Food for Thought: The Fruit Still Life

in Góngora’s Polifemo

LUIS CASTELLVÍ LAUKAMP

University of Cambridge1

Abstract
This article considers the reflection of Horace’s pronouncement of ut pictura poesis [as
is painting so is poetry] in Luis de Góngora’s Fábula de Polifemo y Galatea (1612), paying
particular attention to the portrayal of the Cyclops’ fruit bag (stanzas X and XI) in
light of frame theory, art theory about the still life, and Gracián’s scheme of wit.
The main thesis is that this ekphrasis or poetic description fulfils the Baroque ideal
of multum in parvo (less is more) because it (i) reinforces the poem’s internal consist-
ency by echoing key characters and ideas (structural function) and by anticipating
the ending (proleptic function); and (ii) symbolically reflects the polarity between
a ludic understanding of literature that aims at surprising and amusing readers
by celebrating the abundance of nature, and a development of more existential
concerns summarized in the word ‘disillusionment’, or desengaño.
Resumen
El presente artículo aborda el reflejo de la máxima horaciana ut pictura poesis [como
la pintura así es la poesía] en la Fábula de Polifemo y Galatea (1612) de Luis de Góngora
mediante un análisis del zurrón de Polifemo (octavas X y XI) en base a teoría sobre el
marco, el bodegón, y la agudeza según Gracián. La tesis principal es que esta écfrasis
o descripción poética refleja el ideal barroco de multum in parvo (mucho en poco), ya
que (i) refuerza la coherencia interna del poema mimetizando rasgos de personajes
e ideas clave (función estructural) y anticipando el desenlace (función proléptica);
y (ii) simboliza la tensión entre una concepción lúdica de la literatura destinada
a sorprender y divertir a los lectores celebrando la abundancia natural, y la plas-
mación de inquietudes más existenciales que se cifran en la palabra desengaño.

Still life painting began to bloom in the late sixteenth century and finally became
one of the paradigmatic genres of Baroque art. In Spain, the bodegón became well
established in the hands of painters such as Blas de Prado (c. 1545–1599), Juan

1 This article would not have been possible without the ongoing supervision and support of
Dr Rodrigo Cacho. I would also like to thank Dr Rosemary Clark for her proofreading and
comments on an earlier version.

BHS 92.6 (2015) doi:10.3828/bhs.2015.38

630 Luis Castellví Laukamp bhs, 92 (2015)

Sánchez Cotán (1560–1627), and Antonio Mohedano (1563–1626). As is evidenced

by the seventeenth-century inventories of royal and aristocratic collections, the
still life was one of the preferred genres in educated milieus.2 Despite their
commercial success, two of the leading Spanish art theorists at the time – Vicente
Carducho and Francisco Pacheco, who published Diálogos de la pintura and Arte de
la pintura in 1633 and 1649 respectively – downplayed the importance of these
paintings, which they interpreted as mere exercises in the imitation of nature
(see Carducho 1865: 253; Pacheco 1956, II: 125). However, as the Italian cardinal
Paleotti had previously suggested in his influential treatise Discorso intorno alle
immagini sacre e profane (see 2002: 165), almost any depicted object, whether
natural or artificial, may also serve as the basis for speculative thought.
The symbolic potential of the still life could help explain why it soon spread
to poetry, as food descriptions proliferated in the Spanish Golden Age. One of
the most prominent cultivators of the genre was Luis de Góngora (1561–1627),
who included various ekphrases3 of edible components in his epyllion or short
narrative poem entitled Fábula de Polifemo y Galatea (1612). Blanco (2012a: 129–30)
suggests that Góngora’s works are highly visual due in part to the incorpora-
tion of images from paintings. Although it is hard to ascertain how much the
poet knew about the fine arts, he undeniably took a keen interest in them, as is
evidenced by his ballad Ilustre ciudad famosa (1586) (see lines 37–44 on the ‘Cuarto
de las frutas’ in the Alhambra), his décima Pintado he visto al Amor (1607), and his
five sonnets about portraits.4 In addition, Góngora was acquainted with major
painters and art theorists of his time such as Velázquez (who even produced a
portrait of him), El Greco, Pacheco and Pablo de Céspedes. Some of his patrons
– notably, the Duke of Lerma, and the Cardinal Archbishop of Toledo – were
prominent still life collectors (Huergo 2001: 193). Góngora’s interest in art could
account for his descriptive talent, as the poet excelled in providing poetic still
lifes that are both intensely physical and full of symbolism. It is for this reason
that his ekphrases are among the most compelling in Spanish Baroque literature.
In recent years, the link between painting and poetry in the Golden Age that
scholars such as Orozco Díaz (1947), Pabst (1966), and Bergmann (1979) explored
has undergone a revival in academic interest. In the field of Góngora studies,
the most recent bibliography has tended to focus on pictorial aspects – usually,
the landscapes – of Soledades.5 With a few notable exceptions, the relationship of
Góngora’s Polifemo with the arts has not yet been sufficiently studied, particularly
regarding its food descriptions. Therefore, taking the work of Huergo (2006) and

