Notes from the Prado

Abstract

Forty years ago I made my first visit to the Prado. Like Harold Bruder, I was deeply impressed and at times overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by a gallery of paintings that Mr. Bruder dismisses with the phrase “The El Grecos … are just too raw for me.” Has taste changed? Or was it my youthful enthusiasm? Readers will have their own opinions of the relative merits of the great Spanish painters, but they will doubtless enjoy sharing vicariously in Mr. Bruder's enthusiasms.—Ed.The galleries of the Prado seem to spread out in all directions, with hidden stairways and large senselessly numbered rooms. At various times of the day the sun chooses to reward favorite paintings with a radiant glow and then will indifferently blacken out or reflect upon surfaces to make whole rooms invisible. One learns to anticipate its movement in the sky. In October the early Flemish paintings were best seen at noon—Velázquez in the early morning. It's like playing a game with illumination as the great paintings magically reveal themselves in this fluctuating light. I had been warned that the Prado would be bleak in the Fall, totally in darkness. This was not so. The light was cool and clear, but almost human in its inconsistent behavior.