News flash! Perrie is wearing Stoney Tear Drops Earrings

A Day With Rembrandt,

I wish I looked more like my mother. It was a blanket statement put out in the air. Perrie Armstead here. At twelve, I was awkward. Taller than my sisters and already wearing a size eight shoe. I dreamed of possessing the elegance of my mother. Her style, her long neck, her well-proportioned features – I had none of that! We lived in a railroad flat (one room followed by another) and you could hear my footsteps as I clunked up and down our hardwood floors in an effort to imitate my mother’s walk as she glided along effortlessly. I was introduced to family friends as the exotic daughter. Not the exotic that’s captivating and beautiful. Their word for exotic was ‘code’ that meant “unusual.” As I grew older, my unusual nature gave me license to deviate from conventional roles. That awkward twelve-year-old with clunky footsteps eventually learned to navigate different terrains: the cobblestone streets in Portugal as well as crowded markets in Tangier. I no longer stooped over to disguise my height but saw the advantage of seeing the world from my own peculiar perspective.

At thirty-three, I developed an irresistible curiosity to explore the world. With no experience, I managed to talk my way into a position as a freelance art and culture writer for a New York West Village magazine. I was thrilled to be handed my first real assignment – abroad no less! I was specifically tasked with exploring Rembrandt’s “The Night Watch.” The assignment: How can modern viewers interact with a nearly 400-year-old painting in the age of digital distraction. With a raised eyebrow, I thought – I got this!

My budget was small. Upon reaching Amsterdam, I took an Uber to the tiny canal-side apartment I’d booked. Although it was a third-floor walkup (translation: it’s really on the fourth floor), I couldn’t beat the price or that it was within walking distance of the Rijksmuseum. Although I felt a bit anxious, I was eager to start my assignment the very next day. I immediately switched off my phone upon entering the dimly lit room housing ‘The Night Watch’ and sat on a bench in front of the painting. It was massive. I sat quietly taking deep deliberate breaths. I tried to let the painting speak to me. I didn’t notice the older gent walking in my direction. It startled me when he spoke: “Goedemorgen. Hoe gaat het?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand. I speak, English,“ I politely protested.

“Ah, English. I inquired of your health.”

“I’m well, thank you. And you?

“Goed, dank u. Might I share your bench?”

“Yes, of course.” Oddly enough, he was dressed in period clothing. He wore a large oversize white shirt with lace around the collar, a dark vest and dark balloon pants with a large belt around his waist.

“From where you have come?” he inquired.

“America,” I replied. Your English is quite good. I notice your dress, are you with the museum?

“I learnt English as a child.” No further interest in our small talk, he mentioned, “You’ve been sitting here for a time. If I had my tools, I would have drawn you. What are your observations of the painting?”

“Well, I gotta say, there’s been a lot of chatter. You know, controversial stuff. For instance, if they’re going to battle, why is the little girl there? I mean, what’s her importance?”

“Ah!” His eyes lit up. “She’s symbolic.”

“Oh, like a mascot.”

“So, you say. She’s the heart of the composition. The only female amongst the militia, perhaps the symbolism evokes a sense of innocent hope, possibility. Indeed, perhaps they are eventually going off to war. You see, I dressed her in gold. Your eye is drawn to her. Lighting her, creates a visual presence more powerful than her petite size.”

His words, ‘I dressed her in gold’ wrung in my ears. It gave me a strange sensation. I sensed an extraordinary event about to occur. Airily, I realized, I’m speaking with the man himself. Rembrandt! Not wanting to lose the momentum, I hurriedly said: “I’ve read that you paint light and dark as if the characters are progressing forward – adds movement.”

“I was commissioned to paint a group portrait of musketeers I believe they’re guarding the city. Caravaggio taught me a new technique of describing faces with light. Shadows around the eyes makes it hard to read an exact expression. They’re living and breathing like you and I.” He moved to the painting. “See how I built up the layers, thin, translucent glazes for the shadows – then thick paint to highlight where light catches on fabric or metal. Linseed oil was popular to create luminosity. Do you feel the warmth from the shadows?”

“Umm. Starting in the darkness and moving to the light. The characters do seem to live!”

Rembrandt sat back down and asked, “What year is this?”