2 Morán and Checa (1985: 245) conclude that ‘las colecciones con este tipo de pintura
podrían multiplicarse ad infinitum’.
3 Although Spitzer defined ekphrasis as ‘the poetic description of a pictorial or sculptural
work of art’ (1955: 207), modern criticism has also used the term more flexibly in order to
encompass anything made not only by man but also by nature (Pineda 2000: 258). Thus,
in this article I use the term ekphrasis to mean a poetic representation of food, i.e. the
literary equivalent of the still life subgenre in which the objects portrayed are edibles.
4 See sonnets 4, 11, 19, 29, and 45 in Ciplijauskaité (1975).
5 See, for instance: Béhar (2009); Blanco (2006 and 2012b: 261–98); Huard-Baudry (2012);
Huergo (2001); and Ponce (2014).
bhs, 92 (2015) Food for Thought: The Fruit Still Life in Góngora’s Polifemo 631

especially of Ponce (2010: 71–94) as a starting point, I shall focus on the portrayal
of the Cyclops’ fruit bag (stanzas X and XI): one of the ekphrasis that best illus-
trates Góngora’s conception of the allegorical poetic still life.
My reading offers a narratological, stylistic and symbolic analysis of the
passage that makes use of frame theory, art theory about the still life, and
Gracián’s scheme of wit. It is my contention that these lines have the double
purpose of echoing character traits of two of the protagonists – Polyphemus and
Galatea – (structural function), and anticipating the tragic denouement of the
poem (proleptic function). I also argue that the poetic still life fulfils the Baroque
ideal of multum in parvo [less is more], as it symbolically reflects in a nutshell the
polarity between a ludic understanding of literature that aims at surprising and
amusing readers by celebrating the abundance of nature, and a development of
more existential concerns summarized in the word desengaño: a concept central
not only to the ekphrasis studied but also to the Polifemo as a whole. This combi-
nation of seemingly conflicting elements shows that Góngora’s food description
is not a superfluous rhetorical exercise. A full understanding of its significance
is necessary if the epyllion is to present its deepest meaning consistently.
Few of the above-mentioned roles and aspects of the passage are immedi-
ately apparent on an initial reading. This is why the principle of deferred or
postponed significance can be of help when trying to come to terms with it.
To use Genette’s terminology (1972: 113), the ekphrasis is delivered as a seed
whose importance will not be discovered until later, retrospectively. This is
clearly the case from the viewpoint of narrative discourse, since neither the
structural nor the proleptic functions can be recognized until the poem has been
read in its entirety. Likewise, only after having grasped the influence of various
typically Baroque motifs throughout the Polifemo will one be able to disentangle
the paradoxical allegorical meaning of the ekphrasis. These features show that,
while interpreting is always an act of creation, this is especially the case when
reading the Polifemo. The poem was designed as an intellectual game that can
only be fully understood and enjoyed if one accepts the invitation to embark on
a continuous rereading.

The Fruit Still Life

After the dedication and a brief depiction of Sicily, Góngora introduces Polyphemus,
the Cyclops whose unrequited love for the nymph Galatea will ultimately trigger
the jealous murder of her lover Acis. The passage studied covers stanzas X and XI
(lines 73–88), which portray the fruits that Polyphemus carries in his bag:
X
Cercado es, cuanto más capaz, más lleno,
de la fruta el zurrón, casi abortada,
que el tardo otoño deja al blando seno
de la piadosa hierba encomendada:
la serba, a quien le da rugas el heno;
la pera, de quien fue cuna dorada
632 Luis Castellví Laukamp bhs, 92 (2015)

la rubia paja y, pálida tutora,

la niega avara y pródiga la dora.

XI
Erizo es el zurrón de la castaña
y, entre el membrillo o verde o datilado,
de la manzana hipócrita, que engaña
a lo pálido no, a lo arrebolado
y de la encina (honor de la montaña,
que pabellón al siglo fue dorado)
el tributo, alimento, aunque grosero,
del mejor mundo, del candor primero.
6
(Ponce 2010: 158)

Since the origins of literature, ekphrases have often included a description of

the frame containing the artwork.7 The Cyclops’ bag is a good example of this,
as it constitutes the metaphorical frame that encloses the poetic still life. On a
practical level, a frame protects a piece of art and provides space for hanging
it. In this respect, Polyphemus’ bag shelters the fruits,8 and can be hung on
a tree whenever the Cyclops plays the pan pipes, as in stanza XII (see Monter-
roso 2002: 184). On an aesthetic level, a frame is a separating device: it differ-
entiates a space from its surroundings, constituting a boundary between what
is inside and outside the work of art. Frames are like windows: they evoke an
attitude of contemplation. By isolating the painting, the frame focuses the eye
of the beholder. Interestingly, the introductory lines of both stanzas refer to the
‘zurrón’: a parallel structure which suggests that the bag functions as a literary
frame, preparing the reader for the description to follow. A frame can separate
not only opposing elements (art | outside world), but also like from like. Nonethe-
less, in the latter case we will likewise observe the content as artwork, given
that a frame tends to convert whatever it contains (e.g. an everyday object) into
art: the frame makes the artwork (Ortega y Gasset 1932: 371). In this respect,
although at least twenty different sorts of food and drink are mentioned in the
Polifemo, stanzas X and XI can be read as a poetic still life more easily than any
other verse not only because the ekphrasis is particularly elaborate, but also
because the fruits are surrounded by a frame that keeps them together.
A frame neither belongs nor is absolutely alien to its content. The distinction
between the two elements is blurred as the frame does not usually call attention
to itself, but to the canvas (cf. Derrida 1978: 71–73). Proper frames are invisible;
unsuitable frames hinder any appreciation of the artwork. Góngora specifies
that the fruits spill over the brim of the bag (‘casi abortada’);9 the still life flows

