All language subtitles for BBC Power of Art 3 - Rembrandt

You're a painter.

What's the worst thing that can happen to you?

Disgrace? Derision?

No, the worst thing is to have to
cut up your masterpiece.

What had brought Holland's greatest painter
to this moment of artistic suicide?

Once, Rembrandt had been cock of the walk
in a city that couldn't get enough of him.

Glittering, fat, prosperous Amsterdam,

but that was then.

Now, he's living opposite an amusement park,

drunks throwing up on his doorstep,
knife fights every Friday night.

But why is he mutilating his painting?

It had been hanging on the walls
of the Amsterdam town hall,

but then a decision was made.

Take it down, get something else to fill the space.

So now what's he supposed to do with it?
This B-movie flop of a picture?

Maybe, if he can cut it down a little,

there'll be someone out there who might like
the centre of the painting,

the bit with the people in.

So under the knife it goes.

It's a brutal punishment, the worst.

And for what exactly
is Rembrandt being punished?

For being out of step with modern taste,
for painting like a barbarian.

But then he isn't interested in refinement
and beauty. It bores him.

He does us, flesh and blood, you and me.

Art that exists to tell the truth
about the human condition.

That's his everlasting glory,

but in the end,
that's also going to be his problem.

Amsterdam in the 1630s,
Rembrandt's on a roll.

Everything he touches seems to come up trumps.

He knows what the patrons want
even before they know it themselves

and there's nothing, I mean nothing,
he can't turn his hand to.

Great action-packed histories,

heart-pumping stories with pop-eyed bystanders,

books which seem to breathe and lift
with the breath of God.

And portraits, spectacular portraits.

They were made for each other,
the painter and the city.

Just as no one had ever seen paintings
like Rembrandt's,

the world had never seen a place
quite like Amsterdam.

In 1600, it had been a backwater fishing port.

Thirty years later, when Rembrandt arrived,
the docks were unloading Chinese silks,

Swedish iron and copper,

and the new mass-market addictions,
sugar and tobacco.

In one generation,
the place had gone from provincial also-ran

to economic lord of the world.

Whatever you wanted, Amsterdam had it,

the discount supermarket of the 17th century.

So, fortunes were made, quick and spectacular.

And those who made them
were not shy of showing them off.

So they built elegant houses on these canals,

and into those houses went all the good things.

Gold-stamped leather wall coverings, Delft tiles,

fine mirrors in rich frames,
maps of the worlds they were conquering,

and, of course, pictures,
especially pictures of themselves.

This is Nicolaes Ruts, and his business is fur.

Russian sable, in fact, the priciest of the lot.

Was it his idea, I wonder, or Rembrandt's,
that he should brand himself

by wearing his stock in trade?

In any event, it's a stroke of genius,
for this is the hairiest painting imaginable.

All that soft fall of fur
dropping down his body, like a river of luxury,

the hairs standing up
in a gentle charge of electrostatic,

as if a hand has just sensuously
travelled through them.

Yet for all the sumptuousness,

Rembrandt has managed to avoid
any impression of idle opulence.

With his fastidiously combed whiskers
and sharp eyes,

almost as sharp as those of the animals
from whom the pelts were taken,

Ruts' glance is
that of a slightly impatient intelligence.

We almost want to say,
''Thanks for giving us a moment. ''

But he's also solid.

The deep shadow cast by the side of his head
makes him thoughtful.

The slightly pinked inner eyelids,

as though he'd sacrificed his sleep
for the good of the investors.

No wonder JP Morgan bought the picture,

for has there ever been a better portrait
of the businessman as hero?

Rembrandt not only understood his rich clients

and the image they wanted
to project of themselves,

he was also a virtuoso manipulator of paint.

No one looked harder
at the topography of a middle-aged eyelid,

the oiliness of a prosperous nose,

the wateriness of the eye's vitreous membrane,

the shiny tightness of a forehead
pulled back into a linen cap.

Look at this, Rembrandt's portrait
of an 83-year-old woman

in the National Gallery in London.

