Discover Spanish Art! Highlights of the Nagasaki Prefectural Art Museum and the Suma Collection

“Ecce Homo” is Latin for “Behold the man.” The phrase comes from the Gospel of John (19:5), when the Roman governor Pontius Pilate presented Jesus—scourged, crowned with thorns, and humiliated—to the crowd.

This moment is more than a simple scene from scripture. It confronts the viewer with a timeless question: What is human suffering, sin, and salvation? It represents the very essence of Christ’s Passion.

Throughout history, many artists have chosen this theme. Compared to earlier works from the 15th century, this 16th-century painting shows a much more realistic and dramatic style. The depth of space, the arrangement of the figures, and the sense of perspective all add to the scene’s intensity.

Unlike earlier symbolic religious paintings, here we can sense emotions through Christ’s facial expression, gaze, and gestures—as if witnessing a human drama unfold.

The Counter-Reformation Context

This work was created in Spain during the second half of the 16th century, at the height of the Counter-Reformation. During this time, the Catholic Church encouraged art that could speak directly to people’s hearts and strengthen their faith. Themes such as the Passion of Christ, the Pietà, and the Madonna and Child became especially popular because of their emotional impact.

The Ecce Homo in Nagasaki is very much a product of this atmosphere. It has the power to speak directly to the viewer, going beyond being just a religious symbol. It almost feels like faith itself begins in the act of looking at the painting.

From the late 16th to the 17th century, Spain entered its artistic Golden Age (Siglo de Oro). This was the era of great masters like El Greco and Velázquez. In particular, Baroque painting in Spain was known for its realism and its dramatic use of light and shadow (chiaroscuro), which gave religious art a striking sense of power and spirituality.

One of the most important centers of this period was Seville, in southern Andalusia. Artists such as Velázquez, Zurbarán, and Murillo flourished there, creating a distinct style of religious painting now known as the Seville School.

This painting of Saint Francis of Paola is attributed to a follower of the Seville School, and it reflects the spirit of that time and place.

The Saint and His Miracles

Saint Francis of Paola was an Italian friar and the founder of the Order of Minims. Known for his extremely austere lifestyle, he was also believed to have performed many miracles.

One famous legend tells how he crossed the Strait of Messina by floating on his cloak, as if walking on water. Another story says that when his beloved pet lamb, Martinello, was eaten by a carpenter, Francis prayed over its bones in the furnace, and the lamb miraculously came back to life.

Hints of these miracles can be found in the background of the painting. Yet in the foreground, Francis is portrayed simply as a humble friar in a plain cloak, quietly praying. This contrast highlights his spiritual strength and dignity.

For the people of 17th-century Spain—many of whom could not read—such paintings were more than religious symbols. They were a visual form of storytelling, making the lives of saints and the teachings of faith accessible to everyone.

The word bodegón may sound unfamiliar. It comes from the Spanish word bodega, meaning “storeroom” or “pantry.” In art, a bodegón is a still life painting that often shows food, drink, or game stored indoors. The genre became popular in Spain during the early 17th century—even among the nobility.

When we think of still life, many people imagine the lavish Flemish paintings of overflowing fruit and grand feasts (see comparison below). But Spanish bodegones are quite different. They are usually simpler and more realistic. This painting, for example, shows a woman and boy preparing game, with naturalistic details of the kitchen and ingredients.

The contrast reflects Spain’s unique religious culture at the time. In Catholic Spain, austerity and modesty were considered virtues. Instead of celebrating luxury, artists depicted humble meals and daily labor. These images carried a quiet moral lesson, reminding viewers of the value of simplicity, faith, and everyday life.

In 1700, King Charles II—the last Habsburg ruler of Spain—died without an heir. The Spanish crown then passed to the French Bourbon dynasty. The first Bourbon king of Spain was Philip V, the young monarch seen in this portrait.

Raised in France, Philip V introduced the elegance and splendor of the French court to Spain. French painters dominated the royal commissions, so it was unusual for a Spaniard to paint an official royal portrait. Miguel Jacinto Meléndez (1679–1734) was one of the few Spanish artists who became a court painter during this time.

This work likely shows Philip V in his late 20s or early 30s. The delicate details of his skin and hair, and the gleaming armor, give the portrait a refined and graceful atmosphere. Compared with the heavier style of 16th-century Spanish painting, this feels lighter and brighter—a clear reflection of French influence.

However, art historians have raised questions. A 1712 portrait of Philip V in hunting attire, housed in the Museo Cerralbo, is considered a confirmed work by Meléndez. While the facial features are similar, the composition and especially the awkward rendering of the right hand in this painting suggest that it may have been produced in Meléndez’s workshop rather than by the master himself.

Either way, this portrait captures a transitional moment in Spanish art, when traditional styles met French-inspired refinement, marking a new chapter in the history of royal portraiture.

