Rijksmuseum

Sunday & Monday, April 20-21, Day 1 & 2

April 22, 2014 by Virginia Parker 3 Comments

Cue Monty Python’s And now for something completely different. Easter Sunday the plane was jammed but the flight was brief, landing twenty minutes early. I got a taxi right away and was at my B&B door in no time. My driver had a blonde buzz, blue suit, dark glasses, and a deadpan expression. He looked like he could be working a secret service detail. I’m in an Ingmar Bergman movie in terms of how people look, which is a lot like me. Tow-headed women are bare-shouldered in sundresses and flip flops. It’s like I went to sleep in NYC in the winter, and woke up in LA in the spring. People are in bright colors and patterns, clothes fit haphazardly and loose, flaxen hair as far as the eye can see. And everyone is physically bigger, hale and hearty, like they all just came off a farm in the midwest. The thin, edgy, sleek, groomed-to-the-teeth look that everyone and their dog had in Paris is a fading memory.

I was welcomed into a bright and airy kitchen/breakfast room/garden by my host, and I can tell immediately why this place is #1 on TripAdvisor. He offers me a much needed cappuccino, and spends a good 45 minutes acquainting me with the area around the bed and breakfast, using a map he annotates for me with restaurants, stores, and museums. He’s patient with my questions and just easy to be around.

In my room – large and bright, simply and very comfortably furnished, I spread out my belongings, plug in my electronics, and head out to buy a museumkarrt that will do for me what the Louvre card did, get some Euros out of the ATM and find a lunch.

Hit the Seafood bar – which was slammed, but they found me a seat at the bar. Sad to be told mussels are now out of season, I settled for fish and chips. Seafood is very different when you live by the water, unlike my landlocked hometown.

Afterwards walked to the Stedelijk – the modern art museum – because that’s where I could buy my museumkaart and not have to wait in line. Because I was there, and because I had the museumkaart and a ticket to the place in my hand, I walked through the galleries Now, I was raised by a southern lady and taught that it’s better not to say anything, if you can’t say something nice. So here, I’ll post some photos. Recall that I’ve been marinating in the Louvre in all her gloire and magnificence and this is what greets me at the Stedelijk.

Here are two art works which are, yes, a black square and a white square. I think somebody wrote a play about this.

But wait! There’s sculpture too.

If you happen to love this kind of thing – terrific! You can have my place in line. More room for you! Feel free to dismiss me as a philistine and a fossil.

To be fair, on the second floor there was a visiting exhibition of large format photographs by Canadian Jeff Wall, which I found captivating. I spent a long time with his work, which functions as a kind of portal into his view of the world.

Moving right along, Monday morning breakfast was brought to my happy, sunny room on a tray. It’s exactly what I wanted. plus a flower.

I lounged just inside the door of my balcony that overlooks the private gardens in the courtyard. Pots of flowers on most of the other balconies, baby laundry strung out on some of them. The gardens are charming, with tulips and grape hyacinths, vines and trees. It’s a homey little neighborhood-within-a-neighborhood. Lots of baby and child ambient noise, which I don’t mind. It makes a change from drunks singing on the street at 3am in Paris.

Went to the Rijks today and it It is petite after the Louvre. I arrived early and got a good look at the Hall of Honor residents before the deluge of visitors arrived. Vermeer and Rembrandt and Franz Halls. My idea of a good time.

Lunch in the museum café was a tasty open-face pastrami on rye with sauerkraut, and I drew postcards. Weather is variable. When I left the B&B for the museum, a pleasant fifteen minute walk women were in sundresses and flip flops. When I left the Rijksmuseum, it was spitting rain, and I wished I had my mittens.

Amsterdam has me reeling, in a good way. It feels more like a village than a city. Owls hooted through the night, and birdsong woke me up, including one that sounds like a bicycle bell. I picked up fresh fruit and green salad for my dinner from a market. I’m in bed, writing this, all cozy and warm and listening to the rain. Oh, and the marble floor of the spacious, modern bathroom is heated. Ah.