Look at the translucent fabric of her bonnet wings,

their edges painted with a single stroke.

Look at her eyebrow and droopy eyelid,
done with jabbing strokes,

the slightly unfocused melancholy,

the mood of poignant vulnerability,

everything softening the face of a tough old bird,

wistful in the certainty

it's not long now before she gets to meet
the great accountant in the sky.

Not just a painter, then, but a psychologist
of the human condition, don't you think?

What's the job of the other big hitters,
Vel�zquez, Rubens, van Dyck?

To paint masks,
the studied look of princes and popes.

They know in advance, pretty much,
the mask of the day.;

martial resolution, regal care,

pensive melancholy.

But Rembrandt looks behind the pose,

and this is what makes his portraits touch us
like nobody else's.

We can see people
putting on their faces to the world.

But it doesn't make us less,
but more sympathetic to them.

You'd think that with his perfect pitch

for understanding
what the rich of Amsterdam wanted,

Rembrandt would have grown up with them.

But he hadn't. He'd grown up in Leiden,
a textiles and university town

about 25 miles southwest of Amsterdam,

packed with piety, learning
and profit from the cloth trade.

Rembrandt's family were millers.
The river Rhine flowed past their mill,

giving the painter his name, Rembrandt van Rijn.

Rembrandt was the bright one
in a family of nine children,

the one who went to Latin school
and the local university.

So dropping out at 14 to become a painter
was, I suppose, an act of faith.

Mind you, no time for teenage masterpieces.

Too busy doing what apprentices had to,

mixing primer, grinding pigment,

suspending it in meaty-smelling linseed oil.

No one, thank God, robbed graves anymore
to make black pigment from charred skeletons.

They used soot instead.

All his life, Rembrandt seemed to love
the filmy muck of oil paint.

No one in his century ever explored its texture,

from thick and crusty
to thin and fluid, more lovingly.

You can see this plunge
into the materials of his craft

in this little portrait of himself,
done in his studio in Leiden in his twenties.

Here he is in his work clothes,
all around him the tools of the trade.

But just look at this place.

The plank floor is cracking,

the plaster in the corner of the room is peeling,
and that, of course, is the point.

It's an old place, a dump really,

but it's still the place
where a young man connects with an old thing,

the making of art.

And that's why it moves us strangely,

the little gingerbread man
in his oversize housecoat,

mantled in the trappings of painting.

But look at him.
He isn't painting at all, he's just staring

at something he's hidden from us.

A mystery whose only feature is that intense
golden light at the edge of the picture frame.

The fire of an idea.

What we're looking at, the picture seems to say,

is nothing less than a pocket manifesto.

The idea that art is the marriage
of craft and imagination.

No wonder, then, that with all this cleverness,
Rembrandt was talent-spotted,

singled out by Constantijn Huygens,

the most influential patron in all of Holland,

as the coming man, a diamond in the rough.

And what Huygens saw in Rembrandt

was a superlative storyteller.

Take the story of Samson and Delilah.

Most artists did Samson as a naked hulk,
slumped in post-coital slumber.

This is what Rembrandt does.

Instead of nude beefcake, he dresses him.

And, amazingly, makes him seem more,
not less, vulnerable.

All his paint wizardry is used on that knot,

which seems to tie Samson
to his lover and to his fate.

Delilah lifts a lock of Samson's copper hair,
ready to be shorn away,

but as she does so,
her other hand idly strokes his tresses.

So in one gesture,
Rembrandt gets to the heart of the story,

the tragic inseparability
of amorous tenderness and brutal betrayal.

Good as he was, Huygens thought his prot�g�
could be even better if he went to Italy.

But Rembrandt wasn't going to put in time
sketching statues, he had bigger fish to fry.

This was, after all, the republic of money,

and Amsterdam whispered to him,
''Come and get it.''

So here he was, doing very nicely, thank you,

turning out stunning story paintings
and portraits to order.

