WHAT R E M A IN S O F

A R E M B R A N D T

T O R N IN T O F O U R E Q U A L P IE C E S AND F L U S H E D DOW N T H E T O IL E T

Jnn eG aet e

REM BRANDT

Jean G enet

H A N U M A N BOOKS M adras & N ew Y o rk 1988

 1958, 1988 E ditions G allim ard English translation 1985 by B ernard Frechtm an English tran slatio n 1988 by R an d o lp h H ough 1988 H an u m an B ooks

A L L R IG H T S R E SE R V E D ISB N : 0-937815-21-7

Frontispieces P h o to by D ouchan Stanim irovitch

C O N TEN T S

W hat rem ains o f a R em bran d t T o rn into F o u r E qual Pieces A nd Flushed D ow n T he T oilet . . . 9 R e m b ran d ts Secret 53

W H A T R E M A IN S O F A R E M B R A N D T T O R N IN T O F O U R E Q U A L PIE C E S, A N D FLU SHED DOW N T H E T O IL E T . . .

W HAT R E M A IN S O F A R E M B R A N D T T O R N IN T O FO U R E Q U A L PIE C E S, AND FLU SH ED DOW N T H E T O IL E T . . .

I A work o f a rt should exalt only those tru th s w hich are not dem onstrable, an d w hich are even false, those w hich we can n o t carry to th e ir ultim ate conclu sions w ithout absurdity, w ithout negating b o th them an d ourself. They will never have th e good o r b ad fortune to be applied. Let

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them live by v irtue o f the song th a t they have becom e and th a t they inspire. Som ething w hich seemed to resemble decay was in th e process o f cankering my form er view o f the w orld. O ne day, while rid ing in a train , I experienced a revelation: as I looked a t the passenger sitting opposite me, I realized th a t every m an has the same value as every other. I did n o t suspect (or rather, I did I was obscurely aw are o f it, for suddenly a wave o f sadness welled up w ithin me and, m ore o r less bearable, b u t substantial, rem ain

WHAT REMAINS O F A REMBRA NDT. . . 1 1

ed with me) th a t this knowledge would entail such a m ethodical disintegration. Behind w hat was visible in this m an, o r furth er further an d a t th e sam e tim e miraculously an d distressingly closeI discovered in him (grace less body an d face, ugly in certain details, even vile: dirty m oustache, which in itself w ould have been un im p o rtan t b u t w hich was also hard and stiff, w ith the hairs alm ost horizontal above the tiny m outh, a decayed m o u th ; gobs which he spat between his knees on the floor o f th e carriage th a t was already filthy w ith cigarette stubs, paper, bits o f bread, in

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short, th e filth o f a third-class carriage in th o se days), I dis covered w ith a shock, as a result o f th e gaze th a t butted against m ine, a kind o f universal identity o f all men. N o, it d id n t happen so quickly, and n o t in th a t order. T he fact is th a t m y gaze b utted (not crossed, butted ) th a t o f the other passenger, o r ra th e r m elted into it. T he m an h a d ju s t raised his eyes from a new spaper and quite sim ply tu rn e d them , no d o u b t unintentionally, o n mine, which, in th e sam e accidental way, were looking into his. D id he, then an d there, experience the

W H A T REMAINS OF A R E M B R A N D T . . .

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sam e em otionan d confusion as I? H is gaze was n o t som eone elses: it was m y own th a t I was m eeting in a m irror, inadvertently and in a state o f solitude and self-oblivion. I could only ex press as follow s w h at I felt: I was flowing o u t o f m y body, th ro u g h the eyes, in to his a t the same tim e as he was flow ing into mine. O r ra th e r: I had flowed, for the gaze was so b rief th a t I can recall it only w ith th e help o f th a t tense o f th e verb. T he passenger h ad gone back to his reading. Stupefied a t w hat I h a d ju st discovered, only then did I think o f exam ining th e stranger. M y

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exam ination resulted in the im pression o f disgust described above. U n d er his drab , creased, shabby clothes his body m ust have been dirty an d w orn. H is m o u th was flabby an d protected by an unevenly clipped m ous tache. I th o u g h t to m yself th a t the m an was probably weak, p erhaps cow ardly. H e was over fifty. T he tra in continued its indifferent w ay th ro u g h F rench villages. Evening was com ing on. I was deeply d isturbed at the th ought o f spending the m inutes o f tw ilight, the m inutes o f com plicity, w ith this partner. W hat was it th a t had flowed

WHAT REMAINS OF A R E M B R A N D T . . . 15

o u t o f my body I h a d fl . . . - an d w hat had flowed o u t o f his? This unpleasant experience was n o t repeated, n eith er in its fresh suddenness n o r its intensity, b u t its reverberations w ithin me never ceased. W h at I h ad experienced in the train seem ed to resem ble a revelation: over an d above the accidentsw hich w ere repulsive o f his appearance, this m an co n cealed, and then let me reveal, what m ade him identical w ith me. (I first w rote the preceding sen tence, then corrected it by the following, which is m ore accurate an d m ore d isturbing: I knew th a t I was identical with th a t m an.)

