Woven Madrid: Goya’s Tapestry Cartoons, Royal Palace Textiles and the Factory Behind Court Design

Travelers' Choice 2026

Updated Aug 3, 2026

From a royal commission in 1775 to a divided collection today

In 1775, Francisco de Goya began working as a painter of tapestry cartoons for Madrid’s royal manufacture. On 20 July 1779, he delivered El columpio to the Real Fábrica de Tapices together with El juego de la pelota a pala. The woven El columpio was intended for the anteroom of the Prince and Princess of Asturias at the Palace of El Pardo, where it occupied the north wall as part of a coordinated decorative ensemble. Around 1856 or 1857, the painted cartoon left the factory for the Royal Palace of Madrid; in 1870 it entered the Museo Nacional del Prado. The design and the textile had become separate museum objects with different custodial histories. Those dates, documented in the Fundación Goya en Aragón catalogue entry for El columpio, supply the most useful way into Madrid’s tapestry story: follow the object lifecycle rather than treating every surviving “Goya” as the same kind of thing.

That distinction matters because the royal decorative arts are often described as though one celebrated painter simply supplied images for luxurious rooms. The actual chain was more demanding. A royal household defined a room and a use; a painter made a full-scale model; dyers developed a workable palette in fiber; weavers converted painted passages into interlaced threads; the finished hanging was fitted into an architectural setting; later custodians moved, stored, copied, restored, catalogued and exhibited both designs and textiles. Authorship was concentrated in Goya’s name but distributed through many hands.

The central interpretive question is therefore not merely what Goya painted. It is how a painted proposition became woven court design, and what was gained, altered or lost at each stage. For a decorative-arts collector, Madrid is unusually productive because the city preserves three different forms of evidence: the Prado’s cartoons, Patrimonio Nacional’s royal textiles and provenance records, and the still-active Real Fábrica de Tapices. The most useful day does not attempt to “cover” all three indiscriminately. It chooses an anchor according to whether the collector’s primary concern is design, textile translation or court placement.

A tapestry cartoon is not a casual preliminary sketch

The word cartoon can mislead an English-speaking visitor. In this context it does not mean a quick idea on paper, nor a small-scale rehearsal awaiting the important finished painting. Goya’s tapestry cartoons were substantial working models, often painted in oil on canvas and made at or near the scale required by the weaving process. The current Real Fábrica de Tapices describes production as beginning with a full-scale model that guides the weaver. Its English manufacturing page uses the term “pasteboard,” but the practical point is clearer than the translation: the design must be sufficiently resolved, legible and dimensionally useful to direct work at the loom. The factory’s own account can be read on its tapestry manufacturing page.

This changes how the Prado paintings should be viewed. Their scale is functional evidence. Their contours, areas of color, changes in light and arrangements of figures had to survive conversion into a medium that does not blend pigment wet on a surface. Even passages that now look freely painterly participated in a production brief. A cartoon had to communicate enough information for another specialist to interpret it, while responding to a room whose dimensions and wall divisions were already consequential.

It is equally misleading to treat the finished tapestry as a mechanically enlarged copy. The loom does not reproduce brushwork as a camera reproduces an image. A weaver chooses where one colored thread ends, where another begins, how closely adjacent tones should be stepped, how an edge should be sharpened or softened, and how much detail the density of the structure can sustain. The painted cartoon and the woven hanging are related objects, not duplicates. One records Goya’s painted decisions; the other records a negotiated translation of those decisions into fiber.

This is why a collector should resist the hierarchy in which the Prado cartoon is automatically the “original” and the tapestry merely a derivative. The design carries Goya’s hand most directly, but the textile carries the court commission to its intended material and architectural conclusion. The more interesting comparison asks which decisions belong to the painter, which belong to the workshop, and which only become intelligible when the object is returned conceptually to its wall.

Close-reading El columpio: image, loom problem and room position

El columpio offers a particularly complete evidence chain. The painted cartoon is dated 1779, measures 260 by 165 centimeters and is now in the Prado. Goya described a family outing with four children and three female attendants. One young woman rises on the swing, forming the highest point of a pyramidal composition; the other figures spread beneath her across the foreground. The arrangement is cheerful at first glance, but the catalogue also records more complicated readings around spectatorship, age, vulnerability and the erotic associations historically attached to the swing motif. For a textile study, those interpretations matter less as a hunt for a single hidden meaning than as a reminder that the scene depends on glances, bodily intervals and subtle distinctions between figures.

