Tag: Gemäldegalerie Berlin

John on Patmos and the Book of Revelation

John on Patmos and the Book of Revelation

The Apocalypse, a vision for all times

Now that I have written about Albrecht Dürer’s Life of the Virgin, I became intrigued by another of his most famous works, the Apocalypse. I occasionally encounter woodcut prints from this series in exhibitions, and they have always struck me as unsettling and mysterious. Images of four horsemen, a book with seven seals, Babylon and its whore, the end of days, and the last judgement raise an obvious question: what is all this about?

It sounds dark and frightening, and in many ways it is. I learned that Dürer based his Apocalypse series on the final book of the New Testament, the Book of Revelation. That discovery led me to ask who wrote this text and why it speaks in such extreme images.

What John records are visions revealed to him during his exile on Patmos, visions of catastrophe, judgement, but also renewal. Reading them today, it is striking how closely they echo our own time. Climate change, environmental destruction, authoritarian power, war, famine, and corruption all appear in the Book of Revelation. Born from exile and persecution, the text reads less like a theological work and more like a warning that continues to speak to the present.

I also discovered where Patmos is, a small Greek island at the far eastern edge of the Mediterranean Sea. Now I find myself wanting to go there, to spend time in contemplation, and perhaps to recover a sense of hope in these dark and uncertain times.

Let’s start exploring.

Albrecht Dürer’s Apocalypse series consists of fifteen woodcut prints, published in 1498, just a few years before the year 1500, a moment charged with fear and expectation that many believed could mark the end of days foretold in the Book of Revelation. From this series, I will focus on four key images: John put in a pot of boiling oil, the Four Horsemen, the Whore of Babylon, and the Apocalyptic Woman.

Alongside Dürer’s prints, I will also include medieval Apocalypse manuscripts from the centuries before him. Images from these books were widely familiar in the Middle Ages, and Dürer clearly builds upon this tradition while transforming it through the power of print, which made such images available to a far wider public.

We begin by asking what the Book of Revelation is and who its author was, a figure known as John on Patmos. We will follow John’s path into exile and ask how and why he ended up on Patmos, far to the east in the Mediterranean Sea, where his visions were revealed.

The Book of Revelation

The Book of Revelation is the final book of the New Testament, written in the late first century by John of Patmos, traditionally identified with John the Evangelist. Composed as a series of visions revealed to its author, it describes the Apocalypse, from the Greek word ἀποκάλυψις, literally meaning “an uncovering” or “a lifting of the veil”, rather than the end of the world alone. The book’s name in Dutch is Openbaring.

John, exiled to the island of Patmos during the reign of the Roman emperor Domitian, recounts a vision revealed to him by an angel and commanded to be made known. Written at the far eastern edge of the Roman Empire in the late first century and addressed to persecuted Christian communities, the text speaks in a language of terror and hope, warning and consolation.

Why is John on Patmos?

According to early Christian tradition, John was arrested during the reign of the emperor Domitian and brought to Rome, where he was condemned for his faith. Medieval sources recount that he was subjected to martyrdom by immersion in boiling oil, an ordeal from which he emerged unharmed, a sign of divine protection. Dürer’s print visualizes this moment of failed execution, emphasizing both the brutality of Roman authority and the impossibility of silencing the witness.

Unable to destroy him, the emperor instead ordered John into exile. He was banished to the small island of Patmos, at the far eastern edge of the Roman Empire, a place used for political and religious dissidents rather than common criminals. It is there, removed from centers of power yet still under imperial control, that John received the visions recorded in the Book of Revelation, transforming an act of punishment into a moment of revelation.

John’s visions

John’s vision begins with a throne set in heaven. In the hand of the one seated on the throne lies a sealed book, which only the lamb is worthy to open, the lamb being the symbol of Christ, slain and offered through his crucifixion. With the breaking of the seven seals, history itself is set in motion.

The opening of the seals unleashes four horsemen, bringers of conquest, war, famine, and death. Earthquakes follow, the sun is darkened, and the moon turns to blood. Trumpets sound, and the world is struck by fire, pestilence, darkness, and monstrous plagues. These are not random disasters, but signs of a world unraveling under tyranny, violence, and corruption.

Towards the end of the Book of Revelation, after disasters followed by judgment, comes renewal. Evil is bound, the dead are raised, and a new world is revealed, a luminous city of jasper walls and golden streets, where suffering has no place and history reaches its long promised end.

