Rembrandtplein and Other Street Art

The site of this leafy square was another city gate in the defensive walls constructed to protect the city in the Middle Ages. It was renamed Rembrandtplein when this cast iron statue by Louis Royer (1793-1868) was moved here in 1876. Cast in one piece, it is Amsterdam's oldest surviving statue in a public space and stands on a grey granite base bearing a replica of Rembrandt's signature. Coincidently, the square is near where the famous painter owned a house from 1639 to 1656.

 

 

As part of the artist's 400th birthday celebration in 2006, Russian artists Mikhail Dronov and Alexander Taratynov made bronze-cast representatives of a jaunty group of statues from his most famous painting and displayed them around Royer's work. We'll be seeing the "Night Watch" tomorrow at the Rijksmuseum.

 

Evidently, this is quite a lively area, especially with late-night dance groups who party here into the wee hours. Sam and I just wandered upon it while we were looking for a pharmacy on our way home from the Van Gogh Museum. She hoped to find some heat packs for her black eyes.

 

 

We also came across this rough clay statue reclining on a half roof outside a restaurant. As I snapped the photo, some guy sitting in a courtyard said something about sharing in the profits from my photograph. Huh? And because he wasn't smiling, I pretended I didn't speak English (again) and kept walking.

Which way do we go? Actually, we knew where we were when we got back to the museums. Circular route, anyone? And after stepping into a hotel along the way to ask about the nearest pharmacy (which was just around the corner), Sam discovered that any heat pads they had for sale were w-a-y too big for her face.

Vincent van Gogh, the Man

"I am a man of passions," said Vincent van Gogh (1853-1890).

When I read Van Gogh's letters to his brother Theo, I was surprised to learn they were sons of a pastor and, in fact, Vincent toyed with becoming a minister. Although his first job at age 16 was clerking for an art dealership, his two interests--art and religion--distracted him from his dreary work and he was eventually fired.

The next ten years were a collage of dead ends as Vincent bounced around northern Europe (England, France, Belgium, and the Netherlands), pursuing one path after another. In his letters to Theo and their parents, he writes of launching into each project with incredible energy, then becoming disillusioned and moving on to something else: teacher at a boarding school, assistant preacher, bookstore apprentice, preacher again, theology student, English student, literature student, art student. He fell in love but was rejected; he quarreled with his family and was estranged; he lived with a prostitute and her daughter, offending the few friends he had. Finally, in his late 20s, worn out, flat broke, and in poor health, Vincent returned to his family and made peace. That's when he started to paint.

The self-portrait by the artist (top) was painted in 1888 while he was living in Paris with Theo (March 1886 - February 1888). The budding young artist proudly displayed his new palette full of bright new colors. He was trying his hand at Impressionism techniques--building a scene using dabs of different-colored paint. A whole new world of art--and life--had opened up to him in Paris.

While there, along other Impressionist painters, Vincent learned the shimmering effect which comes from placing dabs of different colors side by side on the canvas. At a distance, the two colors blend in the eye of the viewer to become a third color. In the "Self-Portrait with Straw Hat" above (1887), Vincent used separate strokes of blue, yellow, green, and red to create a brown beard--a beard which seems to throb with excitement.

"You wouldn't recognize Vincent, he has changed so much... The doctor says that he is now perfectly fit again. He is making tremendous strides with his work... He is also far livelier than he used to be and is popular with people." - Theo van Gogh to their mother

Van Gogh's use of color is world-famous. Many of his theories can be traced back to that of complimentary colors. In "Irises," yellow and purple--colors that reinforce each other, according to the theory--thus maximize their effect. The purple (a mixture of red and blue) is now mainly blue, since the red pigment has faded.

Despite his new sociability, as referenced by Theo, Vincent never quite fit in with his Impressionist friends. As he developed into a good painter, he became anxious to strike out on his own. Also, he thought the social life of the big city was distracting him from serious work. Wanting peace and quiet, a place where he could throw himself completely into his work, he headed for the sunny south of France.

"The worse I get along with people, the more I learn to have faith in Nature and concentrate on her."