And not just a painter either,
but also a partner in the art business,

Rembrandt Uylenburgh Inc.

Pupils taken in for a fee,
copies made, original paintings commissioned.

So what was it about his partner's niece,
young Saskia van Uylenburgh,

with her butterball chins
and lopsided, crinkly grin?

A nice girl, certainly, a catch, one would assume,

being the orphaned daughter
of a burgomaster of northern Friesland.

She met Rembrandt when she was 21,
blessed with a portion of her father's estate.

If Rembrandt could have written poems
to Saskia, he would have.

But, instead, he did this precious little drawing
to mark their betrothal.

She's a child of nature,
the straw hat, the wildflowers.

Only Rembrandt could have done that dangling
broken stalk and thought it was perfect.

Whenever he can, he paints her with flowers.
She's his flower child.

Mind you, the relatives up north
don't like it very much.

They hear stories of Rembrandt and Saskia
showing off their jewels

and fur and fancy outfits

and they nod their heads and say, ''Told you so.

''Always knew he was after her money, and now
they're spending it like there's no tomorrow.''

For Rembrandt has become a shopaholic.

Oh, a shopaholic in the best possible taste.

He buys paintings by old masters at auctions,

but every so often, he hits the Amsterdam
equivalent of the Portobello Road,

and he just can't stop buying.

Japanese armour, Indonesian daggers,

plaster busts of Roman emperors,

and he tells himself it's all for art.

Here's another impulse buy,

a pricey four-storey house
in one of the more elegant streets in Amsterdam.

Not your usual artist's modest residence, then.

But then, why shouldn't he be extravagant?

Rembrandt is, after all,
the most successful painter in Holland,

and his paintings are hanging in the houses
of the richest, most powerful men in the world.

What makes Rembrandt's later falling-out
with his patrons so surprising

is that in his salad days in the 1630s,

no one could beat him
for grasping exactly what it was

the first generation
of Amsterdam moneymen really wanted.

What they wanted were two contradictory things.

On the one hand,
the portraits of course had to say, ''We are rich. ''

On the other hand, they had to say,

''But we are also God-fearing, plain, simple folk

who know that riches never last. ''

Every Sunday in church
they heard their preachers say to them,

''Do not forget the humble place
from which you have come.

Do not forget that today's worldly pomp

will be tomorrow's dust and ashes.''

So the paintings had to show them off
without making them show-offs.

Rembrandt had this rich-but-modest line
down stone-cold.

So, of course, they're lining up for him.

Not just merchants on the make
but the cr�me de la cr�me,

the family Trip, for example.

You don't get much richer than the Trips,

who had a global empire of iron, copper and guns

and were doing very nicely, thank you,
in the endless wars against Spain.

But Elias Trip, head of the dynasty,

thought of himself
as a pillar of Protestant society.

Your old-fashioned, sober-sided,
church-going arms trader.

So when Rembrandt was hired to paint
his hugely rich

and marriageable daughter, Maria Trip,

he knew that the display of wealth
had to be crushingly subtle.

The money, then, was in the detail.

Below that milky pud face,
with its artless little smile,

is a waterfall of stunning lace.

Just a hint of the Trip millions.

Now, the relationship between the painter
and the painted is a devilishly subtle business.

But Rembrandt seemed to be
in perfect sync with the money classes,

understanding precisely what they wanted,
because he wanted it, too.

And how he wanted it.

He must have thought
that this mutual admiration would go on forever.

Here he is in 1640, 34 years old,

dressed to the nines,
as if he's one with the greatest past masters.

He's seen Titian's portrait
of the Italian poet, Ariosto,

and he's gone and put himself in the same pose.

The oversize, silky, mutton-chop sleeve
on the aristocratic stone ledge,

a picture which would be creamy
with self-congratulation,

were it not for a trace of wistfulness
about his face,

as if he can't quite believe all this success.

Whatever you think about Rembrandt,
you've got to admit, he's got nerve.

I mean, just look at him,

from provincial nobody
to the cheekiest painter in the history of art.