Those distinctions are precisely what weaving must rebuild. The suspended figure requires the textile to communicate lift without literal motion. The ropes need to remain legible against sky, foliage and clothing. Faces are small in relation to the whole surface, yet the social relationships of the scene depend upon them. The pale fabrics, red garments, earth, leaves and atmospheric distance call for a broad but controlled range of dyed threads. The weaver does not simply “fill in” Goya’s outlines; the weaver constructs the image through countless local decisions about color adjacency, contour and density.

The catalogue gives another unusually valuable fact: the tapestry was hung on the north wall of the anteroom at El Pardo, together with Las Lavanderas, the over-door pieces Los leñadores and El majo de la guitarra, and corner pieces including El muchacho del pájaro and El niño del árbol. This is not incidental installation history. It reveals that El columpio belonged to a wall system. Its tall movement, compositional peak and distribution of color were read beside other scenes and around architectural interruptions. A museum frame isolates the image; the original room made it one voice in a larger sequence.

Conservation evidence further complicates a direct color comparison. The Fundación Goya entry notes pronounced darkening associated with the reddish preparation used by Goya. The painted cartoon seen today is therefore not a perfectly unchanged color key from 1779. A surviving tapestry may differ because fiber and dye translated the model from the beginning, because light and use aged the textile differently, or because the painted support itself has altered. A collector should not assume that whichever object appears brighter is closer to the commission’s first appearance.

There is also a useful dimensional warning. Patrimonio Nacional’s 2023 dossier catalogued a tapestry of El columpio at 273.5 by 174 centimeters, larger than the dimensions recorded for the Prado cartoon. The figures should not be treated as proof of a simple enlargement ratio without checking the specific objects, borders and cataloguing conventions. They do, however, demonstrate why object records matter. “After Goya” can encompass design, woven execution, later reweaving and different physical formats. The collector’s first discipline is to ask exactly which object is being described.

The royal room was part of the commission

Goya’s cartoons are often admired as independent scenes of Madrid leisure, labor, sociability and fashion. They deserve that attention, but their court function changes their meaning. These were not neutral genre paintings later chosen to decorate a palace. They were conceived within royal furnishing programs for specified interiors. The dimensions of a wall, the presence of a doorway, the height of an over-door panel and the relationship between adjacent hangings could shape the format before the painter resolved a figure.

El columpio makes the point concrete because its original wall is documented. The north-wall placement tells us that orientation, proportion and ensemble were part of the object’s identity. The surrounding works also show how a room could combine major scenes with narrower or smaller pieces assigned to architectural gaps. A collector looking only at isolated paintings in a museum may see a series of charming subjects. A room-based reading sees a designed environment in which image, textile and architecture were interdependent.

This distinction also corrects a common geographical compression. “Royal Palace textiles” does not mean that every Goya tapestry was originally woven for the present Royal Palace of Madrid. El columpio was made for El Pardo. Other series were associated with different royal residences and rooms. The Royal Palace of Madrid enters this particular provenance as a later custodial and collecting node for the painted model, while Patrimonio Nacional connects a much wider network of palaces, stores, galleries and historic interiors.

For the broader institutional story, follow the larger movement from court collection to public museum. For the tapestry cartoons specifically, the key is to keep three questions separate: where was the work designed, where was the textile first intended to hang, and where are the design and woven object held or shown now?

What the loom changes: color, contour, surface and time

The Real Fábrica de Tapices remains active, and its current manufacturing description provides a useful vocabulary for understanding the translation from image to textile. Production begins with a full-scale model. Wool, silk and other selected materials are dyed for the project. The weaver works with thread-loaded cops and a dense weave intended to carry pictorial nuance. The factory estimates that a square meter can require six to twelve months of manual work depending on complexity. That estimate describes contemporary production, not the documented schedule of Goya’s eighteenth-century commissions, but it gives the right order of magnitude for the labor hidden behind a finished surface.

At the loom, structural threads establish the field, while colored threads build the visible image. The practical consequence is that a painted transition cannot simply be smeared or glazed into existence. A cheek, cloud, fold of silk or distant tree must be translated into neighboring thread choices. Color is prepared materially before it is perceived optically. The dyer’s range sets possibilities; the weaver’s selection and interlacing turn those possibilities into form.

