Paul Cézanne E-Book

Elie Faure

• Herausgeber: Parkstone International
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Seitenzahl: 130

Beschreibung

Paul Cézanne

Leseprobe

Elie Faure

Text: Elie Faure

© 2022, Confidential Concepts, Worldwide, USA

© 2022, Parkstone Press USA, New York

© Image-Barwww.image-bar.com

All rights reserved. No part of this may be reproduced or adapted without the permission of the copyright holder, throughout the world.

Unless otherwise specified, copyright on the works reproduced lies with the respective photographers. Despite intensive research, it has not always been possible to establish copyright ownership. Where this is the case, we would appreciate notification.

ISBN: 978-1-64461-632-1

Contents

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER 1 HIS YOUTH

CHAPTER 2 FINDING HIS OWN PATH

CHAPTER 3 CÉZANNE AND THE GREAT CLASSICS

HIS MASTERWORKS

1. Two Women and Child in an Interior

2. Girl at the Piano (Overture to “Tannhäuser”)

3. Flowers in a Blue Vase

4. Self-Portrait in a Casquette

5. Road at Pontoise (Clos des Mathurins)

6. Fruit

7. Self-Portrait

8. Plain by Mont Sainte-Victoire

9. Trees in a Park (The Jas de Bouffan)

10. The Aqueduct

11. The Banks of the Marne (Villa on the Bank of a River)

12. The Banks of the Marne

13. Pierrot and Harlequin (Mardi Gras)

14. Bridge and Pool

15. Bathers (Study)

16. Peaches and Pears

17. Great Pine near Aix

18. Man Smoking a Pipe

19. The Smoker

20. Still Life with Curtain

21. Woman in Blue

22. Flowers

23. Mont Sainte-Victoire

24. The Blue Landscape

25. Landscape at Aix (Mont Sainte-Victoire)

CHRONOLOGY

BIBLIOGRAPHY

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

NOTES

INTRODUCTION

The men of means in Aix, leaving their big cool halls after the midday meal, and hastening to their daily game of dominoes along the narrow strip of shade that the edge of the roofs wrests from the sun on one side of the deserted street, the coachmen of the Cours Mirabeau who half turn in their seats to exchange a phrase or two of patois through the dust and din of the wheels, the beggars who choose the hour for mass to go and sun themselves against the wall of Saint-Sauveur,—all can remember having seen frequently—in the last years of the nineteenth century and the first years of the twentieth, a singular old man. Almost everybody knew his name, very few had heard his voice. In the morning he was scarcely seen, save at the hour when he returned for lunch, for he started out for his work at dawn. In the afternoon he would again set forth for the suburbs, on foot— almost always, sometimes in a cab. In the evening he went to bed before the table was cleared; he never dined out, he never spoke to anyone. The people of Aix had long since settled his case. Cézanne passed for a madman.

Fairly tall, a bit stoop-shouldered, with a beard that at some times he allowed to cover his cheeks, with white whiskers, a high forehead, and a bald cranium, he had the look of an old soldier whose garrison life had dealt rather ill with him. A nose veined with purple, red eyelids that drooped and watered, and a prominent lower lip rendered his face less martial. He wore ordinary city dress—a black jacket, trousers a bit corkscrewed, a round felt hat in winter, a straw hat in summer; often he carried a gamebag slung over his shoulder; occasionally he wore a cape. But his apparel was not to be inspected too close by. When getting near him one saw that he had not put on his cravat, or that his collar was tied on with string, or that his coat was spotted with paint. He avoided the glances of passers-by. When they met his eyes, they read in them a timid savagery sometimes a flash of anger which would be hidden by the lowering of his eyelid—at the same time his pace would quicken almost to one of flight. He seemed like a man hemmed in, seeking, as he did, the quietest streets and often making a brusque turn out of his way to avoid meeting people.

Blue Vase, 1885-1887. Oil on canvas, 61 x 50 cm. Musée d’Orsay, Paris.

The Four Seasons, 1859-1860. Oil on canvas, 314 x 104 cm each. Petit Palais - Musée des Beaux-Arts de la Ville de Paris, Paris.

Auvers, Panoramic View, c. 1874. Oil on canvas, 65.2 x 81.3 cm. The Art Institute of Chicago, Chicago.

