Thursday June 28, 2012
Woke up early, but well rested. A good faceplant always helps reset my internal clock. I eat a hearty breakfast at the hotel buffet and then head to Rotterdam’s Boijmans Museum. I walk through the centre of town enjoying the pedestrian streets, though none of the buildings are historical since sadly most were destroyed in World War II during the city’s brave but doomed attempt to resist invasion by the Germans. After getting lost a little (the best part about travelling if you don’t have a pressing schedule) I finally find the museum. The Boijmans museum feels a little like the ‘engine that could’ since the city suffers from an inferiority complex with Amsterdam. Citizens of Rotterdam were so keen to create a world class art museum, they paid good money to get some true masterpieces as well as some disasters – Van Meergeren’s Christ at Emmaus case in point. In the 1930’s this museum snatched up this forgery, thinking that it would be its crowning glory. And so it was initially, until almost a decade later when Van Meegeren revealed his forger’s plot.
I arrive at the museum and consult a map, wondering where this infamous painting could be. Certainly not rubbing shoulders with other 17th-century paintings. I go for the twentieth-century and wander among the Magrittes, Picassos and Mondrian (a really nice one). The museum is very comfortable with its space divided into small rooms that are tall and bright enough to feel intimate but not be claustrophobic. These brightly-lit chambers are connected by corner corridors that break the art experience into bite-sized subjects that flow nicely together like the words of a sentence. A nice touch. Every corridor has a very comfortable padded bench – an even nicer touch. Top marks from me. I keep walking. No luck. I circle around the museum’s other wing of galleries with no sign. Maybe it’s been lent out! Not another MIA. I finally consult with a guard who raises his eyebrows. “The Vermeer? You mean the fake.” His lean face breaks into a sly smile. “Come this way.” He leads me away from the historical painting gallery and over through a room with a modern instillation of drawings. We then go through another door out and down a long marble staircase where half way down in a side alcove I see it hanging. Christ at Emmaus in all its exiled glory – or should I say gory.
I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I am surprised at just how modern it looks. I draw in close to try and fathom how it seduced the experts. I see Van Meegeren’s handiwork: First there’s the Bakelite-created craquelure painting surface. Then there’s the fancy brushwork on the shiny drinking glasses, the beautiful porcelain bottle Van Meegeren copied from Vermeer directly, the pointillé on the bread, the blurred Camera Obscura work on the faces. But these details seem too gratuitous – it feels like a pastiche that shouts ‘Here’s a Vermeer!’ And then there’s the famous hand and sleeve – the former lifted from Vermeer’s ‘Astronomer’ which he botched in attaching it to the rest of the body. Seeing it up close, I note that not only is the anatomy bad, but the sleeve looks thick like the leather jackets Canada’s first explorers wore. Add a few fringes and it would become clear we were looking at Jacques Cartier. There is self-conscious magic sprinkled in here; the pointillé dots especially, distributed liberally on the clothes so that they seem to sparkle. And the disciple’s faces are too softened like they are being viewed through a special lens reserved for Hollywood starlets of the past. Rather than Vermeer’s refrained emotions, Van Meegeren portrays his figures as bulbous eyed people dripping with pathos. I search around for Vermeer’s signature – it is only when I tip forward on my toes do I see it up at the top, barely visible in its sepia tones. I smile. Good work, Van Meegeren. He at least nailed that nicely.
It’s easy enough to sling my personal criticisms of this painting, safe as I am in the future with my 20/20 hindsight. How would I have reacted had I been surrounded by adoring fans swooning at the Vermeer discovery (as they did in droves when the newly discovered painting was first show)? Emperor’s new clothes indeed. The museum has been wise to hang it here, separately in plane sight – to admit their foolishness and give warning to others in the art world who might see themselves infallible to tricksters. Van Meegeren should be proud that his work still hangs in a major museum and his postcards prominently occupy the shelves in the gift shop. No Van Meegeren coasters though.
Reading up on the postscripts of forgery, I discover that forging the old masters has become very difficult, if not impossible. With the advent of all the scientific equipment, experts can now study every aspect of a painting’s structure and materials. As the late Eric Hebborn says in his Forger’s Handbook, best avoid attempting forgeries of these hot shots and instead go for drawings. Painting forgers are still around and busy, but their sites have turned to pursue more recent masters such as post-war abstractionists which contain more modern materials that are much easier to copy.
After I’m done I return to the hotel and pick up my suitcase. It’s time to head to Delft. I jump on a train and find myself in Delft in minutes. Oh yeah, I keep forgetting that Holland’s the same size of B.C.’s big toe. I arrive and find myself confused yet once again about where to orient myself out of the train station, answers I cannot find in my meager Google Earth map. I squint around hopelessly; blue construction fences surround the building just like Rotterdam’s – Train stations are always a work in progress, most looking like a “Cristo Wrap’ sculpture which makes navigating them difficult. I walk towards the old town knowing that at least I can get a map from the info centre. Once there, the woman looks at my map with my B&B and sniffs. “You’ve gone the wrong way.”
I smile, not wanting to make her day. “No problem. It gives me the chance to explore.” And I do – back the way I came. Behind me I see the rising spires of both the Oude and Neu Kirke rising above the historical skyline. They look exactly how Vermeer painted them over three hundred years ago. As I walk, bicyclists hurtle by me. All dressed in their work suits and dresses, some carrying satchels, others drinking a beverage, a few even smoking – none wearing helmets. The afternoon commute. Short skirts are no issue here and I witness a number of underwear flashes from unconcerned riders.
I walk out along a canal towards the burbs – Dutch style with old houses fronted with tiny gardens that open right onto the path and street. Climbing roses laden with blossoms drip over stoops and neat pots of geraniums guard every window. Sadly, no one uses the canals anymore. I stop and chat with a man gardening in his front yard who says that only a few people canoe the narrow waters for fun. Most of the few boats I do see moored look neglected and seem destined to sink before they are ever used again.
Once at my B & B, a kind neighbour let’s me in since the owners were called away. I settle in quickly and then decide to take the household’s offered bike for a spin. The old-style behemoth feels very awkward with its fat tires and longhorn steer handlebars, but then I become accustomed to its wobbling grandness and start to really enjoy the ride. What fun! This is the way to see Holland. On the way into Delft I pass some roads built just for bikes between towns – and an idea about doing a future riding tour pops into my head. I zoom into the old town – and head for the Markt or town square which has remained virtually unchanged since Vermeer’s day. I make circles all around, a silly grin on my face as I take in the historical brick and stone buildings while swaying around all the pedestrians. I could do this all day. I weave around the back streets, discovering the Vermeer signs noting places where Vermeer lived and worked. I stumble upon the Vermeer Centre – or the V epicenter as I call it. This destination is to be my adventure tomorrow with me particularly looking forward to seeing the gift shop. How about Vermeer shower curtains?
I stay and enjoy a delicious vegetarian lasagna at an Italian restaurant just around the corner from the Markt. The nearby church chimes a lovely long tune, a different one for each quarter hour. I swear one sounds just like the minor melody I used to play in a clarinet duet. Dark clouds frown in, drop a few rain spatters, then move on – typical Dutch weather. Apparently the heat builds up and creates storms by the end of the day. By the time I return to my B&B, the light has softened the tidy neighbourhood. I have a good chat about Dutch and Canadian politics with the owner and then I head to bed. A church bell chimes as I climb up the stairs. One of my favourite things about Europe.
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