TROUBLE WITH THE FAMILY

Relations with my father were worse than ever, we seldom spoke, and when we did, it was forced and uncomfortable. The failure to follow in his footsteps at the Cezanne and Cabassol Banque, lived with him, a sore which would not heal. We were involved in a forced association which was devoid of warmth or affection, one that focused on my failing to live up to my responsibilities, a theme that was exploited at every opportunity, not only by Louis-Auguste, but by my sisters, as well, making every contact an unpleasant experience. The good changes I had anticipated when I was in Paris, had not taken place, with things getting progressively worse as the atmosphere at the house on the Rue Boulegon became increasingly abrasive. My poor mother, sensing my unhappiness, was overly sympathetic, sentimental, insistent, smothering me, making me suffocated and heavy in her presence. Marie and Rose, in the opposite sense, gave me no peace, deriding my choice of art, and seldom missing an opportunity to humiliate me, especially when Louis-Auguste was in the house. Louis-Auguste was particularly overbearing at the dinner table, looking at me disdainfully, expressing his contempt, wondering how he could have sired a son who hated work, denied his obligations, "a parasite, without conscience, subsisting on the sweat of others!" The most painful moments in dealing with my father came when I had to ask for money; he always required me to do so; relishing the prospect of humiliating me. He believed this was a just punishment for my disobeying his wishes, for my stubborn resistance to his will, and for the bitter arguments taking place within the family. My insecurity created demons everywhere, and I imagined the situation to be far more serious than it was. Nevertheless, real or imagined, the pressures were relentless, and my mind was constantly searching for ways to escape. The conclusions, however, were always the same:   I had no real choices and going on, making the best of what was available, was the path I had to take. Making it alone, despite the demeaning nature of my day to day existence, was just another one of my day-dreams, a fantasy, without the slightest chance of fulfillment. I was a misfit in a practical world, a lost soul, a wanderer seeking a place which was beyond his reach. My therapy, in this unhappy circumstance, was the old one of hiking far out into the countryside, liberated from my tormentors, where I could think about the problems of my art without interference. I developed the habit of extended walks, sometimes stretching over three or four days, just wandering wherever my inclination took me. On one extended trip, I walked all the way to Vauvenargues, following the winding course of the Tholonet road to the base of Mont Sainte-Victoire. As I passed through the magnificent panorama of provincial landscape, fleeting visions passed through my mind, visions of what could be, what this could mean to my art. The silhouette of the towering mountain, the green sweep of the conifers, the distant horizons, the River Arc winding gently along the valley, and granite domes of the rugged terrain peeking out from verdant foliage, were of great significance to me:  I was sure of this, but at the moment it was not clearly understood. I thought about my art, its meaning, what this country signified, how I should proceed, painting a little, although without purpose, and detached from the flow of ideas passing through my head. The way I sought for myself remained elusive and enigmatic, uncertain, fraught with all kinds of difficulties, which made me wonder if I would ever change over to a more positive human being. In rare moments, I became confident and I believed I could achieve whatever I wished, that all I needed was persistence in my work along with the courage to ignore outside influences as well as the extremes of character which had caused me so much personal anguish. During the periods of optimism, I tried to visualize what my art might be without the slightest comprehension of the form it would take. I felt pulled by forces I could not understand, that, perhaps, I would never understand. I yearned for infinite wisdom before nature, of being able to find inspiration through the study of natural phenomena. I realized, though, that research was not the answer if my mind was not prepared to deal with it creatively. All I knew was that the provincial landscape moved me emotionally, drew me on, and provided guidance I could get nowhere else. I was convinced that it held, mysteriously, the key to the enigma of painting. The atmosphere of Paris, the strident competitiveness, the complexities of a large commercial city, were terrifying. Even though I was insecure in the Midi, oppressed by Louis-Auguste's dislike of my choices in life, there was always the verdant countryside, endlessly interesting, providing the stimulous to continue my researches. My father's plans for me had been frustrated, but the problem of dealing with him, vital to going on, had not. The uncertainties engendered by this, had their effect each day, making my existence dependent on whether he was ready to continue the support of a wayward son who had undertaken to become a professional artist. Louis-Auguste's shadow, the weight of his autocratic personality, his control over the purse strings, his insulting attitudes meant to humble me, lay heavily on all aspects of my life. I fantasized, knowing that it was a pointless impossible dream, of living free of trouble, on my own, happy with my work, in harmony with the flow of society around me. During deeply disturbed periods, I regretted the choice of a profession which had caused so much misery. I understood the reason for my unhappiness was deep in my own nature; I attempted to fight, to ignore the insecurity and the demoralizing paralysis, but the inner strength to do it effectively was missing. I was helpless in the face of what I was, carried along by forces I could not control, an outsider on decisions affecting my life. When things went well occasionally, I was nervous, waiting for the next crisis, and I was seldom disappointed. I wanted answers, I demanded answers, but they were never forthcoming, and any stability I achieved was fortuitous rather than controlled. My fleeing in the face of trouble was a refuge, a coward's futile effort to avoid the weaknesses of his character. So I ran from crisis to crisis, turning my head as far away as possible, until the music had to be faced, at which point I became the penitent, humble, willing to forget and forgive if things would go on as they had before. Discussions on art provoked similar fears of defeat for me: I could not accept opinions different than my own, because my ego wouldn't allow it. I was convinced I'd be shown up as wrong, but, at the same time, I believed that what I thought was correct, and could not be any other way. The dichotomy was a form of torture making me either insecure or arrogant according to my mood, which was usually the latter. This split personality mechanism of my nature forced me into self-imposed isolation and it developed paranoid symptoms which saw society as sinister and detrimental to my best interests. Along with my distaste for engaging in the norms of social exchange was my contradiction of needing Paris and hating it:   a form of torment which had adverse effects on my capacity to accumulate knowledge important to my objectives as a painter. The city was critical as a source of information not obtainable anywhere else. I needed the Louvre, the Musee Luxembourg, I had to see Pissarro at regular intervals to benefit from his knowledge. Without his support, I gradually lost whatever courage I possessed, losing forward movement, and eventually reaching a dead stop. Pissarro's wise advice usually enabled me to stoke the fire again and get things underway: with my customary indecisiveness, however, I put off the return until the end of summer, with my bags packed, waiting for an opportunity to leave.     from Pour Moi, Cezanne home