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W as it because every m an is identical w ith another? W ithout ceasing to m editate during the journ ey , an d in a kind o f state o f self-disgust, I very soon reached th e conclusion th a t it w as this identity which m ade it possible fo r every m an to be loved neither more nor less th an every other, and th a t it is possible fo r even the m ost loathsom e appearance to be loved, th a t is; to be cared for an d recognized cherished. T h a t was n o t all. M y train o f th o u g h t also led me to the follow ing: this appearance, w hich I had first called vile, w asthe w ord is n o t too strong

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was willed by the identity (this w ord recurred persistently, per haps because I did n o t yet have a very rich vocabulary) which was forever circulating am ong all men and which a forlorn gaze account ed for. I even felt th a t this appearance was the tem porary form o f the identity o f all men. B ut this pure and alm ost insipid gaze th a t circulated betw een the tw o travellers, in which their wills were not involved, which th eir wills would perhaps have prevented, lasted only an instant, and th at was enough fo r a deep sadness to fill m e and linger on. I lived with this discovery fo r
J.G .2

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quite a long time. I deliberately kep t it secret an d tried not to th ink a b o u t it, b u t somewhere w ithin me there always lurked a b lo t o f sadness which, like an inflated breath, w ould suddenly darken everything. Behind his charm ing or, to us, m onstrous appearance, I said to myself, every m an as has been revealed to m eretains a quality which seems to be a kind o f ultim ate recourse an d owing to which he is, in a very secret, p erhaps irreducible area, w hat every m an is. I even th o u g h t I found this equivalence at th e C entral M arket,

WH AT REMAINS O F A R E M B R A N D T . . .

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at th e ab atto irs, in th e fixed but not gazeless eyes o f th e sheepheads piled up in pyram ids on the sidewalk. W here was I to sto p ? W hom w ould I have m urdered if I h ad killed a certain cheetah th a t w alked w ith long strides, supple as a hoodlum o f old? I have w ritten elsewhere th a t my dearest friends to o k refuge I was sure they did in a secret w ound, in a very secret, perhaps irreducible realm . W as I speak ing o f the sam e thing? A m an was identical w ith every o th er m an, th a t was w hat I h a d dis covered. B ut was this knowledge

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so rare as to w arrant my am azem ent, and w hat could it profit me to possess it? T o begin with, knowing a thin g analytically is different from grasping it in a sudden intuition. (F o r I had, o f course, h eard people say, and had read, th a t all men were equal, and even th a t they were brothers.) But in w hat way could it profit m e? O ne thing was m ore certain : I was no longer able n o t to know w hat I had known in the train. I was incapable o f telling how I m oved from th e knowledge th at every m an is like every other

WHAT REMAINS OF A R E M B R A N D T . . . 21

man to the idea th a t every man is all the others. But the idea was now w ithin me. It had the presence o f a certainty. It could have been stated m ore clearly though I will be deflowering it som ew hat in the following aphoristic w ay: Only one m an exists and has ever existed in the w orld. H e is, in his entirety, in each o f us. T herefore he is ourself. Each is the oth er and the others. In the laxity o f the evening, a clear gaze th a t was exchangedw hether insistent or fleeting m ade us aw are o f thisExcept th a t a phenom enon of which I do not even know the

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nam e seems to divide this single m an ad infinitum , ap p aren tly breaks him u p in both accid en t and form , and makes each o f th e fragm ents foreign to us. I expressed myself clum sily, and w h at I felt was even m o re confused and stronger th a n th e idea o f w hich I have spoken. T he idea was dream ed ra th e r th an thought; it was engendered and draw n along, o r dredged, by a rath er woolly reverie. N o m an was my b ro th er: every m an was myself, but tem porarily isolated in his individual shell. This observation did n o t lead me to examine, to review, all

W H A T REMAINS OF A R E M B R A N D T . . . 2 3

ethical notions. I felt no ten d er ness, no affection, fo r th a t self w hich was outside my individual appearance. N o r for th e form tak en by th e o th er o r its prison. Us to m b ? O n th e co n trary , I tended to be as pitiless tow ard th a t form as I was tow ard the one th a t answ ered to my nam e and th a t has been w riting these lines. T he sadness th a t had settl ed on m e was w hat d isturbed me m ost. Ever since th e re velation th a t I had experienced when looking a t the unknow n traveller, it was im possible fo r m e to see the w orld as in the past. N othing was sure. T he w orld

