José: Kate, since you are an art historian: With how many eyes can a work of art be read? Kate: I feel like that this is a trick, a—how do you say it? A jigsaw puzzle, because I only have two eyes. José: Yes, but always art historians have multiple dialogues with other historians, right? Who analyze and see certain works, right? Kate: Yes, always, always I can put on my glasses to see the painting in detail, or also my telescope to see it from afar. José: So, today we are going to debate a little bit about vision and the different ways of seeing a work of art. Today’s object is a painting by Juan de Juanes, painted between 1553 and 1557, titled The Mystical Betrothal of the Venerable Agnesio, which is currently in the Museum of Fine Arts of Valencia. So, welcome to: Kate: Las Cosas tienen vida tienen vida. José: This is a podcast in which we talk about the history of a historical object with the researcher who studies it, and this week we have the pleasure of speaking with Borja Franco. Borja is a tenured professor in the Department of Art History at UNED. His research is dedicated to the representation of Muslims and Moriscos in the Iberian Peninsula, who converted to the Catholic faith during the 15th and 16th centuries, and he is currently working on artistic patronage in Hispanic territories of the 16th century. Welcome, Borja. Kate: Welcome. Borja: Hello, good day, how are you? José: Thank you for accepting this interview, and as always, we start with the description of this painting. How would you describe it? Borja: This is one of the most classical paintings of the Valencian Renaissance. It is composed of three triangles. From left to right, Juan Bautista Agnesio is depicted with Saint Agnes. In the center, the Virgin with some innocent children, accompanied by Saint John the Baptist and Saint John the Evangelist. Completing the composition, on the right, in a third triangle, we find Saint Dorothy and Theophilus, creating a perfectly symmetrical composition in the style of the purest Italian Renaissance. Kate: And who painted this painting of three triangles? Borja: This painting was made by Juan de Juanes. Juan de Juanes was the son of Vicente Macip, and that is why he was called Juan Macip, but he decided to change his name, to Latinize it due to his contact with humanists and intellectuals of the place, and to become Joan de Joanes, as he is known in the Crown of Aragon. Kate: And Borja, you said that Joan de Joanes had a relationship with the humanists. I would like to know what the humanist atmosphere was like in 16th-century Valencia. Borja: Well, the truth is that the Valencian environment at the beginning of the 16th century was very rich. We have translators of Erasmus of Rotterdam, one of the most important humanists in Europe at the time. In fact, Valencian painting has been studied with Erasmus as its key, with these ideas of piety and devotion that we find in Erasmus' work, or with the figure of the Christian knight fighting against heresy. We must keep in mind that in 1517 the theses against the Catholic Church were presented and that the forced conversion of the Moriscos in Valencia took place between 1520 and 1526. So, it was a perfect moment to think and speculate about the role of the Church as a knight against evil. These are the ideas that were taking root in society. We also find many followers of Juan Luis Vives, another of the most important humanists of the time, but overall, it was a moment of very significant cultural ferment. We must also consider that Valencia was one of the busiest ports in the Mediterranean, where literary works arrived quickly. Even later, near the end of his life, Juan de Juanes saw the arrival in Valencia of Archbishop Patriarch Ribera, one of the most intellectual figures of the time. In short, it was a place of intense cultural activity, both among the nobility and at the university, which is one of the oldest in the Iberian Peninsula. José: And why was it painted? Was it due to some patronage or for a particular place? Borja: Yes, it was a very interesting work because it was painted for the chapel of the Centelles, a noble family from Oliva. Juan Bautista Agnesio, who appears on the left, was the teacher, the tutor of one of the family members. So, it is assumed—because there is no contract for the work—that when this humanist passed away, in honor of all his work, they commissioned a painting from the best painter in the area, Juan de Juanes, to decorate their chapel in the Cathedral. Let’s not forget that this humanist was also a beneficiary of the Cathedral, a very important person. In fact, he even appears painted in another work by the same painter above the baptismal font. He was a well-known figure. Kate: And who decided on that type of iconography? That is, was it the commissioner or was it Juan de Juanes? Borja: Well, it's very complex because, as I said, there is no contract for the work, so we can only speculate. It is true that the triangular composition is very clear. We have Gilabert de Centelles and the Centelles family, who wanted to show gratitude for the work done—both in educating their children and in the conversion of Muslims in Valencian territory. We have a painter who knew the