The legitimacy of comics as an art form has long been debated. This debate over legitimacy parallels the status of painting in the seventeenth century, when it was rather seen as a craft on par with tailoring, shoemaking, or carpentry. This parallel likely inspired scriptwriter Santiago García and illustrator Javier Olivares to craft a graphic novel centered on Diego Velázquez’s masterpiece and his quest for painting’s acceptance as a true art form.1

This article examines García and Olivares’ 2014 graphic novel Las meninas, translated into English as The Ladies-in-Waiting (2017). While it draws from Velázquez’s biography, the graphic novel could more aptly be described as an ‘essay in panels’ about Velázquez’s 1656 masterpiece, Las meninas—hence, the title refers to the painting rather than the artist himself. The plot centers on an investigation into Velázquez’s past to determine whether he qualifies to join the Order of Santiago, whose representative questions several of Velázquez’s close associates, including Alonso Cano, Gaspar de Fuensalida, Bartolomé Esteban Murillo, and Don Juan de Pareja. Through these inquiries, the narrative constructs stories based on the biography of Velázquez, while also revealing anecdotes about historical figures such as King Philip IV of Spain, Alonso Cano, and Jusepe de Ribera. Alongside biographical flashbacks, the graphic novel includes flashforwards that explore how Las meninas was received by artists such as Pablo Picasso, Salvador Dalí, and Francisco Goya, as well as by intellectuals like philosopher Michel Foucault and playwright Buero Vallejo. Whereas the flashbacks re-construct Velázquez’s biography, the flashforwards create a biography of Las meninas itself.

The Ladies-in-Waiting belongs to the comics genre of artist biography. It draws on three essential narrative tools in art history biographical writing: anecdotes, the relationship between life and work, and the presentation of the artist’s oeuvre (Yu-Kiener, 2021, p. 6). However, it also incorporates unique characteristics that allow it to transcend the biographical tradition, such as flashforwards that encourage readers to interpret Velázquez’s work in light of its reception, to present readers with a biofictional account of the painting. The adoption of a detective format transforms the mystery surrounding Las meninas into an unfolding narrative that weaves together multiple layers of meaning that deepen the painting’s interpretation through a rich interplay of real-world facts and fiction.

Agustín Corti argues that the work transcends traditional biography, describing it as a ‘fictional metabiography’—a form of biofiction that, in his words, ‘questions the very possibilities of representing a life and operates on the borders between fictional discourse and historical discourse’ (Corti, 2017, p. 384). While Corti’s analysis centers on the recreation of Velázquez’s biography within the fictional metabiography genre, this paper explores how The Ladies-in-Waiting reconstructs the biography of the painting itself. Through the process of fictionalising the painting, the work offers a unique interpretation of Las meninas.

This analysis of The Ladies-in-Waiting is divided into two parts. The first examines how the graphic novel’s narrative structure mirrors the composition of Las meninas and aligns with the broader characteristics of the Baroque style through its use of narrative techniques that specifically recreate features of Baroque art.2 The second part investigates the major and most influential interpretations of Las meninas that have emerged since its seventeenth-century debut, analyzing how these critical perspectives are woven into the comic’s poetics and highlighted within its storyline. By reorganising and restructuring the painting’s elements—mirroring its composition and integrating art history’s critical perspectives into the poetics of comics—the authors uniquely fictionalise Las meninas, inviting readers to reflect on both the painting itself and the nature of comics as a medium.

Baroque painting is characterised by its dramatic intensity, emotional depth, and use of rich, vivid colours. The mastery of light and shadow, known as chiaroscuro, which artists employed to create strong contrasts and highlight the central elements of a scene, is a hallmark of this style. This technique not only adds a sense of movement and dynamism to the work; it also guides the viewer’s attention to the most critical aspects of the composition. Baroque artworks often convey intense emotions and theatrical expressions that aim to evoke awe or engage the viewer’s empathy. Additionally, baroque artists utilized techniques such as foreshortening and dramatic perspectives to enhance depth and immerse the viewer in the scene. The compositions, which frequently depict scenes from religious narratives, mythology, and dramatic historical events, are typically intricate and detailed, with a strong emphasis on realism and naturalism. Collectively, these elements contribute to the baroque style’s powerful expressiveness, designed to captivate and move its audience.

These central features of baroque art converge in a key observation by Ecuadorian cultural critic Bolívar Echeverría: ‘In Baroque art, the ornamental or rhetorical aspect of the artwork is so exaggerated that the other aspect, its essential function of representing the world, is to some extent subordinated to it’ (2000, p. 207). Drawing upon Theodor Adorno’s concept of decorazione assoluta (or decorazione liberata), Echeverría defines baroque art as a type of ornamentation that serves a unique dual purpose. While it acts as embellishment, it paradoxically becomes an end in itself as this ornamentation develops its own law of form, transcending its status as mere decoration. Despite this autonomy, the ornamentation remains anchored to the work it adorns, forming an additional layer that is superimposed upon or embedded within the original artwork, often in competition with it. Though this ornamental function is technically secondary, it can dominate to the point of overdetermining the primary function or ‘essence’ of the piece. As a result, the ornament’s presence may become so pronounced that viewers might mistake it for the work’s core aspect. In attempting to separate the essential from the ornamental, observers are often left with a ‘disturbing suspicion’ about which element is truly fundamental (pp. 210-212).

