La Bayadère

After relocating to a hotel in the business district (I am here for work, after all), I returned to explore more of the city.

It was—you guessed it—another rainy day.

I'd read that the views are stunning from the tower of the Westerkerk. Alas, that appeared to be accessible only to groups, by reservation.

Boat tours were running, but not enticing given the weather. I decided to visit the flower market, housed along one canal mostly in floating greenhouses. Of course, this is not really the season; the first stall had a colorful array of flowers. The rest? Tulip bulbs, mostly ... and lots of tchotchkes.

Having mastered the bus, tram, and train, today I tackled the Metro. I had picked up an OV-chipkaart to simplify my travels: keep it topped up, then just tap on, tap off. Tonight I have a ticket for the ballet, and their website warned of disruption at the nearest Metro station due to ... yet more construction.

The National Opera and Ballet was a short walk from the flower market, and the Metro would take me back to my hotel's neighborhood. Before puzzling out the route (and coping with an unexpected delay, a broken-down train), I wandered through a nearby street market.

At first glance, it was typical: Vendors hawking their wares on tables set up under portable canopies. At second glance, it was unusual. There were at least four stalls offering bicycle gear: saddles, locks, and heavy chains. I overheard one conversation: “I could sell you a cheaper chain, but you will be back in a few days after your bike is stolen.” There was also a bicycle mechanic in one stall, stocked with a vast array of wheels and other necessary parts.

Near my hotel, sparks flew as a well-dressed man applied a power tool to a chain. Presumably a chain securing his own bicycle.

After my trial run on the Metro, returning for the ballet was a breeze.

For me, this was a rare opportunity to see a full-length performance of La Bayadère.

In the first act, the male lead failed to stick a landing and came down hard (but gracefully). He seemed sheepishly grateful for the enthusiastic applause he got when he took his bows.

The final act unfolded behind a mostly-transparent curtain. Perhaps to contain the swirling clouds at the feet of the dancers? It dampened the luster and rendered the action slightly out-of-focus.

But it was Act III's “The Kingdom of the Shades” that I was most eager to see in context, having seen it performed separately by the San Francisco Ballet. I was surprised to recognize the music before the first dancer appeared, but I knew this piece had made a huge impression on me. The sight of the corps de ballet descending, zig-zag, onto the stage in a seemingly unending stream of arabesques is simply unforgettable.

Unforgettable.

Rijksmuseum

Another rainy day in Amsterdam. Having planned to spend time exploring the Rijksmuseum, I didn't regret the weather.

I did regret not bringing my proper camera. I expected that photographs would be prohibited; I was wrong.

I started with the Gallery of Honor, taking advantage of the laminated cards that offered an in-depth examination of a selected work in each alcove. These were always available in English as well as Dutch; for the most famous work—the Night Watch—cards were provided in many additional languages.

The first painting that caught my eye was Still Life with a Gilt Cup by Willem Claesz. How did he paint a cloth so realistically that I can tell it was silk? A close look at the light reflected off the surface of the pewter vessel and glass goblet reveals the outline of the window panes though which daylight streamed.

Many paintings captured ordinary scenes from daily life, like Woman with a Child in a Pantry by Pieter de Hooch. How does the painter decide which details to include? The decorative tiles at the base of a wall, pieces of straw and chipped floor tiles. Was it to portray life unvarnished rather than idealized?

I was similarly fascinated by another still life, Festoon of Fruit and Flowers by Jan Davidsz. de Heem. This one was unusual for his additional hint of the natural world—he tucked insects (and a snail) among the fruits and flowers.

And then there was The Threatened Swan by Jan Asselijn, dramatic enough without its political overtones. The dog's head and the nest itself are in the shadows, but the artist included details that are easily overlooked: drops of water on the bird's left foot, shed feathers flying.

There was so much to learn. About pigments that lose their color by the very nature of their chemical composition, dulling our impression of some works. About paintings created for particular spaces: a set of two lit from opposite directions because they would be hung on either side of a window. Rembrandt's Night Watch had been trimmed when it was moved to smaller space, and the cut-off pieces of the canvas unceremoniously discarded.

Schoolchildren sat attentively in circles on the floor, perhaps visiting as part of an ongoing effort to have all children in the Netherlands see the Night Watch before the age of 12.

There was so much to see: paintings, decorative arts, even some specimen animals native to Brazil (preserved through taxidermy). Four hours and the better part of two floors later, I called it a day.

The rest? Someday, perhaps.