In 1952, James helped to save from destruction Cézanne’s studio in Aix-en-Provence. Local authorities wanted to tear it down and build a high-rise, so he raised the money from wealthy Americans to preserve the pilgrimage site. On the day when I visited the atelier, the northern gray sky mirrored its neutral walls. A large crucifix was hanging prominently. French country chairs with straw seats, baskets of onions, dusty bottles, and human skulls were arranged in a curator’s idea of Cézanne’s still lifes. Tapestries were draped across the arm of an easel. Withered fruit and flowers reminded visitors that Cézanne spent weeks, even months, finishing his paintings. Prints by Poussin and Delacroix were displayed on a high shelf. The Delacroix, a triangular composition that recalled Cézanne’s views of Montagne Sainte-Victoire, was a romantic depiction of a lion devouring a horse, whereas the Poussin, a landscape of shepherds in Arcadia, was more meditative. Cézanne, we were to understand, married the virtues of these two artists and made something of his own. A dense thicket pressed against the atelier’s garret-style windows. Hidden in the corner was a tall door, only about a foot wide, through which Cézanne removed his large canvases of bathers. In the atelier, there was a solitude bordering on sombreness. Eating a fig from the large tree beside the front door, I remembered a letter Cézanne wrote to his son, in which he says, As for me, I must remain alone, the meanness of people is such that I should never be able to get away from it… newyorker/online/blogs/books/2013/12/street-of-the-iron-poet-part-ix.html
Posted on: Tue, 03 Dec 2013 09:15:17 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015