Echeverría illustrates decorazione assoluta through Las meninas (Figure 1), where the seemingly central figure, Infanta Margarita Teresa (the daughter of King Philip IV), is surrounded by her palace attendants, including the painter Diego Velázquez himself. Several figures, including Velázquez, gaze directly at the viewer, breaking the fourth wall and blurring the boundary between fiction and reality. However, a closer look at the mirror on the back wall reveals the reflection of King Philip IV and Queen Mariana of Austria—figures situated outside the painting but observed by those within it. This subtle detail shifts the painting’s focus. It becomes clear that the central figure is not the Infanta, but the royal couple, with the scene unfolding from their vantage point. The small yet bright reflection in the mirror emphasises the hierarchical prominence of the king and queen. In this way, the rest of the painting —including the figures of the Infanta and her attendants—acts as a decorative frame, directing attention toward the mirror. Indeed, various compositional elements guide the viewer’s eye to this focal point: Velázquez’s palette, the dwarfs’ upturned fingers, the maid of honor’s inclined body, and José Nieto’s curved arm all form lines that converge toward the mirror. Echeverría suggests that Las meninas could more aptly be titled Portrait of Your Majesties in a Mirror, as the reflection of the royal couple serves as the painting’s true subject, with all other elements serving as secondary, ornamental details.

Similarly, in The Ladies-in-Waiting, nearly every element functions as a decorative addition to its central purpose: to ‘entitle’ Velázquez’s masterpiece, Las meninas. The comic’s narrative structure is outlined as follows.

The story opens with the death of the king, prompting two courtiers to catalogue the royal collection (‘First Narrative’ in Figure 2). One of them, Juan Bautista Martínez del Mazo, Velázquez’s son-in-law, encounters Las meninas. Although he does not list it by name—since Velázquez never titled it—he describes it instead. Dissatisfied with the description, the scribe asks Mazo for its title. However, Mazo withholds his answer until the book’s end, after all the other stories within the cataloguing scene have unfolded. This narrative structure implies that each element functions as an ornament, contributing to the ultimate goal of unraveling the mystery of Las meninas, symbolized by the act of naming the painting. This intention is further reflected in the graphic novel’s depiction of the various titles and descriptions the painting has acquired throughout history: ‘Obra culminante de la pintura universal’ (p. 39), ‘La teología de la pintura’ (p. 145), ‘La familia de Felipe IV’ (p. 182).

The driving force behind this complex, layered story is the investigation conducted by the representative of the Order of Santiago (‘[First Narrative]’ in Figure 2). The fictional plot of The Ladies-in-Waiting thus takes on the form of a detective story. As the investigation unfolds, readers learn much about Velázquez’s past (‘Analepsis’ in Figure 2). Simultaneously, a parallel ‘investigation’ is carried out by the mega-narrator (see Bartual Moreno, 2010, pp. 154-158), this time centring on Las meninas itself (‘Prolepsis’ in Figure 2). In this subplot, a literary device typical of detective fiction—paralipsis—is employed. Just as a traditional detective story withholds key discoveries and conclusions from the reader until the final revelation, Las meninas is repeatedly glossed over in the beginning and every subsequent time it is referenced, prompting the reader to imagine the painting for themselves. Throughout the narrative, numerous details and contextual information about the painting are introduced, gradually altering the reader’s perception of Las meninas. When the painting is fully unveiled at the end (p. 184), it may appear unchanged from the original, but the reader now sees it in a new light, transformed by the many interpretative layers woven throughout the story.

An exploration of prior paintings that influenced Las meninas, as well as those it later inspired, are among the graphic novel’s most important interpretative interventions. One aspect of Velázquez’s creative philosophy, instilled by his mentor Francisco Pacheco, was the belief that an artist’s success lay in synthesizing the works of great masters, reinterpreting them so seamlessly that the original sources became unrecognizable (cited in Stoichita, 1985, p. 188). A prominent example of Velázquez’s penchant for drawing inspiration from the work of other painters in The Ladies-in-Waiting is Jan Van Eyck’s The Arnolfini Portrait (p. 40), a painting once housed in the Madrid Royal Collection. Van Eyck’s work innovatively captures the artist’s presence through his reflection in a convex mirror, subtly merging the pictorial space with the physical space shared by painter and viewer (Stoichita, 1985, p. 188). Velázquez reinterpreted this technique in Las meninas to suit his own artistic aims, as explored further in the following pages.

