire

Figure 121  Leone Leoni and Pompeo Leoni, Emperor Charles V and the Fury, 1551–55. Bronze, 8 ft. 3 in. × 4 ft. 8 1/3 in. (251 × 143 cm). Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid, E000273. Photo © Museo Nacional del Prado / Art Resource, New York. Figure 122  Leone Leoni and Pompeo Leoni, María of Hungary, 1553–64. Bronze, height 6 ft. 8 15/16 in. (175 cm). Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid, E 000263. Photo © Museo Nacional del Prado / Art Resource, New York.

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that had been popular in Habsburg-ruler portraiture. The second sculpture was the Leonis’ life-size portrayal of Charles V’s sister and governor of the Low Countries, María of Hungary (fig. 122). María stands in a widow’s habit, whose elegant folds respond to a slight shift in her pose as she turns to address the viewer. The pairing of male and female rulers within the palace compound harkens back to Francisco de Mora’s intention at the outset of Figure 123  Pietro Tacca, equestrian portrait of Philip IV, ca. 1637–40. Bronze. Plaza de Oriente, Madrid. Photo: author.

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the seventeenth century to place statues of Mars and Minerva astride the royal window of the Royal Palace. Olmo’s placement of the Leoni bronzes of two early Habsburg rulers in the Plaza de Palacio sought to convey a similar message about dynasty, but it also reflected anxiety at court about identifying a bride for the teenaged Carlos II. That María of Hungary stands in a widow’s habit alongside the heroic figure of the king’s namesake suggests that Mariana played a role in the decorative program for the plaza. Before their relocation to the Park Gate, the statues of Charles and María had been displayed in the gardens of the Buen Retiro Palace. Mariana’s artists identified another choice sculpture for the Royal Palace frontispiece from the same royal retreat: Pietro Tacca’s equestrian portrait of Philip IV, which had been sent to Madrid in 1642 as a gift from a Medici duke (fig. 123).72 Tacca had portrayed the king in a lifelike manner, dressed in armor and holding a baton to signal his authority. Moreover, the king was mounted on a rearing horse, a feat in bronze casting that was meant to impress with its ingenuity. It was also intended to surpass Tacca’s earlier work for the Spanish Habsburgs, a more traditional equestrian statue of Philip III delivered from Florence to Madrid in 1616 and installed on the grounds of the Casa del Campo.73 In early 1675 the Royal Works ordered the Philip IV statue to be moved to the Plaza de Palacio, and it was delivered to the site by April of that year.74 Following a formidable effort of engineering, the statue was hoisted atop the palace frontispiece in the summer to provide a crowning focal point for the new Plaza de Palacio. Sculptures of the archangel Michael and the cardinal virtues charged the Court Prison façade with meaning in the 1630s. Another sculpture, a portrait of Philip IV, was commissioned for

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the courthouse’s interior. Elsewhere in Madrid, stone-carved figures of saints could be seen above parish-church portals, and mythological figures abounded as ornament for city fountains. Yet triumphant messages about rulership, such as the one created by the placement of Tacca’s equestrian portrait of Philip IV at the apex of the Royal Palace frontispiece, were markedly absent in public spaces in Madrid. They were, however, present in the Italian Viceroyalties of Naples and Sicily. This suggests that a former viceroy might have advised for the scheme or that the decorative program for the palace frontispiece might have been the singular contribution to the Royal Works by the Neapolitan-born Valenzuela in his capacity as superintendent.

Figure 124  Giulio Lasso, Mariano Smiriglio, and others, Quattro Canti, or Teatro del Sole, Palermo, begun 1606– 17, with marble statues of kings added 1661–63. Photo: iStock / wsfurlan.

In Naples and Palermo, seventeenth-century monuments to the Spanish Habsburgs were many. An early example is the piazza Teatro del Sole, better known as the Quattro Canti, or Four Canted Corners, a name reflecting its siting at the intersection of two of Palermo’s principal streets, one of which had been laid out by a Spanish viceroy in the 1590s (fig. 124).75 Envisioned in 1606, the urban ensemble was to be composed of four identical and concave three-story façades forming a circular piazza traversed by two streets whose 195

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four arms would symbolize the rays of the sun. At ground level, each façade included a public fountain with an allegory of one of the four seasons and a marble inscription praising the beneficence of Spanish rule. Most notably for the present discussion, bronze statues of the first three Spanish Habsburg kings were intended for display in the central niches of the main story, with local saints and the royal arms above. Foundations were laid by 1609, and the façades were completed by 1617. A bronze statue of Charles V was the only one realized by this date, and much later, from 1661 to 1663, the present statues—including one of Philip IV, who had ascended the throne in the interim— were carved of marble. Once completed, the Quattro Canti presented the most theatrical commemoration of Spanish Habsburg rule to be seen on the streets of the monarchy’s principal cities. Another Italian example of theatrical urbanism is the Fountain of Carlos II erected in Naples from 1669 to 1673 by the viceroy Pedro Antonio de Aragón (1611–1690) (fig. 125).76 Although completed months after Aragón’s rule in Naples ended, the fountain was one of a number of public works and ephemeral celebrations undertaken during Aragón’s reign that employed royal portraiture to promote the strength of the Spanish monarchy.77 The Fountain of Carlos II is situated at the edge of the irregular Piazza di Monteoliveto, which straddles a major thoroughfare with institutions that include the nearby university and fronts another ceremonial street leading to the heart of the ancient city. Viceroy Aragón had overseen the completion of an important infrastructural project that brought water to the neighborhood; thus the fountain and its ample basin were intended as a reminder of royal beneficence. Although the bronze statue of Carlos II is diminutive, the multitiered spire-like plinth on which it stands is a robust 196

Figure 125  Donato Antonio Cafaro, Fountain of Carlos II, Naples, 1669–73. Photo: author.

creation of classicizing forms carved in marble and animated originally by lively waterworks. Guarded at the base of the plinth by two Habsburg lions and a pair of eagles, an armored Carlos II holds a baton and gazes out at the city before him. Florence was not a viceregal city of the Spanish Monarchy, although it remained a client state of the realm in the late seventeenth century, a connection explaining, in part, the Medici prince and future duke Cosimo III’s visit to Madrid in 1668. Although Cosimo did not erect public statues of Spanish Habsburg kings in Florence, one can wonder if he or a member of his entourage might have encouraged sculptural ornament for the Royal Palace during his time in Madrid. In 1676, while

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the Plaza de Palacio renovation was underway, Fernando de Valenzuela wrote to Cosimo on behalf of Mariana, requesting his assistance in securing a bronze statue of Carlos II to stand alongside the effigy of Philip IV surmounting the palace.78 In a similar vein, a Florentine ambassador stationed in Rome had been instrumental in securing the commission for Pietro Tacca’s equestrian statue in the 1630s, and the Spanish ambassador in Rome would soon solicit information about new sculpted ruler portraits for Madrid. The traveling Medici prince was in Madrid too early to see the statue of Philip IV crowning the Royal Palace. Once the statue was in place, however, it became the subject of considerable attention. A contemporary painted view records a

highly embellished prospect of the Plaza de Palacio (fig. 126). In the foreground, Carlos II and his retinue leave the plaza en route to the Kingdom of Aragón, a trip organized and orchestrated by Juan José of Austria in the spring of 1677.79 To the left, the artist includes a portion of the new Park Gallery, with life-size marble statues along its cornice railing. The exaggerated scale of the statues continues in the rendering of twenty-two obelisks placed along the façade’s roofline balustrade, suggesting Figure 126  Unknown Madrid artist, View of the Royal Palace with the Departing Cortege of Carlos II and Juan José de Austria en Route to Pledge the Fueros of the Crown of Aragón, 1677. Oil on canvas, 29 5/16 × 44 5/16 in. (74.8 × 112.8 cm). Colección Abelló. Photo © Joaquín Cortés.

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the artist’s keen understanding of the role sculpture was intended to play in the transformation of Madrid’s palace environs. Despite these liberties, the view painter depicts the palace frontispiece with great accuracy, highlighting details such as paired pilasters on three levels, scrolled volutes framing the royal window, the royal arms at the upper level, and, perhaps most striking, Tacca’s statue of Philip IV. The rearing bronze horse is echoed by a white steed in the center of the picture’s foreground. Its rider might be Juan José, whom the anonymous artist perhaps intended to highlight as an offspring of the dead king and thus a rightful coruler following his usurpation of power. The anonymous view painter captures the impression a bronze statue could make on a viewer standing in the Plaza de Palacio. And yet, surviving written sources reveal that the reception of the statue in its new setting was mixed. Among those finding fault was the Madrid-born theologian and polymath Juan Caramuel y Lobkowitz (1606–1682), who in 1675 served as archbishop of Vigevano, a city in Spanish Lombardy. In an architectural treatise authored at the time, Caramuel mentions the equestrian statue of Philip IV in a discussion of what he considered Gianlorenzo Bernini’s failed installation of a marble image of the emperor Constantine in the narthex of St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome.80 For Caramuel, who had resided in Rome before assuming his archbishopric, Bernini’s statue was a beauty to behold when examined up close but suffered from its installation “because it [had] been placed too high, so that one’s direct vision [was] diminished.”81 He continues, “The same can be said about the bronze horse that was in the Retiro in Madrid. It was beautiful. At great cost it was raised above the frontispiece of the palace. It looked bad there. The statue was returned 198

to its original site and resumed its beauty.”82 Caramuel did not see the statue of Philip IV crowning the Royal Palace in person; instead, he used it as an example to argue a point about vision and linear perspective in an erudite discussion of optics. Yet the fact that he wrote about the Royal Palace project in Madrid offers further evidence of a lively exchange that existed between the Spanish court and satellite territories of the empire. Caramuel’s dismissal of the Madrid-palace project was also politically informed. In what was a strategic, if flawed, move, Caramuel dedicated his treatise to Juan José of Austria. During his short reign of influence in Madrid, the would-be king did his best to undo Mariana’s work at the Royal Palace and Plaza de Palacio. Rejecting the architectural messages about royal succession, Juan José ordered the statue of Philip IV removed in April 1677, immediately after Carlos II’s departure for Zaragoza.83 The Leoni sculptures framing the entrance to the Park Gate were also taken down and returned to the Buen Retiro.

Mariana’ s Mad ri d Juan José’s removal of the equestrian sculpture of his father might not signal the end of Mariana’s project to create an imposing forecourt for Madrid’s Royal Palace. In the 1670s the Spanish ambassador in Rome sought to commission a statue of Carlos II from Bernini, who at his advanced age remained the leading sculptor of his day and overseer of a busy workshop.84 That story is a complicated one with inconclusive evidence, including surviving small bronzes from the period that might be related to the Royal Palace façade project. Yet Bernini merits further consideration for a reassessment of Mariana’s effort in Madrid to monumentalize the Royal Palace by reshaping the urban

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space before it. Madrid had its Plaza Mayor, with a newly rebuilt Casa de la Panadería, framed by towers, that could serve as a model for the Plaza de Palacio. But it was in Rome, at Bernini’s Piazza San Pietro, or St. Peter’s Square, that porticoes lined with sculpture defined a new public space and controlled a viewer’s experience of a building.85 The Piazza San Pietro project, begun in 1656 and still ongoing in the 1670s, was widely reported about in Madrid and other courts. Images of it were also distributed through prints, including an idealized view by Giovanni Battista Falda (1643–1678) that depicts the piazza in a bird’s-eye

Figure 127  Giovanna Battista Falda, Piazza e portici della Basilica Vaticana . . .  , 1665. Etching, 7 3/16 × 11 3/8 in. (18.2 × 28.9 cm). From Falda, Il nuovo teatro delle fabriche et edificii in prospettiva di Roma moderna (Rome, 1665). The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, Harris Brisbane Dick Fund, 1931, 31.67.4(1). Image © The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Image source: Art Resource, New York.

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view from the east (fig. 127). Falda’s image captures key features of Bernini’s project, including details about circulation patterns intended for the piazza. For instance, at the piazza’s eastern end Falda illustrates a freestanding pavilion that was never built but would have controlled a visitor’s perception of St. Peter’s whether approaching on foot or in a coach, such as the one illustrated at lower right. Bernini’s project was labeled a “new amphitheater” by Caramuel, who also recognized that the space was supposed to evoke an early Christian atrium.86 Disconnected from the outside world, an atrium stood as a transitional space before a basilica, a place of symbolic cleansing with fountains used by visitors to prepare themselves for entry into sacred space. In a similar sense, Olmo’s Arco de Palacio in Madrid marked a transitional shift from the space of the city to the space of the court. Moreover, the new arcades in Madrid were lined with sculpture just as Bernini’s were, as Falda suggests in his view. With regard to Madrid, the arrangement of freestanding statues is already suggested in the anonymous painting of the retinue of Carlos II in the Plaza de Palacio (fig. 126). Along the Park Gallery, the artist depicts eight marble statues, with the implication that many more could be seen in the plaza. These statues were never executed for the site. Instead, Olmo, as executor of Peña’s design, lined his arcades with busts of Roman emperors and two choice bronze statues in a temporary placement. The immediate design source for the architects was the garden that once occupied some of the same space as the plaza. That these Spanish architects might also have been inspired by a project underway in Rome hints at the

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significance of artistic exchange in the late seventeenth century and also at the need to consider the Plaza de Palacio not solely as a Spanish project but as one informed by contemporary developments in European architecture and urbanism. Olmo’s work was all but finished at the beginning of 1680, when a new queen, María Luisa of Orleans, entered Madrid on 13 January along a processional route that had been adorned with ephemeral galleries and triumphal arches.87 The Plaza de Palacio served as the terminus of an itinerary that began at the Buen Retiro Palace, made its way along the Carrera de San Jerónimo to reach the Puerta del Sol, and then followed the Calle Mayor, passing the Plaza de la Villa and Church of Santa María la Mayor before turning to face the Arco de Palacio. The itinerary varied little from the one Mariana of Austria experienced in 1649, when she first entered Madrid. Likewise, the festive occasions that followed the 1680 entry, including bullfights and juegos de cañas held in the Plaza Mayor, recalled the events Mariana experienced thirty years earlier. As queen mother, Mariana would have taken a backseat to the festivities surrounding her son’s marriage, watching them from her new home in the Uceda Palace, now called the Palace of the Queen Mother, located at the southernmost end of the Calle Mayor, along the entry route. Even as a spectator, Mariana would have exerted a palpable presence during the entry, since the latest Spanish Habsburg buildings and public spaces that contributed to Madrid’s regal image—the Casa de la Panadería, the façade of the Royal Palace, and the magnificent Plaza de Palacio—had been realized in large part owing to her efforts.

Conclusion

Madrid of the Spanish Habsburgs In 1656 Pedro Teixeira proclaimed that his map of Madrid represented a “royal city.” Inscribed on a banderole, the words celebrated a place anchored by royal grounds on its western and eastern ends and overseen by a beneficent king. The same banner was employed nearly thirty years later by Gregorio Fosman y Medina (1653–1713), a Dutch-Spanish engraver who published an updated version of Teixeira’s map in 1683 (fig. 128).1 Composed of four printed sheets, each slightly more than two feet wide, Fosman’s map measures about a seventh the size of his model. In the upper right corner, Fosman displays the Spanish royal arms framed by scrolls and topped with a crown, as they appear on the façade of the Casa de la Panadería. Absent a dedication to a single monarch, Fosman’s Madrid can be understood to represent an all-encompassing Spanish Habsburg place. The 1683 map was printed as a private venture, and the initiative paid off; it was Fosman’s image, and not Teixeira’s, that would be emulated in most eighteenth-century maps of Madrid published in Spain and elsewhere in Europe.2 Fosman’s map includes an extensive legend occupying nearly a quarter of the image’s overall surface. It begins, as Teixeira’s did, with an enumeration of parish churches, followed by lists of monasteries, convents, hospitals, and hermitages, using Gil González Dávila’s 1623 history of Madrid as the

primary source. Fosman switches from Roman to Arabic numerals as he indexes public buildings, fountains, architectural features of the Royal Palace and its grounds, and highlights of the Casa del Campo and Buen Retiro Palace. After calling attention to a few orchards and waterways along the city’s western edge, Fosman closes the index with a list of twenty monuments “added to this town of Madrid between 1658 and 1683.” They include the refurbished Uceda Palace, which, Fosman indicates, is “today the Palace of the Queen Mother.”3 The list further hints at the cosmopolitan nature of late seventeenth-century Madrid, as it includes an English college and a hospital for Irish nationals. Moreover, it highlights new religious foundations, such as the Oratory of Saint Philip Neri and the Chapel of Saint Isidro Labrador, a sumptuous addition to the Church of San Andrés built to honor Madrid’s patron saint.4 Politics also enters in, as the legend denotes the Hospital and Church of Our Lady of Montserrat of the Aragonese, a foundation realized in part as appeasement following the resolution of the Catalonian uprising. Also listed among the new monuments are the “Casa Real de la Panadería” and the “Arcades of the Plaza de Palacio, built by order of King Carlos II.”5 In rendering the latter, Fosman regularizes the shape of the trapezoidal plaza, a correction

Figure 128  Gregorio Fosman, Mantva Carpe[n]tanorvm, sive Matritum vrbs regia, 1683. Map in four printed sheets, 42 ½ × 51 in. (108 × 68.5 cm). Museo de Historia de Madrid, ASA P -A -31. Photo: Ayuntamiento de Madrid / Museo de Historia de Madrid.

that would be repeated in derivative maps. He also emphasizes the orderly western limits of the palace park near the banks of the Manzanares River, brought about by the reinforcement of its perimeter wall in the 1670s. As a result of these 202

amendments, Fosman’s Royal Palace and surrounding grounds attain a greater sense of geometric order. By 1683, when Fosman printed his map, grand building projects for government in Madrid were largely complete. Court architects turned their attention in the second half of Carlos II’s reign to designing fountains, city gates, and other embellishments intended to enhance the city’s outward appearance. Working alongside painters and decorators, they also continued to update architectural

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interiors, which gave rise to a period of artistic splendor in and around the court city.6 However, one prominent government building, the Madrid Town Hall, continued to be mired in construction problems. On his map, Fosman depicts the building site almost exactly as Teixeira had thirty years earlier and refers to it in the legend as the “Carcel de la Villa.” The choice to render the town hall as an undeveloped plot might reflect the ongoing uncertainty about the building’s final resolution. By the map’s date, however, the town hall was advanced enough in its construction to have been illustrated more accurately. For a second time—or perhaps a third, since we do not have Manzelli’s image—Madrid’s town hall did not appear on a map of the Villa y Corte. This book has narrated Madrid’s rise in prestige as exemplified by architectural monuments beginning with Francisco de Mora’s initial designs for the Royal Palace façade and extending to the building of a new courthouse whose ordered interior symbolized the aspirational nobility of Habsburg justice. Mariana of Austria’s efforts to complete the Royal Palace and then transform the plaza before it further contributed to Madrid’s grander image. All of these developments were informed by architectural undertakings in faraway places, from Naples to Rome to Mexico City, in addition to sites nearby such as San Lorenzo de El Escorial and Aranjuez. The town hall, envisioned first in the 1620s, has been in the background of this entire narrative. When the building was finally completed in a burst of energy between 1691 and 1693, it stood in the heart of Madrid as a celebration of monarchical rule rather than municipal government. No fewer than twelve sculpted sets of royal arms adorned the building’s façades. Additionally, two richly sculpted portals faced the Plaza de la Villa, and the interior courtyard was enhanced by

sculptural ornament. This was perhaps the logical outcome for a government building completed after the dramatic transformation of the Plaza de Palacio. Some of the same anxieties about dynastic succession that drove the plaza project also spurred on the completion of the town hall. In this final instance of grandstanding by the court over the town, architectural symbolism was not limited to carved ornament. The marriage of the two Madrids was also commemorated in a ceiling fresco adorning the principal chamber used by town councilors, an image that claimed Madrid for the king and his larger empire. As recorded in the painted view of the Plaza de la Villa discussed earlier (fig. 90), six bays of the town-hall façade had been completed by 1656 (fig. 129). Five were roofed over, adorned with dormers, and covered in slate, while the sixth awaited an upper story and a steeple to complete a corner tower. To the south, three other bays corresponding to the building’s jail section had been built up to the ground level only. The anonymous painter records five of the completed main-story bays with tall openings for doors and windows, each framed with granite and topped with a triangular pediment. The two bays at right, which corresponded to the building’s oratory and Sala Mayor, are fronted with balconies. To their left, the wall above the north portal remains faced in brick, awaiting its ornament. By the end of 1657, the missing main-story bays had been erected to the level of the cornice. The town hall thus still lacked its framing towers but had moved a step closer to being fully realized, perhaps owing to the intervention sought by the gentleman in the right foreground. However, the building’s interior program continued to be tangled up by changing demands imposed by the 203

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Figure 129  Unknown Madrid artist, View of the Town Hall (fig. 90), detail of the partially built edifice, with incomplete portals and towers. Museo de Historia de Madrid I.N. 35351. Photo: Ayuntamiento de Madrid / Museo de Historia de Madrid.

