Usually not a big fan of Rembrandt’s corpulent, smug, rich guys (or even gals, for that matter), but I found this painting interesting.  Here is someone setting out to write something and probably engaged in something of a frequent ritual, sharpening his quill.  I’m thinking that a fairly small and select number of the population could read AND write.  And have anyone to write to about anything.  I wonder what he is writing, and what it’s about.  His expression makes no suggestion to me.

Actually, what I’m doing at the moment is wasting time before writing something.  Guess I better go sharpen my quill now…