6 All references to the poem will follow this edition.

7 See Iliad, XVIII. 607–608: ‘All round the outermost rim of the shield he set the mighty
stream of the river Okeanos’. Pineda (2000: 258–59) offers many other examples of framed
ekphrases. My reading from this viewpoint is indebted to a lecture by Dr Ian Geraghty.
8 See Pellicer (1630: 71): ‘Erizo es el zurrón de la castaña, por lo defendido’.
9 See Pellicer (1630: 69): ‘era tanta la cantidad […] que antes de comerla Polifemo se caía del
zurrón’.
bhs, 92 (2015) Food for Thought: The Fruit Still Life in Góngora’s Polifemo 633

over the frame. This fits in with the theory that frames are not only isolating but
also binding devices (Celant 1982: 49): although every framed painting may be
thought of as a cut-out, detached from its original context, like a fruit separated
from the plant (‘Cercado es’), the result is a scar or thickening, as the frame
constitutes a transitional space or adaptable link (‘cuanto más capaz, más lleno’)
that reconnects the canvas to its new environment. Frames are conversant with
both their content and surroundings. They create a space for the artwork that
the work in itself is incapable of furnishing (Duro 1996: 1). By adding a frame,
we always attach substance to a painting. There is content behind all materials
and colours.
In Renaissance Europe, there was no sense that framing was a work of inferior
quality. A painter of the calibre of Leonardo da Vinci himself gilded the frame for
his Virgin of the Rocks (1480s). Michelangelo designed that of the Doni Madonna (c.
1504), which was later made by a woodcarver (Bailey 2002: 45). It is thus unsur-
prising that ‘name frames’ (i.e. designs associated with a particular painter, such
as Maratta or Lely) began to emerge in the Baroque period (Mitchell and Roberts
1996a: 13). When commissioned with this task, artists could ensure that any
connection with the artwork facilitated by the frame would be of the right type.
However, painters often had little say in the matter, since framing could involve
the variable collaboration of other actors such as the patron, his architect or
ornamental designer, and the woodcarver (Mitchell and Roberts 1996b: 252). On
top of this, many paintings were separated from their original frames by succes-
sive art dealers and collectors. Thus, despite the considerable efforts of some
artists to control the frames surrounding their works, there was no guarantee
that their choice would be final.
Unlike many of his artistic peers, Góngora was free to choose and even to
change the poetic frame of his ekphrasis: he wrote at least three versions of
stanza X. Version I started with the line ‘Lanudo es propio, no cercado ajeno’,
which unveiled both the frame’s material (wool) and colour (white).10 None of
this appears in the final version. The amendment might thus reflect an attempt
to present the ‘zurrón’ in the most toneless way possible. However, there is
no such thing as a neutral frame; all have connotations. Genette’s notion of
paratexts can be extended to art (1987: 373–74): frames are thresholds of inter-
pretation. A lack of description also discloses an aesthetic choice. The thought
process behind framing reveals the poet’s intention to shape, to the greatest
extent possible, the way his ekphrasis would be perceived.
Furthermore, the arrangement of the fruits within a poetic frame shows
that the dispositio of the objects portrayed in a description is crucial. Space is
the province of the painter; time, that of the writer. Painting a still life entails
10 See Ponce (2009: 62): ‘Lanudo es propio, no cercado ajeno, | de la fruta, el zurrón, casi
abortada | que el tardo otoño deja al blando seno | de la piadosa hierba encomendada: | la
delicada serba, a quien el heno | rugas le da en la cuna; la opilada | camuesa, que el color
pierde amarillo | en tomando el acero del cuchillo’. The only amendment introduced in
version II concerns the first line, which was given its final form: ‘Cercado es, cuanto más
capaz, más lleno’.
634 Luis Castellví Laukamp bhs, 92 (2015)

