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By KAREN WILKIN

Washington

The National Gallery of Art’s Dutch collection is among the glories of the nation. A steadily expanding, impressive group of Golden Age paintings—including more than a dozen splendid, securely attributed Rembrandts, four of the 30-odd surviving paintings by Johannes Vermeer and eight bravura efforts by Frans Hals—speaks to the discernment of the museum’s founding benefactors, especially Joseph E. Widener and Andrew W. Mellon, and to the acuity and indefatigable efforts of its current curator of northern baroque painting, Arthur K. Wheelock Jr. And we mustn’t forget all the wonderful works by artists such as Hendrick ter Brugghen, Hendrick Avercamp and Judith Leyster, plus a wealth of engaging genre scenes, still lifes, landscapes and marine pictures.

Yet rich as the collection is, two leading Amsterdam painters of the mid-17th century are not represented. There’s nothing by Govert Flinck (1615-1660), Rembrandt’s star pupil and later his competitor, nor by Bartholomeus van der Helst (1613-1670), Rembrandt’s rival for portrait commissions. Conspicuously absent, too, are the large group portraits commemorating the great and the good, so characteristic of the Dutch 17th century. Elsewhere in Europe, the church, the monarchy and the nobility were the leading patrons for art, but in mercantile, Protestant, Golden Age Holland that role was taken by civic and political leaders. Government types, officials of charitable organizations, guild administrators and members of militia companies regularly commissioned enormous paintings of themselves. Rembrandt’s celebrated “The Night Watch,” a deceptively casual depiction of a militia company on its rounds, is among the most innovative and powerful examples of the type; usually, the worthies are shown gathered around a table, as if at a meeting or taking part in some function. It’s not surprising, though, that no painting of this type can be seen in Washington. Of the hundreds of these commemorative works, almost all stayed in Holland, many still in the buildings for which they were originally commissioned.

Until now, that is. For the next five years, two spectacular group portraits, one by Flinck and one by van der Helst, both titled “Governors of the Kloveniersdoelen,” will be on view at the National Gallery, on loan from the Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam, and the Amsterdam Museum, respectively. Remarkably, the pair—the Flinck painted in 1642 and the van der Helst in 1655—both depict the governing board, at different periods, of the same institution: the headquarters of the Kloveniers—Harquebusiers—one of the military organizations, originally formed for defense, that functioned as an elite men’s club. The building had an adjacent shooting range, for target practice, but it was primarily a place for social gatherings. The Harquebusiers to whom it belonged held meetings and festivities there, civic officials rented the space for receptions and dinners, and, we learn, it also served as a public tavern. The governors—a lucrative, as well as an honorific position—were former officers in the Harquebusiers from Amsterdam’s best families; most of the distinguished gentlemen in the two paintings were members of the city council, three of them served as mayor, at various times, and many were related by what the accompanying brochure calls “strategic marriages over multiple generations.”

Both large, horizontal paintings show more or less life-size groups of soberly dressed men in broad-brimmed hats, seated at long tables covered with Turkish carpets. Both groups are shown in the midst of some sort of gathering, and in both pictures one governor turns to gaze at us. There the resemblance ends. Flinck gives us five grave men, four with silver beards and stern expressions; the fifth, no less stern but a little younger—someone’s son-in-law?—has only a dark mustache and a soul patch. Three wear old-style ruffs, while two sport up-to-date flat collars. It’s a serious occasion. The gavel rests on the table. The building’s administrator, hatless, presents the Kloveniers’ elaborately mounted ceremonial drinking horn. We are allowed to admire these dignitaries and note their measured gestures, but we are kept at a respectful distance. The steady rhythm of pale faces, paler linen and curving hands across the dark expanse adds to the solemn mood. Only the upward-reaching arc of the drinking horn and the deep red notes of the carpet and chairbacks provide counterpoint.

