FINDING REMBRANDT by Mary Gorgy
New York's art world - big names, big egos, big risks and big rewards. And in the middle, the stories of two women.
In the end, it had nothing to do with the girl. She was unimportant. Some kitchen girl with a pretty smile more willing to pose than to cook or clean. Despite Hendrickje’s jealousy and fears, it had never been about the girl, but something far more important. It was the way he had painted her.
Even he was amazed at the handling of the paint. And even now, he could not understand how he had done it. God’s grace had been with his hands, his fingers. Loading just enough paint into the bristles, pressing just the right amount, twisting precisely the right curve at exactly the perfect moment to make her flesh pulse, her eyes and mouth sparkle with life. In the end, it was never about the girl. It was the application of the colors, the mixing of the pigments, but above all, the brushstrokes. They were more than just strokes, they were strokes of genius—the finest ever painted by Rembrandt van Rijn.