What Makes This Portrait the ‘Takeaway Rembrandt’?

Amia

amyngwyen13@gmail.com | 2024-09-05 03:32:55

Rembrandt van Rijn. Jacob III de Gheyn. 1632. Courtesy of Dulwich Picture Gallery

In 2019, the oldest public art gallery in England in a serene suburb of South - Dulwich Picture Gallery - fell victim to a robbery. At midnight, a man broke into the unassuming brick building and stole two paintings by Rembrandt van Rijn. The alarm was triggered, prompting a swift police response that successfully recovered the stolen artwork, though the thief escaped.

The lead detective from the rapid-response Flying Squad described the heist as “audacious” and “well-planned.” What was particularly surprising, given the venue and the artist involved, was that the theft had been thwarted: Rembrandt's works had been stolen from this museum eight times over the past 50 years.

Courtesy of Dulwich Picture Gallery

Among these thefts, four targeted a portrait of Jacob de Gheyn III, a 17th-century engraver from Utrecht, earning it a spot in the Guinness Book of World Records as the world's most stolen painting. Its small size—under 12 by 10 inches—makes it easy to conceal, leading to its nickname, “the takeaway Rembrandt.” (The title of Rembrandt's smallest painting belongs to a portrait of Jaapgen Carels, a plumber's wife, which measures under 8 by 7 inches.)

The story behind the 1632 portrait is as endearing as the subject's expression. Jacob de Gheyn's childhood best friend was Maurits Huygens, and after touring London and Sweden on art pilgrimages in the 1620s, they decided to commemorate their friendship with a double portrait.

Rembrandt van Rijn. Maurits Huygens. 1632. Courtesy of Dulwich Picture Gallery

They commissioned Rembrandt, who depicted them brightly lit and standing side by side on the same oak panel. They agreed that whoever passed away first would leave their portrait to the other, creating a sentimental bond for Dutch aristocrats. The portraits remained together until the 18th century, with Huygens now housed in Hamburg's Kunsthalle and De Gheyn arriving at the Dulwich Picture Gallery in 1811 as part of its founding collection by Francis Bourgeois.

After spending a century and a half among the gallery's esteemed Old Master collection, the portrait was stolen in 1966, along with seven others, including two by Rembrandt. On New Year’s Eve, thieves entered by removing a panel from a rarely used door. Due to their limited entry point, they were restricted to smaller works, but the stolen paintings were still valued at £3 million (approximately $90 million today). The police quickly recovered the artwork, thanks to a dog walker, and arrested an off-duty ambulance driver, who received a five-year prison sentence.

The second theft was bold and straightforward. In 1973, the gallery had not upgraded its security—neither the paintings were alarmed nor secured to the wall—so a 24-year-old simply placed the portrait in a plastic bag and rode off with it in his bike basket. He was promptly apprehended by the police, and the painting was returned.

The third theft mirrored the previous one, but its resolution was much more protracted. In 1981, two men entered the gallery; while one distracted the staff, the other unhooked the painting and concealed it under an overcoat. Two weeks later, Giles Waterfield, the gallery's director, received a call from a German businessman proposing a deal. The ensuing sting operation involved undercover agents, fake identities, forged bank drafts, and trips to Amsterdam. Within a month, the portrait was back in the gallery.

Following this incident, the gallery significantly upgraded its security, but that did not prevent De Gheyn’s fourth disappearance. In 1983, thieves climbed a ladder, smashed a skylight, and dropped into the gallery to steal the artwork. Although the alarm system functioned, the police arrived within five minutes, but the thieves had already fled. The case went cold until late 1986 when police received a tip that the painting was located in the left luggage office of a train station in Muenster, Germany.

“The temptation is to lock the wretched thing away and put up a color photograph,” Waterfield remarked after its return. However, despite that understandable desire, the portrait of the inquisitive young man, seemingly on the verge of speaking, still hangs in gallery five.


Sayart / Amia Nguyen, amyngwyen13@gmail.com

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