Always on the edge, Mr Clever Clogs.

But you couldn't rightly call yourself
a success in Amsterdam

if you just did single-person portraits,
no matter how rich the sitters.

Amsterdam was a corporate town,

a beehive of capitalism,
ruled not from palaces but from boardrooms.

So what did the corporate sitters want?

Well, first of all, of course,
a good likeness of themselves,

and then they wanted the artist
to get their complicated pecking order just right.

The former has to get everyone in,

squeeze, squeeze,jostle, nudge.

What are the choices?

Well, either elasticate the rectangle
until everyone's in

or double up the rows
so one lot is on top of the other.

Result, the rugby first 1 5.

You could, as Rembrandt's most astute pupil
Samuel van Hoogstraten put it,

behead them all with a single blow.

Now, with his insatiable instinct
for stripping off social masks,

Rembrandt wasn't going to settle for that.

So, he says, ''Okay let's throw away
the boardroom line-up.

''Let's just forget about the stale formula

''and turn cardboard cutouts into real events,

''social dramas.''

And here's the result, The Night Watch.

It was commissioned in 1642 by a company
of cloth merchants and part-time militia men.

And as with so many of his paintings at this time,
Rembrandt had done the impossible,

made something heroic
out of the world of merchants and money.

Now, everyone knew the militia men
in this painting weren't real soldiers.

The real war was being slogged out
somewhere beyond the frontiers.

These were toy soldiers, Amsterdam's dad's army.

Still, they like to preserve
the fiction of the citizen soldier.

They like to think they'd be there
to defend the freedom of Amsterdam.

Rembrandt's great idea is flattery.

Now, it's not the kind of flattery
that's going to make them younger

or better-looking,
it's much more important than that.

It's the flattery
of the entire fairytale idea behind the painting.

The idea that a bunch of overdressed textile men

playing at toy soldiers on Sundays
were the real thing,

that they were actually alive with martial energy.

So instead of having them pose,
Rembrandt has them in action.

He transforms them in that way
from mere human ornaments

into marching, shooting,
drumming guardsmen.

So just how do you capture that instant

when your pulse goes whoosh with excitement?

Well, Rembrandt takes a deep breath,
he has a what-the-hell moment

and he goes for it.

He changes the usual side-by-side format
into a back-to-front action,

so that the company of the officers
and men are coming right at us,

3-D from the deep, dark doorway,

right up to the picture frame
and into our own space,

blazing with light.

Look at that spear poking into our space.

Rembrandt knows that rough painting

can actually convey the illusion
of a three-dimensional object

better than any literal description.

The captain's name is Frans Banning Cocq.

Next to him is his lieutenant
Willem van Ruytenburch.

It's the lieutenant
who gets the more dazzling costume.

Somehow, though, his showiness only
strengthens the sense of command of his captain,

costumed in black,
but ablaze with a fiery red sash.

Banning Cocq is giving the signal to move.

So his order falls as a shadow
on the coat of his lieutenant.

They're off, already in motion,
the tassels are flying.

At first sight, The Night Watch
seems merely chaotic, doesn't it?

But actually it's a hymn to noisy energy
contained by discipline.

Freedom and order, miraculously held together,

much as I think Rembrandt thought
the Dutch themselves did.

That's the secret of their success.
That is the glory of Amsterdam.

But did they see it, the Sunday soldiers?

Did the men who actually paid for the picture
get beyond vanity,

beyond their need
for a realistic depiction of themselves?

According to Rembrandt's pupil, van Hoogstraten,

some of the sitters were less than thrilled.

Not outraged, just a bit bewildered.
You can almost hear them saying,

''Well, it's got to be good,
it's a Rembrandt, after all,''

and, ''What do I know about art?
But to me it does look a bit of a mishmash.''

Let's just say that the climate
went from warm to tepid.

Perhaps Rembrandt felt it, perhaps not.

But for the first time since becoming
the golden boy of Dutch painting,

one of Rembrandt's patrons
is so unhappy with the painting,

he simply refused to pay.