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suddenly wavered. F o r a long tim e I rem ained, as it were, sick ened by m y discovery, but I felt th a t it w ould soon force me to m ake serious changes, changes which w ould be in the nature o f renunciations. M y sadness was an indication. T he world was changed. In a third-class c a r riage betw een Salon and Saint R am b ert d A lbon in had ju s t lost its lovely colors, its charm. I was already bidding them a nostalgic farewell, and it w as n o t w itho u t sadness or disgust th a t I was entering upon ways which w ould be increasingly lonely and, m ore im portant, was

WH A T REMAINS OF A R E M B R A N D T . . . 2 5

entertaining visions o f th e world which, instead o f heightening my joy, were causing m e such dejection. Before long, I said to myself, nothing th a t once m eant so m uch will m atter, love, friend ship, form s, vanity, nothing th a t involves charm and ap p eal. B ut perhaps th e gaze w ith which I had looked a t the traveller, a gaze so dreadfully revealing, had been possible owing to a very old cast o f m ind th a t was due to my life, or for som e oth er reason. I was n o t very sure th a t another man could have felt him self flowing through his eyes into

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som eone elses body, o r th a t the m eaning o f this sensation would have been the sam e for him as th a t which I have been ascribing to it. I w ho had always been tem pted to d o u b t the fullness o f the w orld was perhaps now trying to slip into particular envelopes, th e better to deny individuality. Before long, noth in g m ore will m atter. . . O r perhaps nothing would be changed. If each enve lope preciously sheathes a single identity, each envelope is in d i vidual an d succeeds in estab lishing in us an opposition th at seems irrem ediable, in creating

W H A T REMAINS OF A REMBRA NDT. . . 2 7

an innum erable variety o f in dividuals w ho are equivalent : each-other. Perhaps the only precious, the only real thing th a t each m an had was this very singularity: his m oustache, his eyes, his clubfoot, his harelip. A nd w h a t if his only source o f p rid e were the size o f his prick? B u t this gaze w ent from the unknow n traveller to me, and w h at o f the im m ediate certainty th a t each-other were only one, b o th either he or I and he and I? H ow could I forget th a t m ucus? Let us continue. T h e know l edge o f w hat I h ad ju st learned

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did not require th at I direct my effects according to the revel ation in o rd er to dissolve myself in an approxim ate contem pla tion. Q uite simply, I could no longer avoid know ing w hat I knew, and, com e w hat mayI had to pursue the consequences, regardless o f w hat they were. Since various incidents in my life had forced me into poetry, perhaps the poet would have to m ake use o f this discovery th at was new to him. But above all I had to note the following: the only m om ents o f my life which I could regard as true, ripping

WH A T REMAINS OF A R E M B R A N D T . . . 2 9

ap art my appearance and expos ing . . . w hat? A solid vacuum th at kept per petuating me? 1 had know n those m om ents during a few bursts o f really holy anger, in equally blessed states o f fear, and in the rays the first th a t sh o t from a young m ans eyes to mine, in o u r exchange o f glances. And in the travellers gaze th a t en tered me. T he rest, all th e rest, seemed to me the effect o f a false p o int o f view induced by my appearance, which itself was necessarily fake. R em brandt was the first to expose me. R em bran d t! T h a t stern finger which

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thrusts aside the finery and shows . . . w h a t ? A n infinite, an in fernal transparency. I thus felt deep disgust for w h at I was m oving tow ard and was unaw are o f and w hat I could n o t, thank G od, avoid, and then a great sadness ab o u t w hat I was going to lose. E verything around m e was losing its enchantm ent, everything was decaying. E roti cism and its tran sp o rts seemed rejected, definitively. H ow could I be unaw are, after the experience in the train, th a t every charm ing form is, if it contains me, my self? I f I wished to recapture this identity, every form , w hether

W H A T REMAINS O F A R E M B R A N D T . . . 31

m o n stro u s o r agreeable, lost its pow er over me. T he erotic quest, I said to myself, is possible only when one supposes th a t each hum an being has his ow n individuality, th a t it is irreducible, and th a t the physical form accounts for it, and it only. W hat did I know ab o u t the significance o f the erotic? B ut I felt disgust a t the th o ug h t th at I circulated in every m an, th at every m an was myself. If, for a short tim e thereafter, every conventionally beautiful m ale form retained any pow er over me, it was, so to speak, by

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reverberation. This pow er was the reflection o f the one to which I had so long yielded. A nostal gic farewell to it too. Thus, each person no longer appeared to me in his to tal, absolute, magni ficent individuality: as a frag m entary appearance of a single being, it disgusted me more. Y et 1 w rote w hat precedes w ith out ceasing to be troubled, to be haunted, by the erotic themes th a t were fam iliar to me and th at dom inated my life. I was sincere in speaking o f a quest on the basis o f the revelation that every m an is every oth er m an, as am I but I knew I w rote th a t to o in