The bad boys of the town knew him well and would run after him and throw stones at him. Cézanne would make away as fast as the swelling of his old legs permitted. But his itinerary, practically the same every day—from his town house to his country house, from his country house to his studio, from his studio to his town house—made him their prey. Only on Sundays he left his customary route to go to mass and vespers, when he sat on the vestry bench of the blond cathedral whose nave they fill with laurels, orange trees, and oak at each opening of the panels of the “Burning Bush” that Nicolas Froment of Avignon, King Rene’s painter, hung there, five centuries ago. On that day there would be a perfect hedge of poor wretches at either side of the door, for they knew that Cézanne would come with his pockets full of small coins.

Every now and then he was seen in the company of a young man, in those streets of Aix that retain their whiteness in the dust of summer or when hardened by the north-west wind of Southern France in winter. The young man was unknown, did not look like everyday people and, as it was vaguely known that the well-to-do old man amused himself with painting, people conjectured that the young man was a painter come from Marseilles to see him. On those days, his bearing was altered. He spoke much, with tremendous gestures; he would stop in his walk, would break out with furious oaths. For the inhabitants of Aix, doubtless, the meridional intonations of his voice were not specially accentuated, but his companion, who generally came from much farther away than Marseilles, was moved at its innocent music and the sonorities that bring out the vigor of the epithets.

Sometimes he was seen to leave the young man suddenly and get away hastily, growling angry words. Then he would drop into long silences—of an entire year, or suddenly expand into good humor for an hour — leaps of ill temper and behavior that no one understood. Such was the old man —wild, candid, irascible and good.

Except for one long stay in Paris where he came into touch with his century, he never left Aix-en- Provence without coming back to it almost immediately. In other places his apathy met too many useless obstacles and his timidity too many chances to get him by the throat and indispose toward him those to whom he never bared a parcel of his intelligence or his capacity for loving.

CHAPTER 1 HIS YOUTH

He was born in Aix in 1839. At college there, he had had a good classical education. It was not that he had been an awfully diligent worker, but at that period the professors appealed oftener to the emotions of their students than to their reason. They neglected the sciences a little. They centred their attention on the dead languages, and neither Greek nor Latin was quite dead in this corner of the land of the ancients where the soil is but a thin crust over rock, where the lines of the hills cut sharply against the sky, where the cities are full of the ruins of temples, aqueducts and theatres, where the Mediterranean elements of the population have undergone but slight mingling, where the language of the common people still participates intimately in the genius and structure of the old mother-tongue—like the dwellings of the poor, which, up to the beginning of the last century had invaded the tiers of benches, the corridors and the great doorways of the arenas of Nîmes and Arles without changing their curve, their mass and their accent. Cézanne retained from his studies a special friendship for the old Latin artists who revealed to him the poetry of a world whose horizons and profiles he knew. He read them in the original. In the course of walks that he took about the countryside of Aix with his rare visitors and with friends far rarer still—those who, in Aix itself, had braved the bourgeois prejudice and the raillery of fools to have the protection and encouragement of his intellect—anything was a pretext for him to invoke Vergil or Lucretius; whether it was an encounter along the road, the sight of beasts yoked to the plough, an old wall, the crossing of a stream, a flight of pigeons or simply the intimate tone of his own heart, anything might have their participation and authority.

In his youth he was “guilty” of verse in Latin. In French, even, he composed a pagan poem, “Hercules” which Zola, if we are to believe the letters he wrote from Paris at this time, seems to have found but little to his taste. But Zola, though he had authored a book Zola, the less[1] on Cézanne that is often fine, understood him but poorly, even in the days when they loved each other like brothers. They had been in the same class at college. But more than that they had together explored the country to its horizons and likewise the world of dreams and aspiration—to the infinity of enthusiasm and desire. Nothing is more touching than this ardent friendship and communion of the two young men who were to have, indubitably, the most vivifying effect on the artists of today. There was something divine in their pagan childhood. We have all felt the passage— whether we have understood the action both have had on us—we have all felt the passage of that blast of brutal intoxication that swells in the first books of the poet: “La Fortune des Rougons,” (The Fortune of the Rougons) “La Conquete de Plassans”, (The Conquest of Plassans) “La Faute de l’Abbé Mouret,” (The Sin of Father Mouret) and in the painter’s strange canvases, blue and green, where the shudder of space and of water stirs the world and murmurs about the nude beings assembled under the boughs of trees.

