I, Juan de Pareja

“There’s pest in the city […] It came in with a boatload of slaves and ivory from Africa.”

In including this dialogue, de Treviño fleshes out Seville’s reputation as a bustling port hub and major stop-off in the Transatlantic Slave Trade. Also, in associating slavery with the plague—a highly communicable disease that previously ravaged European populations—de Treviño underscores both slavery’s pervasiveness and its deeper immorality. Like the plague, slavery has infected Europe. The comparison between enslaved people and ivory underlines the dehumanization of slavery, reducing captives to commodities.

“‘Have you made your first Communion?’ ‘Oh yes,’ I answered promptly, ‘Mistress saw to that. And I used to go to Mass with her. Every day.’”

In referring to Emilia as “Mistress,” Juan introduces a style of address that he retains throughout the novel, similarly referring to Diego as “Master” and Juana as “Mistress.” In mentioning his frequent churchgoing to Brother Isidro, Juan introduces the importance of Christianity to this society. This illuminates the Spanish Catholic custom of baptizing enslaved people, though it also highlights how the Church was complicit with slavery.

“Since when can a gypsy own a black slave?”

In this quote, Juan addresses Don Dimas, frustrated by the assumption that Don Carmelo is his enslaver. As they travel on the road to Madrid, Juan often refers to Carmelo and his companions as “gypsies,” a pejorative term for nomadic Romani people. As Juan explains, not all white people are entitled to the same privileges, and some rank only slightly higher than enslaved people like Juan. In imagining Carmelo’s own experience of prejudice, de Treviño hints at the root cause of Carmelo’s brutality; in mistreating Juan, Carmelo grasps at social power otherwise denied to him.

“He was short and slender and wore good dark clothes but no jewels of any kind.”

This is the first physical description of Diego, introducing his characteristic preference for plain clothes. Earlier in the novel, Juan learned to distrust showiness and instead value simplicity through the magistrate and Brother Isidro, respectively. Diego’s plainness foreshadows his kind character. Juan often admires Diego’s style and form, especially in contrast to Italian costuming.

“All he thought about was light, and the only days when he was nervous were days of low fog or rain that changed the light he lived by.”

Diego’s primary treasure is light, as he considers it essential for truthful art. But as Juan notices, light is not always constant and is susceptible to changes in weather and environment. In complicating the motif of light by establishing its flexibility, this quote forwards The Relative Truth of Art.

“No, Juanico. There is a faint underlay of blue, but there is violet in that blue, the faintest touch of rose, and the highlights are red and bright green. Look again.”

As an artist, Diego has an incredible eye for detail and can break down color into its most basic elements. He applies a similar expertise to his sitters, rendering them with an emotional depth that reaches beyond first impressions. Though Diego cannot legally take Juan as his apprentice, he offers Juan one of many subtle art lessons here. Here, too, de Treviño explains that Diego addresses Juan as “Juanico,” a diminutive nickname that simultaneously suggests affection and condescension.

“Then we walked through the long silent corridors, which were always cold despite the fine tapestries and banners which lined the walls. We went up a broad stairway and down another arcade and so came to our studio, where there was always a guard in the King’s livery. Master was in the service of the Crown.”

This quote develops a difference in setting, characterizing the royal palace according to its emphasis on formality. By contrast, Diego’s studio is separate from court protocol, and Juan notices that its casualness offers an oasis to the King. Similarly, in pointing out that Diego—or “Master”—is in service to the crown, Juan proves that Diego, too, lives within the boundaries of servitude and must also conform to authority. However, Juan’s enslavement renders his situation much more dire.

“The King was tall and very pale, with white-and-pink skin and hair like yellow embroidery silk. […] His face was bony and rather sad. The smile he turned on Master was shy and seemed to ask for acceptance. Despite his fine clothes and all the people kneeling before him, despite the pages and the trumpets and the banners, I knew intuitively that he felt uncertain and that he hoped for friendship.”

As an enslaved Black person, Juan is constantly defined according to his physical appearance. However, in detailing the King’s physical appearance just as exactly, Juan suggests that all people—no matter their station—are judged according to their looks. Juan revisits a similar sentiment later when he pities the King’s misshapen jaw and noticeable lisp. Furthermore, in plainly discussing the King’s appearance, Juan establishes a sense of equality between them, allowing him to intuitively understand the King’s deeper character.

“Yes, love was terrible, since it meant such suffering.”

This association between love and suffering contributes to the novel’s discussion of ugliness, underscoring that beautiful things—like love—are closely related to pain, oppression, or servitude. All of Juan’s relationships are similarly complicated. For instance, Juan’s love for Miri is jeopardized by the possibility of being sold, and his affection for Diego, Paquita, and Juana never quite sheds its connotations of enslavement.

“I was silent, for I had been struggling with the temptation to buy canvas and colors and a brush, here in this country where nobody knew me, to try to paint by myself. Now the devil added another and stronger temptation. If one could learn by copying, why could I not copy, and learn, also?”

