Hey there, you. Yes, you, the one reading these words right now. Do you happen to know a man by the name of Rembrandt van Rijn? A man who bears that somewhat worn-out, yet strangely imposing title: “The Master of Light.” Oh, don’t give me that look—the look of someone thinking, “I know him, he’s that old man in the textbooks with half his face swallowed by shadow.” If you think of him as merely some “great painter from the past,” then, my friend, you are making a grave mistake. It is a profound loss—perhaps even a tragedy in the theater of your life.
Have you ever loved the darkness? Or have you ever stared into a hopeless, murky abyss that suddenly opened up in your life, thirsting for a single ray of light to pierce through it? Rembrandt was a man who, throughout his entire life, indulged himself to the point of literal exhaustion in this simple, yet infinitely profound game of “light and shadow.”
When you stand before a Rembrandt, the first thing that will startle you is the sheer “darkness.” Eighty, perhaps ninety percent of the canvas is smothered in a blackness as deep as beans at the bottom of a bowl of sweet soup. But look closer, you. Peer into that darkness. It isn’t just empty space. Rembrandt didn’t just paint “nothing” with black paint. He painstakingly, obsessively painted the air itself—the humidity, the sighs, and the very mire of human karma.
You know his famous “Night Watch,” don’t you? Did you know there’s a theory that it’s not actually a night scene at all? They say it only looks like night because the varnish darkened over centuries, and it was originally a scene in broad daylight. But I think to myself: whether it’s day or night is a trivial matter. What Rembrandt wanted to capture wasn’t a time of day, but the “dramatic light” that carves out the silhouette of the human soul.
Now, imagine this, you. The Netherlands at that time was a place where business was booming, and everyone wanted to flaunt their wealth. The men who commissioned group portraits all wished to be painted as the most handsome, the most prominent. They each paid the same amount and demanded equal representation. But this Rembrandt—this stubborn, selfish, lovable fool—didn’t give a damn about the pride of his patrons. Some were bathed in light, while others were so submerged in shadow you could hardly see their faces. If you were one of those paying customers, how would you feel? You’d be furious. You’d corner him and shout, “Hey, Rembrandt! I can’t see half my face! Give me my money back!”
And indeed, he became shunned by society and lost his popularity. But this, you see, is where it gets interesting. As he lost his worldly success, became buried in debt, lost his beloved wife, and tumbled into the depths of poverty, the “light” he painted gained an even greater brilliance, a deeper mercy, and a terrifying profundity.
Do you ever find yourself hating the face you see in the mirror? Do you ever wish you could erase the version of yourself that is aging, becoming unsightly, or wearing a pathetic expression? Throughout his life, Rembrandt left behind a staggering number of self-portraits. From his youth—when he was a wealthy, slightly pretentious, insufferable egoist—to his final years, where his skin sags, his nose is red, and his eyes leak the weariness of life, he painted it all without a single compromise.
It takes courage, you know. To expose your own flaws and record your own downfall. Is it because he loved himself so much, or because he viewed himself with such total detachment? I believe it is both. He sought to find the sorrow and joy of all humanity, the very meaning of the word “living,” within his own face. When your eyes meet those of his late self-portraits, you are bound to see a reflection of yourself.
There is a technique Rembrandt used called “impasto.” It involves piling the paint so thick that it becomes three-dimensional, like a sculpture. If you ever have the chance to see the real thing, try looking at it from the side. You will see the traces of a violent struggle—the marks of a man trying to physically capture the light. He didn’t just place color on the canvas; he tried to fix the light there, like gold scooped out of the mud.
Now, let me tell you something useful. Where do you think the light comes from in a Rembrandt painting? From a window? From a lamp? No, you’re wrong. In his paintings, the “source” of light is often a mystery. It looks as if it is oozing out from within the person, or as if the hand of God is gently illuminating that spot and that spot alone.
Isn’t the same true for life? No matter how dark a place you are in right now, light doesn’t always come from the outside. When you accept your own ugliness and weakness, and embrace them, the “Rembrandt light” within you begins to glow. The deeper the shadow, the more beautiful and precious that light becomes. Your sorrows, your failures, the secrets you can tell no one—all of these become the most luxurious “black paint” used to define who you are.
In his later years, Rembrandt went bankrupt, and his house and belongings were all sold at auction. His former glory vanished, and he continued to paint in obscurity in a small rented house. And yet, it is the works from this period that are called the treasures of humanity. Don’t you find it strange? How a man who lost everything could paint such rich, warm images?
It is surely because he found the “true treasure.” Expensive fur coats, rare collections from foreign lands, the praise of the masses—those are just trinkets that sparkle only while the light is hitting them. The things that remain even after the light goes out: the trembling of the soul, deep empathy for others, and the will to affirm this absurd world. If you look at a Rembrandt and feel a sense of being saved, it is proof that your soul is vibrating in harmony with the treasure he found.
Please, remember this. Do not try to arrange only “pretty colors” on the canvas of your life. If you do, it will be a thin, uninteresting, hollow painting. If you are in total darkness right now, why not think of it as the preparation period for completing a masterpiece? Like Rembrandt, thrust your brush into that darkness, stir it up, and draw a single, sharp line of your own light.
He was also a master of “glazing,” layering thin veils of paint so that the colors beneath peek through. Your experiences might seem useless one by one, but as they layer upon each other, they create a “depth” of color that only you can produce.
Now then. It seems my story, like a Rembrandt painting, is slowly dissolving into the shadows. Let me summarize the lesson he left behind as a gift for you. It is this: “Do not fear your own darkness.” And: “Light shines in from the most unexpected places.”
On the path you walk from here, there may be days when a wind as harsh and cold as a Dutch winter blows against you. There may be nights when you doubt your talent, are hurt by the opinions of others, and hate the sight of yourself in the mirror. When that happens, remember that man with the big nose and the ruddy face. No matter the adversity, he never let go of his brush. He took his life, including all its ugliness, and sublimated it into beauty.
You can do it too. Because you, too, are the only painter in the world of the life that is yours. What color of light will you choose? How deep will your shadows be? Please, don’t try to look cool—just keep painting your own self-portrait with an honest heart.
Rembrandt said, “Follow nature, and that is enough.” You only need to follow your own nature. There is no need to force a smile or pretend to be strong. The fact that you are you—that fact is the most dramatic play and the most beautiful art of all.
There now. You aren’t afraid of the mirror anymore, are you? Please love that complex face reflected there, that mixture of light and shadow. That is the “useful story” Rembrandt wanted to tell you across hundreds of years.
Ah, I’ve talked for quite a while. You really are a wonderful listener. I got carried away and spoke too much. But please believe this: I truly think that you hold a potential more magnificent than any masterpiece.
What did you see in Rembrandt’s darkness? A ray of light, or the warmth of someone’s body? If you found it, then I have nothing more to say. Your life, from here on, will surely be repainted by your own hand, more vividly and more deeply than ever before.
Goodbye, then. May there be a blessing as gentle and powerful as Rembrandt’s light upon your path. Let us meet again somewhere. When we do, please show me a little of the wonderful painting of the life you have created. I’ll be looking forward to it.