Goya's The Third of May, 1808. The scene is laid in darkness outside Madrid, where the city's captured defenders face a firing-squad. Some already lie dead, boltered with pink gore; meanwhile, the squad 'a faceless testudo' takes aim again. The eye is drawn to a man, arms raised, pleading for his life. A point of suspension between life and death, he effectively sabotages the representation. His shirt is a splash of paint so incandescently white it looks as if it belongs in a Persil ad. One dwells on the improbably lingering moment, his dazzling shirt, the wayward compositional lines; and the longer you look the odder it gets.

LRB 25 November 1999 | PDF Download