Rembrandt's Mirror Read Online Free PDF

plate.
    Once the copper is warm enough he applies the ground which dissolves, passing through the gauze. When the plate has cooled, he opens the shutters to have more light and takes the etching needleand puts it to the plate. The asphalt yields like butter, satisfying – a coppery trail of exposed metal.
    The outlines of a small chamber have taken shape but the plate is still mostly black. To the right he sketches a small window, beneath it an old man, St Jerome, who sits at a table with an open book. But Jerome pays no attention to it. His elbow rests wearily on the table, his arm and hand propping up his head. The light is not too bright and yet the old man feels it necessary to shade his eyes.
    On the left he draws the outline of a spiral staircase, which continues beyond the edge of the plate. Once he has completed this rough outline of the elements of the picture, the rhythm of his work changes. The plate is still almost entirely black, with only the sketch showing in shiny copper. He imagines it as a print: the red lines of copper transformed into black ink. He’ll have to expose much more copper to get the darkness he wants. He thinks of the plate submerged in its bath, the acid eating away at the copper until it has bitten grooves deep enough to retain the ink. He starts a flurry of hatched lines, his fingers and needle a blur. More and more bright copper is exposed. It takes a long time, for it isn’t a uniform darkness he wants to achieve but many shades of grey; even the darkest parts still hint at the existence of walls and furnishings, right on the edge of recognition.
    He wants the onlooker to see into a special kind of darkness, one that swallows not only ordinary light but the inner light of the eyes, the light of attention. He’ll lead the viewer there with his needle, up the dark staircase to the upper room beyond the edge of the plate,where no thought, or light, or glimmer of anything exists, until the onlooker even forgets about himself.
    What of Jerome? His head is being disgorged by darkness, but not the rest of him. He remains half-born in a mute world. The shadows are eating him and yet he cannot see them.
    Rembrandt turns his attention to the window, the lightest part of the image. It is big enough to allow ample light into the room. But despite his seat by the window, it’s as if Jerome exists in darkness, because the light can never penetrate the darkness of his mind.
    The boy is terribly pleased when he discovers the etching in the print room. He believes that he brought about a change in Rembrandt but really there is none.
    A terrifying noise. It’s coming from his chest. A devil’s trombone, pummelling him from the inside. And the malevolent thing is vying for control of his breath. It’s only with the greatest effort that he gets the bellows of his chest to rise. Air, he needs more air. The drone surges to a deafening roar. His bowels slacken, frightened by his own helplessness. He thrashes the air but there is nothing he can do against the amorphous attacker, except to flee. He gets out of bed, but his knees buckle and he hits the floor.
    Another change in pitch – for the better, allowing a breath. But not for long; the pitch changes again. His lungs are paralysed. Breathe, breathe – his lungs don’t listen. No heave to suck in air. The door, he has to reach the door. But limbs won’t obey. He’ll die. Heforces out the last bit of air to produce a scream. Pain, but different, on the outside, sharp. Something has hit the side of his face. He opens his eyes: light, white cloth, his bedroom, Geertje. Silence, apart from his own breathing. A dream, he’s had a dream. He is on the floor, panting like a dog. Air so fresh and sweet. She’s standing over him. His cheek still stings. She must have hit him, to wake him. He’s filled with gratitude. She takes a step back. With her long nightshirt and candle in hand she looks like an angel