I, Juan de Pareja

As a 20th-century novel, de Treviño crafts an anachronistic portrait of 17th-century Spanish religion, using contemporary Christian concepts and teachings to examine the evils of slavery and discrimination. Juan experiences deep-rooted prejudices and is the victim of discriminatory norms that assign value according to race, class, or other social qualifications. However, de Treviño assigns these norms exclusively to the Spanish state, presenting Christianity as a salve that advocates instead for equality. Notably, this presentation avoids examining or interrogating the Catholic Church’s role in the Transatlantic Slave Trade, colonization, or oppression within Spain via the Spanish Inquisition. Still, Christianity and faith arise frequently in the text, creating opportunities for Juan to break free from anti-Black social mores and discover true meaning in his art. As Juan realizes, God is the ultimate authority above any earthly ruler. 

To most of the world, Juan is considered “not a person but a slave” (24)—an object that does not deserve any kindness or justice. De Treviño characterizes slavery as a governmental or bureaucratic sin through the magistrate, who pretends to be generous but offers only that Juan “can sleep in the stables” alongside the horses (25), who, unlike Juan, seem remarkably well-fed. This is reinforced later by the King, who can overlook Diego’s lower-class position but not Juan’s status as an enslaved person. This discrimination trickles from the top down to the general populace; alone on the road to Madrid, Don Carmelo abuses Juan, leveraging the latter’s vulnerability to satisfy his lust for power. Routinely judged according to his race and enslavement, Juan seems doomed to this lower social standing. 

In contrast, de Treviño situates Christianity as equalizing and liberating through devout characters. When Brother Isidro first encounters Juan, he suggests that Juan was saved: “It is God’s miracle that you are alive, boy” (15), he cautions, later speculating that Juan is an agent of a larger divine plan. Brother Isidro consistently refuses to characterize Juan according to his race; instead, he sees “a human being with a soul, made in God’s image” (19). The magistrate—and similar officials in the Spanish bureaucracy—may seek to humble Juan or consider him property, but Brother Isidro argues for Juan’s greater potential. Notably, while rooted in contemporary biblical interpretation, this lens runs counter to Spanish Inquisition policies that oppressed Jews, Muslims, and so-called heretics. Later in the novel, Murillo embraces a similar philosophy to Brother Isidro, emphasizing that “Christ is in each one of us” and often depicting humble folk as “saints and holy people” to underscore their inherent spirituality (119-20). Christian teachings are used to present higher ideals independent from oppressive social structures, concerned less with race and more with inner character.

Christianity also helps Juan settle his moral dilemma regarding his secret painting. Spanish law prohibits Juan from creating art, and he struggles with his guilt over violating the law. Though fearful, Juan is unable to forfeit his pursuit, too enamored with its potential for self-expression. Juan exists between these two warring extremes until Murillo intervenes. Encouraged by Murillo’s friendship, Juan confesses his artistic pursuits, admitting his shame. However, Murillo affirms that “painting is no sin” (126). In reimagining the issue according to religious rather than worldly law, Murillo suggests an opposition between law and Christian doctrine. For him, the law is fallible, and faith is supreme. Similarly, when Juan worries that he has erred in depicting the Virgin Mary as a Black woman, Murillo disagrees, arguing that “[o]ur Lord appears in many forms to loving Christian souls” (128). Though Spanish society resents Juan’s artistic liberty, de Treviño presents a democratic version of Christianity, the images and ideals of which are accessible to anyone. When Juan recognizes that he has not offended God, he can resolve his moral dilemma and decide he is innocent. Furthermore, after confessing and embracing his relationship with God, Juan decides that “life [can] offer [him] no further joys” and begins to realize his own artistic career (128). The real-life Juan de Pareja’s success is meant to reinforce this lens and the contemporary Christian idea that all people are equal in God’s eyes.

Throughout the novel, Diego suggests that truth is essential to meaningful, effective art. Diego rejects flattery in preference for accuracy, and his portraits consequently convey emotional depth. However, Diego and Juan’s manipulation of sitters and the studio space undermines Diego’s objectivity, suggesting instead a relationship between truth, illusion, and art’s ultimate subjectivity. 

Diego often argues for the importance of truth in art, preferring to render his sitters accurately instead of beautifully. Juan admires Diego’s attention to detail, noting the discipline of Diego’s artistic preparations and his long hours of study. Diego only proceeds when he has “decided upon every detail in his mind” and can be sure of his craft’s exactness (51). To Diego, truth and its pursuit contribute to the most effective artwork, and he upholds objectivity when evaluating different pieces. For instance, though Juan and Juana both dislike Cristobal’s character, Diego values his talent and refuses to dismiss him. “Art must be true,” Diego says (51), explaining that Cristobal’s superior skill overrules his attempts to sabotage Juan. At the same time, he admonishes Cristobal for removing rot and mold from a still life he paints, arguing that there’s no truth to such a painting. In advocating for faithfulness, Diego ensures that his finished portraits represent their subjects accurately, allowing Diego to convey “what you see on the outside, and also, just as clearly, what [is] there in the inside” (141). In perhaps the most important display of Diego’s skill, Diego captures Pope Innocent X’s emotional complexity. Instead of flattering him, Diego emphasizes the “thousands of subtle thoughts” that occupy the Pope’s imagination (146), rendering him a stern and formidable man. To Diego, art must first and foremost adhere to truth, rejecting sentimentality in pursuit of something more meaningful. 

Though Diego claims to center truth in his craft, his process involves manufacturing perfect circumstances. Diego uses ambient light to ensure that his subjects are represented faithfully, and when imagining his studio in the royal palace, Diego hopes that it will be well-lit: “It must have light,” he tells Juan. “Light. Nothing else matters” (54). This motif of light suggests Diego’s adherence to accuracy but also hints at the staging and manipulation inherent to the artistic process. Diego does not let the light fall naturally but instructs Juan to direct it. For instance, while Diego paints a golden vase, Juan must keep moving the vase so that “the sunlight should continue to strike it at the same point every moment” (54). This presents an idealized version of light rather than the bare truth. Throughout the novel, Diego’s portraits are accurate and evocative, but Diego and Juan’s close control introduces an element of illusion. Diego’s truth is not absolute but relative, dependent upon the interplay between several tricks. Diego’s greatest achievement, Las Meninas, is a symbol of such a contradiction, inviting the viewer’s consideration of reflection, perspective, and art’s relationship to truth. 

This relativity of truth helps underscore one of the most important nuances of art: subjectivity. Diego creates his art so that it might be favorably viewed, and his illusions conspire to control the viewer’s perception. However, Diego can only extend his control so far. Notably, de Treviño does not narrate Diego’s creation of Las Meninas but introduces it through its first audience: Juan and the King. Neither Juan nor the King can guess Diego’s intention or what he meant to represent, but they interpret it according to their own feelings. Both understand it, ultimately, as a testament to the man they grieve and add their own final detail, knighting Diego posthumously by painting the Cross of Santiago on his chest. This cross symbolizes the simultaneously truthful and illusory nature of art; Diego was never knighted while he was alive, but the King feels that honoring him in his masterpiece reflects his truly noble nature.