In Van Leeuwenhoek’s and Vermeer’s time, it was acknowledged that daring to know required, first of all, daring to see. One enduring legacy of their age is the casting off of authority—both the authority of dogmatic religious systems and that of ancient texts and worldviews—in the attempt to know the natural world. The rejection of religious authority did not require the wholesale rejection of religion: Van Leeuwenhoek, like the other early microscopists, saw the glory of God in the tiny worlds he peered into, and Vermeer began and ended his career with pictures featuring religious iconography.*1 There is no clear parting of the ways between science and religion here, but it is a break from past scientific methods, and past ways of regarding religious authority. Knowledge of nature was now acknowledged to require seeing for oneself, not learning from the Bible or the texts of Aristotle filtered through medieval monks or, for that matter, the classic manuals on perspective theory. In this period natural philosophers and painters alike began to throw off the yoke of authority and tradition and focus on understanding nature on its own terms. Van Leeuwenhoek had dared to know, and by so daring had climbed to the top of the mountain of our senses and looked beyond. Without that kind of daring, modern science as we know it would not—could not—exist.
Vermeer, too, had dared to see, and dared to know. He and other like-minded painters—especially in the Dutch Republic—followed Van Hoogstraten’s call to “investigate nature” for themselves. These painters began to look through magnifying glasses and convex lenses, examine mirror reflections, and experiment with camera obscuras to come to know the natural world and the life existing within it—people, fruits and flowers, insects, snails, even the lowly slug. Employing a camera obscura, Vermeer had dared to see what other, earlier painters had missed. And he dared to record these sights on canvas, even at the expense of classical forms and traditional methods of depicting light, shadow, color, and perspective.
The most radical influence of the seventeenth century on our time is the realization that seeing requires more than simply opening one’s eyes and passively receiving sense impressions—one needs to learn how to engage in attentive looking, often with instruments, to make sense of the world around us. In the age of Vermeer and Van Leeuwenhoek, “investigating nature” began to mean seeing it literally in a new light, with the lenses of a telescope, microscope, or camera obscura. This new way of seeing was transcribed in paint by Vermeer and his fellow Dutch artists, who created pictures in which light streams into dark rooms, as if to let sunshine sweep away the cobwebs of dusty ancient thought, rooms in which we see people caring for their children, reading letters, drinking wine, sweeping the floor, entertaining visitors. The legacy of this time is its insistence on daring to see—an undertaking that Van Leeuwenhoek and his microscopes, and Vermeer with his camera obscura, so brilliantly embraced.
IN VERMEER’S The Astronomer, a man, perhaps modeled on Van Leeuwenhoek, stands in his study, the bright sunlight suffusing into the darkened room and illuminating a celestial globe on the carpet-covered table. The natural philosopher grasps the globe in his large right hand, as if the very heavens—or the knowledge of the heavens—are within his grip. In the dark shadow behind him we see part of a painting by Hooke’s master Peter Lely—a painting depicting Moses, who is described in the Acts of the Apostles as “learned in all the wisdom of Egypt.” Ancient knowledge lies in the dark, while the new science is illuminated. Although we see no optical instrument in the painting, we know that, later this night, the astronomer will be taking a telescope to the sky to add to the knowledge that has already been mapped on the globe. In this image of past and future science, Vermeer puts the future into the light. It is the new way of seeing, he tells us, that will allow us to behold a new world.
*1 Christ in the House of Mary and Martha (1654–55) and Allegory of the Catholic Faith (1670–74).
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Picture Section
Acknowledgements
Notes
Bibliography
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Laura Snyder
An invitation from the publisher
Picture Section
Joris Hoefnagel, Animalia rationalia et insecta, ca. 1575.
Hoefnagel used a magnifying glass to observe insects and other animals.
National Gallery of Art, Washington
Rachel Ruysch, Still Life with Flowers in a Glass Vase, ca. 1690.