And not just any old patron either,

but Andries de Graeff,
a man from whom jobs and prestige flowed.

We don't know exactly what it was
that offended de Graeff so much,

but we can guess,
with Rembrandt painting ever more freely,

it didn't quite match
de Graeff's stately self-image.

To recover his money,
Rembrandt had to resort to something

he must have found deeply humiliating.

An arbitration committee of his peers,

who sat in judgement
on the quality of his painting.

Two years later, Rembrandt took revenge
in a crude but eloquent little drawing.

It features a bunch of connoisseurs
peering at pictures,

one of whom, whose features
aren't 100 miles away from de Graeff,

has sprouted ass's ears.

Another figure, surely the artist,

lets us know in no uncertain terms,
with his trousers down,

just what he thinks of their judgement.

But it was Rembrandt who all of a sudden
seemed to be giving off a bad smell.

The smell of someone from whom
the fickle goddess fortune was shying away.

Have you ever felt, at the top of your form,

at the height of your powers,

an odd but distinct sense
that the winds just change direction,

that it's blowing a bit chillier now?

Rembrandt's troubles came to him unremarkably,

like the first heavy drops of rain
striking a window pane.

A mild disturbance, but then a downpour.

The portrait commissions dry up,
the house is loaded with debt

and, inside the house,
Saskia is deathly ill with TB,

her body wracked by spasms of bloody coughing.

Death was no stranger to their family.

Saskia and Rembrandt had already buried
three of their children.

Only the boy, Titus, was alive.

On the fifth of June, 1642,

a notary was called to the house
to record Saskia's will.

Nine days later, she was dead.

Her body was wrapped in a simple cloth

and in a silent little procession
it was taken to the outer kirk for burial.

Somewhere in this house,
Rembrandt pulled out a portrait of her

that he'd begun many years before,
at the playful start of their life together.

It's unusual for many reasons.

One of the only paintings
in which there's not a trace of a smile.

Her head is turned in profile,

the outline un-Rembrandtian
in its enamel-like sharpness.

But for the last time,
he's loaded her with fabric and jewels.

It's as if he can't stop draping her.

But Saskia pulls the fur cape around her,

as if to ward off the chill of mortality.

But it's too late.

Well, then, Saskia had gone

and it was as though a peal of bells
had abruptly stopped.

It's too easy, we're told,
to say that in that year, 1642,

everything changed for Rembrandt, for his work.

That's the sentimental,
romantic version to read art from life.

But, you know,
something really had happened to Rembrandt,

an end to flamboyance,

an end to his theatrical mastery
of the outward, noisy show of life.

It was as though
he'd turned down the volume of the world

and switched on an inner quiet radiance.

The big gestures melt away

and are replaced by a tender simplicity.

Instead of a portrait gallery
of the rich and powerful,

a maidservant leaning on a sill,

caught between inside and outside,
innocence and sex.

Look at the highlight on her lower lip,

the left hand toying with her necklace.

Here, too, in his drawings,

just a few summary lines here and there

that manage to conjure up an entire scene.

It's a huge compliment, don't you think,
making us his partner in completion,

giving us the benefit of the doubt

that we wouldn't want
anything so boring as the literal details.

The problem though was that Rembrandt's critics
didn't see him as offensively avant-garde.

They saw him as offensively old-fashioned.

Why? Because of a cultural sea change.

For the first time in Holland,
sophistication seemed far more important

than simplicity and piety,
the qualities the Dutch like to think

had brought them through
their war against Spain.

But now, peace had been declared

and by the 1650s
there was a perceptible sigh of relief.

So just as Rembrandt's paintings
were getting darker,

the mood of Amsterdam
was lightening and brightening.

The founding fathers and mothers,
modestly dressed in millstone ruffs,

had given way to their children.

The peacock generation, gorgeous
in screaming scarlets and coiffed to the nines.

Many of them had been sent abroad
as part of their education

and had come back eager to import
cosmopolitan stylishness

to the homespun republic.

