I come from the home of a very great painter. In fact, I was painted by him and am a representation of him. I am what is called a self-portrait. And my painter is the distinguished and famous Rembrandt Van Rijn, who thought so much of himself that he called himself by only one name, Rembrandt.

In fact, you could say that since I am a self-portrait, I, too, am Rembrandt! At least I like to think of myself that way.

I have often wondered why I came into this world. Rembrandt, my creator, had gone through a lot in his life. He had used painting to study himself. He was a fine painter, perhaps the best in Amsterdam. But before he painted me, he had encountered many difficulties. I can feel them all painted into me, all of the struggles that he had. His young wife died of tuberculosis when he was 36 years old, leaving him with a little son. And then he made some unfortunate mistakes with women and many unfortunate mistakes with money. Several people who were very important to him died.

It is surprising that I can talk about myself in this way–all of the pain and struggles are in me; he painted them into me. 

Why did he paint me? Maybe one answer is that he painted me to know himself. Maybe in the same way, you are one of God’s self-portraits. God made you in his image, and he created you so that he could know himself. You give God a way to know himself.

Just think about how different we are. You can move around; you can change clothes, you can do things, and you have the possibility of transforming yourself in ways that I cannot imagine. And me–I have time that you do not have. I can reflect. I can remember.

And now, you see, I wish to tell my own story. You see, I am Rembrandt and I am not. You are made in the image of your creator, and you have your own story. So it is with me!

I was painted in 1658, when Rembrandt was 55 years old. After I was painted, I was with Rembrandt for ten years before he died. Most of the time there were many, many of us paintings crowded into his small apartment in the Jordaan. 

While he was alive, I felt I always had his attention and love as did all the other paintings. I came to take it for granted. His new wife Hendrickje often gazed at me searchingly; she made me feel warm all over. But one day, she looked at me very sadly, and I knew she would be going away soon. After she died, I could tell Rembrandt was very sad. But this time, unlike when his first wife died, his sadness was not painful; instead it became a deeper, stronger, more radiant love. And he continued to paint more than ever. His paintings became more and more loving, more and more joyful, and his love lit up all of us in the little apartment.

And when he died, I could still feel him, could still feel his love. His presence and love, like light, continued to fill the rooms in the little apartment on the Rozengracht, in the Jordaan. And all of us, all the paintings, instead of being depressed that he was gone, continued to be fed by his presence.

But then, one day, many serious men came into the house. They attached numbers to all of us paintings, and people called out the numbers and gave prices. The man who said the greatest price got the painting. I learned later that this was called an auction. And many of us were sold, including me.

I was taken away, first in a cart, then in the dark bottom of a boat, then in a wagon, over grassy hills in the rainy weather to a very, very large house in the countryside of England. 

I felt lost. I had to try very hard to feel the presence of my creator, and often I forgot about that presence. 

I was in the big English house for many years. Other paintings and I were together on the white walls of a vast room with a high, ornate, white ceiling; fine green carpeting; and carved wooden furniture with deep green upholstery. The other paintings and I got to know each other very well. All of them had other painters; I was the only self-portrait. 

But there were very few people. There was a Lord and Lady of the Manor, many of them, in fact–I was there for over 200 years. Some of the Lords and Ladies give us paintings attention, some not so much…when they were little children I could feel their love. Then I remembered Rembrandt and the love from which I came. But children were not often allowed in the “Great Room,” as they called it. And when the children grew up they mostly stopped being able to see us.

Time went on. I got used to the cycle of Lords and Ladies, children, and then a new Lord and Lady. After a while the Lord of the Manor became known as Baron Ilchester, and then later, the Earl of Ilchester! It was a beautiful place to be, but there was little of the love that I sometimes remembered from my earlier life. I became used to it and figured that was what my life was and would always be. I have to say that I slept through most of those years…

But then, early in the last century, something happened that woke me up. The Lord of the Manor began to invite many new people to his house. Many of these people looked at us carefully and gave us attention that we had rarely gotten in the big house. But, you know that you can be looked at, but not really seen; it is a wonderful thing to be seen!

After a while, I realized it was like another auction! One day, a funny man from Germany looked at me very carefully. (I don’t think he saw me!) He said, “I will give you $60,000 for that one.” to the Earl of Ilchester.

“That is not enough. That one is worth much more,” was the response.

“That is all I can afford.”

“I’m sorry; I will not sell it for that price.”

And the man from Germany ended up buying a different painting. That painting was taken off the wall, wrapped carefully, and carried away. We were sad to see it go.

A little while later, a group of Americans came. They were loud, which was very different. I had not heard so much noise since one of the ladies had let her dog into the room many years ago!

One of the men, a short, stern-looking man, kept looking at me. I could tell by his face that he saw me. I could tell that he was a rough man, a strong man, but that he also had love for me.

“How much does he cost, the Rembrandt?” he asked bluntly to the Earl of Ilchester.

The Earl looked at him carefully. “I will sell it to you for $100,000.”

“I will take him. He inspires me,” said the little man.

So, in the early part of the 20th century, I became the property of one of the wealthiest men in the world, Henry Clay Frick.

He loved me and took me to New York, where he gave me a prominent position in his very fancy house.

He was a man full of contradictions. I learned that he was sometimes very mean and violent; but he was never mean or violent to me. He always gazed at me with respect, and when he died, I missed him.

And now, his house is a museum in the middle of the crowded city of New York. There are hundreds of visitors every day to the “Frick Collection,” as it is known.

Many of these visitors gaze at me. Some even see me. I am able to talk to them and some hear me. Like my creator, I now have the opportunity to study myself. I can know myself because I can sense what many of the visitors to the museum feel about me when they gaze at me. 

I would love to tell you what I have learned about who I am. But that will be a story for another time.

– Eric Hoch

Author’s Note: This short story is about the Rembrandt Self-Portrait in the Frick Museum in New York City. It is an amazing painting. Rembrandt painted himself in great opulence when he was actually bankrupt. The painting seems to say to me: “You may think that all of this outside finery is important; in fact, it is what is inside that is most important.” I invite everyone who can to see this self-portrait in person! I had been wanting to write about this self-portrait for several years, and it finally came to me that I could write its story from its own point of view!