Rembrandt’s naked truth
Visits in Norwich and marvels at the power and realism of the master’s prints
There’s a word that often gets bandied about when people start discussing Rembrandt: “timeless”. There it is, appearing in a label in a new exhibition at Norwich Castle Museum & Art Gallery, devoted to the Dutch master’s prodigious skill as a printmaker.
On one level, calling Rembrandt’s pictures “timeless” seems absurd. Just look at some of the almost 100 prints on display in Norwich: they couldn’t be more evocative of a specific time if they tried. A bearded man wears a large droopy fur cap, apparently of Polish origin, a style last offered for sale – when? Three centuries ago, at least. A bound but strangely serene hog is about to be slaughtered with an axe. A dishevelled rat catcher holds aloft a basket from which several rodent carcasses dangle gruesomely, advertising the poison he is peddling.
This etching would have had special resonance for Rembrandt’s 17th-century audience: Amsterdam, where he worked for decades, suffered at least four outbreaks of the plague during his lifetime.
Even many of the characters in Rembrandt’s great religious dramas wear contemporary Dutch dress. In short, a strain of nubby realism runs through almost all his work.
So why “timeless”? Funnily enough, I think the museum is referring to another aspect of his realism because he never, ever prettified what he saw before him. Rather, ever the consummate truth-teller, he served up things straight – and it is this deeper understanding of reality, predicated upon a fundamental empathy with his subjects, a profound sense of human frailty and the predicaments that all of us are forced to endure, which ensures that his pictures still speak to us today.
Consider a jaw-dropping etching and engraving, depicting a naked woman seated on a mound, which Rembrandt created in 1631. At Norwich, it introduces the final section of the exhibition, devoted to the nude figures. With her hair worn loose, cascading behind her shoulders, this anonymous model swivels her head and stares straight at us, frank and friendly. Her glance, though, isn’t “Come hither” or “Let me be your fantasy”, so much as, “Love me for who I am” – imperfections and all.
With extraordinary fidelity, Rembrandt articulates every last fold, wrinkle, dimple and stretch mark of her body. He captures the wonky curves of her high breasts, the sagging girth of her belly, the fleshy furrows created by her crooked knees.
As a result, the print vividly conveys the carnality of this woman, not sensually, but almost literally, in the sense that she, like us, is a creature of too, too solid flesh. In many ways, this woman is emblematic of Rembrandt’s treatment of the human figure in general. Rarely, in his art, do we encounter bodies with the sleek, supple perfection of well-muscled Greek gods. Yet this is precisely why we love his figures, because their weathered appearance reflects the artist’s sympathy for them.
Forgive me for dwelling for so long upon one figure, but this is how the exhibition works. There isn’t much of an argument, so we are at liberty to explore and marvel at our leisure.
The reason so many Rembrandts are here is because 93 of his prints were bequeathed to the castle by the art dealer and collector Percy Moore Turner (1877-1950), who was conscious of the affinity between Dutch art and the Norwich School of Painters.
The power of the show derives from its individual prints. Several are not much bigger than a postage stamp – but peer closely at them at your peril, because, like a vortex, they will suck you in, holding your gaze as if by magic. And prepare to be bewitched by the living, breathing presence of the models. They feel as if they are about to part their lips and speak to us. You could even call them “timeless”.
‘Her glance isn’t “Come hither” or “Let me be your fantasy”, so much as “Love me for who I am”’