Another possible influence on Las meninas is Tintoretto’s El Lavatorio (see pp. 138, 139). As Fernando Marías suggests (1995, p. 275), this painting likely inspired Velázquez’s inclusion of elements such as a foreground dog and a background doorway, alongside its approach to multiple focal points, which adds dynamic complexity to the composition. Additionally, the motif of service in Tintoretto’s work finds resonance in Las meninas, where the lady-in-waiting offers a drink to the young Margarita, reminiscent of Jesus washing the feet of an apostle in El Lavatorio.

In the graphic novel, García and Olivares use these visual and thematic parallels to fictionalise Las meninas, framing it as a work that synthesizes and reinterprets its artistic predecessors. This approach not only enriches our understanding of Velázquez’s creative process but also positions Las meninas as a dynamic participant in the ongoing dialogue of art history.

The Ladies-in-Waiting also reflects the Baroque principle that the decorazione develops its own formal law, with each part enhancing the whole according to its thematic content. The chapter titled ‘Quantum de Acción’ (p. 60) evokes a surreal connection as Velázquez’s ghost converses with Salvador Dalí, with shades of blue reminiscent of Dalí’s works. Panels from ‘París 1907’ (p. 90) depict a distorted perspective inspired by Cubism, while El Españoleto on his deathbed (p. 105) uses Tenebrism, employing stark contrasts of light and dark. Meanwhile, ‘Rafael, amante virtuoso’ (p. 115) showcases the Renaissance’s vibrant color palette. By weaving together these diverse artistic styles, García and Olivares create a cohesive narrative that mirrors the baroque ideal of unity in diversity, while simultaneously constructing a biographiction of Las meninas that underscores its enduring impact on art history.

Syncretism, another hallmark of the Baroque (Bazin, 1968, p. 19), is evident in The Ladies-in-Waiting’s blending of diverse artistic forms. Conxita Domènech (2018, p. 429), for example, compares ‘Reina del amor’ (p. 50) to classic comic magazines in both subtitle and style and highlights the embedded use of No-Do (p. 154), a state-controlled series of cinema newsreels produced in Spain during Francisco Franco’s dictatorial regime. The postcard on the same page can also be added to the list as an additional intertextual form. These pieces, along with ‘Reina del amor’ (p. 50), ‘Historias de crímenes verdaderos’ (p. 52)—recalling sensationalist Franco-era periodicals—and The King’s Marriages (p. 82), while not directly related to Velázquez’s oeuvre, contribute to the Baroque principles within the narrative, serving as entremés: short, humorous interludes that enrich the main story.

Additional Baroque forms and principles populate the text, such as a two-page comic spread on Philip IV’s marriages (Figure 3), that is an example of decorazione assoluta. Here, the king’s absurd internal monologue, coupled with a cartoonish style and rapidly shifting backgrounds, injects irony into the narrative. The interplay between the king’s thoughts and the events in each panel—paired with temporal ellipses—adds a sense of comedic pacing that enhances the narrative’s liveliness and draws readers into the graphic novelists’ interpretation of the real-world king.

A gamified section of The Ladies-in-Waiting further diversifies its narrative presentation, portraying Velázquez’s journey to Italy (Figure 4) through video game aesthetics. In this double-page spread, Velázquez appears as a game character with an ‘inventory’ containing items crucial for his mission, including ‘letters of recommendation for entry into the artistic community,’ a ‘gold medal featuring the king’s portrait,’ and ‘600 silver ducats’ for purchasing artworks. This playful format adds a unique and highly fictionalized dimension to Velázquez’s quest to acquire masterpieces for the king.

The array of visual styles, techniques, forms, and media in The Ladies-in-Waiting mirrors the ornamental excess characteristic of the Baroque, achieving a sense of both synthetism and syncretism reminiscent of Las meninas. The authors draw on a comprehensive spectrum of data from the artistic context of Las Meninas—as well as its enduring legacy—refining and reinterpreting it to offer readers a multifaceted framework for understanding the painting. In doing so, they not only illuminate the complexities of the artwork but also invite readers to reflect on the essence of comics, fostering a rich dialogue between art forms. This approach aligns with what Lackey describes as ‘the aesthetic goal’ (2022, p. 28; 2020, p. 20) of biofiction: not to faithfully represent the biographical subject—or, in our case, the object—but rather to fictionalize it in a way that activates the reader’s critical and creative capacities. By doing so, the graphic novel opens up new possibilities for thinking about the mystery of Las meninas.

Baroque aesthetics often emphasize a space that extends beyond the painting itself, blurring the line between the picture plane and the viewer’s space to create a powerful illusion of verisimilitude. The comic medium achieves a similar effect through an elliptical structure that relies heavily on the space between panels, known as the gutter. Scott McCloud (1993, p. 60) identifies the gutter as the driving force behind the comic form; it is within this gap between panels that the reader’s imagination bridges images through a process he calls closure. This mechanism enables the mega-narrator of The Ladies-in-Waiting to evoke the image of Las meninas, as García and Olivares skillfully replicate Velázquez’s composition through the most prominent quality of comics, i.e., the closure.

