Velázquez is one of the most inscrutable of the great European artists. There are almost no recorded statements from him, next to nothing in the form of letters. He was court painter to Philip IV of Spain for most of his working life, and from what we can tell a loyal friend as well as servant to the monarch. Perhaps he was conscious of a need for discretion. Either way his paintings remain open to interpretation, even if all agree that he was absurdly talented with the brush. This portrait is one of a series he made in the middle of his career of some of the ‘dwarves’ who were generally employed as jesters to entertain the king and his court. That sort of thing, now, sounds appallingly demeaning. Yet Velázquez’s portrait is remarkable for its lack of condescension. It acknowledges the sitter’s vulnerability, itself very unusual in a society which rarely admitted to masculine weakness, and also confers dignity upon him.
His diminutive stature is established by the substantial size of the book on his lap, the tiny child-like hands and by the pale distant mountain behind. Oddly, he is seated on the ground, though again this may have been to emphasise his lack of height or because he’d have looked foolish in an ordinary sized chair. The viewpoint is from low down – so that even though his physical size is clearly compromised we actually look up at him. Acedo himself looks out towards the viewer but avoids our gaze with downward cast eyes and a melancholy droop to his moustache; his splendid hat is pushed back exposing the high forehead often associated with intelligence.
Don Diego de Acedo was unusual in that his job was administrative – he wielded the official stamp used to authorise court documents. Velázquez has portrayed him in the costume of a noble or gentleman, actively reading not just one but two or three books. He has a quill and ink pot on the ground in front of him – as if, like a scholar, he has been cross referencing and taking notes from his researches. Whether this was intended as a compliment or a joke at Acedo’s expense is not clear, though I’m reluctant to admit it’s the latter. Instead I’d like to think Velázquez’s sympathy is the moral corollary of his incomparable artistic technique. One final mystery – the untidy linear marks in the sky look as though once he’d finished this deeply compassionate portrait Velázquez decided to clean the excess paint off his brushes, a gesture possibly designed to indicate he was casually careless of his own extraordinary painterly talent.
