 Cezanne Early Self-Portrait
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Book I
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I agreed to take my clothes off under certain conditions. First, Cezanne would
give me a dream. What I wanted was the dream that no one forgets. The dream that
defies the gravity of common sense, escapes propriety, and trespasses past the
boundaries of morality. The dream which opens a door to the most improbable fantasies and desires. I had a theory I hoped to prove—Cezanne’s chosen dream would be the lodestar to explain what led the artist along his path.
The second condition was that I would not pose in a recumbent position. I deemed Cezanne too innovative to follow the worn-out pattern of the compliant nude.
Lastly, the more elaborate condition, I had to observe his painting method. Cezanne said that he could, through a series of mirrors, set at proper angles, fix it so that everything was visible to me. I would have a view of his palette, the colours he chose, and also a glimpse over his shoulder to watch how his brushstroke was applied.
“Your desire to understand the construction of painting,” he admitted, “is impressive.”
At the appointed hour I came to rue Val-de-Grace and Cezanne’s nondescript building in a district dominated by cloth merchants. His top floor studio comprised one large room with a minimum of furnishings which were utilitarian and of solid woods. A modest amount of light filtered down from the skylight. The place was in reasonable order, cleanly swept, with many canvases tantalizingly propped to face the wall. What caught my attention was a wooden platform, conspicuously raised three feet, which must be waiting for the model. Happily, I saw that he had complied with my request for mirrors, a well thought out arrangement, where anyone from the platform would be able to see him paint.
Our conversation began awkwardly, neither of us accustomed to idle or small talk. He busied himself with lining up brushes on a small table beside his easel. I approached.
Picking up a brush, I wanted to show off my knowledge. “Sable hair. But the others?”
“Hogs-hair... pole-cat.” He spoke so gruff and low I could barely hear him. This was our first time truly alone.
I unpinned my hat, looked around for where I would eventually hang the rest of my clothes, and noticed a canary in a spacious, gilded cage, the bird hopping about and tweeting a pleasant song. Cezanne followed me to the cage.
“Are blue canaries rare?” I asked.
He pushed a little crust of bread between the thin wires of the cage. The blue bird fluttered excitedly, flying straight to the treat he held, pecking away crumbs in mid-air. “Not so rare. The greens are harder to find.”
I pushed a finger in between the bars to see if the bird would perch, but only succeeded in agitating the bird, causing it to flutter in frantic circles.
“Canaries are not finger perch birds,” he said. “They don’t like to be touched.”
We fell silent. I had the advantage of having heard from Père Tanguy of Cezanne’s phobia—his dread of being touched by anyone. At our café meetings, I had once touched the sleeve of his jacket only to see him involuntarily recoil. Phobias had a fascination for me, Cezanne’s in particular.
“Doesn’t your blue canary get lonely?” I asked.
“They are solitary birds, not sociable at all. And they sing more freely, especially the males, when they are by themselves.”
Flapping my hat against my leg, fidgety, I still wondered where and when I should remove my clothing...