by Melinda Giordano

It has always been the case, this small frisson of irony and recognition.  For before I can take in the qualities of the painting – the child’s scarlet suit, the zoological arrangement of pets at his feet, his lineage of names printed at the border – I can see only one thing:  his fleeting yet arresting similarity to my brother.  In particular, I am reminded of a distant photograph of him, with a square of gauze on his bare arm from a recent polio vaccine.  In both painting and photograph, there is a parallel that bridges all of time’s idiosyncrasies, joining these images of two young boys.  This simpatico of youth resides, I think, in the eyes:  round and expansive; their gaze roaming like colts beneath a wide, pure forehead. Continue reading “Goya’s Red Boy” →