De Nachtwacht
“Ongelofelijk, I can’t believe that we’re going to have our portraits painted by Rembrandt. The Rembrandt!”
“Captain Banninck Coq is so cool! How did he ever manage to convince the greatest artist in all of the United Provinces to paint our picture?”
“Do you think he looks just like his self-portraits?”
“Considering they are “self-portraits”, Anton… ja. That’s the whole point.”
Captain Frans Banninck Coq held up his hand to silence the company. His second, Lieutenant Van Ruytenburgh, mouthed, “He’s here”. In spite of themselves, the members of the militia stood taller, adjusted their ranks to emulate the stiff, dignified figures of the paintings of the military and city guards of their childhood.
An expectant hush fell over the Militia Company of District II as the artist’s stagecoach rumbled over the cobblestoned street towards them. Allowing himself a small exuberant smile, Captain Banninck Coq strode ahead, Van Ruytenburgh trailing behind, to receive him.
“Captain.” Rembrandt put his hand out for a shake.
“Van Rijn,” Captain Banninck Coq acknowledged, “you received your payment, ja?”
Rembrandt nodded distractedly, pulling out a worn sketchbook that had been reduced to leaves of loose paper barely bound together.
“Now to get the company in order.”
“Are the rows not straight enough, meneer?” Van Ruytenburgh asked.
“They’re too straight, lieutenant.”
The old master set about orchestrating a scene at once dramatic and humorous. Hands flailed, muskets loaded, pikes lifted high, banners waved. The Captain and the Lieutenant stood at the center - swashbuckling heroes discussing strategy, trying and failing to get the company to order.
I stood there amidst the engineered chaos - calm, and unmoving. Nobody noticed me. Nobody except Rembrandt. He smiled a tired, wistful smile and, adjusting his beret, went back to his sketchbook.
***
“My, my, you have really outdone yourself, Van Rijn.” Captain Banninck Coq said as he admired the colossal painting of the Militia Company.
His gaze lingered long on himself and then he saw me. He furrowed his brows in confusion.
“Who is that girl supposed to be?” Ah, wouldn’t you like to know, Captain?
Rembrandt’s eyes twinkled. “Whoever you want her to be.” He said with an enigmatic smile.
***
In the years since the painting was first put on display, viewers have decided that I am a personification of the Kloveniers (musketeers) guild. The chicken at my waist, they say, alludes to the guild’s emblem - a golden claw on a blue field. They see me as a representation of the sworn purpose of the musketeers: protect the city, come what may. I am a symbol of pride.
When Rembrandt saw me amidst the chaos on that bright morning, he saw something else. Somebody else. Saskia - his dying wife. The artiste furiously scratched out two members of the militia to make room for me on the canvas. Painting me was the only way for him to mourn his loss. My unmovingness juxtaposed with the company’s frenzy gave voice to Rembrandt’s incredulity at the indifference of the world. How could the world simply go on, unconcerned, without his dear Saskia? This painting of civic duty and pride is also a painting of personal mourning. I am a symbol of loss.
Who am I? What am I? Woman, specter, symbol? I am all that and more. I am here and not here. I exist only within the minds of humans, I exist only without. I am a manifestation of human emotion. I am a product of human reason. I deal in contradictions, for I know not how else to describe to you the full scope of my being.
Hundreds of years have passed since Rembrandt finished his magnum opus. The painting has withstood a lot - acid attacks, knife slashes, you name it. Interactions with the elements have transformed the summer day into a dark gloomy night. But it still survives, in all its glory. Its newfound somberness inspired a new name, De Nachtwacht, The Night Watch. I am vulnerability, adaptability, and resilience. I am the very quintessence of humanity - curiosity, and imagination.
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