Van der Helst presents a lively quartet, with swooping black hats and stylish goatees. Far more convivial than their predecessors, they are shown in animated conversation, turning easily and gesturing energetically, fueled by food and drink. One squeezes lemon on an oyster; shells litter the floor; servants bring refills. The suavely painted protagonists fill the syncopated composition, pressing toward us. The hazily rendered servants—including a marvelous distant head of a boy—suggest transience, intensifying the sense of immediacy, while the glowing carpet and ruddy flesh tones, revealed by recent conservation, further animate the scene.

The differences between the two closely related pictures, painted about a decade apart, provoke interesting questions. Is the sobriety of Flinck’s subjects a response to the stress of the Thirty Years War? Does the informality of van der Helst’s group reflect a new sense of safety after the Dutch Republic finally achieved independence from Spain in 1648?

Perhaps the alteration in mood is a function of location. Flinck’s portrait was hung in the Great Hall of the Kloveniersdoelen, while van der Helst’s, for lack of space elsewhere, was installed in the dining room. Brought together at last, they both look wonderful at the National Gallery.

Ms. Wilkin writes about art for the Journal.

A version of this article appeared April 3, 2012, on page D7 in the U.S. edition of The Wall Street Journal, with the headline: Washington Double Dutch.

HBO

Clive Owen and Nicole Kidman as ‘Hemingway and Gellhorn,’ set for the Cannes Film Festival.

Conference on Hiding Information, Berkeley, Calif.

Focusing on privacy, document security, anonymity and similar issues, seminars at this four-day conference look at a new way to measure digital alterations via Photoshop, a method of covert wireless communication and digital watermarking. Starts Tuesday, David Brower Convention Center. $750. ihconference.org.

Andy Borowitz in New York

The Ohio-born comedian and proprietor of the satiric Borowitz Report website recently drew attention for his best-selling e-book medical memoir “An Unexpected Twist.” Here he will tackle the 2012 election. Tuesday at 8 p.m. at the 92nd Street Y. Tickets from $29. Live webcast via the 92Y’s Facebook page.

Cannes Film Festival

Wes Anderson (“The Royal Tenenbaums”) will open the 12-day festival on the French Riviera Wednesday with “Moonrise Kingdom,” a tale of 12-year-olds in love. Also being screened: “Hemingway and Gellhorn,” directed by Phil Kaufman (“The Right Stuff”). Various venues. festival-cannes.fr.

Visualizing the Nation’s Capital

Celebrating “Two Centuries of Mapping Washington” with government cartographers, historians, architects and others—from the original layout, to waterways, to street names and the national mall. Plus: tours of the Geography and Map Division of the Library of Congress, the sponsor. Friday-Saturday. Various venues. loc.gov.

—Submit events to: IdeasCalendar@wsj.com

A version of this article appeared May 12, 2012, on page C13 in some U.S. editions of The Wall Street Journal, with the headline: Ideas Calendar: May 12-18.

By KAREN WILKIN

Courtesy of the Morgan Library & Museum

‘A Peasant Playing Skittles or Lawn Bowls,’ by Adriaen van Ostade.

New York

Eccentric private collections can be appealing. The erratic shifts in focus and the dizzying swings in quality that distinguish, say, Isabella Stewart Gardner’s or Albert Barnes’s amazing hoards are part of their fascination and charm. But there’s a lot to be said for obsessed art lovers who collect with a sense of larger purpose, concentrating on particular themes, mediums or periods, and gaining expertise as they do so, so that the resulting group of works has the coherence and, often, the excellence of a respected museum’s holdings. “Rembrandt’s World: Dutch Drawings From the Clement C. Moore Collection,” on view now at the Morgan Library and Museum, is paradigmatic of the second type of approach: single-minded and informed by knowledge and connoisseurship. (The Moore Collection is a promised gift to the Morgan, which will at once provide an excellent context and be enriched by these additions.)

As Mr. Moore tells the story, in his preface to the exhibit’s handsome, scholarly catalog, he was first “completely hooked” by the 17th-century Dutch paintings in the Wallace Collection, during a visit to London more than 20 years ago—”so much so,” he writes, “that I began to explore Dutch art straightaway.” Golden Age Dutch works on paper, which spoke to him from the start, proved affordable. Mr. Moore’s first purchase, Rochus van Veen’s poignant watercolor “Study of a Dead Eurasian Otter” (1673), was soon joined by landscapes and other nature studies. As Mr. Moore’s ambitions for the collection grew more serious, so did the scope of what he acquired.