He saw sunflowers as his signature subject and he painted a half-dozen versions of them, each a study of intense yellow. Even a simple work like the one above, painted in 1889, bursts with life. But during his time in Provence, he swung from flurries of ecstatic activity to bouts of great loneliness. And after his friend, fellow artist Paul Gauguin, arrived, things went sour very fast. This began his spiral into "acute mania with hallucinations," as diagnosed by an Arles' doctor. (By the way, in January 2014, the painting above was displayed at London's National Gallery next to the sunflowers he painted in 1888--the first time in six decades they have been hung side by side.)

Vincent spent some time--productive time, actually--in a St. Remy mental hospital, still painting as his health seemed to improve: pictures of his hospital room, the gardens of the asylum, and landscapes (when he was allowed outside) like "The Garden of Saint Paul's Hospital" painted in 1889 (or, as it's also known, "The fall of the leaves"). The stark brown trees are blown by the wind, and a solitary figure (Vincent?) makes his way along a narrow winding path as the wind rains leaves down on him. The colors are surreal--blue, green, and red tree trunks with heavy black outlines. A road runs away from us, heading nowhere.

How much of these paintings reflect Vincent's spiral into total depression and finally putting a bullet through his chest? Although his life was sad and tragic, the record he left us is one of beauty. And I'm beginning to appreciate that beauty more and more.

Believe it or not, Vincent sold only one of his canvases during his lifetime--to a woman in Brussels. In 1987, one of his "Sunflowers" sold for $40 million and three years later, a portrait of his doctor for more than $80 million. Sadly, this "famous after the fact" was not uncommon for some of Europe's most renown artists.

The Van Gogh Museum

In 2000, on Sam's first trip to Amsterdam, neither one of us had any interest in Vincent van Gogh. Not only that, we only had about 45 minutes to visit the museum that day and chose, instead, to enjoy the sunshine and vast green space between the Rijksmuseum and Van Gogh's.

But tastes change--or mature. We are now more interested in Vincent--I've been studying and reading about him for the past several years--and we were both looking forward to discovering and exploring the place. So we used our free Thursday afternoon to visit his remarkable museum, which features works by the troubled Dutch artist--works of art which seem to mirror his life.

Vincent, who killed himself in 1890 at age 37, is best known for sunny, Impressionist canvases that vibrate and pulse with vitality. The museum's 200 paintings--which offer a virtual stroll through his work and life--were owned by Theo, Vincent's younger, art-dealer brother. Paintings were divided into five periods of his life--the Netherlands, Paris, Arles, St. Remy, and Auvers-sur-Oise.

The mix of his creative genius and his tumultuous life makes the museum as much a walk with Vincent as with his art. In fact, the paintings, arranged chronologically, leave a series of suicide notes and begin with some dark, gray canvases showing the hard, plain existence of the Dutch people--simple buildings, barren trees, and overcast skies--a world where it seems spring will never arrive.

"The Potato Eaters," painted in 1885, reflects a dark, cramped room lit only by a dim light and poor workers helping themselves to a steaming plate of potatoes. Van Gogh gave their heads "something like the color of a really dusty potato, unpeeled, of course." In line with the theory he was studying at the time, he obtained all his colors by mixing the primary colors red, yellow, and blue. The artist produced a large number of preparatory studies in the cottage of the peasant family that we see eating their meal here, but he made the final painting in his studio.

We really liked the displays and the very interactive audioguide. In fact, it was a SmartPhone-like device and while standing in front of a painting, we'd sometimes receive an email from Vincent. And if I could figure out how to open it....it was intriguing to read the information he provided about a painting or technique. Like the email about the "Courtesan" he painted in 1887.

In Van Gogh's day, many artists were keen collectors of Japanese prints, which presented them with a fresh way of looking at composition, the use of color, and perspective. In fact, Vincent and Theo built up a collection of their own Japanese prints. The "Courtesan" painting was based on a cover illustration for a magazine on Japanese art, using other models for the surrounding landscape which also displayed water plants, a frog, and a crane.

"The Bedroom" was painted in 1888--his actual bedroom in his "yellow house" in Arles--and this was the first version. The second version is in Chicago's Art Institute and the third, in Paris's Musee d'Orsay.

I really liked the openness of the museum, the bright wall colors--the same colors Vincent used--how the paintings were displayed, the general feel of the museum. I think Sam enjoyed it, as well.

