The side gallery of the Louvre is deserted on this Sunday afternoon. Not even a security guard in sight. I am not yet overwhelmed by the sheer size and quantity of the pictures, all executed with consummate skill, all remarked upon at the time of their creation, famous and valuable enough to have ended up here. I walk slowly through the rooms, the leather soles of my shoes making a hollow sound on the wooden floor, black with age. I enter yet another room, looking to my left, and stop, transfixed. Rembrandt's last self-portrait hangs on the left wall of the room, in the middle, the place of honour. I look to the right and there, directly opposite his last self-portrait, hangs his first self-portrait. The two Rembrandts look each other square in the eyes. A feeling wells up in me which is hard to describe. A tinge of fear, perhaps. Surprise. I didn't know these pictures were here, in what seems to be a forgotten side gallery. I didn't know they were hanging like this. Shaking a little, I walk over to Rembrandt as an old man. I don't want to go too close, at least not at first. I stand about seven feet away, leaning forward. He is dressed in a dirty grey smock, paint-splattered, frayed. A dirty grey cloth cap rests on his head. Beneath it, his white hair is long and disorderly. His head, face and upper body are illuminated by an unearthly, holy light. He is old. His worn face glows forth, looking at me in the eyes with an expression that is calm, accepting, unutterably sad. In his right hand, which he holds slightly behind in shadow, he grasps a palette and brush. He has lost his beloved wife Saskia. He has lost his beloved son Titus. He has lost his house and possessions. But he has not lost the one thing for which he has always lived -- his ability to make contact with other human beings through painting. He lives, in all his sadness and pain. He looks out at me, and I look back at him. Slowly, I go closer. Closer, closer. With my nose about a foot away from the painting's surface, I pore over the brush marks, the dabs of paint applied impasto, looking for the source of the miraculous light. I spot a bristle embedded in a thick swirl of paint. A bristle from his brush! With the close inspection, I see his failing eyesight and how he accepts it, building it into his technique, how he indicates form according to what he sees with total honesty. I am in the presence of greatness, and I am both shaken and elated. I draw back, and turn to his first self-portrait.
I laugh out loud. He is perhaps twenty-one, in the full flush of arrogant youth. He is dressed like a dandy. On his head rests a carmine cap loaded with feathers that dangle over his face, rudely glowing with health and vitality. He smiles, even smirks, over his golden, youthful beard. His eyes twinkle with the knowledge that he can paint circles around any contemporary who would be so foolish as to challenge him. Ha! He delights in the rich commissions he is beginning to receive. Wealth awaits him! Glory! Women! Wine! Song! The painting technique is sublime. Each stroke is executed with the greatest certainty and confidence. Each detail as sure-footed as a gazelle in flight. Already, one can see the sense of chiaroscuro and drama which will build to make him one of the greatest painters of biblical scenes. The colour is luxurious but not immodest. He is already far more than an Artist. He is a Master. He can do anything.
I turn and look again at old Rembrandt across the room. How the mighty have fallen. And yet there is no pathos in the room. Gratitude is what I now feel. Gratitude that such a man lived, gratitude that his pictures have been preserved and kept safe by people who understood greatness, so that they now hang here for me to see.
