Art Meets Science
Rembrandt in the Laboratory
- April 17, 2026
This Art Meets Science essay, Rembrandt in the Laboratory, is based on a recent tour of the remarkable exhibition of The Leiden Collection at the Norton Museum of Art in West Palm Beach, Florida. The Leiden Collection is the largest private collection of 17th‑century Dutch paintings in the world. Over the past twenty‑two years, Thomas S. and Daphne Recanati Kaplan have assembled an extraordinary group of works from this fascinating period. We chose a few exceptional examples from the exhibition to explore connections between art and science by highlighting the similarities between Rembrandt’s approach and methods for understanding the world to those used by scientists today.
The 17th century was the century of the Dutch Republic. While fighting an eighty‑year war for their independence, the Netherlands entered a period of success and prosperity. Dutch ships sailed across the world’s oceans, and Dutch influence extended from Indonesia to Brazil, from Manhattan to the Caribbean. Amsterdam, at the center of this activity, grew rapidly to approximately 175,000 inhabitants by 1640, and great wealth was accumulated in the Netherlands. This wealth (The Embarrassment of Riches, as Simon Schama called it) led to profound cultural changes. Paintings became affordable to broad segments of society, and artistic production exploded. In almost every Dutch home, paintings—whether oils or prints—decorated the walls, and it was not uncommon even for modest households to own 20 to 50 works. New genres emerged, ranging from portraits to market scenes and domestic interiors. At the same time, there was also an explosion of scientific discovery.
The 17th century was an era of scientific revolution, shifting people’s minds toward empirical observation, mathematics and experimentation. Key breakthroughs included the telescope (Galileo Galilei), the microscope (Cornelis Drebbel and Antonie van Leeuwenhoek), the discovery of blood circulation in medicine (William Harvey), the laws of gravitation in astronomy (Isaac Newton), and the description of planetary motion (Johannes Kepler), not to mention the rapid rise of mathematics with calculus (Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz and Newton). Discussions on how the world was to be grasped, how nature was to be understood, and how it was represented were shared between natural philosophers (the future scientists), painters, astronomers, medical doctors and politicians. The exchange of hundreds of letters between Constantijn Huygens, Francis Bacon, René Descartes, Peter Paul Rubens and Rembrandt Harmenszoon van Rijn are a rich resource into our understanding of how art and science went hand in hand in this era.
New technologies in optics, especially the microscope, transformed how people could observe nature. Microscopes revealed a world previously unknown, telescopes reached out to the stars and the universe, and anatomical studies revolutionized the understanding of the human body and of vision itself. These technologies made it possible to see the world in an entirely new way. Within this whirlwind of scientific change—and amid ever‑expanding communication across Europe—painters were not only aware of developments in their own field, and the visualization of the world around them, but were often directly engaged with new scientific discoveries. Rembrandt is a striking example. In his famous work, The Anatomy Lesson of Dr. Nicolaes Tulp, he not only introduced innovative ways of depicting his subject, but also reflected on the work of the renowned anatomist Andreas Vesalius of Padua, and on the principles of anatomy more broadly. This relationship between technological innovation and new ways of seeing and understanding the world forms the basis of our Art Meets Science program at MDI Biological Laboratory. In our research into the molecular secrets of nature we develop new technologies in microscopy and artificial intelligence to analyze experimental data, giving us fresh perspectives on nature and its underlying mechanisms. It is from this angle that we approach Rembrandt and his contemporaries, as represented in The Leiden Collection exhibition at the Norton Museum.
Rembrandt and the Self-Portrait with Shaded Eyes
Rembrandt van Rijn, Self-Portrait with Shaded Eyes, 1634.
