I MARRY HORTENSE

News of my father's serious illness forced our return to Aix-en-Provence; he was just a shadow of a man holding tenaciously to life as he had everything else. The force of his character as he neared death, permeated family exchanges, poisoning an atmosphere already abrasive and hostile.

It was hard for me to imagine going on without the old man; the idea brought fear into my heart; I had hated and respected him at the same time. The dominant nature of his personality had shaped my life; I was totally dependent on his generosity and his money. Much of the pain I had suffered, came from his arbitrary and sometimes malicious use of the parental rights he considered his prerogative. There never had been any question of affection between us even during the very early years when I was a timid uncertain child in awe of what he represented. I have no recollection of an exchange which reflected something other than money or a reprimand for disobedience to his will. The prospect of being freed from my economic shackles by his death, did not, at first, enter my mind. I refused, almost in a state of panic, to think beyond the fact that he was still alive. His hold on me, I was certain, would persist to the very end. The imminence of his death prompted the family to insist on an immediate marriage to Hortense. The logic behind this, outside of propriety, was not clear to me; but under the circumstances, I went along with it mainly because I was in no mood to get into a dispute with Rose and Marie. The idea of marriage seemed ludicrous when the relationship with Hortense barely existed: we had ties, responsibilities, and not very much beyond that. The decorum of legalization of my position was apparently important to my mother, also, who felt that the Cezanne family could not face the inevitability of Louis-Auguste's death, without all the details of bourgeois respectability being attended to in the proper manner. Hortense and I were married in a civil ceremony at the Mairie in Aix-en-Provence. Jules Richard, an accountant at the Cezanne and Cabassol Banque, Phillippe Peyron, a member of the Municipal Council, my brother-in-law, Maxim Conil, husband of Rose, and Louis Barret, the proprietor of the local rope factory, were witnesses. At the conclusion of the town clerk's read-out of the ritual, the ceremony was concluded. Afterward, at my mother's insistence, we went as a group to the Church of Saint Jean-Baptiste, located on the Cours Sextius, presumably to get God's blessing on the marriage. I felt I was outside of what was going on, a spectator watching a scenario in which I was one of the principals, but a main character who was actually a stranger to the proceedings. Nevertheless, Hortense, the other principal was satisfied; the marriage protected her precarious position, and more importantly, it assured her a legal status in the event of my father's death: something she had bitterly argued for from the day she moved in with me in my Paris flat; now that she had what she wanted, I had no optimism, knowing her character, that the change would have the slightest effect on our abrasive relationship. As soon as possible, in order to escape the heavy atmosphere at the Rue Boulegon, we returned to Paris, taking an apartment at 15 Quai d'Anjou, on the edge of the La Butte Pinson. It was conveniently within walking distance of the Louvre, and a number of areas which were attractive for sketching purposes. I immediately got in touch with Pere Tanguy: the large debt I owed him had been on my conscience, to tell him that I had not forgotten about my obligations: "The money," I said, "would be available in the event of my father's death." It seemed wrong to put it this way, inappropriate, but, as I reasoned, it was the truth, and the main thing was to assure Pere Tanguy I'd make good on the debt. "I can do nothing now," I emphasized, "because my allowance cannot cover it." Then concluded: "The moment I receive my inheritance, you will be given the amount due you just as promptly as circumstances permit." I needn't have worried over this; Pere Tanguy never asked artists who were indebted to him for repayment: they paid when they were able to do so, and in certain instances when this wasn't possible, there was no particular fuss about it, he was an extraordinary man to those he befriended,, extraordinary in the sense that he didn't expect a return on the credit he extended so generously. When the loans were made, usually in the form of art materials-- he knew that repayment was uncertain or impossible, a reality that did not have the slightest effect on his determination to support those in the radical movement. My debt, which had reached over four-thousand francs, never affected his feelings toward me, nor did it affect his attitude toward my work. In some instances to partially cover the money owed him, he accepted paintings, which were proudly displayed in the front windows of his shop at 27 Rue Clauzel in the Montmartre. The art in his collection included most artists in the dissident group: among them were Renoir, Pissarro, Guillaumin, Cordey, Van Gogh, Sisley, and even Monet, who from time to time had been down on his luck just like the rest of us. These canvasses were shown to prospective customers with immense pride in the quality of the art; and the sales pitch was a joy to see: a picture of a man in love in love with the new art and willing to do anything to promote it. The enthusiasm was seldom shared by his customers who wondered how he could generate such fervor over bad painting. Students from the Ecole des Beaux-Arts often stopped by to tease Pere Tanguy on the quality of the pictures. The remarks were intended to bait the old man into some form of retaliation; and they were sometimes obscene and full of references to his "luny-bin mentality." Young academicians often scribbled graffiti on the windows of his store ridiculing Impressionism; and on several occasions, bricks were thrown through the windows to emphasize their hostility to any style of painting which violated conservative procedures. Pere Tanguy didn't back down at all to