Museo de Málaga: Art, Archaeology and Awe

Explore the Malaga Museum, a tribute to the past that feels completely current in the Palacio de la Aduana. 

The Malaga Museum has an impressive fine art collection, including Gladiadores/La Meta Sudante (Gladiators/The Meta Sudans) by José Moreno Carbanero from 1882.

Málaga, one of the world’s oldest cities, isn’t short on sunlight, history or art. With its dizzying array of attractions, the city offers much to explore. The Centro Histórico, a pedestrian-friendly area, is home to many notable sites, including the Museo de Artes y Costumbres Populares (Museum of Popular Arts and Traditions), the Renaissance-style Catedral de Nuestra Señora de la Encarnación (Málaga Cathedral) and modern art institutions like the Centre Pompidou Málaga. Nearby, the Alcazaba fortress stands guard on the hillside above a Roman amphitheater, connected to the Gibralfaro Castle by a fortified walkway.

The building that houses the museum is called the Palacio de la Aduana and was the customs house for the busy port.

History of the Museum of Málaga

A standout among these cultural treasures is the Museo de Málaga (Museum of Málaga). Housed in the Palacio de la Aduana (Customs House), this magnificent 17th century Neoclassical landmark is nestled between the verdant Parque de Málaga and the Ayuntamiento de Málaga (Málaga City Hall) in the heart of the Old Quarter.

Its construction was initiated in 1787 under King Charles III in response to Málaga’s growing maritime trade, and was conceived by architect Manuel Martín Rodríguez, who drew inspiration from Madrid’s palatial Real Casa de la Aduana (Royal Customs House). 

“With over 2,000 works of art and more than 15,000 artifacts in its archaeology collection, the museum offers a vast and captivating chronicle of Málaga’s history.”

Although the project actually started in 1791, it encountered several delays, including Napoleon’s failed attempt to conquer Spain during the Peninsular War, which pushed its completion date to 1829.

Nearly two centuries after its construction, the renovated venue reopened to the public, preserving the building’s original character while updating its interior to meet 21st century standards for accessibility. 

The museum unites the collections of the Real Academia de San Telmo (Saint Elmo Academy of Fine Arts) and the Museo Arqueológico de Málaga (Málaga Archaeological Museum) under one roof. With over 2,000 works of art and more than 15,000 artifacts in its archaeology collection, the museum offers a vast and captivating chronicle of Málaga’s history.

A mix of unmarked artifacts, including green glazed pottery and religious statuary, is displayed on wooden shelves inside the Visitable Warehouse section of the Museum of Málaga.

Ground Floor Visitable Warehouse

After paying the admission fee of €1.50 (approximately $1.63) per person, Wally and I began our visit on the ground floor with the Almacén Visitable (Visitable Warehouse), a storeroom of sorts, where objects are organized by time period and displayed in drawers and on shelves and wooden platforms. (It reminded us a bit of the ramshackle Egyptian Museum in Cairo.)

A collection of Hellenistic pottery, including terracotta heads, pig figurines and feet fills one of the display cabinets.

Among the artifacts were ancient vases, pots and fragments of centuries-old marble column capitals, feet, torsos and heads, displayed alongside 19th century oil paintings culled from the Fine Arts collection.

The warehouse is fun to explore, with its jumble of marble architectural fragments, a pair of Christ figures missing their crosses and a cathedral bell.

Look for the scale models, including one of the Roman amphitheater and (we think) the interior of Málaga Cathedral.

Wally and I oohed and ahhed over a scale model of the Alcazaba and Gibralfaro. In another part of the room, a glass display case held several devotional sculptures, including religious images of the Virgin Mary, underscoring the reverence and care with which these objects are treated.

A view of the palatial courtyard of the Museum of Málaga. The classical terracotta busts were added in 1885 to commemorate Queen Isabella II’s son Alfonso XII.

Central Courtyard 

Following our tour of the storehouse, we wandered through the expansive central courtyard, graced with palm and orange trees, a fountain and informational panels recounting the building’s history, including Queen Isabella II’s visit in 1862. Terracotta busts, added to honor her son Alfonso XII’s visit 23 years later, have adorned the uppermost balustrade of the courtyard gallery ever since.

When we visited, there was a special exhibit on the hometown hero Picasso.

Special Exhibit on Picasso

The port city is the birthplace of Pablo Picasso and, during our visit, it was hosting the exhibition La presencia de Picasso (The Presence of Picasso) to mark the 50th anniversary of his death. 

A selection of lithographs from Picasso’s Faunes et Flore d’Antibes series at The Presence of Picasso exhibition.

On a separate note, the Museum of Fine Arts previously occupied the Palacio de Buenavista (Buenavista Palace), but it was unceremoniously packed up and placed in storage in 1997 to make way for the Museo Picasso Málaga (Málaga Picasso Museum).

Fauno Blanco Tocando el Aulós (White Faun Playing the Flute) by Pablo Picasso, 1946

The exhibition featured lithographs from the Faunes et Flore d’Antibes series and engravings from Deux Contes, both drawn from the Fine Arts permanent collection. Wally, a big fan of mythology (and the male form), especially liked the collection. 