McCloud further observes that ‘by showing little or nothing of a given scene—and offering only clues to the reader the artist can trigger any number of images in the reader’s imagination’ (1993, p. 86). Through a skillful combination of words and images and across the page layout, the mega-narrator of The Ladies-in-Waiting encourages readers to envision an image of Las meninas inspired by Otras Meninas (1995). In this work, art historian Fernando Marías compiles some of the most insightful and provocative interpretations of Las meninas to date. In his introduction, he raises several questions that The Ladies-in-Waiting meticulously explores:

The Ladies-in-Waiting frequently features images from the ‘post-history’ of Velázquez’s masterpiece. For instance, its buildings, with their flat, two-dimensional appearance, evoke Picasso’s Cubism, most notably in a bull that unmistakably draws on his style (p. 31). The final moments of Ribera’s life (pp. 105-108) show clear traces of Impressionism, an art movement deeply influenced by Velázquez. Meanwhile, the scene where Velázquez converses with the ghost of Philip IV bears elements of Surrealism (p. 128). This post-historical perspective on Las meninas not only emerges through these formal connections, but also through the dialogue in ‘Quantum de Acción.’ When Salvador Dalí expresses his admiration for Velázquez as ‘the greatest painter in history even after three centuries,’ Gala Dalí responds, ‘Yes, but you helped him a lot’ (p. 61). This exchange highlights the ongoing interplay between legacy and influence, emphasizing how the post-history of Las meninas enriches its interpretation.

The narrative structure of The Ladies-in-Waiting mirrors the complexity and dynamism of Baroque art, particularly in its use of multiple perspectives and layered storytelling. This structural intricacy is also a hallmark of biofiction, which often employs fragmented or non-linear narratives to reflect the multifaceted nature of historical figures and their legacies (Middeke, 1999, p. 1). The flashforwards in The Ladies-in-Waiting—which explore the reception of Las Meninas by artists like Picasso, Dalí, and Goya, as well as intellectuals like Michel Foucault and Buero Vallejo—extend the biofictional framework to the painting itself. By constructing a ‘biography’ of Las Meninas, the graphic novel highlights how the painting’s meaning has evolved over time, shaped by the interpretations of successive generations. This approach exemplifies the potential of biofiction to not only reimagine historical figures but also to trace the cultural and intellectual trajectories of their works. In doing so, The Ladies-in-Waiting invites readers to consider how art and its interpretations are continually redefined through the lens of history and imagination.

Several stories from Las meninas’ post-history are intricately woven into the first narrative4 documenting the Royal Collection as well as into one another. After a scene set in 17th-century Naples, featuring José de Ribera (El Españoleto) against the glow of a fireplace (pp. 70, 71), the narrative transitions to 19th-century Madrid, where Francisco de Goya’s engraving of Las meninas flickers in the firelight (p. 72). This is followed by Velázquez discussing art with his son-in-law (pp. 84-89) and leads into a commentary on art in Pablo Picasso’s studio in ‘Paris 1907’ (p. 90). Later, the artist Flaminia Triunfi, whom Velázquez met in Italy, ponders a name for their child (p. 124). Suddenly, American painter William Merritt Chase appears, expressing his wish to name his daughter after Velázquez (p. 125). Finally, Velázquez is pursued by a servant carrying a letter from the king (pp. 126-127), which may be read as a subtle nod to Chase’s surname. Through these interpretative interventions, The Ladies-in-Waiting transforms Las meninas from a static masterpiece into a living, evolving entity with its own biofictional narrative. By tracing the painting’s artistic lineage and its reinterpretation of earlier works, the graphic novel invites readers to view Las meninas as both a product of its time and a catalyst for future artistic innovation.

This interconnected narrative eschews the notion of isolated images, instead highlighting a tapestry of patterns and anecdotes that emerge from their interplay that Thierry Groensteen (2009, p. 18) refers to as iconic solidarity, a concept that highlights the meaningful unity that emerges when separate images interact. This approach emphasizes an interdependence between all elements of a comic, whether imaginary or textual (Carpintero, 2021, p. 341). In The Ladies-in-Waiting, this interdependence is underscored by the recurring colour red, which symbolises both the drive to create and an aspiration to transcend Las meninas. The Foucault sequence’s background, Picasso’s red scarf, the vibrant backdrop of Dalí’s painting, the fire and attire in the Goya sequence, the scene with William Merritt Chase, the letter stamp bearing Velázquez’s image in ‘Equipo Crónica,’ the blaze at the Royal Alcázar of Madrid, and the Prado Museum sequence all feature shades of red, collectively evoking Las meninas in the reader’s mind.

