Vermeer: The Greatest Exhibition

The Exhibition On Screen series has become known for its studies of individual artists’ work which situate key pieces of art in biographical context. Little is known, however, about the life of Johannes Vermeer, the son of an art dealer, who led a quiet existence in Delft in the mid 17th Century, and died penniless at the age of 43. Without letters, diaries or documents, this film takes a rather different approach, endeavouring to find out about the man through the medium of his paintings. It also explains, for newcomers to the subject, just why his work – though little-known during his lifetime or the following two centuries – is so important in the history of art.

It centres on an exhibition at the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam – the largest in history, featuring 28 of the artist’s 35 known works. The curators share their expertise in interviews which have been cut up to focus on one painting at a time, and these paintings are grouped to take us on a roughly chronological journey through the different phases of his artistic development, though we return to some as the film explores different themes.

One of the first we see, his View Of Delft, looks almost like a photograph. Later we are told that he would probably have been familiar with the camera obscura and the rapidly developing lens technologies of the time. The presence of a single point of focus in several of his paintings, such as The Lacemaker, strengthens this argument and accords with an extraordinarily modern understanding of the mechanics of perception. It allowed him to direct the viewer’s attention within a painting to a group of threads, a drop of milk, the glint of a pearl earring, a glimmer of gold.

This direction – almost cinematographic (though such ideas are older than one contributor here implies) – enhanced the artist’s ability to tell stories with his work, generally themed around intimate details of middle class or working class life which contrasted strongly with the popular religious or regal themes of the time. Vermeer was not a man interested in recreating others’ ideas of splendour but, rather, in finding the splendid and the sublime within everyday experiences. His preference for female subjects provided further access to a world often hidden from view, and his women notably have more agency within his stories than was usual – they are never simply objects for viewers to delight in.

More than one participant here talks about the sense of voyeurism which these paintings create – the idea that one is witnessing moments not meant for the public gaze. Of course, not everybody interprets the stories in the same way, and viewers will need to look past the rather dogmatic interpretations of some of the commentators in order to consider other explanations. Some paintings seem deliberately ambiguous. There are multiple ways to read a small gesture, an enigmatic smile. The interactions of women and their servants humanise the latter but sometimes hint at complicity, at unspoken accords.

Early on, we see one painting undergoing a scan. This technology, it is explained, now gives us the opportunity to see how each painting developed. Famously few sketches have ever been found, suggesting that Vermeer either threw away his early drafts or conceived whole paintings in his head. Now we can see that the thick layers of paint reveal ideas explored and then discarded or modified upon the canvas itself.

Vermeer’s use of blurring and light to create depth gives his paintings a quality unlike that of any of his peers, as does his understanding of the relationship between light and colour. Though powerful when one sees his paintings directly, this is in certain ways enhanced by the context of film, which opens up his works as if they were gateways into the past, little glimpses of a vanished world which becomes easy to relate to. his subjects – writing letters, playing music, baking, sharing a drink – are things which most viewers will have done themselves, and add to the sense that we can step outside time to understand our shared humanity.

This finds its apogee in The Little Street, which gives the camera a good deal to explore. Visiting its location today, we see change, and yet it is instantly recognisable. Through film, we can compare the two in a way which goes beyond the potential of an exhibition, connecting not just the past and the present but art and life. It’s a fitting tribute to a man who forsook his own needs to dedicate himself to capturing little pieces of the world around him, sending them on a journey across the centuries so that we might understand the world as he saw it, might recognise the true value of these exquisite moments in our own time, too.