these educated hooligans and steadfastly defended his radical friends as forecasting the nature of things to come. Sometimes the students from Messionier's and Gerome's classes at the Academie would gather with certain less admirable academic artists at Tanguy's place, the latter all decked out in top hats, frock coats, pearl cravats and fancy vests, canes in hand, monocles raised to their eyes, the entire crowd laughing, pointing, ridiculing a Van Gogh, a Pissarro, or a Monet which happened to be displayed in the window. With such groups there was always a great deal of shouting, caustic references to the technical deficiencies of the art, and threatening gestures which indicated their patience was wearing thin at Pere Tanguy's nerve in trying to sell such garbage. In one instance, when Monet was present, he and Pere Tanguy ran out to defend the art, arousing the unruly academicians, who raised their canes threateningly ready to strike at them. This was enough of a signal for Monet who charged the lot, swinging his fists wildly in every direction, an assault which scattered the conservatives into a complete rout down both sides of the Rue Clauzel, just as the police appeared on the scene, having been alerted to the small riot by Madame Tanguy who had run to a precinct of the 18th Arrondisement for assistance. But the general attitude toward radical art was changing, some up at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts were expressing a grudging admiration for Impressionism, they were responding partly to the beauty of the painting and partly to the increased interest by collectors, galleries, and critics, in not only showing, buying the work, and providing fairer critical reviews, but in recognizing that a serious injustice had been committed on a group of sincere artists who had never asked for anything but an equal chance to exhibit their work in Salon d'Automne. Another important factor in the recognition of the new art, was the appearance on the scene of a generation of younger painters who were not satisfied with academic ideas or with the concept of the Impressionists. Their work could be seen in the smaller, private galleries, those who were more avant-garde, on the adventurous side of the art community. Reviewers were talking about these newcomers: Bernard, Seurat, Signac, Serusier, and Gauguin, who had abandoned his privileges as a bourgeois, saying that the art of the future was being evolved in their theoretical experimentation. Pissarro, when I met him at the Nouvelle-Athens, where he had lunched with Renoir to talk over the business arrangements they had with Durand-Ruel, told me that: "Gauguin has finally made the break from his family and his lucrative position at Bertin's, to embrace art. His standard of living has dropped to the hand-to-mouth level; he scratches around like the rest of us; and is beginning to understand that the life of an artist is not as easy as he imagined. His spirits are high, however, and he swears it is only a matter of time before he brings the critical sophisticates around Paris to their knees. I don't question his enthusiasm, nor do I proffer advice; it is better, in his case, to let him assimilate the hard facts for himself. You still remain his master; he tells everyone that no matter what happens to him financially he will never sell his Cezannes. "These canvasses," he says to all who will listen, "are the breath of life; they sustain me; it is through them that I see the future!" An article by Huysmans, in the Courier de France, unexpectedly focused attention on my work, suggesting that a closer scrutiny be given to the difficulties which had been placed in my way, and the unfair evaluations which had been made, mostly on the basis of promoting the status quo. The publicity coming out of this, resulted in a more serious assessment of Zola's contention in "L'Oeuvre," that I was an eccentric incompetent doomed to certain failure. The critics also began to question his broad denunciation of the new art, and wonder about his capacity to judge painting and painters. In that novel he had described Renoir, Monet, and Pissarro, thinly disguised under fictitious names, as "mediocre apostles of Impressionism." Their growing prestige among writers and critics and the slowly developing appreciation by the general public, had prompted a new generation of reporters to take another look at what he had written. One of these newcomers, writing in La Cravache, said: "Zola's assumption of the truth and his treacherous desertion of their cause, demonstrates his profound ignorance about art and artists. Those who use the power of the press to condemn others, must be held accountable for what they have written, and they should be forced to respond in public if they have resorted to devious means which distort basic truths. When the statements Zola has made have been considered, it is my belief that he will we forced to eat his words, to pay penance for libelous and derogatory statements!" Reading this provided no comfort for me; art, essentially, was not the basic issue; it was larger than the human elements involved; it would die or live according to to its special values; and no one, especially a sensationalist writer, was going alter this fact. Everything boiled down to Zola's paying a severe price for his heresy against the system; it was his desire to be taken back into the priesthood of official acceptance because he was comfortable with the idea and it was distinctly advantageous from a business viewpoint. His position as a crusading writer out to rectify grave injustices in the system of academic theoretical art, its showing, buying, and selling, were inconvenient, frustrating to his ambitions, and not congenial to his pocketbook. "L'Oeuvre," was merely the device he used to sever connections with his past, a way of letting the establishment know exactly where he stood vis a vis the radical movement. In essence, the dissidents had become sacrificial lambs to the social forces dominating Zola's life; unfortunately, this kind of philosophical hopscotch failed to achieve the objectives intended by