deciding the composition of the canvas; writing an ekphrasis, the order of the
objects. Artworks show all their elements at a glance; poems unfold them line
by line. The elements of a still life remain continually present to the viewer;
stanzas once read are lost unless kept in the memory of the reader (Lessing 1987:
122–28). For these reasons, in poetry, the final reassembling of the parts into a
whole is extremely difficult. However, succinct writing might produce a global
effect comparable to that of art. While long ekphrases are often impossible to
picture due to their profuseness, concise ones facilitate visualization because
readers are able to recall the elements of a short description. This might be one
of the reasons why Góngora kept the length of his ekphrasis relatively short.11
The theory that one of the poet’s intentions was to emulate painting could
also be supported by the fact that he elaborates on the interaction between the
diverse elements of the ekphrasis: a typical feature of early modern still lifes,
which paid increasing attention to relationships between the objects portrayed
(Mayers 2012: 35). This might be the reason why Góngora resorted to prosopo-
poeia. Pacheco (1956, II: 137) states that the most accomplished figures in a still
life are those that ‘parecen vivas’. Stanzas X and XI put this lesson literally into
practice because most of their elements are ‘alive’. The chain of metaphors starts
from the second line, where the as yet unripe fruit is described as ‘abortada’,
probably an allusion to human preterm birth.12 It could thus be understood that
the womb-like ‘zurrón’ is giving birth to the food conceived from the ‘tardo
otoño’. The fruits ripen in the bosom (‘blando seno’) of the ‘piadosa hierba’,
which lovingly takes care of them (‘encomendada’). The ‘camuesa’, in versions I
and II of stanza X, is compared to a sick woman (‘opilada’) who regains a healthy
colour after receiving treatment (‘en tomando el acero’). The ‘heno’ intention-
ally ripens (‘da rugas’) the ‘serba’. The ‘pera’ becomes a female pupil whom
the ‘paja’, its ‘pálida tutora’, ‘niega avara’ to suitors until it reaches maturity.
As opposed to hypocrites, who feign pallor and seclusion on the outside, while
inside they have their colourful passions and vices, the ‘manzana hipócrita’ is
red on the surface but has a waxy interior (Alonso 1960: 315–22).
Prosopopoeia serves at least two purposes. First of all, it comes as a surprise.
The variations that an artist introduces into a motif can only be fully appreciated
against the background of the expectations of his time (Gombrich 1961: 176). In
the Spanish Golden Age, poetic still lifes were a ‘marca Lope’, as this author had
elaborated on the theme so often that it was naturally associated with him (see
Sánchez Jiménez 2009). However, in Lope’s descriptions, quantity prevails over
intensity, given that he often describes each of the edible components that he lists
with just an adjective denoting colour (Jammes 1967: 549). Thus, readers accus-

11 Brevity is also crucial to Gracián’s scheme of wit. See, for instance, his approach to the
agudeza sentenciosa (2001, II: 30): ‘Cuanto más breves son en el dicho, suelen ser más
profundas en el sentido’.
12 See Díaz de Rivas (Feynn 1951: 49): ‘Abortar significa parir sin sazón’. Note that the poly-
semy of the term, which could mean both overflowing and unripen, leads to different
readings and thus visualizations of the ekphrasis. In Gracián’s terminology (2001, II: 53),
this would be a ‘palabra de dos cortes’, which produces ‘mayor misterio y profundidad’.
bhs, 92 (2015) Food for Thought: The Fruit Still Life in Góngora’s Polifemo 635

tomed to Lope would probably not expect a complex interaction between fruits
such as that of the Polifemo. By offering this startling living botanical portrait,
Góngora distances himself from the descriptio understood as a mechanical exercise
of rhetoric.13 One of the aims of Baroque art was to bewilder both the senses and
the mind. As Marino, the so-called ‘Góngora de Italia’ (Gracián 2001, I: 174),
famously said: ‘È del poeta il fin la meraviglia’ [The poet’s goal is to surprise] (La
Murtoleide, fischiata XXXIII). Góngora’s imagined world of relationships was likely
to achieve this goal, and thus to challenge Lope’s primacy in the matter.
Secondly, prosopopoeia endows the ekphrasis with humour. Talking animals
are common in folk tales and ancient fables (e.g. Aesop), but the literary tradition
of animated objects has always been far less known (Periñán 2002: 206–207). The
Cyclops’ ‘living’ fruits were therefore more likely to produce a hilarious effect.
Indeed, conceptual jokes are inherent to Góngora, whose works usually have a
comical, even grotesque side. This element was not always appreciated by contem-
porary readers, as is reflected in the advice of the humanist who persuaded the
poet to mitigate the ‘gracias o burlas’ of his two major works (Pérez López 1988:
78). In the case of the Polifemo, Góngora would pay no heed to stylistic decorum,
as he announced in the first stanza (line 2: ‘culta sí, aunque bucólica, Talía’)
(Ponce 2010: 155). In an epyllion which is halfway between the bucolic and epic
genres, the mixture of seriousness and fun highlights its hybridity. Moreover, if
Góngora was eventually attempting to outdo any particular painting in order to
make his still life more thought-provoking, his use of humorous prosopopoeia
arguably exceeds the usual limits of pictorial art.14
This leads to a fundamental difference between painting and poetry. As I
shall explain below, the fruits of the ekphrasis, amusing as they are, can also
be read as solemn symbols. From a conceptual viewpoint, Góngora aspires to
the Baroque ideal of reaching the maximum verbal and semantic condensation,
offering multiple and often opposing meanings in few lines (multum in parvo).
As a consequence, from a visual viewpoint, his poetic still life combines various
appearances into one. Instead of unveiling a canvas, the poet leads us through
a whole gallery contained in a single picture. Needless to say, a painting can be
as complex and profound as a poem. However, an illusionistic representation
of objects imposes upon the viewer a limited choice of features which empha-
size the qualities that are most significant for the painter. No matter how rich
and ambiguous these may be, their forms are inevitably fixed in space, whereas
those of poetry are pictured in our imagination, where irreconcilable represen-
tations of the same object may coexist without encroaching on each other (cf.
Lessing 1987: 54).

