In a city of museums, in a museum of countless paintings, there is one particular brush stroke. That solitary streak of paint, combining several tints to render the tone of a woman’s skin, is a flash of the divine image and likeness at work in every work of art.
Just when I first saw Diego Velázquez’ The Needlewoman, I cannot be certain, so let’s just say back in the ‘eighties. It may have been my visit to the National Gallery of Art as a college freshman in Washington for the weekend, or soon after I was graduated and moved here. The room where it hung quickly became a favorite with its great Spanish paintings, including The Return of the Prodigal by Bartolomé Esteban Murillo and The Martyrdom of Saint Bartholomew by Jusepe de Ribera. It is the only work by Velázquez in that room, the only one in the collection.
It was the effect of repeated visits and lingering views that drew me in to the mystery of a portrait of a hidden face revealing a woman without a name. This is no portrait of nobility, nor personage of note. There is no crown or armor, no jewels nor sash. No rosary or prayerbook marks piety; no landscape in the background identifies place or property. The customary characteristics that reveal person and personality are absent or only alluded to; even the “windows to the soul,’ her eyes, do not open to the viewer. Her clothing is dark and simple; her gesture, her posture, her whole person is focused on a place outside of herself. But what the work she holds is or will become is not identifiable, nor does it matter.
Staring at the painting, we see something invisible. And lest we miss it, at the very center of the composition, her finger firmly, confidently, and quickly pushes the needle home. But look closely and see – there is no finger there. I do not know how long it took me to realize that; no nail nor knuckle is depicted. It is more of a streak, a flash, a hint, but also a depiction of far more than simply a dexterous digit.
Showing more than the unnamed woman’s creative labor, Velázquez shows us what makes her and us not only human, but also like God. The depiction is of diligence in pursuit of perfection. The painting is a craftsman’s hymn to craft, an artist’s acknowledgment of art.
The invisible reality shown so clearly by this artist is that human skill, knowledge, and labor is like God’s own in the work of creation. Velázquez’ makes visible human dignity itself. Seeing that, we see also how art is for man what the sacraments are for God.
Velázquez uses one thing, common enough and good in itself, to make present another thing. Some oil and pigments are transformed into a finger, and far more than a finger: an intention, an effort, an ability, and an accomplishment. Using paint to make a finger is only one level of what he is doing.
The painting is of a person, yes, but more than that, it reveals something universally human, and true. To see what is true in the painting is to see what is true in us. To recognize that universal reality rather than the identity of the woman is to receive the sacrament that is Velázquez’ art.
God uses simple things to make visible what we need but cannot see, so we can find them and receive them. Forgiveness and healing, intimacy and nourishment. Human beings use simple things to make visible what we cannot see so we can name them and acknowledge them: virtues and vices, sin and forgiveness, beauty, truth, and goodness. Art reveals nature, both human and divine.
That solitary local example of the great painter’s work convinced me of the imperative to visit the Prado in Madrid, a goal I maintained for decades. Finally just over a year ago, I was able to spend two days in that great gallery, basking in more of his paintings than I could count or recount. But because this one has been on my mind this month, I stopped into the National Gallery to try to see it while I was in the neighborhood for the March for Life. It is not on display! Likely travelling to some distant exhibition, Velázquez’ work deserves its new admirers.
Do not hop onto the Metro just yet, but she’ll be back sometime, our Needlewoman. In the meantime, the infernal machine can bring some light along with its less savory freight, and you can marvel at her on your phone or computer on the National Gallery’s web site. https://www.nga.gov/collection/art-object-page.88.html. Zoom in on the brush stroke.
Monsignor Smith