A Begijnhof, the English Reformed Church, and Lunch at Blue

We have been introduced to Begijnhofs in other cities, a spot that's not only a tourist attraction but a place where people live. This quiet and peaceful courtyard, lined with houses around a church, has sheltered women since 1346 (and is quite a contrast from noisy Kalverstraat, along which we had walked after leaving the "hidden" church).

The Begijnhof was for centuries the home of a community of Beguines--pious and simple women who removed themselves from the world at large to dedicate their lives to God. When first established, it was literally a "woman's island"--a circle of houses facing the courtyard and surrounded by water.

This statue of one of the charitable sisters sits just beyond the courtyard's entrance near the church. The Beguines' ranks swelled during the Crusades when so many men took off--never to return--leaving society with an abundance of single women. Poor and rich alike--as well as those widowed by the hazards of overseas trade--turned their backs on materialism and marriage to live out their days as Beguines in Christian poverty and to serve others.

Very popular for their simple, unpretentious Christ-like dedication, they spent their days deep in prayer and busy with daily tasks--spinning wool, making lace, teaching, and caring for the sick. Though obedient to a mother superior, the members of the lay order were not nuns. In quiet seclusion, they provided a striking contrast to the more decadent and corrupt Roman Church, inspiring one another as well as their neighbors.

We then walked into the brick-faced English Reformed church, which was built in 1420 to serve the Beguine community. In 1578 when Catholicism was outlawed, the Dutch Reformed Church took over many of these Catholic monasteries. Still, the Begijnhof survived; and in 1607, this church became Anglican.

The church served as a refuge for English traders and religious refugees fleeing persecution in England. Strict Protestants such as the Pilgrims stopped in tolerant Amsterdam, praying in this church before sailing to religious freedom in America. In fact, the stained glass at the far end shows Pilgrims praying before boarding the Mayflower. And on the altar sits a Bible from 1763. Amazing history.

We were finally "dismissed" for lunch so Sam and I headed to the third floor of an American-like shopping center. Their "Blue" café, which Hilbren recommended, was modern, intimate, and comfortable with a beautiful view (also "blue" today).

And the food was great, too! We both had sandwiches but mine was an open-faced one with cheese, honey, and pecans. Ahhh, we needed the break and did I mention the view?

We were now fueled up for our next stop, the Van Gogh Museum.

The Singel Canal and Others

The Singel Canal, viewed from the Torensluis Bridge with the Mint Tower in the background, was the original moat running around the old walled city. This bridge is so wide because it was the road that led to one of the original city gates where the Mint Tower stood. The area still looks much as it might have during the Dutch Golden Age of the 1600s. This was when Amsterdam's sea-going merchants ruled the waves, establishing trading colonies as far away as modern Indonesia.

Fueled with this wealth, the city quickly became a major urban center, lined with impressive homes. Each proud merchant tried to outdo his neighbor and the buildings are varied. Crowded together, shoulder-to-shoulder, the houses are built on top of thousands of logs hammered vertically into the marshy soil to provide a foundation. Over the years, they've shifted with the tides, leaving some leaning this way and that.

The Singel canal is just one of Amsterdam's many canals. There are nearly 100, most about ten feet deep and covering roughly 50 miles. Why so many? In this marshy river delta, its citizens needed to keep the water at bay. So they built a dike, near where Central Station stands today, to keep out the sea tide surge and then they dammed the Amstel River. The excess water was channeled safely away into canals, creating pockets of dry land on which to build. Windmills, of course, were used to harness wind power and pump excess water into the canals. Locks near Central Station are opened periodically to flush out the system and control the flow.

Today, the city has about 100 canals, most of which are about ten feet deep. They're crossed by some 1,200 bridges, fringed with 100,000 Dutch elm and lime trees, and bedecked with 2,500 houseboats.

Some of the boats in the canals look pretty funky. That's because Amsterdam is an unpretentious, anti-status city. When the sun goes down and the lights come on, people cruise the sparkling canals with an on-board hibachi and a bottle of wine, and even scows can become chick-magnets.