court. The presence of corner balconies bespeaks the demands of court officials to occupy these spaces during the celebration of Corpus Christi in the spring of 1656. That deadline was met only partially, forcing attendees to tolerate the scent of drying paint on the vaults of their ceremonial interiors. By the date of the anonymous painting, Villarreal had already envisioned a pair of portals for the town hall that were much grander than the pedimented doors specified by Gómez de Mora. Villarreal’s design included the royal arms and 204

limestone statues of unspecified subjects.7 The architect likely had in mind the Court Prison, where allegorical figures symbolizing princely virtues and royal justice adorned the building’s façade. The portal sculptures were never carved, and Villarreal died in 1662, leaving the fate of the town-hall façade uncertain. Furthermore, financial contingencies required the building’s committee to turn its attention to the jail, and future committees, too, would remain focused on the jail until 1690. In May of that year Madrid hosted the royal entry of a new queen, Mariana of Neuburg (1667–1740).8 To judge from period sources, the most spectacular ephemeral display for the entry was the teatro erected in the Plaza de la Villa. Although no visual record of the monument survives, Antonio Palomino, its creator, describes it at length in the second volume of his 1724 treatise on the art of

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painting.9 The temporary structure, which incorporated the plaza’s fountain and disguised most of the town hall’s incomplete façade, appears to have inspired Madrid’s aldermen, at long last, to complete construction on the building. A contemporary drawing that does survive, by Teodoro Ardemans, of a town-hall portal, invites speculation about the transformation of the Plaza de la Villa for the royal entry (fig. 130). Ardemans was the architect of a spectacular plan for the Royal Palace and Plaza de Palacio that he created as maestro mayor in 1705. The portal drawing dates to around 1690, at a moment when Ardemans was just beginning his ascent in Madrid’s municipal and royal building trades. Ardemans’s design is meticulously rendered, using a blackish brown ink with touches of red and yellow ink in addition to gray wash and charcoal highlights. A door frame articulated by layered pilasters on the sides and a dominant pediment above serves as the basis of the composition. To these rectilinear and triangular forms, Ardemans adds garlands and heraldry, flourishes that reflect late seventeenth-century developments in Madrid architecture, as seen, for instance, in the stone features of the Casa de la Panadería. Ardemans, who in 1661 was born in Madrid to parents from Luxembourg and Naples, was only a youth when the Panadería was rebuilt. He trained as a painter with Claudio Coello and also studied mathematics at the Colegio Imperial in the late 1670s.10 A decade later, at the end of a four-year residence from 1686 to 1690 in the Andalucian city of Granada, Ardemans served as maestro mayor at the cathedral of that city. Time spent in Granada afforded Ardemans direct knowledge of ornamental trends in architecture that were prevalent in major building projects there. One of the singular monuments from the era is the Carthusian

monastery known as La Cartuja, whose church was completed in 1662, although the church’s interior decoration in polychrome stone and stucco relief was still underway while Ardemans resided in Granada. Rich ornament was also a characteristic feature of late seventeenth-century portions of the Figure 130  Teodoro Ardemans, design for the Madrid Town Hall portals, ca. 1690. Charcoal, ink, and washes on paper, 24 ¼ × 13 15/16 in. (61.3 × 33.8 cm). Private collection. Photo: The Chinese Porcelain Company, New York.

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cathedral that Ardemans helped realize, including its now-lost choir. In this way the ornament Ardemans includes in his drawing for the town-hall portal can be understood to reflect the architect’s experience of Granada as much as anything he might have known in Madrid. The inventiveness of the portal design suggests that Ardemans’s proposal is related to the 1690 royal entry. A clue can be seen in the escutcheon located at the apex of the pediment, within a straplike frame composed of interlaced volutes. On the face of the escutcheon, Ardemans does not illustrate the Spanish Habsburg arms, which appear on the town-hall façade today, but rather those of Castile, composed of a checkerboard with two castles and two lions. These were the arms Palomino used for the ephemeral monument celebrating Mariana of Neuburg’s entry, and he would employ them again when he was invited back to paint a townhall interior. The town hall’s existing twin portals were built in 1691 after designs prepared by José del Olmo, maestro mayor of the Royal Works and the municipal works.11 Although Olmo’s drawings are lost, the executed designs reveal a combination of robust, architectonic forms and ornamental heraldry most likely designed by his assistant, Ardemans (fig. 131). Each door’s rectangular opening is fronted by deeply carved stone trim, lobed at the corners and centered with a hanging keystone. The door frame gives the impression of an abstracted mouth, a motif first popularized in late sixteenth-century Italian architecture. Above each portal, a rounded pediment covers a relieving arch and supports a curved plinth upon which rests a carved set of the Spanish Habsburg arms. Two additional escutcheons honor Madrid. At left, the bear and strawberry tree represent the city’s modern arms. The dragon at right alludes to Madrid’s 206

medieval insignia, which, as Palomino indicates, once included a serpent.12 These highly sculpted portals animate the Plaza de la Villa, and a similar aesthetic effect can be appreciated in the town hall’s towers, designed by Olmo and Ardemans in 1692 (fig. 132).13 Double pilasters marking the corners of the building’s main story, realized in the 1650s, give way to overlapping planes of ornament on the later tower walls. Each tower includes two windows with rounded pediments and balconies facing the city, along with the royal and municipal arms carved on three of its four sides. The proliferation of heraldry Figure 131  Madrid Town Hall, north portal along the east façade as executed between 1691 and 1693 after designs by Teodoro Ardemans. Photo: author.

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is striking given the height of the towers; this height nearly matches that of the two-story building below, which allowed the insignia to be seen at a great distance by pedestrians as well as riders in coaches. Visibility helps explain subtle variations in the design of the three towers. The two facing the Plaza de la Villa have alternating sloped and rectilinear forms that support tall obelisks with orbs and crosses. For the northwest corner tower, the steeple’s lantern is crowned with a vaselike spire that carries an orb and cross. When viewed obliquely along the Calle Mayor, the towers complement the slightly lower towers of the Cañete Palace, which is located to the immediate south. The soaring steeples of both buildings offer pleasing silhouettes against the sky. The impact of this

Figure 132  Madrid Town Hall, oblique view from the east along the Calle Mayor. Photo: author.

urban ensemble would have been enhanced by the tower of San Salvador, looming across the street, as well as the sounds of water splashing in the plaza fountain and the regular tolling of the bells in the church clock tower. The experience of moving through the town-hall interiors in the seventeenth century is difficult to approximate today, mostly because of extensive renovations that were undertaken in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries with little regard for the historic fabric.14 Nonetheless, it is possible to offer a tentative reconstruction of the main story as it appeared around 1690 (fig. 133). In this plan, 207

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1693, at the same time as the exterior towers, the courtyard survives today in a highly modified state. In the late nineteenth century, the groundlevel arcade was almost entirely walled up, and a floor with glass blocks—now covered with marble—was inserted between the courtyard’s ground and main stories. In 1896 the courtyard’s main

I have left nearly the entirety of the building’s south end (B 13) empty due to the total loss of original construction. Of special concern presently are the interiors along the north and east perimeter of the town hall, each of which was accessible by means of corridor B 1, which wrapped around three sides of the courtyard. Completed by September

Figure 133  Madrid Town Hall, reconstruction of mainfloor plan around 1690. Drawing by Chris Phillips.

B2

S1

B1

B3

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B13 B6

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B8 B9

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floor was modified further when it was crowned with a metal canopy that was in turn filled with colorful stained glass (fig. 134).15 The singular characteristic of the late seventeenth-century portions of the courtyard is the preponderance of stone that Olmo and Ardemans used as a means of aggrandizing Gómez de Mora’s brick walls (see fig. 95). Double pilasters carved of stone mark the patio’s interstitial spaces and corners. At the attic level, stone brackets appear to hang from the cornice, echoing the forms Ardemans employed for the town-hall towers. With the insertion of a new floor in the nineteenth century, the building’s lighting was irrevocably altered, as was its design and functionality. For instance, Olmo and Ardemans’s windows were

Figure 134  Madrid Town Hall, main-story courtyard, view with the north and east elevations in addition to the nineteenth-century iron-and-glass ceiling. Photo: Pablo Linés.

turned into doors. Also, the modern glass canopy over the courtyard necessitated additional structural support for the attic story, resulting in two ponderous bands of stone along its bottom edge, before which corbels were installed to support a series of busts portraying Madrid luminaries.16 In addition to the Salón Real and terrace fronting the Calle Mayor (B 6) (discussed in chapter 4), three other ceremonial spaces appear in the 1690 plan: an audience hall, or sala de visitas (B 11), a hearing room to be used by royal magistrates for 209

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official visits to the jail; a new chapel (B 7), formed by joining the northeast corner tower room and former oratory; and a grand Sala Principal (B 9), centered along the eastern front of the building, to be used for town-council meetings. Little can be said about the sala de visitas, whose site was determined in 1666 by the Royal Works maestro mayor Sebastián Herrera Barnuevo (1619–1671).17 The hall possibly included room B 12, yet it was much smaller than was originally planned in the 1640s, when the sala de visitas was to occupy the entirety of the hall directly below B 9. The reduced judicial interior was lost during nineteenth-century renovations. One significant alteration involved demolishing a portion of the wall between the hall and the Sala Principal in order to create a public tribune, allowing members of the public to observe town-council meetings in progress. No evidence of the decoration of the sala de visitas has come to light, but that is not the case for the chapel and Sala Principal. Both preserve fine, late seventeenth-century frescoes, which were restored in 1991 and 1985, respectively.18 Compared with the painted ceiling in the Salón Real, executed in 1656, these later town-hall frescoes exemplify changes in taste as radical as those already seen on the building’s façade and in its main courtyard. The author of the new frescoes was Antonio Palomino. Like his slightly younger contemporary, Teodoro Ardemans, Palomino was an upstart in Madrid when he worked at the town hall. He had been named a royal painter only four years earlier, in 1688.19 The accolades he received for the ephemeral transformation of the Plaza de la Villa for Mariana of Neuburg’s entry appear to have led to the contract he signed to decorate the town hall’s Sala Principal in January 1692.20 He executed that work in close collaboration with Ardemans

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and then followed it with a project to decorate the building’s chapel, an interior space newly transformed by his collaborator. Palomino presented drawings for the chapel’s decoration in 1696 and completed his work the same year, although no documents describing the commission have surfaced to date (fig. 135).21 The walls are painted with an illusionistic architectural framework in which Palomino has portrayed local saints and narrative scenes related to the Life of the Virgin. His loose, painterly style contrasts with the realistic portraits of Spanish Habsburg rulers that were made for the room. The oil portraits were inserted into Palomino’s frescoed walls, seemingly supported on plinths or surrounded by scrolled marble frames. The Marian theme introduced on the walls of the room continues overhead. Palomino painted a scene of the Assumption of the Virgin in the dome above the central chapel space and an image of the Virgin in Glory in the vault corresponding to the building’s northeast tower. A surviving oil sketch for the latter vault indicates that Palomino’s original intention was to paint an image with local significance, a scene of Madrid in the form of a river god adoring the Virgin of Atocha.22 Such a representation would have appealed to local civic pride, as might be expected in the decorative scheme for the town hall. The choice to replace the Virgin of Atocha with a less specific image of Mary suggests that Madrid’s town council ceded the space to the court and the Spanish Habsburg monarchs, whose devotion to Marian imagery was renowned. Palomino’s painterly style for the chapel frescoes reflects novelties that had recently been introduced to Madrid by the Neapolitan artist Luca Giordano (1634–1705). Giordano had arrived in 1692 and, over the course of a decade at the

Conclusion

Spanish court, ushered in a grand phase of fresco painting with projects at the Escorial, the Buen Retiro Palace, the Cathedral of Toledo, and the Royal Palace of Aranjuez, among other sites.23 Palomino’s embrace of Giordano’s painterly manner for the chapel is the earliest instance of the artist’s evolution toward the monumental fresco style he perfected in later projects in Valencia, Salamanca, Figure 135  Madrid Town Hall, interior view of the chapel, with fresco decoration by Antonio Palomino, including oil portraits of Carlos II and Mariana of Neuburg on the foreground piers. Photo: Pablo Linés.

and Granada in the early years of the eighteenth century. Unlike the town-hall chapel and these later works, Palomino’s ceiling painting for the Sala Principal remained grounded in quadratura techniques that had been in vogue in Madrid since the arrival of the Bolognese painters Colonna and Mitelli. Although, chronologically, the Sala Principal was painted first, it, more than the chapel, represents an outright celebration of monarchy that befits the conclusion to this book. Realized from 1692 to 1693, the grandiose Sala Principal—known today as the Salón de Plenos—is situated on the east side of the town hall, occupying three central bays of the Plaza de la Villa façade (fig. 136). Rectilinear in plan, the room has six windows, three opening onto the plaza and another three giving on to what was originally the building’s open-air courtyard. The hall had been largely completed by the late 1650s but remained unoccupied for decades owing to the ongoing construction of the municipal jail. Its structural integrity became an urgent concern over time and remained so until the town hall’s southern courtyard elevation was erected in 1691, thereby stabilizing the room’s southwest corner. Construction in the courtyard was supervised by Ardemans, who, as noted above, introduced enhanced stone ornament. The architect turned his attention immediately afterward to the decoration of the Sala Principal. Today a portrait of the current king of Spain, Philip VI (b. 1968, r. 2014–), hangs under the hall’s baldachin, a place of honor that had been adorned with portraits of rulers—mostly monarchs, but also one of Francisco Franco—since the room’s debut. Opposite this wall is the public seating gallery discussed earlier, which was added to the south side of the room in the nineteenth century,

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Figure 136  Salón de Plenos (formerly Sala Principal), Madrid Town Hall, interior view looking north. Photo: Pablo Linés.

along with gas lamps that were later retrofitted with electricity. The number of aldermen serving on Madrid’s town council in the late nineteenth century was obviously greater than that in the last decade of Spanish Habsburg rule. The furniture in the Sala Principal reflects that difference while also maintaining the dais and baldachin reserved for senior leadership along the room’s north wall. The 212

dais includes seats for the mayor, formerly used by a corregidor, and two ranking aldermen. Modern practice requires the addition of two seats reserved for the king and queen, but there is no evidence that monarchs attended sessions in the Habsburg era. Benches line the east and west sides of the hall in an arrangement that preserves the original furniture plan in the shape of a U, although the modern seating is three rows deep. A 1764 engraving depicting the Council of Castile holding a plenary session provides a useful clue to the ways in which Madrid’s town council occupied the Sala

Conclusion

Principal in the early modern period (see fig. 52). In that view, participants are ordered according to the geometry of the room, with officials seated on two long benches placed perpendicularly to the principal dais and baldachin. The damask fabrics adorning the walls of the Sala Principal were replaced as part of the restoration of the interior in 1985, although it remains uncertain when they were originally installed.24 As in the nearby Salón Real, the Talavera tiles that lined the perimeter walls of Ardemans’s Sala Principal were stripped from the room in nineteenth-century renovations. Whereas tiles were replaced with wood paneling in the Salón Real, blocks of marble were used in this instance. The hall’s window frames seem also to date to the modern era. Their pilasters were clearly designed in conjunction with the marble dado, suggesting that the elaborate pediments replaced or covered up seventeenth-century originals. Some of the ornament surrounding the windows takes its cue from the hall’s cornice, the one feature of the room that can be attributed to Ardemans by visual analysis alone. The gilt wood frieze is composed of richly carved corbels and metopes adorned with cornucopias. Above each of the windows, the frieze includes wide corbels inset with escutcheons bearing the arms of Madrid. As Ardemans had done in his design for the ephemeral decoration of a town-hall portal, he includes both the old and the modern arms, represented by a serpent/dragon and a bear. Palomino, too, included the dragon and the bear in the teatro he erected in the Plaza de la Villa, specifying that silver and blue grounds be used for each, the very colors employed by Ardemans in the Sala Principal. Further correspondences between decorative flourishes along the cornice and those in the lower zone of the ceiling vault—such as the

proliferation of volutes, turned, flipped, and upright—prove the collaboration between Ardemans and Palomino in decorating this room.25 Palomino’s ceiling fresco fills the vault of the Sala Principal with an artfully crafted quadratura scheme whose optimal viewing point is from the seats under the room’s baldachin (fig. 137). Rather surprisingly, this major fresco does not appear in early art-historical sources.26 A fictive attic level rises just above the hall’s actual cornice. The painted story appears to be carved elaborately in stone, and it serves as the base for yet another level, this one defined by a marble colonnade. In turn, the colonnade supports a luxuriously coffered ceiling. The illusion reveals Palomino’s indebtedness to Agostino Mitelli, whose work he writes of admiringly in El Parnaso español, his collection of artist biographies published in 1724. In a notable passage about Mitelli’s décor for the Hall of Mirrors in the Royal Palace, Palomino marvels at the manner in which the painter “appeared to reinforce the very architecture” of the room.27 Palomino’s emphatically architectonic scheme for the Sala Principal reveals a mastery of mathematical perspective as well as optical illusion, skills he promoted in his writing as essential to the accomplished fresco painter.28 His virtuosic display also suggests that his friend Ardemans might have had a hand in the ceiling’s design. Theirs was a friendship based on mutual admiration and shared allegiances as artists who practiced in multiple genres. Thus, in his treatise on architectural practice in Madrid published in 1719, Ardemans praises Palomino as a “painter, architect, and perspectivo.”29 An Ardemans-Palomino collaboration illustrates the unity of the arts in late seventeenth-century Spain and makes clear that the decoration of the town hall’s interior was integral to the building’s design and meaning overall. 213

Figure 137 Antonio Palomino, Madrid Honors Carlos II, 1692–93. Fresco, Salón de Plenos (formerly Sala Principal), Madrid Town Hall. Photo: Pablo Linés.

Madri d of the Span ish Habsburgs

In the center of the Sala Principal ceiling, a lobed rectilinear oculus opens to the sky (fig. 138). Clouds tumble into the fictive space above the meeting hall and draw the viewer’s attention to an allegorical celebration of monarchy transpiring, it seems, in the heavens. At lower left, an allegory of Madrid, represented as a woman dressed in green with a red cape and sandaled feet, genuflects with her arms crossed and her gaze directed upward. To her left, Palomino depicts an orb with anthropomorphic symbols of Habsburg rule on either side: an eagle bearing a scepter in its claw and a crown of laurel in its beak, and a lion holding a sword with one paw and a crown with the other. An eagle with the same attributes crowned a sixty-foot-tall triumphal arch Palomino had erected before the town hall in 1690.30 In that instance, the eagle symbolized the majesty of the queen Mariana of Neuburg. The addition of the lion provides a masculine complement, just as the crown held by the beast mirrors the eagle’s scepter as a symbol of rule. Palomino’s inclusion of the sword of justice reveals further ideals about government that the town hall and other public buildings in Madrid were intended to serve. The object of Madrid’s contemplation appears at upper right. There a portrait of Carlos II in the form of a quadro riportato, or transported picture, is held aloft at the apex of the scene by two cherubs. Below them, other cherubs carry laurel branches and palm fronds, further symbols of majesty as well as royal sacrifice that Pedro Teixeira had extolled on his celebrated map. Trailing the king’s portrait, two additional pairs of cherubs support the arms of Castile and those of Madrid, each crowned like the portrait of the king. A final winged boy unfurls a standard with a text that visually connects the personification of Madrid with the portrait of Carlos II. With an allusion to

Figure 138  Antonio Palomino, Madrid Honors Carlos II (fig. 137), detail of the oculus and allegory. Photo: Pablo Linés.

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Mantua—a fictive town born of humanist legend to claim Madrid’s antiquity—the Latin text can be translated, “I am Mantua, always yours, and thus it is justly proclaimed.” It is a pledge of allegiance by the town to the court and is made in the principal chamber dedicated to municipal government. Palomino’s ceiling celebrates Carlos’s dominion over his capital city and also, via the inclusion of an orb, over the global domain governed from there. Because monarchical power was orchestrated in Madrid, the city occupied a privileged place in the Spanish Empire. Yet its special status required that it be subservient to the royal court, as the tale of the construction of the town hall

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makes evident. Although the theme of Palomino’s fresco is striking for a hall conceived for the practice of municipal government, it reflects political reality at the end of the seventeenth century, when Madrid was no longer in competition with a court but instead wholly subsumed by it. The building of the government monuments surveyed in this book was a slow and deliberate process. Acting alone and collectively, court officials shaped royal messages through architecture—and images too—so that the town chosen to serve as a court was transformed into the Madrid of the Spanish Habsburgs.