The red motif culminates in the scene where the Santiago cross is added to Las meninas. Following Velázquez’s death (p. 145), Philip IV gazes at the painting and perceives it as incomplete (p. 170). This alludes to an undetermined detail of Velázquez’s life. Ten years after his initial application, on November 28, 1659, Velázquez was admitted to the Order of Santiago and could bare the red cross on his chest. Since the artist passed away shortly after, it remains uncertain whether the cross depicted on his chest in his self-portrait in Las meninas was painted before or after his death. Legend has it that Philip IV himself added the cross to the painting, signifying their close bond (Domènech, 2018, pp. 434-435). In The Ladies-in-Waiting, both the king and Velázquez are shown adding this final, but important touch to the painting (pp. 171-179). Finally, on the subsequent pages, a two-page panel echoes Las meninas’ composition: Velázquez appears in the foreground, with the artists and intellectuals he influenced—including García and Olivares—gathered behind him. This scene suggests that the painting’s meaning is not fixed but continually redefined through its engagement with successive generations. Indeed, it is only after this scene that The Ladies-in-Waiting features the painting, with Mazo finally assigning its title, affirming that its true ‘naming’—its full significance—can only be grasped through the cumulative insights of those who have engaged with it across time.

Carl Justi highlights that Las meninas exudes a remarkable sense of spontaneity and verisimilitude (cited in Brown, 1978, p. 68). The impression of a frozen moment, created by the postures and gazes of the figures, stands out as one of the painting’s most striking features. To convey this photographic liveliness through comic techniques, comics theorist Bartual Moreno’s concept of the descriptive sequence proves particularly effective, as demonstrated in ‘La teología de la pintura’ (p. 145). A descriptive sequence captures a space by listing its objects or details, often across small panels. Such sequences typically lack significant action; if any action is present, it is minimal, giving the impression that time has momentarily halted. Furthermore, as the number of panels increases, the narrative rhythm nearly grinds to a standstill (Moreno, 2010, p. 130).

However, the frozen moment depicted in the painting also represents an event. Soehner notes that the group of figures in the painting is engaged in an activity, which is then interrupted by an event occurring outside the painting’s boundaries (cited in Brown, 1978, p. 70). The scene can be narrativised as follows:

In The Ladies-in-Waiting, the ‘La teología de la pintura’ sequence (pp. 145-153) follows a similar storyline. In it, the painter is shown creating a work of art. The frames of the descriptive sequence alternate between the act of visual creation and details within the painting, distinguished by differing light—one representing the real storyworld scene, the other existing only on the canvas. The alternating frames between the act of creation (the painter at work) and the details within the painting (the figures on the canvas) echo Velázquez’s technique of blending the real and the represented. A similar disruption as depicted by Soehner is created by the enthusiastic reaction in a speech balloon within a shadowed frame: ‘Oh, look, my mum and dad!’ (p. 147). It serves as a modern, comic-inspired equivalent of the royal epiphany, capturing the same sense of interruption and revelation. In the final frame, we see the king’s astonished face.

The next page expands the perspective with two large panels showing a broader view of the room (Figure 5) and revealing that Velázquez was not alone in creating the artwork. The figures he depicts on his canvas have gathered to observe the drawing process. Notably, Margarita, who sees her parents reflected in the mirror within the painting, is portrayed with an excited reaction. As she shows this image to those around her, the king enters. The ladies-in-waiting and others, gazing at the mirror image of the rulers in the painting, turn to hear the king’s reaction, only to be startled by the physical presence of the figures they had just seen reflected.

This plot closely parallels the real Las meninas as interpreted by Soehner. In Velázquez’s original, the king enters while the figures are absorbed in their own activities. In García and Olivares’s The Ladies-in-Waiting, the characters examine Las meninas just as the king arrives. Thus, the event within the scene mirrors the event depicted in the canvas the characters are observing, with one key difference: this time, even the mastiff lying on the ground—unlike its calm demeanor in the original painting—cannot help but show surprise.

According to Brown, Las meninas serves to elevate the art of painting and underscore the struggle of painters for recognition and noble status. In 17th-century Spain, painting was often dismissed as a mere handicraft. This sentiment is echoed in the comic, where the painter Ribera, on his deathbed, laments, ‘We are nothing to them, Diego. Our art is irrelevant. It has no value. Are you one of them or not? In Spain, that’s what it’s all about’ (p. 108). The tension between nobility and painters is further illustrated by the inspector’s dismissive attitude as he interrogates artists for information about Velázquez. During these tense exchanges, the characters face off like duellists, with their speech balloons overlapping onto the panel of their adversary, visually reminiscent of sword blows (see p. 43). Through these tensions, The Ladies-in-Waiting fictionalizes Las meninas, transforming it into a narrative that not only reflects Velázquez’s historical struggle but also reimagines the painting as a living testament to the artist’s enduring fight for recognition. By dramatizing these conflicts, García and Olivares invite readers to see the painting as both a product of its time and a dynamic participant in the ongoing dialogue about art and status.

