
Las Meninas
The Infanta and her maids fill the room, but Velázquez has put himself at his easel and the king and queen in a mirror behind.

The Infanta and her maids fill the room, but Velázquez has put himself at his easel and the king and queen in a mirror behind.

Bernini staged the saint's own account of her vision as theater, lit from a window he hid above and watched by marble spectators in boxes.

Vermeer painted his own city from across the harbor, almost his only townscape. Proust called it the most beautiful painting in the world.

A militia company surges out of the shadow with a dog barking and a girl glowing among the men. Varnish, not night, made it dark.

Bernini was in his mid-twenties when he cut this, catching Daphne at the moment bark closes over her thigh and leaves push from her fingers.

Judith and her maid hold Holofernes down together and work the blade through his throat. Artemisia painted it a decade after her rape trial.

Rembrandt was twenty-five and new in Amsterdam when the surgeons' guild hired him, and he built every head in the room around one lifted tendon.

The Spanish general stops the defeated Dutchman from kneeling and lays a hand on his shoulder. Spaniards still call the picture The Lances.

Velázquez caught every wary line in the pope's face, and Innocent reportedly said it was troppo vero, too true. Francis Bacon reworked it for years.

The son kneels with his shorn head against his father's chest and the old man's hands come down on his back. Rembrandt painted it near death.

Not a portrait of anyone in particular but a tronie, a study of a type, which somehow made her the most looked-at girl in art.

A kitchen maid pours a thin stream of milk in ordinary daylight, given the weight and stillness usually reserved for saints.

Christ's body slides down one long diagonal onto a white shroud. It still stands on the altar in Antwerp Cathedral that Rubens painted it for.

The only canvas Caravaggio ever signed, and he signed it in the blood running from the saint's throat, for the knights of Malta.

Caravaggio's first attempt at the subject, turned down by the patron, before he threw out the angels and left one man, one horse and the light.

The Virgin lies barefoot and swollen like any corpse. The church that ordered it refused delivery, and Rubens told his duke to buy it.

El Greco moved the cathedral tower off its real site for the sake of the composition and lit the whole city with a green storm.

Bernini put the viewer where Goliath must be standing, so the sling is being wound up to throw straight past your head.

Vermeer never sold this one. The model poses as Clio, muse of history, with a great map of the Netherlands filling the wall behind.

The two gods hurtle in from opposite edges and Sotatsu leaves the whole middle empty, so the bare gold reads as sky.

One disciple grips his chair to stand and the other throws his arms wide, while a fruit basket teeters off the edge toward us.

The emperor hands a book to a Sufi and ignores the kings waiting below, one of them James I, copied from an English portrait.

Three laborers strain to lever the cross upright with Peter nailed to it upside down. No crowd, no glory, just heavy work in the dark.

The corner of the stone slab juts out of the picture so the body looks about to be laid down in the room with you.

Pareja was Velázquez's enslaved assistant, freed soon after this was painted in Rome as a warm-up before the pope sat for him.

The old painter holds his brushes and palette, and behind him two large arcs are drawn on the wall that nobody has explained.

Thomas pushes his finger into the wound and two apostles lean in to watch, brows knotted, close enough to crowd the frame.

Shepherds trace the carved words on a tomb, Even in Arcadia I am here, and Poussin lets death speak without raising its voice.

Rembrandt painted himself enthroned like a monarch, staff across his lap, in the same year bankruptcy took his house and everything in it.

A young horseman rides into the dusk armed and alert, and nobody has ever agreed who he is or where he is going.

He is neither laughing nor a cavalier. The lace and gold thread on that sleeve were flicked on in a few confident strokes.

No halo, no manger, just a candle shielded by a hand and a swaddled baby, and it still reads as a nativity.

The scales in her hand are empty and perfectly level, and the painting on the wall behind her is a Last Judgment.

Two horsemen haul two women up onto rearing horses, and the whole canvas spins into one great X of limbs and hooves.

No crowd, no landscape, nothing but the body against black, with the hair fallen forward to half-cover the face. Made for private prayer.

Saint Ursula is on the quay somewhere, but the real subject is the light coming up the water between the palaces at dawn.

The sun sits low over a glassy harbor and floods everything. Turner admired it so much he insisted his own work hang beside it.

One hand on the pitcher, one on the window latch, and morning light coming through onto a white cap. Nothing happens, perfectly.

Rubens had just come back from Italy with Caravaggio's light and Michelangelo's anatomy, and announced himself with this straining diagonal.

Herod's soldiers and the mothers of Bethlehem lock into one knot of muscle. Overlooked for centuries, it sold in 2002 for a record price.