Had a great European breakfast buffet at the hotel. I focused on protein: salami, cheese and eggs, with a side of potato cake.
Our walking tour guide was about our age: he studied in Amsterdam in the seventies. We walked along canals, went through a little alleyway that is gated in the evening, and learned about Amsterdam. For years Catholicism was illegal and there were ‘hidden churches.’ We went into one: it looked like a normal housefront but inside was a cavernous church that opened up like the Weasley’s camping tent.
Begijnhof, a peaceful oasis in central Amsterdam, was established in the Middle Ages as a lay religious community of Catholic women. The quiet courtyard is surrounded by houses and tucked away in the middle of the bustling city.
In the afternoon I headed off on my own to the Rijksmuseum.
When I was 16, I wanted to work on my uncle’s wheat farm in Montana. My three older brothers had all worked there and it was my turn. But my aunt replied to my inquiry with a gentle but firm no: the bunkhouse was no place for a girl. I was bitterly disappointed.
But my ever-resourceful mother had an idea. Why didn’t I write to her college friend, Paul, who worked for Nabisco and often travelled to Germany. I had studied German for five years. Paul knew a German family in northwestern Germany who were willing to take in an American teenager. I spent my savings on airfare and soon was on my way to six weeks in Deutschland.
It was a tremendous experience and more than compensated for my disappointment about Montana. My German parents were very accommodating and took me on day trips to see the sights of northwestern Germany, including medieval Celle, Lünenburger Heath, and an ancient Roman ruins at Xanten.
A year or so before my trip, my parents had hosted two ‘Dutch boys’ (as my mom always called them). They were in their mid-twenties and worked as interns at Merck with my dad. I contacted them and they picked me up for a visit to the Netherlands. We had supper and stayed overnight with Gertjan’s parents in The Hague.
I was in love with Rembrandt (still am) and my one wishlist item was to see Rembrandt at the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam.
In the last few years, as an experienced mother, I’ve wondered about one aspect of this trip. When we got to the Rijksmuseum, the Dutch boys told me they wouldn’t park and that they would stay with the car while I ran in to see The Night Watch. Now I wonder, What would their mothers think of their behavior. To bring a visitor to a museum and say, Run in while we wait in the car? Having just been to the Rijksmuseum I now understand: there is no parking at the museum. I’m sure they explained that to me at the time.
I did what I was told, ran into the Rijksmuseum, quickly found The Night Watch, and gazed at it a few minutes. As I walked out I peaked into the side galleries and found a still life that took my breath away. It was more lifelike than a photograph. I found a postcard of it in the gift shop.
Over the years I’ve looked many times for that postcard, but I misplaced it long ago. But the memory of that still life is the most precious of my day in Amsterdam.
The only thing on my wishlist this week for Amsterdam was to go to the Rijksmuseum and track down that elusive still life. I wasn’t sure I’d even recognize it if I did find it. I looked online for any Rembrandt still life, but could find nothing. I fantasized about trying to engage someone at the museum information desk. How would it go?
My walk to the museum was wet and rainy. I forgot to pack an umbrella from home, so I bought a cheap one at a souvenir shop. Very cheap: it blew inside out at the slightest wind. A tiny bit better than nothing.
As I approached the information desk, the young man seemed eager to help. I explained to him, “I was here in 1973 and I saw a still life by Rembrandt that took my breath away. Do you know how I would find it?”
He pointed out that the museum had been extensively renovated since then, so nothing was in the same place. He looked in the museum catalog. When he found nothing, he suggested I go up to the gallery and look around. “You need to find this after all these years,” he said sympathetically. He recommended I be sure and see the self-portrait of Rembrandt as a young man. ,It is quite small, 7 x 8 ½ inches, and easily missed. I was glad for the tip.
The Night Watch was behind a wall of glass and the view obstructed by scaffolding. They are removing old varnish to restore the color. Happily, I wasn’t there to see that masterwork. My experience five decades ago was sufficient.
I strolled from work to work, enjoying familiar pieces by Rembrandt and Vermeer. In one gallery I saw a large still life above an ornate cabinet. As I studied it, I realized that I had found my masterpiece. Still Life with Books by Jan Lievens, circa 1627.
The web catalog image doesn’t do it justice. The reflection of the glass in the pewter pitcher. The roll fresh-baked and inviting. I can almost smell the old leather.
The description on the wall explains more that I realized.
“Appearances can be deceiving. What at first sight looks to be an overturned lute is just an old wooden case for the instrument. The books, too, are a disappointment; they are merely empty bindings, limp covers of leather or parchment meant to hold bills and other documents. These are all old objects – cast off, worthless and transitory.”
I learned in high school that excellent still life studies the transitory nature of life. The cut flowers and fruit will soon die; nothing lasts. I understand now that in Lievens’ painting, these things are already worthless. (Well, the roll was fresh that day. Does anyone have some softened butter?)
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