The scholarly study La Real Fábrica de Tapices de Madrid: muerte y resurrección de un arte, published by the Universidad Complutense de Madrid, frames this translation as an artistic tension rather than a neutral technique. Laura de la Calle Vian argues that the traditional balance among painters, dyers and weavers weakened as painters demanded increasingly literal imitation of oil effects. Dyers expanded color ranges; weavers made warps and wefts finer so smaller points could render minute details. Technical virtuosity increased, yet the textile risked being judged by how successfully it disguised itself as painting.

That argument is valuable even when one does not accept every part of its aesthetic verdict. It identifies a problem visible in Goya’s commissions: should the loom preserve its own language, or suppress that language in pursuit of the cartoon? A sharp painted highlight may become a small cluster of pale threads. A brushy shadow may require stepped tones. A contour that appears spontaneous in oil becomes a planned boundary negotiated row by row. The finished tapestry can look astonishingly painterly, but its painterliness is the result of textile intelligence rather than the absence of it.

Fibers also matter. Wool and silk do not reflect light in the same way, accept every dye identically or behave alike under tension and wear. Even without laboratory analysis, a collector can look for changes in sheen, density and surface that suggest how the workshop differentiated fabrics, skin, foliage and sky. The aim is not to reverse-engineer every thread from the gallery floor. It is to stop reading the hanging as a flat image and begin reading it as a constructed field of material choices.

Time enters twice. First, the work takes time to weave, which means the textile embodies prolonged attention by specialists whose names are less famous than the designer’s. Second, fibers and dyes age under conditions different from oil paint on canvas. Fading, soiling, repairs, lining, tension changes and restoration can alter the relation between a tapestry and its cartoon. The most reliable comparison therefore uses cataloguing, conservation evidence and close looking together. Visual resemblance alone is not enough.

The workshop’s distributed authorship

A royal tapestry can carry one celebrated artist’s name while preserving a collective act. The commission begins above the workshop: court officials, artistic directors and furnishers define destination, scale and program. The cartoon painter supplies the pictorial model. Dyers convert painted color into a usable stock of threads. Weavers interpret the model through the limits and possibilities of the loom. Finishers, installers and later conservators affect the object’s edges, support, hang and legibility. The resulting textile is neither anonymous craft beneath a painter nor an autonomous design detached from patronage. It is a negotiated object.

The Complutense study makes the conflicts explicit. It describes Goya arriving in 1775 with the mentality of an easel painter and seeking close fidelity to his designs, while dyers and weavers defended the peculiar resources of textile translation. The point is not to cast Goya as an enemy of craft. His demands helped drive extraordinary technical refinement. The point is that fidelity itself was contested. To the painter, deviation could look like failure; to the weaver, literalism could ignore what thread and loom do best.

This tension changes how quality should be assessed. A collector accustomed to prints or casts may ask how close the version is to the model. In tapestry, a more productive question is how intelligently the workshop has interpreted the model. Does the textile preserve the composition’s hierarchy? Are faces readable without becoming stiff? Do areas of foliage remain alive rather than dissolving into noise? Are the large color masses strong enough to carry the room from a distance? Does close detail support, rather than sabotage, the hanging’s architectural presence?

The answer may vary across different weavings of the same design. A later replica can use another density, palette, border or scale. It may be made for a different wall and patron. The design name remains constant while the textile object changes. That is why provenance should include workshop date, dimensions, intended location and production history, not merely “Goya” and a familiar title.

For travelers who want to place this early court work within Goya’s much longer Madrid career, connect the tapestry cartoons with Goya’s later religious, court and public work. The cartoons are not a decorative preface to the “serious” artist. They are where he learned to negotiate patronage, scale, popular subject matter and the translation of invention through an institution.

Named works reveal different translation problems

Patrimonio Nacional’s 2023 dossier on highlights of the Royal Collections Gallery named La caza del jabalí, La gallina ciega, La Feria de Madrid and El columpio among Goya-related tapestries made for the Spanish court. The list is useful not because it guarantees that each work will be on view on every later date, but because the subjects expose how varied the workshop’s interpretive tasks could be.

