Rembrandt the "Prodigal Son"

 Rembrandt, Self-Portrait with Saskia as the Prodigal Son, c1636 to 1637, Netherlands, (Dutch) Baroque,  oil on wooden panel around 51x59 inches
Gemaldegalerie, Alte Meister, Dresden.


Rembrandt, Return of the Prodigal Son, 1665,  Oil on canvas, approximately 8x6 feet  
Netherlands, (Dutch) Baroque,  
Russia, Hermitage Museum, Saint Petersburg.

            In two paintings of the Prodigal Son story from the New Testament, Rembrandt presents different versions of the same theme, both shaped by his own life. The first painting, made between 1636 and 1637, is a small panel sometimes called The Prodigal Son in the Tavern.

This particular painting was made not for a church or noble estate but likely as a private piece. Rembrandt didn’t have a formal patron for this work—he painted it during his marriage to Saskia van Uylenburgh, who came from a well-off family. Around the time he painted this, he was doing quite well. He had just purchased a large house in Amsterdam and had a successful workshop. Saskia is shown seated on his lap, and they're both dressed in rich, exotic-looking clothes. Rembrandt looks directly at the viewer with a raised glass, while Saskia glances over her shoulder. They're seated in what seems like a tavern, surrounded by food and drink.

The setting and their pose echo the biblical story of the Prodigal Son—a parable from the Gospel of Luke. In the story, a young man demands his inheritance early, leaves home, and spends everything on pleasures before returning in shame to his father, who forgives him. Rembrandt doesn’t show the son’s return or repentance. Instead, he paints the moment of excess—celebration and indulgence. It’s not clear if this was meant to be a direct retelling of the parable or more of a loose nod to it.

In it, Rembrandt painted himself and his wife, Saskia, as the characters. He’s shown as the prodigal son during the part of the story when he is still wasting money and celebrating in a foreign city. He's seated with a large goblet of wine in his hand and a feathered hat on his head. Saskia is sitting on his lap. Their clothes are elaborate and detailed, including a wide-brimmed hat, a gold-trimmed jacket, and jewelry, showing a clear connection to Dutch upper-class fashion of the time. The setting includes items like metal dishes and food that point to a high-living lifestyle. Rembrandt used smooth brushwork, clear outlines, and strong contrasts of light and dark to make the scene easy to read. The background stays dark, so the couple stands out more in the center of the picture.

This painting was made when Rembrandt was in his early thirties. At that time, he had recently married and had reached a peak of professional success. The composition of the painting is tight and focused. Light falls on the couple, creating strong highlights on skin, fabric, and metal. The use of chiaroscuro—a technique that uses sharp contrast between light and shadow—is clear and controlled. It was a common feature of Baroque painting and often used to draw the eye to a particular subject or moment in the story.

He often included himself in his works and made nearly 100 self-portraits over the course of his life. This one is a little unusual because it's not just a formal self-study—he’s playing a character, and so is Saskia. The costumes are theatrical, and the entire scene seems almost staged, like a performance.

At the time this was painted, religious art in the Netherlands had shifted. Because of Calvinist influence, churches didn’t commission art filled with saints or icons anymore. So religious themes—like this nod to the Prodigal Son—were handled differently. Artists told stories in more personal, sometimes everyday ways.

The second painting is The Return of the Prodigal Son, made around 1665, late in Rembrandt’s life.  It is clearly not a literal self-portrait but it might be an allegorical one.  It is also a much different scale or size.  It’s much larger in size than the first one from around 1636, and shows the moment when the son returns home and kneels before his father. The figures in this version are more still. The father is standing over his son and touching him with both hands. The son is bald, thin, and barefoot. He’s kneeling on the ground with his head down. The father is dressed in a long robe, and there are other figures standing in the shadows. Some scholars have pointed out that the central figure of the father could be a symbolic self-portrait of Rembrandt near the end of his life, though this isn’t confirmed.

In this painting, Rembrandt uses looser brushwork. The surface of the canvas shows thicker paint and less sharp detail. The colors are darker, with deep reds, browns, and shadows. Light still plays a central role, but it’s softer and more diffused than in the earlier work. The light highlights the father’s face and hands and the son’s back and head, drawing attention to the physical contact between them. The other figures are more shadowed and stay in the background.

This change in formal elements—like color, texture, and composition—lines up with changes in Rembrandt’s own life. By the 1660s, he had lost his wife, several of his children, and had also gone bankrupt. These events may explain why the second painting feels quieter, and more focused on forgiveness rather than celebration. While the first painting uses theatrical poses and material detail to show a scene of indulgence, the second centers on stillness and physical closeness.

