Rembrandt to Go

Rembrandt - Jacob III de Gheyn DPG 99

Dulwich Picture Gallery owns a legend. One of its paintings is so popular that it has been stolen no less than four times, exciting the press into dubbing it the ‘takeaway Rembrandt’. Steve Overbury thought he had a lead on one of the perpetrators.

The first press report says that between the 14th August 1981 and the 3rd September 1981 a Rembrandt portrait of Jacob de Gheyn III was taken from Dulwich Picture Gallery. We’ll never know why they couldn’t have been more specific about the date. Was the stock checker on holiday? Why did it take three weeks to notice that one of the gallery’s most popular and valuable pictures was missing? Did they think it was off being touched up?

It was retrieved when police arrested four men in a taxi who had the painting with them. Restored to the gallery, it was only two years later that a burglar smashed a skylight and Tom Cruise-like descended through it, using a crowbar to remove the painting from the wall. The police arrived within three minutes but were too late to apprehend the thief who was up and away. The painting was missing for three years and was eventually found on the 8th October 1986 in a luggage office at the train station of a British army garrison in Münster, Germany.

Twice more the painting was stolen and recovered; the first time it was found underneath a bench in a graveyard in Streatham and the second on the back of a bicycle. In each case there had been an anonymous tip off. Nobody has ever been charged over the thefts.

When I saw Johnny the window cleaner hobbling up Lordship Lane the other day something stirred in my memory. I hailed him over: “Johnny. Do you remember, you once told me that you found the stolen Rembrandt from Dulwich Picture Gallery behind the rubbish bins at the Half Moon in Herne Hill? Was that true? Were you involved in nicking it? Because I reckon you were. I’ve read that the picture was actually found under a bench in a cemetery in Streatham. Did you nick it Johnny? You were always good on a ladder.”

He said, “I’m not Johnny.”

I blinked. “But isn’t that a chamois leather sticking out of your trouser pocket?”

“I’m Bob the window cleaner, not Johnny the window cleaner. Johnny’s dead.”

“I’m sorry to hear that… but you look just like him.”

“Yes, that’s probably because I’m Johnny’s son. Anyway, aren’t you talking about the world cup?”

“Eh?”

“You know, Pickles the dog.”

“Pickles?”

“The dog…”

“What are you talking about Johnny?”

“I’m not Johnny, I’m Bob.”

“What are you talking about Bob?”
“Pickles the dog found the world cup in Norwood. In 1966”

“No I’m talking about a Rembrandt.”

“No the dog didn’t find a Rembrandt, he found the world cup.”

I began to get the feeling that I might become as crazy as Johnny if I continued this interrogation any longer so I gave him a conversation-stopping crack round the back of his flat-capped head. He looked bemused then grateful and limped off.

The Rembrandt, a portrait of a young Dutch engraver called Jacob de Gheyn III is just the right size to slip inside a coat which presumably accounts for its popularity with thieves.

Picture the scene: Having successfully smuggled it out of the gallery, the cat burglars reconvene in the boozer – perhaps the Half Moon – and start spending all the money they haven’t got yet. They order large brandies and rub their hands together in speculation; how much is a Rembrandt worth? A million? Two million? More?

It is only later when the hangovers have worn off, when they’ve put on their suits, smoothed down their hair and hawked the little masterpiece round the fences, and been laughed at by one and all, that the painting loses its lustre. For the dealers it’s déjà vu; they’re all very familiar with the image of the young engraver Jacob. They’ve seen him so many times before. Don’t you dopes realise, the dealers chuckle, this painting is in the Guinness Book of Records as the most stolen in the world, so well known that it would be like buying the Mona Lisa? Only a congenital idiot would buy that. They’d be staring back at themselves  on Crimewatch within the week.

Then it starts dawning on the thieves that they have fallen victim of the curse of the takeaway Rembrandt. It’s too hot to handle; they’d make more selling it at a Peckham boot fair than on the international art market. All their dreams are dashed. No new house in Bromley, no Porsche Carrera, no timeshare in Marbella. It’s back to the painting and decorating… or possibly the window cleaning.

Then, having got their heads around the notion that they are in possession of a totally worthless Rembrandt, they have to decide what to do with it. The most obvious solution is to destroy it but for some reason they don’t. They are but brutish thieves working for the basest of motives yet still they cannot put match to canvas. They stare at the pocket portrait and are mesmerised by the guileless look of its subject.

Rembrandt - Portrait of Maurits Hygens

It was after all painted for love. One of a pair;

Jacob and his friend Maurits Huygens had two paintings done of themselves dressed Guinness-style in black smocks and white ruffs. They made a pledge: whoever died first granted their picture to the other. Sadly the pictures are now only occasionally reunited and Maurits lives alone in a gallery in Hamburg, but maybe his spirit is out there somewhere looking down on his old friend Jacob, and is preserving his image from harm. If they can’t ever be together forever, then at least Jacob should stay safe in Dulwich.

On each of the four occasions that Jacob has been taken on holiday to destinations unknown, he has always returned safely, mysteriously making his weary way home sometimes after years have elapsed. Cast under its spell, the blaggards have variously contrived to leave the picture in a luggage office at the train station of a British army garrison in Germany, on the back of a bicycle and under a bench in a cemetery. On one occasion, the British cops, tipped off by their Dutch counterparts, picked up four men in a taxi who had a ‘takeaway’ with them that wasn’t a Domino pizza. But even with the apparent villains in custody, for some reason no charges were ever made.

Jacob seems content restored to his rightful place amongst the Rubens,  Gainsboroughs, and of course the other less well travelled Rembrandts. He remains inscrutable about his travels and the treatment he has received at the hands of ruffians. And since, in his honour, Dulwich Picture Gallery now has an elaborate alarm system with God knows what devices to prevent further larceny (there is a rumour they even have their own helicopter), Jacob’s away days may have been curtailed.

And unless Jacob once went missing for a fifth time, the story that he was found behind the bins at the Herne Hill Half Moon by Johnny the window cleaner may be untrue but I’ll certainly try and get the truth out of him when I see him next – Johnny that is.