El columpio is a problem of vertical lift, fine ropes, grouped figures and atmospheric separation. La gallina ciega is organized around circular movement: linked bodies must read as rhythm rather than a static ring of colored costumes. La Feria de Madrid asks the textile to manage visual abundance, with figures, merchandise and overlapping objects competing for attention. La caza del jabalí introduces the momentum and spatial confusion of a hunt. In each case the cartoon gives the loom more than a subject. It gives a different hierarchy of edges, details, intervals and color masses.

This is why a study of only one cartoon can explain process but not range. A collector comparing several designs should look for recurring solutions. Goya often uses strong diagonals or arcs to organize groups. He separates bright clothing from earth and sky so figures remain legible. He places small incidents around a central action, creating social density without abandoning the main compositional movement. The workshop then has to decide which distinctions deserve thread-level precision and which can be carried by broader zones.

The comparison also prevents “Goya tapestry” from becoming a style label. The court commissions encompass leisure, games, markets, work, seasons, hunting and urban or semi-rural sociability. Their appeal is not a uniform rococo prettiness. Across the group, conviviality can sit beside labor, flirtation, danger, spectatorship and social performance. The textile medium amplifies that ambiguity because clothing, gesture and setting are literally bound into one surface.

Another useful comparison is between a major central hanging and the smaller pieces designed for over-doors or corners. Reduced formats are not lesser afterthoughts. They solve difficult architectural transitions and often require especially economical compositions. When the El columpio record identifies neighboring over-door and corner subjects, it reveals a furnishing logic that an isolated masterpiece cannot show. The room’s coherence depended on works of different status and shape.

Collectors extending the day beyond Goya can compare Madrid’s collector-level decorative-arts collections without turning the day into a museum inventory. The useful comparison is not simply more ornament. It is how different patrons joined furniture, textiles, paintings and architecture into systems of display.

Provenance split the painted design from the woven object

The later history of El columpio demonstrates why Madrid’s institutions should be read as stages rather than interchangeable repositories. The cartoon was delivered to the factory in 1779, moved from the Real Fábrica de Tapices de Santa Bárbara to the Royal Palace around 1856 or 1857, and entered the Prado in 1870. The tapestry had fulfilled a different life as a furnishing for El Pardo and later as part of the royal textile collections. Once separated, each object accumulated its own condition, catalogue record and exhibition history.

The Complutense study places that movement within a larger nineteenth-century crisis. During the Peninsular War, French troops occupied the factory buildings, removed work from looms and dispersed artisans. The manufacture increasingly became a conservation and cleaning workshop for royal collections, closed in 1871 amid financial ruin, and reopened after the Bourbon restoration. The same study notes that Gregorio Cruzada Villaamil wrote after the discovery in Royal Palace basements of 255 painted tapestry models, including 45 by Goya. Whatever one makes of the period’s collecting judgments, the episode shows how objects that now command museum attention could once survive in storage as workshop material.

Museum transfer changed status. In the Prado, the cartoon could be studied as a painting by Goya, compared across series and incorporated into a narrative of his career. That visibility was a gain. Yet museumization also encouraged the design to eclipse the woven object. The textile remained tied to a more dispersed royal collection, to changing displays and to a medium often categorized as furnishing rather than painting.

Later production complicates provenance further. The Complutense article records a 1901 commission by the Infanta Isabel de Borbón for six Goya-based hangings fitted to the dining room of her new residence in Argüelles. All were made to a common height, while widths varied according to the wall spaces. La merienda and El columpio occupied broad fields; narrower designs included Las floreras, El paseo, La maja del lunar and La vendimia. This was not simply the reappearance of an eighteenth-century set. It was a new interior using historical designs, resized and regrouped for another patron and room.

For a collector, the lesson is decisive: title and designer do not establish identity. A tapestry after Goya may be an eighteenth-century court weaving, a later royal or private replica, a reduced version, a composite, or an adaptation with a new border. Provenance must follow the physical object through date, workshop, dimensions, intended site and later movement. The familiar image is only the start of attribution.

Royal Palace and Royal Collections evidence: what it can prove

Patrimonio Nacional’s 2023 dossier described a royal tapestry collection of roughly 3,000 pieces, including Spanish and Flemish works, and identified approximately 800 hangings of Spanish production linked to the reigns of Felipe V, Carlos III and Carlos IV. It presented El columpio as a Real Fábrica de Tapices tapestry after Goya and named several Goya court designs for the inaugural display of the Royal Collections Gallery. Those figures establish the scale and institutional importance of the textile holdings. They do not establish that a particular tapestry remains in the same gallery position indefinitely.

