In the paintings of Juan Luna, instead of surface we get inner space. Instead of the exquisite, we get mass and volume.
Instead of the grotesque and the fantastic, we get a stubborn realism: a man with a broken violin string; a girl on the ladder picking fruit; two ladies in a box at
the theatre; a rag-picker with a sack on his back; sweltering workers in a factory.
Instead of stillness and tranquility, we get action, violent action.
In the Spoliarium the bloody bodies of gladiators are being dragged to the garbage dump while
their families lament. In People and Kings a raging mob is desecrating the tombs in a church.
Instead of the contemplative, we get tension: the tension between two lovers who have just
quarreled, the tension of a mother threatening her little boy, the tension of flower vendors
watching a great funeral. And instead of detachment and delicate, we get pity and horror, anger and agony.
In the Blood Compact, poor Rajah Sikatuna is being crowded out of the picture
by Legazpi and his fellow conquistadores. And Luna's portrait of Governor-General Blanco is actually a sarcastic picture of all those
medals glittering on the general's chest.
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