Both works were influenced by the works of Caravaggio, the Catholic Reformation, and the Protestant Reformation.  The high drama, realism, and drama, reflect an era in which religious artworks often took on a more personal or reflective tone. Artists like Rembrandt focused less on decorative religious imagery and more on scenes that encouraged the viewer to identify with biblical figures. The idea was to imagine yourself in the story—to think about your own decisions or life experiences in relation to scripture. This devotional style invited the viewer to connect with religious stories on an emotional and human level, rather than through dramatic or idealized settings.

It’s one of many paintings that blend portraiture and storytelling in Rembrandt’s work. And while his anatomy sometimes seems a little awkward, the figure’s gestures and proportions are less accurate than painters like Caravaggio, Rubens, or Velázquez, Rembrandt used texture, light, and expression in ways that were unique at the time. He didn’t always follow strict classical proportions. But his brushwork and the way he captured faces and emotions made his work stand out.

Annibale Carracci, Flight to Egypt, 1604, Oil on canvas, Galleria Doria Pamphili, Rome

 Annibale Carracci, Flight to Egypt 1604 Oil on canvas Galleria Doria Pamphili, Rome 

    The Carracci didn’t just work on frescoes or portraits—they also painted religious scenes that look like genre scenes and contained genre elements.  A genre scene is a type of artwork that shows everyday life—ordinary people doing ordinary things like cooking, working, resting, or walking through a village. These scenes don’t usually focus on historical, religious, or mythological stories. Instead, they show what life might have looked like for regular people in a certain time and place.

This approach was influenced by both Italian humanist traditions and Northern European art, especially from places like the Netherlands, where artists often painted religious scenes that looked like they were happening in local towns. Those paintings showed sacred figures in everyday settings, which made the stories feel closer to the people looking at them.

One example is a painting that shows what seems at first to be a quiet, rural Italian setting. There’s a calm body of water, a castle in the distance, and a few people walking along a path. But when you read the title or look closely, you find out that it’s actually a biblical scene: the Flight into Egypt.

The Carracci painted this scene in oil on canvas, which was a popular medium in the late 1500s and early 1600s. The composition mixes landscape and religious subject matter. It’s also an example of what’s sometimes called a genre scene—a painting that looks like it’s just showing a moment from daily life. The buildings in the background look like Italian architecture, and the countryside resembles the kind of hills and fields you’d see around Bologna or Rome. There are people in the background doing regular activities, like herding animals or boating. There’s even a camel in the distance, an extra element designed to let the viewer know that this was also meant to be the middle east.

In this painting, the Carracci are blending religious subject matter with elements from genre painting. On the surface, the scene looks like a normal countryside view: there's a quiet path, a few figures traveling, a castle, some animals, and a peaceful landscape. These details—especially the relaxed setting, the casual poses of the figures, and the natural environment—are all elements of genre painting.

Mary and Joseph are in the foreground. Mary is carrying Jesus, and Joseph is guiding the donkey. They wear clothes that look like ancient robes, but their poses and expressions are casual and familiar. The way they are painted makes them feel more like ordinary people than religious icons. This kind of realism connects to ideas from the Counter-Reformation, a Catholic movement that encouraged artists to make religious stories feel personal and relatable. The idea was that viewers should be able to see themselves in these scenes—not just as observers, but as participants.

This subject comes from the Gospel of Matthew. After Jesus was born, King Herod, worried that a new king would take his throne, ordered all male infants in Bethlehem to be killed. According to the story, Joseph was warned in a dream and took Mary and baby Jesus to Egypt to escape. In this painting, the Holy Family is shown on their way out of town.

But once you recognize the subject as The Flight into Egypt, you realize that it's a biblical story. (There’s even a camel to remind you of this.) What makes it different from more traditional religious art is how the sacred figures—Mary, Joseph, and Jesus—are presented like everyday people. They’re not shown on a throne or surrounded by halos. They’re walking through the countryside just like anyone else might.

This kind of painting wasn’t just about decoration. It was made for a specific purpose: to help people connect emotionally with the stories in the Bible. The Carracci workshop often worked on commissions for churches or private collectors who wanted to express religious devotion through art that also fit the tastes and styles of the time.  When you look at the context surrounding why it was made, who it was made for, and where it was hung, the genre elements of this painting make even more sense.