The Leiden Collection
We are standing before Self-Portrait with Shaded Eyes (1634) by Rembrandt van Rijn, a work created at a decisive turning point in the artist’s early career. In 1631, Rembrandt moved from Leiden to the thriving commercial center of Amsterdam. By 1634, at only twenty‑eight-years old, he was establishing himself as a promising portrait painter in the studio of the art dealer Hendrick van Uylenburgh. He had already begun to receive commissions from the Amsterdam bourgeoisie and was likely working on his first major group portrait, The Anatomy Lesson of Dr. Nicolaes Tulp.1
In this context, Self-Portrait with Shaded Eyes offers more than a mere likeness of the artist; it reveals an ambitious and analytical mind at work. Rembrandt did not simply paint himself—he used the self‑portrait as an experiment. The painting becomes a controlled study in light, shadow and color, demonstrating what might be described as a “scientific” approach to art.
The most striking feature of the portrait is his use of chiaroscuro—the interplay between light and shade. The shadow cast on the wall, the one forming the curve of the chin, not to forget the highlight and shadow of the nose—it goes on and on. One of the main features of the painting is the shadow cast across the eyes. This compositional choice immediately raises a technical problem: How does one render the complexity of facial color when it is partially obscured by shadow? Rather than relying on a simple darkening of flesh tones, Rembrandt subtly incorporates violets, greens and muted browns into the shaded areas. The illuminated portions of the face are warm and vibrant, while the shadows are chromatically rich rather than flat or opaque. The result is not a binary opposition of light and dark but a nuanced spectrum of tonal values.
The more closely one examines the painting, the clearer it becomes that this is a study in optical perception. Rembrandt investigates how light alters color, how shadows contain unexpected hues, and how subtle tonal gradations create the illusion of three‑dimensional form. In this sense, the portrait functions as an experimental inquiry into one of painting’s most fundamental challenges—the convincing representation of reality through pigment. Rembrandt appears keenly aware of his technical mastery. His ability to mix and manipulate color to achieve naturalism reflects both confidence and pride in his craft.
Beyond its technical dimension, this chiaroscuro generates a remarkable sense of vitality. The face seems animated, caught in a fleeting moment, almost like a modern photograph taken spontaneously. The dynamic contrasts produce depth and movement, giving the impression that the sitter has paused briefly before continuing on his way. On yet another level, the painting communicates a clear message to potential patrons: This is the skill and realism I can offer you. It functions as both artistic research and professional advertisement. Rembrandt’s attire further reinforces the experimental character of the painting. He wears a fur‑trimmed robe, or tabbaard, and a beret—garments already considered somewhat old‑fashioned by 1634. These are not everyday clothes but a deliberate costume, often associated with scholars or historical figures. Such costuming was common in a specific type of 17th-century Dutch portraiture known as a tronie, a character study rather than a conventional commissioned likeness. Tronies allowed artists to explore expressive faces, exotic dress and diverse textures without the constraints of strict portrait conventions. In these works, Rembrandt experimented with the rendering of materials: fur, velvet, feathers, gold and jewels. Each surface presented a distinct technical challenge. The accurate depiction of texture required careful observation and innovative brushwork. By increasing the complexity of these elements, the painter intensified the difficulty of the task—yet, when successfully executed, the results demonstrated extraordinary virtuosity. Thus, the portrait becomes not only a study of facial expression and light but also of fabric, texture and material illusion.
Finally, the frequency with which Rembrandt painted himself strengthens the argument for a scientific approach to his art. Over the course of his lifetime, he produced more than a hundred self‑portraits in various media. This repetition should not be interpreted as vanity. Rather, it suggests a sustained, methodical investigation. By repeatedly using his own face as a model, Rembrandt could explore aging, emotion, expression, costume and, above all, the mutable effects of light on skin. Each self‑portrait addressed new pictorial problems and tested new solutions. In conclusion, Self-Portrait with Shaded Eyes exemplifies Rembrandt’s experimental and analytical approach to painting. Through his sophisticated treatment of color, shadow, texture and expression, he transforms a self‑portrait into a visual laboratory. The work demonstrates that artistic creativity and scientific inquiry are not opposites but complementary modes of investigation. In Rembrandt’s hands, painting becomes a disciplined exploration of perception—an art grounded in observation, experimentation and mastery.
