Rembrandt’s Night Watch

I once stood in front of Rembrandt’s Night Watch and I thought I was gonna faint. The fact that I didn’t was down to my travel partner, who had bought a Fanta with him, and I realised I was sorely dehydrated from walking Amsterdam for hours, to see the painting that rocked our world. 

So, I get online to see if any artists out there have painted something called The Day Watch. Nothing really. How is it that something so obvious barely exists? There’s one. A mediocre painting of a golden labrador on a beach, staring over the waves, into the sun. For that, I didn’t feel like I was going to faint. 

The thing about Fanta is that it really is the poor person’s genuine orange juice — without pulp. It gets so many normal people through a working day. The thought that it saved me for an earth-shattering meditation on the highest of high art, is the part of the plot where providence intercedes to allow popular culture to do its dirty work. 

I’m forever grateful that Fanta helped me understand the true value of human interaction, be it compositional or in the realm of friendship. Otherwise I can’t stand the stuff.