13 Góngora’s sonnet Hurtas mi vulto, y cuanto más le debe (1620) offers an example of prosopo-
poeia featuring the poet’s own portrait. His use of this figure of speech in ekphrases might
have seemed innovative at the time. However, as is pointed out by Ponce (2010: 82), the
technique was already used by Philostratus (see Imagines, I. 31). Aristotle’s Rhetoric (1411b)
and Rhetorica Ad Herennium (IV. LIII. 66) link the figure to the amplificatio.
14 With at least one notable exception: Arcimboldo’s anthropomorphic still lifes, which at
the time were already renowned in Spain.
636 Luis Castellví Laukamp bhs, 92 (2015)

In fact, Góngora’s ekphrasis offers divergent views of a multiplicity of objects,

as he uses a second figure of speech – synecdoche – that multiplies the six fruits
in the Cyclops’ bag to an enormous amount. The ‘zurrón’ is hyperbolically
described as a huge ‘cercado’ or orchard full of fruits which have been engen-
dered by the ‘tardo otoño’, in lines that are devoted to ‘encarecer la grandeza
del objeto’ (see Gracián 2001, I: 197–204). Hence, we should understand the
plural from the singular for each fruit. Abundance is a Baroque theme par excel-
lence, with evident parallels in the visual arts: many still lifes can be seen as
either mementos of or preambles to splendid feasts (Gombrich 1961: 180). At
the time Góngora wrote, topoi such as a return to nature and the copiousness
of rustic food were particularly in vogue (Jammes 1967: 537). Nowhere else in
classical culture was this combination so brilliantly represented as in cornuco-
pias, the horns of mythology from which fruits and flowers pour unceasingly.
Cornucopias represent abundance and are the attribute of various Greco–Latin
fertility divinities. This symbol, which appears everywhere in examples of
Baroque artworks,15 underwent a revival in popularity in seventeenth-century
Spain (Mayers 2012: 32). Although the word cornucopia is not mentioned in the
ekphrasis, the poet had the topos in mind when he composed the poem.16 The
bountiful Cyclops’ bag can therefore be read as a poetic equivalent of this artistic
motif (Alonso 1950: 370).
Nonetheless, in Góngora conflicting forces often pull simultaneously in opposite
directions. Although the cornucopia captivates the senses with its abundance,
the other facet of such fullness is ominous. Baroque sensitivity is quite at home
with contradictions: in painting, the trend towards contrast manifested in the
chiaroscuro technique; in literature, through antitheses and paradoxes. Interest-
ingly, Góngora applies both the artistic and literary modes of producing this
impression. From a visual standpoint, the still life is preceded by a line that
emphasizes the differentiation between receding lit and increasing dark areas at
twilight (line 72): ‘pisando la dudosa luz del día’ (Ponce 2010: 157). Against the
dramatic dusky twilight, the reader has no difficulty envisaging the multitude of
objects producing elongated shadows, like tombstones in a graveyard.
From a conceptual standpoint, in his description of the fruits Góngora fulfilled
the conditions that Gracián would require for paradoxes in his discourse XXIII
(2001, I: 236): they are all ‘raras y plausibles’, i.e. striking but believable. Their
nature leads the reader to antithetical but plausible perceptions of reality. The
‘camuesa’, in versions I and II of stanza X, undergoes a chromatic metamor-
phosis (‘el color pierde amarillo’) in contact with the knife, whose colour
changes as a result of oxidation (‘en tomando el acero del cuchillo’). The ‘paja’
is contradictorily both ‘avara’ (to suitors) and ‘pródiga’ (to the pear). In a further
‘ingenioso equívoco’ (Gracián 2001, II: 53), the ‘zurrón’ is an ‘erizo’, a word

15 See, for instance, Nymphs with Cornucopia (c. 1620) by Rubens and Snyders, and Maria Anna
of Neuburg, Queen of Spain (1693–1694) by Luca Giordano.
16 See lines 157–58: ‘de la Copia (a la tierra poco avara) | el cuerno vierte el hortelano entero’
(Ponce 2010: 161).
bhs, 92 (2015) Food for Thought: The Fruit Still Life in Góngora’s Polifemo 637