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Madrid’s Town Jail In 1655 José de Villarreal declared that his design for the Town Hall of Madrid would result in a a building that was “very regal, very strong, [and] very beautiful.”1 The architect’s confident outlook reflected the pride he took in devising a plan for building that would serve multiple functions, some ceremonial and others penitential, the latter year-round and the former seasonal. However, as the construction narrative offered in chapter 4 reveals, Villarreal’s project remained unrealized at the time of his death in 1662. The building’s north and east sections were nearly complete, as was the main staircase located at the rear, west end. Its courtyard had only three of four elevations standing, while a decrepit, late-medieval jail still occupied the southwest corner of the building site. Since its inception, the town hall had been mired in delays brought about by economic crises that affected the whole of the Spanish monarchy. The project’s budget was in dire straits in the 1660s, a situation compounded by the disastrous fires that struck the Escorial and the Plaza Mayor in the early 1670s, events that diverted work crews from the project. Despite Villarreal’s best efforts to devise a building program that would serve many needs, the challenge of retrofitting the old jail while simultaneously meeting changing demands for the building’s ceremonial plan proved impossible. Moreover, justice for inmates had always been

secondary to the demand for spaces dedicated to government and ceremony. The story of building Madrid’s town jail is complicated, and the information presented here is by necessity incomplete and preliminary. Many useful documents for reconstructing this building’s history have been considered by earlier historians.2 A future scholar might uncover the corresponding accounting documents in Madrid’s municipal archive that would likely tell a far more complete story, like the one that can be reconstructed for the Court Prison. My hope is that the speculative material provided in this appendix serves future histories of crime and punishment in early modern Madrid. Much of the information will be of special interest to social historians, yet I have strived to highlight its spatial as well as architectural significance. As a caveat, I must note that most of the spaces that once served as the town jail have disappeared. The few that remain have been altered beyond any semblance of what they looked like in the seventeenth century. After his death, Villarreal was succeeded by a number of supervising architects who held ranking positions in Madrid as well as in the Royal Works. Two key players were Bartolomé Hurtado, who worked at the site from 1671 to 1680, and José del Olmo, who succeeded Hurtado. These were men whose animosity toward each other might have

Appen dix

contributed to problems at the town-hall work site (see chapter 5). By 1691 Olmo had entrusted the project to Teodoro Ardemans, a junior assistant in the Royal Works. Ardemans, as the supervising architect from 1691 to 1693, oversaw the building’s finishing features, including towers and portals. Ardemans’s alterations to the courtyard introduced a new ornamental scheme, but that was not the only novelty. The erection of the long-missing fourth courtyard elevation and walling up of its ground-floor arcade created a physical barrier that separated spaces devoted to government or ceremony from those given over to the jail. Pedro Teixeira depicted the original municipal jail as a cluster of buildings in the southwest corner of the Plaza de la Villa (see fig. 83). These were fronted by a long canted wall and accessed from a door opposite the “Calle de S. M. del Arcos,” a street aligning with the west side of the Cisneros Palace. Beyond the door, a small patio provided access to a labyrinth of interiors that are partially described in construction documents from the early 1670s.3 Ground-floor spaces included a visiting hall that opened onto the patio, an office for the jailer, another unspecified office with a painted image of the Virgin Mary on one of its walls, an oratory near the jail’s main staircase where Mass was said for inmates, and other rooms located under the same staircase. In what might have been a separate wing, the ground floor also included a cell for women inmates; another for older, presumably male, inmates (calabozo de la gente vieja); and a dormitory, which was the most sizeable of all these interiors. An upper-story space above the dormitory included one large cell and three others joined by a corridor, a torture room, and a small room located within the well of the main staircase. These same documents reveal that the jail had a patio for prisoners to use, as well as a corral with 218

kitchens, suggesting that animals were kept on site. All of these spaces occupied the same city plot upon which the town hall would be built. As early as 1644, portions of the old jail were demolished to make way for new construction, and by April 1646 some inmates were moved to a nearby property purchased by the ayuntamiento to serve as temporary quarters.4 The ongoing use of the old jail helps explain the spatial constraints Villarreal and his successors faced and the evolution of the interior program for the town hall and jail that transpired. In 1656, the year of the Salón Real’s debut, Madrid’s aldermen debated the possibility of purchasing property from the Count of Los Arcos in order to relocate the jail and the corregidor’s residence there.5 The officials reasoned that their existing building site lacked the space to accommodate accounting offices in addition to a wardrobe, an archive, an audience hall for the lieutenant to the corregidor, “and other necessary services.” Interestingly, these spaces might have existed briefly, most likely in the north end of the building. As the aldermen noted, spaces in that portion of the building had been ceded to the queen’s household, which still required a large kitchen and “four or six other rooms to be used by officials who tend[ed] to the queen’s meal on Corpus [Christi].”6 Given earlier feuds councilors had had with neighbors, including with the Count of Los Arcos, their proposal to acquire additional property for a separate jail building would lead nowhere. Villarreal nonetheless persisted, arguing in 1657 that the constant need for repairs to the old jail was draining money and that finding another site for the institution would allow him to maintain the integrity of the town hall as an island (isla), or single building block, within the fabric of the city.7 The architect was granted a reprieve and allowed to rent space in a neighboring building

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for a year while he determined the next steps for the jail. One outcome was the addition of a mezzanine level and a third story to the southern end of the building (fig. 139). This design change transformed the jail’s face into a four-story elevation, with an entrance apart from the one opening onto the Plaza de la Villa. The new section extends five bays from the town hall’s southeast tower. A single portal at the base of the third bay provides access to the jail’s ground floor, which corresponds to the basement level of the remainder of the building. Balconies along the two upper stories suggest these rooms were used for administrative functions, including perhaps for those Madrid aldermen who were eager to be accommodated in the building as space was given over to the queen’s household. Yet the balconies differ from those on the building’s principal façades and thus likely date to renovations carried out in 1857–59, after the jail had been emptied and this wing of the building was converted into municipal offices. Modern offices were also built over the former jail yard, as can be seen in the wall built with brick and bands of rubble to the immediate west of the seventeenth-century jail façade. A bridge in the same historicist vein was built in 1915 to link the town hall to the Cisneros Palace, which had been transformed at the turn of the century into offices, including a large suite for Madrid’s mayor—leaving the Count of Los Arcos no doubt turning in his grave.8 The late seventeenth-century portions of the town hall’s south elevation are notably starker in their design than the building’s two principal façades. Classical features are abstracted to their simplest forms, with elements such as pilasters lacking ornamental bases and capitals. The severity of the design reflects economic necessity as well as notions of decorum that privileged halls

Figure 139  Madrid Town Hall, view of the south façade, with the nineteenth-century addition at left. Photo: author.

dedicated to civic government and royal ceremony over spaces intended for criminals. Based on the limited visual evidence that survives, the town hall’s south end could not have been built any earlier than the 1660s and thus likely reflects a design produced by someone other than Villarreal. Villarreal was succeeded as Royal Works maestro mayor by Sebastián de Herrera Barnuevo, and supervision of the unfinished town-hall project was transferred to the aparejador Bartolomé Hurtado, who would toil at the site for nine tumultuous years. 219

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Hurtado made significant progress on the jail. In September 1668, for instance, he enumerated the tasks he had executed the previous six months.9 Referring to a plan that had guided his work, Hurtado notes first the completion of three cells at ground level along with three more located directly above, on the mezzanine. He also claims to have completed the façade to the level of the main cornice, in addition to work on two staircases. The first was the jail’s principal staircase, and the second was one near the Plaza de la Villa entrance, to be used by judges for access to a new visiting hall built above the east portal.10 The document further reveals that the “large room between the two vestibules [la pieça grande de entre los dos çaguanes],” formerly intended to serve as the visiting hall (see fig. 93, A 8), had been given over to expanded jail spaces. One final revelation is the placement of cells for incarcerated women at the upper level of the building, accessible by ascending a new wooden stair adjoining the main jail staircase. Despite these signs of progress, Hurtado was arrested in August 1671 after having evaded his duties for nearly a year, and he was incarcerated in the very building whose transformation he was overseeing.11 In Hurtado’s defense, his lawyer cited a twoyear delay in the delivery of ironworks that were needed to enclose the new jail cells. Ultimately, Hurtado was released and ordered to report to the Escorial for postfire rebuilding efforts. Building materials intended for the town-hall project were also diverted to the Escorial. The lull in construction at the town hall was too much to bear for the building’s supervising committee. Reviewing financial arrangements and new plans in July 1674, municipal officials vented their frustration to the regent queen Mariana of Austria. They expressed their shame “before the eyes of all the world” at having to live with an incomplete building, “especially as this house is in 220

Your Majesty’s sight and intended for your royal service.”12 With a return to normalcy in the Royal Works following reconstruction at the Escorial, new bids to complete the jail project were solicited in June 1676, and officials chose a project that included three new cells, two located in the main vestibule and one under a “secret” staircase whose location, aptly, is not specified.13 At this date, two of the town-hall courtyard’s elevations remained unfinished, and the main staircase had suffered considerably from a lack of structural support where its walls met the old jail. In a rare surviving plan made in 1686, Manuel del Olmo (1631–1706) proposes slight alterations to the jail’s design in response to concerns about the number of holding cells in the building (fig. 140). The draftsman was the brother of José del Olmo, the Royal Works aparejador and future maestro mayor who had assumed control of the town-hall project in 1671, when Hurtado was condemned to house arrest. José subsequently took over the project around 1680, with his brother Manuel serving in his studio. The drawing depicts a sequence of five existing rooms plus a stairwell, all located immediately south of the courtyard cloister and rendered with green wash. In gray wash, Manuel proposes building a new room for a cell, trapezoidal in plan, between the existing limits of the jail and its yard, which appears at the top of the plan with a fountain basin. A second cell, adjacent to the first, would have been accessed from the vestibule-cloister. The intrusion of the jail quarters into the vestibule led to a decision in 1691 to wall off the jail from the remainder of the town hall, thereby disrupting Villarreal’s novel circulation program for the building. José del Olmo made the decisive design change, and its actual construction was supervised by Ardemans, whose drawing for the alteration survives.14 That image, along with Manuel

Figure 140  Manuel del Olmo, plan of the ground floor of the Madrid Town Hall jail, 1686. Black and brown ink with green and gray washes on paper. Archivo de Villa de Madrid, Planos 2-500-33. Photo: Archivo de Villa del Ayuntamiento de Madrid.

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Figure 141  Madrid Town Hall, reconstruction of the ground-floor plan ca. 1690, with the jail at left. Drawing by Chris Phillips.

A19

A17

A18

A16

S3

A19

A15

A6

A9

S1

A10

A4

A5

Courtyard A3

S5 S4 A14 S2 A11 A13

A12

del Olmo’s ground plan of the jail, allows for an approximate reconstruction of the ground-floor plan of the town hall around the year 1690 (fig. 141). To date, detailed drawings of the building’s south end before late nineteenth-century modifications that erased nearly all seventeenth-century traces have not come to light. The erasure was extensive, 222

A8

A7 A1

A2

as former jail spaces were gutted to accommodate offices that filled the entirety of the building lot illustrated by Teixeira in 1656 and Fosman in 1683. In the reconstruction proposed here, the Calle Mayor side of the building is unchanged from the ground floor around 1660, with the exception of the original visiting hall (A 8). Ardemans’s

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annotations to a 1691 ground plan indicate that the room was still used for some judicial visits, although earlier records affirm that it had been retrofitted in part to accommodate jail quarters. At best, the space was multifunctional, and I propose that by 1690 access to the north vestibule (A 7) was likely cut off. The walling up of the courtyard, too, allowed for a reimagining of the jail spaces that appear at left in the reconstruction drawing. Manuel del Olmo’s ground-floor plan of the jail in 1686 has been especially helpful for this reconstruction, but it is important to note that Olmo’s drawing depicts interiors that were located just below those of the jail’s mezzanine level.15 Entering the zaguán (A 11) from the Plaza de la Villa south portal, a visitor would encounter two office spaces at left, the first most likely intended for a porter (A 12) and the second for guards or perhaps accounting staff (A 13). From the vestibule or guardroom, one would reach a sizeable warden’s office (A 14). The long room A 15 provided access to two halls with jail cells (A 16, A 17), which were duplicated on the ground floor below. From A 15, the staircase S 5 provided access to the building’s main story; this stair could perhaps have been the wooden one used to access the upper-story quarters used by women inmates. A separate flight in the same stairwell (S 3), approached from the zaguán, led down to the jail’s ground level. Built of heavy stone slabs and wholly utilitarian, this wide staircase appears to be one of the only seventeenth-century elements to have survived modern interventions to the south end of the building (fig. 142). At bottom, one reaches a landing and turns before taking two steps and arriving in what is now a walled-up corridor of the former jail.16 As Manuel del Olmo’s plan illustrates, the stair originally accessed a hallway leading to jail cells. At street level, a door led directly to these

quarters, and, as the south elevation reveals, another bay of windows not illustrated by Olmo was built here, perhaps reflecting a need for greater illumination. With the closing of the courtyard arcade, the town-jail vestibule (A 11) also suffered from lack of light, despite its considerable width and height. Olmo’s plan illustrates the need in 1686 for new enclosures, including one large holding cell at the end of the vestibule (A 18). There might have been another on the opposite side of the vestibule (A 19), taking up a portion of the ceremonial vestibule at the bottom of the town hall’s main staircase. In this new configuration, ironworks would have been a prominent feature at the end of the long hallway.

Figure 142  Madrid Town Hall, street-level landing of the jail staircase, built around 1665. Photo: author.

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Figure 143  Domingo Domínguez and unknown draftsman, elevation of an iron grille for a jail cell, with building specifications, 1699. Pencil and ink on paper. Archivo de Villa de Madrid, Secretaría, legajo 2-500-39. Photo: Archivo de Villa del Ayuntamiento de Madrid.

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In a drawing dated 1699, an unnamed draftsman depicts a fifteen-foot-wide reja complete with a wicket to allow for the feeding of inmates (fig. 143). The accompanying notations indicate that the cell door alone is seven feet tall, thus suggesting that the grate would have stood from floor to ceiling. No physical evidence survives to allow for a meaningful reconstruction of the town jail’s two upper stories. For this reason the space is left empty in the reconstruction plan of the town hall’s main floor that appears earlier in this book (see fig. 133, B 13). Other documents reveal that cells and other facilities for women would have occupied some part of one of these two stories. As noted already, the old municipal jail had an infirmary and other services that could also have been situated on the upper stories of the new building in order to benefit from abundant light. If a residence for the corregidor was ever built on this site, it might have occupied part of the third story, where it could have been accessed from the staircase (S 4) that I propose was also used by royal magistrates to reach their main-story chamber.17 Modern demolitions and renovations present a challenge for future studies that might attempt to better understand this penitential space. That the story of Villarreal’s proud design featuring a novel circulation program should end with a walled-off courtyard and cells fronted by iron grilles lining a dark hallway speaks to the complexity of the original program for the town hall and jail; it also speaks to the insurmountable challenges of building during a time of political and economic uncertainty. The decades-long realization of a new municipal jail forces the historian to wrestle with the tension between architectural idealism and the reality of life on the streets of early modern Madrid.

Glossary

alarife  municipal builder charged with design, magnifi­ cence and oversight of projects, in addition to appraising completed work on behalf of a town council alcaide  warden, of a jail or prison, or governor, of royal buildings or lands alcalde  magistrate or royally appointed judge alguacil/es  officer of the law, sheriff aparejador  supervising architect at a Royal Works building site aposentador/es  chamberlain, a title of the royal household that could vary in rank. The aposentador mayor, or head chamberlain, occupied one of the preeminent positions at court. audiencia  collective body of royal judges or a judicial chamber in which these judges met. Additionally, the term can refer to a royal tribunal, as in the Audiencia of Seville. ayuda  help or, in job titles, assistant ayuntamiento  town council or a town-hall building. See also cabildo. Bureo  palace office dedicated to the administration of the royal household and its personnel; supervised by the mayordomo mayor, or high steward cabildo  town council or a town-hall building. See also ayuntamiento. casa  house or important public building, such as a town hall, which might be called a casa de ayuntamiento or casa de cabildo. Monumental buildings, with partial or complete royal sponsorship, could also be referred to with this term, as in the Casa de la Panadería. chapitel/es  ornamental steeple or spire, usually covered in slate comisario  commissioner. In the context of Madrid building projects, comisarios were normally royal

magistrates or town councilors appointed to oversee progress at a site. corregidor  a royally appointed town governor, who might or might not also have held a law degree and served as a judge cronista/s real/es  royal chronicler or historian ducado  ducat, unit of currency roughly equivalent to 11 reales or 375 maravedís escribano scribe fiscal/es  attorney for the prosecution or, in particular instances, a finance or treasury minister on a royal council furriera  the royal household, an administrative department responsible for the upkeep and decoration of a royal residence grandeza  greatness or grandeur; also magnificence maestro mayor  master builder. In Madrid the title maestro mayor de las obras reales was bestowed by the monarch upon the architect who served as head of the Royal Works studio. maravedí  basic unit of currency; 34 maravedís equaled one real mayordomo  overseer in a public position, such as the mayordomo de los pobres, an official in charge of poor relief. The title also refers to stewards of the Royal Palace, including the high steward, or mayordomo mayor. monasterio  monastery. In seventeenth-century Spanish usage, the term could refer to religious houses built for women as well as for men. This was also the case for the word convento. pasadizo  elevated passageway that linked buildings and often bridged city streets

Glossary

paseo  promenade, a street lined with trees for coach and pedestrian traffic portada  monumental portal or frontispiece of a building portero  porter or doorman; also, a courtroom bailiff procurador  attorney, as in the procurador de los pobres, or public attorney provincia  province; used in early modern Spanish legal practice to define the five-league territory surrounding Madrid, which was under the legal jurisdiction of court magistrates. Also refers to a judicial branch of the Council of Castile concerned with civil law. real/es  unit of currency, equivalent to 34 maravedís reja  wrought-iron grille used for windows and doors as well as larger openings in palaces and churches. Monumental rejas were often painted and gilded. relación  news report, usually describing a particular event. A relación could be printed to be sold at market or could survive in manuscript form. retablo  retable or multitiered altarpiece, often combining sculpture and painting within its architectural framework Royal Works  shortened title for the Junta Real de Obras y Bosques, or Royal Committee for Works and Forests.

226

There was also a Royal Works studio headed by the maestro mayor. sala  hall in a palace or public building; alternatively, a chamber or courtroom in a judicial building. A large ceremonial hall might also be called a salón. secretario  secretary, of royal or municipal rank semanaria  weekly account of construction costs at a building site; from the Spanish semana, or week trazador  designer; one who makes trazas, or architectural drawings valido  royal favorite, an individual who served the de facto role of first minister to a Spanish Habsburg monarch veedor  building-site supervisor, an advisor to the maestro mayor whose role was primarily administrative visita  visit or hearing, as in an official judicial hearing held by magistrates in a courthouse, town hall, jail, or prison zaguán  building vestibule, often wide enough for entrance by coach

Notes

Introdu ction 1. The term Monarchia Hispanica emerged in the sixteenth-century writings of the humanist Tommaso Campanella, a native of Spanish Italy; see Pagden, Lords, 29–62. On the composite domain: John H. Elliott, “A Europe of Composite Monarchies,” in Spain, Europe, 3–24; Martínez Millán and Rivero Rodríguez, La corte; Martínez Millán, González Cuerva, and Rivero Rodríguez, La corte. 2. Carbajo Isla, La población; Alvar Ezquerra, El na­ cimiento; José Luis de los Reyes Leoz, “Evolución de la población, 1561–1857,” in Pinto Crespo and Madrazo Madrazo, Madrid, 140–45. 3. Molina Campuzano, Planos, 46–119; Francisco José Marín Perellón, “La configuración del centro y periferia,” in Pinto Crespo and Madrazo Madrazo, Madrid, 88–93; Miguel Lasso de la Vega, “La ciudad cercada,” in Berlinches Acín, Arquitectura, 0:25–34. 4. Molina Campuzano, with Marín Perellón, Madrid. 5. Bonet Correa, Iglesias. 6. Feros, Kingship. 7. Banner, Religious Patronage. 8. Tovar Martín, Arquitectura, 266–71; Cámara Muñoz, “Dos propuestas”; Banner, Religious Patronage, 169–84. 9. Tovar Martín, Arquitectura, 270–71. 10. A fuller discussion of the committee, along with a consideration of the Royal Works studio, headed by a maestro mayor, or master builder, appears in chapter 2. 11. Xerez and Deça, Razón de corte, 135: “pues qualquiera Casa de un Grande destos tiempos tiene sin duda tanta Jente y ofiçios como del Rey entonçes.”

