In Secret Knowledge, artist David Hockney had already proposed that European painters, beginning with Caravaggio, employed optical devices (lenses) in their painting process. After all, Caravaggio socialized with Galileo, who was developing the telescope. Art and science (or technology) were not, as Hockney said, so far apart.
Architect Philip Steadman took it a step further in Vermeer’s Camera, where he explored an idea first proposed over a hundred years ago, which is that Vermeer made use of a device called a camera obscura to capture detail with incredible realism.
Then along came Tim Jenison, neither an artist nor an architect, but an engineer, an inventor, the founder of a computer graphics company, and an art lover. Jenison was particularly intrigued by Vermeer. He couldn’t understand how the artist had been able to see—and paint—light in a way that didn’t seem humanly possible. Vermeer’s paintings “glow,” they “pop,” they have a “magical quality.”
Jenison knew something about lenses himself. So while he was mystified by how Vermeer had gotten his results, he was also extremely curious. He conducted a few experiments and invented a mirror device that made it possible for him—a non-artist—to faithfully replicate a photograph and then produce a pretty good painting of a vase. He wondered if Vermeer had used a similar device.
There was no way to prove whether he had or hadn’t, of course. So Jenison’s desired outcome was to attempt to answer the question could it have been done that way? The objective he settled on was to paint Vermeer’s The Music Lesson using his mirror device.
There were plenty of constraints, the first being that Jenison wasn’t an artist. Since The Music Lesson is considered one of Vermeer’s most refined works, reproducing it would be quite a challenge. Among other things, he would have to recreate the room and its entire contents, and get the orientation and the lighting exactly right.
But he had plenty of assets, too, notably sufficient time and financial resources to allow him to arrange for warehouse space in which to recreate the room. He was also able to travel to England to view the original painting in Buckingham Palace and to Holland to immerse himself in Vermeer’s world (learning Dutch along the way).
The movie Tim’s Vermeer was produced by Penn and Teller. Penn Gillette, a friend of Jenison’s, had been unaware of his interest in Vermeer. Whatever the purpose in documenting the process, it seems to have served at least occasionally as a reminder to Jenison of his intention and his commitment to his desired outcome.
When he returned from his travels in Europe, Jenison had a lot of work ahead of him. He immediately ran into a problem with his lighting setup, an obstacle that was a potential “deal breaker.” However, he experimented until he found a solution that turned out to be a big breakthrough that allowed him to paint in ordinary light rather than in the dark.
He then got down to making lenses, grinding pigment and making paint, and arranging for furniture, windows, costumes, etc.
Ready, Set, Paint!
Jenison exclaimed that building the room was fun. It involved tinkering, creating, learning—activities right up his alley. On Day 82, however, he said he wanted to do anything in the world “but paint this picture.” A little further into the work, he discovered that using his mirror had led to a curvature of what should have been a straight line. But when he examined a replica of the original Vermeer painting and found the same curvature, it was a bit of evidence that he was on the right track.
On another day, he discovered the lens he was using had been bumped out of position and the angle of the chair he was painting was off. Even then, he noted he had been feeling “physically repulsed” by the chair, and once he determined what was wrong he considered that he might have more artistic awareness than he’d given himself credit for.
The entire project took 1,825 days, 130 of them to complete the painting itself. Jenison declared the painting to be the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life. It was not only tedious, but also physically difficult. He said that if they hadn’t been making the film, he would have found something else to do.
Nevertheless, this was clearly a labor of love based on a juicy desired outcome. Whenever an obstacle appeared, Jenison found a way to deal with it, often discovering something unexpected as a result. In spite of the discomfort, his attention was directed by creative tension rather than psychological tension.
Triumph!
When the painting was finished, Jenison said “Today is the day I’ve been waiting for!” He was overcome with emotion, as he should have been. Others had speculated about how Vermeer might have managed to “paint with light,” but Tim Jenison, a self-described technology geek from Texas, had done what none of them had—he’d painted a Vermeer.
In doing so, he had answered the question could it have been done that way? Yes, it could have.
He subsequently went back to England to show his painting off to David Hockney and Philip Steadman—and in a way to join their ranks.
Is this a project I would undertake or that you should want to undertake? No. It was Jenison’s project, based on who he was and what he was up to. My projects—and your projects—ought to be based on who we are and what we’re up to, even though there’s no guarantee we’ll get where we want to go. As Jenison said more than once, he had no idea if what he set out to do was possible.
But he’s an excellent example of someone who is not in the habit of going through the motions. If he hadn’t pulled out all the stops in pursuing his juicy desired outcome, he still wouldn’t have an answer to his question. He wouldn’t have known he could paint a Vermeer if he hadn’t fully committed to finding out if he could.