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Lot Essay
Rembrandt’s stubborn devotion to his art, and to printmaking in particular, is nowhere more apparent than in Christ presented to the People (‘Ecce Homo’), especially as we consider the circumstances under which he created this stupendous and majestic print. ‘His constant experiments indicate the pleasure [Rembrandt] took in the actual working on the plate… Only a man in love with the technique could have developed such mastery, but unlike several other distinguished printmakers, he controlled his ardour for the medium to the extent that it became the primary raison d’être.’ (White, 1999, p. 4).
1655 was a difficult year for the artist, as he became unable to afford the repayments for his house. Bankruptcy was looming, new commissions were not coming in, and he was began selling his possessions at auction. Over the previous couple of years, he had been painting little, and completed only a few, albeit astonishing paintings, including Aristotle with a Bust of Homer (1653; Metropolitan Museum of Art), and Portrait of Jan Six (1654; Six Foundation, Amsterdam). In 1655, he had just completed his work on Christ crucified between the two Thieves (‘The Three Crosses’), his largest, most ambitious and experimental print so far, by radically changing the plate and reprinting it in the fourth state. Rather than settling for easier, more commercial work – either in painting or in etching – Rembrandt at this point decided to create another monumental print, once again in pure drypoint, equally complex and ambitious, and just as radical: Christ presented to the People (‘Ecce Homo’). He must have felt that, in working on The Three Crosses, he had discovered something only he could do: to draw directly and vigorously into the copper of the plate and create an image of such immediacy and dramatic force as had never been achieved before in the print medium - and he wanted to do it again. Remarkably, Rembrandt chose to depict an earlier stage in the Passion of Christ, the moment His fate is finally sealed:
Therefore when they were gathered together, Pilate said unto them, Whom will ye that I release unto you? Barabbas, or Jesus which is called Christ? For he knew that for envy they had delivered him. When he was set down on the judgment seat, his wife sent unto him, saying, Have thou nothing to do with that just man: for I have suffered many things this day in a dream because of him. But the chief priests and elders persuaded the multitude that they should ask Barabbas, and destroy Jesus. The governor answered and said unto them, Whether of the twain will ye that I release unto you? They said, Barabbas. Pilate saith unto them, What shall I do then with Jesus which is called Christ? They all say unto him, Let him be crucified. 23 And the governor said, Why, what evil hath he done? But they cried out the more, saying, Let him be crucified. 24 When Pilate saw that he could prevail nothing, but that rather a tumult was made, he took water, and washed his hands before the multitude, saying, I am innocent of the blood of this just person: see ye to it. (Matthew 27:17-25)
The starting point, once again, may have been a print by the great Dutch printmaker of the previous century, Lucas van Leyden (circa 1494-1533): The Large Ecce Homo of 1510. Until then, Lucas’s engraving was the definitive depiction in print of this biblical event, a highly ambitious, panoramic, multi-figure composition – the obvious work for Rembrandt to compete with. What would happen, Rembrandt seem to have thought, if I moved the viewpoint much closer to the central figures? Instead of allowing us to observe the event from a comfortable distance, he decided to thrust us almost into it. Christopher White described this strategy best: ‘In the design of his compositions of the 1650s Rembrandt favoured simpler patterns, balancing horizontal accents against verticals. His figures acquired a greater scale and monumentality within their setting. The background, whether architectural or landscape, is brought forward in direct relationship with the figures, playing an essential role in establishing he overall design. This is nowhere more overpoweringly evident that in Christ Presented to the People, located in an imposing architectural setting that appears to be an inner courtyard. The various levels allow the introduction, without crowding, of a variety of participants and human reactions. Above all the simple starkness of the architecture, with its sense of claustrophobia, movingly conveys Christ’s spiritual isolation.’ (White, 1997, p. 384)