The Four Horsemen

In The Four Horsemen, the most famous woodcut from his Apocalypse series of 1498, Albrecht Dürer gives visual form to one of the most terrifying passages of the Book of Revelation. As the Lamb opens the first four seals of the sealed book, four riders are released upon the world, each mounted on a horse and entrusted with a destructive force that shapes human history.

Earlier illustrated Bibles often presented the horsemen as isolated figures or symbolic types. Dürer transforms the vision into an overwhelming surge of movement. The four horses and riders thunder diagonally across the image, compressed into a single, unstoppable wave that tramples everything beneath them. Death leads the charge, followed by Famine, War, and Conquest, their forms overlapping and interlocking so tightly that they appear as a single force rather than four separate agents.

Each rider carries a distinct attribute drawn from the biblical text. Number one bears a bow and crown, associated with conquest and domination. The second one raises a sword, bringing war and the collapse of peace. The third horseman holds a pair of scales, symbol of famine, scarcity, and economic imbalance. The final rider, Death, carries no emblem at all. His power is absolute and needs no sign. On Dürer’s woodblock print, human bodies are crushed beneath the horses, while a monstrous jaw gapes open to swallow the fallen (a bishop in particular), a reminder that violence, hunger, and disease spare no one.

The print does not present disaster as random or meaningless. The horsemen are released only after the seals are opened, suggesting that destruction follows from human history itself, from conquest, war, inequality, and the abuse of power. Seen today, the image still resonates. The forces Dürer visualized at the end of the fifteenth century remain disturbingly familiar, reminding us that the Apocalypse, in its original sense of revelation, is an unveiling of patterns that repeat across time.

The Whore of Babylon

In the Whore of Babylon, Albrecht Dürer gives visual form to a disturbing and politically charged vision in the Book of Revelation. John describes a woman seated upon a scarlet beast with seven heads and ten horns, adorned in luxury and holding a golden cup, drunk with the blood of saints and martyrs. Behind her rises the doomed city of Babylon, already engulfed in flames, its destruction both imminent and deserved.

Dürer presents the whore as a figure of seductive authority. She sits confidently upon the multi headed beast. The golden goblet in her hand, an object of beauty and desire, contains corruption and violence. Her gaze is directed toward a group of richly dressed figures who look upon her with fascination and submission, while an armed multitude advances from above, suggesting the reach and complicity of worldly power.

The seven headed beast beneath her recalls the dragon of the Apocalyptic Woman (hereunder as Dürer’s next print), linking these beasts of evil into a single continuum of deception, domination, and abuse of authority. Babylon itself is not only a city but a system, a world built on excess, exploitation, and the commodification of human life. Its fall is mourned not by the innocent, but by kings and merchants whose wealth and influence depended upon it.

For Dürer’s contemporaries, his image spoke directly to anxieties about corrupt rulers, moral decay, and the entanglement of power, money, and violence. Seen today, the Whore of Babylon remains a haunting warning. It is a vision not of sudden catastrophe, but of a society undone by its own indulgence and indifference, a world that collapses precisely because it mistakes luxury and authority for justice and truth.

The Apocalyptic Woman and the Seven-Headed Dragon

In the Apocalyptic Woman and the Seven-Headed Dragon, Albrecht Dürer visualizes one of the most complex and symbol laden passages of the Book of Revelation. John describes a woman clothed with the sun, the moon beneath her feet, and a crown of twelve stars upon her head. Before her stands a monstrous dragon with seven heads and ten horns, waiting to devour her. A child is saved and taken up to God, while the woman flees, protected yet pursued. The Woman is interpreted as Mary and the Child as Christ. The Seven-Headed Dragon represents Satan and evil. This image is a good versus evil struggle.

Dürer transforms this vision into a tightly compressed drama. The woman appears serene yet vulnerable, elevated above the earthly realm, while the dragon coils below her in violent agitation. Its multiple heads and gaping mouths embody chaos, deception, and oppressive power, often interpreted as an image of empire and tyranny. The contrast is stark: divine order and promise above, destructive force below. The print is emphasizing that the struggle between good and evil is ongoing and not yet settled.

