THE INFANTA DULCIMARGARITA TERESA

“The profound invisibility of what one sees is inseparable from the invisibility of the person seeing.”

— Michel Foucault, The Order of Things, “Las Meninas”

THE INFANTA DULCIMARGARITA TERESA

The Infanta Dulcimargarita Teresa, the Spanish princess, sits in front of the mirror and carefully scrutinizes her lovely, angelical face. Then, with the solemn concentration of someone preparing herself for court, she begins to paint it.

First she applies the mascara — the most expensive available at the time, naturally, the más cara. Afterward comes the vivid purplish lipstick on her delicate lips, followed by the base, the rouge on her cheeks, the eyeliner, and finally the long, thick eyelashes.

Then she takes a pair of scissors and cuts her long, beautiful blond hair.

 Her mother, Queen Mariana of Austria, and King Philip IV enter the princely boudoir, accompanied by doña María Agustina Sarmiento de Sotomayor, maid of honor; the lady-in-waiting Isabel de Velasco; Mari Bárbola, the German dwarf and court jester; and don Diego Velázquez, court painter to His Majesty.  They enter almost ceremonially, one after the other, as though the court itself were processing into the chamber — rank, lineage, protocol, painting, spectacle — only to halt before the transformed Infanta.

For a few seconds no one says anything.

Then the King cries out: “¡Pardiez!” Whatever became of the Infanta?

Queen Mariana stares at her daughter. The meninas stare. Mari Bárbola stares. Velázquez, who has spent his life rendering appearances into paint, stares perhaps longest of all.

“Margarita,” the Queen finally asks, “what have you done?” “Who made you do this?”

The Infanta turns slowly from the mirror.

“The Other,” she replied..

“She made me do it,” the little child added, pointing at the looking glass.