If The Three Crosses can be called ‘cinematic’, with all the frantic movement, high drama and intense lighting, then Ecce Homo is ‘theatrical’: the stage is set and the tragedy unfolds, slowly and inevitably. Christ is presented on a raised terrace in front of Pilate’s palace. He stands barefoot and dressed with a loin cloth at the edge of the platform, his hands tied together in front of him. Pilate, with the attributes of his high office and power – turban, large cloak and long staff – stands to the left. His head slightly tilted, he points towards Christ with a questioning gesture: ‘What shall I do then with Jesus…’? Slightly behind and between them stands the other prisoner, the murderer Barabbas, tied to the same rope as Christ. Their three heads are framed by the darkness of the palace portal behind them. On the dais, they are surrounded by soldiers with raised spears and halberds, and officials including a scribe taking notes of the proceedings and a valet carrying a ewer and basin, ready for Pilates’ ceremonial washing of hands. Behind Christ, just above his right shoulder, somebody is raising a hammer, a foreshadowing of Him being nailed to the Cross. On the façade above and to the left and right of the portal are two caryatids, symbols of the virtues of stately power: Fortitude and Justice. Sat back on either side of the building, various figures are seen in the window, watching the scene below. The veiled woman in the window on the left is Pilate’s wife, who had been tormented by a foreboding dream. Through the window next to her, we see a soldier in armour taking her pleading message to Pilate. On the ground below the terrace, a small crowd has been brought together by the judgement: men and women, youths and children, most seen from behind or in a lost profile. Others are standing even closer to the edge of the image at left, including a splendidly dressed commander with a large plumed hat. All eyes are directed at Jesus, some hands gesture towards Him. On the right, a small group of dignitaries in cloaks and hats is standing close together, presumably the ‘chief priests and elders’ mentioned in the Gospel of Matthew. One bearded man steps forward – the only figure truly in motion in this image – and casts an ominous shadow onto the wall of the dais. Yet this crowd is not a raging mob. A few people seem agitated, others just curious, and while some – such as the mother with an infant on the steps are right – seem wholly unconcerned by the proceedings. Rembrandt does not demonise the people gathered here, and by pushing the viewer almost in the midst of them, he seems to suggest that we are part of them, implicit in the judgement.
There was a strong Netherlandish pictorial tradition that emphasized how common humanity condemned Christ. The inclusion of contemporary costume was clearly part of this tradition. The point is reinforced by using as a backdrop a building designed in the contemporary Dutch style of civic architecture. Its features bear a marked resemblance to the new Amsterdam Town Hall (now the Royal Palace) designed by Jacob van Campen, which was opened in 1655 - the very year in which this print was made. In this way a distant historical event was given an immediacy and relevance to a contemporary viewer: 'Historians have noted the particular manner in which Rembrandt depicted Christ's presentation to the people derived not only from the artist's visual sources, but also from contemporary Netherlandish judicial pratice. In capital cases, at the conclusion of the trial, the condemned criminal, accompanied by magistrates bearing the staff symbolic of their judicial office, was typically displayed to the public, either on a balcony or on a tribune in front of city hall.' (Rosenberg, 2017, p. 309)
The print is executed entirely in drypoint on a huge plate, which Rembrandt eventually cut down by about 25 mm in height in the fourth state, thereby removing the architrave of the building above the caryatids. The façade now covers almost the entire surface of the plate, like the backwall of a Roman theatre. In the preceding states, he increasingly added shading and details, especially to the architecture, such as the balustrade and the shadows above the door at right. Yet, still in the present fifth state large parts of the building are merely suggested, with hard lines drawn with the help of a ruler. Many of the characters seem equally ‘unfinished’. Rembrandt at this point had mastered the depiction of light and shadow in etching and the modelling of bodies and shapes with shading. It is testimony to his boundless artistic curiosity that with Ecce Homo he took a different approach: the majority of figures, in particular the crowd at lower centre, is described in outlines only, with only the burr of the drypoint lending substance and depth. Even the body of Jesus is barely articulated, making Him appear all the more vulnerable.
Rembrandt understood, perhaps better than any painter-printmaker before him, that the image is created in the mind of the viewer. By leaving large parts of the composition sketchy and seemingly incomplete, he not only draws in the viewer to engage with the image, he also give us the impression of seeing something unfold: the event is not finished and frozen in time, but takes place right before our eyes.
Of the first four states, only one example is still in private hands: the impression of the first state from the Josefowitz Collection (Stogdon no. 35), sold at Christie’s, London, in 2018 (£2,648,000). Of the fifth state, 38 impressions are recorded in public collections, and only one has been offered at auction within the last thirty years. The example offered here is thus one of the last privately owned examples of this highly important print in its original composition - before Rembrandt changed it drastically in the later states.
