The raising of Lazarus (after Rembrandt)

Vincent van Gogh’s *The Raising of Lazarus (after Rembrandt)* is one of those works where you can almost feel the artist wrestling with the canvas. It’s not just a biblical scene—it’s van Gogh grappling with Rembrandt’s shadow, trying to make the old master’s drama his own. The composition thrums with that peculiar van Gogh energy, the kind where every brushstroke feels like it’s about to vibrate right off the surface. Lazarus himself seems caught between two worlds, not just in the literal sense of death and rebirth, but in the tension between Rembrandt’s chiaroscuro and van Gogh’s later, more feverish style. There’s something almost uncomfortably raw here, like the artist wasn’t just copying but arguing with his source material.
The landscape around the figures doesn’t sit quietly either—it’s all churned up, as if the ground itself is reacting to the miracle. Van Gogh’s usual swirls and dashes take on a weirdly apocalyptic quality, like the earth is splitting open to match the emotional upheaval of the scene. It’s less a backdrop and more a participant, which, honestly, feels true to how van Gogh saw nature in general. Even when he’s working from another artist’s blueprint, he can’t help but let the terrain writhe and pulse. You could imagine this piece in some dim, wood-paneled study where the air smells like oil and old paper—the sort of place where the walls seem to lean in closer when you’re not looking.
For a different angle on van Gogh’s dialogue with art history, his *Pietà (after Delacroix)* makes a fascinating companion piece. Both works show him dissecting and reassembling older compositions, but where the *Pietà* feels mournful and inward, *Lazarus* crackles with this uneasy, almost frantic hope. It’s the difference between a sigh and a shout, though both are unmistakably van Gogh—he never could leave well enough alone when it came to other people’s masterpieces.