For contemporary viewers around 1500, this image resonated deeply. It echoed fears of political corruption, religious conflict, and looming catastrophe, while also offering reassurance that evil, however terrifying, would not ultimately prevail. The Apocalyptic Woman stands as a figure of endurance and hope, a reminder that this Revelation is not only a vision of destruction, but also of preservation, resistance, and eventual renewal.

Closing Notes

The Book of Revelation was written in a world marked by imperial violence, religious persecution, forced movement of people, and the abuse of power by an authority that claimed absolute legitimacy. The book’s visions are not fantasies of destruction for their own sake, but acts of unveiling: a refusal to accept oppression as normal or inevitable.

When Albrecht Dürer published his Apocalypse in 1498, Europe stood on the threshold of the year 1500, a moment charged with apocalyptic expectation. War, plague, religious anxiety, and social unrest shaped how these images were read. Dürer’s woodcuts force the viewer to recognize violence, false authority, and human suffering as part of a recurring historical pattern rather than a singular catastrophe.

Seen from our own time, marked by war, displacement, environmental destruction, and the misuse of power, the Revelations once again feel uncomfortably close. Yet the book does not ask us to endure these conditions in silence while waiting for a promised end. Its ultimate vision of a renewed world serves as a standard against which the injustices of the present are exposed.

Revelation’s “happy ending” does not cancel the horrors that precede it. The images confront every age with the same question: whether we recognize Babylon while living within it, and whether we still dare to imagine a world made new.

Pulling the Pretzel

Pulling the Pretzel

Het trekken aan de Krakeling

After writing about saints and sinners, prophets and heroes, I now turn to a more mundane subject: a playful tradition from 17th-century Holland known as pulling the pretzel, or in good old Dutch, het trekken aan de krakeling. A joyful occasion, it seems at first glance, but perhaps not without a deeper moral meaning.

Jan van Bijlert’s Pulling the Pretzel, in the Centraal Museum in Utrecht, depicts two men and two women seated at a table set with pretzels, butter, and salt. The group appears to be playing a game in which the person who pulls off the longer half of a shared pretzel wins. The usual title of the painting, Merry Company Eating Pretzels, is misleading, since the figures are not eating but engaged in the act of pulling the pretzel. At the back of the table, a man and woman share one pretzel, and the woman, using two fingers instead of only her pinky, cheats to improve her chances. Her partner notices but does not object, placing his arm around her shoulders and seeming more interested in her bosom. While across from them, another woman raises her glass in protest. The man beside her looks out of the painting, showing us viewers a pretzel and underscoring the two-finger-cheating.

The scene is festive on the surface, yet its meaning is more complex. Through its lively composition and direct engagement with the viewer, Van Bijlert combines humor and sensuality with an underlying allegory of human weakness, temptation, and the fragile balance between good and bad habits.

This gesture of pulling a pretzel is rare in Dutch painting, but it appears in Johan de Brune’s Emblemata, a book of moral emblems published in 1624. In that context, it symbolizes the human soul caught in a struggle between the forces of good and evil, between God and the devil. The pretzel itself, with its twisted form, becomes a metaphor. Its contorted shape reflects the spiritual confusion and moral weakness of humanity.

Pulling a pretzel also appears in Pieter Bruegel the Elder’s Netherlandish Proverbs, where the gesture is usually interpreted as illustrating the saying “to draw the long (or short) end.” In my view, this reading could be reconsidered. It may be more fitting to interpret it in light of the older tradition of “pulling the pretzel.”

Pretzels at the bakery

Let’s have a look at two paintings of bakers and their shops, with pretzels offered amongst the breads and rolls.

The Baker’s Couple by Jan Steen (Rijksmuseum) and The Baker by Gerrit Berckheyde (Worcester Art Museum), offer a celebration of bread and its makers. In both scenes, the bakers stand at the threshold of their shop, surrounded by a bounty of loaves, rolls, and pretzels arranged almost like a still life of abundance. With pride they present their freshly baked goods to the viewer. The presence of the baker’s horn, used to announce that the bread is ready, adds to the sense of interaction with the viewer. Pretzels appear in great numbers, not only as a popular food but perhaps also as a visual symbol that connects everyday life to deeper cultural and moral meanings, just as they do in Van Bijlert’s painting.

