Artifex Travel      
Amsterdam, 
 The Netherlands

In the 17th century people here dressed all in black, but on the inside their clothes were lined with fur," quoth René. Amsterdam is a bit like that still—one has to seek underneath its easy exterior to uncover its riches. I was lucky; one sentence in a guide book led me to Artifex and the Netherlands’ own culture-vulture, René W.Chr. Dessing.

René, a tall, sandy-blond dressed in classic khakis and a blue button-down shirt describes himself as a working art historian. With words flowing and arms flying, René’s enthusiasm for his culture is infectious. He speaks in exclamation points and repeats for emphasis: "The tulip tours all go south of Amsterdam, but we always advise people to go up—no tourists and colors and colors and colors and colors!"

Knowing the richness of his country, a short stint as a tour organizer left René amazed by the paucity of the typical ‘tulip-wooden-shoe-windmill tour.’ Not one to hang back, 14 years ago Rene founded Artifex—Latin for practitioner of the arts—and opened the doors of Dutch heritage to thousands of private individuals and corporate groups. Artifex arranges all sorts of programs—anything, I suspect, that intrigues the passionate René—from private walking tours of Amsterdam to a three-day Frisian stud (horse) expedition to cultural events and tours for corporate groups. René has persuaded more than seventy art historians to act as part-time guides and they are Artifex’s heart and soul. With their art history degrees and real lives—working, teaching, creating—they are fresh and lively, not to mention exceedingly knowledgeable.

René selected Pieter de Nijs—who lists four occupations besides art historian on his card including editor of a small literary magazine—as a good match for my family which spanned from my 18-year-old niece on her first Amsterdam trip to my literary, 81-year-old mother. Curious about Amsterdam and her Golden Age, we wanted to know more.

Scurrying to keep up with Pieter, whose long-legged stride kept his black ankle-length coat airborne—no fur, I peeked—we walked from our hotel on the Herengracht Canal to the Rijksmuseum "zapping" Pieter said, "through Dutch culture." By the time we reached the museum we knew never to buy a canal house leaning sideways—it’s slipping off its foundation and how to identify the age of a building by it’s gable: bricks and step gables go with the 16th century, balustrades reminiscent of the French Louis’ are 18th century with neck and bell gables in between.

Pieter explained the Dutch were the first republicans in Europe, adding "we’re a Kingdom now, but we do everything in reverse." He expounded his three-generations theory on the decline of the Golden Age: "Grandpa does the work; the Father goes on with it, develops and expands the business; the son takes the wealth and does other things."

The bearded Pieter, looking much like the professor he once was, said we should know two things: "Amsterdam is a relatively young city" and "you are not on solid ground." The city seemed old enough to us, but then Pieter was referring to medieval Flanders not our hometowns in the western US.

We did, on the other hand, know we were not on solid ground. Even after Pieter’s warning, "Watch the bicycles, they’re dangerous," incessant close shaves left us decidedly shaky—the peace loving Dutch transmute into terrorists the minute they mount a bike. Pieter, however, was referring to Amsterdam’s position below sea level. Here’s where those windmills come in, along with the dikes they used to keep Amsterdam above water. Big pumping stations now handle the job, but that still leaves forty-three feet of muck between the street and solid ground. So, forty-three foot wooden posts have to be sunk through the muck to hold everything—buildings and canals—up.

The calls of gulls were a constant reminder of the nearby waters, but they competed with the jangle of bicycle bells, tram brakes and construction. Pieter even made canal repair interesting. He showed us where a temporary wall had to be built in order to contain the canal’s waters prior to the repair of the actual canal walls, a tedious job taking up to one year for a short block. Pieter wanted us to "glimpse how much money we accumulated to get these things going." In the Golden Age, the city had three large canals constructed—dug out, foundations sunk, and walls built—all by hand.

Moving along the Herengracht canal, we entered the "golden bend" an area of elegant 18th century mega-houses—those grandsons!—now hotels, museums and offices. Once families of maybe only ten people lived in each house and "some had painting collections as large as the Rijksmuseum," Pieter remarked. OK, we got it.

Unlike other guides, Pieter never glossed over the unsavory aspects of his country, even disabusing my notions of the seventeenth century Dutch, "Let me correct one thing, the Dutch were a seafaring nation, but the seafaring was done by others. Only the Captain and First Mate were Dutch, but the sailors were from all over." The figures show how miserable a sailor’s life really was "three percent of all the ships that went out to the East Indies didn’t come back, but only one-third of the sailors came back."

Once at the Rijksmuseum Pieter helped us see more in these Dutch paintings than first met our non-Dutch eyes. Dutch painters often included skulls and flowers in their paintings, these were vanitas symbols to drive home the fleeting nature of life—and wealth—and to remind us not to be so vain. Preaching moderation and balance, still lifes mixed everyday foods like cheese and bread with expensive, imported foods like grapes and pepper. Water was always present to mix (and moderate) the wine.

I expect Pieter would say it was Vermeer. In the seventeenth century, he explained, people knew Rembrandt was a gifted painter, but they preferred others, Frans Hals for example, to paint their portraits. The radically rich, moreover, turned to Vermeer who painted only thirty-four canvases during his lifetime. He worked slowly, mixing luxurious, expensive paints with things like silver sand to create a glow.

Standing in front of Rembrandt’s "Night Watch," I was drawn into the action by his dramatic contrasts of light and shadow, his expressive faces and his positioning of the arms, rifles and lances. Rembrandt’s luminescent golds and wine-dark reds, some of his surfaces heavy with paint to portray leather and others nearly translucent to portray skin, made me question why anyone would not want to be in this glorious painting. Pieter explained the problem: each member of the Civic Guard—an early policing force that later became an elite social club—paid 100 guilders to be in the painting. Those lost in the back or not facing forward didn’t think they had gotten their guilder’s worth. In the "Night Watch," the Civic Guard is rallying to protect the city—that was historical, at that time they were only a social club—and not, like all the other Civic Guard paintings, sitting at a banquet or standing in a row. "He really introduces the idea of movement in something that is standing still. That is his genius," explained Pieter.

Frans Hals’ guards, on the other hand, continued to banquet or stand where each one was plainly seen and so he was much more in demand for those lucrative paintings. With a relaxed style—Pieter showed us where Hals left visible brush strokes in lace—Hals’ portraits are a little pre-impressionistic. They did not tell the stories that Rembrandt’s did nor did they bring the viewer into the action; but they were never staid, rather, dashing and fun.

Now, I guess I would agree with Pieter, Vermeer was the Golden Age’s golden boy. Vermeer had "a smooth, rich, worked-over style," Pieter said, and his paintings have mysteries and "little stories within little stories." Admiring "The Little Street," Pieter wondered aloud, for whom such a painting could have been painted? It was not a rich man’s house, yet it must have been painted for a very rich man. And then there were the busy children "but for 300 years we don’t know what they are doing" Pieter observed. In "The Kitchen Maid" where the light is falling on the thoughtful maid from a high window, Pieter showed us Vermeer’s masterful, subtle nuances and the amazing detail he included; such as the maid’s dress closings which made tiny shadows on her gown. Then there was the color Vermeer achieved, the yellows positively glowed and the blues were straight from heaven.

We wound our way back to our hotel through crowds of spirited Amsterdammers celebrating this first sunny day in May by quaffing brews at the Leidseplein's outdoor cafes. We couldn't help but wonder what lined their coats.