A glimpse of what awaits you at the beginning of the Fine Arts section of the museum.

First Floor: Fine Arts

Upstairs (keep in mind that in Europe the first floor is what we Americans would call the second floor), the Fine Arts section covers a broad spectrum of 19th century artworks, including pieces by old masters like Antonio Muñoz Degrain, Bernardo Ferrándiz y Bádenes, Fernando Ortiz y Comarcada, José Gutiérrez de la Vega and Pedro de Mena, among others. It also features works by prominent members of the Málaga School of Painting, such as Alfonso Ponce de León y Cabello, José Suárez Peregrin and Pedro Sáenz Sáenz.

Los Saltimbanquis (The Acrobats) by José Suarez Perigrín, 1932

El Juicio de Paris (The Judgment of Paris) by Enrique Simonet y Lombardo, 1904

Después de la Corrida (After the Bullfight) by José Denis Belgrano, 1890

Estudio de Anatomía Masculina (Study of the Male Anatomy) by Bernardo Ferrándiz y Bádenes, 1862

Tarquin y Lucrecia (Tarquin and Lucretia) by José López García, 1988

Alegoría de la Historía, Industría y Comercio de Málaga (Allegory of the History, Industry and Commerce of Málaga) by Bernardo Ferrández and Antonio Muñoz Degrain, 1870

The first piece you’ll see as you enter these galleries is a maquette, a final study for the ceiling of the Teatro Cervantes by the Valencian-born painter Bernardo Ferrándiz. In 1870, he and Degrain were commissioned to decorate the theater. Ferrándiz depicted himself as Mephistopheles, the demon who barters for Faust’s soul, on the stage set. 

The female figure, possibly a symbol of the city, sits atop a shrine holding a caduceus— a symbol associated with Mercury, the god of commerce and prosperity. Other aspects of the city’s booming cultural and economic success, including agriculture, industry, transportation and fishing, highlight its strategic location as a trading port.

However, to me, some of the most interesting pieces came from religious institutions. Like the Museo de Bellas Artes de Córdoba, this museum’s collection includes significant works of art, images and architectural elements seized from the deconsecrated monastic properties, including the ex-convents and monasteries of the Poor Clares of Santa Clara, San Bernardo, La Merced and San Pedro de Alcántara.

Mudejar ceiling corbels 

Next, you’ll notice a set of four carved oak corbels, or brackets. They originally adorned the ends of timber beams in the Convent of La Merced and became part of the academy’s collections in 1915. These architectural elements illustrated the sins and vices parishioners were expected to renounce before entering the holy space.

Head of Saint John of God by Fernando Ortiz y Comarcada, circa 1755-1765

Fernando Ortiz y Comarcada’s sculptural style was greatly influenced by Pedro de Mena — in fact, for many years, this work was attributed to Mena. However, documents found for the production of four sculptures at Parroquia Santiago Apóstol in Málaga confirmed Ortiz as the artist. This head is the only surviving piece from that series, which was largely destroyed during the protests of 1931. An anonymous citizen saved this from the flames and left it at the parish door in a basket, ensuring that future generations could appreciate its artistic quality.

Ecce Homo by Pedro de Mena, circa 1676-1680

Throughout his lifetime, Pedro de Mena was in high demand, securing a steady stream of public and private commissions across Spain and Latin America. It’s believed that Ecce Homo came from the estate of El Retiro in Málaga and was first owned by Bishop Alonso de Santo Tomás, who hired Mena to carve images for his private oratory while the sculptor was working for the bishop’s order at the Monastery of Santo Domingo.

(Postrimerías) A Moro Muerto, Gran Lanzada, or (Dying Moments) Kicking a Man While He’s Down by Bernardo Ferrándiz y Badenes, 1881

This small painting might seem unremarkable at first glance, but it has an interesting story behind it. The artwork was inspired by an actual event that forever changed the artist’s life. Bernardo Ferrándiz y Badenes had a physical confrontation with Juan Nepomuceno Ávila, a fellow academy member, municipal architect and close friend of the Marquis of Salamanca. The dispute arose because Ávila denied financial support to the San Telmo Fine Art School, where Ferrándiz was the director at the time.

Ávila used the incident to have Ferrándiz expelled from the institution. Ferrándiz subsequently was accused of attempted murder and imprisoned. Although the exact details of the altercation remain unclear, the event left Ferrándiz shaken. The once-prominent artist faced social ostracism, which plays out in his artwork, where he depicted himself as the skeleton of a cat, with Ávila as a mouse. He inscribed the following on the frame: “Fierce king, yesterday I gave you my laws to respect, and today, with death upon me, even you come to trample the dust of what I was.”

Additionally, the museum has a small collection of Spanish modern art up to the 1950s, including works by José López García, José Moreno Villa, Juan Fernándo Béjar and, yes, Picasso. 