This painting was made for cardinal Pietro Aldobrandini, the nephew of Pope Clement VIII. He had a country house, or villa, in Frascati, a small town in the hills southeast of Rome. Frascati was a place where elite families kept villas not just for relaxation, but also to show off their wealth and learning. These houses often had rooms meant for walking and viewing paintings, called gallerias. The Flight into Egypt was made for one of these spaces in Aldobrandini’s villa. It was not meant for a church, but for a private room where visitors could see and talk about art.

Annibale Carracci had already done big projects in Rome before this, including ceiling paintings for another powerful family. By the time he worked on Aldobrandini’s commission, he was going through health problems and may have been tired from earlier work. There is some thought that he didn’t paint every part of The Flight into Egypt himself, and may have used assistants, but he designed the scene and directed the painting.

The painting may have been designed specifically to mimic the landscape around Aldobrandini’s villa in Frascati.  It related to the cardinal’s personal perspective.  The story is placed in a calm countryside setting. For Aldobrandini, commissioning a painting like this served a few purposes. It showed support for the Church, it filled his villa with meaningful art, and it allowed him to display his knowledge and taste to others.

The painting is no longer in the villa where it was first placed. It now hangs in the Galleria Doria Pamphilj in Rome. Like many works from this period, it was moved from its original location. Over time, it has been cleaned and conserved, but it has not been heavily changed or re-painted. Most of what viewers see today comes from the original painting Carracci created with help from his studio.

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The Head of a Roman Patrician from Otricoli

 

The Head of a Roman Patrician from Otricoli, created around 75–50 BCE, is a marble portrait approximately 14 inches tall. The artist’s name is not known, but the piece was made in Italy during the Roman Republican period, in the Verist style. The sculpture is now housed in the Museo Torlonia in Rome.  It is like the Togatus Barberini in that there is no evidence of polychromy on this piece and it is highly detailed, showing every fold, crease, and imperfection in the subject’s face such as deep wrinkles, sagging skin, and other signs of aging. Perhaps this was sculpted from life.  These features are rendered with a level of precision that suggests a close observation of the subject’s face. The style is both realistic and slightly stylized, as certain features—like the exaggerated wrinkles—serve to emphasize age and experience. The anatomy is accurate overall, but the emphasis on aging features makes the portrayal symbolic of the subject’s wisdom and moral authority.

The Head of a Roman Patrician is a strong example of verism, a style that reflects the cultural values of the Roman Republic. The realistic depiction of age was a deliberate choice to symbolize virtues like gravitas (seriousness) and auctoritas (authority), which were admired in Roman leaders. The sculpture does not include any additional symbols or iconography beyond the realistic rendering of the face, but its stark naturalism aligns with Republican ideals of humility and service to the state. Unlike more idealized portraits, this work presents the subject not as they might have wished to be remembered in a flattering way, but as they were, emphasizing their physical and moral character.

The exact discovery details of this sculpture are not recorded, though it was likely found in or near Otricoli, a site known for yielding Roman artifacts. It is in good condition, with no major restorations noted. The original patron of the work is unknown, but it was likely commissioned by the patrician or their family, as such sculptures often served as commemorative pieces displayed in public or private spaces. The piece’s provenance appears straightforward, and it remains in Italy, preserved in the Museo Torlonia, reflecting its historical significance as an artifact of the Roman Republican period.

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Togatus Barberini

 

Togatus Barberini

The sculpture A Roman Patrician with Busts of His Ancestors, also called the Togatus Barberini, was created in the 1st century BCE during the Roman Republican period. The artist's name is not recorded. This piece was made in Rome, Italy, and reflects the veristic style of the late Republic. It is now housed in the Capitoline Museums in Rome.

The sculpture A Roman Patrician with Busts of His Ancestors is often called the Togatus Barberini for two reasons. The name Togatus comes from the toga worn by the figure in the sculpture, a garment that symbolized Roman citizenship and status, particularly among the elite. The toga is a prominent feature of the sculpture, highlighting the subject’s civic identity and role within Roman society. The term Barberini refers to the Barberini family, a wealthy and influential Roman family during the Renaissance and Baroque periods. This family owned the sculpture as part of their art collection, and their name became associated with many ancient works they preserved. Over time, the sculpture became widely known by this combination of terms, reflecting both its visual identity and its connection to the Barberini family’s legacy.