its originator; and was accumulating enemies for him everywhere. It was evident that Zola's inclination to entangle himself in controversy, no matter what form it took, would eventually affect his status as a writer. I know this was the way he functioned, that it was critical to him, that it would go on despite his present decision to placate those he considered important to his future. It wasn't all black and white, he was sincere about some of his blatant excursions into publicity; that each of his notoriety seeking stunts had its good and bad side. So I was ambivalent about his actions, just as I was uncertain about my own in respect to troubles this brought down on my head. It was curious to me that creative people who dared break with their contemporaries always seemed to get into hot water, infuriating their fellowman, and molding themselves in the image of a revolutionary: even when it was perfectly obvious that such a thought was the furthest from their minds. My dedication to painting; the problems that went with it, had stripped me of everything in life that the average individual considered worthwhile. In the final analysis I accepted the trouble, it became part of the lifestyle, and now, after spending half my life chasing the mysterious nature of the creative process, I couldn't remember when when I had been free of it. To chronically suffer from some real or imagined problem arising out of my work appeared the inevitable consequence of running uphill instead of turning around and joining the mass of people who had chosen to go downhill as the easier route to take. In my daily existence real attachments were entirely absent: the family, my relationship with Hortense and my son, the radical painters, including Monet, Renoir, and Pissarro, seemed fragile entities, impermanent, ready to disappear, to vanish before my eyes. I was a wanderer on the face of the earth without solid human bonds, without a real home I could call my own. I yearned for relief from this oppressive condition, but there was no relief: only more isolation, more trouble. For me, life was the enemy, crushing me with heavy blows. When I resisted, at least it seemed that way to me, the punishment increased. To say I functioned well under stress, would, no doubt, be an exaggeration: I existed; I struggled with my painting; and additionally, I suffered the tribulations of fragile health. Mentally, given all this, I was confused, a procrastinator in almost everything, and incompetent in all practical demands which were made on me. As in the past, being given to violent reactions when I endured failures in my objectives, I had the tendency to strike out at those closest to me--friend or enemy. I became increasingly irritable; I placed the blame for the pain I endured on others, and every day I cursed the ignorance that had made such a mess of my life. It reached a point where I was ashamed of what I was, afraid to meet people because recognition represented an awareness of a broken life. I painted on during this period, not effectively or happily, using it as an escape, as a fragile glue which held a mismanaged existence together. When I met Vincent Van Gogh at Pere Tanguy's, I came away with an unfavorable opinion of the Dutchman, but, at the same time, I respected his total dedication to art, his determination, his furious, energetic mania to succeed. Art had become his religion, his driving force, an adaptation of theology to painting, an emotional zeal which consumed him, set him afire. The artist's repressed sense of violence, his excited, overstated aphorisms on the nature of art, enveloped you in his presence. You became conscious of his tentative grasp on reality, his inclination to vacillate between arrogance and despair, and his spiritual conception of the experience of being an artist. As I reflected, these thoughts running through my head, I was struck with the idea that everything I was thinking was also true about myself. The parallels were real, the maladjustments, in a social sense, were similar, the enjoining of the creative battle, almost identical. We both suffered the malaise of antagonizing the people around us, we converted potential friends into enemies, and we were both subject, under pressure, of irrational behavior. We were brothers in our misery, flawed in our efforts artistically, and neither of us was able to compromise with society. Instinctively, I sympathized with Van Gogh, seeing his plight as far worse than mine, a life in terrible torment. He was at odds with himself, unable to cope with adversity, frantically searching for answers. His pugnacious aggressiveness, his extreme idealism, his flashing angry eyes, his nervous tension which filled the atmosphere about him, his loud voice tinged with a heavy Dutch accent, his affectation of humility, not truly felt, were totally alien in a bourgeois city like Paris. Accommodation, for Van Gogh, as it was for me, represented a state of inferiority, a condition which was intolerable. Van Gogh's affected humility disguised an enormous ego that sustained him in the face of repeated failure. The combination of ego and spiritual values projected the the idea of his being a "messiah" about to reveal himself to the world. Before I left Pere Tanguy's shop on the Rue Clauzel, I assured him on the repayment of the debt I owed, repeating what I had said in my letter, that it would be forthcoming in the event of my father's death. He had nodded, handed over art supplies he had prepared for me, and asked what the radicals were doing about the controversy with the Academie Ecole des Beaux-Arts. I replied that I hadn't seen anyone in the group for several months, that, as far as I knew, nothing was planned. "They are painting for the Salon d'Automne," I informed him, "Renoir is in Paris working on some figure compositions, Pissarro is in the north in the area of La Roche Guyon, and Monet is on the channel coast, at Etretat, I believe, seeking impressive subject-matter from the unusual rock formations which thrust themselves into the water at that location."

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