This Italo-Corinthian helmet most likely belonged to a high-ranking warrior. It was unearthed in 2012 by archaeologists excavating a site between Calles Jinete and Refino in Málaga’s historic quarter.

Second Floor: Archeological Section 

The second floor (third floor to you Americans) galleries focus on archaeology, with the first two rooms dedicated to the private collection of Jorge Loring Oyarzábal and his wife, Amelia Heredia Livermore, also known as the Marquis and Marquesa de Casa Loring.

The Lorings had a passion for antiques and collecting. One of their most important acquisitions was several pieces from the collection of 18th century Córdoban antiquarian Pedro Leonardo de Villacevallos, which included capitals from Medina Azahara, Umayyad-period tombstones and sculptural relics from Ancient Rome.

A collection of marble busts, and funerary plaques from the Villacevallos collection acquired by the Lorings

This 18th century religious sculpture, depicting the realistic severed head of Saint John the Baptist, is paraded through the streets of Málaga during Holy Week. 

A mosaic fragment depicting Priapus, the son of Venus and Bacchus. Commonly shown with a massive erection and basket of fruit, it’s no surprise he’s a god of fertility.

The remaining halls cover a vast historical timeline, showcasing how each civilization — from prehistory through the Phoenician, Roman, al-Andalus and Christian Reconquest periods — contributed to the city’s cultural mosaic. In recent decades, artifacts unearthed during construction and in excavations carried out by the University of Málaga have been added to the collection.

A detail of the center of a 1st century Roman mosaic depicting the goddess Venus surrounded by a menagerie of birds.

Speaking of mosaics, a 1st century floor panel depicting the birth of Venus, the goddess of love, sex and beauty, takes center stage in the museum’s Roman galleries. Discovered in 1956, it was found lining the floor of a Roman villa in the nearby town of Cártama. This impressive mosaic measures 13 by 20 feet (4 by 6 meters). It shows the naked goddess reclining on a giant scallop shell above a couple of dolphins.

The 2nd century Roman statue known as La Dama de la Aduana, discovered while digging the foundations of the museum in 1791, welcomes visitors at the entrance.

A Trip Back in Time at the Museo de Málaga

To sum up our experience, the Museo de Málaga was more than just a tourist attraction. It was a journey through epochs that celebrates Málaga’s multifaceted identity and enduring spirit. Its artworks and archaeological objects are well organized and clearly marked in both English and Spanish. As you walk through its halls, the city’s colorful history comes alive. –Duke

Museo de Málaga

Plaza de la Aduana 1
29015 Málaga
Spain

 

Itálica’s Rich Roman Heritage

Explore one of the largest amphitheaters (as seen on Game of Thrones!) and admire the impressive mosaics on a day trip from Seville to the ruins of the first Ancient Roman town outside of Italy. 

The House of the Birds is the largest complex at Itálica.

Since Wally and I were spending five days in Sevilla, Spain, we figured we could add the nearby Roman ruins of Itálica to our itinerary. It reminded us of visiting the ruins of Volubilis outside of the city of Meknès, Morocco (although the Spanish weather was much nicer). We both share a passion for history: Wally’s childhood interest in Ancient Rome matches my fascination with Ancient Egypt (which we were fortunate enough to experience together, but I digress). 

“The amphitheater was used as a filming location for ‘Game of Thrones.’

Thanks to some CGI magic, it served as the Dragonpit.”

The Venus of Itálica was unearthed in 1940. This is a replica — the actual statue is in the Archaeological Museum of Seville.

The archaeological park of Itálica (which Wally joking referred to as Italics) is located about 30 minutes northwest of Sevilla, in the municipality of Santiponce, and is one of the cultural points of interest along the Ruta Bética Romana, the Roman Baetica Route — an ancient Roman road that runs through the provinces of Sevilla, Cádiz and Córdoba. If you’re so inclined, you can walk it, though it’ll take you weeks. 

We had already done our fair share of walking, and since it was unseasonably hot, opted to take the 170A bus from the Plaza de Armas station, which typically departs every half hour from Sevilla. 

A replica of the 2nd century statue of Diana, goddess of the hunt, greets visitors to Itálica.

Roman Expansion: A Brief History of Itálica

Itálica was the first Roman city established outside of Italy and thrived from the 2nd to the 4th century CE. Its origins can be traced back to General Scipio Africanus’ victory at Ilipa (near Sevilla) in 206 CE. During the Second Punic War, Scipio’s tactical efforts against Hannibal and the Carthaginians focused on the lower Guadalquivir valley, and after conquering the region, he established the settlement for his veteran troops to live.

Itálica bore witness to the births of Trajan (53-117 CE) and his adopted son and successor, Hadrian (76-138 CE) who were the first Roman emperors born outside of Italy. 

A reproduction of a statue of the Roman emperor Trajan in heroic pose found in Itálica. The original can be seen at the — you guessed it — Archaeological Museum of Seville. 

Hadrian expanded the city to include the Urbs Nova, literally the “New City,” added an impressive amphitheater and elevated its status to colonia—the highest designation for a Roman city. Additionally, Itálica amassed significant wealth from the exportation of grain and olive oil grown in the fertile soil of the Gerena Depression. These goods were transported to the Guadalquivir River and shipped to Rome by boat.