12. Díaz Moreno, Fray Lorenzo. The treatise was granted a privilege in 1633 and published in Madrid in 1639. A second edition appeared in 1665. 13. San Nicolás, Arte y uso, 163: “Tienen los Catolicos Reyes de España en sus Reynos Palacios y Alcazares, y Fortalezas, vnos para ostentar su grandeza, otros para la recreacion de la vida, y otros para la defensa de sus Reynos, y todos autoriçan al dueño, a las ciudades, y aun al Reyno, pues es cosa assentada, que los edificios lo hermosean todo. Tambien muchas Iglesias Catedrales, y Ayuntamientos, en sus ciudades y villas tienen edificios, que siruen de adorno al Reyno, y Republica.” 14. José Manuel Barbeito, “La corte barroca, 1600–1665,” in Pinto Crespo and Madrazo Madrazo, Madrid, 40–47. 15. Ringrose, Madrid; Ringrose, “Capital Cities”; Sanz Ayán, Los banqueros. 16. Regarding the spatial experience of elite architectural settings: Waddy, Seventeenth-Century Roman Palaces; Fantoni, Gorse, and Smuts, Politics of Space; Hoppe, De Jonge, and Breitling, Interior. 17. Bonet Correa, “La fiesta”; Portús Pérez, La antigua procesión; Río Barredo, Madrid. 18. Nader, Liberty. 19. Elias, Court Society. For the historiography of the Spanish Habsburg court: García Santo-Tomás, Es­ pacio urbano, 19–72; Martínez Millán, “La corte”; Vázquez Gestal, El espacio; José Martínez Millán, “La ‘monarquía católica’ como entidad política,” in Martínez Millán and Rivero Rodríguez, La corte, 1:267–318; Santiago Martínez Hernández, “Usos y espacios de la negociación y la sociabilidad

Notes to pages 6–15

20. 21. 22.

23. 24. 25. 26.

27.

28.

29.

30. 31. 32. 33. 34.

35.

228

cortesanas,” in Martínez Hernández, Escribir la corte, 3–116. Burke, Fabrication. Kamen, Imagining Spain, 172–205. Elliott, Count-Duke; Elliott, “Self-Perception and Decline in Early Seventeenth-Century Spain,” in Spain and Its World, 241–61. Feros, Kingship; Allen, Philip III. Schroth and Baer, El Greco. Elliott, Count-Duke. Brown and Elliott, Palace, 40; Pereda and Marías, El atlas, 10; Andrés Úbeda de los Cobos, “The Pictorial Decoration of the Buen Retiro Palace,” in Úbeda de los Cobos, Paintings, 16–17. For Olivares’s policies, see Elliott, Count-Duke, 244–77. I have not been able to determine the precise origin for the use of this honorific. Although it was employed regularly from the 1650s forward, Andrés Gómez de Mora used it in a 1636 lawsuit involving his father’s accused wrongdoings as a royal official; see Universidad Complutense de Madrid, Biblioteca Histórica Marqués de Valdecilla, FOA 584(13), fol. 1r. Álvaro Soler del Campo, “La Real Armería en el retrato español de corte,” in Soler del Campo, El arte, 55–87. Brown, “Enemies of Flattery”; Portús Pérez, El re­ trato; Bodart, Pouvoirs, 277–322; José Luis Colomer, “Black and the Royal Image,” in Colomer and Descalzo, Spanish Fashion, 1:77–112. Bodart, Pouvoirs, 268–74. Elliott, “A Non-Revolutionary Society: Castile in the 1640s,” in Spain, Europe, 74–91. Valladares, La rebelión; Mitchell, Queen. Campbell, Monarchy; Bass, Drama. For revisionist scholarship: Oliván Santaliestra, Mariana; Silvia Z. Mitchell, “Habsburg Motherhood: The Power of Mariana of Austria, Mother and Regent for Carlos II of Spain,” in Cruz and Stampino, Early Modern Habsburg Women, 175–96; Mitchell, Queen. Cordule van Wyhe, “The Making and Meaning of the Monastic Habit at Spanish Habsburg Courts,” in Colomer and Descalzo, Spanish Fashion, 1:251–89; Mercedes Llorente, “Mariana of Austria’s Portraits as

36.

37. 38. 39. 40.

41. 42. 43. 44.

45.

46.

47.

48.

4 9. 50. 51. 52.

Ruler-Governor and Curadora by Juan Carreño de Miranda and Claudio Coello,” in Cruz and Stampino, Early Modern Habsburg Women, 197–222; Wunder, “Women’s Fashions.” AHN Mº Exteriores SS,71, letter from Mariana of Austria to Pedro de Aragón, Madrid, 25 September 1665: “Tutora y Curadora del Rey mi hijo, y Governadora de todos los Reynos y Señorios de su Monarquia.” Orso, Philip IV, 32–117; Barbeito, El Alcázar, 132–36; Pereda and Aterido, “Colonna y Mitelli.” Oliván Santaliestra, Mariana, 191–96. Storrs, Resilience; Oliván Santaliestra, Mariana; Mitchell, Queen. Ribot, “Carlos II”; Luis Ribot, “El rey ante el espejo: Historia y memoria de Carlos II,” in Ribot, Carlos II, 13–52; Aterido, El final, 13–20. Mínguez, La invención; Barghahn, “Duty to Display.” Soler del Campo, El arte, 224. Brown, Painting, 233–52. On the various stylistic labels for architecture under Philip II: Kubler and Soria, Art and Architecture, 7–10 and 20–22; Gállego, “El Madrid”; Fernando Checa, “El estilo clásico, 1564–1599,” in Nieto, Morales, and Checa, Arquitectura, 253–380. Krista De Jonge, “Antiquity Assimilated: Court Architecture, 1530–1560,” in De Jonge and Ottenhym, Unity and Discontinuity, 60–61; Escobar, The Plaza Mayor, 21–26. The literature on the Escorial is vast. Two excellent starting points are Bustamante García, La octava maravilla, and Wilkinson-Zerner, Juan de Herrera. Cervera Vera, Las estampas; López Serrano, “El grabador”; Catherine Wilkinson-Zerner, introduction to Philip II and the Escorial, 7–11. Brown and Elliott, Palace; Blasco, El Palacio, for hypothetical reconstructions; Blanco Mozo, Alonso Car­ bonel, 299–389, for a revised construction history. Brown and Elliott, Palace, 72. Díaz González, La Real Junta. Amelang, “New World,” 147. Hillgarth, Mirror of Spain; Alessandra Anselmi, introduction to dal Pozzo, Il diario, xli–xlvi.

Notes to pages 15–23

53. MacKay, “Lazy, Improvident People”; Kamen, Imagin­ ing Spain; Paquette, “Dissolution.” 54. Llaguno y Amirola, Noticias; Santiago Páez, Ceán Bermúdez; Cera Brea, Arquitectura. 55. Cabañas Bravo, La política artística, remains an important early study in what has become an expanding research field owing to political developments in Spain related to the memory of the Civil War. 56. Molina Campuzano, Planos. 57. Bonet Correa, “Velázquez,” 230. 58. Gállego, “El Madrid.” 59. Tovar Martín, Arquitectos; Tovar Martín, Arquitec­ tura; Tovar Martín, Juan Gómez de Mora. 60. Bonet Correa, Andalucía; Bonet Correa, Morfología; Marías, La arquitectura. 61. Barbeito, El Alcázar; Escobar, The Plaza Mayor; Blanco Mozo, Alonso Carbonel; Blasco Esquivias, Arquitectos. 62. Connors, “Alliance and Enmity”; Ballon, Paris of Henri IV; McPhee, Bernini; Arenillas, Del clasicismo; Cooper, Palladio’s Venice; Webster, Quito; Habel, “When All of Rome”; Thomas, Architecture and Statecraft. 63. Waddy, Seventeenth-Century Roman Palaces. 64. My approach is inspired by the philosopher and sociologist Henri Lefebvre’s writing about urban space and monumentality. In Lefebvre, Production of Space, a wide-ranging work that has become essential reading for the humanistic study of cities and the urban experience, the author discusses monumental architecture on 220–26. 65. Parker, Global Crisis. 66. F. de los Santos, Quarta parte, 269: “Deborah español.”

Chapter 1 1. Bonet Correa, “La Plaza Mayor”; Escobar, The Plaza Mayor; Escobar, La Plaza Mayor. 2. Redworth, Prince and the Infanta; David Sánchez Cano, “Entertainments in Madrid for the Prince of Wales: Political Functions of Festivals,” in Samson, Spanish Match, 51–73; Henry Ettinghausen, “The

Greatest News Story Since the Resurrection? Andrés de Almansa y Mendoza’s Coverage of Prince Charles’s Spanish Trip,” in ibid., 75–89; Jorge Fernández-Santos, “The Madrid of the Ambassadors Under Philip IV,” in Fernández-Santos and Colomer, Ambas­ sadors, 51–56. 3. Sánchez Cano, “Entertainments in Madrid,” 61–62. 4. García Santo-Tomás, Espacio urbano; Wright, Pilgrimage. 5. Liñán y Verdugo, Guía: “a huir de los peligros que ay en la vida de Corte.” 6. Ibid., 1v: “descomodidad y confusion desta Babilonia de Madrid.” 7. Covarrubias, Tesoro, 110r: “Al lugar de gran poblacion y de mucho trato, adonde concurren diversas naciones, dezimos por en carecer el trafago grande que ay, y la confusion, que es vna babilonia; especialmente si con esto concurren vicios y pecados que no se castigan.” 8. On the Madrid-Babylon analogy: Cámara Muñoz, “La ciudad”; García Santo-Tomás, Espacio urbano. 9. Liñán y Verdugo, Guía, n.p.: “Y aun estas son las gracias que devemos dar al Licenciado do[n] Antonio Liñan y Verdugo, que con color de entretenimiento, ha sabido escriuir dotrina y auisos necessarios a la gente recien venida a este mar y golfo de la Corte de España.” 10. Ibid., 148r: “Tan adornada está Madrid, como Corte de Monarca tan poderoso, y Rey tan Christiano de Templos, y Iglesias adonde se celebren los oficios diuinos, se frequenten los Sacramentos, y se predique la palabra de Dios.” 11. Ibid.: “Bastantamente (dixo el maestro) ha cumplido do[n] Antonio con el numero de las Iglesias, au[n]que no con la proporcion de la descripcion; pero yo ofrezco la primera vez que nos boluieremos a juntar, de hazeros vna discrecion [cosmografica], del sitio y poblacion de Madrid, de su latitud, y longitud, de la tierra en que está, del clyma que goza, de los ayres que la bañan, del numero de sus casas y vezinos, poniendo cada cosa en su lugar, y no faltaran otros auisos que dar al forastero.”

229

Notes to pages 23–32

12. AHN Consejos, libro 1171, fol. 164r (5 March 1629): “considerando la mucha gente, de tan varias y tan diferentes partes y naciones, y mal entretenida, que anda en esta Corte, y tantos vagabundos, ladrones y facinerosos, que ay en ella, sin orden ni manera de vivir, y lo mal, que se guardan las leyes y prematicas.” 13. Amelang, “New World”; Bass and Wunder, “Veiled Ladies”; Hamann, “Mirrors”; Norton, Sacred Gifts; Ripollés, “Fictions.” 14. For Teixeira (spelled alternatively as “Texeira” following a seventeenth-century Spanish variation): Armando Cortesão and Avelino Teixeira da Mota, “Pedro Teixeira Albernaz,” in Portugaliae Monumenta Cartographica, 4:159; Molina Campuzano, Planos, 247–311; Marín and Ortega, “La biografía”; Escobar, “Map as Tapestry.” 15. López de Hoyos, Hystoria. On the humanist: Alvar Ezquerra, Un maestro. 16. Pérez de Messa, Primera y segunda parte. 17. Ibid., 205v: “la muchedumbre de gente que de ordinario tiene este pueblo de diversas naciones no solamente de España sino tambien de fuera della.” 18. Ibid., 204v: “es cosa maravillosa lo que se va estendiendo y ampliando este gran pueblo, con tanta priesa, que en muy breve tiempo se espera sera uno de los mayores de toda Europa y aun de otras partes: con ser agora de presente tan grande que pone admiracion, y emboba a los forasteros que a el vienen.” 19. Botero, Della ragion di stato. 20. Xerez and Deça, Razón de corte, 85: “Con la mudanza todo se altera, las librerías y escritorios más vistos y conocidos se desconocen y descomponen; no se puede llebar todo, ni tenerse con el orden y digestion que se requiere perdiendo mucho tiempo en componer y descomponer llebar y traer y hallar comodidades donde esté, con que se y estraña la costumbre de estudiar y especular.” 21. Kagan, Clio, 184–85. 22. González Dávila, Teatro, n.p.: “suplicole humildeme[n]te, reciba, como cosa adquirida con mi estudio, la Historia de su gran Corte.” 23. At left, A solis ortu usq ad occasum refers to an internally illuminated reign, as per Psalm 113:3. At right, 230

24. 25.

26. 27. 28.

29. 30. 31.

32. 33.

34.

35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40.

Laudabile nomen eius, a continuation of the same psalm, praises God in the original biblical verse but is also directed here to Madrid. Kagan, Clio; Portuondo, Secret Science. González Dávila, Teatro, 7: “Tiene este Rio el famoso edificio de la Puente Segouiana, de los mas admirables que tiene la Christia[n]dad; obra del Imperio, y traça del Gran Felipe II que costó docientos mil ducados.” Ibid., 521, “la conservacion, y augmento de las Casas, Alcaçares, y Bosques.” Ibid., 522: “El Rey Filipe II edificó este Conuento, que es la mayor fabrica que se conoce en España.” Quintana, A la muy antigua, n.p.: “ya por ser necesario tiempo para buscar y ver memorias y papeles antiguos, que aya sido trabajo de diez años.” The printing license is dated 1627, suggesting that Quintana would have begun his undertaking around 1617. Schrader, La Virgen de Atocha. Ceán Bermúdez, Diccionario, 1:359. Quintana, A la muy antigua, 114v: “que al presente co[n] la poblacion q se ha aumentado, viene a estar en el riñon del lugar, que es a la entrada de los postreros por tales de la calle mayor, a mano derecha, como vamos a la Puerta del Sol.” Ibid., book 3, chap. 25. Ibid., 404v: “puesto en medio de tanto ruido, y co[n]fusion de pueblo; digalo la misma Babilonia de la Corte.” Ibid., 410v: “al presente respeto de la ampliacion viene a ser su assiento en la yema de la villa, y en la parte mas principal della.” Fernando Marías, “Madrid,” in Kagan, Spanish Cities, 110–18. AGP Admin 768, transcribed and studied by Martínez Leiva and Rodríguez Rebollo, Qvadros. Martínez Leiva and Rodríguez Rebollo, Qvadros, 115. Ibid., 73. Escobar, “Antonio Manzelli”; Marías, “Madrid.” Benito Doménech, “Un plano”; Ramírez Aledón, “El plano”; Marías, “Madrid.”

Notes to pages 32–42

41. Escobar, “Antonio Manzelli”; Muñoz de la Nava Chacón, “La suntuosa.” 42. “Ivpiter in cvnctas cernens ex nvbibvs vrbies, nvm vasti aspiciet pulchrivs orbis opvs.” 43. González Dávila, Teatro, 3. 44. Quintana, A la muy antigua, book 1, chaps. 14 and 24. 45. Ibid., n.p.: “Y pareciendome que el servicio de mas importancia, que segun mi estado y profession devia hazer a V.S. era escrivir una historia que fuesse su verdadero retrato.” Pereda, Crimen, 139–74, explores the notion of truth in early modern Spanish images. For early modern maps more specifically, see Maier, “‘True Likeness.’” 46. Cortesão and Teixeira da Mota, Portugaliae Monu­ menta Cartographica, 3:41–160; Marín and Ortega, “La biografía”; Pereda and Marías, El atlas, 9–28; Maria Fernanda Alegria et al., “Portuguese Cartography in the Renaissance,” in Woodward, Cartography, 989–90. 47. Portuondo, Secret Science. 48. Avelino Teixeira da Mota, “João Baptista Lavanha,” in Cortesão and Teixeira da Mota, Portugaliae Monu­ menta Cartographica, 4:63–70. 49. Hoffman, Raised to Rule, 66–67. 50. Herrera, Institución; Rodríguez G. de Ceballos, “La Academia”; Felipe Pereda, “Un atlas de costas y ciudades iluminado para Felipe IV,” in Pereda and Marías, El atlas, 35–38. 51. Lavanha, Viagem. 52. Martínez Leiva and Rodríguez Rebollo, Qvadros, 93; Pereda and Marías, El atlas, 15–16. 53. Portuondo, Secret Science, 103–40. 54. Österreichisches Nationalbibliothek, Vienna, Cod. Min. 46; Pereda and Marías, El atlas. 55. Kagan, with Marías, Urban Images, 1–18; Portuondo, Secret Science, 132. 56. “En la qual se demuestran todas sus Calles el largo y ancho de cada vna dellas las Rinconadas y lo que tuercen las Placas Fuentes Iardines y Huertas con la disposiçion que tienen las Parroquias Monasterios y Hospitales estan senalados sus nonbres con letras y numeros que se allaran en la Tabla y los Ydificios

57. 58.

59. 60. 61. 62. 63.

4. 6 65.

66.

67.

68. 69. 70.

Torres y delanteras de las Cassas de la parte que mira al medio dia estan sacadas al natural que se podran contar las puertas y ventanas de cada vna dellas.” Marín and Ortega, “La biografía,” 41; Marías, “Madrid.” Hilary Ballon and David Friedman, “Portraying the City in Early Modern Europe: Measurement, Representation, and Planning,” in Woodward, Cartogra­ phy, 680–704. Marín and Ortega, “La biografía,” 22; Marías, “Madrid,” 156–57. Simón Diáz, Historia; Ortega Vidal and Marín Perellón, “La conformación.” McPhee, “Falda’s Map,” explains the collaborative effort behind the production of a 1676 map of Rome. Escobar, “Map as Tapestry.” “Phillipo IV regi Catholico forti et pio vrbem hanc svam et in ea orbis sibi svbiecti compemdivm exhibit.” Comune di Napoli, Dal castello alla città, 58–59. Núñez de Castro, Libro (1669), n.p. The book was published in four editions in Madrid: 1658, 1669, 1675, and posthumously in 1698. Ibid., n.p.: “Pero en esta edicion segunda, anteponiendo al deseo comun mi dictamen particular, he enrriquecido el primer libro, singularizando tanto las noticias en los Reynos, en los Consejos, en los Tribunales, en la Casa Real, y en los adornos todos de Madrid como Villa, y como Corte, que juzgo no les quedara ya que desear a los curiosos.” Ibid., 6: “Tiene la villa de Madrid quatrocientas Calles, diez y seis Plazas, diez y seis mil Casas, en que tendran vivienda mas de sesenta mil vezinos, treze Parrochias, treinta Conventos de Religiosos, veinte y seis Monesterios de Monjas, veinte y quatro Hospitales, diferentes Hermitas, y Humilladeros.” Ibid., 7: “Es verdad, que llamana Florencia, la Dama de las Ciudades; pero ay muchas damas.” Magalotti, Viaje. Taín Guzmán, Medici Pilgrimage, 57–118, discusses Baldi’s drawing style. Trinidad de Antonio, https://‌www.museothyssen .org‌/en‌/collection‌/artists‌/kessel-‌iii-‌jan-‌van-‌attributed 231

Notes to pages 44–69

/view-‌carrera‌-san-‌jeronimo-‌and-‌paseo‌-prado. On Van Kessel in Madrid: Aterido, El final, 80–83. 71. Carlos II, Pragmatica; López Álvarez, Poder, lujo y conflicto.