Many art historians note that the two paintings depicted on the wall in Las meninas—Minerva and Arachne by Rubens and Apollo Conquering Pan by Jacob Jordaens—reinforce this ideological perspective. In the graphic novel’s section titled ‘En el obrador’ (pp. 84-89), Velázquez enters while Mazo is sketching the latter painting. He asks his son-in-law to interpret the myth it represents, and Mazo concludes that the story teaches humility, as ‘the gods punish the insolent’ (p. 88). Velázquez, however, offers a contrasting view: ‘Can we not think that these stories teach us to challenge the gods? That the gods are unjust and capricious, and that man, through his arts, can rise above even the gods?’ (p. 88). Through this question, Velázquez aligns himself with Marsyas, who dared to challenge Apollo, and Arachne, who triumphed over Minerva, symbolically casting himself as a painter defying the nobility (and the religious beliefs they embrace) through his art.

However, Fernando Marías presents an alternative interpretation of the paintings on the wall, suggesting that Las meninas was created specifically for the king’s private viewing. In the graphic novel, this theory is supported by the king’s request to move the painting to his summer residence (p. 152). Palace records reveal that the painting was kept in the king’s study, the most private area of his quarters (Marías, 1995, p. 250). Given this historical context, Marías argues that Las meninas can be viewed as a subtle petition for permission to paint (1995, p. 268). Previously, the king had forbidden Velázquez from painting his portrait, but Velázquez’s desire for noble status required such a portrayal. Demonstrating loyalty through this private painting might have strengthened Velázquez’s claim to a noble title, which he later made public with his 1657 portrait of Philip IV.

In the comic, after a scene where Velázquez plays a ‘mirror game’ with the king (p. 152)—a moment further analysed in the next section—Velázquez hears the king calling him and smiles, sensing he may finally receive the permission he seeks: the king has requested a new portrait. This petition could also clarify the significance of the two mythological paintings on the back wall by calling to mind the many stories of artists challenging the gods at great personal risk. Yet, this act of defiance is cloaked in shadow, contrasted with the bright reflection of the mirror (Marías, 1995, p. 271).

At this point, it is worth examining the three main hypotheses proposed so far regarding the content of the canvas with its back facing us. The first hypothesis, put forward by Palomino,5 asserts that Velázquez was painting a portrait of the king and queen—a view supported by many Spanish scholars today. The second hypothesis proposes that the artist was depicting Margarita and her ladies-in-waiting. The third hypothesis, which suggests that Velázquez was painting Las Meninas itself—the very scene we see, but only from the back of the canvas—first appeared in the Prado Museum Catalogue of 1819 (Brown, 1978: 81). Each of these theories offers a unique perspective on the enigmatic masterpiece, contributing to its enduring fascination. Thus, there is no need to dwell excessively on which hypothesis García and Olivares favor. It is reasonable to assume that they view each interpretation as an enriching contribution to the understanding of Las meninas. As previously noted, their goal in the comic medium is to encourage readers to visualize the painting—which they do not explicitly depict—in their own minds, allowing each individual to form their own interpretation. The graphic novel’s refusal to explicitly depict Las Meninas and its openness to multiple interpretations align with the core tenets of biofiction, which thrives on the interplay between historical facts and imaginative reinterpretation. By presenting the three main hypotheses about the canvas’ content without privileging one over the others, García and Olivares invite readers to actively engage with the painting’s mysteries, much like biofiction encourages audiences to reconsider historical narratives through a lens of creative speculation (Latham, 2012, pp. 355, 356).

Baroque art, known for its emotional appeal, frequently achieved an ambiguous stance between illusion and reality or a convergence of the two through verisimilitude. Velázquez’s works exemplify this approach, prompting Antonio Palomino to famously remark that his art was ‘not paintings, but reality itself’ (as cited in Martin, 1977, p. 50). García and Olivares illustrate this principle in their depiction of Juan de Pareja (1650), a portrait of Velázquez’s slave. In the graphic novel, Juan de Pareja appears twice: once as the actual painting and once as Juan himself in the comic (pp. 96, 97). Depicting Juan de Pareja twice, illustrator Olivares blurs the line between artwork and reality, thus challenging the viewer to discern between them and, at the same time, underscoring Velázquez’s striking realism. This ambiguity leads the Santiago’s inspector to observe, ‘This is not a painting; it’s real’ (p. 98).

Baroque illusionism often aimed to dissolve boundaries between painting and reality. In Las meninas, this technique has a specific intention: to make the implied presence of the king and queen feel tangible. Velázquez directs the attention of the figures in the painting toward the royal couple’s entry, subtly revealing their presence through a mirror. This creates an illusory space in front of the canvas that feels populated by real physical entities. By integrating this space into the viewer’s realm, Velázquez reinforces the royal presence, making it almost palpable for the viewer (Brown, 1978, p. 78).