When Diego and Juan first travel to Italy, Diego explains that he intends to copy famous works to furnish the royal palace in Spain. Though Juan is unfamiliar with such a technique, he immediately recognizes its potential and struggles against the temptation to paint. As Juan notes, painting is illegal for enslaved people in Spain but not in Italy, suggesting that morality is flexible according to setting. However, Juan’s internal debate also carries religious connotations, as he worries the devil is tempting him to break the law. Throughout the novel, Juan negotiates the religious and legal consequences of his painting.

“I studied her then, as she posed, and I saw what Master had seen and why he had held back; there was apprehension in her eyes and a tremor of fear around her lips.”

Here, Diego completes his portrait of Paquita. Diego began the portrait to send to relations in Portugal, hoping to find a suitable match for Paquita. However, Paquita has been secretly courting Juan Bautista, and her anxiety and lovesickness escape Diego’s notice. When painting his daughter and applying his artist’s eye, Diego finally recognizes Paquita’s grief; only through art can Diego meaningfully connect with his daughter, reflecting The Relative Truth of Art.

“Master often asked their services in modeling historical or mythical personages, and the actors took pride in finding the right stance and the most suggestive expression for these pictures.”

Diego often asks the court’s entertainers—little people whom the King has retained for his pleasure—to pose for paintings. Though their stature has rendered them outcasts suited for little more than humor, in art, they can transcend these limitations and briefly achieve greatness. This offers a parallel to Diego’s portrait of the Pope; just as the little people offer inspiration, Juan brushes up against greatness when Diego paints him to practice for the Pope’s portrait.

“And…I marvel at it now…but I suppose my secret had been preying on my conscience for so long that I had to tell someone…I told the Niño de Vallecas about my passion for art and my longing to paint. He listened to me and smiled at me with great pity, and then all he did was pat my hand with his own little gnarled fingers. Nevertheless, I felt comforted.”

As an enslaved person and little person, respectively, Juan and the Niño de Vallecas—or Francisco Lezcano—occupy similar social standings, oppressed because of their physical appearance. This similarity of experience is reflected in each character having a diminutive nickname; “Juanico” forever reduces Juan to a lesser, childlike state, and the title of “Niño”—boy—similarly infantilizes Lezcano. This encourages Juan to confess his secret painting, the first time he has spoken of it aloud. Lezcano sympathizes, extending Juan a comforting touch. Throughout the novel, spoken or written language often fails to capture authentic expression, and here that motif holds true. Lezcano communicates only through a gesture, but Juan can grasp his meaning entirely.

“Now I had never been called Señor Pareja in my life. Slaves are not addressed in this way. It showed the young man’s ignorance, or perhaps merely his preoccupation. I did not say anything; he would soon learn. Everyone called me Juanico.”

When Murillo arrives in Madrid and meets Juan, he immediately refers to Juan as “Señor Pareja,” too unfamiliar with convention to realize that he has made a mistake. Juan suspects that Murillo will eventually refer to him as “Juanico” as most others do, but in this, he is mistaken; Murillo always addresses Juan as either “Juan” or “Señor Pareja,” granting Juan respect regardless of his enslavement. Murillo, an example of The Ultimate Morality of Christianity, does not observe class or racial differences or adhere to common systems of naming and titling. Instead, he opens his heart to anyone, a key facet of his character.

“Bartolomé ran forward, dropped on one knee, seized Master’s hand still holding the paint rag, and pressed it to his lips.”

Oftentimes, art works as a force of equality, confusing social classes and offering the disadvantaged a chance at greatness. Diego’s appearance is notably humble—he holds only a paint rag—but Murillo rushes toward him as though he were king, dropping to his knees to signal his obedience. Diego rejects this show of deference, but the significance is clear: Diego has no claim to royalty, but his artistic skill situates him among kings.

“I kept on because it seemed to me that at last I was beginning to progress in that difficult, demanding art. Why should I not? I also worked by the side of the greatest Master in the world, though my work was invisible to him. And Murillo, too, though he painted in another way from Master, being softer and more sentimental generally, was worth learning from.”

Though Diego consistently advocates for truth’s importance in art, Juan suggests that art is subjective and that its aim can be achieved through many different styles. Juan contrasts Diego’s and Murillo’s techniques, characterizing Murillo’s work as notably more sentimental. However, Juan does not advocate for either style and instead appreciates the merits of both, drawing from each a valuable lesson. In real life, Juan de Pareja’s artwork abandoned the shadowy realism so typical of Velázquez, and here, de Treviño guesses at his style’s origins.

“I threw myself on my knees before the image of the Virgin and wept. I had been infected with Master’s fear for his hand, and I could not bear it.”