“It’s 2025. I came here on assignment to study how a 400-year-old painting can inspire the age of digital distraction. In your painting, there’s so much noise. People acting out their own version of preparation.”

“Two Thousand Twenty-Five,” he said, deliberately sounding out each word. “This is why your modern photographers still study my work. I understand that light reveals what matters. It reveals truth.”

“Dynamism!” I blurted out. “I’ve studied the act of incorporating vigorous energy into a work and giving it realism. Again, your work is revolutionary, it creates controversy partly because of the sparse lighting on notable figures.”

“Ah, yes. Not allowing them the great honor due them. Peeling off the outer layer, do we not all appear equal? When one creates a painting, you commit to a journey. Whiles you never have full scope of the process, you stick with it through challenges, joys, and sorrows,” he said as if reflecting.

“The journey of life is like that,” I agreed. “I read you had a family.”

Rembrandt’s subsequent silence hinted at a deeper emotional complexity he’d buried long ago. Discussing his work was engaging but now I had hit upon his personal pain – his profound memories. His expression softened as he opened about his family. I married my landlord’s young cousin Saskia in 1634. Three children died within a couple of months of birth. Financial issues were always a challenge. I can confess to you that I was not the most astute in matters of finance. Eventually, Titus was born to us, and the dear boy lived. But the birth left Saskia unwell. Have you seen the drawings I made of her?” Not waiting for an answer, he continued, “she looked tired and drawn.”

“Why draw pictures of your wife when she was ill?”

“I believe that to stop drawing her would have been unfeeling. It is the psychological recognition and validation partners provide to each other that is crucial. Love should be demonstrative, visible. A human must be valued and shown dignity even in death.”

Rembrandt paused from his sermon. “If you please, dear lady, tell me, in your year two thousand twenty-five, how far has science progressed regarding curative medicines?”

“Science has made countless improvements in all fields of medicine. In fact, there was a study of people with long-term illnesses that found that participating in some creative actively reduced stress, decreased anxiety and even increased their positive emotions.” I was happy to share some of mankind’s present-day accomplishments.

“It appears I should have commissioned Saskia to do the drawings!”

“Remmie’s got jokes!” I thought.

“My son, Titus, married in 1668 then died seven months later. There was much sorrow in the family. I passed on the next year. They say that in death you meet up with your family again. It’s over three hundred years and I’ve not interacted with Saskia or Titus nor any other acquaintance I’d known.” There was an undertone of melancholy mixed in his voice.

“Have you ever thought of seeing your family again, here in Amsterdam?” I asked empathetically.

A clang was heard coming from the other side of the room. I turned to see what had happened, but someone had just dropped their cell phone. When I turned back to my companion, he was half the distance to the door. I noticed his walk was straight, tall, and hopeful. It was obvious our encounter had ended.

Stepping out of the museum into Amsterdam’s afternoon light, I caught my reflection in a shop window. For a moment, I too stood taller – my movements more hopeful. Back at my apartment on the canal, I mindlessly opened my notebook and sketched out my version of dramatic contrasts of light and shadowy faces. What a story to write! Had I imagined my intimate conversation with Rembrandt? It was so real. I know I felt his touch on my hand. Writing notes on my laptop, I thought about the noise in his masterpiece and how he created a motley crew in varied states of preparation. I was thoroughly amused that their activity depicted a chaotic scene where each militia member prepared differently for the same eventuality. We, in 2025, operate through the realm of social media, where we’re saturated with content, messages, photographs, and videos all seeking a connection or some profound meaning but often distracted by the “clutter.” Is the advancement of technology necessary? I believe so. But rather than glorifying or condemning it, I advocate the middle path of taking a balance approach that honors historical wisdom. Between his painting and our digital lives – there’s a need to find what truly matters amid the distraction and the noise. Surely, yesterday’s art co-existing “side-by-side” with modern technology shoots down any bias of time barriers and pursues a deeper human connection that remains relevant.

The centuries between us had momentarily collapsed, leaving traces of his world in mine. If I tried really hard, I could still smell the linseed oil that had clung to his period clothing.

This is how it always happens – the past bleeds into my present and through my writing, sometimes I hit the road through time. Fasten your seatbelts. This ride’s gonna get a bit bumpy! -B