W H A T REMAINS OF A R E M B R A N D T . . . 3 3

o rd er to rid m yself o f eroticism, to try to get it o u t o f my system, in any case to keep it at a distance. A congested, eager penis, stan d ing erect in a thicket o f black curls, and w hat continues it: the thick thighs, then the torso, the whole body, the hands, the thum bs, then the neck, the lips, the teeth, the n ose, the hair, and lastly the eyes, which cry o u t for the tran sp o rts o f love as if asking to be saved o r annihi lated and does all o f this fight against the fragile gaze which is perhaps capable o f destroying th a t O m nipotence?
J.G .3

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2
O u r gaze can be quick o r slow, depending on w hat we look at as m uch as on us perhaps more. T h a t is why I speak o f the quick ness, fo r example, th at thrusts the object tow ard us, o r o f a slowness th a t m akes it ponderous. W hen our eyes rest on a painting by R em bran d t (on those he did in the last years o f his life), our gaze becom es heavy, som ew hat bovine. Som ething holds it back, a weighty force. W hy do we keep looking, since we are no t im m ediately enchanted by the intellectual liveliness th a t knows

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everything an d all a t once about, for example, G u a rd is a ra besque? Like the smell o f a b arn : when I see only the bust o f the sitters (H endrijke, in the Berlin M useum ) o r only the head, I ca n n o t refrain from im agining them standing on m anure. The chests breathe. T he hands are w arm . Bony, knotted, but w arm . T he table in The Syndics rests on straw , the five men smell o f cow dung. U nder Hendrijkes skirts, under the furedged coats, und er th e p ain ters extravagant robe, the bodies are perform ing their functions: they digest, they are w arm , they are

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heavy, they smell, they shit. H ow ever delicate her face and serious her expression, The Jewish Bride has an ass. You can tell. She can raise her skirts a t any m om ent. She can sit dow n, she has w hat it takes. Mevrow Trip too. As for Rem b ra n d t himself, the fact is even m ore obvious: starting with the first self-portrait, the mass of flesh increases from one painting to the next, until the very last, which it reaches in definitive form , though n o t void o f sub stance. A fter losing w hat was m ost dear to him his m other and his wife it is as if this

W H A T REMAINS OF A R E M B R A N D T . .. 3 7

strapping fellow were trying to lose himself, unconcerned about the people o f A m sterdam , to disappear socially. T o w ant to be nothin g is an oft-heard phrase. I t is C hristian. A re we to u n derstan d th a t m an seeks to lose, to let dissolve, th a t which, in one way o r other, singularizes him in a trivial way, th a t which gives him his opacity, in order, on the day o f his death, to offer G od a pure, not even iridescent, transparency? I d o n t know and d o n t care. As for R em brandt, his entire w ork m akes me think th a t he had- not only to get rid o f w hat encum bered him in his

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effort to achieve the aforem en tioned transparency, but also to transform it, to modify it, to m ake it serve the work. (To free the subject from his anecdotal self and to place him in a light of eternity. Recognized by to day, by tom orrow , b u t also by the dead. A w ork th at was offered to the living o f today and tom orrow b u t not to the dead would be w hat? A painting by R em brandt not only stops the tim e th a t m ade the subject flow into the future, but m akes it flow back to th e rem otest ages. By m eans o f this operation R em b ran d t achieves solem nity. He

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thus discovers why, a t every mom ent, every event is solem n: he know s it from his ow n soli tude. B ut he m ust also get this solemnity dow n on canvas, and it is then th a t his taste fo r the theatricalw hich was so keen when he was twenty-five serves him.) It m ay be th a t R e m b ra n d ts immense griefth e death o f Sasikia tu rn ed him away from all ordinary joys an d th a t he observed his m ourning by m eta m orphosing gold chains, swords and plum ed h ats in to values, or rather into pictorial fetes. 1 d o n t know w hether this beefy D u tch m an wept, but aro u n d 1642

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he experienced th e baptism of fire, and his early nature, which was bold an d conceited, was little by little transform ed. F o r a t the age o f tw enty th e fellow does n o t look as if he were easy to get on with, and he spends his tim e before th e m irror. H e likes himself, he thinks a lot o f himself, so young an d already in the m irror! N o t to spruce up and rush off to a dance, b u t to gaze a t him silf, com placently, in soli tude: R em b ran d t w ith the three m oustaches, w ith the puckered brow s, with th e uncom bed hair, w ith the haggard eyes, etc. No anxiety is visible in this sham

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quest o f self. Tf he pain ts archi tectural settings, they are always operatic. T hen, gradually, w ith o u t departing from his narcissism o r taste for th e theatrical, he modifies th em : the form er in o rd er to a tta in the anxiety, the frenzy, w hich he will transcend; the latter, to derive from it the joys also haggard o f the sleeve o f the Jewish b rid e. W ith Saskia deadI w onder w hether he d id n t kill her, in som e way o r other, w hether he w asn t glad she died anyw ay, his eyes and han d are free. From then on, he launches out into a kind o f extravagance as a p ainter. W ith