Pretzels in still life paintings

Two still lifes by Clara Peeters, one in the Prado and the other in the Mauritshuis, feature pretzels among the exquisitely painted objects. In the Prado version, a half-eaten pretzel suggests that someone has already been at the table, heightening the illusion that this is a moment captured from real life. These compositions are often said to contain vanitas themes, subtly referring to the fragility of life and the passage of time. For Peeters herself and for her contemporaries, however, the primary purpose could simply be the display of artistic virtuosity and the association of such objects with refined taste and social status.

Still, the presence of the pretzel, especially the broken one, may hint at a deeper layer of meaning. Like in Van Bijlert’s painting or the emblems of Johan de Brune, the pretzel could symbolize the human soul caught between virtue and temptation, between divine order and worldly desire. Whether intended or not, such readings remain possible.

In the end, it is all in the eye of the beholder.

Pretzels in manuscripts

To step further back in time, a miniature of the Last Supper from around 1030, part of an illuminated manuscript in the Getty Museum, shows a pretzel placed plainly on the table among other foods. And in the Hours of Catherine of Cleves, a richly decorated prayer book from around 1440, now in the Morgan Library & Museum, the border of one miniature is woven entirely from intertwined pretzels, forming a frame around the sacred image.

Closing notes

These appearances in paintings and manuscripts remind us that the pretzel was not always a symbol to be decoded. It was also an everyday food, a common bakery item, familiar to people of all ages and social ranks. Not everything has to carry a hidden meaning.

Sometimes, a pretzel is just a pretzel.

Hagar and her son Ishmael

Hagar and her son Ishmael

Ishmael and Isaac: children of one father.

It took me a few years writing this story about Hagar and her son Ishmael, and about Abraham, Ishmael’s father. And also about Sarah and her son Isaac, who is Ishmael’s half-brother. Ishmael and Isaac: they are children of one father.

It’s not difficult to find paintings on this subject. Many artists over the centuries have taken it up, drawn to the emotional and dramatic interaction between the figures. But I hesitated for a long time, because this story stands at a crossroads between Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. And over time, the story of Isaac and Ishmael as half-brothers – perhaps quarreling, as brothers do – has been used, or even abused, to explain political and religious tensions, especially in the long struggle between Arabs and Jews.

But that is not the story I want to tell. I want to approach it differently, as a story of shared origin. A story of children of one father.

Here are the topics we’ll explore, following the narrative of the Book of Genesis:

Let’s start!

Abraham, Sarah, Hagar, and Ishmael

Let’s begin at the very beginning. With that odd old couple, Abraham and Sarah, both well over a hundred years old, and still no children! But Sarah has an idea!

They had grown old together, and the hope of ever having a child seemed to have faded. In the biblical account, it is Sarah who suggests that Abraham have a child with her young Egyptian maidservant, Hagar. Sarah blamed herself for their childlessness, saying, “The Lord has kept me from having children.” So she offered Hagar to Abraham, hoping to build a family through her. Abraham agreed, and Hagar became pregnant. She gave birth to a son, and they named him Ishmael. Abraham was the father.

A son is promised to Sarah

Then comes the next phase in the story. One day, Abraham and Sarah receive an unexpected visitor: an angel! The story makes it clear that this is a messenger of God, appearing in disguise.

The angel’s message sounds completely unbelievable: Sarah, at her advanced age, will have a son within a year. Abraham is told this directly. And he reacts with a gesture, as we see in Jan Provoost’s painting from the Louvre. Pointing toward his wife as if to say, “Her? At her age?” Sarah, standing in the doorway on the right, overhears it. Her reaction is the most human of all: she laughs. The Hebrew text says she laughs “within herself,” a kind of private chuckle of disbelief. One might say: she laughed out loud. The biblical version of LOL.

The name of the promised child will be Isaac, which fittingly means “he laughs.”

Two brothers: Ishmael and Isaac

Now there are two sons, Ishmael and Isaac. Two brothers, both children of Abraham, but from different mothers. Ishmael, the older, is the son of Hagar, Sarah’s Egyptian servant. Isaac, the younger, is the long-awaited child of Sarah, the mistress of the house.

Though they share a father, their positions could not be more different. One is born of a servant, the other of a free woman. One is firstborn, the other the child of promise.

The story suggests that there was tension between the boys. They were probably like any brothers, playing, teasing, perhaps quarreling? But Sarah becomes concerned. Or perhaps protective. She sees something, maybe rivalry, maybe mischief, and she is not pleased. In some versions, Ishmael is mocking Isaac. In others, it’s more ambiguous. But Sarah is firm. She turns to Abraham and tells him what she wants: send Hagar and Ishmael away.