These two portraits depict King Ferdinand VI of Spain and his wife, Queen Bárbara of Braganza. Ferdinand VI, the fourth son of Philip V, reigned from 1746 to 1759. His rule was marked by efforts to rebuild a stagnant Spain—he strengthened the navy, invested in infrastructure, and reformed the nation’s finances. He also promoted the arts, founding the Royal Academy of Fine Arts of San Fernando, later associated with masters like Picasso and Dalí.

In his final years, tragedy struck. After the death of his beloved wife Bárbara, Ferdinand fell into deep depression and died young at the age of 45. These portraits of the royal couple seem to carry the weight of both their achievements and their sorrows.

For a long time, the works were attributed to the celebrated Neoclassical painter Anton Raphael Mengs, based on a signature. But the timeline did not fit—Mengs only became court painter after both Ferdinand and Bárbara had died.

Today, art historians agree that the portraits were created by Louis-Michel van Loo (1707–1771) and his workshop. The composition is almost identical to Van Loo’s official portrait of Ferdinand VI in the Royal Palace of Madrid. Compared to that version, this painting shows the king with a slightly softer expression. The fine detailing suggests that Van Loo himself may have had a strong hand in its execution, rather than leaving it entirely to his assistants.

Francisco de Goya is often called “the last Old Master and the first modern artist.” Active in Spain from the late 18th to early 19th century, Goya began as a royal court painter but soon moved beyond tradition to confront the deeper truths of human nature and society.

At that time, Spanish art was mostly religious paintings and portraits of kings and nobles, symbols of power and glory. But Goya used art in a very different way—as a powerful tool of expression.

His most famous example is the print series The Disasters of War, created during the Peninsular War (1808–1814). Instead of heroic victories, Goya showed the brutal reality of war: executions, starving civilians, and endless cycles of violence. These works strip away glory and reveal the human cost of conflict.

The scenes are shocking, even today. Some plates show firing squads and piles of bodies—images that force viewers to face the darker side of history.

Interestingly, Goya never published these works while he was alive. They were too dangerous, criticizing not only Napoleon’s invading French army but also Spain’s restored Bourbon monarchy. The Disasters of War was finally released in 1863, decades after his death.

More than 200 years later, the series is still powerful and relevant. It is not about heroes or lessons learned—it is a direct accusation against war itself. Goya transformed pain, anger, and despair into art, leaving us with questions that remain urgent for our world today.

Mariano Fortuny (1838–1874) was one of the most important Spanish painters of the 19th century. His career came after the groundbreaking innovations of Francisco de Goya, who had opened the door for new, more personal forms of expression in Spanish art. Moving away from strict academic traditions, Fortuny embraced a Romantic style that combined emotion, atmosphere, and a love for nature.

Fortuny is best known for his Orientalist paintings, filled with exotic settings and vivid detail. But he was also a gifted landscape painter. This small work—barely the size of a hand—captures a quiet sunlit street corner with delicate, almost poetic brushwork.

Until the 18th century, Spanish painting focused mainly on religious art and royal history scenes, while landscapes were considered “less important.” In the 19th century, however, Romanticism changed that. Artists began to value nature and everyday life as worthy subjects, and Fortuny was among those who helped elevate landscape painting in Spain.

This Landscape was likely painted around 1870, when Fortuny stayed in Granada, southern Spain. Notice the wide expanse of sky, the lightly painted buildings, and the thin layers of color that let the canvas breathe. These touches convey not just a place, but the feeling of light and air at a particular moment in time.

The loose brushwork recalls the style of the French Impressionists, yet the vertical format and sense of space add a lyrical quality beyond a simple sketch. Whether Fortuny painted a beloved corner of the city or just a fleeting view, the work reflects his affection and sensitivity.

Though small in size, this painting shows how Fortuny found poetry in everyday scenery, turning an ordinary street into a timeless work of art.

José Gutiérrez-Solana (1886–1945) was one of Spain’s most distinctive painters of the early 20th century. While artists like Pablo Picasso and Salvador Dalí were revolutionizing modern art in Paris, Solana developed a darker, more introspective vision within Spain itself.

His painting The Acrobats seems at first to show a lively circus scene, with striped backgrounds and colorful costumes. But the figures themselves tell another story. Instead of joy and energy, we see expressionless performers—silent, almost mannequin-like—carrying out their routines with unsettling calm.

This eerie quality is typical of Solana’s style. His characters often look like wax figures or masked dolls, stripped of natural human warmth. They appear alive, yet strangely inhuman, leaving viewers with a lingering sense of unease.

Why did Solana choose this unsettling approach? While there is no clear answer, the year 1930 places the work on the eve of the Spanish Civil War. Spain was entering a period of political and social tension, and the uneasiness of the time may have unconsciously seeped into his art.

The circus is usually a place of joy and spectacle, but in Solana’s hands, it becomes a stage for silence and anxiety. This tension—between the expected brightness and the painted darkness—is what makes The Acrobats such a powerful and unforgettable work.