This distinction is essential when planning research around a named object. A publication announcing an inaugural display is evidence of an exhibition moment, not a permanent promise. Textiles may rotate for conservation, lending, reinterpretation or gallery changes. The Royal Palace interiors, the Royal Collections Gallery and off-view stores serve different purposes. A collector should verify the exact object, not assume that a famous title or a historic royal association guarantees present visibility.

The Palace quarter still matters even when a specific Goya tapestry is not confirmed. It supplies the institutional context of royal collecting, the later movement of cartoons and the broader relationship between architecture and furnishing. Yet for object-led study, context should not be mistaken for access. The most useful preliminary question is whether the day requires a surviving woven example, a room-based understanding of royal display, or provenance documentation. Each points to a different emphasis.

For a focused comparison among the Palace, Prado and Royal Collections Gallery, decide how the Royal Collections Gallery fits beside the Palace and Prado. The answer for a tapestry collector should be object-specific: choose the institution that can support the question being asked, rather than the building with the broadest royal name.

Real Fábrica access is guided, conditional and not the same as archive access

The Real Fábrica de Tapices is the only place in this Madrid chain where the logic of production remains active rather than reconstructed solely from historic objects. That makes it compelling, but access must be described precisely. The factory’s official visits and exhibitions page states that workshop visits take place only as guided tours and must be arranged in advance. The booking request is made by email and includes the name, identification number and telephone number of every visitor. The factory confirms the appointment subject to availability, after which payment is made by bank transfer.

The same page describes small-group tours for up to six visitors with access to parts of the building not normally open to the public. That is meaningful for a collector, but it should not be inflated into a promise of unrestricted access. A workshop tour is not automatically an archive consultation, a storeroom visit, permission to handle textiles or a private meeting with a particular specialist. Those would require separate, explicit authorization. The selected visit page also states that photography, filming and audio recording are prohibited unless approved in advance.

This has practical consequences for research design. The factory appointment is the least flexible element and should be confirmed before the rest of the day is treated as fixed. The group’s identification details must be gathered early, especially when a family office, advisor or several collectors are involved. A request should state the genuine subject interest clearly, but it should not assume that curatorial, conservation or archival access is included in a public or small-group tour.

Preparation improves the value of the visit. Before entering, a collector should know the difference between cartoon and tapestry, understand the basic roles of dyeing and weaving, and have two or three specific visual problems in mind: how a face is modeled, how a contour turns, how adjacent colors create distance, or how borders are integrated. The workshop is then read as a system of decisions rather than as a picturesque display of manual labor.

The current manufacturing page and the visit page also need to be read together. One explains the idealized production sequence and labor intensity; the other governs actual visitor access. Neither promises that a particular Goya design will be on a loom, that every workshop function will be active during the tour, or that the historical archive can be consulted. A credible itinerary treats those limits as part of the evidence, not as inconveniences to be glossed over.

Should the factory or the collections anchor the research day?

The answer depends on the collector’s primary question. The factory is the better anchor when the purpose is to understand translation: how a full-scale model becomes fiber, how color is prepared, how a weaver resolves contours, and why workshop labor changes the meaning of authorship. The Prado is the better anchor when the purpose is to compare Goya’s designs, study the evolution of subjects and compositions, or examine the cartoon as a painted object with its own conservation history. Patrimonio Nacional becomes the anchor when a specific woven object is confirmed and royal provenance or architectural display is the main concern.

• Choose the factory first when a confirmed guided visit is available and technique is the non-negotiable subject. Build the rest of the day around that appointment, then select one collection counterpart rather than forcing every institution into a superficial circuit.
• Choose the Prado first when factory access is unconfirmed, when several cartoons must be compared, or when conservation evidence and Goya’s painted decisions matter more than live workshop process.
• Choose the royal collections first only when the relevant tapestry or closely related textile is verified on view and the research question concerns provenance, later display or comparison between woven executions.
• Split the study across two days when the aim is documentation rather than orientation. A serious comparison of multiple cartoons, a guided workshop visit and a substantial royal-collection study can exceed the useful attention available in one day even when admission logistics align.

For most collectors attempting a single research day, the confirmed factory appointment should be the fixed point because it cannot be improvised. The interpretive anchor, however, may still be the Prado cartoon studied before or after it. This distinction is useful: the appointment determines sequence, while the research question determines intellectual priority.

