Paintings

Among all the disturbing images that Francisco de Goya painted at the end of his life, few are as unsettling as The Witches’ Sabbath. There is no heroism, no classical beauty, and no decorative intention. There is fear, superstition, and an uncomfortable feeling: the sense of looking at something that was never meant to be seen.

Before Goya painted horror, horror already existed. It lived in myths, in the stories ancient civilizations used to explain the unexplainable: time, violence, power, and the fear of losing it all. Saturn —Cronos to the Greeks— was not a monster. He was a god. The god of time. And like every god who rules over something that cannot be stopped, he was condemned to paranoia.

La oscuridad no era para Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio una simple técnica pictórica; era su refugio, su condena y, finalmente, su propia piel. En el ocaso de su vida, acosado por sus demonios internos y por la justicia de los hombres, el genio del tenebrismo nos entregó una de las piezas más perturbadoras y lúgubres de la historia del arte: David con la cabeza de Goliat. Pero tras la superficie de este lienzo barroco no solo hay pintura, hay una confesión de asesinato bañada en sangre y sombras.

Imagine entering a duke’s pleasure palace only to be confronted with one of the most disturbing visions in Spanish art. It is not a hunting scene or an idyllic landscape; it is three semi-naked men floating in a suffocating void while they devour a victim who seems to have lost all hope. This is the essence of Witches' Flight, a work where Francisco de Goya decided that true terror does not come from the beyond, but from the darkness that dwells within the human mind.