Ways of Seeing

He was quickly heads-above other Dutch painters—noticed, too, by respected connoisseurs and art collectors from around Europe, who described him as someday standing equal to or surpassing the Masters. This was 1627. For a century that saw more than five million paintings completed in The Netherlands alone, people dispensing accolades to a young painter— Rembrandt was then 21 years old—must have come upon works they had little comparison to in their lifetimes. Rembrandt still painted in Leiden, sharing a studio with another promising artist, Jan Lievens. Amsterdam was nearly four years ahead for the Dutch artist. What did Rembrandt see in his subjects; how was he able to produce such “promising” and strong pieces? To stand comparison with the Masters—Michelangelo, Da Vinci, Titian—what did collectors and critics see between this young man and centuries of art behind him?

Did Rembrandt see nature and humans as other artists did not? Was his vision of a different sort; did he see the world differently? What is “different” anyway? Different has no graspable meaning to art appreciation. Was his perspective unique to his time? For all time? Ah! … now we have a word! Unique. Perhaps Rembrandt was this. So how could Rembrandt have seen the world uniquely—wholly apart from other artists? The idea of “focus” comes to mind, and so I’ll use it in this brief look at Rembrandt vision.

There is no denying that a change occurred between 1626 and 1627 (and for several years afterwards) to Rembrandt’s perspective and artistic style in how he approached a subject. His perspective narrowed, I think, in a way that brought him closer to his subject. By this I mean physically so, to where he sought to noticed detail of human action, expression, to where he looked at what it was that made people unique from one another. He wanted to expose these in his art. Likewise, he chose to show these differences by finding a stylistic expression on the canvas that used the world in which they lived. Not an idealized world—sitting for a portrait in finery—but one that is soiled by reality of everyday life. And, finally, I see Rembrandt becoming a storyteller—taking what he read and what he saw as inspiration to create a new route for art. Taken as a group then—details of subject and scene, set in realistic terms, and expressed with story elements—we can understand how Rembrandt’s contemporary art critics and collectors (men 40 years older than he, with vast knowledge and (sometimes) expansive appreciation for the various art genres) saw a unique voice in the art world.

When you examine just a few paintings from Rembrandt’s pre-1627 work, what you see is skilled painting, perspective, even practiced elements of drama. Within two years time, you don’t recognize the early, traditional pieces from the sought after—and found—unique seeing. In History Piece (1626), we find a scene typical of the period and of aspiring artists: a group portrait, evenly lighted, temporal expressions, lots of textures. Rembrandt demonstrates his mastering of pigment, shadow and the human form. His mixing of paints creates for the viewer textures aligned with the material he represents. We can almost feel the ridges on the pounded steel shields and armor, the brocade worn by the regent, the men’s hair (less so the stone of the building behind them and the earth in the lower right foreground). A basic study of scene, slight movement; one could almost tell a story, but it would be the viewer’s story, not the artist’s.

That same year, Rembrandt completed Balaam and the Ass, (below) where again we find the basic structure of the aspirant in search of possibility. The lighting is generally even; one can say it comes from the heavens. Only the two people below the risen focal characters are shadowed (and then evenly shadowed as much as the others are evenly lighted). There is more movement in this painting, by virtue of the kneeling ass apparently in reaction to a pummeled it may get from Balaam, the guy holding the stick. However, Balaam seems to lack sufficient expression for the moment; you can hardly say he is brandishing the stick menacingly. Hovering beside Balaam, the angle shows movement, but perhaps we get this from the wings, and how he floats above the scene. He holds a sword, but the idea that he is about to strike with it comes more from knowledge of sword usage than physical gesture; the weapon looks as though it is held at bay, not with kinetic energy of taught muscles readying a blow. The only character in full movement on scale with the story is the ass. Perhaps he knows something we do not? Anyhow, artistic innovation is within Rembrandt’s reach; tradition has yet bound his vision. Within a few months, Rembrandt begins to find and practice his method by which we know him today.

What was Rembrandt looking for? What did he see once he had found it? The difference we see within two years of discovery becomes evident by his demonstration of atmosphere within the painted scene, human expression presented through the presence of story, and movement created in the action of character. What Rembrandt had discovered was the human element that lies behind all art: people in their natural states of work, life, play, and agony. These he took both from society in which he lived and traveled, and the stories told in literature, particularly the Bible. Rembrandt had made his discovery, but to complete the transformation he must have decided that to capture life and story as it could be (or should be), he would have to see it, literally and figuratively, in the light against which it moved. A final discovery must also have taken place, but this was more within the young artist. He must have known that if this could be done, he was the artist capable of succeeding.

Rembrandt’s 1628 Self-Portrait is a fine example of his initial success. Here lies the life that he was looking for, the shop-soiled person, un-stylized and adorned for portraiture. The quality of light found here—likely from a window? —both penetrates through its direct flow from the window, but then also is left to mottle features by indirect, “bent” light. Look how the light penetrates his hair. The outermost hairs shine from the light’s reflection; we see the color of individual hairs. Then, beneath those bright hairs begins the slow layering of the light’s lessening ability to penetrate the hair as it becomes thicker. We can still see in the second layer individual hairs, but now they are closely aligned with the quality of hair as its thickness no longer allows light to reflect its detail, and thus the mass becomes the base form from which the outer layers have allowed the texture and color to be as close to three-dimensional as a flat canvas can allow.

The light source, moving from left to right, hits Rembrandt at the back of the neck, the brightest focal spot on the canvas, and flows over whatever is in its path. Otherwise, it illuminates only by reflection from wherever else it has hit inside the room. This is why we can still see the man’s facial features in shadow, within the reflection of the lighted room. The colors Rembrandt uses slowly fuse with the shadow’s darkness within. He doesn’t suddenly fade to black, but instead sees the color (for there must be color inside the shadow if it is not black and impenetrable) allowable by the reflected light, however faded it may be.

A year later, in 1629, Rembrandt completed Judas Repentant, in which we see the same innovative lighting and reflection techniques. What now is included are his story elements and range of captured human emotions that fill out the storyteller’s needs. A chamber, half filled with light from a source off the canvas, shows men in various stages of movement. Judas kneels on the ground, well lit but since further away from the light source, comes through in filtered light and shadow. His repentance shows as powerful anguish on his face, the twist of his neck, the taught forearms, clasped hands. This position is not a pose, as found in Balaam’s “caught” form with raised arm and frozen expression. Here, Judas is in the midst of his anguish. Let your eyes rest on his figure and you can almost see him as he was a moment before, as he turned his head, and then how he will be a moment from now, how the hands continue their knitted, shaking attitude. We have story in motion.

Likewise, the men refusing Judas’s repentance are caught in movement. They react to Judas’s plea, his tormented remonstrance. The central character has turned away, his hand in gesture of refusal; the human reaction to a human action. The men behind him, one found in deep shadow except for his hand, held out like the central figure, repelling Judas. These men expose their character by the emotions written on their faces: stunned, abhorred, even frightened at what Judas is asking or proposing. Implicated by association. Rembrandt has accomplished the elements of storytelling for this episode. We may know the Biblical story intimately or in passing. Regardless of which, this scene reminds us of the drama found in human frailties.

As Rembrandt progressed, his use of lighting techniques helped him to describe people, scene, and story. He continued to play with how light developed mood, atmosphere, or altered (or perhaps enhanced) human emotion. Rembrandt applied these same techniques to etchings, a form in which he helped innovate as much as that of his canvas techniques. He seemed also to have made a pact with himself: never fail to look for the elements of humanity that can help advance art’s rendering of human emotions, social conventions, age, and storytelling.

Tags: Seeing in Progress, Visual Arts //