A spooky painting by Francisco Goya has haunted me for decades. Painted around 1820 on a wall of the artist’s house and later transferred to canvas, it depicts two men, standing deep in mud or perhaps quicksand, holding cudgels poised to strike each other. They are alone in a stark landscape. The lighting suggests the sun rising or dying. Neither man sees the surrounding hills, or the vast sky, or even the mud. There is a fierceness in the way they are posed. They will not stop. Each is concerned with only one thing: to bash the other’s brains in.
One is already blood streaked, but neither is close to being vanquished. One favors an overhand strategy; the other prefers a sidearm stance. Either approach would probably do the job. Neither man has diminished power. Wounding is not an option, and neither seems interested in “working things out.” No one is present to act as a second in this duel, or to wish the combatants well, or to try to resolve whatever conflict has led them to this moment. No one is present to persuade them to pause, step aside, think the whole mess through, shake hands. I want to shout, “Whoa there. Slow down. Let’s have a beer and talk man-to-man about it. Are things really that bad?” But there is no negotiating table and, as in war, there are ultimately no rules.
Login to view the full article
Need to register?
Already a subscriber through The American Scholar?
Are you a Phi Beta Kappa sustaining member?
Register here
Want to subscribe?
Print subscribers get access to our entire website Subscribe here
You can also just subscribe to our website for $9.99. Subscribe here
true