However, by the 4th century, the combined impact of mass deforestation and poor agricultural practices left Itálica’s river port dry, ultimately causing the city to be abandoned.

Aside from a group of schoolchildren, we pretty much had Itálica to ourselves.

Visiting Itálica

After a short walk from the bus stop, Wally and I arrived at the park entrance. We purchased the very affordable admission: 3€ ($3.25) for both of us. It’s free for EU citizens. Bring some cash — they don’t take credit cards. 

Plaques and a milestone with Hadrian’s name on it

We made a detour to the restroom, which is located in a nearby building, where we saw a commemorative plaque bearing the names of individuals who financed the early excavations at Itálica, as well as a marble milestone inscribed with Emperor Hadrian’s name.

I wasn’t sure what to expect. Most exposed ruins, those not buried beneath sand or soil, were commonly pillaged and used as a source of building materials by whomever occupied the region after they had been abandoned. Additional bits were plundered during the French occupation of Spain, and in the 18th century, a mosaic called the Loves of Zeus was taken by Regla Manjón, the Countess of Lebrija, and incorporated into her palatial home in Sevilla. Several artifacts, including the erotic Abduction of Hylas, are displayed at the Museo Arqueológico de Sevilla (the Archeological Museum of Seville). 

In 1912, the complex was officially declared a national monument, ensuring its conservation and protection against further looting.

Start your visit to Itálica by exploring the amphitheater.

Game On: Exploring the Amphitheater

Situated just beyond the park’s entrance are the remains of the amphitheater. It was built between 117 and 138 CE and commissioned by Emperor Hadrian. When it was completed, it ranked among the largest in the Roman Empire and could accommodate up to 30,000 spectators — about half as many as the Colosseum in Rome, but far exceeding the scale required for a community of 8,000 inhabitants.

The interior portions are closed off to the public.

The site was used as a filming location and featured in the penultimate season of Game of Thrones. Thanks to some CGI-generated magic, it served as the Dragonpit, where three members of major houses have a historic meeting about a common enemy.

Attention, Game of Thrones fans! The amphitheater at Itálica, with some help from CGI, became the Dragonpit.

The amphitheater was the stage for the spectacle of bloodsport: gladiatorial combat, historic battle re-creations and animal hunts. Romans of all social classes attended, and the stand levels were carefully regulated and divided into a hierarchy based on wealth, gender and status. The lowest tier, or ima cavea, was closest to the action, reserved for the highest-ranking males. Women and the poor, meanwhile, sat or stood on wooden benches in the highest part of the stands, the suma cavea, which was covered by an awning to protect from the heat. 

The passage leading to the fossa beastiaria, where wild animals were caged before being released into the amphitheater to be “hunted”

The massive rectangular pit at the center of the arena, known as the fossa beastiaria, was used to house the caged wild beasts that appeared in the spectacles prior to being released for the entertainment of the audience.

A variety of rather well-preserved murals can be seen at Itálica — though many of them are missing their central images.

Main Street Mosaics

We paused by a sign where the remnants of the city wall stood. In Roman times, the entire city was bounded by a walled perimeter. From here, you can glimpse the main sewer line, which runs through the Cardo Maximus (Latin for Main Street).

Beyond the amphitheater, large villas of prosperous families and municipal buildings have been excavated, many with colorful well-preserved mosaics. 

The House of Exedra was a private club of sorts for the elite of Itálica.

Exedra, Exedra, Exedra

Spanning a surface area of 43,056 square feet (4,000 square meters), the Casa de la Exedra was one of the largest municipal buildings in Itálica. Due to its size and the inclusion of specific rooms, like the palestra (an open-air gymnasium) and latrine, historians have suggested that this structure probably served as a private club. Alongside the entrance were five tabernae, or shops.

At the heart of the complex is the peristyle, a garden courtyard featuring a curvilinear fountain. Adjacent to this was the exedra, a semicircular chamber with seating that served as a gathering place for upper-class citizens to engage in scholarly conversation. Originally, this area was covered by a high vault. 

It also featured a thermae, which consisted of a series of rooms designed for bathing with hot, lukewarm and cold water — caldarium, tepidarium and frigidarium, respectively — as well as a changing room for patrons.

Potty humor? The floor mosaic of the latrine is embellished with scenes featuring well-endowed pygmies battling cranes.

As we walked along the perimeter of the structure, we stopped to take a look at the latrine. Although it’s been reduced to a shell, it still retains its marble bench with keyhole-shaped openings. The room was open, and the “toilets” had no partitions between them. When nature called, Romans had no issue hiking up their togas to conduct their business in close proximity to one another.

Look how close you had to sit to other people while taking a dump. Could someone pass the sponge stick, please?

The bench is positioned above a channel where a stream of water once pushed the waste into the underground sewage system. An attendant would provide patrons with a tersorium, a sea sponge affixed to a wooden stick, which was used instead of toilet paper to wipe their nether regions. These communal sponges were then rinsed in running water and submerged in a large pot filled with vinegar to sanitize them. Eww.