A sample of self-portraits by Rembrandt van Rijn (left to right): Self-portrait with Velvet Barett, 1634 (Gemäldegalerie, Berlin); Self-Portrait, Age 23, 1629 (Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, Boston, Mass., USA); Self-Portrait with Dishevelled Hair, 1628 (Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam); Self-Portrait in a Cap, Open Mouthed, etching, 1630 (Norton Simon Museum, Pasadena, Calif., USA); Self-portrait, c. 1655 (Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna).
Jan Lievens—Friend, Colleague and Competitor
Jan Lievens, Self-Portrait, c. 1629–30. The Leiden Collection
A bit further down the exhibition, we encounter another startling self-portrait. This work was painted by Jan Lievens between 1629 and 1630, either while he was still working with Rembrandt in Leiden or shortly afterward, when he had moved to England and Rembrandt had begun his career in Amsterdam. Lievens, a prodigy born in Leiden, began his training as a painter at the age of eight and opened his own studio in Leiden around 1625, when he was just eighteen. Rembrandt and Lievens worked closely together, likely sharing models, ideas and possibly even studio space, in a relationship of friendly but intense artistic rivalry. Such rivalries are not uncommon for artists, we think of Michelangelo and Raphael, or Picasso and Matisse, but these competitive rivalries are also well-known in science, the race for DNA structure, for instance, or deciphering the genetic code.
The competition between Rembrandt and Lievens becomes clear when we compare their two self-portraits. Both paintings rely on strong chiaroscuro, the contrast between light and shadow. In Rembrandt’s self-portrait, the light falls from above and slightly to the side, leaving the eyes partly hidden in shadow beneath the brow. This lighting creates an air of introspection and mystery. Rather than clearly presenting his identity, Rembrandt emphasizes mood and psychological depth. The face emerges gradually from darkness, giving the impression of an internal, contemplative moment. Lievens’ self-portrait also uses dramatic lighting, but to a different effect. The illumination reveals the facial features more directly, highlighting structure and surface rather than concealing them. Lievens focuses on bold physical presence and theatrical expression, giving his subject a striking, almost monumental quality. His brushwork and lighting emphasize the solidity of the head and turn of the face. The close relationship between the two artists, their use of the same painting technologies, the similarity of their technical and artistic challenges, and their spirit of competition are very similar to how scientists work at MDI Bio Lab. Dedicated to solving specific problems, they share technology and experience but ultimately arrive at individual solutions. These are shared features of both art and science. Communication is key, as is working toward a common goal in a spirit of friendly competition. Both fields demand hard work and lead—at their best—to success.
