“Las Meninas and Perro Semihundido” Tori Sharpe

We are at the Prado in Madrid, and he says,

what do you think? and I search the entire

expanse of canvas, see the sidelong glance

of the princess, the attentive crouch of her

ladies in waiting, the reflection of the king

and queen as they enter the room,

and it occurs to me that I cannot find

anything of myself in this piece of art,

technically perfect as it may be.

I have been taught to look for something more.

This is the first photograph ever taken,

I am told, it captures a single

moment in so many different lives, but now

that I am below it, considering

the glare of the finish, I am not convinced

of its reality. It’s beautiful, I say,

because I know I should,

and I turn to him to smile,

but he is lost in the sea of faces,

Velázquez’s concentrated gaze,

the downcast eyes of a nun and the court jesters

(one nudging a tired dog on the floor).

We leave Velázquez behind and step out

into a maze of enormous hallways full of voices

and movement, a group of schoolchildren

passes, each holding hands to form a chain.

We descend the wide stone staircase

and enter a much narrower room. Inside,

I float past Goya’s dark paintings

and in a tangle of monstrous, contorted faces,

something smaller takes my eye and I am pulled

into dull color and empty eyes as a small dog

looks up into sand raining down.

His face is crumpled, his upturned eyes hopeless.

Finding something I recognize

on this unfinished canvas, I study every detail

and want to know just how he feels

in this moment or what Goya thought

of that feeling when he painted this little dog.

What are you thinking?

he asks, and I begin to tell him.