They weren't interested in austerity,
they wanted to be like the Italians,

they wanted pillars.

All Rembrandt's murky browns and golds,

those garter marks
and flabby breasts were a downer.

We all know this story, don't we?

The second generation, the inheritors,
the trust-fund brats,

so embarrassed by their parents
who are so old-fashioned, so parochial,

and all they care about is church and business,
business and church.

And what a business, too,
trade, my dear, so tawdry.

So off they go and buy themselves country villas,

while some inky-fingered clerk
manages the family investment.

This leaves them to concentrate
on what they really care about, cultivation.

For art, they think,
is not just a report unedited from nature,

and it's certainly not about
dwelling indiscriminately on ugliness

just because it happens to be there.

No, art is the divine road to harmony.

It's purity, it's clarity.

Away with the misshapen,

bring on the age of refinement.

And here's Rembrandt. No culture props.

Just those big, meaty hands stuck in his belt.

Everything is starting to look heroically worn.

The coat itself, the eyes pink-rimmed,

the eyes of a man who never stops looking.

And just look at the sketchiness
of the whole thing.

He just doesn't care about finish anymore.

In fact, Rembrandt's in the process
of doing something

which horrified the classical academicians.

He's abolishing the difference
between a sketch and a painting.

And he does it
for the subjects he cares most about.

He cares a lot about her.

She's Hendrickje Stoffels,
the soldier's girl from the sticks,

who came into Rembrandt's house
seven years after Saskia's death.

Rembrandt had already taken his son's nurse,
Geertje Dircx, as his mistress,

but then Hendrickje arrived,
and it wasn't long before he wanted

her in his bed and Geertje out of it.

Here's Hendrickje looking down into the water,

the break of her legs through its surface
a little tour de force of illusionism.

Rembrandt now isn't choosing his way
of handling paint just as the fancy takes him,

but to convey sensuous experience.

So Hendrickje's shift pulled scandalously high,

her neckline scandalously low, are painted thickly,

while her skin tones
are as liquid as the water itself.

And the way Rembrandt has painted her hands
as just an unmodelled smear

almost dares the critics to make an issue of it.

You can hear them, can't you?

''Rembrandt van Rijn? Oh, yes, yes.
Very talented, but my God, so difficult."

"He never finishes a painting.
I think his best years are behind him, don't you?"

"And what he's doing rattling around
in that big old house with his, excuse me,

woman, I really don't know."

"You have heard she's with child, haven't you?"

"The church deacon's quite shocked."

"It's just a bit squalid, don't you think?"

"That might explain why he does
those rather peculiar etchings."

"'Just who's going to buy them,
I've really no idea. ''

Running out of favours, running out of time,

late with his loan repayments on the house,

the coils of Rembrandt's ruin
began to rope themselves around him

ever more tightly.

Finally, in July 1656,
Rembrandt filed for bankruptcy.

This is where Rembrandt would have come,
to the Chamber of Insolvency.

Passing through this door
with its frieze of worthless stock certificates

and rats scuttling through empty money chests
of the profligate debtor.

You just can't beat the Dutch
for wagging their fingers at your wicked ways.

Auction by auction, hammer blow
by hammer blow, everything was taken.

This wasn't just furniture, household stuff,

it was also Rembrandt's
own personal archive of art.

The drawings and paintings,
all the strange, fabulous stuff he'd collected,

all gone.

Then, the house itself.

One thing he did manage to hold on to,

and that was a great mirror
in the finest ebony wood frame.

Titus, his son, found a bargeman who said,
for a sum of money,

sure, he'd carry it to their new house.

So, up on the bargeman's head it went,

and off through the jostle of Amsterdam,
over cobbled streets and bridges.

And at some point, the bargeman begins to sweat.

His hands get slippery, his grip gets shaky,

and then, as the bargeman
was stepping off a bridge...

Witnesses who came forward
to testify for the bargeman

said he hadn't bumped into anyone,
he hadn't fallen down,

the mirror must just have broken all by itself.