A collection-only day can still be rigorous. Begin with one named cartoon such as El columpio, record dimensions, room destination, delivery date and conservation notes, then compare two or three designs for different compositional problems. Follow with a royal-collection component only when it adds a woven object or a specific provenance question. Without that evidence, another hour of close looking at the cartoons is more valuable than a symbolic palace stop.

A factory-led day needs the reverse discipline. Do not spend the visit trying to absorb the entire history of Spanish tapestry. Use the workshop to answer material questions, then test those answers against one or two Goya designs. The day succeeds when the collector can explain why a particular edge, face, fold or color transition becomes a workshop problem—not when the itinerary accumulates the highest number of institutions.

A collector-level sequence for following the object lifecycle

A useful sequence begins before arrival with a compact object file. For El columpio, that file should distinguish the 1779 cartoon, the tapestry catalogued by Patrimonio Nacional, the original El Pardo room, the cartoon’s movement to the Royal Palace and Prado, and the existence of later reweavings. Add the recorded dimensions of each cited object and mark any display detail that still requires present-day confirmation. This prevents familiar titles from collapsing separate works into one mental image.

At the Prado, read the cartoon in three passes. First, step back and identify the large compositional forces: verticals, diagonals, arcs, light masses and the dominant movement. Second, inspect passages that will challenge a weaver—faces, hands, ropes, foliage, patterned clothing and transitions into distance. Third, look for evidence of the painting as a working object: scale, seams, preparation, changes in tone and conservation effects. The point is not to imitate a conservator from the gallery floor, but to ask questions that the loom visit can sharpen.

At the factory, translate those observations into process. Which distinctions require separate dyed tones? Where might a contour be built through stepped color rather than a continuous painted line? How does density affect the legibility of small forms? What happens when the design asks the textile to imitate soft atmospheric paint? The best questions are specific enough to connect to an object yet broad enough to remain useful even if no Goya design is in active production.

At a royal-collection venue, shift from translation to object history. Confirm whether the hanging is an eighteenth-century weaving or a later version, record its border and dimensions, and ask what is known about intended location and subsequent movement. A tapestry in a modern gallery should be mentally returned to its architectural scale. How high would it have hung? What other textiles or furnishings completed the room? Which visual effects are designed for distance, and which reward close approach?

Travelers building a wider design itinerary around this study can build a broader Madrid design day around one anchor museum and a coherent sequence. The tapestry subject benefits from the same restraint: one strong evidence chain is more valuable than disconnected decorative highlights.

Where specialist interpretation materially changes the result

The difficulty of this subject is not scarcity of beautiful objects. It is the risk of joining the wrong objects together. A painted cartoon, an eighteenth-century tapestry, a later replica and a modern exhibition image can share a title while answering different historical questions. A specialist guide should therefore do more than identify scenes. The useful work is to keep object type, date, workshop, dimensions, original room, later movement and current display status distinct, then connect them without overstating certainty.

Appointment coordination is equally substantive. A collector-led visit to the Real Fábrica requires confirmed access, complete visitor information and realistic expectations about what the guided format includes. When that access is aligned with close reading at the Prado and object-specific verification in the royal collections, the three institutions stop feeling like separate attractions and become one study of design, manufacture and provenance.

This is the point at which private interpretation has an earned role. It can preserve time for comparison, bring the relevant object records into the conversation, and redirect the day when a named textile is not on view. It cannot manufacture archive permission or guarantee workshop conditions. The value lies in making the evidence chain usable. For broader context on tailored cultural study, explore private Madrid touring built around a defined subject rather than a standard highlights circuit.

What remains open after the cartoon meets the tapestry

Goya’s name draws the eye, but Madrid’s woven evidence keeps widening the field of authorship. The royal room shaped the format. The cartoon translated a court brief into paint. Dyers made color materially available. Weavers converted pictorial intention into structure. Later custodians separated design from textile, moved both through palaces and museums, and sometimes commissioned new versions for new walls. Conservation changed what can be seen; display determines what can be compared.

A collector who follows that chain leaves with a more demanding question than which version looks most faithful. When a tapestry carries Goya’s invention, the dyer’s palette, the weaver’s judgment, the patron’s dimensions and the history of several installations, where does the authorship of the finished object truly reside?

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