This marble sculpture is life-size, measuring approximately 67 inches (5 feet 7 inches) tall. Marble, a durable and versatile stone, is the primary material, but there is no evidence to confirm whether it was originally painted. Many Roman sculptures were once polychromed using encaustic or tempera, and though this piece is now uncolored, it is possible that subtle, muted tones were originally used to enhance realism. The texture of the sculpture varies—smooth in areas representing flesh and fabric, with rougher carvings used to depict hair and other fine details. The overall craftsmanship shows a high degree of skill, with a focus on intricate details such as wrinkles, the folds of the toga, and the features of the busts held by the figure.

The work is deeply realistic, using exaggerated naturalism to emphasize age and experience. The subject’s face is marked by wrinkles and sagging skin, typical of the veristic style that sought to convey wisdom and moral authority. These features are not merely accurate but are exaggerated to communicate specific virtues admired in Roman society. The anatomy of the figure is generally accurate, with no major distortions, though the focus on aging features creates a stylized impression of gravitas (weight or depth) and dignitas.   The component of dignatas was central to a Roman’s place in the world.

The term dignitas in Roman culture referred to a combination of personal reputation, moral integrity, social standing, and influence. It was a deeply valued concept that encompassed an individual’s sense of honor and respect within their community, often tied to their achievements and contributions to public life. For Roman elites, dignitas was a measure of their legacy, shaped by their actions, virtues, and their family's status. It was not just an individual quality but something rooted in the collective reputation of one’s family and ancestry, often requiring a lifetime of civic and military service to cultivate and maintain.

The verist tradition of portraiture during the Roman Republic became a powerful medium to express dignitas. Through its hyper-realistic style, the veristic approach deliberately emphasized the physical signs of age, such as wrinkles, sunken cheeks, and other imperfections, to symbolize experience, wisdom, and a life dedicated to public service. These features conveyed the subject’s personal sacrifices and moral character, aligning their physical appearance with the Republican ideals of gravitas (seriousness) and auctoritas (authority).

By showing their subjects as aged and weathered, often to the point of exaggeration, veristic portraits rejected the idealized beauty of earlier Greek traditions and focused instead on a visual language that communicated the weight of responsibility and the respect earned through years of dedication to the state. These portraits were a visual assertion of dignitas, reinforcing the subject's role as a custodian of Roman values and as a person who upheld the traditions of mos maiorum, the customs of the ancestors. In this way, the veristic style transformed physical aging into a badge of honor, serving as a public statement of an individual’s worth and contributions to society.

This sculpture is a classic example of verist portraiture in other ways, specifically in terms of heritage. The busts held by the central figure likely represent the subject’s ancestors, emphasizing family lineage and the importance of tradition. This iconography would have signaled the subject’s social standing as a member of the patrician class. The display of ancestors was not just a personal statement but a public declaration of the subject’s loyalty to Roman values and traditions. Unlike some verist sculptures that depict only the individual, this piece ties personal identity to a larger narrative of family and civic responsibility.

A Roman Patrician with Busts of His Ancestors likely reference the Roman practice of creating and displaying imagines, which were wax effigies of ancestors kept by elite families. These effigies were housed in family homes and played an essential role in public and privateceremonies, especially funerals. The sculpture's marble ancestor busts evoke this tradition, symbolizing the subject's ties to his lineage and the continuity of family heritage.

Sometimes you may see photograph or a painting of a person standing in front of a display of family photographs or paintings.  Sometimes you might see one of those images in a photo album and the person showing you the album will talk about their family.  The depiction in marble of wax sculptures is a good example of how art can sometimes depict a kind of picture within another picture.  (We’ll see something like this when we look at the Augustus of Prima Porta.)  It’s a bit like a photograph or a photograph or a painting of a painting.  This idea comes up again and again in art history and is even a theme or motif that has a name.  In Roman culture, they called this an imagines. However, academics have several names for the term for a picture within a picture, or a facsimile of a facsimile, or a copy of a copy?

The imagenes is a kind of mise en abyme. Mise en abyme is a French term that translates literally to "placed into abyss" or "placed into the void." In its broader meaning, it refers to a situation where something contains a smaller version of itself, creating a recursive or self-reflective structure. It's often used in art and literature to describe a story within a story, an image within an image, or any element that reflects or mirrors the larger context it is part of.

