Mar 8, 201105:59 AMPositive Vibes
A blog that explores authentic human connection
An Afternoon with Rembrandt
Growing up, art didn’t play a significant role in our home. Oh, mom had a book on the impressionists and the house was sprinkled with small pictures of fruit and flowers. My father’s taste in art was vastly different and – to a young boy – far more interesting. Down at the garage where he and his brothers fixed cars and trucks for nearly everyone in our little town, there were pictures of Marilyn Monroe, Anita Ekberg and Jane Russell on the walls. There were also calendars with Daisy Mae girls holding box wrenches and oil filters.
One time I nudged my uncle Orville and asked him why the calendars were old, not up to date. He wiped his hands with a shop rag, smiled and said: “Boy, we know the date. These ain’t about telling the date.”
I was eight, maybe nine, but I had a vague good idea of what he meant. The girls were all curvy and pretty, like Wilma who lived on the south side of town. Everybody got still when Wilma walked into church in those thin summer dresses. (Actually, people were still any time they saw Wilma.)
For my part, there was a shoebox under my bed filled with art. There was a 1956 Topps baseball card of Ted Williams, the famous Red Sox hitter; Stan “The Man” Williams of the Cardinals and a 1957 Mickey Mantle, swinging from the left side of the plate. My greatest prize was DiMaggio, the great DiMaggio. These were my treasures.
I dreamt of being like these men, playing like them – having the God-given abilities that put their faces on the cover of magazines like Look and Life, and separated them from the men who stood around all day at Raymond’s gas station.
I chased that dream into my early 20s, only managing a brief touch of its coattails. The next 30 years were spent writing about Major League Baseball, walking its fringes as a paid observer. It was spit and sweat, glamor and excess; limousines and grand hotels. It was a good life.
Yet, there I sat on a spring afternoon absolutely mesmerized by a painting that was nearly 400 years old: Rembrandt’s Man Rising From a Chair.
A friend had invited me to meet him at the Taft Museum in Cincinnati. I was a reluctant guest. What could possibly be there that interested me? We walked from one display to another talking about the old days, him telling me one thing and another about the art. I trudged along, nodding politely looking forward to lunch.
But when we walked into the Rembrandt Room, I was stunned, speechless. No object had ever had such an impact on me: the texture, the clarity, the varying shades, glimmer and shine of the color black; the intricacy of the white lace; the placement of the hands, the color of the skin; the depth and shimmer in his eyes, the portrayal of movement and purpose – genius and life captured on canvas. I forgot about lunch. I don’t know long I sat there starring at the painting. “Brilliant, isn’t it?” my friend said.
“It’s beyond brilliant,” I said.
There was a deadline to meet, phone calls to make and still another meeting to attend. Just down the street at a big, glittering ballpark there was a game about to start: the Reds and the Cardinals. That was my world, but I sat there staring at the Rembrandt. Little else seemed to hold much importance.
I was relaxed, peaceful. I sat there thinking odd thoughts. I thought mostly about the incredible genius and talent of the painter, someone who could do something no one else in the world could possibly do.
It made me happy; made me laugh.
It made me think about the uniqueness of all who walk the earth, all the talents that swirl about the universe landing here and there. We’ve all been given something, some far more than others. We just have to discover what it is we’ve received and what is ours to offer – the slightest thing, the greatest thing.
I still go to ballparks and arenas. I go back to The Taft when I can. I think about art in all forms: from Rembrandt to Mantle. I think about my dad and his art collection: Monroe, Ekberg, Russell and all the calendar girls.
I look for art everyday and in unlikely places.
--Greg Hoard
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