De Papegaai Hidden Church

Continuing along our walk, Hilbren introduced us to some more sites where he thought we might want to explore during our free afternoon. Tucked amongst chain stores on the pedestrian-only Kalverstraat, he invited us into a "hidden church," not uncommon in some cities and countries around the world.

 

In the 1500s, Protestants were fighting Catholics all over Europe. Amsterdam had long made an effort to put business above ideological differences; but by 1578, Protestant extremists took political control of the city. They expelled Catholic leaders and bishops and outlawed the religion, stripping their churches of lavish decorations and converting them into Dutch Reformed churches. Simultaneously, the Dutch rose up against their (Catholic) Spanish overlords, and eventually threw them out.

 

For the next two centuries, Amsterdam's Catholics were driven underground. While technically illegal here, Catholicism was tolerated (kind of like marijuana is these days). Catholics could worship so long as they practiced in humble, unadvertised places, like this church.

It gets its name (De Papegaai) from a parrot carved over the entrance of the house that formerly stood on this site. I read that a stuffed parrot hangs in the nave as a nod to that original papegaai. But I didn't notice that. I know I was zoning out--we passed by and saw lots of stuff on this particular walk.

Today, the church asks visitors for a mere "15 minutes for God" (as the sign says: Kwartier voor God)--an indication of how religion has long been a marginal part of highly commercial and secular Amsterdam. I, of course, noticed the vertical French message along the wooden edge of the board: Un quart d'heure pour Dieu.

Walking the Streets - Westerkerk, the Royal Palace, and Multatuli

After leaving Ludo's coffeeshop (I was surprised how many of us bought a little treat), Hilbren walked us back through the city. I had no idea where we were or where we were going but he pointed out important buildings and continued to teach us some more history along the way. The Rick Steves' guides never stop teaching!

Amsterdam's tallest steeple belongs to the landmark church, Westerkerk (built in 1631), and has a crown at the top (not visible in this photo). It was a gift of the Habsburg emperor, Maximilian I, and as thanks for a big loan, the city got permission to use the Habsburg royal symbol. The tower also displays the symbol of Amsterdam, its three Xs.

Hilbren tells us that Rembrandt's body is buried somewhere under the pews in this church but no one knows exactly where. The church tower's carillon chimes every 15 minutes--although I don't remember noticing this--and play full songs at other times. Invented by Dutch bell makers in the 1400s, a live musician plays the keyboard inside the tower to make the bells of different sizes and pitches "sing." During WWII, the Westerkerk's carillon reminded Anne Frank every day that there was, indeed, a world outside her window.

Amsterdam is one of the cradles of modern democracy. And despite its name, the Royal Palace used to be the City Hall. In medieval times, self-governing Amsterdam prided itself on its independence--thumbing its nose at royalty--and this was where the city council and mayor met. Around 1650, the old medieval town hall was replaced with an classical-styled building, recalling the democratic Greeks. The triangular pediment features denizens of the sea cavorting with Neptune and his gilded copper trident--all appropriate imagery for sea-trading Amsterdam.

The building became known as the Royal Palace in 1806, when Napoleon invaded and installed his brother Louis as king. Even after Napoleon was defeated, the victorious powers dictated that the Netherlands remain a monarchy under a noble Dutch family called the House of Orange. Today, the palace remains one of the four official residences of King Willem-Alexander. (Though Amsterdam is the nominal capital of the Netherlands, all government activity--and the King's actual permanent home--takes place in The Hague, 30 miles away.) Hilbren pointed out that the palace needs to be cleaned. However, city officials, he said, are reluctant to construct the scaffolding to accomplish this because the palace must be presentable at all times in case there is a royal funeral.

At one point, we walked by this "big head" statue honoring a writer known by his pen name, Multatuli. Born in Amsterdam in 1820, Multatuli (aka, Eduard Douwes Dekker) sought his fortune in Indonesia, a Netherlands' colony at the time. His semi-autobiographical novel written in 1860, "Max Havelaar," follows a progressive civil servant fighting to reform colonial abuses, which Dekker witnessed while working as a bureaucrat. He was the first author to criticize Dutch colonial practices--a very bold position back then--and for his talent and subject matter, Multatuli has been dubbed "the Dutch Rudyard Kipling."