As in a photograph like Charles “Teenie” Harris’s of two women, which contains photographs within photographs or painting that contains a smaller painting.  This painting by Anton Jenik is an excellent example because not only does it show paintings within paintings, but it also has a classical sculpture holding two crowns made of laurels which were symbols of excellence.  It’s almost as if the painter is doing what verist sculpture is trying to do, the painting shows a link with the classical past, using a reference to a “classy” symbol of his family’s honored status, and its link to recent ancestors.  This is something the Romans found important and the traditions continue even today.  

The terms are confusing but also useful and can vary depending on the context, but here are some relevant ones:

1. Picture within a Picture:
• Mise en abyme: A term from French that refers to a visual or conceptual image within an image, often reflecting or mirroring the larger work. This can be literal, as in a painting that contains a smaller version of itself, or metaphorical, as in a nested narrative.
2. Facsimile of a Facsimile:
• Simulacrum: Refers to a representation or imitation of something, often used to describe a copy that has lost connection to its original.
• Reproduction: A straightforward term for something made as a copy of another.
3. Copy of a Copy:
• Derivative: Used for something that is derived from or modeled on something else.
• Iteration: Refers to repeated versions or copies, sometimes with subtle changes.
• Hyperreal: In philosophical terms (Jean Baudrillard), this refers to a representation that becomes more real to the audience than the original, especially through repeated reproduction.

Each term is nuanced and often carries specific connotations based on its field of use (e.g., art, literature, philosophy).

The practice of carrying or displaying imagines was particularly significant during funeral processions for members of the patrician class. In these ceremonies, family members would wear masks or effigies representing deceased ancestors, often donning their specific clothing or regalia. This act was not only a display of family pride but also a public affirmation of the family's role in Roman society. The effigies symbolized the unbroken lineage of civic and military service and connected the deceased to the achievements and legacies of their forebears.

In this context, the Togatus Barberini sculpture alludes to this tradition by replacing the ephemeral wax effigies with more permanent marble busts. While not directly replicating a funeral procession, the sculpture reinforces the importance of imagines in maintaining familial and societal memory. It can be understood as a timeless statement of the subject’s identity, presenting him as a custodian of ancestral legacy and a participant in the rituals that reinforced Roman social structure.

Clothing in the Togatus Barberini holds significant iconic importance, as it visually reinforces the social and cultural identity of the subject. The figure wears a toga, a garment that was highly symbolic in Roman society and reserved exclusively for Roman citizens. The toga was not simply everyday attire but a formal garment worn during public ceremonies, political functions, and legal proceedings, emphasizing the wearer’s role in civic life.

In the context of the Togatus Barberini, the toga underscores the subject’s status as a patrician—a member of the Roman elite—and his commitment to public duty and the values of the Republic. The toga’s folds are carefully rendered, highlighting the formality and dignity associated with the garment. It acts as a visual declaration of the subject’s civitas (citizenship) and his participation in the political and legal structures of Rome.

Additionally, the act of holding busts of ancestors while dressed in the toga creates a layered symbolism. The toga represents the subject’s role in contemporary society, while the busts link him to his familial heritage and the ancestral traditions (mos maiorum) that defined Roman identity. Together, these elements communicate the subject’s connection to both the past and present, emphasizing his dignitas (personal honor) and auctoritas (authority) in the public and private spheres.

The piece was likely commissioned by the subject or their family to serve as a memorial. Such sculptures were commonly placed in tombs or displayed in public ceremonies, reinforcing the subject’s role in upholding family and societal values. While the specific biography of the subject is unknown, the emphasis on age and ancestry aligns with Republican ideals of respect for tradition and service to the state. The choice to portray the subject holding ancestor busts is a distinctive feature, setting it apart from other verist works.

The exact circumstances of the sculpture’s discovery are not documented, but works like this are often found in tombs or domestic contexts in Rome. It appears to be in good condition, with no major restorations noted. The patron was likely the subject or their descendants, reflecting their wealth and status. The work has remained in Rome and is part of the Capitoline collection, meaning its provenance is relatively straightforward, with no indications of theft or removal to foreign institutions.

 

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Rembrandt’s "Supper at Emmaus"

 

One way to think about painting in the Baroque period is to see it as something that could, in some ways, represent the artist’s own ideas, feelings, or beliefs—even if it wasn’t officially a self-portrait. A useful example of this is to compare Rembrandt’s Supper at Emmaus with Caravaggio’s version of the same story. Rembrandt actually painted several versions of the Supper at Emmaus, and they’re all much smaller in size than Caravaggio’s large painting.