Our two painters were indeed highly successful. Both were young, ambitious and eager to push portraiture beyond simple likeness toward dramatic expression and narrative presence. We learn about their rivalry from the autobiography of Constantijn Huygens, the distinguished poet, diplomat and secretary to two Princes of Orange, who visited their studios between 1628 and 1629 and recorded his impressions with striking enthusiasm. He wrote, “I have never seen such devotion and persistence in boys of that age. They are truly prodigies. If one must make a distinction, Lievens surpasses Rembrandt in inventive power and boldness of conception, while Rembrandt excels in judgment and expressive sensitivity.” And, “I have deliberately reserved for last a noble pair of youths from Leiden. Were I to say that they alone can vie with the greatest among the superior mortals mentioned earlier, I would still be underestimating the merits of these two; were I to say that they will soon surpass them, I would merely be expressing what their astonishing beginnings have led connoisseurs to expect.”Rembrandt and Lievens both grappled with what we might call the “scientific” problems of their art: the handling of color, light and shadow, anatomical accuracy, and the convincing placement of figures within pictorial space. Yet the outcomes of their experiments could be strikingly different. Comparing Lievens’ self-portrait with its eyes dramatically cast in shadow, to Rembrandt’s explorations of similar motifs, we recognize a shared technique of light and dark, yet encounter two profoundly distinct artistic personalities.2 One can almost imagine standing in their studios, watching these two competitors at work and listening to their debates about who had achieved the more successful experiment. Rembrandt and Lievens manipulate light to create psychological depth, suggesting that perception is interpretive. These approaches mirror philosophical debates about whether knowledge arises from rational intuition or sensory data.3
Rembrandt in Training—The Series of Five Senses
As mentioned, a central challenge for Rembrandt—and for painters of his generation more broadly—was how to depict emotion and facial expression convincingly. In the Leiden Collection we encounter some of his earliest explorations of this problem. The five small paintings from 1628 known as the series of Five Senses are exemplary studies in light and shadow, as well as in the rendering of varied expressions. Looking at the three paintings before us, we are struck by the remarkable range of emotions Rembrandt sought to capture—and by the many experiments in chiaroscuro he undertook. Each panel dramatizes a distinct emotional state tied to a specific sense. In the first panel Allegory of Hearing, we can see the figures lean in with quiet concentration and mild curiosity, suggesting attentive listening. In Allegory of Smell a young patient is treated with a handkerchief soaked in strong shows discomfort or disgust, with wrinkled noses and recoiling gestures reacting to an unpleasant odor. Finally, Allegory of Touch emphasizes pain or shock, with tense expressions and defensive body language capturing the immediacy of physical sensation.
Rembrandt van Rijn, The Series of Five Senses, c. 1624–1625: Three Musicians (Allegory of Hearing); Unconscious Patient (Allegory of Smell); Stone Operation (Allegory of Touch). The Leiden Collection
I am always impressed by the relentless energy of Rembrandt (and Lievens) to repeat the same “experiment” over and over again, trying to find the optimal representative mode, changing conditions, colors, shadows, light and composition.4 Numerous surviving examples show how frequently Rembrandt used his own face to study expressions. It is easy to imagine him standing before a mirror, testing grimaces and subtle shifts of feeling, striving to record each nuance with precision. What we may see as studies in psychology, comparable to taking modern-day “selfies” to catch glimpses of our personalities (very often this is how Rembrandt’s many self-portraits are interpreted), is better understood as a continuous effort to grasp different emotions and a persistent pursuit of excellence in mastering the representation of nature. In this respect, his practice resembles that of a young scientist in a laboratory: learning to master techniques, experimenting with tools and repeating trials in pursuit of a successful result. Painting, for Rembrandt, was a process of investigation. His painting process itself is empirical. Rather than relying on abstract, idealized allegories, he looks at real people in real situations and studies what actually happens. The approach of painting from life mirrors the broader scientific move toward observation and experiment. In the 17th century, painters and philosophers were deeply concerned with how the senses provide knowledge—and how they deceive us. By showing senses under stress, misjudgment or discomfort, the series touches on questions that are central to early modern science: Are our perceptions reliable? How do we interpret sensory data?
The Artist in his “Laboratory”
Attributed to Gerrit Dou, Self-Portrait (?) at an Easel, c. 1628–29. The Leiden Collection
The next painting from the Leiden Collection offers us a glimpse into an artist’s workshop—“laboratory”—where all the tools are ready to start the experiment of painting. Self-Portrait(?) at an Easel is by Gerrit Dou, Rembrandt’s first student in his Leiden studio and was painted c. 1628–1629. Dou was born in Leiden in 1612 (five years after Rembrandt) and stayed there his whole life as a successful painter. In the painting, we see a young artist gazing out at the viewer while seated before a large canvas on a wooden easel.5 His direct gaze suggests that his scene incorporates some aspect of the real world, one that implicitly involves us. The scene contains all of the ingredients necessary for painting. Wooden stretchers of different shapes lean against the back wall, and in the foreground there is a chest is filled with costly vessels of silver and gold, exotic fabrics, and a heavy chain with a medallion. On the floor we find a cuirass (body armor), plumed helmet, and various textiles. In addition, we can see a large book (associated with the humanities or sciences), and a horn (associated with the muse of history). The artist starting his painting in this image is confronted with the same problems a scientist faces in his laboratory when starting an experiment. The preparation of the panel and the generation and mixing of paint colors for specific purposes such as the painting of skin, silk, fur or precious metals, provides us with everything which is needed to make a painting. As in science both the intellectual effort, to find the right approach to the problem, and the manual virtuosity to carry out the experiment go hand in hand.
