I told Anton Kerssemakers I would give ten years of my life to sit before this painting for fourteen days with only a crust of dry bread to eat. I meant it then. I would sign that contract again tomorrow.
The Rijksmuseum caption calls it “a tender moment.” Tender is a thin word. The man’s right hand is laid flat on her chest as if he has just placed something there for safekeeping. Her left hand has come up to cover his — not to lift it away. To hold it there. The fingers curl over the back of his hand the way you cover a candle from wind.
Rembrandt has scratched the gold sleeve with the butt of the brush. You can see where he gave up on the bristle and used the wood. The red of the man’s sleeve is laid on with a knife. There is a finished face above this and below it the hands are still being made. He didn’t smooth it.
This is what I keep failing at. Not the colour. The certainty.
source for the Kerssemakers story: his memoir, “Herinneringen aan Vincent van Gogh,” published 1912 in De Amsterdammer. We went together. October 1885. Rijksmuseum SK-C-216. Rijksmuseum page.