If the Netherlands were a hair salon, it would be the kind of place with a sign in the window that says, Walk-Ins Welcome. Its athleisure-clad denizens are not particularly exclusive, the kind of people who cock a skeptical eyebrow at the hype well known to residents of places like New York or London. If a restaurant is full one night, you come back the next. If a product is sold out, they’ll call on Thursday when the new shipment arrives.
That’s why the hype around the Vermeer show that opened this past February at the Rijksmuseum seemed so un-Dutch. I’ve lived in the Netherlands for more than 20 years, and this was the first time a cultural event felt hard to get into, as if guarded by the bouncers who, I imagined, held the velvet rope at Studio 54. Nearly every day, people from all over the world called or wrote—people I hardly knew—begging for help with tickets. Never mind that I didn’t work at the museum or have any special access. I lived in the Netherlands. Maybe I could help them.