“At least they used vinegar,” Wally said.

The god Neptune, king of the sea, rules over a variety of mythological water creatures.

Go Fish: The Neptune Building 

Although it hasn’t been completely excavated, the work carried out to date has indicated that one part of the Edificio de Neptuno functioned as a thermal bath, while another served as a municipal building.

Both structures cover an entire block, and the municipal building has intricate mosaics depicting Theseus and the Minotaur, along with a mosaic of Bacchus, the god of wine. The Theseus mosaic covers the floor of a grand hall and originally had a central panel portraying the divine hero within the Minotaur’s labyrinth. Meanwhile, the Bacchus mosaic features dancing maenads, satyrs, centaurs and tigers — figures typical of Bacchus’ entourage. Similar to the mosaic of Theseus, the depiction of Bacchus, the Greek Dionysus, is also missing.

At the time we visited, the mosaic was covered by netting for protection — but you can see a crocodile chasing a pygmy at the bottom.

The building that contained the bathhouse retains the remnants of its underground heating system. Within the frigidarium is the mosaic that gives the buildings its name. At its center is the sea god, wielding his trident atop a chariot pulled by two seahorses and surrounded by dolphins, fish molluscs and crustaceans. Its border includes scenes of fishing and combat with Egyptian iconography, depicting a hippopotamus, a palm tree, and the clearly popular but bizarre motif of pygmies battling cranes and crocodiles.

The remains of an oven from a bakery, one of the tabernae, or shops that lined the street-side of these luxurious villas.

Tabernae: Rome’s Retail Therapy

Tabernae could often be found along the perimeter of a household and served as an extra source of income for the owner of a villa. They included a variety of businesses, ranging from bakeries selling fresh loaves of bread to shops that produced small terracotta oil lamps called lucernes, and fullonicae, a kind of laundry or dry cleaner, where clothing was washed in a basin and agitated with a mixture of soda ash and urine. (Hey, apparently it worked.)

The main mosaic at the House of the Birds features various bird species, including a peacock, owl, rooster, pigeon, sparrow, heron, goose, parrot and mallard duck.

Pecking Order at the House of the Birds

The Casa de los Pájaros, also known as the House of the Birds, was the first domus, a private family residence, to be fully excavated in Itálica and likely belonged to an aristocratic family. Covering approximately 18,298 square feet (1,700 square meters), it’s divided into two primary spaces: a public area open to clients, tabernae and a semi-public area for those closely associated with the family; and a private area restricted to family members.

Kids on a field trip wander around the House of the Birds.

A room at the House of the Birds

A colorful, well-preserved mosaic

The semi-public area was arranged around a peristyle courtyard which would’ve been surrounded by a columned gallery. At the back of this courtyard, there was a niche known as a lararium that held small bronze figures dedicated to Lares and Penates, guardian deities that protected the household. The private rooms, including the triclinium (formal dining room) and cubicula (bedrooms) could be accessed from the courtyard. 

The portion of the mosaic showing Hylas, Hercules’ well-endowed boy toy, getting sexually accosted by nymphs has been removed and is now in the Archaeological Museum of Seville.

Hylas, the Horse Hung Hero

Yet another elite residence in Itálica is the partially excavated Casa de Hylas, or House of Hylas. The northernmost courtyard connects to an anteroom, which served as a passage to the room housing the mosaic of Hylas, after which the house was named.

This mosaic portrays Hylas, the favored companion and lover of Hercules, being seduced and abducted by nymphs while collecting water from a spring. I’m certainly no prude, but the mosaic has a scene that made me clutch my pearls. One of the nymphs has her hand wrapped around Hylas’ calf while the other is clearly pulling his dick.

As mentioned earlier, this section of the mosaic has been removed and is now exhibited at the Archaeological Museum of Seville, leaving the surrounding geometric-patterned mosaic incomplete without its central image.

A mosaic at the House of the Planetarium depicts the Roman gods who were associated with each day of the week. In the bottom right, for example, is Helios, who drove the chariot that pulls the sun across the sky. Not surprisingly, he’s paired with Sunday.

Out of This World: House of the Planetarium 

The last villa that Wally and I saw was the Casa del Planetario, or House of the Planetarium. The floor mosaic has seven medallions with depictions of each of the planetary deities who gave their names to the seven days of the week. This was Wally’s favorite, and he had to elbow some children out of the way to get a good look at it. 

Centaurs and tigers line the mosaic of Bacchus and Ariadne.

The centermost celestial body of the mosaic is Venus, whose likeness is depicted wearing a jeweled crown and necklace, perhaps an allusion to the brightness of this star. As a divinity, she’s associated with Friday, the sixth day of the Roman week, and her prominent position suggests that love, one of her attributes, moves the universe.

Surrounding Venus are Helios (Sunday), Luna (Monday), Mars (Tuesday) Mercury (Wednesday), Jupiter (Thursday) and Saturn (Saturday). 