Ruysch, like many of the Dutch flower painters, used a magnifying glass to observe her specimens.
Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam
Francesco Stelluti, drawing of a bee and its parts, 1630.
This is one of the earliest published drawings made from observations with a microscope.
Wellcome Library, London
Leeuwenhoek microscopes.
Wellcome Library, London
Cornelis de Man, Anatomy Lesson of Cornelis ’s Gravesande, 1681.
Leeuwenhoek is behind the anatomist’s left shoulder, with his hand over his heart.
Collection Museum Prinsenhof, Delft, The Netherlands. Photograph: Tom Haartsen
Johannes Verkolje, portrait of Antoni van Leeuwenhoek, ca. 1686.
Leeuwenhoek, at fifty-four, is shown with a pair of dividers, a globe, and what might be a map—the tools of a surveyor.
Wellcome Library, London
Johannes Vermeer, Diana and Her Companions, ca. 1653–54.
Vermeer’s early painting Diana and Her Companions may have been influenced by his seeing Rembrandt’s Bathsheba.
Mauritshuis, The Hague
Rembrandt van Rijn, The Toilet of Bathsheba, 1643.
Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York/Bequest of Benjamin Altman, 1913
Johannes Vermeer, The Procuress, 1656.
It is believed that the man on the left side holding a glass is a self-portrait of Vermeer.
Gemaeldegalerie Alte Meister, Staatliche Kunstammlungen, Dresden, Germany Photograph: Erich Lessing/Art Resource, NY
Carel Fabritius, A View of Delft, 1652.
Fabritius most likely used a double-concave lens to paint this picture.
National Gallery, London/Art Resource, NY
Johannes Torrentius, Emblematic Still Life with Flagon, Glass, Jug and Bridle, 1614.
Torrentius is believed to have used a camera obscura.
Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam
Johannes Vermeer, A Maid Asleep, ca. 1656–57.
Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York/Bequest of Benjamin Altman, 1913
Johannes Vermeer, Cavalier and Young Woman, ca. 1657.
Vermeer most likely used a double-concave lens in composing these two pictures; in Cavalier and Young Woman, he emphasized the increased size of the man in the foreground.
Frick Collection, New York/Bridgeman Images
Ludovico Cigoli, drawing machine from Prospettiva pratica, ca. 1610–13.
Pablo Garcia/DrawingMachines.org
Giulio Troili, drawing machine from Paradossi per pratticare la prospettiva, 1683.
Pablo Garcia/DrawingMachines.org
Daniel Schwenter, camera obscura from Deliciae physico-mathematicae, 1636.
Pablo Garcia/DrawingMachines.org
Athanasius Kircher, camera obscura from Ars magna lucis et umbrae, 1646.
Pablo Garcia/DrawingMachines.org
Johann Zahn, reflex box camera obscura from Oculus artificialis teledioptricus, 1685.
Private Collection/Bridgeman Images
Johannes Vermeer, A View of Delft, ca. 1660–63.
This may be the first picture Vermeer painted using a camera obscura.
Mauritshuis, The Hague
Johannes Vermeer, The Milkmaid, ca. 1660.
Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam
Johannes Vermeer, Woman in Blue Reading a Letter, ca. 1665.
Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam
Johannes Vermeer, Girl with a Pearl Earring, ca. 1665.
On this paint
ing and the one below, the girls’ lips show light reflections that are identical. Vermeer may have wanted the pictures to look as though they were painted with a camera obscura.
Mauritshuis, The Hague
Johannes Vermeer, Girl with a Red Hat, ca. 1665–66.
National Gallery of Art, Washington
Daniël Vosmaer, View of Delft through an Imaginary Loggia, 1663.
Collection Museum Prinsenhof, Delft, The Netherlands (Loan Cultural Heritage Agency of the Netherlands) Photograph: Tom Haartsen
Pieter de Hooch, Interior with Women beside a Linen Cupboard, 1663.
Depictions of imaginary tiled floors were common in Delft painting.
Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam
Robert Hooke, Micrographia, with foldout image of a flea, 1665.
Wellcome Library, London
Robert Hooke, Micrographia, double-lens microscope, 1665.
Wellcome Library, London
Robert Hooke, Micrographia, Silks, 1665.
Wellcome Library, London
Antoni van Leeuwenhoek, the sperm of rabbits (1–4) and dogs (5–8), 1677.
Wellcome Library, London
Nicolaas Hartsoeker, homunculus, Essai de dioptrique, 1694.
Leeuwenhoek often sought the “little man” inside the sperm but never claimed to have seen one there.
Wellcome Library, London
Antoni van Leeuwenhoek, the development of the flea from egg to adult, 1695.
Wellcome Library, London
Johannes Vermeer, Young Woman Standing at a Virginal, ca. 1670–73.
National Gallery, London/Art Resource, NY
Johannes Vermeer, Young Woman Seated at a Virginal, ca. 1670–75.
National Gallery, London/Art Resource, NY
Acknowledgments
WRITING THIS BOOK has been, figuratively as well as literally, a beautiful experience. I am grateful to all those who helped make it possible.
I first mentioned the idea of writing about Leeuwenhoek and Vermeer while I was on the telephone with my friend Lisa Hellerstein during the Boxing Day blizzard of 2010 in New York City. Her enthusiasm then, and throughout the process of researching and writing the book, has been priceless, as is her friendship.
During my research trip to the Netherlands, Tiemen Cocquyt and Mieneke te Hennepe of the Boorhaeve Museum in Leiden spent the day with me, showed me the original Leeuwenhoek microscopes in the collection, and answered my questions about the optical technology of the day. Tiemen provided some useful sources of information and was kind enough to answer queries that arose while I was writing the book. I thank them, as well as Dirk van Delft of the museum for arranging our meeting. I am also grateful to Eveline Kaiser at the Gemeente Delft/Archief Delft for answering several questions and to Faye Cliné of the Mauritshuis for her kind assistance.
I had the invaluable opportunity to talk about microscopes old and new with two experts: Sara Schechner of the Collection of Historical Scientific Instruments at Harvard and Ned Friedman of Harvard University and the Arnold Arboretum. I still hope we will set up a microscope summit.
This book has also provided me with the excuse to take some wonderful classes at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I thank the education department there, and the teachers of the two courses I joined, Elizabeth Perkins and Ines Powell. Later I spent a lovely afternoon in the galleries with Elizabeth looking at pictures and discussing reflections, mirrors, and lenses. I also thank Maryan Ainsworth, Andrea Beyer, and Michael Gallagher for the gallery portions of the classes.
I’ve enjoyed the chance to meet and talk with artists who provided insight into the way they use technology to help them see the world in new ways. Thanks to Jerry Marks, who showed me his work using 3-D photography, and Gretchen Andrus Andrews, who chatted with me about her work with Google Glass. I also thank Donnée Festen in Amsterdam, who let me use a muller to mix paint at the Rembrandthuis and answered some questions about making pigment in the seventeenth century. Pablo Garcia has my gratitude for offering me his expertise on perspectographs and pantographs. He also generously shared with me—and my readers—his own images of drawing machines.
I am grateful to Bruno Giussani, Cynthia MacMullin, Eric Schliesser, Steffen Ducheyne, Phil Barnett, Amy Gohlany, Jeremy Bangs, Wim Klever, Kees Kaldenbach, Jim Lennox, Bob Richards, and Leila Rafla-Demetrious for conversations about the topics of this book and for answering some questions that arose while I worked on it. I thank Katalin Torok, once again, for a place to land in London, and Marc Nolan, Melissa Bender, Neil Schluger, and Magda Sobieszczyk for getting me back on my feet when illness nearly derailed this project. Thanks go to St. John’s University, especially to Jeff Fagen and Paul Gaffney, for support of many kinds.
