Time Travel, episode 7: “Rembrandt and the Triumph of Modern Art”

[Note: Below is the seventh episode of the Time Travel series. For background information, read this post. For past episodes, click the "Time Travel" link in the sidebar. Enjoy...]

This week’s journey into the past addresses the issue of art history and its role in the formation of ideologies. Given the subject matter, Rahm decided to hire a major figure from the art world to conduct the briefing. It had to be someone qualified to impress upon me the importance of the mission.

The man chosen for the job was none other than Andres Serrano. You may recall that he is a controversial artist known for his photographs of aborted fetuses and of crucifixes in beakers of urine. Clearly, Serrano was eminently qualified to educate me on all things art. The briefing took place at his favorite café in Georgetown.

“I envy you, Gary,” he said, tapping an icon on his Blackberry. “You go off on these fascinating adventures, seeing things that no one else sees.”

“It is indeed fascinating,” I concurred, taking a sip of my chai latté. “But there is a significant danger involved. According to the inventors of the time machine, on each journey there is about a five percent chance that my molecules will be scattered in some unknown, unreachable dimension. Like the episode of Star Trek where they beamed someone up, and the poor soul became part of a concrete wall.”

“Even so,” insisted my guide, “it’s better than what I’m doing. No matter how hard I try, how much I explain, people just don’t understand the importance of art.”

“I can see how that would be frustrating.”

“And that’s where you come in,” said Serrano. “One of the great myths propagated by those knuckle-dragging, right-wing philistines is that art has rules, that one can form an objective aesthetic judgment. Under the influence of this propaganda, people say ridiculous things like ‘this painting is good’ or ‘that photograph is bad’. To make matters worse, they’ve projected the myth back across time, identifying so-called masters, while inventing a chain of transmission for their phony tradition.”

“Wow.”

“You’re being sent to observe one of the key players in the drama: Rembrandt. You will see the truth about him, what he really produced.” Serrano abruptly stood up, and then spit on the floor. “That’s what I think of their great artistic traditions. Anyway, good luck to you.”

We exited the café and parted. I took a taxi to the White House, where I met with Rahm. He stressed the urgency of the mission. With his blessing, I stepped into the now-familiar machine, and was soon hurtling through time, bound for Amsterdam in the year 1642.

I touched down across the street from Rembrandt’s house on Jodenbreestraat. It was fun to see people dressed in the style portrayed in his paintings. I could have sworn I saw the man depicted in The Scholar exiting the building just as I was crossing the street. To refresh your memory:

It was a long walk up several flights of stairs before I entered the atelier itself. And there he was, sitting in a chair. A pudgy-looking fellow was standing next to an easel, facing the great painter. Something was wrong here, I said to myself. The easel held one of Rembrandt’s famous self-portraits, but it was being painted by the other man—and Rembrandt was the model!

It gets worse. The pudgy little man’s face carried the unmistakable signs of Down syndrome. Not that I have anything against such people, but it seemed incredible that he could possess such skill. Or maybe it wasn’t really skill, as everyone assumes.

Rembrandt rose from his seat. “Okay, Ferdinand,” he said. “That’s enough for today. We’ll finish up this evening, and have it ready for the agent when he arrives tomorrow.”

“Aww, c’mon,” said Ferdinand. “You promised we could paint all day long.”

“Oh, be quiet already,” replied Rembrandt, looking annoyed. “You’re getting rich on those revolting paintings of yours, while I can’t sell a single one of mine.” He threw up his hands in disgust. “Do you know what it’s like to produce real art? No, of course not. I do, and I suffer for it. I have to deal with hordes of imbeciles, bourgeois capitalists who think that art should be beautiful, with proper proportions. Where do they get such absurd notions”? He walked to the opposite corner of the room, muttering something under his breath.

Ferdinand had tears in his eyes as he picked up his brush and resumed working. The painting was almost finished; I recognized it as a (purported) self-portrait, today hanging in the National Gallery in London:

I began to wander around the studio. Behind Ferdinand were wooden racks holding a multitude of paintings, many of which I could identify as Rembrandt (?) masterpieces. A shiver ran up my spine as I pondered the combined value of these works in our own era.

The situation looked quite different on the other side of the room, where Rembrandt was working. An immense canvas was lying on the floor. The artist was standing next to it, on a stepladder. Connected to the ladder was a tray holding several buckets of paint. Rembrandt took each bucket in turn and splashed its contents down onto the canvas. He was smiling, seeming to be much happier than he had been as a model.

Here is a photo I took of that real Rembrandt masterpiece:

I couldn’t believe my eyes—Rembrandt was practicing modern art! Yet another conservative myth smashed to pieces. I thought back to my meeting with Andres Serrano—how did he know about all this? He must be tapped into alternative versions of history, versions that have been suppressed by the forces of bourgeois reaction…