Chapter 2 1. Schäfer, El Consejo, 285–89. 2. Íñiguez Almech, “La Casa del Tesoro”; Gerard, De castillo a palacio, 133–36; Barbeito, El Alcázar; Martínez Díaz, Espacio, 97–126; Barbeito, “Juan Gómez de Mora.” 3. The only known seventeenth-century image to approximate a plan of the Casa del Tesoro is a schematic diagram included with a ten-folio report prepared in 1684 by the palace aposentador, García de Villagrán y Marbán: AGP Admin 741. 4. Sánchez Hernández, El Monasterio; Bonet Correa, Iglesias, 25–28. Because this religious house was occupied by women, I use the term “convent” instead of monasterio to avoid confusion for the English-language reader. 5. Escudero de Cobeña, Relación, chap. 924: “algunos me certificaron que creíen que este día había en la plaza de Palacio al pie de mil coches, lo que hasta allí no se ha visto tal.” 6. Tovar Martín, Juan Gómez de Mora, 102. 7. Inventories of Spanish Habsburg art collections date to 1636, 1666, 1686, and 1701–3. See, respectively, Martínez Leiva and Rodríguez Rebollo, Qvadros; Martínez Leiva and Rodríguez Rebollo, El inventario; Bottineau, “L’Alcázar”; and Fernández Baytón, Inven­ tarios reales. 8. Gerard, De castillo a palacio. 9. Barbeito, El Alcázar. 10. Checa, El Real Alcázar. 11. See http://www‌.museoimaginado‌.com. 12. Martínez Díaz, Espacio. 13. Fernando Checa, “El Real Alcázar de Madrid,” in Checa, El Real Alcázar, 17. 14. Jarrard, Architecture, 131. 15. Gerard, De castillo a palacio, 21–31; Alfredo J. Morales, “La nueva imagen del poder, las obras reales,” in Nieto, Morales, and Checa, Arquitectura, 107–8. 232

16. Marías, La arquitectura, vol. 1. 17. Herranz, “Dos ‘nuevos’ dibujos.” 18. John H. Elliott, “The Court of the Spanish Habsburgs: A Peculiar Institution?,” in Spain and Its World, 142–61. 19. Marías, El Hospital. 20. Robinson, “Towers, Birds.” 21. Wilkinson-Zerner, “Escorial”; Marías, “La arquitectura.” 22. In addition to the bibliography provided already, see Wilkinson-Zerner, Juan de Herrera, 84–115. 23. For Mora’s biography: Cervera Vera, Complejo; Tovar Martín, Arquitectura, 19–26 and 85–96. 24. Pérez Gil, El Palacio. 25. Banner, Religious Patronage, 109–68. 26. Díaz González, La Real Junta. 27. González Dávila, Teatro, 521. 28. Gerard, De castillo a palacio, 79–80; Tovar Martín, Arquitectura, 106–7. 29. The plan was first published in 1962 by Bottineau, “L’Alcázar.” 30. Blasco Esquivias, Arquitectura; Aterido, “Teodoro Ardemans”; Blasco Esquivias, Arquitectos, 386–92. 31. A 1598 plan of the Council of the Indies offices on the Queen’s Courtyard (AGI MP -Europa, Africa-5) was first published in 1935 by Schäfer, El Consejo, 1:138–39. 32. Schäfer, El Consejo, 1:285–89. 33. Barbeito, El Alcázar, 291–301. 34. Tovar Martín, Juan Gómez de Mora, 196–99, for a description of the drawing as part of a set of four. 35. Val Moreno, “Giovanni Battista Crescenzi,” 362. 36. Blasco Esquivias, Arquitectos, 157–68. 37. Rodríguez Ruiz, Bernini, 113–15. 38. F. de los Santos, Descripción (1657). 39. AGP Admin 853, n.p. (31 August 1630); Díaz González, La Real Junta, 200–201. 40. Llaguno y Amirola, Noticias, 3:169–74. 41. Hellwig, “La estatua,” 237; Barbeito, El Alcázar, 158– 59; Blanco Mozo, Alonso Carbonel, 168–69; Blanco Mozo, “Imagen.” 42. Peter Cherry, “Ludovico Turchi, importador de escultura italiana,” in Colomer, Arte, 336: “ha mucho tiempo.”

Notes to pages 70–80

43. 44. 45. 46.

47. 48.

49. 50. 51. 52. 53.

54. 55. 56. 57. 58.

59.

Barbeito, “Juan Gómez de Mora.” dal Pozzo, Il diario, 105. Verde, Domenico Fontana; and De Cavi, Architecture. BNE INVENT/47230. The large engraving was made by Johannes Eillarts and printed on four sheets; De Cavi, Architecture, 181, suggests that the sheet including the ground plan dates to 1612–16. De Cavi, Architecture, 193–212. An eighteenth-century, redrawn version of the image is included in Khevenhüller, Annales Ferdinandei, 10:237 (between cols. 237 and 238), the diaries of Franz Christoph Khevenhüller, Viennese ambassador to Spain many years before the visit of the English prince. Barbeito, El Alcázar, 103. Checa Cremades, Madrid, 33. Jarrard, Architecture, 90–132. Martínez Leiva and Rodríguez Rebollo, Qvadros, 94–95. González Dávila, Teatro, 309: “En La parte Occidental de Madrid, en lo que antiguamente era el Alcaçar Real tiene su assie[n]to el Palacio de nuestros inclytos Reyes; que representa, por lo que se vè de fuera, la gra[n]deza y autoridad de su Principe.” Núñez de Castro, Libro (1669), 110: “Quando el Alcaçar Real desta Villa se edificó para Palacio.” Martínez Hernández, Escribir la corte, 235. Orso, Philip IV; Colomer, Arte; Fernández-Santos and Colomer, Ambassadors. They were first published in 1952 by Íñiguez Almech, Casas reales. BAV Barb. lat. 4372: “Relaçion de las cassas que tiene el Rey en España y de algunas de ellas sean echo traça que se an de ber con esta Relaçion” (17 July 1626). The report’s title indicates the architect’s intention that one read his words and examine the plans in tandem. In addition to the Madrid palace, the album includes plans of royal buildings in Segovia, Seville, and Toledo, as well as descriptions of others in Granada, Valencia, and Valladolid. Ibid.: “Antecamara. Y en esta pieça todos los biernes de año açe el Consejo Real consulta al Rey de los negoçios tocantes a justicia y gobierno. Y cuando se an de empeçar Cortes de los Reynos de la Corona

60. 61.

62. 63.

64.

65.

66.

67. 68.

69.

70.

71.

de Castilla se proponen en ella. Y a Juebes Santo da la comida el Rey a los pobres y les laba los pies.” On furnishings in this room and others: Martínez Leiva and Rodríguez Rebollo, El inventario, 30–50. Gerard, De castillo a palacio, 89–96. BAV Barb. lat. 4372: “en esta tome despacho el Rey todo jenero de despachos es pieça entretenida y de las mejores bistas de la cassa que miran al jardin y parque y se be la cassa del campo y rio desde un coredor señalado n[umer]o 15.” Ibid.: “escalera secreta para bajar al campo.” Kagan, Clio, 208. See also Elena Santiago Páez, “Las bibliotecas del Alcázar en tiempos de los Austrias,” in Checa, El Real Alcázar, 318–43, and Bouza, El libro. Checa, Inventarios, 537–48. The objects were inventoried in 1607 and so had likely been augmented by the time Gómez de Mora prepared his plan. Carducho, Dialogos, 154v: “de la vna parte la mayor poblacion de la Corte; y de la otra, la mas deleitosa vista, que alcança la ribera del rio Mançanares, Casa del Campo, puertos de Guadarrama, y sierra (donde se diuide[n] las dos Castillas) el Escorial, Campillo, Monasterio, el Pardo, y Zarçuela, casas, y bosques de recreacion de las personas Reales.” BAV Barb.lat. 4372: “Apposento en que estan todas las traças de las Cassas Reales, para las obras, y relaciones de los caminos tocantes a los Rey Despaña que estan a cargo del Traçador mayor del Rey y maestro de sus obras.” Carducho, Dialogos, 153r–154r. BAV Barb.lat. 4372: “En esta pieça tiene el Rey todo lo perteniçiente a la mussica, de libros i instrumentos de diferentes suertes y grandeça.” Miguel Morán Turina, “Las estatuas del Alcázar,” in Checa, El Real Alcázar, 248–63; Martínez Leiva and Rodríguez Rebollo, Qvadros, 55–56, 120–22. BAV Barb.lat. 4372: “Salon grande en que se açen las fiestas de comedias y saraos y comen los Reyes en publica en día de bodas de las damas que se cassan en Palaçio.” Alicia Cámara Muñoz, “La dimension social de la casa,” in Blasco Esquivias, La casa, 1:147–53. 233

Notes to pages 80–95

72. Gerard, “Los sitios”; Castaño Perea, La capilla; Martínez Leiva and Rodríguez Rebollo, El inventario, 90–96. 73. Martínez Leiva and Rodríguez Rebollo, Qvadros, 95. 74. Orso, Philip IV, 43–60; Alessandra Anselmi, introduction to dal Pozzo, Il diario, xlvii. 75. Defourneaux, Daily Life, 47–48. 76. For instance, some tribunals of the Council of Castile would be transferred to the Court Prison, which is the topic of chapter 3. By the early eighteenth century, the King’s Courtyard came to be called the Patio de los Consejos. 77. Rodríguez Villa, La corte, 5. 78. Brown, Velázquez; José Martínez Millán and Ignacio Javier Ezquerra Revilla, “La Real Junta del Bureo,” in Martínez Millán and Hortal Muñoz, La corte, 1:167– 248; Véliz and Aterido, “Caring.” 79. González Dávila, Teatro, 499–508. 80. Martínez Leiva and Rodríguez Rebollo, El inventario, 71, cite 1653 documents that suggest the Council of Italy met on the grounds of the Royal Palace, in the vicinity of the northwest corner tower. 81. Elliott, Revolt; Elliott, Count-Duke, 571–85. 82. Checa Cremades, Madrid, 31–32. 83. Mitchell, Queen, 60–64, discusses the political influence of the queen’s household. 84. Ignacio Javier Ezquerra Revilla, “El Consejo Real durante el reinado de Felipe IV,” in Martínez Millán and Rivero Rodríguez, La corte, 2:771–856. 85. González Dávila, Teatro, 509. 86. Elliott, Count-Duke, 72. 87. BAV Barb. lat. 4372: “89. Pieca donde esta el tribunal del Consejo Destado, y en diferentes dias se açe el Consejo de Guerra en el mismo Tribunal.” 88. Schäfer, El Consejo, 1:288, notes that Philip IV ordered these “escuchas secretas” to be built in February 1622. 89. BAV Barb. lat. 4372: “104. Apposento y bentanas del Rey al Consejo Destado y sala mayor del Consejo Real y sobre el paso 100 tiene bentanas a las demás del Consejo y al de Aragon.” 90. AVM Secretaría 1-162-29 (October 1630). 91. Martínez Leiva and Rodríguez Rebollo, El inventario, 122–26. 234

92. Martínez Salazar, Colección, 156–57. 93. K. Taylor, “Geometries of Power,” traces the arrangement of courtrooms in early modern France and demonstrates that the disposition of judicial spaces varied little in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. 94. Schäfer, El Consejo, 1:286. 95. AGI Indif 745 (13 August 1598). 96. Martínez Salazar, Colección, 69–70. 97. Bodart, Pouvoirs, 369–70. 98. For Mexico City: Schreffler, Art of Allegiance, 38–46.

Chapter 3 1. Laura R. Bass and Amanda Wunder, “Fashion and Urban Views in Seventeenth-Century Madrid,” in Colomer and Descalzo, Spanish Fashion, 1:375–78, offer a recent consideration of the painting. 2. Río Barredo, “Imágenes.” 3. Cited, in translation, by Tovar Martín, Juan Gómez de Mora, 1: “parece más apropiado para ser palacio de un príncipe que una cárcel para criminales.” 4. Given the building’s royal sponsorship and scale—it could hold 180 to 200 inmates according to early eighteenth-century sources—I use the term “prison” as opposed to “jail” in my translation of cárcel. Royal chancelleries in Granada, Seville, and Valladolid also included cárceles, as did inquisitorial palaces such as that in Toledo, although these latter ones were considerably smaller and better merit the English term “jail.” 5. For the most complete, although not wholly reliable, narrative of the building’s history: Altea, Historia. For the building’s architectural design: Tovar Martín, Arquitectura, 385–91, and Tovar Martín, “Lo escurialense.” Vázquez González, “Las cárceles,” 187–95, offers a social history that repeats many of Altea’s myths. 6. Elliott, Count-Duke. 7. Martínez Salazar, Colección; Fayard, Les membres, 22–24; Sánchez Gómez, Estudio institutional; Pablo Gafas, La Sala. 8. Escobar, The Plaza Mayor, 65–67.

Notes to pages 95–102

9. G[onzález] de Amezúa, “El bando”; Pablo Gafas, La Sala. 10. Guardia Herrero, “La Sala.” 11. Altea, Historia, 17, citing Martínez Salazar, Colección. 12. AHN Consejos, libro 1171, fol. 10r (2 January 1587). 13. Ibid., libro 1206, fols. 277r–v (4 September 1619). 14. Ibid.: “Acude a los pies de V[uestra] Mag[esta]d, suplicandole que pues la carçel de corte es el edifiçio mas publico y neçesario que la Republica y todos los Reinos de V[uestra] Mag[esta]d tienen, y en todos ellos esta fabricada con la capacidad autoridad y fortaleça que se requiere como son, en la corona de Aragon las carceles de Çaragoça Barçelona y Balençia y en el Reino de Castilla en las Ciudades donde ay audiençias Reales que son Valladolid Granada y Sevilla.” 15. Marías, La arquitectura, 2:51–100, for Vergara the Younger’s work in Toledo. 16. AHN Consejos, libro 1210, fol. 517r (13 September 1623). 17. This list is culled from documents dating to 1623 and 1624 in AHN Consejos, libro 1210. 18. Enriquez, Pregon. The tract, included in AHN Consejos, libro 1210, fols. 395r–396v, is a key document for understanding the institution’s policing role. 19. AHN Consejos, libro 1173, fol. 58r (undated): “Madrid se divide toda en seis quarteles de que ay planta en la sala y estar en ella señalados cada uno de por si.” 20. Ibid., libro 1210, fols. 546r–547v (1 January 1624). The magistrates at this date included Miguel de Cárdenas, Sebastán de Carvajal, Luis de Paredes, and Diego Francos in addition to two new members, Pedro Vaez and Antonio Chumacero. Nine months earlier, in March 1623, there were only five magistrates. 21. Ibid., fol. 395r (ca. 1623–24): “para que tengan los vezinos a mano la justicia.” 22. Scardaville, “Justice by Paperwork,” surveys the work of similarly overworked scribes in viceregal Mexico. 23. AHN Consejos, libro 1221, fol. 522r (13 December 1636). 24. Chumacero de Sotomayor, untitled pamphlet addressed to Philip IV (12 August 1629).

25. Ibid., 5r: Toca á los Alcaldes el de esta Corte en el cuydado de limpiarla de gente facinorosa y vagabunda, de que se originan tantos daños, en el preuenir no sucedan, asistiendo a las rondas, y distribuyendo ministros que las hagan; cargo que en el pueblo Romano se dio al prefecto Vigilum: en cuydar del sustento de la Corte, abundancia y precios de mantenimientos, parte que todos los politicos juzgan por la primera y mas necessaria para la conseruacion de las Republicas (por los tumultos y sediciones á que estan sujetas, saltando la provision de que necesitan) y de que cuydaron tanto los Romanos, como es notorio, criando para este ministerio diferentes oficios, como el de Cereales y Prefecto annonae, y encargando juntamente parte del al Prefecto de la ciudad. 26. AHN Consejos, libro 1171, fol. 78r (6 September 1632): “el dicho s[eño]r Don Antonio Chumacero de Sotomayor se sento en los estrados de la d[ic]ha Carçel y hiço audiencia publica y presidio en ella.” 27. Ibid., fol. 86r (25 September 1632), denotes Chumacero’s title as “Governador de la sala del Crimen,” which suggests the principal tribunal, or audiencia, and sala del crimen occupied the same interior space. 28. Núñez de Castro, Libro (1698), 89–92, notes a larger number of magistrates by century’s end. 29. Díaz González, La Real Junta, 207–9 and 395–401. Martínez Salazar, Colección, 318, asserts that the position of “Alcalde Juez de Obras y Bosques” was phased out in October 1756. 30. AVM Contaduría 3-614-3, n.p. (15 May 1637). On the sculptor: Martín González, Escultura barroca; Blanco Mozo, Alonso Carbonel, 69–77. 31. Altea, Historia, 106. 32. Castillo de Bobadilla, Politica, vol. 2, book 5. 33. AVM Actas (2 July 1629). See also AHN Consejos, libro 1215, fol. 268r (22 June 1630, the date the excise tax went into effect): “Mandaron que el dicho maravedi para la obra se saque de los dichos diez y seis quartos segun y de la forma y manera que se sacan 235

Notes to pages 102–114

34. 35. 36.

37. 38. 39. 40.

41.

42. 43.

44.

45. 46. 47.

48.

236

las sisas desta vi[ll]a y por aora se administre la cobranca.” AVM Contaduría 3-614-3. Ibid., n.p. (2 March 1638). Kubler, Building the Escorial, 141–54, analyzes accounting records kept by Sigüenza for construction between 1562 and 1601. AVM Actas (4 July 1629). AHN Consejos, libro 1171, fol. 76r (5 July 1629). Ibid. Ibid.: “La Mag[esta]d del Rey don Phelipe n[uest] ro s[eño]r 4º deste nombre Rey de las españas y de las indias mando hacer este edifiçio para carcel rreal de su corte otavo año de su rreynado y 1629 del nacimiento de Xpo nro sr siendo sumo pontifice Urbano 8º y presidente de Castilla el Ill[ustrísi]mo y R[everísi]mo señor Cardenal de Trejo obispo de Málaga que se hallo personalmente haver poner esta primera piedra a 14 de seti[embr]e del año rreferido y sean patrones desta obra la sacratisima madre de Dios y el arcangel San miguel y sanctiago patron de la [E]spaña.” Lasso de la Vega, “Arquitectos,” 167, uncovered Aguilera’s municipal titles of veedor and maestro mayor de las fuentes. Tovar Martín, Arquitectura, 386, downplays his role at the Court Prison. AVM Secretaría 1-479-1, n.p. (9 May 1616). Schubert, Historia, 149–50, attributed the design to Crescenzi, as did R. Taylor, “Juan Bautista Crescencio.” Altea, Historia, 41–44, offers tacit credit to Juan Gómez de Mora. BNE MSS/2361, fols. 536r–541v. Regarding the document: Tovar Martín, Arquitectura, 387; Tovar Martín, “La Cárcel.” Blanco Mozo, Alonso Carbonel. Ibid., 186–92; Martínez Leiva and Rodríguez Rebollo, Qvadros. BNE MSS/2361, fol. 540r: “y como las personas que se an de poner por salario no les ba otro ynteres que reçebir salario.” Castillo de Bobadilla, Politica, 2:140, notes that commissioners were appointed for public buildings only after a project had been approved by a town council and the design process was underway.

49. AHN Consejos, libro 1215, fol. 268r (17 and 22 June 1630). 50. Ibid., libro 1171, fol. 76v (29 May 1632). 51. AVM Contaduría 3-614-3, n.p. (24 January 1637). 52. Ibid., n.p. (31 January 1637). 53. Ibid., n.p. (13 November 1639): “maestro de cantería ansi mismo maestro Arquitecto.” 54. Ibid., n.p. (11 February 1639), records the payment for the royal arms and suggests a date by which all of the sculpture might have been complete. A subsequent document, dated 19 December, records payments to two silversmiths who had placed copper over the wings only after Herrera had visited the site with two assistants to drill holes into the wings. A final payment to the silversmiths was issued on 14 August 1640. 55. Ibid., n.p. 56. Ibid., n.p. (23 November 1639): “del grandor que pide y esta tratado.” 57. Ibid., n.p. (23 November1639). 58. Ibid., n.p. (22 August 1639). Escobar requested additional monies in December 1640. 59. Ibid., n.p. (4 December 1639). With further disbursements to Aguilera in the amounts of 8,000 reales in December 1640 and 3,300 reales in January 1641, accounts were settled at the end of an eleven-year project. 60. Ibid., n.p. (May 1640). 61. For the Barcelona palace: Narváez Cases, El tracista, 164–71. 62. Schubert, Geschichte, 123; Schubert, Historia, 149–50. 63. Alvar Ezquerra, “Algunas noticias.” 64. The vestibule’s east door was added in the 1949, as per a report of renovations undertaken by Muguruza in the 1930s and later: MAEUEC Archivo R 9182, número 11. 65. Pablo Gafas, La Sala, 373. 66. AVM Contaduría 3-614-3, n.p. (10 August 1639): “pilastras fingidas.” 67. Ibid., n.p. (14 December 1639), records a payment for “los letreros y tarjetas que haze encima de las puertas de las salas de la Carcel.” Another payment, dated 24 December, specifies that sixteen signs were made for the building.

Notes to pages 114–125

68. Altea, Historia, 119, mentions “diez oficios de provincia” located on the ground floor. 69. AVM Contaduría 3-614-3, n.p. (December 1640). In a diary entry from 1658, the Marquis of Osera writes about his search for a provincia attorney at the Cárcel de Corte “donde tienen sus mesas”; see Martínez Hernández, Escribir la corte, 282. 70. Ibid., n.p. (25 November 1639), for the completion of the fountain. The 1877 plan published by Schubert, Geschichte, includes a corresponding fountain, in the east courtyard, that might have been added after 1791. 71. Ibid., n.p. (17 December 1639), a payment of 100 reales to Sebastian de Yturbe “a q[uen]ta de la cant[erí]a que asienta en tres claros del patio donde se an de sentar tres rexas p[ar]a ataxo de los presos.” 72. Ibid., n.p. (26 September 1639). 73. Ibid., n.p. (27 June 1639). The craftsman responsible for building the courtyard holding cell describes the site as “las salas baxas del patio que [h]oy sirve de carcel don[de] se hazen audiençias y Sala de los s[señor]es Alcaldes.” 74. Ibid., n.p. (27 July 1640): “la figura del Rey n[uest] ro Señor que se avia de poner en la carzel Real desta q[or]te.” 75. Ostrow, “Gianlorenzo Bernini”; Marcello Fagiolo, “La España secreta de Bernini: Debate político, fiestas y apoteosis,” in Rodríguez Ruiz, Bernini, 59–63. 76. Martínez Salazar, Colección, 328. 77. Ibid., 330. 78. The phrase appears in emblem lxx of Solórzano Pereira, Emblemata, 579. 79. AVM Contaduría 3-614-3, n.p. (13 December 1639). On Bartolomé Román: Angulo Íñiguez and Pérez Sánchez, Historia, 311–28. Román’s painting was commissioned by the wife of the magistrate Gregorio López Madera, who also served as a superintendent of the building project. López Madera had earlier served as corregidor of Toledo when that city completed construction of its town hall in 1618; see Marías, La arquitectura, 4:10. 80. AVM Contaduría 3-614-3, n.p. (11 October 1639): “y los a de dar sentados en las dhas salas en la p[ar]te que se les señalare.”