Oliver Sacks graciously invited me to his home for tea and a lively discussion of Vermeer, Leeuwenhoek, visual perception, and learning to see. Walter Liedtke of the Metropolitan Museum of Art has also been generous with his time. I am grateful to them both, not only for meeting with me but also for their writings, which have, in different ways, inspired me while writing the book.
Howard Morhaim, my wonderful agent and dear friend, provided advice, criticism, praise, and kindness in just the right recipe. In John Glusman I have found an editor par excellence whose brilliant insights transformed the book in a fundamental way, and made it so much better. It was like a kind of editorial alchemy. I also thank John’s assistant, Jonathan Baker; the book’s designer, Brooke Koven; the production manager, Anna Oler; and the entire Norton team.
No book of this kind could be written without the expertise and assistance of librarians and archivists, and I am happy to acknowledge my gratitude to those at the following institutions in New York City: the New York Public Library, the Frick Research Library, the Watson Library of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the New York Society Library, and St. John’s University Library. I thank as well the librarians at the Royal Society of London, especially Joanna Corden for arranging the visit and Felicity Henderson for an impromptu discussion of Robert Hooke and ink. I am also grateful to the Six family for accepting my last-minute request to visit the Six Collection in Amsterdam.
Nor could a long-term project like this be successfully undertaken without the support of friends. In New York I am fortunate indeed to have a circle of women writers with whom I can both commiserate and celebrate the writing process: Lauren Belfer, Diane Cole, and Evie Manieri. They are beautiful writers and lovely human beings. My work—and my life—have been enriched by knowing them. Sarit Golub, David Greenberg, Leigh McGinty, Franses Simonovich, Pam and Ed Rappaport, Cynthia Rubin, and Somerset and Wieska Waters have provided encouragement and friendship at every step of the way.
My son, Leo Giorgini, helped me on this project in many specific ways, including improving some infelicitous section titles. He also gave me advice useful to any writer: always end the workday when you are happy with what you’ve written, so you are eager to get back to it the next morning. I think he’s the real writer in the family.
Finally, this book is dedicated to John P. McCaskey. He’s made my life as lovely and luminous as a Vermeer.
Notes
ABBREVIATIONS
AB
Alle de brieven van Antoni van Leeuwenhoek = The Collected Letters of Antoni van Leeuwenhoek, 15 vols.
AvL
Antoni van Leeuwenhoek
DTB Delft
Gemeentearchief Delft, Register of Baptisms, Marriages and Burials
MMA
Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York
RSL
Royal Society of London
PROLOGUE: MORE THAN MEETS THE EYE
1 In the small Dutch city: On the location and layout of his study, see AvL to Oldenburg, Oct. 9, 1676, Alle de breiven [AB], 2:85.
1 Like most of the windows: See Swillens, Johannes Vermeer, p. 115.
2 “the motion of … these animalcules”: AvL to Oldenburg, Sept. 7, 1674, AB, 1:163–65.
3 Earlier versions were simply: According
to some sources, the box-type camera obscura was developed around 1590–1600. See Delsaute, “The Camera Obscura and Painting,” p. 111. By 1622 Cornelis Drebbel seems to have made box-type cameras and told Constantijn Huygens that he was merely modifying earlier designs. See part 5. Robert Boyle described a “portable darkened room” that he had built “some years ago” in his “Of the Systematicall and Cosmical Qualities of Things” (1669), and Johann Zahn depicted two kinds of box-type camera obscuras in his Oculus artificialis teledioptricus (1685–86). See Wenczel, “The Optical Camera Obscura II,” pp. 17–18. Robert Hooke presented a portable-type camera obscura to the Royal Society of London in 1668, as well as later versions in 1680 and 1694. So there is no doubt that by 1674 a box-type camera would have been available to Vermeer, had he wanted to use one.
Eye of the Beholder: Johannes Vermeer, Antoni van Leeuwenhoek, and the Reinvention of Seeing Page 37