Daniel and Cyrus Before the Idol Bel (1633) by Rembrandt van Rijn
Title
Daniel and Cyrus Before the Idol Bel
Artist
Rembrandt van Rijn (1606–1669), Dutch
Date
1633
Medium
Oil on panel
Collection
Getty Center
4277 × 3267 pixels, JPEG, 6.9 MB
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Artwork Story
This painting depicts a scene from the Book of Daniel, where King Cyrus questions why Daniel does not worship the idol Bel. Daniel firmly replies that he worships only the living God, not a man-made bronze and clay sculpture. In the composition, King Cyrus stands in the center, adorned in a lavish golden cloak, within an opulent temple; Daniel, in contrast, stands in the foreground, his head bowed in humility. The use of dramatic light and shadow emphasizes the tension between the two figures. The idol Bel is partially obscured by dim lighting, adding an air of mystery. Rembrandt’s masterful handling of light effects showcases his meticulous attention to detail.
Rembrandt van Rijn (1606–1669), Dutch, Emerging from the Dutch Golden Age, this master of light and shadow transformed paint into profound human drama. His work—unflinching in its psychological depth—captured the raw humanity of his subjects, whether biblical figures, wealthy patrons, or his own aging face. Unlike contemporaries who idealized their sitters, he reveled in texture: the crumpled lace of a collar, the gnarled hands of an old woman, the play of candlelight on gold brocade. Tragedy and ambition shaped his career. After early success in Amsterdam, where his dynamic group portraits like *The Night Watch* broke conventions, financial mismanagement and personal loss (the deaths of his wife and three children) left him bankrupt. Yet his late period, often dismissed by patrons as "rough," produced some of his most moving works—self-portraits where brushstrokes dissolve into introspection, the eyes holding centuries of sorrow and wit. Rembrandt’s legacy lies in his refusal to flatter. He painted Bathsheba’s vulnerability, Samson’s betrayal, and his own jowls with equal honesty. Theatrical chiaroscuro—learned from Caravaggio—became in his hands a tool not for spectacle, but for revelation. By the time he died in obscurity, he’d redefined art itself: no longer just skill, but a mirror held up to the soul.