Read Online Rembrandt's Mirror by Kim Devereux - Free Book Online

depended on my leaving.
    As I descended the stairs, I imagined the street-walker taking off her clothes, revealing what I imagined to be folds of flesh. Would the men be watching while she did this? Then she would pose either lying down, sitting or standing up on the little platform by the stove. Try as I might, I could not picture her stark naked with Rembrandt and the boys all looking at her. And yet it was happening right now, a necessary part of a painter’s education.
    An hour or so later Dirck shouted down the stairs for refreshments. I took up a jug of beer and mugs and paused before the door, afraid to go in. I put the tray on the floor and knocked.
    Rembrandt shouted, ‘Enter!’
    I waited, still incapable of crossing the threshold and hoped someone would come and fetch the beer. No one came. I shouted through the closed door, ‘Will someone fetch the beer, if you please?’
    I heard laughter from inside. It enraged me. I picked up the tray and pushed the door open, bracing myself for their stares, but Rembrandt knocked with his knuckles on a nearby table and the boys returned their attention to the street walker. She was sitting on a low chair by the stove, with her legs drawn together and one hand in her lap, whether out of shyness or because the pose demanded it I could not tell, but seeing her bored expression I concluded that the preservation of her modesty was the least of her worries. She was all thighs, arms and two colossal orbs of flesh that hung like cowbells over her belly. I’d never seen a woman like her naked before – I’d never seen anyone naked. Her face was framed by a woollen mass of greyish brown hair which softened her features.
    The boys were engrossed in drawing, their heads hardly moving, perhaps to maintain a consistent angle while drawing the woman. What was he doing? As I looked at him, I was mortified to discover that he was looking at me. I started to gather up the empty mugs next to the students. He got up and addressed the group. ‘You may think that the world is divided into what you can see with your eyes and what is hidden from your eyes: the visible and the invisible. We are here to study the visible. Not what you can see in your head when you imagine something, no, you must study what you see right here.’
    He pointed at the model. ‘Can you see the indentations on her lower thighs from wearing garters? Don’t miss them out, or any other detail; don’t call it ugly or beautiful. Study her with the same care as you would search for a painful but tiny splinter of glass in your finger. Let each line of her body draw your attention, just as the nagging pain of the splinter compels you to look for it with the utmost attentiveness. You are a lot of lazy gawkers. Rouse yourselves, for if you miss one mark, one line, one shadow, one curve – you will miss out on knowing this particular woman, right here in front of you, and what have you got then? Nothing. And worse, whoever looks at your drawing will also miss out on knowing her, but not only her – he will miss out on knowing life itself and he will feel cheated. Worst of all, he won’t part with a stuiver for your work.’
    They all laughed, but he continued with great sincerity. ‘This poor, battered body is your gateway to the invisible. You can make it manifest in your drawing, but you must use your eyes as if yourvery life depended on you knowing her body a hundred times better than you know your own.’
    They had all stopped drawing and were staring mesmerized at the woman’s body. Then Rembrandt added, ‘Once you know every single line on her body by heart and can draw her blind, then the invisible part of her will be revealed to you. Her true beauty. Then you will be able to draw her perfectly, using only a handful of strokes with your pencil. But until then you need to lovingly draw each and every wrinkle.’
    I left the room quietly as they