Tuesday, April 22, Day 3

April 24, 2014 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Back to the Rijks and began this time in the medieval section. But first, for those who suggest my work is a tad detailed, here’s a large portrait of a Dutch noblewoman, Maria van Strijp, by Johannes Cornelisz. Verspronck,1652. Note the lace cuffs.

Here’s a close-up detail, taken by my iPhone, of those cuffs.

I rest my case. I am positively loose and sloppy compared to the precision of this painter. Another painter’s skill I marveled at – here’s a detail of a Bathsheba painting (Cornelis Cornelisz. van Haarlem, 1594) where skin appears to glow as if lit from within.

How did he achieve this astonishing luminosity? No edges. I’m thinking layers upon layers of glazes and a delicate touch with a brush.

Back to the medieval section, along with paintings that blaze with color and expressive faces, there are many wonderful objects, including this carved ivory head.

It’s the grip of a flintlock pistol.

There’s a tremendous father and son diptych, saints galore and a marvelous carved elk antler, used as a shield, culled from a beast killed a thousand years ago.

As I’m walking through other sections, I notice a room that is pulsing light at intervals. Really ? In the center of a recreation of an 18^th century room, on temporary loan to the Rijks, is a glowing sphere with a reflective, geometric pattern on the surface. Light within it glows and dims, and as visitors stand near the surface, it ripples and twitches. The Lotus Dome. by Daan Roosegaarde, is a reactive dome, lit from within and covered with a geometric net of flower shapes. The Mylar petals open and twitch in response to the warmth of a human body, as the LED light glows and dims. Hypnotic. It took a while before I could make myself move on.

Lunch again at the café, then back to the rooms. There’s a great variety here, from an armada of wooden ship models, to walls of locks that resemble lace in the complexity of their designs. Heaps of clothes and jewels and porcelain. It’s more like a Smithsonian museum, a country’s historical attic, than a straight up art museum. One thing that puzzles me is the scarcity of sculpture. Very few works in the Rijks, and many of those in terracotta. It isn’t until my visit to the Rembrandthuis, with the enthralling docents of Context tours, that the penny drops. This city is built on soft, wet ground. Think Venice or NOLA. Hundreds of buried pilings hold up the Royal Palace. There’s no stone here, no marble quarries. Streets are made of brick. That’s why sculpture is lacking.

Another lunch at the museum cafe, More thinking about the particularity and the humanity of the Dutch paintings. I walked back at the end of my day in charity with the world, and after a light supper, fell into bed, exhausted. And all hell broke loose. Two words.

Crying baby.

On the other side of the wall of my comfortable room is a baby who has a really bad night. Maybe it’s colic. Maybe the parents believe in letting a baby cry it out. Don’t know. I do know that baby cried without ceasing from 6:45 to 9:30, and wailed again at 11, 1am, 3am and 7am. My earplugs helped, but couldn’t completely erase the plaintive wailing. I thought about going over, knocking on the door, and offering to walk the baby, since I wasn’t going to be sleeping anyway.

Rough night for both of us. I seriously considered moving my bed into the bathroom. If it happens again tonight, I will.

Friday & Saturday, April 25-26, day 6 &

April 28, 2014 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Friday. Walked to Nine Streets, looking in the windows at things I things I can’t afford, but enjoy admiring. Stopped for apple pie and coffee (it’s a Dutch thing) and drew a couple of postcards. Cranked up a Rick Steves’ audio guide of the Red Light district. It’s a hoot, like having your pastor show you around. The guide discussed the church while prostitutes tapped on the glass to attract customers; a different kind of window shopping.

Inside the church, I visited Saskia’s grave (the first Mrs. Rembrandt). An art installation was in progress in a side room, involving embroidery on church chair cushions. In another alcove, a black & white animated movie explored the effect of religion on the artist’s ancestors. Just outside the Lady Chapel, another film ran; a heavily pregnant, naked, brunette woman leaned forward and collapsed in slo-mo, falling out of the frame, the film maker’s response to the Virgin of the chapel.