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Saskia dead, the w orld and social judgm ents have little weight. One m ust im agine him while Saskia is dyingperched on a ladder in his studio, grouping th e figures in The Nightwatch. W hsther he believes in G o d ? N o t when he paints. H e know s the Bible and uses it. O bviously, all I have ju st said is o f any im portance only if one accepts the fact th at all was, by and large, false. Intellectual play and insights on the basis o f the w ork o f art are not possible if th e w ork is finish ed. The w ork w ould even seem to confuse the intelligence, or to restrict it. T he fact is th at I

W H A T REMAINS OF A R E M B R A N D T . . . 4 3

have been playing. In a certain way, w orks o f art would m ake fools o f us were it not th a t their fascination is p ro o funverifiable, th o u g h undeniableth a t this paralysis o f the intelligence com bines w ith th e m ost lum inous certainty. W hat th a t certainty is I do not know. T he origin o f these lines is the em otion 1 felt (in London, twelve years ago) in the presence o f R em b ra n d ts finest works. W h a ts wrong with me? W hy do 1 feel like th a t? W hat are those p ain t ings th at 1 c a n t shake off? W ho is th a t M evrow T rip? T hat M ynheer...

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N o. I never w ondered who those ladies and gentlemen were. A nd it is perhaps this more or less definite absence of questions th a t shook me. The more I looked at them , the less the portraits referred m e to anyone. T o no one. N o doubt it took m e som e tim e to reach the dis heartening and thrilling conclu sion th a t the p o rtraits done by R em brandt (after the age o f fifty) have no reference to identi fiable persons. N o detail, no cast o f features, has reference to a tra it o f character, to an indi vidual psychology. A re they schem atized an d thus deperson

W H A T R E M A IN S O F A R E M B R A N D T . . . 4 5

alized? N o t a t all. O ne has only to recall the w rinkles o f M argaretha T rip. A nd the m ore 1 looked a t them , hoping to grasp or app ro ach the personality, as it is called, to discover their individual identity, the m ore they fled all o f them in an infinite flight and a t infinite speed. Only R em brand t himselfperhaps b e cause o f th e acuteness w ith which he scrutinized his ow n image retained an elem ent o f indi viduality: at least attention. But the others, i f I had regarded that profound sadness as negligible, fled w itho u t allow ing anything o f themselves to be grasped.

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Negligible, th a t sadness? The sadness o f being in the world? N othing other than the attitude w hich hum an beings adopt naturally when they are alone, w aiting to act, this way o r th at way. R em b ran d t himself, in the self-portrait at Cologne in which he is laughing. T he face and background are so red that the w hole painting m akes me think o f a sun-dried placenta. You d o n t have room enough to move far back in the Cologne M useum . Y ou have to take a diagonal view, from an angle. T h a t is how I looked a t it, but head dow n my head turned

W H A T R E M A IN S O F A R E M B R A N D T . . . 4 7

aro u n d , if you like. T he blood rushed to my head, b u t how sad th a t laughing face! It is when he starts depersonalizing his m odels, when he prunes objects o f all identifiable characteristics, th a t he gives them the m ost weight, the greatest reality. Som e thing im p o rtan t has happened: the eye recognizes th e object at the sam e tim e as it recognizes the painting as such. A nd it can never again see the object oth er wise. R em brandt no longer de natures the painting by trying to m erge it w ith the object or face th a t it is supposed to re present: he presents it to us as

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distinct m atter th a t is n o t asham ed to be w hat it is. Candor o f the ploughed, steam ing fields in th e early m orning. I do not yet know w hat th e spectator gains, b u t the painter gains the freedom o f his craft. H e presents him self as the m ad dau b er that he is, m ad ab o u t color, thus losing the hypocrisy and pretended superior ity o f the fabricators. This is perceptible in th e late paintings. B ut R em brandt had to recognize him self as a m an o f flesh of flesh?ra th e r o f m eat, of hash, o f blood, o f tears, o f sweat, o f shit, o f intelligence and tender ness, o f other things too, ad

W H A T R E M A IN S O F A R E M B R A N D T . . . 4 9

infinitium , b u t none o f them denying th e others, in fact each welcom ing the others. A nd I need hardly say th a t R e m b ra n d ts entire w ork has m eaning a t least fo r me only if I know th a t w hat I have ju st w ritten is false. Translated fr o m the by Bernard Frechtman French

J.G .4

R E M B R A N D T S SECR ET

R E M B R A N D T S S E C R E T A fierce generosity. I em ploy these w ords to get rig h t to the heart o f the m atter. R em b ra n d ts last self-portrait seems to say th is: I will be o f such com plicity th a t even savage a n i m als will know my benevolence. T his ethic is n o t ju st a vain attem pt to spruce up his soul; his w ork requires it, o r rath er brings it ab o u t. W e know this because for p erhaps the first tim e in the history o f art, a p a in t er posing before a m irro r with an alm ost narcissistic self-satisfacttion, has left us, parallel to his