Portrait of Anthony Valabrègue, 1869-1871. Oil on canvas, 60.4 x 50.2 cm. J.P. Getty Museum, Malibu.

Uncle Dominic as a Monk, 1865. Oil on canvas, 65.1 x 54.6 cm. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

Man in a Cotton Hat, 1865. Oil on canvas, 79.7 x 64.1 cm. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

Together the two would start out along the roads where the dust creaks as one treads in it. During the heat of the day, they splashed about in the river Arc, swimming, diving, rolling on the warm moss to dry themselves, diving in again, naked in the water and the sun until the air grew cool. Often, they stayed away from home for two or three days, sleeping under a shed or on the leaves in the motionless nights of summer that cool into morning. They returned with sunburnt skins, smarting feet, and red earth under their nails. In their veins beat an acrid blood. The bark of scrub oak, the bitter juice of chewed leaves, the rocky paths where they ran after the lizards, the thorns of the hedges, the brambles, the flints—all drove through their skins the pervading spirit of the poets, dead or living, whose verses they had brought with them to read to each other —at the top of their voices. They were two little black fauns, tender and wild of heart —and with never one doubt.

Cézanne struggled three years with his father, a banker, who wanted to put him into his office, made an honest attempt at studying law in Aix and finally managed to get leave to join Zola in Paris where the latter called him. No sooner was he there than he talked of returning to Provence. The brutality of the city, its fever, the indifference of its crowds to what he regarded as the essential in life, all was a shock to him, stupefied him. The contrast between his live youthfulness and his first contact with men was too strong. His terrible sensibility drew back as before a blow. He ceased showing what went on within him and giving his full soul to the friend with whom he had begun the discovery of the world. As a child he had thought of every living being as close to himself. He had opened, had expanded to all, at least he believed so. He did not yet perceive that the friend he had chosen in the rush of instinct was himself an exception. They did not know, either of them, that almost all those who dwell in cities perceive nothing of what was intoxicating for them. They did not know that they were practically the only ones to find in the murmur of leaves, the sonority of water and the vibration of insects, the sonorities and the murmurs that run, like a breeze swollen with whispering voices and with odors, from one end to the other of the verses they spoke as they walked along. They were unaware of the sincere hearts they possessed, and of the fact that the hearts of other men are not the same.

The one quickest to find it out was he who was least fitted for external strife, who belonged least to the current of the century, he who came to Paris later, who first hurtled against the incomprehension of men because he expressed himself in that language they understand least—and to all this he could not resign himself.[2] Zola, the less susceptible, the more combative, did not understand. For him his friend—that being distraught with love, stifling with compressed life, torn with the magnificent chants that every look arrested on his lips—for him the friend was fantastic, full of contradictions and shadow: “He is all ofone piece, stiff and hard to the hand; nothing can bend him, nothing can wrest from him a compromise....”

Yes, —and very surely yes. The time of lyric expansion was past, the time was no longer ripe for calling aloud the witnessing of nature, for according to all the confidence one has in oneself, for believing that all of us have the disinterestedness of spirit and the desire to commune in enthusiasm that the artist has within him. The time had come to brace himself against the despairing flight of childish illusions, to cuirass his breast against the wounds inflicted by the inexhaustible misunderstanding of men, and to bare it more and still more to the balm of inner searching and the amends that hope makes. Where was he to turn, how many years was he to wait before coming wholly to understand that the more we give our respect to man, the less does he respect us; —and that we never find outside of ourselves the consolation and the support we need to keep us from weakening before the end? The young provincial, with his accent of candor, his confiding look and his unlimited capacity for giving himself to friends, frequents the Atelier Suisse, and fails at the competition for the Ecole des Beaux-Arts.

The Black Scipion, c. 1867. Oil on canvas, 107 x 83 cm. Museu de Arte de São Paulo, São Paolo.

The Abduction, 1867. Oil on canvas, 93.5 x 117 cm. The Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge.

The Temptation of Saint Anthony, 1867-1870. Oil on canvas, 57 x 76 cm. E.G. Bührle Foundation, Zurich.