The gladiator Wally celebrates yet another stunning win.

Tips for Itálica

We had an incredible time and spent about two and a half hours leisurely exploring the site. It exceeded my expectations. We were impressed by the sheer scale of the amphitheater and the quality of the mosaics. Except for a school field trip, complete with costumed chaperones dressed in Roman garb, the crowds were sparse, which made it feel like we had the place (somewhat) to ourselves. Plus, the majestic cypress trees dotting the landscape lend Itálica an atmospheric charm.

This elevated spot in Itálica offers a scenic view of the cobbled Roman road and the town of Santiponce.

On a practical note, remember to wear comfortable shoes for your visit and to bring sunscreen; there was little to no shade throughout the park. Also drink plenty of water. We brought two large bottles of water and snacks with us and were glad we did because there is no longer a café on the premises. 

If you’re seeking a fun half-day trip close to Sevilla, I highly suggest hopping on the bus to Itálica. The archeological site’s ancient charms will be part of the mosaic of your memories. –Duke

Why Vitellius, the Little-Known Roman Emperor, Haunts Artistic Masterpieces

The legendary glutton pops up in numerous works of art throughout the centuries. Renowned classicist Mary Beard unravels the mysteries behind Vitellius’ ubiquitous appearances in artworks and sheds light on the significance of his portrayal. 

Most people nowadays aren’t familiar with Emperor Vitellius — but he was once well known as a depraved glutton.

Chances are you’ve never heard of Emperor Vitellius — he ruled the Roman Empire for just eight months in 69 CE during the civil wars that followed the overthrow of Nero. 

But despite his brief reign, Vitellius left a lasting impression — though not necessarily a positive one. Of course, that’s nothing out of the ordinary when it comes to Roman emperors. 

Like many of his cohorts, Vitellius was known for his vices, particularly his gluttony. His signature dish, the Shield of the Goddess Minerva, was a concoction that included livers of pipefish, peacock brains, flamingo tongues and lamprey innards. Umm, I’ll pass, thanks. 

Not surprisingly, the adjective “Vitellian” was once commonly used to describe something that was over-the-top and outlandish.

In addition to his gluttony, Vitellius was reputed to be a sadist, quoted as having said, “The stench of a dead enemy is wonderful. The stench of a dead fellow citizen is even better.” 

Mary Beard, a famous classicist, and author of the new book Emperor of Rome: Ruling the Ancient Roman World

And “in his spare time, he was a sexual pervert,” quipped Mary Beard, one of the most renowned classics scholars and author of the book SPQR, during a lecture at the Art Institute of Chicago. 

Beard didn’t get into it, but let’s just say Tiberius gave Vitellius the nickname Tight Ass — and it had nothing to do with being stingy. 

The Feast in the House of Levi by Paul Veronese, 1573

The painting has not one but two figures modeled after Emperor Vitellius!

Vitellius: The Where’s Waldo of the Ancient World

Despite his lackluster reputation, Vitellius’ image has been copied, reinvented and reincorporated into Western art for centuries. Beard explored the significance of this often-overlooked figure and why he continues to pop up in art even today.

Take, for example, Paul Veronese’s painting The Feast in the House of Levi from 1573. Painted in Venice for a religious order, it was originally intended to depict the Last Supper. But when the Inquisition objected to this representation because it included animals, a jester, Germans and a server with a bloody face, Veronese changed its name to another feast from the Bible.

Beard pointed out a figure in the painting who’s gazing across at Jesus, utterly transfixed. It’s none other than Vitellius. So what’s he doing in there? 

It’s revealing a major coup for Christ. “Here, Jesus is converting one of the most despicable, immoral Roman emperors ever,” she explained. 

But, strangely enough, that’s not the only Vitellius in the artwork. His face also shows up as a server. “This is a clever spin on Vitellius’ gluttony because here we see one of Rome’s biggest overconsumers being turned into a server himself,” Beard said. 

If you want to show depravity, as Thomas Couture did in his 1847 work The Romans in Their Decadence, you need look no further than Emperor Vitellius, whose face can be found below the topless woman on the left.

In Thomas Couture’s painting The Romans in Their Decadence (nicknamed The Orgy) from 1847, Vitellius creeps up again. He’s shown in the midst of a pile of drunken revelers, so comatose he doesn’t even notice the naked woman near him.

An American magazine declared this work “the greatest sermon in paint ever rendered,” Beard told us. It was even suggested that a reproduction of it should be displayed prominently in every school in the United States — naked woman and all.

The canvas is filled with sprawling, drunken revelers in various states of undress. While it’s showing a graphic depiction of Ancient Rome’s moral decline, there was also a contemporary message to it: People viewed it as an attack on the disparities of wealth in France at the time and the blatant immorality of the bourgeoisie.

Vitellius Dragged Through the Streets of Rome by Georges Rochegrosse, 1883

The emperor ruled only briefly, and met a gruesome end — beaten, impaled on a hook and thrown into the Tiber River.