81. 82. 83. 84. 85. 86.

87. 88. 89.

0. 9 91.

92. 93. 94. 95.

96.

97. 98.

Bodart, Pouvoirs, 323–48. Altea, Historia. Martínez Salazar, Colección, 323. AHN Consejos 1388, no. 10, fols. 16r–17v (22 November 1791). Pérez Bustamante and Cruz Yábar, Iustitia, 155. RABASF Archivo 596/3. In this 1950 report, Pedro Muguruza notes the need to remove the three steps, which, when implemented, resulted in lowering the height of an office on the floor below. San Nicolás, Arte y uso, chap. 48. BNE MSS/20272/15. AVM Contaduría 3-614-3, n.p. The first payment to Herrera dates to 10 December 1639, with subsequent ones dated 17 and 24 December, for the substantial total of 1,000 reales. Ibid., n.p. (18 January 1640). For the plans (AGI MP -México, 105): Angulo Íñiguez, Planos, 303–4; Montes González, Mecenazgo, 304–18. Schreffler, Art of Allegiance, 33–35. Pablo Gafas, La Sala, 373. Castillo de Bobadilla, Politica, 2:506, on the matter of a prisoner’s social status. AHN Consejos, libro 1222, fol. 308r (ca. September 1637): “mi asistençia es en la ultima de las salas nuevas la qual respeto de estar tavicadas las ventanas esta tan oscuro y triste que con mi enfermedad me causa mucha melancolia y desconsuelo.” Lampérez y Romea, Arquitectura, 1:93–116, discusses jails in Spain. On jails and prisons elsewhere in early modern Europe: Fornili, Delinquenti; Ottenheym, De Jonge, and Chatenet, Public Buildings, 153–80. Antinori, Magnificenza, 49–74, considers Pope Innocent X’s reform of the Corte Savella prison in Rome after 1652, a project that might have been inspired by what the pope had seen in Madrid during his residence as papal nuncio. My thanks to Robert Kendrick and John Beldon Scott for referring me to this source. AVM Contaduría 3-614-3, n.p. (December 1640). These drawings can be consulted using the outstanding RABASF museum website: https://www‌.academia colecciones‌.com‌/dibujos‌/serie-‌a‌.php. To cite just one 237

Notes to pages 125–139

example (Museo A -2775), the academy pupil Rafael Beltrán located a jail for men and women in one half of the subterranean level of a two-story building that was rectangular in plan and disposed around two courtyards. 99. AVM Contaduría 3-614-3, n.p. (7 January 1640): payment to Juan Bautista Miranda for “una guarnizion de moldura negra que hizo p[ar]a una pint[ur]a de S[an]tiago que esta en la Sala de Cavalleros y un bastidor p[ar]a el dosel del s[an]to Xpto de la capilla.” 100. Montes González, Mecenazgo, 312, includes a plan indicating a spacious interior “sala para caballeros presos” on the mezzanine level. 101. Altea, Historia, 115. 102. AVM Contaduría 3-614-3, n.p. (26 November 1639), records a payment to the carpenter Pedro López for “entresuelos q[ue] haze pa[ra] apartam[en]tos de pressos conforme a la çedula de conzierto.” 103. Ibid., n.p. (3 December 1639): payment to the carpenter Pedro López for “vigas de los entresuelos de ariva y los de el quarto del alcayde.” 104. Ibid., n.p. (15 December 1640), regards a residence “q[ue] le stavia señalada ynclusa en la carçel de Corte.” 105. Santos’s work was first published in 1663, with an amended edition following three years later; see the introduction by Enrique García Santo-Tomas to Francisco Santos, Día, 9–70. 106. Francisco Santos, Día, 210: “¡Válgame Dios—dijo Onofre—, qué laberinto es el de esta casa! Vámonos, que ya me tiemblan las carnes de estar aquí dentro.” 107. For the painting: Kagan, with Marías, Urban Images, 161–62; Escamilla González and Mues Orts, “Espacio real”; Schreffler, Art of Allegiance, 32–35. 108. Montes González, Mecenazgo, 311. 109. AVM Contaduría 3-614-3, n.p. (13 August 1637). 110. Psalm 6:9: “Discedite a me omnes qui operamini iniquitatem.” 111. Goodman, “Portraits”; Leyva-Gutiérrez, “Conflict and Imagery”; Rowe, Saint and Nation, 222. My thanks to Jeanette Favrot Peterson for the lead on apocalyptic commentaries. 112. Burroughs, “Below the Angel.” 238

113. Cañeque, King’s Living Image, 41–44; Leyva-Gutiérrez, “Conflict and Imagery.”

Chapter 4 1. I translate cárcel as “jail” in the case of the town hall, owing to its municipal jurisdiction. By 1671 builders working on the site also used the term prisión in documents such as AVM Secretaría 2-499-5 (27 August 1671). 2. Navascués Palacio, La Casa, 57–62. 3. Connors, “Alliance and Enmity.” 4. AVM Actas (19 September 1629). 5. Polentinos, Las Casas; Varela Hervias, Casa; Tovar Martín, Arquitectura; Navascués Palacio, La Casa; Berlinches Acín, Arquitectura, 1:54–55. 6. John Beldon Scott, “Fashioning a Capital: The Politics of Urban Space in Early Modern Turin,” in Fantoni, Gorse, and Smuts, Politics of Space, 141–70, offers a comparative study of royal versus municipal leveraging for public space. 7. Castillo de Bobadilla, Politica, 2:141: “Animense pues los que govierna[n] para hazer cosa tan loable como son los edificios publicos, sin temer las dichas dificultades, porq[ue] con los hombres magnanimos, como dezia Agesilao, suele la fortuna mostrarse generosa.” 8. Tomás y Valiente, “Castillo de Bobadilla.” After the initial 1597 edition, the treatise was reprinted in Spain four times in the first half of the seventeenth century; a 1661 edition was published in Lecce, in Spanish Italy. 9. Castillo de Bobadilla, Politica, 2:163: “Ennoblecense las ciudades y villas en tener casas gra[n]des y bie[n] fechas, en que hagan sus ayuntamientos y Co[n] cejos, y en que se ayunten las justicias y Regidores, y oficiales, a entender en las cosas cu[n]plideras a la Republica que han de governar.” 10. López de Hoyos, Real apparato, 222: “audiencia y foro judicial.” 11. Gordo Peláez, “Equipamientos.” For comparative studies of town halls: Tittler, Architecture and Power; Ottenheym, “Amsterdam 1700”; and the essays on

Notes to pages 139–151

12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20.

21.

22.

23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28.

29. 30. 31.

32. 33.

town halls in places as disperse as Poland, France, and the Netherlands in Ottenheym, De Jonge, and Chatenet, Public Buildings, 77–130. Alvar Ezquerra, El nacimiento. Kagan, “Count of Los Arcos.” AVM Secretaría 2-498-25, n.p. (ca. 1630). Portús Pérez, La antigua procesión; Río Barredo, Ma­ drid, 205–33. Escobar, The Plaza Mayor, 146–47. Polentinos, Las Casas, 2. AVM Secretaría 2-500-52 (10 May 1629). AVM Contaduría 2-7-1, n.p. (20 September 1631). Peter Cherry, “Ludovico Turchi, importador de escultura italiana,” in Colomer, Arte, 339–40. In 1753 the fountain would be replaced by a new one, which remained in place until 1850; see Polentinos, Las Casas, 22. AVM Secretaría 2-498-36 (17 March 1629); Polentinos, Las Casas, 23–25; Navascués Palacio, La Casa, 27–30. AVM Secretaría 2-498-25, fols. 1r–3r (6 April 1630), includes specifications from a slightly earlier date signed by Gómez de Mora and the alarife Pedro de Pedrosa. AVM Secretaría 2-498-37, fol. 6r (19 September 1629). Ibid., fol. 6v (30 October 1629). Ibid., fol. 2r (21 August 1629). AVM Actas (16 July 1630). Ibid. AVM Secretaría 2-498-37, fol. 9v (29 March 1635): “tomar y cortar cassas particulares como lo a hecho en tantas ocasiones como se an ofreçido.” Tovar Martín, “El Palacio”; Marín Tovar and Borque Lafuente, El Palacio. Galván Desvaux, Felipe IV. Tovar Martín, “El Palacio.” Today the building houses offices of the Capitanía General, an administrative branch of the Spanish military. AVM Secretaría 2-498-38 (10 September 1642). Ibid. According to Castillo de Bobadilla, Politica, 2:11, a corregidor should reside “en los palacios y casas Reales, o publicas, si las huviere en la ciudad, o pueblo de su govierno.”

34. Compendio y sumario, n.p.: “con tanta grandeza y fausto, que acabada será vno de los mejores edificios que avrá en ella.” The Milanese proto-newspaper appears among documents in AVM Secretaría 4-469. 35. AVM Secretaría 2-499-1, fol. 1r: “y no aver exemplar en ninguna çiudad del Reyno a la indeçençia y nota con que Madrid esta sin tener Cassas de aiuntamiento quando a labrado tantas y echo tan señalados serviçios a su Magestad.” 36. Lleó Cañal, Nueva Roma, 209–95. 37. Compendio y sumario, n.p.: “Con que Madrid se va engrandeciendo en edificios insignes y grandes.” 38. For the furriera: Véliz and Aterido, “Caring”; Blasco Esquivias, Arquitectos, 135–37. On Gómez de Mora’s downfall: Blanco Mozo, Alonso Carbonel, 186–92. 39. Navascués Palacio, La Casa, 33–40; Tovar Martín, Juan Gómez de Mora, 288–89. The MHM archive confirms that the drawing was on view in the 1986 Gómez de Mora exhibition curated by Tovar Martín. A color reproduction appears in Pinto Crespo and Madrazo Madrazo, Madrid, 271, but its whereabouts is unknown. 40. AVM Secretaría 2-499-1 (14 October 1643), cited by Navascués Palacio, La Casa. 41. Escobar, The Plaza Mayor, 61–83, 152–54. 42. AVM Secretaría 2-499-1, fol. 7r (1 December 1643). 43. Ibid., fols. 13r–20r. 44. Ibid., fol. 12r. 45. Ibid., fol. 13r: “el primero el que a de mirar a la Calle de Santa Maria en q[ue] su Mag[esta]d de la Reyna N[uest]ra S[eñor]a a de ber las fiestas del Corpus que a de serbir para la pieça de ayuntamiento baja y en el otro quarto que a de mirar a la plaçuela de San Salbador a donde an de ber los señores del Consejo y la Villa las fiestas y entre año se an de haçer las juntas particulares que se haçen fuera de la sala de ayuntamiento.” 46. Ibid., fol. 14r: “buen ligaçion fortaleça y ermosura.” 47. Ibid., fol. 17r: “la torre nueba de Palaçio.” 48. The Bernini-Borromini story has a long bibliography. McPhee, Bernini, stands out for its attention to these architects within the context of the building trade in mid-seventeenth-century Rome. 49. AVM Secretaría 2-499-1, fol. 80r (6 May 1644). 239

Notes to pages 151–170

50. Ibid., fols. 172r–175r (10 March 1649). 51. Solís de los Santos, “Lorenzo Ramírez de Prado.” The humanist published a richly descriptive account of Mariana’s royal entry: Ramírez de Prado, Noticia; Sánchez Cano, “Publication Projects,” 102–4. 52. Tovar Martín, Arquitectura, 150–53. 53. Barbeito, El Alcázar, 297. 54. AVM Secretaría 2-499-2, fol. 1r (20 June 1650): “continuando con lo que esta empeçado reformando todo lo que pareçiere no estar conforme a la traça que nuebamente sea elejido que esta firmada del s[eñ]or don Lorenço Ramirez de Prado y de los señores de la junta desta obra y del padre Fran[cis] co Bautista de la compañia de Jesus y del padre fray Fran[cis]co de San Joseph religioso descalço de la santissima trenidad maestros de arquitectura.” 55. Ibid., fol. 7r (20 June 1650): “Es condiçion que para executar esta obra se le entregaran al dho maestro las traças neçesarias de plantas fachadas y perfiles y si alguna faltare para su execuçion se le iran dando por el dho Joseph de Villa R[ea]l.” 56. Navascués Palacio, La Casa, 41–47. 57. AVM Secretaría 2-499-2, n.p. (ca. 1 March 1653). 58. Ibid., fol. 7r (8 March 1657). 59. Pérez Sánchez, Madrid pintado, 76–77. 60. Polentinos, Las Casas, 1–19; Varela Hervias, Casa, 11; Tovar Martín, Juan Gómez de Mora, 290–91. Archival files for the 1986 Juan Gómez de Mora exhibition, curated by Tovar Martín, reveal that these drawings, which appear in the catalogue, were not displayed then. 61. AVM Secretaría 2-499-2, n.p. (ca. 1654): “no aber cosa como ella en España.” 62. AVM Secretaría 2-499-1, fols. 187r–v (6 February 1649). 63. Escobar, The Plaza Mayor, 250–51. 64. AVM Secretaría 2-499-2, n.p. (20 December 1655): “es obra la que esta empeçada muy real muy fuerte muy hermosa y de la mejor bista que ay en Madrid.” 65. All prior studies of the historic building have relied on the early twentienth-century plan drawn by Otto Schubert, which depicts modern alterations better than it does the building’s original 240

66. 67. 68. 69. 70. 71. 72. 73. 74. 75.

76. 77. 78. 79.

seventeenth-century configuration: Schubert, Geschichte, 118, and Schubert, Historia, 147. The town hall was shuttered in 2014 when Madrid’s ayuntamiento relocated to the former Palacio de las Comunicaciones in the Plaza de Cibeles. I am grateful to Belén Llera Cermeño, Esther Martín Nieto, and Prado Albarrán of the Ayuntamiento de Madrid, who facilitated visits in July 2018 and March 2019. AVM Secretaría 2-499-6, n.p. (13 March 1674). Castillo de Bobadilla, Politica, 2:498–508. Varela Hervias, Casa, 18–20. AVM Secretaría 2-499-2, n.p. (26 October 1655). Ibid., n.p. (10 April 1656); AVM Contaduría 1-161-3, no. 93 (10 April 1656). Brown and Elliott, Palace, 163–70. AVM Secretaría 2-499-2, n.p. (22 June 1656). See the appendix for the construction of the jail. AVM Secretaría 2-498-46, cited by Navascués Palacio, La Casa, 250. Kubler, “Mexican Urbanism”; Kinsbruner, Colonial Spanish-American City; Escobar, The Plaza Mayor, 204–5. Castillo de Bobadilla, Politica, 2:498–529. Kagan, with Marías, Urban Images, 169–76. Sotomayor, Descripción panegirica. Osorio, Inventing Lima, 45–53.

Chapter 5 1. Aclamacion real; Orso, Art and Death, 101. 2. Malcolm, Royal Favouritism, 88–89. 3. Aclamacion real, fol. 2r: “No huuo alhaja, pintura, ni tapiceria de valor, que no saliesse en publico á seruir para luzirse.” 4. Ibid.: “En la Puerta de Guadalaxara, estaua debaxo de un Magestuoso dosel, un retrato de su Magestad, vestido de luto, con tanto donaire, tanta gracia, y tanta vida; que aun no se la quitaua el silencio.” 5. Sánchez, Empress. 6. Aclamacion real, fol. 2v: “Un Teatro de 60 pies de largo, y 40 de ancho cubierto de vistosas alfombras, y la balla que le ceñia vestida de tapizes. Por la parte q[ue] arrimaua el Tablado á las Casas de

Notes to pages 170–179

Ayuntamie[n]to, se veía vn emparchado con vna colgadura de terciopelo, y damascos, y lo demas de la fachada cubierto con otras bordadas de oro de realce. En el balco[n] principal q[ue] haze esquina a la Plaçuela, y a la Calle mayor estaua un dosel Real, en cuya admirable labor apuró el oro su fineça, y su inuencion el arte.” 7. Oliván Santaliestra, Mariana; Mitchell, Queen. 8. Rodríguez de Monforte, Descripcion, announces on its title page that the ceremonies were carried out “de horden de la Reyna N[uest]ra Señora como svperintendente de las reales obras.” 9. Storrs, Resilience. 10. The biographies of the two key builders—Gaspar de la Peña and José del Olmo—are understudied: Llaguno y Amirola, Noticias, 3:47 and 73; Barbeito, El Alcázar, 180–91. Gaspar was the son of Pedro de la Peña, a midcentury Royal Works aparejador who worked under both Gómez de Mora and Villarreal. In 1650, along with his father and a third man, Gaspar—already calling himself “maestro aquitecto y alarife desta Villa”—submitted a bid to build the town hall; see AVM Secretaría 2-499-2 (1 July 1650). 11. dal Pozzo, Il diario, 105. 12. Magalotti, Viaje de Cosme. 13. Ibid., 121–22. 14. Orso, Art and Death, 100. 15. Orso, Philip IV, 32–117; Barbeito, El Alcázar, 132–36; Martínez Leiva and Rodríguez Rebollo, El inventario, 58–70. 16. Scott, Images of Nepotism; Francesca Cappelletti, “Frescoes: Ubiquity and Eloquence,” in Feigenbaum, Display, 182–90. 17. Bonet Correa, “Velázquez,” 245–48; Gerard, De cas­ tillo a palacio. 18. Brown, Velázquez, 248–49; Orso, Philip IV, 68–70; Pereda and Aterido Fernández, “Colonna y Mitelli”; García Cueto, La estancia. 19. Mitchell, Queen, 76–108. 20. Documentation for this natural disaster is extensive: AVM Secretaría 1-165-25, -29, -32, -34, and -35. 21. Mitchell, Queen, 109–40.

22. González de Salcedo, Nudrición real. For another consideration of the engraving: María Victoria López-Cordón Cortezo, “Las mujeres en la vida de Carlos II,” in Ribot, Carlos II, 116. 23. Proverbs 31:11, New American Standard translation. 24. Andrés, “Relación anónima,” 80. 25. F. de los Santos, Quarta parte, 215–50. I am grateful to Laura Fernández González for allowing me to consult a manuscript in press regarding the fire at the Escorial. 26. My thanks to Silvia Mitchell for drawing Mariana’s residency to my attention. 27. Bonaventura Bassegoda, “La decoración pictórica de El Escorial en el reinado de Carlos II,” in Colomer, Arte, 35–59; Bassegoda, El Escorial. 28. Sancho and Fernández Talaya, “Reconstrucción,” 57; José Miguel Morán Turina, “Carlos II y El Escorial,” in Ribot, Carlos II, 223–25. 29. Sancho and Fernández Talaya, “Reconstrucción.” 30. F. de los Santos, Descripción (1681), n.p. 31. Ibid., n.p.: “Siendo V[uestra] Mag[estad] de solos nueve años, dió principio á la reparacion de esta Insigne Casa de Dios, la mas decente que tiene en la tierra; y en el breve tiempo de ocho años (quando se juzgava avian de ser siglos) la vió acabada de reparar en lo mas principal, y acrecentada en los adornos superiormente.” 32. AGI Indif 782 (17 July 1671). 33. AGI Indif 782 (18 February 1672). 34. For Hurtado’s biography, see Tovar Martín, Arquitec­ tos, 253–64. 35. Guerra Sánchez-Moreno, “La Casa”; Escobar, The Plaza Mayor, 252–54. 36. Guerra Sánchez-Moreno, “La Casa,” 368. 37. Rodríguez Rebollo, “El rey,” 59. See also Maier Allende and Rubio Celada, “La Real Academia,” for a discussion of the building’s renovation in 1996–97. 38. Rodríguez Rebollo, “El rey,” 60–64. 39. My thanks to María Luisa Cayón Cuarental for allowing special access to the drawing. 40. Rodríguez Rebollo, “El rey,” 60. 41. Guerra Sánchez-Moreno, “La Casa,” 368.

