DAUBS OF COLOR IN THE COLD (Pt. 3)

We passed beneath an architrave, turned a corner, and stopped before a large painting over six feet tall and nine feet wide. Half a dozen white men dressed like Puritans lorded from on-high.

“Have you ever seen this painting before?” Uncle Mason asked.

There was something familiar about the faces wreathed by the long hair spilling from under those absurd hats. “I want to say yes, but…”

“Maybe when you and your friends are rolling a blunt?”

“Uncle Mason!”

He smiled. “I was a teenager once too, and I’m not your father.”

I shook my head and scoffed as I turned back to the painting. “I don’t know how to roll a… Wait a minute,” I said. “The cigars.”

“Dutch Masters,” he said. “This painting is on that box because that’s who these guys are. The Syndics of the Drapers’ Union.”

“What’s a syndic?”

“The syndics were a five-man board of governors who oversaw Amsterdam’s union of clothmakers.”

“Two paintings about Amsterdam, blunts. I think you’re more into herb than any teen I know.”

“Kindly shut up. Their job was to judge the quality of cloth made and sold by guild members and make sure it met the standard.” He pointed to the man furthest to the right. “See Joachem de Neve feeling the tapestry laid out?”

“You know the guy’s name?”

“I know all of them.” His finger led me from the right side of the painting to the left. “Aemout van der Mye, Willem von Doevenberg, Volkert Jansz, Jacob von Loon.”

There was a sixth man standing behind them who caught my eye, probably due to his lack of headwear. “What about him?” I asked. “In the background?”

Uncle Mason’s grin grew more satisfied. “Good eye, Anna. That’s Frans Hendricksz Bel. He was a servant for the Drapers Union.”

“So, he doesn’t get a hat? What is it with men and hats?”

“He commissioned Rembrandt to paint this.”

“I’ve heard of him!”

“And this may be his most iconic piece. Without Bel it would never have been created.”

“Why’d the employee have to commission a painting for his bosses?”

“Well, I’m sure the union itself paid for it, but he was the point man between them and Rembrandt. He told Rembrandt that it was going to be hung above the fireplace in the Staalhof, where the syndics met. He gave Rembrandt the dimensions of the space and told him what he wanted the painting to convey.”

“What was that?”

Uncle Mason gave me a knowing look. “Ready?”

“We’re going in?”

“Remember how you did it last time?”

“Sure.”

Uncle Mason stepped behind me. “Okay, whip it out.”

“Eww!”

I let my eyes float over the brush strokes. They traced Rembrandt’s signature over the beige and brown of the wall. They fell to the golden chestnut of the crown molding, and I ran a mental finger along its polished gleam.

Uncle Mason whispered, “Look at the perspective. We’re looking up at them, as if they’re seated above the mantle of the fireplace, watching us, judging.”

I did, and we were in the Staalhof. The syndics were giants before us, and we were mice that had ventured into the room. They were staring at me with something not far from condemnation. They reminded me of my parents, looming over me as a child, considering my punishment after I’d done something wrong.

I didn’t like it. They made me feel small. I kept looking at their black robes and wide white collars, and I again thought of the Puritans. Of how they heralded the extinction of the Native Americans. Of witch trials and paranoid anti-intellectualism.

“How do you feel?” asked Uncle Mason.

“Pissed.”

“Why?”

“They’re passing judgment on me.”

“Not on you,” he said. “They’re not considering you.”

“Of course they’re not.”

“They’re considering the syndics who will come after them. In Calm at a Mediterranean Port we saw Amsterdam trading with the Duchy of Naples, but is that the only polity they traded with? No way, right? These men are responsible for what today would be a multi-million dollar-a-year industry, one that every facet of life in Amsterdam was dependent upon. These men knew their job wasn’t just to ensure the money kept rolling in, but that the lifeblood of their entire society kept flowing. They knew how integral they were to keeping the people of Amsterdam alive. That’s an epic responsibility. These men took that responsibility seriously, and they wanted their successors to do the same.”

I heard what Uncle Mason said, but I was trapped deep in a cold lightless cave, and the search party calling my name passed the mouth and disappeared. The only one in there with me was the servant. “Why’s he smirking?” I asked. “Bel. What’s with him?”

Uncle Mason looked at the servant and the slight upturn of the right corner of his mouth. “I’ll be damned. I never noticed it before. Good job, Anna. I suppose he’s a little proud of the role he’s played in the union fulfilling its responsibility. He commissioned the painting. I guess he’s allowed a little extra commemoration.”

I stared at the servant’s smirk. It seemed to grow without changing into an idiot’s Cheshire flash of ivory. I felt like I was watching a cow dance into an abattoir and nuzzle up to the butcher.

“Can we go now?” I asked.

Uncle Mason looked at me. For a second his eyes belonged to the Dutch masters above us. “Sure,” he said. “We’ve got a lot more to see.”