humanist—meaning they had collaborated before—and, as I mentioned, he had already depicted him in another work in the Cathedral. Then, there is the humanist himself, who was the one being honored. I believe it was a collaboration between them all—the noble family, which was very intellectual and had ties to the Borja family (who were the Dukes of Gandía). Gandía and Oliva are geographically close, and there were even political alliances between them. Later, they even united through marriage, merging both lineages. So, I think everyone played a role: the family, which had been educated by the humanist, and the artist, who had been educated in an intellectual environment in Valencia, surrounded by other important humanists and nobles, such as Mencía de Mendoza, who had an extremely important art collection. In fact, she was the one who brought the first Bosch paintings to Spain. So, he lived in a highly intellectual atmosphere, and for him, I don’t think it was difficult to conceive the composition. José: In the image, we can see these very vivid colors, these much more naturalistic images—there are flowers, etc. What style does Juan de Juanes follow? To which school can we assign him? Borja: Well, that’s a good question because there is much debate about it. We believe that this work was created after a trip to Italy, and we have spent years and years trying to document Juan de Juanes’ presence in Italy, but no document has yet been found to confirm it. However, the latest infrared studies—the techniques that penetrate one micron into the oil paint—have shown that the underlying drawing, that is, the painter’s signature style, is entirely Italian, in a way that could not have been learned through copying or by simply having works by artists like the Hernandos (who worked in Valencia) in front of him. Instead, it must have been learned by painting within the Italian environment. For this reason, scholars are discussing not just one trip to Rome, but two. These trips to Rome strongly connect his work to that of Leonardo, and especially to Raphael. That’s why we see that sweetness in the faces, those vibrant colors. And it’s also interesting that this painting coincides with his father’s death, and there is a gap of years without any production. That production gap perfectly aligns with a trip to Italy for training and artistic renewal. And one last anecdote—if you look at the background, you can see something resembling a coliseum or an amphitheater, as well as a pyramid like the Pyramid of Cestius in Rome. This starts to appear in this artist’s work around 1550–1555, just about the time this painting was made, and it doesn’t seem to be copied from a print, but rather from direct observation. There are many clues emerging, but also many gaps, so there is still curiosity about learning more about this artist. José: And now I come to a question that I think you will like because it relates to otherness, right? Here, in theory, these children are depicted. You said they are Moriscos, but they don’t look like Moriscos. How does this relationship work? Who are these children? Borja: That is a very interesting question because precisely what I reinterpret in this painting lies in these figures—the children depicted here. Juan Bautista Agnesio, the humanist I mentioned at the beginning, wrote a book called Pro Saracenis Neofitis, a book that was actually commissioned by Gilabert Centelles. Again, we see the triangle—Gilabert Centelles requests a highly intellectual book about the conversion of the Moriscos. And it’s curious how, in this book of only five pages, several synonyms for "innocents" appear, linked to children, because children do not choose to be born into families of non-believers. You are born where you are born, so they should not be persecuted. What Agnesio tries to explain is that they must be educated. We must keep in mind that, at that time, schools for Moriscos were being created in Valencia exclusively for them. He even uses metaphors with flowers and trees that need to be planted—it’s an intellectual experiment aimed at converting them. So, if this painting is a tribute to Agnesio, honoring his role as an intellectual and converter of Moriscos, and on the right, in the last triangle mentioned, we see a conversion—a voluntary one, that of Theophilus (who converts after a miracle)—why not represent here the peaceful conversion that Agnesio was writing about in his texts? Because, if we also recall another painting by Juan de Juanes in the Cathedral, where Agnesio is depicted holding a book, The Baptism of Christ, there is an inscription saying: Do it as I do, without disputes. In other words, Agnesio was advocating, even at the baptismal font, for baptizing without conflict, without coercion, unlike what had been done in Granada under Cisneros. All of this led me to think about these children—perhaps they were the same "innocents" that Agnesio so frequently referenced in his writings, which mention them repeatedly despite being only four pages long. And another interesting detail is that the evangelist depicted writing is not Matthew, who is usually the one who speaks about the Massacre of the Innocents. Perhaps this suggests that these innocents are