Moreover, Las meninas utilizes the gaze to further bridge art and reality. Viewers not only observe the figures but also feel that they are being observed in return. This reciprocity of gazes fosters a connection between the painted figures and the viewer, creating an imaginary sphere divided by the painting whereby one side holds the implicit presence of the monarchs and the viewer, while the other encompasses the figures within the artwork. Consequently, the viewer’s presence before Las meninas becomes integral to its meaning. Reality unfolds before us because we, alongside the reflected king and queen, participate actively in its construction (Alpers, 1983, p. 160). In The Ladies-in-Waiting, the king is not painted but literally positioned across from the vanishing point where he is only ‘now’ part of the artwork (Figure 6). Tying this to how Las meninas engages the gaze of those figures and of viewers, it becomes apparent that by fictionalizing the king as standing in front of the painting this scene provides a commentary on how to read Las meninas that aligns with some of the painting’s critical commentary. Although the king is not physically present in front of Velázquez’s painting, his presence is conveyed implicitly through the figures’ gazes.

This reciprocity is central in the first pages of the graphic novel’s chapter ‘The Key’ (pp. 14-15), where Michel Foucault is depicted drafting his chapter on Las meninas in The Order of Things (1966). This sequence operates as a mise en abyme, offering a guiding analogy for interpreting the graphic novel’s main narrative. Here, the narrator paraphrases Foucault’s text, describing his act of writing in the same terms Foucault used to analyze Velázquez’s act of painting: ‘In appearance, this locus is a simple one; a matter of pure reciprocity: we read a text in which the writer is in turn reading us. But it isn’t a text, it’s a panel. It offers us at last that enchantment of the double’ (p. 14). Through this reference to ‘us,’ the narrator draws the reader into the process of reconstructing Las meninas, emphasizing that this reconstruction emerges from the reader’s engagement with the graphic novel.

The real narrative of Las meninas, as revealed in ‘La teología de la pintura’, unfolds imaginatively across subsequent pages. When the real king enters the room, the characters momentarily freeze, mirroring the scene in Velázquez’s original painting (Figure 5). Upon seeing his reflection, the king becomes incensed, accusing Velázquez of painting his likeness without having been granted permission to do so (p. 149). However, Velázquez defends himself, claiming he has not violated the ban on depicting the king. The king’s image in the painting is simply a reflection in the mirror: ‘No one can draw anything in the mirror; only nature can do that, beyond our control’ (p. 149). The king counters, ‘But the mirror reflects the image you have drawn in this painting’ (p. 150), to which Velázquez responds, ‘But this painting only has the back surface. I didn’t draw anything’ (p. 150). In a sense, Velázquez is correct: when we view Las meninas, we see him facing a large canvas, either painting or about to finish painting. The image on the front of the canvas remains hidden, while the mirror on the back wall discloses it. Velázquez does not directly show us the royal couple; he has not depicted them. It’s impossible for him to have depicted the king because, in Las meninas, he only illustrates the back of the canvas. He limited himself to rendering a mirror that reflects, almost magically, a non-existent and impossible image. It is the nature of the mirror that creates the portrait, while it is the artist’s craft that renders the mirror.

What this mirror reflects is ultimately the thoughts of the artist and the privileged viewer of the painting, Philip IV. This image cannot exist outside of the king’s perception. The other figures in the painting remain unaware of the forbidden image’s existence. It is, therefore, a ‘double fiction,’ revealing the royal image only through the artificially rendered mirror (Marías, 1995, p. 272).

In Las meninas, Velázquez grapples with the unattainable challenge he articulates as a character in The Ladies-in-Waiting: ‘I drew everything, everything that could be drawn. What else haven’t I drawn?’ (pp. 16-19). The answer is implicit: the impossible portrait. Thus, he tells the bewildered king that he is not represented in the painting. With the king’s permission, Velázquez leads him to a position outside the canvas, aligned with where the figures’ gazes suggest he should stand: ‘There… Now you are in the painting’ (Figure 6). The king thus occupies a space outside the canvas, which becomes the focal point of the artwork. By mastering the mirror’s role, the king implicitly permits Velázquez to begin preparations for a new portrait on the following page (p. 152).