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other w ork, a series of self-port raits in which we can trace the evolution o f his m ethod and the action o f this evolution upon m an. Is th a t it, or is it the opposite? In those paintings executed before 1642, it is as if R em brandt were in love w ith splendor, but a scenic splendor only. T he sum ptuousness (of, for example, the p o rtra its o f O rientals, the biblical scenes) is in the decor, is in the clothing; Jeremy, w ear ing a very pretty frock, poses his foot on a luxurious tapestry, the vases on th e boulder visibly in gold. We get the im pression th at

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R em b ran d t is happy to invent o r to represent a conventional sum ptuousness, as if h appy to paint an extravagant Saskia in F lo ra , or him self w ith Saskia on his knees, m agnificently dress ed, raising his glass. O f course, ever since his youth, he had p ain ted people o f m odest condi tio n often decking them o u t in flashy and luxurious ragsb u t it seems th a t this splendor was only p a rt o f a dream , a t the same tim e he seemed p artial to faces expressing hum ility. T he sensua lity w hich flows (except on rare occasions) from th e h an d when he p ain ts fabric, fo r example,

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ebbs as soon as he tries to paint a face. Even as a youth, R em b ran d t prefered age-ridden faces. Perhaps it was out o f sym pathy, perh ap s it w as due to a taste fo r p ainting difficult (or easy?) things, perhaps in response to a problem posed by a fore fa th e rs face? W ho knows? At any rate, these faces are chosen fo r their picturesque q u ality . H e paints them tastefully w ith sensitivity, b u t he paints them (even the one o f his m other) w ithout love. T he wrinkles are scrupulously noted, the cro w s feet, the folds in th e skin, the w arts, b u t these traits do not

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p en etrate any deeper into the canvas, they are not nourished by a living o rg an ism s w arm th: they are ornam ents. The ones painted w ith th e greatest love are the tw o p o rtra its o f M adam e T rip in th e N atio n al G allery; tw o old an d decom posing faces ro ttin g before o u r eyes. F urth er on, I ll tell you why I em ploy the w ord love, ju st when the p a in te rs m ethod becom es so cruel. The decrepitude (in these tw o p ain t ings) is no longer seen an d re produced fo r its colorfulness, b u t as som ething as lovable as anything else. W ere we to wash H is M other R eading , we would

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GEN ET

find, under the wrinkles, the charm ing young girl th a t she continues to be. We could never wash o u t M adam e T rips decrepi tude, for she is only that : decrepi tude in all its splendor. M ani fest. Dazzling. So evident th a t it bursts th ro u g h the picturesque veil. A greeable to the eye o r n o t, decrepitude is. Therefore it is beautiful. A nd rich i n . . . T o give y ou an exam ple: have y o u r ever h ad a cut o n th e elbow th a t be cam e infected? T h eres a scab. Y ou lift it u p w ith y o u r finger nails. U n derneath, th e th read s o f pus th a t n o u rish the scab go

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m uch deeper. W hy, th e entire organism is a t w o rk on this cut. Well, it is th e sam e thing with each sq u are centim eter of M adam e T rip s m etacarpus or o f h er lip. A nd w ho was it who succeeded in expressing all th a t? A p a in ter w ho w anted only to render w hat is, an d w ho by p ainting it w ith precision, c o u ld n t help b u t render it in all its force, an d so in all its beauty. O r m aybe i t s a m an w ho, having u nder sto od (by d in t o f m editation), th a t each thing possesses its own dignity, decided to devote him self to pain tin g th a t w hich in ap p ear ance seems to be lacking dignity.

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I t s been w ritten that, contrary to H als (for example), R em brandt d id n t really know how to cap t ure, the likeness of his m odels; in o ther w ords, he c o u ld n t re ally see the difference between one man an d another. I f he d id n t see th e difference, maybe it is bccause it doesnt exist? O r m aybe it is an illusion? In fact, his p o rtra its rarely reveal m odel character traits: a priori, his figures a re neither spineless, n o r cow ardly, neither big nor small, neither good n o r bad, but are capable o f being all th a t a t any given m om ent. B ut never does there appear the caricatured

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tra it th a t is the result o f a previous judgem ent. N o r does there ever appear, th a t sparkling b u t fleeting tem peram ent we find in F ra n z H a ls paintings. It w ould, nevertheless, be possible, b u t like the rest. Titus, R e m b ra n d ts smiling son, is the only figure w ith a calm expression. All th e other faces seem to co n tain an extraordinarily heavy and dense dram a. But this d ram a is alm ost always cam ouflaged by a calm and collected attitu d e, like a to rn ad o m om entarily held in check. T heir faces express a precisely assessed and dense destiny w hich will