not the biblical innocents, but rather the innocent Moriscos. And to complicate things even further, I must say that this research took me several years and many debates with colleagues. The Virgin is the Virgin of the Innocents, the patroness of Valencia, an iconography that has been linked to both children and the insane. In this case, the Morisco children—those who were not to blame for what they were suffering. So, all these relationships that I have been explaining very quickly and hurriedly are what led me to consider that perhaps there was a symbolic image here. And you might ask, Did people understand this? And my answer is: it depends on who was looking at it. Why? Just like Pro Saracenis Neofitis, which was a text in Latin that—honestly—took me four months to read just five pages due to its complexity (and I had to seek help from philologists), this was not a text meant for the common people, for the middle and lower classes. This painting, when seen by someone from the middle or lower class, would simply depict the Virgin of the Innocents in the center. However, those in the Centelles' circle, among the Valencian nobility accustomed to the intellectual complexity of Juanes’ and Agnesio’s work, might have understood all these layers because the painting contains many elements, many markers that could help in this interpretation. So, I see different levels of perception of the artwork. Kate: And what is the relationship between the image and the text? We see a text above, but we also see two books below the painting. Borja: Yes, the truth is that the texts are very interesting—not only the one you mentioned above, but also those that have been lost. The original frame, which disappeared when the painting was moved from the Cathedral to the Museum of Fine Arts, also had inscriptions linked to the iconography. But let’s start with the one that is visible and can still be seen in the painting. The inscription at the top states that the cross is the path to salvation. That is what it says in Latin, and it is written in perfectly correct Latin—because Juanes knew how to write. In fact, we have texts written by his own hand. And this aligns with the entire theme of the painting. Below, we see John the Baptist pushing, almost pressing the children toward the cross. The cross has been an element of preaching since the Middle Ages; it is a symbol of teaching. So, the painting is indicating that the path to being a good Christian is to pray to the cross and submit to what the preachers were doing with the Morisco children. Next to the Virgin, we see a floral crown—a crown made of flowers—which is linked to the Epistles of Saint Paul, where it is stated that a floral crown represents victory, doing the right thing—just like the laurel wreaths given to athletes, although that comes from a different tradition. So, the message here is that the correct process is to preach, to be baptized voluntarily, to embrace the cross, and to be saved. Additionally, as I mentioned, two more inscriptions were lost with the frame. One of them was on the left, next to the marriage of Agnesio with Saint Agnes. This marriage takes place in a dream of the humanist, and it begins with the phrase Flee from here, escape from Sardanapalus. What does that mean? It suggests that Saint Agnes and Agnesio should distance themselves from Sardanapalus. Sardanapalus was an Eastern satrap, which symbolically links to Asia, Islam, and the Orient. So, this is another hidden reference in the painting. Why did the painter specifically reference Sardanapalus in this work? Because the sophisticated viewer—the intellectual viewer—could make these connections. These are subtle clues scattered throughout the painting. As for the books at the bottom, I must admit that I still don’t know their exact meaning. Perhaps they reference Agnesio’s own writings, since the message seems to be that to understand this, one must read the humanist to whom the work is dedicated. But because there are no titles visible on the book spines, we cannot confirm it. This is the opposite of what we see in The Baptism of Christ in Valencia Cathedral, where there is a book with an inscription in Hebrew and Greek—again, a signal that this painting is not for everyone, but only for a select audience. Those inscriptions come directly from Agnesio’s writings. I believe these two paintings should be read in parallel, because they feature the same character, the same painter, and likely the same patron. Kate: At the beginning of this conversation, you told us that this painting was made for a chapel, but now you just mentioned that the frame disappeared and that the painting ended up in a museum. Can you tell us more about that transition? Borja: Yes, Spanish cathedrals underwent significant renovations at various points in history. The Valencia Cathedral was remodeled at the end of the 18th and beginning of the 19th century. The entire Gothic structure was covered with Neoclassical elements to modernize it. Specifically, the Centelles and Borja chapel, which at one point belonged to the Osuna family due to marriage ties, underwent a complete transformation. The Gothic and Renaissance decoration was replaced. The centerpiece became a painting