“If you knew what happened to Vitellius at the very end, when he’d lost power — dragged through the streets, tortured, beaten to death, impaled on a hook and thrown into the Tiber — if you knew that, I think you’d see in this figure a strong hint that this scene of debauchery and the modern lifestyle it evoked was doomed,” Beard said. “A very nasty punishment was around the corner.”

This painting, by Jean-Léon Gérôme, was once known as Hail, Caesar! We Who Are About to Die Salute You — until it was spotted that the emperor was actually Vitellius.

And there’s Jean-Léon Gérôme’s 19th century painting of the gladiatorial games — a representation that’s said to have inspired director Ridley Scott’s Gladiator. It’s a painting known as Hail, Caesar! We Who Are About to Die Salute You. But if you zoom in on the emperor, it’s — sure enough — none other than Vitellius. There’s no doubt; it’s even got his name painted below him. 

The title changed to Gladiators Before Vitellius. “Now, learned pedants, of which I know there are some in the audience, may have spotted a historical problem here,” Beard said, “which is this is clearly in the Coliseum, but the Coliseum wasn’t yet built by the reign of Vitellius.”

The legendary Grimani Vitellius, which pops up in numerous paintings, has a shocking secret.

Busted! The Grimani Vitellius

So why does Vitellius keep showing up in artworks? 

For the most part, we can thank a bust that’s become known as the Grimani Vitellius.  

This famous ancient image of Vitellius was excavated in Rome in the early 16th century under the direction of Cardinal Domenico Grimani and was bequeathed by him to the city of Venice upon his death in 1523.

“Now, I am by no means the first to spot how ubiquitous the Grimani Vitellius is,” Beard continued. But what was the significance? “Why copy this image of Vitellius? What extra does it bring to your painting if you include him? What ideological or moral register is at work?”

The Grimani Vitellius bust became the perfect symbol of an amoral glutton — which is why it has been copied hundreds of times from the 15th century on.

Boy Drawing Before the Bust of a Roman Emperor by Michael Sweerts, circa 1660

The bust itself even appears in paintings, such as Boy Drawing Before the Bust of a Roman Emperor by Michael Sweerts, from the mid-1600s.

“You can say this is just a convenient visual source to copy,” Beard said. “But I think you miss a lot if you don’t also think `Vitellius.’ When people use recognizable faces in paintings, they usually do it for a reason. And they expect you to recognize it.”

There could be a darker intent in this work, Beard suggested. “Anyone who knew anything would surely have said, Why on Earth did they put this little innocent lad to draw that sexually perverted monster — even if he is the acme of the craft of sculpture. And I can’t help thinking … there are bigger questions about the potentially corrupting force of art.”

But that fat fuck is having the last laugh. The Grimani Vitellius isn’t even a portrait of Vitellius! Technical details, such as the way the eyes have been drilled, make it clear that it dates from the 2nd century and cannot possibly be Vitellius. 

The bust, also known as the Pseudo-Vitellius, actually depicts an unknown Roman probably from the 120s or 130s CE who, by coincidence, was unfortunate enough to look very much like the coin portrait of the emperor. 

A gold coin depicting Vitellius. The emperor’s depiction is what led to the mislabeling of the Pseudo-Vitellius bust.

Emperor Vitellius: The Art World’s Fascination With an Infamous Ruler

It’s fascinating to think that this bust, which was not even of Vitellius, spread like wildfire and has had such a lasting impact in art. 

So the next time you’re wandering through an art gallery or museum, keep an eye out for Vitellius. Thanks to Beard, I predict he’ll have a comeback. –Wally

Lead White: The Deadliest Color?

Other ways to make white pigment paled in comparison — but was it worth the risk of lead poisoning?

Queen Elizabeth I loved her white makeup (made from a toxic blend of lead and vinegar) so much that she supposedly had an inch’s worth on her face when she died.

White: the color that evokes the purity of freshly fallen snow and the innocence of virgins. If you’ve ever flicked through a bridal magazine, you can’t help but notice the color white — though you no longer need be chaste to wear it.

But how can one of the earliest and most important pigments produced by mankind be one of the deadliest in the history of color? Its popularity was all the more alarming, given that it could result in lead poisoning (also referred to as painters’ colic or plumbism). Adult symptoms include headaches, abdominal cramps, joint and muscle pain and high blood pressure. Children can suffer developmental delays, learning difficulties and weight loss.

“Geishas used lead white makeup — it contrasted beautifully with their teeth, which they painted black.”

Japanese geishas are part of a long line of standards of beauty that decree that the whiter the skin the lovelier.

A Recipe for Lead White: Don’t Try This at Home 

Since antiquity, artists have used pigments to represent the colors they saw in the natural world. Lead was used  as the principal white pigment in paintings and glazes from ancient times until the 20th century. 

The statues you see in museums and at historic sites were originally painted — and that often included the poisonous lead white.