But there it was, on the ground,
a thousand shards and slivers,

leaving Titus to carry home to his father
just a frame with an empty centre.

It's 1658. Rembrandt has lost everything.

So how does he paint himself?

Like a king, like a god, full frontal,
mantled in lustrous gold.

And it's the paint, that thick, luxurious paint,
which gives him his power, his magic.

No bankrupt's downcast eyes, either,

but a stare coming right at us little people

who fancy we know something about art.

A suggestion of lordly amusement
playing about his eyes.

His barrel chest soaks up the light,
the belly swelling in front of us like a genie.

The whole body pressing
against the picture plane,

challenging it to contain his massive authority.

And if Rembrandt thinks that his way of painting
has been part of the problem,

he's certainly not going to abandon it now.

Just the opposite, in fact.
This is a painting that bellows defiance

at the apostles of crisp clarity and contour.

''So you think that stuff was a bit much,
do you?'' he seems to be saying.

''Just get a load of this.''

You'd think that with painting
this free and this rough,

it would be downhill all the way for Rembrandt,
but it wasn't.

With almost everything gone,
reputation, possessions, house,

he still had a chance for a comeback,
the comeback to end all comebacks.

This, the new town hall, had just been built
and the cream of Amsterdam painters

were asked to supply pictures for its interior.

Against all odds, Rembrandt was one of them.

''Town hall'' doesn't quite describe this place,
does it?

It's something more than clerks
and marriage licences.

Though The Hague
is officially the seat of government,

everyone knows
Amsterdam is where the money is.

So the new town hall is a shameless brag
to the world

about the great metropolis,

built on a scale that makes
the Doges Palace in Venice look skimpy.

In this solemnly beautiful setting,
tone was all-important.

Any new paintings were going to have to be
restrained, severely classical,

pictorially well-behaved,

which doesn't exactly spell Rembrandt, does it?

In fact, anyone but Rembrandt.

So, of course, at first,
the job went to someone far more reliable,

the painter Govert Flinck.

It was only when Flinck suddenly died,

that someone in the council chamber
dared to say the R word.

No doubt greeted by silence,
and then, perhaps, a, ''Why not?

''He's broke, he needs the work, he'll behave."

''When has he not delivered the goods
when it really counted?''

So, after getting the commission by the back door,

Rembrandt set about work on the painting.

The results would be, I think,
the greatest triumph of his visual imagination,

but it would also be his most shocking disaster.

The painting was supposed to hang here,

in one of the great arched spaces
by the main hall.

And what the burgomasters wanted
was a stirring depiction of a legendary story

of how the Dutch nation came to be born.

It was a history that every child
in the Dutch Republic would have known,

as important to them as Boudicca is to us.

The ancient Dutch, known as the Batavians,

had their rebellion against the Romans, too.

And their leader was called Claudius Civilis.

The story goes like this.

Claudius had been fighting on the side
of the Romans against his own people.

But, at some point, he has a change of heart.

He decides there's been one tax too many,

his country bled white.

So he switches sides.
He summons a meeting of tribal chiefs,

declares a revolt and swears them to join him.

They take the oath, the die is cast, blood happens.

It's a stirring story,
but remember who commissioned it.

The Establishment.

Oh, yes, honour rebellion
but only when it was a long time ago

and only in the most respectable way.

The assumption was
they'd get a respectable painting.

What they got was this.

Ugliness, deformity, barbarism.

A bunch of cackling louts, onion-chewers,
bloody-minded rebels.

The paint slashed and stabbed,

caked on like the make-up of warriors.

But that's what rebellion is all about,
Rembrandt thought.

He didn't think rebels were gentlemen.

Here's the rebel leader, with a wound
in his face where his eye used to be.

So what if the rules of art said
you had to hide a blind eye

behind some decorous profile.

Rembrandt says, ''No, I'm gonna stick
this blind eye right in the middle of your face.''

That was what wild, rough and free painting did.