of Saint Francis Borgia by Maella, and on the left and right sides, two of the earliest paintings by Francisco de Goya were placed—The Departure of Borgia from the Ducal Palace of Gandía and Borgia Performing a Miracle on a Possessed Man. So, the chapel’s decoration was modernized, but there was a significant decision made regarding what to do with the existing artwork. Instead of discarding or selling it, as happened with many other decorations, the Cathedral authorities consulted the Academy of San Carlos, which is the Academy of Fine Arts (similar to the Academy of San Fernando in Madrid). Ultimately, because the Museum of Fine Arts of Valencia was closely linked to the Academy of San Carlos, the painting was transferred to the museum’s collection. This transition reflects the evolving tastes within the Cathedral itself. It shows how beloved this painting was—rather than being discarded, it became the centerpiece of the museum’s 16th-century collection. José: Thank you very much, because this is incredibly deep and detective-like—connecting everything and weaving together something that at first seems completely disjointed. So, we would love to know how you came across this image, how you as a researcher discovered it and decided to investigate it further. Borja: Well, ever since I started researching, I have focused on 16th-century Valencian painting. I was passionate about Valencian painting. And in this painting—which, by the way, is the one that structures the discourse of the Museum of Fine Arts of Valencia, where I did my internship during my studies—something didn’t quite add up for me. For example, the texts by Daniel Benito or Benito Doménech, the museum director who curated major exhibitions on Juan de Juanes in the last century, stated that Dorotea is depicted here because Juan de Juanes' daughter was named Dorotea. But I thought—this doesn't make sense. On the left, we have the mystical marriage of Agnesio, which is essentially a glorification—he is marrying a saint in a sacra conversazione. In the center, we have an image so iconic to Valencia—the Virgin of the Innocents, the predecessor of today’s patroness, the Virgin of the Forsaken. And on the right, we supposedly have a self-referential nod to Juan de Juanes’ daughter? That didn’t fit at all. Additionally, I also noticed that Dorotea should be holding an apple, according to Santiago de la Vorágine’s hagiographic texts. But she wasn’t—she was holding a pomegranate. And then I thought—perhaps this pomegranate is the key to everything. So, I started researching—what does a woman with a pomegranate represent? And I found Cesare Ripa’s iconography, where a woman with a pomegranate symbolizes concord. A woman with a pomegranate also represents the Church, because—just like it is a single fruit containing many seeds—it symbolizes the unity of diverse communities. And beyond that, the pomegranate is a symbol of Granada, the city that was conquered in 1492. That led me to rethink everything, and it eventually led me to read the works of Agnesio. As I mentioned, it was incredibly difficult to understand his writings, but I began to uncover relationships between innocence, peaceful conversion, and the conversion of Theophilus—which was also a peaceful one. When Theophilus converted, all the idols in the city were destroyed. This, in turn, connects to the sin of idolatry—the very accusation made against Muslims. I started forming theories, and at first, I thought—maybe I’m overinterpreting, maybe I’m going too far, and this can’t be right. But I was fortunate to be at Johns Hopkins University at that time, where I met Felipe Pereda, who had worked extensively on the topic of Moriscos. He read my work. Then, I shared it with Mateo Serra, Mercedes Gómez-Ferrer, Antonio Urquizar, and other researchers specializing in Valencian painting and 16th-century Spanish art. I asked them—please tell me if this makes sense or if I’m just imagining things. And the response was yes—it made sense. With some minor refinements and ideas I incorporated along the way, the research evolved into a fully collaborative chapter in a book. I deeply appreciate every idea they contributed. And this is something I always tell my students: you must share your texts with others so they can read, help, complement, and improve them. In the end, this interpretation took shape, and—although it may sound self-important to say—I believe in it more and more. The more I read Agnesio’s texts, the more I study Juan de Juanes’ paintings, the more I see how he created works designed to convert. So why not believe that this painting carries that same meaning? Of course, if a new document were to surface—if we were to finally find the missing contract for the commission—I would be open to changing my interpretation. I am open to discussion with anyone who wants to debate this. But it has been a very long process. Even with interruptions, this research took three years of work. Kate: And now comes our trick question—if you could ask this painting anything, and it could answer, what would you ask? Borja: I would ask them—what do you mean? Please, tell me! Because for me, this is the key painting of Valencian Renaissance art. There is no more strictly