The laborious process was documented by Roman author and naturalist Pliny the Elder. First, pour a bit of vinegar into the bottom of an earthenware pot. Place a wooden spacer in the pot with a coiled band of lead on top so that only the rising vapors from the vinegar come in contact with the metal. The clay vessel was then surrounded by fresh animal dung and left in a sealed chamber for 30 days. As the manure fermented, it released carbon dioxide, which reacted with the vinegar and chemically corroded the lead, producing the perfect conditions for white papery flakes to grow. 

Pliny the Elder shared his recipe for the bright but toxic shade of white made from lead.

After a month or so, some poor soul was sent to retrieve the pieces of lead, which were now covered with a crust of lead carbonate. This was scraped, cleaned and washed to remove impurities. The raw pigment was ground into powder, formed into small cakes and left to dry in the sun for several days before being sold.

Sure, the process to make lead white cakes could lead to severe ailments — but it was just so bright and pretty!

The resulting pigment was highly valued by artists. Affordable and dense, painters swore by its ease to work with and primed their canvases with it to make their works appear more luminous. 

Art historians are also grateful for its use. When combined with the use of x-ray imaging technology, the paint reveals details such as the earlier stages, alterations and additions of a painting. 

A self-portrait of James McNeill Whistler, who used lead white paint in his works.

Whistler: What a Mama's Boy

One such painter who used lead white was the American-born, British-based artist James McNeill Whistler (1834-1903). Whistler is perhaps best remembered for the iconic portrait, painted in 1871, of his mother. Titled Arrangement in Grey and Black, No. 1, most know it as Whistler’s Mother. It was the first artwork by an American artist to be purchased by the French government for display in a museum. When it’s not traveling, it resides at the Musée d'Orsay in Paris. The painting represents the peak of Whistler’s radical method of modulating tones of a single color.  

This technique began years earlier when he submitted The White Girl to the 1862 Royal Academy of Arts exhibition in London to demonstrate his talents to the world. The ethereal painting depicts his mistress, Joanna Hiffernan, a well-known beauty who modeled for other artists of the day. Tousled locks of red hair frame her expressionless face as she stands atop a wolfskin rug that, to me, disturbingly resembles the pelt of a yellow Lab. 

Whistler’s The White Girl was deemed too modern for the Salon exhibition in Paris.

As far as the British were concerned, the work was too avant-garde. It was rejected by the Academy and ended up in the Salon des Refusés, a protest exhibition organized by the French painter Gustave Courbet.  

Whistler later retitled the work Symphony in White, No.1, perhaps after empathetic art critic Paul Manz commented on the subtle variations of white in the Gazette des Beaux-Arts as a “symphonie du blanc.”

Geishas still wear a stark white makeup as a sort of mask.

The Lingering Perception That Pale Is Beautiful 

In addition to painting, lead white was used in cosmetics. The controversial quest for lighter skin and its association with beauty, social status and wealth has existed since Ancient Egypt. Women of Ancient Greece and Rome whitened their skin with powders and creams made from lead. Japanese geishas also used it — it contrasted beautifully with their teeth, which they had fashionably painted black using a solution of powdered oak galls and vinegar.

Japanese felt that a geisha’s stark white skin paired perfectly with blackened teeth.

The beauty product Snail White (made from actual snail secretions!) is said to leave your skin more pale — and therefore more beautiful.

When Wally and I visited Thailand, we saw shelves at the 7-Elevens stocked with pink and white boxes of Snail White skincare products to give you paler skin. The main ingredient? Mucus secreted by snails. Pretty!

Queen Elizabeth I first began using her lead white makeup as a sort of putty to spackle smallpox scarring.

Fit For a Queen: From Elizabeth I to Laird’s Bloom of Youth

What could have possessed 15th century European courtiers to smear the stuff on their faces? Queen Elizabeth I (1533-1603) was 29 years old when she was diagnosed with smallpox. She survived the deadly illness but was left with smallpox-scarred skin. She appreciated the cosmetic’s ability to conceal her scars, so she adopted her now-famous chalk-white visage. The queen used Venetian ceruse (also known as spirits of Saturn), a foundation produced by combining powdered lead and vinegar. While it may have smoothed her complexion, it was exceedingly toxic — especially when worn for long periods of time. 

Elizabeth I’s legendary white makeup was used to help rebrand herself the Virgin Queen.

Elizabeth used her image to frame the narrative of a virgin queen who didn’t need a husband — she was wedded to her country. When she died at the age of 69, it was rumored that she had a full inch of makeup on her face, which, ironically, may have contributed to her death. 

Commercial lead makeup products like George W. Laird’s Bloom of Youth were introduced in the 19th century. Laird ran a series of advertisements in fashionable New York magazines, promising to smooth and whiten the skin. 

“It will immediately obliterate all such imperfections, and is entirely harmless. It has been chemically analyzed by the Board of Health of New York City and pronounced entirely free from any material injurious to the health or skin,” the ad (untruthfully) claimed.

Laird’s Bloom of Youth claimed to be harmless — but it wasn’t!

Women took notice and applied Laird’s Bloom of Youth foundation to their faces. Perhaps some women thought that a little bit wouldn’t hurt, and by the time the truth was clear, it was probably too late. –Duke