The more than 80 works at the Morgan include landscapes, marine images, cityscapes, portraits, genre scenes, religious subjects and (keeping the otter company) scrupulous representations of exotic birds, tulips and animals, both domestic and fierce. There’s even an undated drawing by Jan van der Heyden detailing “The Courtyard of the Amsterdam Stock Exchange With Suction Pump and Fire Extinguishing Equipment,” a remarkable image that announces its author’s multiple roles as a painter of cityscapes, engineer and inventor. The Moore Collection ranges from highly finished works, some with color, intended for collectors of drawings when they were made—a new phenomenon in the 17th century—to rapid working sketches and private notations, to preparations for engravings. The approaches range from earthy naturalism, to sparse elegance, to Italian-inflected Mannerism, although the emphasis is on Dutch artists who remained in the Netherlands and concentrated on recognizably “Dutch” images most appealing to the Dutch market.

That notable stay-at-home Rembrandt is represented by four economical but vivid figure studies spanning his career from the 1620s to the late 1640s or early 1650s. The most spectacular is the intimate, casual “Study of a Sick Woman for the ‘Hundred Guilder Print’ and an Alternative Sketch of Her Head” (c. 1647-49), a vigorous characterization of a weary supplicant conjured up with rapid, fluid pen strokes. The Morgan’s version of the monumental etching “Christ Healing the Sick” (c. 1647-49)—nicknamed the “Hundred Guilder Print” for the exorbitant price it fetched only a few years after its publication—is hung beside the drawing, to underscore the transformation of the scrawled figure in the sketch into the print’s impassioned worshiper.

Works by members of Rembrandt’s circle, such as Govert Flinck and Ferdinand Bol, bear witness to his influence, while fine examples by other significant practitioners of the Golden Age, such as Hendrick Goltzius and Adriaen van Ostade, suggest the richness of the period; the Van Ostade, a tiny, lively watercolor of a peasant crouching to play lawn bowls, is a standout. Works by less familiar but no less accomplished artists complete our sense of what 17th-century Dutch draftsmen were capable of, from Roelant Roghman’s light-filled drawings of urban and rural buildings to Cornelis Saftleven’s near-life-size “Head of a Growling Bear,” russet fur, savage teeth and red tongue suggested with colored chalk overlaid with rhythmic strokes. That characteristic touch is the only thing connecting the large, angry bear with a more typical Saftleven, a monochrome of two placid, slightly shaggy cows with dopey expressions. In the animalier category, though, Simon de Vlieger’s chalk, brush and ink study of an exceptionally doggish dog, awake and asleep, is hard to beat.

“Rembrandt’s World” is installed in thematically related groups, rather than chronologically, which allows us to approach the exhibition from multiple starting points and, at the same time, encourages us to make comparisons among related works, perhaps in the same way that the original collectors of these drawings did, at a kunstbeschouwing—“art showing”—when carefully stored images were brought out and passed among a gathering of amateurs seated around a table, for admiration and discussion. Wherever we start, we find drawings that compel our attention. Don’t miss a delightful Hendrick Avercamp of fishermen on a riverbank, an unusual summer scene by a master known for his skaters on frozen canals. Then there’s Gerbrandt van den Eckhout’s drawing of a young man seated on a barrel, a celebration of black and white chalk’s potential for tonal complexity in the hands of a virtuoso. An informal pen-and-ink coastal scene by Willem van de Velde the Elder seems to test how few lines are needed to evoke a specific place. And a personal favorite: Abraham Bloemaert’s “Interior of a Barn” (1600-10), a tightly packed celebration of pattern and texture that transcends its century. Next stop, Piet Mondrian’s cathedral facades—modern, more abstract manifestations of Van de Velde’s impulse to distill the geometry of architecture into a complex expanse of shifting marks.

Ms. Wilkin writes about art for the Journal.