Renaissance work—with its three triangles, with its coronation. In my opinion, along with Catalina and Áñez, this is one of the greatest 16th-century Spanish paintings. Of course, some might call me nationalist for saying this—because I’m Valencian—but to me, this painting holds so much to be discovered. I would also ask it: When were you painted? At what moment were you created? Some say that, as I mentioned, this was a tribute to Agnesio—which means he was already dead when it was painted. But maybe not—maybe Agnesio was alive and orchestrating the entire commission. Maybe he dictated the meaning, because he was the foremost scholar of his own writings. If we compare this to The Baptism of Christ, where Agnesio is depicted above the baptismal font, he appears much younger. There are about twenty years of difference between the two paintings. So, my questions would be: What do you mean? Was Agnesio still alive when you were painted? I wish it could answer. José: That is incredibly interesting because often, people assume that a painting’s historiographical canon is already established—that it contains so much information that there is nothing left to discover. But in reality, there are still so many gaps! And this allows other researchers to join this ship of knowledge—or perhaps the ship of fools, depending on how you see it—so they can further explore this image and its interpretation. To help our audience dive deeper into this topic, could you suggest some bibliography? Borja: Yes, this work has been studied by multiple authors. In fact, one of the first monographs on Juan de Juanes was written by Albi, a catalog of Juanes' paintings. Later, Daniel Benito Goerlich, a professor at the University of Valencia, wrote a specific article about this painting. I expand upon and contradict some of his points, as I have mentioned, with new interpretations that have emerged. It is also included in the catalog of Vicente Macip, Juan de Juanes’ father, as well as in the catalog of Juan de Juanes from the exhibition curated by Benito Doménech. And if you want to see my deep dive into this painting—how I built this interpretation—you can find it in the final chapter of the book I wrote together with Paco Moreno, Pintando al Converso (Painting the Convert). In it, I expand even further and construct an entire universe of other artists and authors connected to the Borja family and the Centelles family to support my interpretation. We must remember that they were close friends of the Borja family, and let’s not forget that Francisco de Borja became the Superior General of the Jesuits. It was an intensely intellectual environment, which is often overshadowed by the focus on the Madrid court. But other regions of the Iberian Peninsula—whether Seville, Barcelona, or Valencia—had their own intellectual microspaces that contributed significantly. So, I invite you all to read what we have written and form your own opinion—whether you agree or not with my interpretation. Kate: Perfect. Thank you so much for such an interesting conversation. Borja: Thank you for your interest. Kate: José, after this fascinating conversation with Borja, what have you learned? José: I’ve learned about the multiple perspectives, the many eyes through which one can view a work of art. There are the people who originally saw it in a certain way. Then there are Borja’s eyes, which see it differently and reveal new, deeply important aspects—such as its connection to the expulsion of the Moriscos, for example. It shows how something that might seem straightforward—just another Renaissance painting with traditional iconography—actually has profound links to its historical context. And, of course, this highlights the crucial role of the historian in connecting all these loose ends, ultimately leading to a richer, more insightful interpretation. Kate: Yes! And I love how you focus on people, because that’s always your approach. But I also want to bring us back to the object itself. Borja raised the question of whether Juan de Juanes actually traveled to Rome, and how scholars are still searching for documents to confirm this. But I think—as Borja pointed out—the painting itself tells us that he was there, or at the very least, that he trained there. Because he brought back the technique, and his technique is purely Italian. So, it’s important to listen to the object—it tells us about its own production history. José: Absolutely! And we’re always grateful to our guests because they open our eyes. We started this conversation with one perception of this painting, and now we leave with another. And that’s exactly what we aim for with this podcast, right?—for our audience to experience that shift in perspective. So, thank you all for listening to this episode. If you want to see the image of this painting, you can find it on our Instagram. Kate: @Las cosas tienen vida. José: And you can listen to us on all platforms—Spotify, Apple Music, and more. And please, if you could give us a star rating, that would be amazing! This season has been sponsored by the RSA Grant for Public Engagement Project in Renaissance Studies, so we thank the RSA for their funding. See you in the next episode! Kate: See you soon! Bye-bye!