Rembrandt van Rijn, Artist in his Studio, c. 1628. Zoe Oliver Sherman Collection
I would like to compare the painting by Dou with a small painting by Rembrandt which shows him also in his studio. The painting is now in the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, Massachusetts. Painted around 1628, Rembrandt’s The Artist in his Studio presents a striking spatial drama. The young artist appears small, almost engulfed by the towering blank canvas before him and squeezed between the large table on his right and the huge stone for grinding colors beside him. The studio is dimly lit; walls loom with shadow (we can now appreciate Rembrandt’s obsession with light and shadow); the central easel dominates the composition. The disproportionately large canvas suggests both ambition and uncertainty. The painter confronts a surface that exceeds him, visually dramatizing the intellectual challenge of representation. The grinding stone next to him and the utensils needed underline the experimental nature of the scene. The artist is quite isolated in this self-portrait, implying inward reflection and independent investigation. In addition, the limited, directional light recalls experiments with chiaroscuro, but also the empirical observation central to scientific inquiry and may underscore my interpretation of Rembrandt in the laboratory. Rembrandt’s studio resembles a chamber of contemplation, and the emptiness of the canvas parallels the blank page of a scientist preparing to test hypotheses. The painter does not simply execute a commission; he investigates reality.
In 17th-century Dutch culture observation, measurement and experimentation defined scientific authority. Painting was not merely a craft, but an intellectual pursuit intertwined with optics, anatomy, natural philosophy and an emerging scientific culture. Rembrandt’s visual language in this painting aligns with this culture of inquiry. The dramatic use of light suggests close empirical study of optical phenomena, while the physicality of paint underscores engagement with material processes. For me, the painter becomes a scientist: a solitary observer interrogating the visible world. The painter’s studio parallels the laboratory: a controlled environment for studying light, texture, and form.
The two paintings by Dou and Rembrandt are quite different in this respect. Rembrandt embodies experimental imagination and psychological inquiry; Dou represents systematic observation and technical control. Together, they reveal a cultural moment in which painting aligned itself with emerging scientific ideals. The studio became a laboratory. The canvas became a site of experiment. And the painter emerged not merely as craftsman, but as investigator of nature—an intellectual figure whose work paralleled, and sometimes rivaled, that of the scientist.
Art Meets Science: It is all about technology—and how to use it
Johannes Vermeer, Young Woman Seated at a Virginal, c. 1670–75. The Leiden Collection
The last Leiden Collection painting of our tour is Young Woman Seated at a Virginal (c. 1670) by Johannes Vermeer. Vermeer painted in Delft, the Netherlands between 1670–75, approximately 50 miles south of Amsterdam and not far from Leiden. Today, Vermeer is famous for his use of light and shadows, for the delicate toning of his paintings and the balanced composition of his subjects within the frame of the picture. His paintings have become fashionable and famous, paintings like Girl with a Pearl Earring (c. 1665) has been printed on countless posters, postcards and cups. The 2023 Vermeer retrospective exhibition at the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam saw more than a 600,000 visitors in four months.