A version of this article appeared February 21, 2012, on page D7 in some U.S. editions of The Wall Street Journal, with the headline: The Drawing Dutchmen: Their Golden Years.

1. Visit a hipster village made from shipping containers.

Container City

Container City in Puebla

In the San Andrés district of the town of Cholula, in the shadow of Tlachihualtepetl pyramid, a group of young entrepreneurs has been channeling Brooklyn. Their 54,000-square-foot Container City is built from recycled shipping boxes, brightly painted and stacked. The creatively inclined have set up design studios in the containers, as well as tattoo parlors, cafes, vintage clothing shops, sushi bars and farm-to-table taquerias. There’s live entertainment almost every night, including top deejays from Mexico City at Taxi Cerveceria, which fills up with students from the nearby Universidad de las Américas Puebla.
containercity.com.mx

2. Learn to dish up insects.

While many Pueblan dishes, such as mole poblano and pipián verde, are celebrated fare, some lesser-known snacks are equally memorable—for different reasons. The restaurant El Mural de los Poblanos in the capital city of Puebla offers three-hour classes where you can learn to cook standard choices as well as exotic options like chapulines (toasted and seasoned grasshoppers), gusanos de maguey con salsa borracha (maguey worms, shown here, in a pulque-based sauce) and escamoles (ant larvae), a sort of arthropod caviar. About $77, elmuraldelospoblanos.com

3. Unleash your inner luchador.

Each week, Mexico’s version of WWE, the Consejo Mundial de Lucha Libre, holds several hours of televised matches with big-name luchadores (wrestlers) at the Arena Puebla. The event brings together a weird assemblage of characters ranging from the técnicos (good guys) and rudos (bad guys) to little people and sultry ring girls who work their craft amid three levels of cursing, chanting, drumming fans. The food stalls and mask vendors outside create a festival-like atmosphere. Design stores in Puebla even sell Lucha Libre-inspired art. Seats from about $6, cmll.com/puebla.htm

Eye Ubiquitous/Alamy

Hot chocolate

4. Toast the deceased with hot chocolate.

Puebla’s Día de los Muertos celebrations don’t lack in authenticity or grandeur. At Casa de la Cultura in the city of Puebla, there’s a spectacular altar-building contest. In the village of Huaquechula, massive examples in cardboard and satin serve as offerings to the dead, and locals open their homes to strangers, sharing a cup of cocoa or homemade tamales (leave a few pesos or a candle out of respect). Maps are passed out on the main plaza, showing the homes with the most elaborate ofrendas. Nov. 1-2, huaquechula.gob.mx

—Nicholas Gill

A version of this article appeared May 5, 2012, on page D11 in some U.S. editions of The Wall Street Journal, with the headline: Only In…Puebla.

By ROBERT GRESKOVIC

New York

New York City Ballet’s current winter season will have included, before its conclusion—in addition to a rotation of 21 ballets, most by founding choreographer George Balanchine—a reprise of “Ocean’s Kingdom” (2011), the still-unimpressive collaboration of composer Paul McCartney with NYCB ballet-master-in-chief Peter Martins; a triple bill by the company’s former resident choreographer Christopher Wheeldon; the return of last spring’s flat production of Kurt Weill’s “The Seven Deadly Sins” by Lynn Taylor-Corbett; plus six performances of Mr. Martins’s self-proclaimed “contemporary and streamlined” “Romeo + Juliet” (to Sergei Prokofiev).

In addition, Jan. 22—Balanchine’s birthday—became “Sunday at the Ballet With George.” This took shape as an informal dancers’ discussion before that day’s matinee performance of Balanchine’s infectious “Who Cares?” (1970, to George Gershwin) and his “Union Jack” (1976, to arrangements of traditional English music). As postscript, Mr. Martins conducted a ballet class on stage with advanced students from NYCB’s School of American Ballet. The classroom demonstration revealed a none-too-impressive selection of young dancers. Few presented especially eye-catching expertise, though the strikingly handsome, tall and poised Silas Farley stood out.