Following that, I had lunch in the church’s café, out in the garden. A note on my plate informed me that my soup was made by (formerly) sex-trafficked women. Amsterdam seems to relish contradiction and thrive on containing multitudes.

More walking, and I nearly stumbled over the bronze breasts and hand underfoot. Such is Amsterdam that I can’t tell what the artist’s intention might be. Shame? Pride? Weighing fair measure for money paid?

Crowds increased, testosterone rose. Walked into the New Church to use the bathroom, stayed for an exhibition of the top photographs of 2014. http://www.worldpressphoto.org/ The impact was the emotional equivalent of a punch in the stomach. I felt gutted by the fifth image, but kept going until it was done. Soldiers under fire, a man making IED bombs, domestic violence, collapsed building victims, cancer-riddled athlete, Boston marathon bombing, tsunami aftermath. There’s a lighter side; nudists, a subsistence farmer stirring plum jam, hermits in rakish leaf hats, bonobos. My favorite; a man bringing a sheep home for a festival dinner. The ewe sits calmly in his car’s passenger seat. The image captures the moment the man behind the wheel lights his cigarette and you think, eh, that’s a really awkward blind date.

“Occupied Pleasures” photo by Tanya Habjuqua

Walk back to the B&B past men unloading and setting up scaffolding, barricades, and port-a-potties, gearing up for the first King’s Day in 129 years.

King’s Day, Saturday. In orange socks and my orange polka dot scarf, I walked toward the museum through the Vondelpark, which Amsterdam sets aside on this holiday for children and their families. It’s a cross between a PTA bake sale, a yard sale of outworn clothes and toys, and kids playing violins or guitars, with a hat for tips. Not bad at 9am, but inside of an hour even this park on the fringes geared up from busy to crowded to crushed. I skedaddled to the Rijks. Lucky for me, it meant the museum was not slammed and I had a great morning there.

Since I was here the other day, oversized yellow post-its have popped up. They are a commentary on a common response to the art, and what it might mean looked at from another angle. I start following these because so many of them echo what I’m thinking, then give it a spin. It feels subversive, and I like the way it jostles my thinking. Here’s an example.

When I walked back to the B&B around 2pm, there was blasting music from boats packed to capacity riding low in the canal, drunks everywhere, a sea of orange people. Population on the sidewalks was at capacity. Enterprising people are selling access to their toilet for 1 Euro a pee.

Welcome to the orange jungle.

Depending on your point of view the atmosphere was either enthusiastically festive or borderline mob. I got pushed into the street a few times by the oblivious throng. And this isn’t where the party is – that’s in the center.

I called it a day, lazed around in my room, read a book and wished King Willem-Alexander many happy returns of the day.

Sunday & Monday, April 27-28, Days 8 & 9

May 5, 2014 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

It rained all day, from trickle to downpour. Had I just arrived, I would have suited up in my raincoat, most easily dried shoes, and umbrella and hit the street, or called Uber and ducked the drizzle entirely in one of the museums, or the royal palace. But it was a Sunday, a day I avoid museums because everyone else is there, and the royal palace was closed. The famous fields of tulips would not be a pleasure in the rain. At mid-morning I went out to the Screaming Bean for a coffee. The streets were deserted. I suppose most of Holland had a hangover. I ended up sitting at a table on a cushy banquet in a mostly deserted eatery, and reading for pleasure. When I noticed lunchtime had arrived, I went for one of their top end (19E) item, Five Tastes, out of curiosity.

It was artful and delicious, and looked fit for the Stedelijk. A plus for me, it was more like 25 bites (yes, I counted). On the minus side, the lobster bisque was indelibly salty. Nevertheless, I was pleased to eat something rather less hearty than bread and cheese. When I left, I picked up some milk and fruit at the market and went back to the B&B, after I admired the orange juice machine. I want one in my local Publix!