241

Notes to pages 179–200

42. For Román’s biography: Tovar Martín, Arquitectos, 295–307. 43. Aterido, El final, 139–63, offers an overview of artistic developments in late seventeenth-century Madrid. 44. Guerra Sánchez-Moreno, “La Casa,” 371. 45. Ibid., 375. 46. This plan is based on reproductions of nineteenth-century drawings I was not able to consult in person as well as plans for renovations in 1981 (AVM Planos 0,69-53-7) studied firsthand. 47. Maier Allende and Rubio Celada, “La Real Academia.” 48. Guerra Sánchez-Moreno, “La Casa,” 386–88. 49. Ibid.; Sullivan, Baroque Painting, 136–37. 50. Sullivan, Baroque Painting, 137; Brown and Elliott, Palace, 163–70; Marías, Pinturas. 51. Guerra Sánchez-Moreno, “La Casa,” 371. 52. AVM Secretaría 3-413-14 (28 July 1698). 53. González de Salcedo, Examen. 54. García Hernán, Políticos, 556–57; Pilo, Juan Everardo Nithard; Sáenz Berceo, Confesionario. 55. Virgil, Aeneid, 2.391. 56. Mitchell, Queen, 98–105. 57. AVM Secretaría 1-162-10 (1672). 58. AVM Secretaría 1-162-1 (19 October 1674). 59. Maura Gamazo, Carlos II, 207; Ruiz Rodríguez, Fer­ nando, 254–55; Barbeito, El Alcázar, 176–83; Brook, “Dynastic Statuary.” 60. Álvarez-Ossorio Alvariño, “El espacio.” 61. AGP Admin 853, n.p. (5 August 1674). 62. Barbeito, El Alcázar, 178. 63. Martínez Leiva and Rodríguez Rebollo, El inventario, 109–11. Peña’s authorship of the Plaza de Palacio project is confirmed in a lawsuit (AVM Secretaría 1-162-3, fol. 1r) filed by the heirs of José del Olmo against his rival Bartolomé Hurtado. 64. Urrea, Los Leoni; Di Dio, Leone Leoni; Mulcahy, Decoration. 65. Barbeito, El Alcázar, 180–83. 66. Aterido, El final, 28–29. 67. Silva Maroto, “La escultura,” 208–9; Di Dio and Coppel, Sculpture Collections, 54–55. 68. Hellwig, “La estatua,” 235. 242

69. AVM Secretaría 1-164-4; Zapata, La entrada, 189–92. 70. Blunt, Art and Architecture, 111–12, discusses residential buildings by Salomon de Brosse. I am indebited to David Van Zanten for his observations about French elements in Spanish Habsburg architecture. 71. Hellwig, “La estatua,” and Brook, “Dynastic Statuary,” offer differing accounts about the particular statues placed at the Park Gate. 72. Brown and Elliott, Palace, 114–15; Goldberg, “Artistic Relations.” 73. Tommasi, Pietro Tacca, 40–42; Escobar, The Plaza Mayor, 143. 74. AGP Admin 712bis, no. 85, cited by Hellwig, “La estatua.” 75. Fanelli, Quattro Canti. 76. Carrió-Invernizzi, El gobierno, 273–74; Cantone, Na­ poli barocca, 237–40. 77. Carrió-Invernizzi, El gobierno; Bodart, Pouvoirs. 78. Brook, “Dynastic Statuary”; Pascual Chenel, “Algunas consideraciones.” 79. Zapata, La entrada, 224. 80. Fernández-Santos Ortiz-Iribas, “Classicism Hispan­ ico More,” 151; Fernández-Santos Ortiz-Iribas, Juan Caramuel, 343–67. 81. Caramuel y Lobkowitz, Architectura civil, vol. 2, trat­ ado vii , 53: “porque le han puesto en alto; donde se disminuyen las perpendiculares.” 82. Ibid.: “Lo mismo se ha de decir de el caballo de bronçe que estaba en el Retiro de Madrid. Era bello. Con gran gasto le subieron sobre el frontispicio de Palacio. Parecio alli mal. Volvieronle a su primer lugar, y volvio a ser hermoso.” 83. Hellwig, “La estatua,” discusses the enormous expense documented in AGP Admin 712bis, expediente 85 (1677). 84. Pascual Chenel, “Algunas consideraciones”; Rodríguez Ruiz, Bernini, 162–71; Mínguez, La invención, 206–12. 85. Krautheimer, Rome of Alexander VII, 63–73; Habel, “When All of Rome,” 85–132. 86. Caramuel y Lobkowitz, Architectura civil, vol. 2, trat­ ado viii , 51: “amphitheatro nuevo.” 87. Zapata, La entrada.

Notes to pages 201–218

Conclu sion 1. Molina Campuzano, Planos, 286–89; Aterido, “El grabador.” For evidence of Fosman’s impact in Peru, see Floyd and Kusunoki, “Virgin.” 2. Molina Campuzano, Planos, 293–311. 3. “165. Casas del Duq[ue] de Uceda oi son Palaçio de la Reyna madre.” 4. Guerra de la Vega, Madrid, 160–66. 5. “167. Fachada i Casa Real de la Panaderia fabricada por la Villa de Madrid”; “170. Arcos de la Plaça de Palacio fabrica que mando executar el Rey N. S. D. Carlos segundo.” 6. Brown, Painting; José Luis Sancho and Gloria Martínez Leiva, “¿Dónde está el rey? El ritmo estacional de la corte española y la decoración de los Sitios Reales (1650–1700),” in Checa, Cortes, 85–98; García Cueto, “Tendencias”; Aterido, El final. 7. AVM Secretaría 2-499-2, n.p. (13 September 1656). 8. Zapata Fernández de la Hoz, “La entrada”; Labrador Arroyo, “Preparing.” 9. Palomino, El museo, 227–34. 10. Ceán Bermúdez, Diccionario, 1:50–53; Blasco Esquivias, “Teodoro Ardemans.” 11. AVM Secretaría 2-498-21, fols. 1r–v and 5r–6r (1690), for specifications signed by Ardemans and Olmo respectively. An unpaginated folio in the same legajo names Joseph Gasen y Aznar, a Royal Works apare­ jador, as builder of the portals. 12. Palomino, El museo, 234. 13. Navascués Palacio, La Casa, 48–50, credits the design solely to Ardemans. In March 1691 Ardemans was named maestro mayor of the Cathedral of Toledo, and he worked on that building concurrently with the Madrid Town Hall. He also designed and built the towers for the Toledo Town Hall between 1690 and 1704; see Marías, La arquitectura, 4:10. 14. Navascués Palacio, La Casa, 63–65. 15. Varela Hervias, Casa, 32; Corral, Guía, 24–25. 16. Guerra de la Vega, Madrid, 149, critiques the program: “Como tantas veces, la historia se ha encargado de borrar la concepción original del proyecto.” 17. AVM Secretaría 2-499-4, n.p. (20 August 1666).

18. Berlinches Acín, Arquitectura, 1:54–55. 19. For Palomino’s biography: Ceán Bermúdez, Diccio­ nario, 4:29–41; Gaya Nuño, Vida; Palomino, Lives, vii–xviii; Brown, Painting, 250–51. 20. AVM Secretaría 2-498-24 (19 January 1692), cited by Navascués Palacio, La Casa, 54–55. Fernández Talaya, Los frescos, 28–38, offers a thorough consideration of the fresco and suggests a title, Apologia de Carlos II. 21. Fernández Talaya, Los frescos, 52–62. 22. Ibid., 53–54. 23. Palomino, El Parnaso, 686–708; Andrés Úbeda de los Cobos, “Luca Giordano y Carlos II,” in Checa, Cortes, 73–84; Aterido, El final. 24. Fernández Talaya, Los frescos, 29. 25. Writing in 1985, Navascués Palacio, La Casa, 54–55, was the first scholar to hypothesize the collaboration between the two artists. 26. Ceán Bermúdez, Diccionario, 4:39, describes Palomino’s work for the Madrid Town Hall chapel only. In Palomino, El museo, the artist himself is silent about his town-hall frescoes. 27. Palomino, El Parnaso, 513: “que parece pone fuerza a el edifizio.” 28. Palomino, El museo, 167–88. 29. Ardemans, Declaración, 283. 30. Palomino, El museo, 227: “Y en el cerramiento de su montea coronaba una aguila real, con un laurel en el pico, la una garra sobre un globo, un cetro en la otra.”

Appen dix 1. AVM Secretaría 2-499-2, n.p. (20 December 1655): “muy real muy fuerte muy hermosa.” 2. Navascués Palacio, La Casa, includes helpful transcriptions of many key documents. 3. The information that follows derives from AVM Secretaría 2-499-6, n.p. (19 February 1673). 4. AVM Secretaría 2-499-1, fol. 166r (24 April 1646). 5. AVM Secretaría 2-499-2, n.p. (4 August and 12 September 1656). 6. Ibid., n.p. (13 September 1656): “y para otra cossa mas prinçipal que es una coçina grande y quatro o 243

Notes to pages 218–224

seis pieças mas para los ofiçios que son menesteres para el dia del Corpus para el almuerço de la Reyna N[uest]ra S[eñor]a.” 7. AVM Secretaría 2-500-23, fols. 1r–v (8 January 1657). 8. Berlinches Acín, Arquitectura, 1:54–55. 9. AVM Secretaría 2-499-5, n.p. (5 September 1668). 10. AVM Secretaría 2-499-4, n.p. (20 August 1666). 11. AVM Secretaría 2-499-5, n.p. (27 August 1671). 12. AVM Secretaría 2-499-6, n.p. (20 July 1674): “Viendo que al cabo de tanto tiempo como ha que esta en esta Villa y Corte, y a la vista de todo el Mundo, no este esta obra acabada . . . mayormente estando a la vista de su Magestad y siendo esta Cassa de su Real serviçio.” 13. AVM Secretaría 2-499-7, n.p. (30 July 1676), concerns a project proposed by Joseph López and Rodrigo Carrasco, two builders otherwise unknown in the historical record.

244

14. AVM Secretaría 2-499-8, n.p., includes bids submitted in March 1691. 15. A plan of the building made in 1896 by the Madrid architect José López Sallabery transposed the jail’s street level with the ground-floor level of the other building sections, despite their different grades. The plan is reproduced in Navascués Palacio, La Casa, 43. 16. Just beyond this corridor, excavations begun around 2017 revealed a subterranean apsidal wall made of finely carved stone. The round wall, whose origin and purpose are unknown, appears in the 1896 Sallabery plan reproduced in ibid. 17. The plan of the main story of the town hall published by Schubert, Historia, 143, is not helpful for understanding the seventeenth-century building. It does, however, include the upper landing of a stair in this location.

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Index

Abreu y Ranedo, Gabriel, 122 Academy of Mathematics, 34, 62, 64 Aguilera, Cristóbal de career of, 104 Court Prison design, 17, 103, 105–6, 108, 113, 116, 118, 146, 236n59 Madrid Town Hall project, 151 A la muy antigua, noble y coronada Villa de Madrid (Quintana), 28, 28–30 Alfonso VI, king of Spain, 26 Aparicio, Gregorio, 124 Aragón, Pedro Antonio de, 196 Aranjuez, Royal Palace exterior view of, 192, 192 frescos, 211 King’s Garden, 189, 189 plan for construction of the ground floor, 65, 66 sculptures, 189 architecture classical ornament in, 55, 59, 70, 73 in comparative perspective, 14–15 ecclesiastical patronage of, 4, 30 evolution of, 5, 202–3 grandeza of, 11 impact of wars on, 15, 50 royal heraldry, 55, 73 scholarship, 15–16, 17, 18 statues in, 194–96 styles of, 11, 50 Ardemans, Teodoro background of, 205 career of, 16, 190, 205, 243n13 Orthographia de el Real Alcázar de Madrid, 63, 64, 190, 191, 192 plan of Royal Palace, 109

town hall project, 158, 205, 205–6, 209, 210, 213, 218, 222–23 Arévalo y Zuazo, Francisco, 148 Avanzini, Bartolomeo, 73 Ávila Convent of San José, 69 Ayuntamiento de Madrid (town council), 5, 67, 103, 188 Baldi, Pietro Maria depiction of Royal Palace, 47, 50, 52, 90–91 drawings of Madrid, 40–41, 42, 46 Bañuelos, Juan García, 106 Barbeito, José Manuel, 51, 65, 72 Barberini, Francesco, 69, 75, 80, 81 Bargrave, Robert, 94 Bautista, Francisco, 148, 152, 175 Becerra, Gaspar, 75, 79 Beltrán, Rafael, 238n98 Bernini, Gianlorenzo, 52, 67, 198, 199–200 Bonet Correa, Antonio, 15 Bosque de Segovia, 187 Brizuela y Cardenas, Francisco, 142–43 Brown, Jonathan, 11, 14 Brunel, Antoine de, 73 Buen Retiro Palace architect of, 146 construction of, 14, 104 design of, 13–14 fresco paintings, 211 gardens of, 13, 14 interior of, 13–14, 163 on maps, 23, 35, 44, 201 painting of, 13 statues in, 194

view of Madrid from, 42 Buenos Aires, 176 Burke, Peter, 6 Cafaro, Donato Antonio, 196 Campanella, Tommaso, 227n1 Cañete Palace, 137, 141, 207 Caramuel y Lobkowitz, Juan, 198, 200 Carbonel, Alonso, 13, 105, 146 Carducho, Vicente, 78, 79 Carlos I, king of Spain. See Charles V Carlos II, king of Spain architectural patronage of, 6, 176 ceremony of allegiance to, 167, 168–70 fresco painting of, 214–15 marriages of, 190, 200, 204, 210 portraits of, 10, 10–11, 215–16 reign of, 10, 187 statues of, 196, 196, 197 travels of, 197, 198, 200 tutoring of, 170, 173 Carlos III, king of Spain, 167–68, 168 Carreño de Miranda, Juan, 8, 80 King Carlos II in Armor, 10 Queen Mariana of Austria, 8, 9 casa meaning of, 21 Casa de la Panadería arcades of, 70, 179 architects of, 177 building materials, 181 on city map, 201 construction of, 21 courtyard with fountains, 178–79, 181 engraving of, 185–86

In dex

Casa de la Panadería (continued) façade of, 39, 179, 185, 201 fire, 176, 217 fresco paintings, 184, 185 ground floor plan, 180 inscription on façade of, 184 main-floor of, 182–83, 183 reconstruction of, 177–79, 178, 188, 199 roofline gilded inscription, 186 royal arms and ornament, 182, 182 royal ceremonies at, 167–68 Sala de las Damas, 183, 184 Sala de los Caballeros, 183 Salón Real (Royal Hall), 177, 179, 183, 184 staircase of, 154, 177, 183 tiles of, 184 view of, 181 Casa del Campo, 14, 23, 31, 35, 41, 201 Casa del Pardo, 14, 187 Casa del Tesoro (House of the Treasury) courtyards, 64, 179 demolition of, 50 drawings of, 65 living quarters of, 49, 69–70 on map, 48–49 plan of, 232n3 renovation of, 56 Casa de Matemáticas, 62, 65 Casa de Oficios appearance of, 49 construction of, 64 demolition of, 50 royal councils offices in, 48, 80, 86, 89 Royal Works studio in, 65 Castello, Fabrizio, 32 Castilian Cortes, 138 Castillo de Bobadilla, Jerónimo, 138, 157, 164–65 Ceán Bermúdez, Juan Agustín, 15, 28 Céspedes, Maximiliano de, 22 Charles I, king of England, 21 Charles V, Holy Roman Emperor architectural projects of, 14, 54, 55 court etiquette of, 57 260

sculpture of, 193, 193–94 Checa, Fernando, 51 Chumacero de Sotomayor, Antonio, 100, 101, 106 churches Nuestra Señora de Atocha, 89 Our Lady of Montserrat of the Aragonese, 201 San Andrés, 39, 201 San Gil, 189 San Jerónimo, 14, 45 San Salvador, 139, 141 Santa Cruz, 96 Santa María la Mayor, 4, 200 Cisneros Palace, 139, 140, 219 classicism, 55, 59, 61, 70 Cobos, Francisco de los, 60, 73 Coello, Claudio, 16, 184, 185 Colegio Imperial (Jesuit College), 37, 118, 119 Colegio de Santo Tomás (Dominican College), 96, 104, 108 Colonna, Angelo Michele, 172, 211 Connors, Joseph, 137 Contreras, Diego de, 98, 104 convents Descalzas Reales, 70, 169–70 La Concepción Jerónima, 29, 30, 96 San Bernardo, 45 See also Royal Convent and Church of La Encarnación Cordier, Roberto, 28 corregidor (town governor), 138 Corte, Juan de la Royal Festival in the Plaza Mayor of Madrid, 20, 21–22 Cortona, Pietro da, 172 Cosimo III, Grand-Duke of Tuscany, 42, 171, 196, 197 cosmography, 34–35 Council of Castile authority of, 101 chambers, 83, 86 civil court, 87 construction of building for, 14, 18, 73 criminal court, 87

engraving of, 88, 89, 90, 212 function of, 27, 95, 148 headquarters, 93 institutional history of, 87–88 transfer to new Court Prison, 171 tribunals, 80, 85, 234n76 weekly meetings, 88–89, 89 Council of Italy, 234n80 Council of the Indies, 34, 89, 176 Court of Spain, 22, 25, 27 Court Prison (Cárcel de Corte) architects of, 17, 103, 105, 106–7, 146 architectural style of, 93, 95 archival and storage rooms, 124 association with labyrinth, 133 chapels of, 118–19, 126 commissioners of, 106 construction of, 17, 94–95, 101–8 cornerstone-laying ceremony, 104, 131 corridors of, 123 cost of, 103 courtyard of, 113–14, 113, 114 design of, 18, 68, 116, 129 doctor’s residence, 121, 125 dormitory, 125 drawings of, 122, 122, 123, 129, 132 entrances, 110 façade of, 127, 131, 132 fire damage, 95, 111, 114, 117, 120 frontispiece of, 106, 107–8, 129, 131, 132 functions of, 18, 93–94, 97–98, 122, 126 infirmary for women prisoners, 112 inmates, 94, 125, 234n4 interiors, 109–28, 111, 116, 237n79 kitchen, 126 legal challenges, 143 legends about, 94 lighting, 124, 125 literary depictions of, 126–27 location of, 93 on map, 96, 97 meeting chambers, 120 modern views of, 101, 102, 107, 121 northwest wing of, 122

In dex

ornamental features, 107, 113 painting of, 92, 93, 130 patron of, 131–33 payroll documents, 16, 17, 107, 108 plans of, 109, 109, 110, 117, 117, 124 primary sources about, 94–95 prison cells, 114, 124, 125 Prisoner Courtyard, 116 public chambers of, 114 renovations of, 110, 117, 118 royal arms on façade of, 176 Royal Palace as model for, 112, 121, 128–29 royal sponsorship of, 234n4 scribes of, 100 sculptures of, 131, 236n54 south wall and the corridor bridge, 126 staircase, 112 tribunals of, 116–17, 120, 234n76 vaulted halls, 124–25 vestibule, 110–11 warden’s office, 112 water well, 126 workplaces for magistrates, 95, 119, 120 Covarrubias, Alonso de, 55 Covarrubias, Sebastián de, 22 Crescenzi, Giovanni Battista, 16, 67–68, 72, 105 Deza, Lope de, 5, 25 Díaz, Bartolomé, 17 Díez Arias, Bartolomé, 106 Discalced Carmelites, 4 Domínguez, Domingo, 224 Dominicans, 4, 96 Ducal Palace of Lerma, 61, 61 Elliott, John, 14 Enríquez, Juan, 98, 100 Escobar, Diego de, 108 El Escorial architects of, 12, 175 building materials of, 13, 60 construction of, 1 cost of, 103

drawings of, 12, 59–60 fire in 1671, 19, 171, 174, 175, 217 fresco paintings, 211 history of, 1–2, 68, 176, 238n105 idealized images of, 12–13 lower roof, 175 monumental style of, 27 reconstruction of, 174–75, 176, 220 Royal Pantheon, 67–68 tower-and frontispiece composition, 73 view of, 3 Este, Francesco d’, 73 Falda, Giovanna Battista Piazza e portici della Basilica Vaticana, 199, 199–200 Felipe, Felipe de, 185 Ferdinand II, Holy Roman Emperor, 87 festivals, 20, 21–22 Fontana, Domenico, 70, 71 Fontana, Giulio Cesare, 71 Fosman y Medina, Gregorio map of Madrid, 201–3, 202 fountains, 36–37, 142, 178–79, 181, 196, 202 Francis I, king of France, 139 Franco, Francisco, 15, 211 Gállego, Julián, 16–17 García de Gonzalo, Juan, 177, 178 García Reig, Carmen, 51 Gentileschi, Orazio, 80 Gerard, Véronique, 51 Giannetto, Filippo, 91 Gilded Tower of the Royal Palace architect of, 60 building materials of, 68 construction of, 11, 47, 61 function of, 78 interiors of, 77, 78–79 style of, 59 Giordano, Luca, 210–11 Gómez de Mora, Juan, 16 banishment from the court, 105, 146 career of, 61, 65, 67, 105–6, 107, 149 churches designed by, 50

