Every year, on this date, I find myself thinking of Francisco Goya—not just the painter, but the man: the court chronicler, the satirist, the wounded citizen, the exiled skeptic. Goya was born on March 30, 1746, in Fuendetodos, Spain, and if ever there were an artist who contained multitudes (with all due respect to Walt Whitman), it was him. He might have lived in the Age of Enlightenment, but he painted like someone who had seen the end of it.

I confess I have a complicated relationship with Goya. Some days I find him transcendent—audacious, unflinching, prophetic. Other days I feel like he’s dragging me into a cave with no light and no guarantee of a way out. But maybe that’s the mark of the real art: it resists satisfaction. Goya doesn’t flatter the viewer. He demands.

His career is a bildungsroman in oils and etchings—novelistic in its arc and depth. Goya began as a rococo court painter, producing elegant portraits that flatter with just enough wit to remain palatable to patrons. But even in those early works, you can sense something coiled beneath the surface, waiting. By the time we reach The Third of May 1808, the court has all but disappeared, and we are face to face with raw terror, moral clarity, and unrelenting violence. It is, without exaggeration, a painting that redefined the role of art in political conscience. It doesn’t moralize—it witnesses.

​And then, of course, there are Los Caprichos and The Disasters of War—works that read like visual essays, unsparing in their critique of superstition, brutality, and human folly. They hold up a mirror and break it at the same time. These are not paintings to be admired from a polite distance. They are confrontations.

And if that weren’t enough, Goya ends his career not in stately retrospection but in something closer to madness. The Black Paintings, created in isolation during his final years, are unlike anything else in European art. Saturn Devouring His Son is practically an act of exorcism. The quiet horror of Two Old Men Eating Soup is somehow more chilling than the mythological gore. These are not works of a man who has lost his mind—they are works of a man who has seen too much.

What I admire, perhaps more than anything, is that Goya never stopped evolving. He refused to calcify. He changed not because the market demanded it, but because history did—because life did. He painted the world as it was, not as he wished it to be. In that way, he was not only an artist of his time but of ours as well. In every age marked by cruelty, confusion, or decay, Goya returns. He never really leaves.

So today, I raise an ambivalent glass to Goya: the uneasy genius, the reluctant prophet, the reluctant courtier, the fierce satirist. He makes no promises of comfort, but he offers truth—and maybe that’s more valuable anyway.

Happy birthday, Francisco. You make it hard to look. But harder still to look away.

LITERATURE & JAZZ SERIES

In the narrative of jazz evolution, hard bop emerges as a soulful revolt—a muscular, emotive response to the cool detachment preceding it. This genre, flourishing in the 1950s and 1960s, blended the intricate improvisation of bebop with rhythm and blues, gospel, and even Latin influences, creating a sound that was both complex and profoundly accessible. Like the best of tales, hard bop tells of human experience with grit, passion, and a depth of emotion, making it the soundtrack to a life lived in vivid color. It's in this rich, auditory soil that we find the seeds of literary hard bop—works of fiction and poetry that resonate with the same intensity, complexity, and soulfulness characteristic of the music itself.

Drawing parallels between hard bop and literature unveils a shared narrative strength, a rhythmic pulse in prose and verse that speaks to the same deep currents of life's joys, struggles, and triumphs. The following seven literary works echo the spirit of hard bop, each a symphony of words that matches the dynamic, soul-stirring essence of the music. Their narratives swing with a rhythm, intensity, and emotional honesty that bridge the worlds of sonic and written storytelling.

"Go Tell It on the Mountain" by James Baldwin
Baldwin's semi-autobiographical novel weaves together themes of religious fervor, racial injustice, and personal turmoil in a narrative as passionate and improvisational as any hard bop composition. The novel's deep dive into the soul's darkest and brightest corners echoes the genre's intensity and its blend of the spiritual with the painfully earthly.

"Jazz" by Toni Morrison
Morrison's "Jazz," set in Harlem during the jazz age, literally and figuratively dances to the music's evolving rhythms, capturing the era's vibrancy and the music's transformative impact on its characters. The novel's narrative structure—improvisational, layered, and rhythmic—parallels hard bop's musical innovations, making it a literary echo of the genre’s soulful complexity.

"White Teeth" by Zadie Smith
Smith's sprawling, energetic tale of two North London families weaves multiple narratives in a tapestry as vibrant and polyphonic as hard bop itself. The novel's exploration of identity, heritage, and the collisions of culture and history resonates with hard bop's integration of diverse musical influences and its deep engagement with the African American experience.

"The Man with the Golden Arm" by Nelson Algren
Algren’s novel about Frankie Machine, a card dealer and morphine addict struggling to find a clean break in post-war Chicago, pulses with the gritty realism and emotional turbulence that hard bop encapsulates. The narrative's exploration of addiction, redemption, and the struggle against societal constraints harmonizes with the hard bop tradition of blending technical mastery with deep, often raw, emotional expression.

"The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao" by Junot Díaz
Díaz's novel, rich with the rhythms of Dominican history and the diasporic experience, pulses with the energy, humor, and tragedy of hard bop. The story of Oscar and his family, told with a blend of sharp wit and lyrical intensity, captures the music's dynamic interplay of light and darkness, improvisation, and narrative depth.

"Native Son" by Richard Wright
Wright's powerful story of Bigger Thomas, set against the backdrop of Chicago's South Side, shares hard bop's exploration of African American experiences and its unflinching confrontation with themes of race, poverty, and the search for identity. The novel's intense narrative and complex character study echo the emotive force and thematic depth of hard bop music.

"A Rage in Harlem" by Chester Himes
Himes' vibrant, fast-paced tale of love, deception, and desperation in 1950s Harlem captures the energy and mood of hard bop jazz. With its intricate plot, richly drawn characters, and the rhythmic pulse of its setting, the novel reflects the genre's ability to tell complex, deeply human stories through a fusion of style and substance.

Final Thoughts: Echoing Through the Pages
These literary works, in their richness and depth, in the soulfulness of their narratives, and in their rhythmic, often improvisational structures, offer a reading experience that echoes the essence of hard bop. Just as hard bop extends the jazz conversation with its distinctive blend of complexity and emotional directness, these novels and stories extend the literary conversation with their dynamic explorations of human experience. In the interplay of notes and words, in the syncopation of sentences and the improvisation of plot, the spirit of hard bop lives on, inviting readers and listeners to find their own rhythm within its timeless beat.