I decided to take the rest of the day off – read and nap. We all need a day of rest, even the traveler. Maybe especially the traveler. This trip has required sustained physical and spiritual exertion. I’ve been well rewarded for my effort, but it has costs too. I’ve really missed the sustaining companionship and consolation of my significant other. One of the excellent things about being bonded with someone is the daily opportunity to appreciate what he brings to the table. You can’t miss ‘em if you don’t go away, but I sure have missed him.

Monday, April 28, Day 9

A woman on a shopping mission, I walked 30 minutes to the Monday morning Westermarkt in the Jordaan, following my progress on Google maps on my iPhone. I ended up doing this most of the time – getting my bearings on a paper map first, then plugging my destination in on my iPhone and glancing down to make sure I turned left or right. It has served me well.

I had fond memories of looking for a souvenir amid the trinkets and treasures on my last trip. A photo I took in this market became this painting, Vermeer Recycled.

This market is designated for cloth primarily, and sure enough, there were bolts of fabric and zippers for sale, along with shoddy but cheerful teeshirts extolling dope and sex, and cheap scarfs (2 for 4E). The other area of the market, near the church, is higher end, with vintage bits and pieces, handmade ornamentation (calling it jewelry is going too far and not far enough) boho clothing, boots and sneakers, books and leather bound journals, fruit and veg stalls, and (hey, I’m in Holland) cheese.

I started at the very beginning and was funneled along between the tents of merch. I really do hate crowds. Shuffling along, crammed cheek to jowl, personal space erased, I felt like one in a flock of sheep headed to slaughter. It made me nervous for my wallet and my iPhone, and I kept a tight grip on both. If I had been younger, I would have been nervous for my virtue. However, I entered the shopping fray with a will, flipping over dozens of plastic wrap packages to choose two tee shirts (2 for 5E ) from a bin* and four pairs of leggings (2 for 5E) printed with images of models from the seventies ( my era!) newspaper print, tigers and tattoos.**

*When I opened them later, they turned out to be worth rather less than what I paid for them but good for what they were. Tissue thin material and the XL fits like a Small, but they are for the girls who like thin and tight, so win win!

**Major score. Emily could hardly choose between them, she loved all of them so much.

Very shortly the merch in booths repeated with blocks and blocks to go. I broke out at the next opening and rushed towards the church end along the open street. Remind me never to get on the subway at rush hour in Tokyo. Many women in hajibs and abayas moving at a deliberate pace, were polite and noticeably courteous, while the Dutch women, generally jolly and optimistic, were ruthless shoppers. No ‘excuse me’ or ‘pardon’ would induce them to step aside, and if they were zeroing in on something they wanted to purchase, they threw elbows like the NBA. A nation built on trade and tolerance, they take their haggling seriously.

From there, followed the Google maps directions to the nearest tram and journeyed to the Rijks. The Yellow Post-its I’ve loved to read were everywhere. A new guide to the museum’s collection was available, titled Art is Therapy, organized by Alain de Botton & John Armstrong. https://www.rijksmuseum.nl/en/art-is-therapy

It’s genius. It’s taken the museum’s artworks and offered them in a new light, one that reminds us, using specific works paired with interpretive texts, how art can offer solace, insight, and encouragement. I snapped up the guide and begin the best treasure hunt ever, with big yellow post-its marking the spots.

Here’s an example – first the painting, of the interior of a church.

And here’s the Post-it text, cropped for just the English version.

Here’s a snippet of the philosopher’s manifesto: “… the focus should be less on where an art object comes from and who made it, and more on what it can do for the museum visitor in terms of issues that concern us all: love and relationships, work, status, memory and mortality.”

Isn’t that delicious? Even if you aren’t in Amsterdam or planning a trip there, you can download the free Rijks app that includes a guide to this exhibit, and listen as the text is read and an image of the art is shown.

Do it.

Do it now.