Young Woman Seated at a Virginal is a small painting. It depicts a young woman wearing a white satin skirt, a yellow woolen shawl, red and white ribbons in her hair and a string of pearls. She sits at a virginal, an early keyboard instrument. She is captured in a moment of stilled intimacy, with her fingers resting on the keys as she gazes directly at the viewer with a slight, enigmatic smile. As in the other paintings we have looked at during our tour, light and shadow play an important role in this composition. Broad day light enters from the top left, illuminating her face and the textures of her clothing. The scene is set against a plain, wall that emphasizes the figure and instrument.
Our conception of the atmospheric beauty of Vermeer’s paintings seems to be in sharp contrast with science and technology, but it was especially Vermeer’s paintings where the question “Was technology used to make this painting?” was raised and discussed.
Illustration of a portable camera obscura device from Johann Sturm’s Collegium experimentale, sive curiosum, 1676. Public domain
As I have mentioned before, the 17th century in the Netherlands was a period of extraordinary artistic, scientific and technological development. Within this environment, painting reached new heights of realism and observational precision. Important to this development was the increasing use and understanding of the camera obscura—a simple yet powerful optical device that projected an image of the external world onto a surface first used by artists in the 15th century. The camera obscura not only influenced the techniques and aesthetics of Dutch painters such as Johannes Vermeer, but also played a pivotal role in shaping contemporary scientific debates about sight and perception. By bridging art and science, the camera obscura became a crucial tool for rethinking how humans see and understand the world.
The term camera obscura (Latin for “dark chamber”) refers to a device that projects an inverted image of the outside scene onto a surface inside a darkened space. At its simplest, it consists of a dark room or box with a small hole or lens on one side. Light rays entering through the aperture cross and form a reversed image on the opposite wall. By the 17th century, lenses and mirrors were often added to improve clarity and brightness. Domestic interiors, cityscapes, and still lifes were rendered with astonishing attention to detail. Artists carefully depicted textures—metal gleaming, fabrics shimmering in soft light.
Although the basic principle had been known since antiquity, it gained renewed attention during the Scientific Revolution. Natural philosophers such as Johannes Kepler and René Descartes refined the optical explanation of image formation, describing how light rays travel in straight lines and how the eye itself functions like a camera obscura. The camera obscura thus became more than a tool; it was a demonstration of the laws of optics. It offered tangible proof that the visible world could be analyzed in terms of geometry, light and measurable phenomena. This mechanical and objective understanding of vision resonated strongly with Dutch painters, whose works increasingly emphasized precise perspective, accurate light effects, and convincing spatial depth.
The camera obscura contributed to this new visual language in several ways. First, it enhanced perspective accuracy. When an artist viewed a scene through the device, the projection already contained correct linear perspective. In works attributed to Vermeer, for example, scholars have observed subtle optical effects consistent with camera obscura imagery: slight blurring of background elements, bright highlights appearing as circular points (sometimes called circles of confusion), and a photographic sense of cropping.
Second, the camera obscura altered the perception of light. The projected image softened edges and heightened contrasts between illuminated and shadowed areas. Painters could observe how light diffused across surfaces, creating a luminous atmosphere. This may help explain the distinctive glow and tonal unity in Vermeer’s interiors. Rather than outlining forms sharply, he often allowed them to emerge gradually from shadow, mirroring the tonal transitions visible in a projected image.6
Engraving of a “portable” camera obscura from Athanasius Kircher’s Ars Magna Lucis Et Umbrae, 1645.
The debate over the use of the camera obscura in 17th‑century Dutch painting centers on whether artists like Vermeer relied on this optical device merely as an aid or as a core part of their pictorial thinking. It remains debated whether artists traced projected images directly or simply used the device as a visual aid. Regardless of the degree of reliance, the camera obscura influenced artistic perception. It trained painters to think in terms of light/dark values and optical effects rather than solely in terms of line and symbolic representation. In this way, it supported a broader cultural movement toward empirical observation and naturalism. The camera obscura debate is crucial because it reframes Dutch painting not just as faithful realism but as an early engagement with technologies of seeing. It shows how artists were experimenting with new ways of translating optical experience into paint, anticipating later photographic vision and underscoring the interplay between scientific instruments, perception, and artistic innovation in the Dutch Golden Age.