Both of these works show the same biblical moment, the story of the Supper at Emmaus, which comes from the Gospel of Luke in the New Testament. It takes place shortly after Jesus has been buried. Two of his followers are walking to a town called Emmaus when they meet someone who seems like a stranger. They talk along the way and invite him to join them for a meal at an inn. During dinner, this man says grace, and that’s when they suddenly realize he is actually Jesus. In the story, Jesus then disappears. This moment—when the disciples recognize Jesus just before he vanishes—is the scene that both artists painted.

Rembrandt’s version is on the left and Caravaggio’s is on the right. Rembrandt borrows the basic setup from Caravaggio, but the way he paints the scene feels rougher and a little more subtle. Both artists use similar colors—earthy tones, strong shadows, and sharp light—but Rembrandt handles the lighting in a different way. Caravaggio uses a dramatic chiaroscuro effect, with heavy contrast between light and dark that spreads across the scene in a theatrical way. Rembrandt’s light feels softer and more diffused, focused more on gesture than on theatrical shadow.

Both paintings show Jesus as the central figure at the table, but Rembrandt places him just slightly off center. Instead of being lit from above, the light in Rembrandt’s painting seems to come from Jesus himself, glowing outward. This changes the focus of the scene. The right side of the painting fades into shadow, which creates a strong diagonal line across the canvas. This kind of diagonal structure shows up in both Caravaggio and Rembrandt’s work and reflects a common Baroque approach to composition—using movement and asymmetry rather than balance or symmetry, which were more common in earlier periods.

Caravaggio, in his Supper at Emmaus, likely based his composition on Leonardo da Vinci’s Last Supper. You can see similarities, as in how some figures turn away from the viewer and how the central figure sits in the middle of the composition. Rembrandt uses a similar arrangement but changes the center of gravity by shifting Jesus slightly to the left. In both paintings, Jesus is seated with two disciples, and the moment of recognition becomes the emotional core of the image.

Rembrandt's paintings are usually smaller than those made by Caravaggio or Peter Paul Rubens. While he did paint some larger works, most of his paintings are what we’d now call easel-sized, usually under 30 inches tall or wide. There are a couple of practical reasons for this. First, it was expensive to make big paintings, especially without a commission, and storing them wasn’t easy. Second, smaller paintings were easier to hang in people’s homes. They were more personal. Paintings like these were meant to be looked at up close, and they invited viewers to think about how the story might apply to their own lives.

That idea of intimacy comes up a lot in Rembrandt’s work. His religious paintings often feel like private moments rather than public displays. They act like devotional objects—meant to be quietly studied and reflected on. The viewer is meant to imagine themselves in the story, almost as if they’re present at the scene.

This kind of thinking was common in the 1600s, especially during the Reformation. Protestant leaders like Martin Luther encouraged people to read the Bible on their own and think about how religious teachings connected to their everyday lives. You can see that in how Rembrandt tells stories—he paints scenes not as grand public events, but as something quiet and personal, like it’s meant for a small group or a single viewer. This approach also shows up in the work of artists like Vermeer, who painted domestic interiors that also seem to invite private reflection.

Rembrandt is sometimes described as a caravaggisto, which just means someone influenced by Caravaggio’s style. You can see this in the way he paints The Supper at Emmaus. His versions definitely follow some of the same setup that Caravaggio used, especially in how the figures are arranged around the table and how light is used to highlight reactions. But Rembrandt also shifts away from Caravaggio’s approach in some clear ways.

 

In his 1629 version of The Supper at Emmaus, Rembrandt adds more depth to the scene. The space goes much farther back than what you see in Caravaggio’s work. There’s a figure way in the background, most likely someone working in the kitchen. This person is lit from behind by a candle, and the area around them is kind of hazy, but you can still pick out some architectural details in the background.

One of the more innovative things Rembrandt does differently here are some changes to how he handles light. In Caravaggio’s paintings the light source is outside of the picture but in Rembrandt’s painting, he brings the light source inside its boundaries.

In the 1600s and 1700s, it would’ve been normal for people to use candles or oil lamps for light. If someone sat with a lamp or candle behind them, their face and figure would be in shadow, and they’d show up more like a silhouette. Rembrandt uses this effect in the painting. He puts Jesus in front of the light source, so his face is and figure are a silhouetted profile.  Cince the light source is on the table behind him and in front of the other figure seated at the table lights the person sitting across from the front right at a sharp angle—what’s called raking light—which helps show their reaction clearly. This lighting choice lets Rembrandt show two different effects from the same source, and it’s a pretty direct observation of how real lighting works in a dark interior.

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