April 29 & 30, Amsterdam Finale

May 25, 2014 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Tuesday was the last day of my trip, the day before departure. Packing was first, so I could figure out if I needed an extra bag. Everything fit in, even the gift. The key was having some items that were used up and thus space created, and an expandable suitcase. I walked to the Rijks to do a fond farewell. I had saved the Art is Therapy https://www.rijksmuseum.nl/en tour for this special occasion. Showed up, and the no line that hasn’t been there the whole time went all the way to the street.And these were folks with a museumkaart. I was staggered. Where have these people been? Of course, I went at 10 instead of 9. Who knew the difference was that great? As I assumed, but had never tested, the early bird finesses the line. It was starting to rain – and was forecast to increase as the day continued. Took me two seconds to decide to move on. Adios, excellent art at the Rijks.

And all your ships at sea.

I took the tram to the Royal Palace (plan B) and joined that line. It wasn’t too bad – maybe 15 minutes. Worse was the rule you had to leave you purse, no matter what size, in the coatroom. That line took half an hour. One old man in sunglasses and shoe polish black hair was the only person behind the desk. He moved with great deliberation, while the line increased exponentially. Free at last, with all my money stuffed in my pockets, I walked around the palace. Turns out there is marble in Amsterdam. It’s all here! Marble floors and pillars, marble statuary, even marble ceilings.

People often ask me, just what does a Key Grip do? I found a statue of one at work at the palace.

Lots of nice paintings, but difficult to see in the dark, formal, cold rooms that smelled like mildew and damp tourists. For once I felt sorry for royalty, stuck in these moldering, musty marble piles. Surely they have more comfortable, brighter rooms upstairs. I hope so. I was done in less than an hour and went back to the same line to get my purse. Another 30 minutes elapsed because it was the same elderly retainer. About 25 minutes into this shuffling line, someone called in reinforcements on a walkie talkie. As I was leaving, they were closing down the entire palace because too many visitors had come and they didn’t have enough personnel.

Raining steady now. Pulled out my umbrella after a few streets and set my Google maps for Spui, the outdoor antique market. Got there, and it was closed, due to the rain. Headed back towards the B&B, thinking lunch would be nice. Down a side street, I stopped at a hole in the wall that served french fries. Perfect! Crispy, smoking hot, salty, mayo on the side in a paper cone. The whole day brightened. A little further on I stopped in a bakery and bought a square of apple pie and a mozzarella/tomato sandwich for my dinner.

Back at the B&B, I saw the check-in email for the flight home. Looked at the flight online and saw some open seats in first class. I’m hoping I can buy my way in. (didn’t happen) Noticed they have changed the departure time for the third time, but not that much different, and tried to check in online only to get some kind of Dutch error message. My intrepid hosts, whom I cannot praise highly enough, straightened it out with a phone call. Thanks Oki and Frank!

The next morning I was up and out the door before 8am, en route to Schiphol airport via Uber. The first line stalled out when the DIY luggage machines quit. They look like a line of igloos. You place your bag inside the machine, it spits out a sticky tag you loop around your handle and a claim ticket for your boarding pass. A plastic dome comes down and when it goes back up, like a magic trick, poof, your luggage has vanished, on its way to the cargo hold of your plane. Only problem: three of the four machines jammed and the clueless tourists who were hefting their bags in were stuck waiting on the automated luggage check machine repair man. Eventually, order was restored, my bag was checked, and I tried to retrieve my VAT tax money. Another line and I waited in this one to be told I could only send paperwork to Paris via envelope. Not what I was told in Paris, but we’ll see. Finally at the gate where the security/customs crew waited. That was painless. Trans-Atlantic flight remains a grueling endurance feat for me, but my economy comfort bulkhead aisle seat, while not quite as comfy as business class, was tolerable. I sat next to an interesting fellow from the bayous of Louisiana, headed home from a stint on oil rigs in the Black Sea. He slept nearly the entire nine plus hours, and I read on my Nook.

When we landed at Hartsfield, medics boarded the plane to assist a stricken passenger seated in the tail section. We retrieved our bags and waited as instructed. My roughneck seatmate assessed the situation, muttered ‘go go go’ and hustled us out the door of the plane onto the walkway (bulkhead seats, remember?). I guess you don’t get to be an oil rig worker without a healthy dose of initiative. Off to baggage claim where a drug sniffing beagle passed up my luggage.