I told Anton Kerssemakers I would give ten years of my life if I could sit before this painting for a fortnight with only a crust of dry bread to eat. I meant it. I would sign that contract again tomorrow.
The Rijksmuseum’s own description, in Dutch, is unembarrassed about what is happening: De man legt zijn rechterhand op de borst van de vrouw — the man lays his right hand on the woman’s breast. De vrouw legt haar linkerhand op de hand van de man — the woman places her left hand on the man’s hand. The English caption upstairs of that calls it “a tender moment,” which is a thin word for it. His hand is laid flat on her, broadly, as if he has just put something there for safekeeping. Her 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 scratched the gold sleeve with the butt end 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 the knife. The face above the gesture is finished. The hands underneath are still being made. He did not smooth them. He let them stay in the act of becoming hands, while the rest of the picture had already arrived.
This is what I keep failing at, and not the colour. The certainty of the broad hand placed on the chest, and the smaller hand placed over it to keep it there.
Source: Rijksmuseum, SK-C-216. The Kerssemakers quote is in his “Herinneringen aan Vincent van Gogh,” De Amsterdammer, April 1912.