Friday, June 12, 1998

Rembrandt's downfall an inspiration

By Rheta Grimsley Johnson

One summer's afternoon on the outskirts of Amsterdam, in Holland, I sat on the grassy canal bank where Rembrandt used to rest and sketch. I swore to myself I would always remember that moment, the privilege of being there, on hallowed ground.

And I do think about it, often; the tropical-fish colors of the wooden boats that puttered by, the way sunshine drew the Dutch from their homes and offices like lizards, how housewives hung white down comforters over the balconies to air, billowing sails on high-rise apartments. I smile when I remember.

There was something more instructive and inspirational about sitting on that grass where the artist had worked than in visiting the Rijks Museum. That's the grand building where his painting "The Night Watch" hangs. The story behind that famous canvas was almost too sad to bear, anyhow.

The real name of that monster-sized painting is "Sortie of the Banning Cocq Company." But others derisively, immediately, renamed it "The Night Watch."

The painting brought Rembrandt's downfall as a popular painter. His critics hated it because Rembrandt departed from convention, focusing strong light on only a few figures, leaving others in shadows. That may seem a small artistic leap now, but at the time it was dramatic.

Less than 15 years later Rembrandt was declared bankrupt. A son and his housekeeper supported him in his poverty and retirement.

Now thousands march by it and marvel. It's a must on a museum tour of Europe.

That working summer in Holland a decade ago I learned many things. I learned that the Dutch, eschewing stereotype and tradition, almost let all of their magnificent old windmills disappear, losing them to time and the elements and to more modern and streamlined replacements.

Somebody finally had the presence of mind to say, "Hey, wait a minute. Thousands of people visit Holland to see windmills. Maybe we'd better save and restore a few."

An authority told me the Netherlands had fewer than 200 vintage windmills at one point. Extinction was a real possibility.

I also learned that the Dutch enjoyed using their flawless English to talk to visitors, but if you stayed long enough, the visitor was expected to learn Dutch. And I learned that Dutch is one of the hardest languages to master.

Some things I learned by observation. Red sails are really more of a leathery brown, and in the Netherlands orange juice is always squeezed fresh. Cleanliness is on a par with godliness; in one town in the Netherlands the women scrubbed the tree trunks. In a country that knows about making something from nothing, recycling was a religion.

But the story of the Rembrandt painting seemed to me the most beautiful travel lesson of all: The public is both hidebound and fickle, at once, and in any language.

American titans of art, politics and music know that all too well. Ask Bob Dylan about his electric period or the late designer Rudi Gernreich about the topless swimsuit.

A poet is cool for a while, then his very name a joke. Novelists go in and out of fashion like short skirts. If John Grisham dropped his formula, he'd be in the free cheese line.

Nonartists are comfortable with the familiar. We don't like surprises, or punching that envelope. Most of us are wary of experiments and change. We go to Holland to see windmills and tulips.

But true artists are driven by something inside. Popularity or the lack of it are incidental. The need to grow artistically is paramount for a few.

I may never make it back to the Netherlands, much less that spot by the canal where the Great Master doodled. But I carry it with me in a mental file marked "Great Moments." I remember its beauty and try to remember its lesson.

King Features Syndicate