which in Spanish means both chestnut shell (for the ‘castaña’ of line 81) and
hedgehog (for the ‘manzana hipócrita’ of line 83, as this fruit forms part of the
animal’s diet). The apple has an appetising appearance but ‘engaña’ because,
although harvested before due time, it is possibly already rotten (Pellicer 1630:
72; Salcedo Coronel 1636: 331). The quince ‘o verde o datilado’ presents an
unreliable picture because its true colour, which reflects the fruit’s ripeness,
is not even distinguishable. The attributes of the acorn are equivocal: while it
proceeds ‘del mejor mundo, del candor primero’, it is hopelessly ‘grosero’, as it
is often used for animal consumption (e.g. Spanish acorn-fed pigs). The oak sets
itself up as a ‘pabellón’ of the Golden Age taking a contrived architectural form
remote from its botanical nature.
All in all, the message is clear: nature always lies. The reference to the ‘mejor
mundo’ epitomized in the Golden Age or Paradise Lost is particularly revealing.
None of the sources of the poem suggest that nature is hypocritical and fruits
simulate what they are not (Huergo 2006: 199). The idea of a miserly, fraudu-
lent Golden Age is a personal elaboration by Góngora, for whom there is no
room for paradise: by misrepresenting the ideal of Eden, the ekphrasis ends
up by destroying it (Torres 2006: 38–39). Apart from semantic ambiguity, we
should also take into account the convoluted syntax of stanza XI, which adds
darkness to the passage. What might the poet be insinuating with these contra-
dictions and uncertainties? The prevailing philosophical scepticism in Europe
following the abandonment of Aristotelian scholastic thought led to a distrust of
the senses because they arguably only grasp the appearance but not the reality
of things (Otaola 2004: 93). From this distrust arose the concept of desengaño or
disillusionment, cornerstone of seventeenth-century Spanish humanism (García
Gibert 2010: 119). Many of the masterpieces of the Spanish Golden Age (notably,
Don Quijote and La vida es sueño) can be read as variations on the desengaño topic;
the Polifemo is no exception. Its fruit still life suggests that the appearance of
everything we perceive is misleading, in line with contemporary philosophies.
In this sense, there is a kinship between conceptual wit and artistic illusionism
(Praz 1971: 134). The thought behind the ekphrasis could be linked to the tradi-
tion of still life that makes use of the trompe l’oeil or trampantojo, as visual
deception has constituted the basis of the genre since its origin (Aterido 2002:
30). Both paintings and poetry point at an unreliable world whose colour or
appearance fades away under scrutiny.
From this viewpoint, the fruits may also fulfil what I presented as a struc-
tural function in the introduction, as their features metonymically reinforce
the characterization of Polyphemus and Galatea. Indeed, the fruits are two-faced
and so is the Cyclops, who in his song (stanzas XLVI–LVIII) shows civility and
offers gifts that contradict his homicidal tendencies. Therefore, the fruits could
be subtly echoing the traits of their owner through humorous osmosis (Ponce
2010: 88–89). As for the nymph, Góngora associates Galatea with the so-called
fruit of discord on at least two occasions: in line 132 (‘dorado pomo a su veloz
carrera’), in light of her skill escaping from suitors, she is compared with
638 Luis Castellví Laukamp bhs, 92 (2015)

Atalanta, who was slowed down in a foot race by three golden apples; in line 328
(‘fugitivo cristal, pomos de nieve’), an excited Acis observes the naked nymph,
whose breasts are likened to white apples (see Ponce 2010: 160 and 168). Lust
is a constant throughout the poem: all the inhabitants of Sicily desire Galatea.
In this respect, the forbidden fruit is often used metaphorically to represent
both temptation and the fall of man, an aspect which strengthens kinship with
the nymph. For these reasons, the fruits, and particularly the apple, could be
hinting at the fact that not only is Polyphemus deceitful, but also Galatea, who
will dazzle Acis with an ephemeral mirage of love for which he will lose his life.
Both the Cyclops and the nymph may be read as icons of desengaño: neither of
them is what they seem.
Baroque art is skilful at lifting the veil of appearances, but perhaps even more
so at showing death. This is especially noticeable in the genre of still life, so
morbidly obsessed with decay and mortality. Numerous bodegones of seasons –
notably of autumn – were painted in seventeenth-century Spain (Aterido 2002:
80–82). In this respect, the edible contents of Polyphemus’ bag are all fruits of
the ‘tardo otoño’ that the Cyclops has presumably gathered for winter (Pellicer
1630: 68).17 The poet chose them guided not only by aesthetic reasons but also by
the need to express a far-reaching anguish. The word ‘abortada’ on the threshold
of the ekphrasis has ominous connotations because an abortion is precisely an
impediment to life. The ‘serba’ is usually eaten at the end of autumn, when the
fruit has a wrinkled skin (‘rugas’) that reveals its state of slight over-ripeness
(Gallagher 1984: 49). The line in versions I and II of stanza X was more telling
in this respect: ‘rugas le da en la cuna’. Paraphrasing Thompson (2013: 103), the
variant is noteworthy poetically because of the paronomasia (‘rugas’ | ‘cuna’) and
thematically because the order of the verbs puts ageing ahead of infancy. The
fruit shows signs of decrepitude from the cradle. Pallor, which significantly, is
mentioned in both stanzas (‘pálida tutora’, ‘a lo pálido no’), has been associated
with death at least since Horace’s odes (I. 4. 13: ‘pallida Mors’, quoted in the
first prologue of Don Quijote). The same cradle–death combination can be applied
to the ‘pera’, whose ‘cuna dorada’ is the disturbing pale ‘paja’, and even to the
‘membrillo’, which evolves vertiginously from ‘verde’ to ‘datilado’, its colours of
unripeness and ripeness respectively. As mentioned, the ‘camuesa’ of versions I
and II of the stanza is diseased (‘opilada’), and the ‘manzana’ looks healthy but
is rotten.
What are these sinister objects, which pretend to be something they are not,
hiding? What reality do we find after lifting the veil of appearances? Emphasis
on the short-term nature of abundant goods might reveal anxiety, whether in
the form of disquiet regarding economic saturation or, at a more intimate level,
living in fear of God’s punishment for human excesses (Sánchez Jiménez 2011:
256). The Baroque notion of desengaño implies not only a mistrust of perception

17 At the time of Góngora, green fruits were often harvested prematurely in autumn to save
them from inclement weather. They would finish ripening on straw or hay. See Díaz de
Rivas (Feynn 1951: 49).
bhs, 92 (2015) Food for Thought: The Fruit Still Life in Góngora’s Polifemo 639

and knowledge, it also contains an ethical dimension that culminates with the
proper appreciation of the moral value of things (Robbins 2007: 49). Desengaño
must be understood as a path to enlightenment that leads the viewer to discover
the provisional nature of the earthly world (Magallón 2002: 24). The fruits in
autumnal colours that Góngora describes constitute a poetic image through
which to glimpse physical deterioration and death. The poet offers a cornu-
copia with one hand and turns it to dust with the other: no other metaphor
can express more starkly the dialectical nature of the Baroque. The Cyclops’
bag could therefore be interpreted as a literary equivalent of the vanitas still life
subgenre in which the objects portrayed represent man’s vain ambitions, stimu-
lating reflection on the transience of life. In fact, as highlighted by Gombrich
(1961: 180), any still life is by nature a vanitas, since the pleasures it simulates
are not real but illusory. The more cunning the semblance, the more indelible
the sermon. In this respect, Baroque art and poetry went hand in hand in the
obsessive portrayal of the pallida Mors, be it in the form of fancy artefacts or plain
fruits and flowers.
Death is one of the leitmotivs of the poem, and perhaps for this reason
Góngora elaborated not only on the chasm between appearance and reality
but also on the ominous connotations of the fruits. These edible components
bespeak destruction, as do Polyphemus and Galatea, since both contribute to
varying extents to the intrusion of death into Sicily. It goes without saying that
the party directly responsible for Acis’ murder is the Cyclops. However, the
tragic denouement is the consequence of Galatea’s seduction, the discovery of
which leads Polyphemus to perform the fatal deed. Torres (2006: 38–39) has
laid the groundwork for undermining the mainstream reading sympathetic
to the nymph, whose elusive nature will have unfortunate repercussions for
Acis. Throughout the poem, Góngora portrays her as the image of approaching
conflict and ultimately as the bringer of death (Thompson 2013: 96). Thus, the
fruits may be interpreted as an early warning of the fatal events to follow, in
fulfilment of what was defined as a proleptic function in the introduction.

Ut pictura poesis Revisited

Naturally, this is just one of the many possible accounts of this poetic still life.
Detailed ekphrases tend to be enigmatic. Limiting interpretation to one single
meaning is often impossible. The idea to be retained is that poetic descriptions
can point in many directions beyond themselves, becoming hermeneutical keys
for the entire poem (Lizcano 2003: 66). Considered as a mere rhetorical exercise,
an ekphrasis of two stanzas about the Cyclops’ bag would be overdone as it
postpones the dramatic development of the fable. However, this cannot be the
case in a brief epyllion of pinpoint accuracy, the most accomplished of Góngora’s
finished works. Given Baroque culture’s predilection for symbols, such a pains-
taking ekphrasis may indicate a significance beyond mere decoration.
The early modern penchant for allegory is evidenced by the multitude of
640 Luis Castellví Laukamp bhs, 92 (2015)

objects with a meaning beyond their normal use which were represented at
the time. Still lifes present images of the ordinary in such an extraordinary
way that they seem endowed with a hidden message. This is especially the case
with Góngora, who converts every object he describes into a prodigy, regard-
less of its intrinsic qualities. We do not usually know to what extent this kind
of allegorical reading reflects the conscious intention of artists. In fact, the
Antídoto (c. 1614) of Juan de Jáuregui, Góngora’s leading detractor, censored
Soledad I for offering obscure depictions of ‘raterías’, i.e. rustic subject-matter
with – to his mind – neither narrative nor symbolic meaning. This criticism
could also apply to the descriptions of the Polifemo, a poem which he deemed
‘aún peor’ (see Joiner Gates 1960: 96 and 138). Nonetheless, the previous pages
offer arguments to contend that the ekphrasis is by no means senseless babble,
but possibly an expression of Góngora’s poetic credo. His still life offers an a
priori dry subject. However, a bag with six fruits is described in such an intri-
cate style (lexical inventiveness, figures of speech, phonetic games, periphrases,
paradoxes, hyperbatons, hyperboles, metaphors, puns) and so much wit that
the ekphrasis is loaded, at various levels of discourse, with much more than it
literally says.
In fact, Góngora elevates the humble fruits to the category of a verbal painting.
It goes without saying that art and literature conceived under a similar circun-
stancia – borrowing Ortega y Gasset’s concept (1914: 43) – will inevitably have
affinities. Regardless of how much talent they display, writers and artists cannot
avoid reflecting a set of traits that belong to the Weltanschauung of their period
(Praz 1971: 33–34). However, there are solid reasons to argue that Góngora went
beyond this basic common ground, since his assimilation of the plastic arts was
profound enough to entail the incorporation into the epyllion of literary equiva-
lents of artistic techniques (e.g. framing, chiaroscuro), and even a pictorial genre
such as still life, in a process which influenced not only his style but also his
whole approach to the myth.
Thus, Carducho’s praise of Góngora’s poetry (‘en su Polifemo y Soledades parece
que vence lo que pinta, y que no es posible que ejecute otro pincel lo que dibuja
su pluma’ (1865: 146)) seems justified as long as it is not taken too literally. One
of the reasons why Góngora’s still life offers so many readings, and thus visual
representations, is precisely the choice of an aesthetic of difficulty. This literary
credo would prove a challenge for any artist wishing to come to terms with the
poet. Lessing (1987: 107) affirms that it is impossible to faithfully translate a
poetic description into art, an assertion which appears to be even truer in the case
of Góngora. If various painters were given the chance to draw the fruits of the
Cyclops’ bag, their pictures would probably be more different to each other than,
say, the illustrations of unrelated books aimed at the realistic portrayal of nature.
However, the poet had little interest in mimesis, as is reflected by the deliberate
distortions of his still life, and may not be fairly assessed in these terms.
Often in Góngora, once the difficulties of a passage have been solved, relation-
ships with the rest of the poem and between its own components become clear
bhs, 92 (2015) Food for Thought: The Fruit Still Life in Góngora’s Polifemo 641

and visible.18 From an external viewpoint, the still life studied echoes character
traits of Polyphemus and Galatea (structural function) and anticipates the fatal
ending of the epyllion (proleptic function). Internally, the verbal painting is just
the façade behind which the poet delved into the notion of desengaño, offsetting
any ludic connotations of the passage. Thus, in order to make complete sense
of this challenging ekphrasis, it is necessary to go one step further than trite
comments about Góngora’s alleged impressionism.19 Interestingly, Jerónimo
de San José (1651: 126) drew a more insightful parallel between the manner of
Góngora and that of the late Titian which is rarely quoted:
Cansado el Ticiano, del ordinario modo de pintar a lo dulce, y sutil, inventó aquel
otro tan extraño, y subido de pintar a golpes de pincel groseros, casi como borrones
al descuido, con que alcanzó nueva gloria […] Lo mismo parece pretendieron en este
tiempo nuestro Hortensio, y Góngora […] subiendo ambos el estilo hasta la celsitud
del precipicio en el hablar, y el escribir.

The friar is referring to the Venetian pittura a macchia, a style based on strokes
and blobs of paint (‘borrones’, in Spanish) which, in the words of Carducho (1865:
193), ‘de cerca apenas se dan a conocer, si bien apartándose a distancia conveni-
ente, se descubre con agradable vista el arte del que la hizo’.20 Like Góngora’s
culteranista style, this pictorial manner was in vogue but controversial in Baroque
Spain, as is evidenced by Pacheco’s disapproval of the late works of El Greco (see
1956, II: 79). In any case, San José’s comparison may enable us to further explore
the links between painting and poetry by revisiting Horace’s famous ut pictura
poesis, which fits the case perfectly (cf. Cacho 2012a: 111–12).
According to the Latin poet: ‘ut pictura, poesis: erit quae, si propius stes, | te
capiat magis, et quaedam, si longius abstes’ [as is painting, so is poetry: some
pieces will strike you more if you stand near, and some, if you are at a greater
distance] (Ars poetica, 361–62). The latter case is precisely that of the pittura a
macchia, which forces onlookers to distance themselves from the canvas in order
to appreciate its hidden forms, fill with their imagination the gaps left by the
artist and finally transform the medley of colour into a finished image (Gombrich
2002: 167–69). It is thus no wonder that a poet such as Quevedo praised the
‘manchas distantes’ of Velázquez (see line 89 of El pincel in Cacho 2012b: 201).
He possibly perceived the similarity between the mental effort required by the
borrones and the intellectual exercise demanded by his literary display of wit.
In this sense, the distance between the pittura a macchia and the beholder
could be understood as a metaphor of how one should get to grips with the fruit
still life of the Polifemo. The poet merges several traditions in an extraordinarily
elaborate ekphrasis that reflects the encyclopaedic, contradictory spirit – of the

18 This is in line with Gracián’s account of the mechanism of wit within conceptismo. See
his analogy between the agudeza compuesta and architecture (2001, I: 63): ‘composición
artificiosa del ingenio, en que se erige máquina sublime, no de columnas ni arquitrabes,
sino de asuntos y de conceptos’.
19 For a comparison of his poetry with this art movement, see Pabst 1966: 97–105).
20 See, for instance, Titian’s Entombment of Christ (1559).
642 Luis Castellví Laukamp bhs, 92 (2015)

person and the time – that made its existence possible (cf. Kluge 2013: 162–67).21
In the same way that a painting covered by borrones can only be configured by
the onlooker from a distance, Góngora’s bewildering still life is only fully under-
standable (i.e. seeable) if one distances oneself from a mere close reading of the
passage and reflects not only on the artistic motives and techniques that he
poetically emulated, but also on the wit that underlies it. Indeed, visualization
is only wholly achieved when all units of meaning originating in linked pictorial
themes and conceits are apprehended and reflexively referred to each other.
Given that the centre of a conceit projects lines in all directions, the concep-
tual figure envisaged by Gracián in his discourse IV may be pictured as a sphere
of wit (Cacho 2012a: 30). Following this logic, the ekphrasis under study could
be abstractly represented by a sphere formed by the aforementioned lines of
thought or radii: surprise and amusement | abundance of nature | appearance
and reality | passage of time and death. In this respect, so accurately do the
motifs convey character traits of the protagonists, so closely do they point at the
development and visualization of the plot, that the gist of the fable would be
much harder to grasp if the food description were not embedded in the narra-
tive. May the ekphrasis be removed from a marginal position in analyses of the
Polifemo and be placed where it deserves to be: like the rose window of a dome,
thoroughly illuminating the pagan cathedral of Spanish Baroque poetry.

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