Nicholas Stogdon considers the present sheet ‘an extremely fine and effective impression of this state… as might be expected from the Holford provenance’, whose collection, as he says, ‘was replete with impressions of the highest order’ (Stogdon, 2011, p. 58 & 362). It was acquired by the very discerning Valentien Weisbach, and later sold by his son Werner to his friend and ‘novice’ Albert Blum, one of the great old master print collectors of the 20th century.
1655 was a difficult year for the artist, as he became unable to afford the repayments for his house. Bankruptcy was looming, new commissions were not coming in, and he was began selling his possessions at auction. Over the previous couple of years, he had been painting little, and completed only a few, albeit astonishing paintings, including Aristotle with a Bust of Homer (1653; Metropolitan Museum of Art), and Portrait of Jan Six (1654; Six Foundation, Amsterdam). In 1655, he had just completed his work on Christ crucified between the two Thieves (‘The Three Crosses’), his largest, most ambitious and experimental print so far, by radically changing the plate and reprinting it in the fourth state. Rather than settling for easier, more commercial work – either in painting or in etching – Rembrandt at this point decided to create another monumental print, once again in pure drypoint, equally complex and ambitious, and just as radical: Christ presented to the People (‘Ecce Homo’). He must have felt that, in working on The Three Crosses, he had discovered something only he could do: to draw directly and vigorously into the copper of the plate and create an image of such immediacy and dramatic force as had never been achieved before in the print medium - and he wanted to do it again. Remarkably, Rembrandt chose to depict an earlier stage in the Passion of Christ, the moment His fate is finally sealed:
Therefore when they were gathered together, Pilate said unto them, Whom will ye that I release unto you? Barabbas, or Jesus which is called Christ? For he knew that for envy they had delivered him. When he was set down on the judgment seat, his wife sent unto him, saying, Have thou nothing to do with that just man: for I have suffered many things this day in a dream because of him. But the chief priests and elders persuaded the multitude that they should ask Barabbas, and destroy Jesus. The governor answered and said unto them, Whether of the twain will ye that I release unto you? They said, Barabbas. Pilate saith unto them, What shall I do then with Jesus which is called Christ? They all say unto him, Let him be crucified. 23 And the governor said, Why, what evil hath he done? But they cried out the more, saying, Let him be crucified. 24 When Pilate saw that he could prevail nothing, but that rather a tumult was made, he took water, and washed his hands before the multitude, saying, I am innocent of the blood of this just person: see ye to it. (Matthew 27:17-25)
The starting point, once again, may have been a print by the great Dutch printmaker of the previous century, Lucas van Leyden (circa 1494-1533): The Large Ecce Homo of 1510. Until then, Lucas’s engraving was the definitive depiction in print of this biblical event, a highly ambitious, panoramic, multi-figure composition – the obvious work for Rembrandt to compete with. What would happen, Rembrandt seem to have thought, if I moved the viewpoint much closer to the central figures? Instead of allowing us to observe the event from a comfortable distance, he decided to thrust us almost into it. Christopher White described this strategy best: ‘In the design of his compositions of the 1650s Rembrandt favoured simpler patterns, balancing horizontal accents against verticals. His figures acquired a greater scale and monumentality within their setting. The background, whether architectural or landscape, is brought forward in direct relationship with the figures, playing an essential role in establishing he overall design. This is nowhere more overpoweringly evident that in Christ Presented to the People, located in an imposing architectural setting that appears to be an inner courtyard. The various levels allow the introduction, without crowding, of a variety of participants and human reactions. Above all the simple starkness of the architecture, with its sense of claustrophobia, movingly conveys Christ’s spiritual isolation.’ (White, 1997, p. 384)
If The Three Crosses can be called ‘cinematic’, with all the frantic movement, high drama and intense lighting, then Ecce Homo is ‘theatrical’: the stage is set and the tragedy unfolds, slowly and inevitably. Christ is presented on a raised terrace in front of Pilate’s palace. He stands barefoot and dressed with a loin cloth at the edge of the platform, his hands tied together in front of him. Pilate, with the attributes of his high office and power – turban, large cloak and long staff – stands to the left. His head slightly tilted, he points towards Christ with a questioning gesture: ‘What shall I do then with Jesus…’? Slightly behind and between them stands the other prisoner, the murderer Barabbas, tied to the same rope as Christ. Their three heads are framed by the darkness of the palace portal behind them. On the dais, they are surrounded by soldiers with raised spears and halberds, and officials including a scribe taking notes of the