In the print above, which I use to illustrate this scene, you can see Sarah speaking to Abraham in the foreground, and in the background, the two boys playing, fighting, hard to tell which. But the tension is there.

Abraham sends Hagar and Ishmael away

This next moment in the story has stirred the imagination of many artists. The emotional weight is immense: father and son, torn apart. Hagar, the mother, cast out. And Sarah, determined to protect her own child.

The Bible gives us the core of what happens. Sarah sees the two boys, Isaac and Ishmael, and she turns to Abraham and says, “Get rid of that slave woman and her son. He is not going to share the inheritance with my son, Isaac. I won’t have it.”

Abraham is deeply upset. Ishmael is his son. He does not want to send him away. But he listens, because a voice tells him to. For Abraham that’s the voice of God reassuring him that Isaac is the one through whom the family line will be counted. But God also gives Abraham this promise: “I will make a nation of the descendants of Hagar’s son because he is your son too.” That nation, in Islamic tradition, will be the Arab people. Ishmael is seen as the ancestor of the Arabs, and his role is honored as a founding figure.

So Abraham rises early the next morning. He prepares food, gives Hagar a supply of water, and sends her away with Ishmael. And the two of them wander into the desert.

This moment, the sending away, has become a favorite subject for painters and printmakers. And it is easy to see why. It is a perfect scene to show all the emotions: Abraham’s pain, Hagar’s grief, Ishmael’s innocence, Sarah’s determination. And the stillness of the moment before the wilderness swallows them.

Hagar and Ishmael in the desert

And so, Hagar and her son Ishmael find themselves alone in the desert. When the water runs out, Hagar breaks. In panic she runs up and down between the hills in the desert, all the time the same circle, and no water!

She places the boy in the shade and walks away, just far enough so she doesn’t have to watch him die. She sits down, weeping. Her words are raw: “I don’t want to watch the boy die.” It’s despair in its purest form. But then something shifts. The text in Genesis tells us that God hears the boy’s cries. An angel calls to Hagar — not one she sees, but one she hears: “Hagar, what’s wrong? Do not be afraid! Go to your boy and comfort him, for I will make a great nation from his descendants.”

In that moment, Hagar opens her eyes. And there, suddenly, is a well. Water. Life. She runs to fill her container and gives Ishmael a drink.

Ishmael survives. He grows up in the wilderness. He has many children, and through his line, the people of the Arab deserts trace their ancestry. This moment of despair, transformed by courage and grace, becomes the beginning of a nation.

This story isn’t just one of near-death and rescue — it’s also a story of inner voice, of resilience pushed into action. The Bible says Hagar heard the angel, not saw him. Perhaps the angel was not a visible figure, but a message rising up from within: “Please do not give up, but give it another try. There is still hope.” In Carel Fabritius’ painting, this is shown beautifully — the angel stands behind Hagar. She does not see him. She hears him, as an inner message of encouragement. And that makes all the difference. The image of Hagar in the desert, distraught and fearing for Ishmael’s life, is also an image of hope. This moment symbolizes the resilience and faith that inspire perseverance, even in the darkest times.

Family reunion

There is something deeply moving in how these family ties circle back. According to Arab tradition, Abraham — known as Ibrahim — and his son Ishmael reconciled later in life. Together, they built the Kaaba in Mecca, which became the spiritual heart of Islam. The well Hagar discovered, now called the Zamzam well, still flows near the Kaaba, inside the Great Mosque.

And in the Jewish and Christian traditions, Isaac and Ishmael too found each other again. When Abraham died at the age of 175, it was both his sons, Isaac and Ishmael, who came together to bury him. As it is written in Genesis: “Abraham lived for 175 years, and he died at a ripe old age, having lived a long and satisfying life. He breathed his last and joined his ancestors in death. His sons Isaac and Ishmael buried him in the cave of Machpelah.”

So perhaps this story, often seen as the origin of division, also carries the seeds of reunion. Two brothers, children of one father!

Bonus: from desert to pilgrimage – Hagar’s legacy in Mecca

To bring the story of Hagar and Ishmael into our present day, we can look to the sacred city of Mecca, where Muslims from around the world travel each year to perform the Hajj, the holy pilgrimage. This city of 2.5 million inhabitants, visited by more than 20 million pilgrims annually, was built on the site in the desert where Hagar found water for Ishmael, named as the Zamzam well.

