AT THE CENTRO CULTURAL BANCAJA in Valencia, I found myself once again face to face with Joaquín Sorolla’s El grito del Palleter (The Cry of the Palleter), painted in 1884. It was included in the exhibition Scenes and Landscapes in Valencian Painting. 19th and 20th Centuries, a marvelous collection of works that shows the breadth of romantic and realist traditions in Valencian art.
I know this painting well. I have studied it for years, and I teach it annually in my lecture on Sorolla’s early Romantic period. Yet, no matter how many times I discuss it in a classroom or project it onto a screen, seeing the original is always a shock. The energy of the brushwork, the luminous whites of the peasants’ clothing, the carefully balanced composition, all of it is alive in a way that reproductions never quite capture.
What fascinates me most about this work is how it represents Sorolla caught between tradition and innovation. In 1884, the Rome scholarship demanded a historical painting, the most prestigious genre of the Academy. Sorolla complied, but in his own way: instead of stiff theatrics, his figures feel immediate, real, and full of light. Already, he was testing the boundaries of convention, experimenting with luminosity and naturalistic detail, the very qualities that would define his mature style.
The subject itself is one of the most iconic in Valencian memory: the cry of Vicente Domènech, “el Palleter.” On 23 May 1808, standing on the steps of the Valencia market, this humble seller of fire-lighting straws proclaimed that he no longer recognized Joseph Bonaparte as king. He swore loyalty to Fernando VII and called the people of Valencia to arms against the French. His outburst was more than words—it was the spark of rebellion. That same day the city rose in revolt, and within weeks, Valencia would withstand the First Siege of 1808, handing Napoleon’s armies one of their earliest defeats.
As I teach my students every year, Sorolla doesn’t paint el Palleter as a distant, romanticized hero. He is no general, no nobleman, no saint. He is a man of the market, surrounded by the very peasants who would join him in battle. Sorolla’s eye is democratic: he shows that history belongs to ordinary people, to the collective will, to those willing to defend their city.
Sorolla’s canvas is more than an academic exercise, more than a patriotic scene. It is a bridge between art and history, between 1808 and 1884, between Sorolla the student and Sorolla the master. It is also a reminder that the past is never distant. It lives on in light, in paint, and in the spirit of a city that has never forgotten how to resist.
Karla Ingleton Darocas