The uniquely Spanish Baroque concept of desilusión is often articulated through desengaño (disillusionment), representing a journey of self-awareness and insight into the true, transient nature of the world by stripping away layers of illusion (Rico, 1983: 9). Critilo, the critic in Baltasar Gracián’s El Criticón, captures this theme, observing that while most people see only appearances, few possess the discernment to look beyond (cited in Snyder & Cohen, 1980, p. 150). This critical stance on perception and reality aligns with the epigraph to The Ladies-in-Waiting: ‘Every fool is persuaded, and every persuaded is a fool’ (p. 7). Such a perspective reflects Velázquez’s intentions when painting Las meninas, which invites viewers to adopt a critical attitude of desengaño. To fully appreciate Las meninas, one must engage in deep reflection. To appreciate this fully, one must look closely. On initial inspection, the mirror’s reflection appears to show the monarchs standing directly in front of it. However, closer study reveals that the mirror reflects the king and queen as painted on the canvas, and not standing in the room. With his painting, Velázquez subtly guides us to question our assumptions with visual clues (Snyder, 1985, pp. 139-141), ultimately reshaping our understanding of it.

This comparison in Figure 7 provides an accurate perspective of Las meninas by revealing the left wall, which is otherwise obscured by the canvas. This revelation disrupts the alignment of the vanishing point with the center of the painting, indicating that the observer’s eye cannot be directly opposite the mirror. For the mirror to serve as the vanishing point, both walls would need to show identical foreshortening. Velázquez’s choice to obscure the left wall thus removes a crucial means of pinpointing the vanishing point. Consequently, once the left wall is visible, the mirror can no longer be viewed as the painting’s vanishing point (Snyder, 1985, pp. 139-141).

This transition—from perceiving the mirror image as a reflection of the physically present king and queen outside the canvas to recognizing it as a reflection of their hidden portrait—captures the essence of desengaño. It marks a shift from an initial, superficial interpretation to a more profound understanding, aligning with the Baroque concept of moving from illusion to disillusionment.

In comic art, the interplay between image and text often creates contrasting narratives that reveal unconventional or hidden meanings. Frank L. Cioffi (cited in Gómez Salamanca, 2013: 159) notes that ‘[…] dissonant relationships between word and image are used to generate emotional response in readers’. Comics allow for direct conflicts or tensions between the textual sub-enunciator (e.g., captions) or pictographic sub-enunciator (e.g., images) and the delegate narrator (e.g., a character), producing layered interpretations. For instance, in The Ladies-in-Waiting, Alonso Cano tells the inspector of the Order of Santiago that he is a peaceful man. However, the pictographic sub-enunciator counters this claim by showing that he fled to Valencia after killing his wife and was tortured by the Inquisition upon returning to Madrid (p. 21-26).

Another example involves Gaspar de Fuensalida, acting as a delegate narrator, who describes Velázquez’s arrival in Madrid as coinciding with the Prince of Wales’ visit, commenting on the city’s grandeur. Meanwhile, the pictographic sub-enunciator contrasts this idealized view, depicting Velázquez trudging through muddy streets (Figure 8). Similarly, the pictographic sub-enunciator illustrates Velázquez’s affair in Italy, despite Juan de Pareja’s insistence that Velázquez is a good Christian (p. 134).

These instances follow a recurring pattern: the delegate narrator presents a supposedly truthful statement, while the pictographic sub-enunciator reveals its superficiality and exposes a contradictory reality beneath. This narrative technique mirrors the shift from illusion to disillusion in Las meninas, thus significantly deepening the reader’s experience. The resulting sense of desengaño creates an unsettling atmosphere, fostering a sense of suspicion in the reader. This narrative technique, which mirrors the shift from illusion to disillusion in Las meninas also underscores the truth/fiction ambiguity central to biofiction (Middeke, 1999, p. 3). By juxtaposing the delegate narrators’ statements with the pictographic sub-enunciator’s revelations, García and Olivares create a layered narrative that challenges the boundaries between historical fact and imaginative reinterpretation. This tension between surface and depth, illusion and disillusion, reflects the core of biofiction, which thrives on reimagining historical figures and events while interrogating the nature of truth itself. In doing so, The Ladies-in-Waiting fictionalizes Las meninas, transforming it into a dynamic exploration of perception, reality, and the elusive nature of historical truth.

This article argues that The Ladies-in-Waiting draws on art historical biography conventions, such as the anecdote and the life-and-work model, but innovatively shifts the focus to craft a biofiction of Las meninas itself, rather than of its creator, Velázquez. Rather than simply documenting the artist’s life through fiction, The Ladies-in-Waiting recontextualizes Las meninas through its later reception, thus reformulating the traditional life-and-work framework and presenting Las meninas as a dynamic subject.

As a graphic novel, The Ladies-in-Waiting goes beyond conventional art historical biographies by exploring a painter’s legacy through the unique narrative possibilities of comics. The narrative’s interwoven layers create a richness that deepens and expands the painting’s meaning, enabling the authors to construct a kind of ‘essay in panels’ on Las meninas itself. The Ladies-in-Waiting serves as an alternative to traditional art-historical texts, which rely primarily on verbal description and photographic reproductions to provide a visual exploration of an artist’s work. Illustrating the creative process, it offers richer descriptions and delivers a more immersive interpretative experience—thus achieving ‘that enchantment of the double’ (García & Olivares, 2014, p. 14).