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eventually be acted o u t to the bitter end. W hereas R em b ra n d ts dram a seems to be entirely in his vision of th e w orld. H e w ants to find out w hat is behind the surface, to get beyond appearances, in o rd er to free him self from them. All o f his figures have been h u rt, and take refuge in th eir pain. R em brandt is conscious o f his w ound, but he w ants to get well. T h a ts why his self-portraits give us the im pression o f vulnerability, whereas his o th er paintings give us the im pression o f a confident strength. T here is no d o u b t b u t that, long before reaching m aturity,

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R em b ran d t b ad already realized th a t even th e m ost lowly object o r being possesses its own dignity, b u t in the beginning, this reali za tio n was due to a kind o f senti m ental attach m en t to his origins. In his draw ings, he treats the m ost fam iliar attitu d es w ith a tenderness not exem pt from senti m entality. A t the sam e tim e his im agination com bined with a n atu ral sensuality m ade him desire luxury and dream o f splendor. R eading th e Bible exalts his im agination: architecture, vases, weapons, furs, carpets, tu rb a n s ... He is p articularly inspired

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by th e Old T estam ent and its theatricality. He paints. H e is fam ous. He becomes rich. He is proud of his success. Saskia is sm othered in gold and velvet. .. She dies. If noth in g other than the w orld rem ains, and painting the only way to ap p ro ach it, the w orld no longer has b u t one m erit o r to be m ore precise, is no longer o f b u t one value. A nd this is neither anything m ore nor anything less th a n that. But one d o esn t get rid o f so many mental habits, o r so m uch sensuality in one night. It seems, nevertheless, th a t little by little

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he does, by transform ing them to fit his own needs. R esplend ency ( I m talking a b o u t an im aginary, dream ed o f splendor) is still very im p o rtan t to him , as is a certain theatricality. T o p ro tect him self from these habits, he subm its them to curious tre a t m ent : he exalts conventional sum ptuousness, while a t th e sam e tim e distorting it, thus rendering it im possible to identify. H e goes even further, passing the radiance, which m akes this sum ptuousness seem precious, in to the m ost m iserable m aterials in such a way as to confuse everything. F ro m th is m om ent J.G.5

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on, nothing will be any longer w hat it appears to be: the u n quenched passion o f an old taste for splendor, w hich in stead of being on the canvas o r the object represented will now be put into them , and will silently illum inate th e m ost hum ble subject m atter. T his operation, conducted slowly and perhaps even o b scurely, will teach him th a t one face is as good as an o th e r; each one refers to o r leads to a hum an identity as w orthy as any other. As far as p ain tin g goes, this m illers son, w ho a t 23 knew

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how to p a in t w onderfully, no longer knew how a t th e age o f 37. A t this age, he w ould relearn everything w ith a som ew hat aw kw ard hesitation, never taking a chance o n virtuosity. Slowly, he discovered yet an o th er thing: th a t every object possesses its ow n magnificence; to this p u r pose he proposes the singular magnificence o f color. W e can say th a t h e is th e only p ain ter in the w orld equally respectful o f b o th pain tin g an d the m odel, exalting b o th a t th e sam e time, one by way o f th e other. B ut w hat is really m oving a b o u t these p ain t ings, w hich tend so desperately

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to exalt everything with no concern for hierarchy, is a kind o f reflection, or m ore precisely, a kind o f inner ember, perhaps a kind o f nostalgia, not yet entirely extinguished, which is all th a t rem ains o f a dreamed splendor, an d o f an almost enti rely consum ed theatricality, signs o f a life caught up like any other in convention, a convention transform ed to fit his own needs. N o t by destroying it, but by transform in g it, by twisting it, by w earing it out, by consum ing it. F ro m this p o in t on, the signs o f an o u ter splendor a re capable

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o f illum inating anything, b u t from the inside out. R em brandt? Everything, from his y o uth on, reveals a restless m an pursuing a fleeting truth. T he sharpness o f his eye is not entirely explained by the necessity o f staring a t the m irror. A t tim es, he alm ost seems m ean (le ts n o t forget th a t he w ent so far as to pay to have a creditor p u t in prison), o r even vain (the arrogance o f the ostrich feather in his velvet h a t . . . and the golden n e c k la c es...), but little by little his face becomes less severe. In fro n t o f the m irror, the narcissistic self-satisfaction

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has turned into a restlessness; a passionate an d quavering search. H e had been living w ith H endrijke for som e tim e and this marvelous w om an (the p o rtraits o f Hendrijke are th e only ones besides those o f T ituswhich seem steeped in the old sublim e b e a rs tenderness an d gratitude) had to gratify his sensuality and his need for tenderness a t the sam e time. In his last selfportraits, we no longer find any psychological indications w h at soever. If we really w anted to, we could see som ething like a look o f goodness in these last self-portraits. O r an air o f