So far, the all-Wheeldon program has been the most unusual event, focusing on a choreographer now working at NYCB only on commission. The offerings included “Les Carillons,” a world premiere (to Georges Bizet’s “L’Arlésienne”); “DGV: Danse à Grande Vitesse,” a company premiere (2006, to Michael Nyman); and “Polyphonia,” a 2001 creation for NYCB (to György Ligeti).

While both “Carillons” and “DGV” showcased their dancers noticeably and often effectively in duets, with five featured pairings in the 20-dancer “Carillons” and four dominant ones in the 24-dancer “DGV,” neither proved particularly coherent as theater.

“Carillons” looked especially confused. Dressed in chic, jewel-tone costumes with contrasting chocolate-brown accents (by Mark Zappone), Mr. Wheeldon’s dancers seemed eager to meet his challenges. But despite Bizet’s folk-inspired incidental music and Jean-Marc Puissant’s expansive background that looked as if its paint strokes and ink washes were meant to suggest the furrowed earth in and around Arles, France, “Carillons” dipped barely a toe in the rustic atmosphere. The rest of its dancers’ bodies seemed fixed on the mostly decorative aims of Mr. Wheeldon’s choreography.

“DGV,” made for Britain’s Royal Ballet, where Mr. Wheeldon’s dance career got its start, was only somewhat more effective theatrically. Its Nyman score, “MGV (Musique à Grande Vitesse),” was composed to celebrate France’s high-speed railway. Mr. Puissant’s decor suggested that the stage’s “lanes” of floor covering had become dramatically buckled upstage, while the sleekly outfitted dancers in his trim but arbitrarily detailed costumes acted like so many cogs in what appeared to be Mr. Wheeldon’s 21st-century re-creation of early 20th-century machine dances.

In contrast, the choreographer’s clear, dramatic and rich 10-part “Polyphonia” moved from its stark and confident beginning to its capstone ending with compelling drama and wit. Its quartet of couples confronted and intrigued the audience by way of ballet’s athleticism and expressivity. Wendy Whelan, long a Wheeldon favorite, was cast in all three of the ballets, but she presented herself most effectively in this showcase, ably supported by elegant Jared Angle. Their eerie “Polyphonia” pas de deux was set to music audiences might know from Stanley Kubrick’s 1999 “Eyes Wide Shut,” where its austere mood supplied a more forced weirdness.

Likewise, Tiler Peck, Robert Fairchild and Sara Mearns—to name but three of the dancers with prominence in these Wheeldon works—made themselves count, though neither “Carillons” nor “DGV” showcased them as vividly as other works this season. When, for instance, Ms. Peck was partnered by Mr. Fairchild in the effortless intricacies and savvy theatrics of “Who Cares?” the duo reached heights of thrilling theatricality. In Alexei Ratmansky’s “Russian Seasons” (2006), the lavishly gifted Ms. Mearns was freshly revealed as a performer of force, finesse and distinction.

While Mr. Wheeldon’s ballets received performances of impressive confidence, others works did not. Neither Rebecca Krohn nor Ask la Cour performed in Balanchine’s incisive “Stravinsky Violin Concerto” (1972) to more than sketchy effect. And while energetic Andrew Veyette portrayed the beleaguered husband in Jerome Robbins’s “The Concert” (1956) with real humor and subtlety of timing, his overly brash account of the virtuoso demands of Balanchine’s “Tschaikovsky Pas de Deux” pummeled the choreography’s classical niceties.

In his display class, Mr. Martins repeatedly had his often uncomfortable-looking students demonstrate both the wrong and right ways to do classroom exercises. The wrong way, he relentlessly noted, was how they were done “everywhere else” except at the School of American Ballet, leaving the skeptic in the audience to wonder when and how Mr. Martins observed classes everywhere else in the world-wide realm of ballet. His “us vs. them” shtick rang with high-handed bravado; given the unevenness that can be found in NYCB performances these days, Mr. Martins’s boasts of superiority are not exactly on secure footing.

Mr. Greskovic writes about dance for the Journal.

A version of this article appeared February 8, 2012, on page D5 in some U.S. editions of The Wall Street Journal, with the headline: With Little to Cheer Besides Balanchine.