Great Mosque of Mecca (Masjid al-Haram).

Today, the Great Mosque of Mecca, the Masjid al-Haram, stands on this sacred ground. It is the most holy site in the Islamic world, and within its walls, several locations are directly tied to the story of Hagar, Ishmael, and Abraham (Ibrahim in the Islamic tradition):

  • The Kaaba — the cuboid-shaped building at the heart of the mosque and the most sacred site in Islam. It is the structure that, according to tradition, was built or rebuilt by Abraham and Ishmael, together as father and son.
  • The Hijr Ismail — a semicircular area adjacent to the Kaaba that pilgrims are not to walk upon. It marks the site where Abraham constructed a shelter for Hagar and Ishmael.
  • The Zamzam Well — the water source discovered by Hagar after hearing the angel’s message to keep searching. To this day, pilgrims can receive a five-liter bottle of Zamzam water.
  • Safa and Marwa — two small hills now enclosed within a covered passageway. This is where Hagar, in her desperation, ran back and forth seven times in search of water for her child. That journey is reenacted by pilgrims as part of the Hajj ritual.

So the footsteps of Hagar, a woman alone in the desert, a mother desperately searching for life for her son, are still being followed by millions today. Her strength, her voice, her perseverance have become a foundational memory in the faith of Islam.

Frans Hals

Frans Hals

Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam

16 February – 9 June 2024

The Rijksmuseum presents “Frans Hals, an exhibition of some 50 of the Dutch master’s greatest paintings, many on loan from top international collections.

Frans Hals (Antwerp c.1583 – Haarlem 1666) is regarded as one of the most innovative artists of the 17th century, for his brisk, impressionistic painting style. With unparalleled boldness and talent, he captured the vitality of his subjects – from stately regents to cheerful musicians and children – and made them live and breathe on the canvas. 

The Laughing Cavalier (1624), Frans Hals (Dutch, c.1583 – 1666), 83x67cm, Wallace Collection, London.

Frans Hals set himself the goal as a painter of capturing his subjects as the living, breathing, spirited people they were, in the most convincing manner possible. He achieved this by deliberately and courageously developing a unique style that was utterly original in Dutch 17th-century painting. Hals chose to use rapid brushwork to achieve an unprecedented sense of dynamism in his portraits. He is one of very few artists in the history of Western art to have successfully painted people smiling and laughing – most painters shied away from this challenge simply because it is so difficult. The subjects of Hals’s paintings come even more to life in this Rijksmuseum exhibition through explorations of their individual identities and social worlds. Malle Babbe, for example, must have been a familiar figure on the streets of Haarlem, and Pekelharing was probably an actor touring with a British theatre company.

Frans Hals’s original style and technique earned him a reputation in his own time as a virtuoso, a status equalled only by the likes of Rembrandt in the Netherlands and Velázquez in Spain. He was an in-demand portraitist among the wealthy citizenry of Haarlem and other cities in the region. Over the course of the 18th century, however, Hals’s work gradually fell into obscurity. It wasn’t until the 19th century that French art critic and journalist Théophile Thoré-Bürger (1807–1869) rediscovered his work, as well as that of Vermeer. Until the 1960s, Frans Hals was regarded as one of the ‘big three’ of 17th-century Dutch painting, alongside Rembrandt and Vermeer. Later, however, interest in the artist waned significantly – reason enough for the Rijksmuseum, The National Gallery, London, and Gemäldegalerie, Berlin, to place him on the highest possible pedestal and to show how truly boundary-breaking he was as an artist.

The Lute Player (c.1623), Frans Hals (Dutch, 1582 – 1666), with frame 108x100cm , Musée du Louvre, Paris.

The artist’s expressive, gestural brushwork has always been seen as the most distinctive quality of his art, and he can justifiably be described as the forerunner of Impressionism. Hals’s virtuosic style influenced fellow artists Gustave Courbet, Édouard Manet, James McNeil Whistler, Claude Monet, Max Liebermann, Vincent van Gogh, John Singer Sargent and others. Almost all of them visited Haarlem to admire his portraits of individuals and civil militia groups.

Frans Hals is organised by the Rijksmuseum in partnership with the National Gallery, London, and Gemäldegalerie, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin.