What Power Doesn’t Want You to See
Goya's truth, David's myth, and the battle over what we see
After Napoleon’s heroics, Goya painted the price.
Not long ago, we looked at Napoleon Crossing the Alps—Jacques-Louis David’s portrait of power in full control. Napoleon, rearing on horseback, wrapped in drama and destiny. A myth made to last.
But history has another witness.
Just a few years later, in The Third of May 1808 (1814), Francisco Goya gives us a different vision of Napoleon’s legacy—not glory, but grief.
A man in white stands with arms raised. Behind him: bodies. In front of him: rifles. He is moments from death. His face is lit, human, terrified. The soldiers’ faces are turned away—machine-like, identical, cold. The brushstrokes are loose. The emotion is not.
This is not a portrait. It’s an indictment.
The History Behind the Horror
In the early 1800s, Europe was in upheaval. Napoleon Bonaparte was expanding his empire under the banner of revolution and reform. In 1807, France struck a deal with Spain to allow French troops safe passage through the country en route to invade Portugal, one of Napoleon’s enemies.
But Napoleon had other plans.
By 1808, under the pretense of restoring order and modernizing Spain, he forced King Charles IV and his heir to abdicate the Spanish throne. Napoleon then installed his brother, Joseph Bonaparte, as king.
This was not liberation. It was occupation—disguised in the language of progress.
The Spanish people, devoutly Catholic and culturally proud, rejected this imposed rule. On May 2, 1808, the people of Madrid revolted against the French troops. Civilians armed themselves with knives, stones, and desperation. The rebellion was crushed.
On May 3, in retaliation, the French conducted mass executions. Civilians were pulled from their homes and shot in public squares.
This is the moment Goya painted.
War, Resistance, and Ruin
The executions marked the beginning of the Peninsular War (1808–1814)—a brutal, drawn-out conflict that drained French resources and inflamed Spanish nationalism. Guerrilla fighters, aided by British troops, harassed and eventually drove out the French.
By 1814, Napoleon’s forces had withdrawn—but at great cost. Civilians bore the brunt of it. Goya, who had seen both courtly power and battlefield horror, turned his artistry not toward glorification, but toward testimony.
His painting is not a call to arms. It’s a reminder of what happens when power turns away from the people it claims to uplift.
The Artist Behind the Brush
Francisco Goya began his career as a court painter—known for elegant portraits of Spanish nobility and royal life. He was successful, celebrated, and close to the very systems of power he would later critique. But in the 1790s, his life changed drastically. A mysterious illness left him permanently deaf. Isolated from the world of conversation and courtly politics, Goya’s inner world grew darker, and his art followed.
By the time of the Napoleonic invasion, Goya had become increasingly skeptical of power, progress, and the idea of reason itself. The Third of May 1808 marked a sharp break with his earlier career. He no longer painted influence—he painted consequence. He turned away from state-sanctioned imagery and toward unflinching truth.
This transformation would only deepen.
After the war, Goya withdrew from public life. In the final years of his career, he painted directly onto the walls of his home in near-complete secrecy. These works, now known as the Black Paintings, are filled with nightmarish imagery, grotesque figures, and existential dread. Gone were powdered wigs and Enlightenment ideals. What remained was a raw, deeply human reaction to war, trauma, and disillusionment.
From Heroic Fantasy to Human Cost
(Napoleon Crossing the Alps by Jacques-Louis David)
David’s Napoleon Crossing the Alps presented a legend: noble, poised, invincible. Goya’s Third of May 1808 offers reality—messy, bloody, and uncomfortably close. Where David served empire, Goya bore witness to its violence.
But Goya didn’t paint this immediately. He waited six years.
Why? Because he had to.
Spain remained under French control until 1814. During the occupation, creating an image that openly criticized Napoleon’s forces would have been politically dangerous—if not suicidal. Only after the French were expelled and the Spanish monarchy restored could Goya even propose such a work. In fact, The Third of May was not a royal commission; it was initiated by Goya himself and approved by the provisional government—not King Ferdinand VII, who reportedly showed little interest in a painting that honored popular rebellion. It was created from memory, anger, and moral urgency.
The result is a painting that refuses polish. It’s emotional. Raw. A counter-monument to power’s mythology.
The Language of Power—Then and Now
What makes The Third of May endure isn’t just its historical weight—it’s the way it lays bare the tools of propaganda by showing us what it omits.
No flags. No polished uniforms. No generals.
Just fear, execution, and the erasure of identity—on both sides of the gun.
Today, power still cloaks itself in grand images. Carefully crafted messages, patriotic music, tightly edited videos. But beneath the spectacle, there is often silence, omission, and pain.
Goya’s work refuses to participate in that silence.
And you can draw a direct visual line from Goya’s white-shirted martyr to the 1968 photo (see below) of the Saigon Execution—another image where the state’s violence is caught mid-action, raw and unfiltered. That photograph helped turn American public opinion against the Vietnam War, not through a speech or a flag, but through the jarring truth of a single moment.
In sharp contrast, we now watch public figures recast violence against themselves as proof of divine favor or heroic destiny. Just days after surviving an assassination attempt, Donald Trump released imagery of himself wrapped in golden light, positioned as a chosen figure—echoing the same visual strategy David once used to elevate Napoleon from man to myth.
This is why Goya matters now more than ever.
His painting does not ask you to admire.
It asks you to witness.
Saigon, Feb. 1, 1968. Photo by Eddie Adams / Associated Press
Photo by Evan Vucci / Associated Press
Resources and Further Reading:
Francisco Goya – The Third of May 1808 (1814)
Museo del Prado: The painting is housed in the Museo del Prado in Madrid.
Smarthistory Analysis: An in-depth examination of the painting's historical context and artistic significance.
Khan Academy: Educational resources detailing the painting's composition and impact.
Jacques-Louis David – Napoleon Crossing the Alps (1801–1805)
Smarthistory Overview: Analysis of David's portrayal of Napoleon and its propagandistic elements.
National Gallery of Art: Discussion on David's use of realism and myth-making in the painting.
Eddie Adams – Saigon Execution (1968)
Getty Museum: The Getty Museum holds an original print of this iconic photograph.
National Gallery of Art: The NGA provides details on the photograph and acquisition.
Library of Congress: Archival information and citation details for the photograph.
Evan Vucci – Donald Trump After Assassination Attempt (2024)
Associated Press Coverage: AP provides context and distribution of Vucci's photograph capturing the immediate aftermath of the assassination attempt.
Vanity Fair Analysis: Discussion on the use of the photograph in political imagery and its placement in the White House. Vanity Fair
World Press Photo: The photograph is featured in the 2025 Photo Contest, highlighting its significance in photojournalism
Stunningly thought provoking.
Very powerful! A must read!