Goes together with a sword from hell
and a cup, maybe of wine, maybe of blood.

Needless to say, it seems hardly likely
that the grand unveiling went down at all well.

I mean,just look at it.

This is a painting drunk on its own wildness.

Nothing refined about this.

So down it came, deposed, disgraced, expelled.

And down on his knees went Rembrandt,
chopping up his masterpiece,

hoping against hope that someone
would buy a piece of it.

Fat chance.

The Claudius Civilis would not just be
the ruin of Rembrandt's comeback,

it would also be the ruin of his greatest vision.

Or so I think. I can't be sure.

None of us can, because we don't really know
what the big picture looked like.

What we're looking at here is a fragment
a fifth of the original size.

The bit rescued from Rembrandt's knife.

All that we have left of the complete painting

is the sketch Rembrandt made,
with prophetic irony,

on the back of an invitation to a funeral.

But this precious scrap is enough

to let us see the visionary grandeur
of the painting's design.

With its vast hall open to the trees,

a barbarian king's lair.

No wonder you think ofThe Last Supper
when you see this picture,

for Rembrandt has painted a secular altarpiece.

Mysterious, dangerous,joyously profane.

No halo, but a bath of burning golden light.

No candles,just the power surge of freedom.

The fire of an idea.

And you're thinking that it looks unfinished,

aggressively rough, a work in progress.

But Rembrandt's saying,
in a voice that's a visual roar,

''That's you, a city, a country,

a work in progress."

''This is my group portrait of all of you,

a portrait of a people, a portrait of who you are,

who you've always been. ''

Let the high and mighty celebrate their greatness

with fastidious etiquette.

Let them even copy
the rest of Europe if they must.

But Rembrandt, the bankrupt, the has-been,
was their patriotic conscience.

''Smother yourself in fashion at your peril,''
he was saying.

''These are your flesh and blood,
rough and honest,

your barbarian ancestry. They made you Dutch,

so banish your embarrassment,
embrace them, honour them."

''For everything that you think matters, doesn't."

''The town hall, with all its acres of marble,
could go tomorrow."

''Amsterdam can sink back into the sea again."

''As long as you have your rough freedom,
you have all you need to stay Dutch. ''

So of course Rembrandt's not gonna paint
by the rule book.

Instead, he does the roughest,
toughest history painting ever.

An old lion's roar of a picture.

He had every incentive to paint it straight,

but something in him just wouldn't do it.

This is what drives the very greatest art.
Contempt for ingratiation.

Now Rembrandt had learnt this the hard way,

when the callow hand of fashion
had given him a resounding thumbs down,

and when his relationship
with the rich of Amsterdam had turned sour,

and he'd been stripped, not just of his fortune,
but of his illusions.

Giving them what they wanted
was now beside the point.

Giving them what they needed was more like it.

But they refused to look
and that's why he cut up his masterpiece.

One of the very last pictures Rembrandt painted

was Simeon the priest being brought
the Christ child by the prophetess Anna.

A story he'd done before, in his youth.

But then, the painting had been sharp.

Now, it was dense and textured.

Almost as if it was woven, not painted.

Out of the face of the Christ child
pours a soft, brimming radiance

which falls on the face of the old man,
who, with his eyes closed,

understands at last he has, in fact, seen the light.

Rembrandt's patrons, alas, did not.

The painting was one of those
found in Rembrandt's house when he died

on October 2, 1669.

It's always been thought of as unfinished.

Somewhere in that dim little house
was another painting the world thought of

as shockingly unfinished,
a mutilated stump of a picture.

This just may be the most heartbreaking fragment
in the entire history of painting.

And just because you can see, can't you,
that it looks nothing,

nothing whatsoever like an old master,

that it leaps from the decorum of the gallery wall

into some other world of eloquence.

Rembrandt's Claudius Civilis tells us
that the very greatest painting

isn't bound by time or taste.

A reminder, if ever we should need it,

that eloquence doesn't always come
with a pretty face.