proceedings and a valet carrying a ewer and basin, ready for Pilates’ ceremonial washing of hands. Behind Christ, just above his right shoulder, somebody is raising a hammer, a foreshadowing of Him being nailed to the Cross. On the façade above and to the left and right of the portal are two caryatids, symbols of the virtues of stately power: Fortitude and Justice. Sat back on either side of the building, various figures are seen in the window, watching the scene below. The veiled woman in the window on the left is Pilate’s wife, who had been tormented by a foreboding dream. Through the window next to her, we see a soldier in armour taking her pleading message to Pilate. On the ground below the terrace, a small crowd has been brought together by the judgement: men and women, youths and children, most seen from behind or in a lost profile. Others are standing even closer to the edge of the image at left, including a splendidly dressed commander with a large plumed hat. All eyes are directed at Jesus, some hands gesture towards Him. On the right, a small group of dignitaries in cloaks and hats is standing close together, presumably the ‘chief priests and elders’ mentioned in the Gospel of Matthew. One bearded man steps forward – the only figure truly in motion in this image – and casts an ominous shadow onto the wall of the dais. Yet this crowd is not a raging mob. A few people seem agitated, others just curious, and while some – such as the mother with an infant on the steps are right – seem wholly unconcerned by the proceedings. Rembrandt does not demonise the people gathered here, and by pushing the viewer almost in the midst of them, he seems to suggest that we are part of them, implicit in the judgement.
There was a strong Netherlandish pictorial tradition that emphasized how common humanity condemned Christ. The inclusion of contemporary costume was clearly part of this tradition. The point is reinforced by using as a backdrop a building designed in the contemporary Dutch style of civic architecture. Its features bear a marked resemblance to the new Amsterdam Town Hall (now the Royal Palace) designed by Jacob van Campen, which was opened in 1655 - the very year in which this print was made. In this way a distant historical event was given an immediacy and relevance to a contemporary viewer: 'Historians have noted the particular manner in which Rembrandt depicted Christ's presentation to the people derived not only from the artist's visual sources, but also from contemporary Netherlandish judicial pratice. In capital cases, at the conclusion of the trial, the condemned criminal, accompanied by magistrates bearing the staff symbolic of their judicial office, was typically displayed to the public, either on a balcony or on a tribune in front of city hall.' (Rosenberg, 2017, p. 309)
The print is executed entirely in drypoint on a huge plate, which Rembrandt eventually cut down by about 25 mm in height in the fourth state, thereby removing the architrave of the building above the caryatids. The façade now covers almost the entire surface of the plate, like the backwall of a Roman theatre. In the preceding states, he increasingly added shading and details, especially to the architecture, such as the balustrade and the shadows above the door at right. Yet, still in the present fifth state large parts of the building are merely suggested, with hard lines drawn with the help of a ruler. Many of the characters seem equally ‘unfinished’. Rembrandt at this point had mastered the depiction of light and shadow in etching and the modelling of bodies and shapes with shading. It is testimony to his boundless artistic curiosity that with Ecce Homo he took a different approach: the majority of figures, in particular the crowd at lower centre, is described in outlines only, with only the burr of the drypoint lending substance and depth. Even the body of Jesus is barely articulated, making Him appear all the more vulnerable.
Rembrandt understood, perhaps better than any painter-printmaker before him, that the image is created in the mind of the viewer. By leaving large parts of the composition sketchy and seemingly incomplete, he not only draws in the viewer to engage with the image, he also give us the impression of seeing something unfold: the event is not finished and frozen in time, but takes place right before our eyes.
Of the first four states, only one example is still in private hands: the impression of the first state from the Josefowitz Collection (Stogdon no. 35), sold at Christie’s, London, in 2018 (£2,648,000). Of the fifth state, 38 impressions are recorded in public collections, and only one has been offered at auction within the last thirty years. The example offered here is thus one of the last privately owned examples of this highly important print in its original composition - before Rembrandt changed it drastically in the later states.
Nicholas Stogdon considers the present sheet ‘an extremely fine and effective impression of this state… as might be expected from the Holford provenance’, whose collection, as he says, ‘was replete with impressions of the highest order’ (Stogdon, 2011, p. 58 & 362). It was acquired by the very discerning Valentien Weisbach, and later sold by his son Werner to his friend and ‘novice’ Albert Blum, one of the great old master print collectors of the 20th century.