his choices. The fruit is bitter and disintegrates before our eyes; the smoke vanishes into the very air, as do we ourselves suffer and are ephemeral beings, mortals on the cusp of death.
Yes, yes, but will people like it? Do they wish to look at moldy lemons every day while they are having their breakfast? (De Renialme has grown insensitive to artists.)
Rembrandt tries to defuse the situation by praising Elinga’s skill and observation, but this irks his colleague further.
If you like them, Rembrandt, why don’t you sell them in your own gallery, hmm? No, I thought not—and if this is how you repay a good turn, I shall remember it. Elinga, have you tried offering them to the Lottery? They might take them for runner-up prizes.
Jurina turns defensive. Are they not good? Since when did liefhebbers, rich and knowledgeable connoisseurs, cease to appreciate superb Dutch painting?
The dealer explains the connoisseurs are as potty for fine art as ever they were, but there are phases, cycles, you might say—
Fashions? The same as for hairstyles and dresses? For paintings? It is news to her. She thought fine art was timeless.
So it is, madam; prices of art, on the other hand, are a different animal and can fluctuate dramatically.
This is a blow to Elinga and his wife.
But Johannes de Renialme has not quite finished. His rudeness softens. One or two people come to mind who might be interested in your work, and a handful more will find the investment potential appealing. I think I can find someone to purchase your canvases, though if you take my advice and hold on to them, their value will appreciate.
The couple have discussed this beforehand. We cannot wait. We will accept reasonable offers.
Then—it is agreed, the arrangements follow, the tension dissipates. And, on time, the maid brings in a tray of wine and goblets, sets it down, pours. Johannes de Renialme notices her.
Are you sure you cannot muster the enthusiasm for some genre interiors, Elinga? Plenty of Amsterdam art dealers would have no problem whatsoever selling those. Pretty girls taking music lessons, pretty girls mopping floors, pretty girls cuddling pups—demand is ludicrously high. (He mentions some prices, depending on size and quality, of course.) Based on what I have seen, Elinga, yours are rather good.
Esther offers drinks to De Renialme and then to Rembrandt, then her mistress and master.
Would you sit for your master, for example?
The dealer directs the question to the back of Esther’s head.
She cannot hear you, Elinga explains, and signals to the maid that one of their visitors addressed her.
Jurina bristles. Do not embarrass the girl.
Johannes de Renialme sips his drink, decides not to pursue it, is confident that if Elinga’s family is as hard up as he thinks, the artist will soon come round.
The mistress dismisses her, and Esther takes the empty tray away (annoyed because they were talking about her).
To Jurina’s consternation, Rembrandt van Rijn follows the maid, his feet flapping on the tiles all the way to the kitchen.
Esther knows who he is, folds her hands demurely at this breach of etiquette.
Rembrandt stands respectfully in front of the woman. In low tones he asks, Can you understand me, miss?
She nods.
Rembrandt smiles, a wrinkly, mild, jocular smile that unmasks his severity, makes her smile back. I am very fond of faces, and I like yours. If ever you wish to be painted by me, if your mistress can spare you, come and see me.
The artist doffs his hat.
Esther beams.
Bodies crammed together surge into the East India House courtyard. On the threshold of ambition and uncertainty the men and boys thrust themselves forward, a crush of folk, the strongest climbing over the weakest. From slums, villages, orphanages, and foreign countries—brought here by poverty, bankruptcy, aspiration, and pimps. Waves of meat. The crowd bottlenecks at the archway, regroups, and scrabbles to the entrance steps of the VOC headquarters,
Yes, yes, but will people like it? Do they wish to look at moldy lemons every day while they are having their breakfast? (De Renialme has grown insensitive to artists.)
Rembrandt tries to defuse the situation by praising Elinga’s skill and observation, but this irks his colleague further.
If you like them, Rembrandt, why don’t you sell them in your own gallery, hmm? No, I thought not—and if this is how you repay a good turn, I shall remember it. Elinga, have you tried offering them to the Lottery? They might take them for runner-up prizes.
Jurina turns defensive. Are they not good? Since when did liefhebbers, rich and knowledgeable connoisseurs, cease to appreciate superb Dutch painting?
The dealer explains the connoisseurs are as potty for fine art as ever they were, but there are phases, cycles, you might say—
Fashions? The same as for hairstyles and dresses? For paintings? It is news to her. She thought fine art was timeless.
So it is, madam; prices of art, on the other hand, are a different animal and can fluctuate dramatically.
This is a blow to Elinga and his wife.
But Johannes de Renialme has not quite finished. His rudeness softens. One or two people come to mind who might be interested in your work, and a handful more will find the investment potential appealing. I think I can find someone to purchase your canvases, though if you take my advice and hold on to them, their value will appreciate.
The couple have discussed this beforehand. We cannot wait. We will accept reasonable offers.
Then—it is agreed, the arrangements follow, the tension dissipates. And, on time, the maid brings in a tray of wine and goblets, sets it down, pours. Johannes de Renialme notices her.
Are you sure you cannot muster the enthusiasm for some genre interiors, Elinga? Plenty of Amsterdam art dealers would have no problem whatsoever selling those. Pretty girls taking music lessons, pretty girls mopping floors, pretty girls cuddling pups—demand is ludicrously high. (He mentions some prices, depending on size and quality, of course.) Based on what I have seen, Elinga, yours are rather good.
Esther offers drinks to De Renialme and then to Rembrandt, then her mistress and master.
Would you sit for your master, for example?
The dealer directs the question to the back of Esther’s head.
She cannot hear you, Elinga explains, and signals to the maid that one of their visitors addressed her.
Jurina bristles. Do not embarrass the girl.
Johannes de Renialme sips his drink, decides not to pursue it, is confident that if Elinga’s family is as hard up as he thinks, the artist will soon come round.
The mistress dismisses her, and Esther takes the empty tray away (annoyed because they were talking about her).
To Jurina’s consternation, Rembrandt van Rijn follows the maid, his feet flapping on the tiles all the way to the kitchen.
Esther knows who he is, folds her hands demurely at this breach of etiquette.
Rembrandt stands respectfully in front of the woman. In low tones he asks, Can you understand me, miss?
She nods.
Rembrandt smiles, a wrinkly, mild, jocular smile that unmasks his severity, makes her smile back. I am very fond of faces, and I like yours. If ever you wish to be painted by me, if your mistress can spare you, come and see me.
The artist doffs his hat.
Esther beams.
Bodies crammed together surge into the East India House courtyard. On the threshold of ambition and uncertainty the men and boys thrust themselves forward, a crush of folk, the strongest climbing over the weakest. From slums, villages, orphanages, and foreign countries—brought here by poverty, bankruptcy, aspiration, and pimps. Waves of meat. The crowd bottlenecks at the archway, regroups, and scrabbles to the entrance steps of the VOC headquarters,
Similar Books