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detachm ent? W hatever, here i t s all th e same. T ow ard the end o f his life, R em b ran d t becam e a good p e r son. Between him self and th e w orld, m aliciousness acts like a screen ; it either m akes him w ith draw , breaks him dow n, o r dis guises him . M aliciousness, and all o th e r form s o f aggressiveness, and all th a t we call character traits: our m oods, o u r desires, eroticism an d vanity. Slash the screen to see th e w orld ap p ro ach ing! B ut he d id n t seek o u t this goodness (o r detachm ent, if you prefer) m erely to observe a m oral or religious code (it is

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only in times o f ab andonm ent th a t an artist can have faith, if h e ever does), n o r to win over a couple o f virtues. If R em b ran d t does away w ith character traits, it is in order to purify h is vision o f the w orld, and thus to create a more ju st w ork. I su p pose that, deep down, R em brandt d id n t give a dam n ab o u t being good o r bad, short-tem pered or patient, m oney-grabbing o r gen erous... He h ad to be nothing m ore than an eye and a hand. M oreover, by follow ing this self ish p ath , he was bound to attain (w hat a word !) the kind o f purity, so obvious in his last p o rtrait,

R e m b r a n d t 's s e c r t t

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th a t it alm ost hurts. It is indeed by follow ing the narrow p a th o f painting th a t he attains it. I f I had to roughly outline, or coarsely characterize this p ro cess (one o f the m ost heroic of m odern times), I w ould say th a t in 1642 (o f course, R em brandt was already anything b u t banal), a young, am bitious m an, full o f talent, but also full o f violence, vulgarity, and an exquisite refine m ent, is surprised by m isfortune and driven to despair. W ithout any hope o f one day witnessing happinesses reappear ance, he attem pts, w ith a tre m endous effort, since p ainting is

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all he has left, to destroy, b o th in his work and in himself, every sign of his old vanity, signs also o f his happiness and his dream s. H e seeks b o th to represent the w orld (which is after all the aim o f painting) and to render it unrecognizable a t th e sam e time. Is he then aw are o f it? This double requirem ent leads him to consider th e m aterial aspects o f painting to be equally as im p o rta n t as its representational aspects, th e n little by little, this exaltation o f painting, as it can n o t be conducted abstractly (but the sleeve in T he Jewish F ianc is an ab stract painting!),

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leads him to exalt everything represented in his painting, which he nevertheless seeks to render unidentifiable. T his effort causes him to get rid o f everything in him self which could bring him back to a differen tiated, discontinuous, hierarchi cal vision o f the w orld: a hand is as w orthy as a face, a face is ju st as good as a corner o f a table, a corner o f a table as w orthy as a stick, a stick as good as a hand, a hand every bit as good as a sle e v e ... all this is perhaps tru e o f o ther p ainters as wellb u t which pain ter has, to this degree, destroyed m a tte rs identity, in

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order to b etter exalt it?all this, it seems to me, brings us back to th e hand, to th e sleeve, then undoubtedly to painting, b u t from that m om ent on, unceas ingly going from one to the other, in a b reath tak in g chase, tow ards nothing. Theatricality, conventional sum ptuousness, have also passed through th e sam e process, but now, burned o u t an d consum ed, they are only there for solem nity. There m ust have been som e thing else in A m sterdam , around 1666 to 1669, besides an old con m a n s paintings (if i t s true, i t s the old etching plate story again)

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and the city. T here w as w hat was left o f an individual, reduced to alm ost nothing, a ph a n to m going from the bed to the easel, from the easel to th e to iletwhere he m ust have scribbled again with his dirty fingernailsand w hat was left o f th is m an m ust have hardly been anything other than a cruel kindness, som ething like, o r close to imbecility. A chapped h an d holding brushes dunked in red and brow n p ain t, an eye posed on th e objects, nothing m ore, yet a hopeless com plicity linked his eye to the w orld. In his last self-portrait, he seems to be having a good laugh,

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b u t softly, subtlely. He knows everything th a t a painter can learn. A nd to begin with, this (well, m aybe?): th a t a painter is nothing m ore than an eye going fro m a n object to the canvas, and especially a gesture o f the han d going from a little puddle o f color to th e canvas. The p ain ter is entirely co n centrated in th e calm and sure course o f his hand. N othing else any longer exists: splendor, sum ptuousness, an d his obses sive fears have all been tra n s form ed into a calm and quivering va-et-vient m ovem ent o f th e eye an d hand. H e no longer legally

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possesses anything. A simple m anipulation o f th e accounts, and everything has passed into H endrijke T he A d m irab les and T itu s hands. R em b ran d t no longer even possesses th e p a in t ings he paints. A m an has ju s t passed entirely into his w ork. All th a ts left o f the m an, is ready fo r th e dum p, b u t before th a t, ju st before th at, he will p a in t T he R eturn o f the Prodigal C h ild . H e dies before being tem pted to act th e fool. Translated fr o m b y Randolph Hough the French

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