The importance of the camera obscura as a foundational technology in art resembles the controversy over technology and individual talent and genius in science. The claim that everything in modern science is about technology, and there are no new ideas but only new technologies is provocative. It has been put forward by important scientists such as Sidney Brenner (Noble Prize in Physiology or Medicine, 2002). Brenner was famous for arguing that by the late 20th century further scientific breakthroughs would come mainly from powerful new technologies—especially methods for sequencing, manipulating, and analyzing DNA and cells. This rightly points to how deeply contemporary science is shaped by instruments—telescopes, particle accelerators, gene sequencers supercomputers—and how new technologies open entire domains of inquiry that were previously unreachable.
A mesoSPIM (mesoscale selective plane illumination microscopy) is an open-source, high-speed 3D light-sheet microscope designed to image large cleared tissues, such as entire mouse brains, with micrometer-level resolution. Photo courtesy of mesoSPIM
For example, CRISPR didn’t just refine genetics; it enabled qualitatively new experiments and questions about editing life. At MDI Bio Lab we are aiming at newer and better microscopes to gain insight into cellular and molecular mechanisms and use novel mathematical tools to better understand the complexity of nature.
Yet, as I have argued here, these technological advances rest on, and in turn generate, conceptual breakthroughs that change how we think, interpret data and define problems. Technology and ideas form a feedback loop—better tools expose anomalies that demand new theories, and new theories guide the design of better tools. To reduce modern science or the art of Vermeer and his contemporaries to technology alone is to ignore this interplay and to underestimate how much of scientific progress still hinges on imaginative, abstract rethinking of what the world is and how it works.
1 This famous painting is now in The Mauritshuis in The Hague, Netherlands, and is the subject of another Art Meets Science lecture at MDI Biological Laboratory, The Science and Art of Forearms—Rembrandt’s Anatomy Lesson of Dr. Tulp, 1632.
2 There are, of course, additional reasons for the differences between the two portraits. Around 1632, Lievens left Leiden for London. He worked at the court of Charles I of England and was strongly influenced by Anthony van Dyck (Flemish Baroque artist, 1599–1641). The portrait in the Leiden collection reflects already this courtly style in the manner of van Dyck.
3 René Descartes, the famous philosopher lived in Amsterdam between 1628 and 1642. During his stays in the city, he worked on drafts of La Dioptrique (Dioptrics) and Les Météores (The Meteors). While not next-door neighbors with Rembrandt, they lived within the same part of Amsterdam within a few minutes’ walk of the city’s main bridges and canals. Both men shared the prominent patron, poet and diplomat Constantijn Huygens, which has led historians to believe they may have known each other directly.
4 From early accounts in the diary of Constantijn Huygens, we know that Rembrandt worked with relentless dedication—so intensely, in fact, that Huygens worried about the young artist’s health. When Huygens visited Rembrandt and Lievens in Leiden, he was worried about their health: “They devote themselves entirely to their art, and for the sake of painting they even neglect the prime of their youth. They give no thought to the pleasures proper to their age; they spend all their time in the studio, so that one may fear for their health if they continue with such excessive zeal.”
5 In general, artists in the 17th century sat while they were painting.
6 The influence of the camera obscura extended beyond the studio into scientific discourse. During the 17th century, scholars sought to understand the mechanisms of sight in increasingly mechanical and mathematical terms. René Descartes famously compared the eye to a camera obscura, arguing that light forms an image on the retina much as it does on the interior surface of a darkened room. This analogy reinforced the idea that vision is a physical process governed by optics. The eye was no longer a mysterious organ imbued with spiritual power; it was an instrument subject to natural laws.