Crescenzi and, 68 design of Royal Palace façade, 4, 61–62, 69, 70, 72, 74 designs of chapel in the Colegio Imperial, 118, 119 opinion on the Court Prison, 105 plan of Royal Palace, 32, 65–67, 66, 75, 76, 77–79, 81, 82, 83–87, 88, 109, 119, 233n58 residence in Casa de Matemáticas, 62 town hall project, 135, 142, 146–51, 147, 149, 204, 209 training of, 62 Gómez de Mora, Miguel, 65 Gómez de Sandoval, Francisco, Duke of Lerma, 4, 7, 60, 61 Gómez de Sandoval y Rojas, Cristóbal, Duke of Uceda, 143–44 González, José, 148 González Dávila, Gil on Council of State, 85 history of Madrid by, 26, 27, 32, 33, 201 on Royal Works, 62, 74 González de Salcedo, Pedro, 186 Nudrición real (Royal nutrition), 173, 173 Granada Monastery of La Cartuja, 205 Palace of Charles V, 55 grandeza concept of, 11, 18, 25, 27 Guérard, Nicolas, 192 Guill, Mateo, 136 Guzmán, Gaspar de, Count-Duke of Olivares, 7, 14, 70, 71, 94, 146 Habsburgs architecture of, 3–4, 7, 11, 13, 68, 160, 176, 192 association with Jupiter, 33 domain of, 2–3 end of dynasty, 1 political regime, 7 theatrical commemorations of, 196 Havana, 176 261

In dex

Herrera, Antonio de, 101, 115, 119, 131, 236n54, 237n89 Herrera, Francisco de, the Younger, 190 Herrera, Juan de Academy of Mathematics founded by, 34 death of, 60 El Escorial project, 12, 59–60, 61, 174, 175 Herrera Barnuevo, Sebastián, 210, 219 hospitals, 38, 56, 57–58, 201 Howard, John, 125 Hurtado, Bartolomé, 176, 190, 217, 219–20, 242n63 Innocent X (pope), 104, 237n96 Isabella of Bourbon, queen of Spain, 4, 22 Isidro Labrador, Saint canonization of, 29 Chapel of, 39, 201 Jacinto de Villalpando, Francisco, Marquis of Osera, 74 jails, 164–65, 218 See also Madrid’s town jail Jerez, Juan de, 5, 25 Jiménez Donoso, José, 179, 181, 184, 185 Juan José de Austria, 170, 190, 197, 198 juego de cañas tournament, 20, 21–22 Kessel, Jan van, III, 42–44, 43 Lasso de la Vega, Rodrigo, Count of Los Arcos, 139, 143, 218, 219 Lavanha, João-Baptista, 34, 78 Ledesma, Pedro Martín, 163 Lefebvre, Henri Production of Space, 229n64 León, Juan de, 179 Leonardo, Jusepe, 13 View of the Palace and Gardens of the Buen Retiro, 13 Leoni, Leone, 189, 193, 193–94 Leoni, Pompeo, 189, 193, 193–94 Ligne, Claude Lamoral de, 90, 91 Lima (Peru), 73, 165–66 262

Plaza Mayor, painting of, 165, 165–66 Liñán y Verdugo, Antonio, 22–23, 45 Llaguno y Amirola, Eugenio, 15, 68 Lloctinent Palace in Barcelona, 109 López de Hoyos, Juan, 25, 139 López Madera, Gregorio, 108, 237n79 López Sallabery, José, 244n15 Louis XIV, king of France, 6, 170, 172, 186, 187 Luján Palace, 139, 140 Madrid allegory of, 26–27 animals on the streets of, 43, 164 architecture of, 4, 22, 29, 30, 39 as Babylon, 22, 23, 37, 126, 164 cosmopolitan nature of, 23, 25, 201 court seat, 25–26, 54–55 depictions of, 12, 42–43, 43, 54, 188 early court prison in, 96–97 everyday life in, 21, 22 gates of, 29, 202 governance of, 27, 139 grandeza of, 18, 39 historical accounts of, 25, 27–28 hunting grounds, 42 impressions of foreign visitors, 15, 29, 94 land survey, 32 literary descriptions of, 126–27 migration to, 22 origin of name of, 28–29 panoramic view of, 30–31 people on the streets of, 43–44 policing in, 23, 98, 100 population of, 3, 5, 25, 29 prestige of, 139, 203 public image of, 6–7 religious institutions, 27 royal festivities in, 167–69 status of, 6, 7, 228n27 territory of, 3, 23, 202 topography of, 41 town jail, 145 transformation of, 3, 23–24 urban planning, 3–4 water supply, 26

Madrid, Diego de, 148 Madrid’s town jail cells of, 218, 220, 224 corregidor’s residence, 224 construction of, 217–19, 220, 244nn15–16 courtyard of, 217, 218, 220, 223, 224 design of, 219–20 ground-floor spaces, 218, 221, 222–23 lighting, 223 office spaces, 222–23 staircases, 220, 223, 223 vestibules, 220, 223 Madrid Town Hall (Casa de la Villa de Madrid) architects, 135, 146, 151 audience hall, 209–10 bidding process for contractors, 151 building materials, 135, 149, 153, 160, 209 ceremonial spaces, 163, 209–10 chapel of, 210, 211 on city map, 139, 203 colonnade, 136–37 in comparative perspective, 166 construction of, 14, 18–19, 138, 143, 146, 151, 203, 217 cost of, 146 courtyard of, 154, 158, 159, 208–9, 209, 211, 217 design of, 18–19, 142, 148, 149–50, 154, 164, 219 exterior ornament, 135, 136, 153–54 façades of, 136, 137, 147, 150, 163, 219 fresco paintings, 162, 163, 203, 210– 11, 213, 214, 215, 215–16 functions of, 164 funding of, 148, 156 ground-floor plan, 154, 155, 156–57, 157, 222 illumination of, 161 images of, 134, 149, 152, 153, 159, 204, 207 interior decorations of, 156–63, 203–4, 211, 212–13

In dex

jail section, 142, 154, 163, 204 legal challenges, 143 main-floor plan, 160, 207–8, 208 main-staircase vestibule, 159 north corridor, 158 office spaces, 156 portals of, 203, 204–5, 205, 206, 206–7 principal rooms, 149 relocation of, 240n65 Sala Mayor, 163, 167, 203 Sala Principal (Salón de Plenos), 153, 210, 211–13, 212, 214, 215, 215–16 Salón Real (Royal Hall), 161, 162, 209, 210, 213 sculpted ornaments of, 158, 203, 204 site of, 103, 135, 145 south wall elevation, 159 staircase, 154, 155, 156 superintendent of, 106 towers of, 135, 136, 203, 206–7 Magalotti, Lorenzo, 171 Magistrates of the Royal Household and Court annual proclamation, 95–96 appointments to, 95, 100, 101 chamber of, 87, 94 cornerstone-laying ceremony for the Court Prison, 104 meeting of, 115, 115–16 origin of, 95 petition on construction of new court prison, 97, 98 principal tribunal of, 101 responsibilities of, 94, 95, 96, 100 status of, 100–101 Magno, Alejandro, 152 Mantuano, Dionisio, 175 Manzanares River, 23, 26, 27, 42 Manzelli, Antonio, 23, 32–33, 33, 71, 98 maps of Madrid demand for, 23, 33–34 Fosman’s, 201–3, 202 impact of, 39 index to, 35 Manzelli’s, 32, 39

publication of the first, 18, 23, 30, 74 See also Teixeira’s map of Madrid (Topographia de la Villa de Madrid) Margarita, Spanish infanta, 5 Margarita of Austria, queen of Spain, 49 María Ana of Austria, Spanish infanta, 21, 84 María Luisa of Orleans, queen of Spain, 10, 190, 200 Mariana of Austria, queen of Spain architectural projects, 6, 19, 169–70, 172, 173, 174, 176, 179, 181, 186– 88, 198–99, 203 at Corpus Christi ceremonies, 163 death of, 176 influence of, 9–10, 172–73 marriage of, 87 palace of, 143 portraits of, 6, 8, 9, 11, 173 regency of, 8–10, 170 royal confessor to, 186 Mariana of Neuburg, queen of Spain, 204, 210 Maria of Hungary, queen of Bohemia and Hungary sculpture of, 193, 194 María Teresa, queen of France, 186 Martínez, Petronila, 185 Martínez Díaz, Ángel, 51 Martínez Salazar, Antonio, 87–88, 115, 116, 133 Mendoza, María de, 60 Mercedarians, 4 Mexico City Plaza Mayor, 127, 128 Royal Palace, 119–20, 125, 127, 128 Michael, archangel, 131–33 Michelangelo Buonarroti, 70 Ministry of State, 122, 123 Mitchell, Silvia, 172–73 Mitelli, Agostino, 172, 211, 213 Modena Palazzo Ducale, 73 Molina Campuzano, Miguel, 15 Monarquía Hispánica notion of, 3, 227n1

monasteries El Espritú Santo, 43 San Felipe, 29, 30 San Gil, 4, 47, 50, 61 Santa María de Constantinopla, 141 Mora, Francisco de career of, 60 death of, 61 residence in Casa de Matemáticas, 62 Royal Palace design, 61, 68, 69, 70 works in Valladolid, 60–61, 68 Muguruza Otaño, Pedro, 110, 118, 122, 123, 236n64, 237n86 El Museo Imaginado, 51 Naples Castel Nuovo, 38 Castel Sant’Elmo, 55 Palazzo Reale Nuovo, 70–71, 71 Viceroyalty of Naples, 51, 71 Navarro, Jerónima, 17 Nithard, Johann Eberhard, 186 Ñufla, Saint, 29 Núñez de Castro, Alonso, 39, 74 Núñez de Guzmán, Ramiro, Duke of Medina de las Torres, 167, 168 Obregón, Pedro de, 173, 173–74 Olmo, José del career of, 16, 170, 190 Plaza de Palacio project, 190, 200 Queen’s Tower project, 188 town hall project, 135, 206, 209 town jail project, 217–18, 220, 222–23 Olmo, Manuel del, 221 Ordoñez, Gregorio, 65 Pablo, Luis, 16, 103, 107, 108 Palacio de Santa Cruz. See Court Prison Palacio Real Nuevo. See Royal Palace Palermo Palazzo Reale, 90 Quattro Canti (Teatro del Sole), 195, 195–96 Pallotta, Filippo, 2, 169, 169 263

In dex

Palomino, Antonio, 16, 179 background of, 210 monuments celebrating Mariana of Neuburg’s entry, 204, 206 teatro in the Plaza de la Villa, 213 town hall frescos, 210, 211, 213, 214, 215, 215–16 treatise on the art of painting, 204 Paseo del Prado de San Jerónimo, 29, 42, 43, 45 Pax Hispanica, 7 Pedrosa, Pedro de, 65 Peña, Gaspar de la architectural projects, 175, 189–90, 242n63 background of, 241n10 career of, 16, 188 Pérez de Messa, Diego, 25 Perret, Pedro prints of, 12, 59, 59, 60 Philip II, king of Spain architectural projects, 3, 11, 18, 27, 55, 62 committee of Royal Works, 14, 55 foreign policy of, 84 Lavanha and, 34 relocation of court to Madrid, 54–55, 95 Philip III, king of Spain architectural projects, 3, 4, 60, 71 reign of, 7 relocation of court to Valladolid, 60 statue of, 194 tutor of, 34 Philip IV, king of Spain architectural projects, 3, 4, 6, 102, 104, 142, 176 death of, 8, 167 portraits of, 6, 8, 9, 115, 194 promotion of archangel Michael by, 131 reign of, 7–8 reputation of, 7 royal appointments, 101, 151 statue of, 194, 194–95, 197, 198 tutor of, 34 Philip Prospero, prince of Asturias, 74 264

Philip VI, king of Spain, 211 Pinedo, Juan de, 103 Plaza de la Villa ceremony of allegiance to Carlos II, 167, 170 fountain, 36 on map, 139, 140 modern view of, 140 paintings of, 152, 153, 164, 203, 204 renovations at, 148, 170 Plaza de Oriente, 53, 62, 194 Plaza de Palacio Arco de Palacio at, 190, 192, 200 on city map, 201 Gallery of San Gil, 190, 192 images of, 169, 186, 197, 197–98 limits of, 190 Park Gallery, 190, 192, 192, 197, 200 plan of, 47, 49–50, 191, 192, 205 as public space, 49–50, 81 renovation of, 53, 170–71, 188, 189–90 royal ceremonies at, 167, 169–70, 197, 198, 200 sculptures, 193–94 statue of Philip IV, 194 transformation of, 203 Plaza de Provincia archangel Michael at, 133 fountains, 142 on map, 96, 97 popularity of, 93 Plaza de San Salvador, 139, 141–42, 148 Plaza Mayor architectural features of, 21, 33 festivals at, 21 fire in 1672, 19, 171 images of, 32, 33, 38 on map, 23, 36 renovation of, 32, 171 royal ceremonies at, 167–68, 168 Pozzo, Cassiano dal account of Royal Palace, 70, 71, 72, 74, 80, 90, 171 residence in Madrid, 69 Prado de San Jerónimo, 23

prisons, 122, 237n96 See also Court Prison promenades, 23, 39, 42, 45, 53 public buildings, 5 Puerta Cerrada, 25 Puerta de Guadalajara, 29, 36, 168–69 Pyrenees, Peace of, 8 Quintana, Jerónimo de, 28–30, 45 Quiros, Lorenzo de, 168, 184 Rainaldi, Girolamo, 73 Ramírez de Prado, Lorenzo, 151, 152, 164 Real Alcázar, 18, 54, 54 See also Royal Palace Ribera, Jusepe, 80 Ribot, Luis, 10 Río, Juan del, 106 Román, Bartolomé, 116, 237n79 Román, Tomás plan for reconstruction of Casa de la Panadería, 179, 180, 181 Rome Corte Savella prison, 237n96 Piazza San Pietro, 199, 199–200 royal arms, 1, 42 Royal Convent and Church of La Encarnación atrium portal, 149, 150 construction of, 14, 49, 61 royal processions at, 49, 50, 169, 170 view of, 49 Royal Palace accounts of, 69–70, 74, 171 Antechamber, 75, 77, 80 Antechamber of the Ambassadors, 77 auxiliary office, 87 building materials, 59 buildings and grounds, 48, 63, 64 buildings of, 48–49, 50 cartographic objects, 89 ceremonial spaces, 75, 80 chapel of, 58 classical ornament, 59, 70 construction of, 51, 60, 102, 171 Council of the Indies, 64, 65

In dex

court life, 50, 74, 80 courtyards, 56–57, 64 drawings of, 47, 54, 65, 75, 169 engraving of, 1, 2, 172 entrances, 81 exhibition of 1993 about, 51 exterior, 52–62 fire in 1734, 1, 50, 88 foreign visitors, 72–73, 74 furniture of, 90 gendered division of, 57, 58 Gilded Gallery, 78, 79 Gothic ornament, 58 government spaces, 74–91 Great Hall, 79–80 ground-floor plan, 75, 81, 82, 83, 86, 115, 119 Hall of Mirrors, 8, 80, 169, 171, 177, 213 interiors of, 50–51, 58 inventory of, 34, 39 judicial chambers, 87, 88 King’s Courtyard, 50, 75, 79, 83, 84, 87 King’s Gallery, 79 King’s Garden (Garden of the Emperors), 50, 68, 79, 189, 190 library, 34 main floor, 75, 76, 77–78, 78 Main Gallery, 79 Main Hall, 89 main story of, 56, 56–57 mezzanine, 81 model of, 68–69 New Hall, 69, 80, 171 paintings of, 5–6, 6, 51–52, 188, 188–89, 197 parks and gardens of, 48, 50, 52, 64, 79 pavilions, 72 Prince’s Hall, 50 printed images of, 72, 186 public halls, 58 Queen’s Courtyard, 57, 80, 81, 85, 112 Queen’s Garden, 64, 80, 85 queen’s household section of, 85 Queen’s Tower, 188

renovations of, 11–12, 19, 29, 32, 52–53, 54, 57, 61, 70, 90–91, 187 royal apartments in, 58, 77–79, 78, 83, 84 Sala de Crimen, 87 Sala de Justicia, 87 service quarters, 48, 50, 53, 64, 84 south façade of, 5, 13, 51, 53, 58, 59, 69, 169 staircases, 58, 84 study of, 18, 19, 51 symbolism of, 47 on Teixeira’s map, 47, 48, 48–49 visitors’ access, 79, 80, 81 west façade, 52 works of art in, 31–32, 51, 80, 87 See also Gilded Tower of the Royal Palace Royal Works administration of, 190 architectural projects of, 14, 55–56, 187 archive of, 65 leading architects of, 60, 62, 65, 67, 170, 205 maestro mayor, 62, 64 members of, 62 origin of, 14 renovation of Royal Palace, 51, 61 responsibilities, 4, 14, 27 royal advisors of, 62, 187–88 scholarship on, 62 studio, 62, 64–65 Rubens, Peter Paul, 80 Ruiz, Miguel, 102, 103, 107 Ruiz de Castro, Fernando, Count of Lemos, 70 Sánchez, Bautista, 117 San Joseph, Francisco de, 152 San Nicolás, Fray Lorenzo de, 5, 118, 175 Santos, Francisco, 114, 126–27 Santos, Francisco de los, 68, 174, 176, 238n105 Schorquens, Juan, 26 Schubert, Otto, 109, 237n70, 240n65 Segovia Bridge, 27, 39, 42

Serlio, Sebastiano, 70 Seville, 97 Town Hall, 145, 145–46 Sigüenza, José de, 103 Sixtus V (pope), 70 Spain Catalan revolt, 7–8 expansion of, 7 Napoleonic occupation of, 50 political decline of, 8, 11 system of shared governance, 90 Spanish Civil War, 15, 110 Spanish Habsburg architecture. See architecture and Habsburgs, architecture of Spanish Netherlands, 170 streets Calle de Atocha, 96, 104, 168 Calle de la Compañía, 37 Calle de la Concepción Jerónima, 37 Calle de Toledo, 36, 37 Calle Mayor, 29, 36, 135, 137, 141, 143–144, 149, 152, 154, 156, 161, 164, 167, 168, 170, 177, 178, 182, 200, 207, 209 Carrera de San Jerónimo, 42, 43, 44, 45 La Platería, 36, 139, 141 Tacca, Pietro equestrian statue of Philip III, 194 equestrian statue of Philip IV, 194, 194, 195, 197, 198 Talavera tiles, 213 tapestries, 51 Teatro de las grandezas de la Villa de Madrid (González Dávila), 26, 27, 33 Teixeira, João, 34 Teixeira, Pedro career of, 34, 35 drawings, 35 frontispieces, 38 survey of the Iberian coast, 35 Teixeira’s map of Madrid (Topographia de la Villa de Madrid) accuracy of, 35 265

In dex

Teixeira’s map of Madrid (continued) allegorical dedication, 37, 38 Buen Retiro Palace on, 44 Carrera de San Jerónimo, 44 Casa del Tesoro on, 48–49 description of, 35–38, 218 design of, 23, 35 municipal jail on, 218 ornamental features, 37, 38 Plaza (Plaçuela) de la Villa on, 139 Plaza de Palacio on, 190 Plaza de Provincia on, 96, 97 Plaza de San Salvador on, 141–42 publication of, 34, 201 Royal Palace quarter, 47, 48, 48–49, 171 survived copies, 38–39 title, 35 updated version of, 201 Tejada, Francisco de, 106, 142 Terán, Gregorio, 179 Thirty Years’ War, 7 Tintoretto, 8 Titian, 80, 146 Toledo, Juan Bautista de, 12, 14, 49, 61 Toledo Cathedral of Toledo, frescos of, 211 Palace of the Inquisition, 98, 99 Puerta Nueva de Bisagra, 55, 57 Tavera Hospital, 57 Town Hall, 243n13 Tovar Martín, Virginia, 16, 105

266

town halls importance of, 138 Trejo, Gabriel de, archbishop of Málaga, 104 Turchi, Ludovico, 69 Turin Palazzo Reale, 73 Turrillo, Alonso, 143 Uceda Palace, 143–45, 144, 201 Ugarte, Hermengildo Víctor, 129 Valenzuela, Fernando de, 187–88, 190, 195, 197 Valladolid, 4–5, 7, 18, 25, 60 Mendoza de los Cobos Palace, 73 Royal Palace, 60, 60–61, 73 Valle, Marquis del, 143 Vega, Gaspar de, 56, 56–57, 58 Vega, Luis de, 56 Velázquez, Diego death of, 152 decoration of the Royal Palace, 171–72 diplomatic activities, 171 King Philip IV of Spain, 8, 9 Las meninas, 5–6, 6, 50, 87 residence in Casa del Tesoro, 49 Vergara, Nicolás de, the Younger, 98 Viceroyalty of Peru, 176 Villafranca, Pedro de, 67, 171, 172, 185–86, 187

Villalpando, Cristóbal de View of the Plaza Mayor of Mexico City, 127, 128 Villanueva, Juan de, 117, 136 Villarreal, José de career of, 16, 146, 152, 219 death of, 204 Madrid Town Hall project, 151–52, 154–56, 160, 204, 217, 218–19, 224 Plaza de Palacio project, 189 reconstruction of Casa de la Panadería staircase, 176, 177 Villegas, Juan de, 163 Virgin of Atocha, 28, 210 Waddy, Patricia, 17 Wyngaerde, Anton van den drawing of the Royal Palace, 54–55, 56, 58, 60, 72 panoramic view of Madrid, 30–31, 41, 54 Xilimón de la Mota, Agustín, 106 Ximénez Ortiz, Agustín, 95 Yturbe, Sebastián de, 108 Zúñiga y Sandoval, Catalina, 70