After Diego’s hand is again afflicted, Juan prays to the Virgin Mary for his recovery, feeling powerless to help him. In using the word “infect,” Juan points out how he has assumed Diego’s illness, as though he is sick himself. At this point in the novel, Juan and Diego are beginning to intertwine, complicating their relationship beyond enslaver and enslaved. This closeness foreshadows Juan’s freedom in the succeeding chapters when his relationship with Diego radically changes and benefits from greater equality.

“So we walked together through those streets where so many countless generations of feet had trod, since long before the days of our Lord…We passed tall columns the Romans had brought home from their wars of conquest and had set up proudly in their own squares […] And there were many churches, built at different periods of time […] we walked along the river’s edge for some way, leaving Castel Sant’ Angelo on our right.”

As Juan walks to the Vatican with Diego, he admires Rome’s architecture, evidence of a storied artistic history. Though the Ancient Romans and succeeding civilizations have long fallen, their buildings and churches remain as testament to their greatness. Thus, art offers its own form of immortality, and Juan, too, will benefit from this power. His portrait and his own artwork allow him a place in history, encouraging novelists like de Treviño to imagine his story.

“Master had told me that after his audience he would seek me in the church, and there he found me, in front of the Pietà. He did not say a word, nor did I, but we stood there, looking and marveling for a long time.”

Here, Diego and Juan mutually admire Michelangelo’s La Pietà, a marble sculpture depicting Mary holding Jesus’ dead body after the crucifixion. La Pietà is one of the greatest works of the Italian Renaissance and is sometimes credited as the beginning of the High Renaissance, when artists like Michelangelo, da Vinci, and Raphael thrived. Though Juan’s enslavement prohibits him from joining Diego’s audience with the Pope, he can nevertheless view La Pietà and benefit from its genius. Again, art has the power to correct oppression, offering Juan an arguably more enriching experience than meeting the Pope—a political figure—ever could. Similarly, La Pietà encourages Juan and Diego to further commune, irrelevant of their positions as enslaver and enslaved.

“We worked steadily every day, as long as there was light, and soon I got used to taking the same pose, corrected by a movement of Master’s hand to right or left, and to assuming the same emotion inside me which gave Master the expression he wanted.”

Here, Diego is in the process of painting Juan, correcting his posture and expressions to achieve the desired effect. Diego aims to render his sitters accurately, but in this quote, Juan suggests that Diego molds his sitters, too. For instance, Juan does not pose naturally but conforms to Diego’s creative vision, even adjusting his emotions so his expression will respond accordingly. Upon viewing the completed painting, Juan admires its emotional depth, but this look at Diego’s artistic process complicates Juan’s praise. Often, a finished portrait conceals an artist’s creative liberty, highlighting The Relative Truth of Art.

“In this way, after I had called on seven or eight more of the city’s rich noblemen, Master had received commissions enough to keep him busy all year. Best of all, I knew now that these people would become his defenders and his champions before the others who wished to exclude the Spanish from the highest circles of Rome.”

When staying in Rome, Diego encounters prejudice from Italian nobles, who resent that Diego—a Spanish painter—has earned such a prestigious commission. Juan, afraid that Diego’s livelihood will suffer, convinces the Italians of their misjudgment. Juan often explains the difference between Spanish and Italian culture, but he uses art to establish common ground, showing his portrait to various Italian noblemen. As Juan predicts, the Italians concede that Diego’s skill is unmatched and promise to seek his services. Art, then, is a universal language, able to transcend cultural prejudices and encourage deeper understanding.

“‘I have resented being a slave,’ she said. ‘I could not feel grateful in my heart, for deep inside me I resented being bound. I know that God made us all free and that no man should own another. I hated serving people because I was a slave and had to do their will.’”

In this quote, Lolis explains to Juan just how deeply she resented her enslavement, giving context to her cynicism and fiery temper and providing a counterpoint to Juan’s admiration for Diego. Throughout the novel, Juan approaches his enslavement practically, recognizing its injustice but also finding purpose in servitude. In including Lolis’s experience, de Treviño expands Juan’s worldview. Throughout the novel, Diego’s kindness distracts from the average enslaved person’s experience, but Lolis’s speech reinforces slavery as essentially evil.

“We journeyed together to investigate the site which the King had chosen for the pavilion. It was a beautiful island in the middle of the river Bidassoa, but it was marshy and somewhat low. At night a miasma covered those green meadows, and early in the morning swarms of mosquitoes rose from them in clouds. Later they were dispersed by the heat of the sun.”

The King selects this boggy island as the stage for the Infanta’s wedding. Diego transforms the location into a beautiful pavilion, incorporating flowers and religious imagery. However, though the final effect nears perfection, its achievement is literally built upon something foul and can only be temporary. Diego may beautify this location—aided by the sunlight as it drives away the mosquitoes—but its ugliness still peeks through, again evoking the novel’s preoccupation with art and ugly truths. Despite his aesthetic triumph, Diego is himself afflicted with fever, likely because of his proximity to the swamp.