Part 11

M. Bernard thinks these irregularities in Cezanne the result of defective eyesight. But such an explanation is untenable. There is abundant evidence to show that, to the contrary, they are the result of a highly sensitised sight--a sight which simultaneously calls up the complementary of the thing viewed, whether it be a line, a colour or a tone. This double vision is only a dependency of the plastic mind which, instead of approaching a problem from the nearest side, throws itself automatically to the opposite side, and, by thus obtaining a double approach, arrives at a fuller comprehension. While slanting his line and distorting his volumes Cezanne was unconsciously moulding the parts to echo the organisation of the whole. In turning his pictures into block-manifestations, he strove for a result which would conduce to a profounder aesthetic pleasure than did the linear movements of Renoir. After we have enjoyed Renoir's rhythms we can lay them aside for the time as we can a very beautiful but simple melody. The force of Cezanne strikes us like that of a vast bulk or a mountain. Contemplating his work is like coming suddenly face to face with an ordered elemental force. At first we are conscious only of a shock, but when our wonder has abated, we find ourselves studying the smaller forms which go into the picture's making. In the 1902 Baigneuses of Renoir each separate figure is a beautiful and complete form which fits into and becomes part of the general rhythm. In Cezanne the importance of parts is entirely submerged in the effect of the whole. Here is the main difference between these two great men: we enjoy each part of Renoir and are conducted by line to a completion; in Cezanne we are struck simultaneously by each interrelated part. Viewing a canvas of the latter is like going out into the blazing sunlight from the cool sombreness of a house. At first we are aware only of the force of the light, but as we gradually become accustomed to the glare, we begin to perceive separately objects which before had been only a part of the general impression. The fact that Cezanne invariably spoke of the "motif" should have given his friends a clue to his conception of composition. Before him composition had been to a great extent the formation of a simple melody of line in three dimensions, constructed by the forms of objects. It corresponded to the purely melodious in music, the opening of the theme, its sequence of phrasing and the finale. Cezanne chose a motif, and in each movement of his picture it is to be found, varied, elaborated, reversed and developed. Each part of his canvas is a beginning, yet each part, though distinct as a form, is perfectly united both with the opening motif and with every variation of it.

In this little-understood side of Cezanne's genius lies an infinitude of possibilities. Without an ability to organise, all his knowledge is worthless to the painter. He himself could apply it, and his understanding of the exact adaptability of a form to a hollow permitted him to express his knowledge with a force his followers lack. His sensitiveness to spaces and the characters of his forms recall at times the works of Mokkei who used protuberances and hollows (namely: accidents of portraiture and landscape) to enrich and diversify form. Nature to Cezanne was not simple, and he never depicted it thus. Even in his bathing pieces, whose disproportions are deplored by many, the composition is minutely conceived, not on a simple harmonic figure, but on complicated oppositional planes. Not only are the surface forms perfectly adapted to a given space, but the directions taken by these forms are as solidly indicated and the vacancies made by them are as solidly filled in, as in a Rubens. Indeed these canvases, as block-manifestations, are nearly as perfect as the pictures of El Greco who was the greatest master of this kind of composition.

Cezanne should be numbered among the experimenters in art. With him, as with the Impressionists, the desire was to learn rather than to utilise discoveries. The painters from Courbet to Cezanne were the first to usher in an authentically realistic art mode, and they were also the first who sensed the possibilities of inanimate reality for aesthetic organisation. Others before them had regarded nature strictly _en amateur_, using only the human body for abstract purposes. Even Michelangelo said that aside from it there was nothing worth while. These modern innovators refuted his assertion by proving the contrary, namely: by introducing order into chaotic nature. Their simple arrangements, however, would not have satisfied Michelangelo who, like all men who come at a florescence when the lessons have been learned and it remains only to apply them, demanded an arbitrary organisation which should be not only ordered but composed. Cezanne did little composing in the melodic sense of the word. He stopped at the gate of great composition which, after pointing the future way, he left for his successors to enter. His synthetic interest was limited to the eternal fugue qualities of nature. He undoubtedly saw the futility of creating polyphonic composition from lemons and napkins, but he had not found a menstruum in which the qualities of his materials would disappear. The old masters had done all that was possible with the recognisable human body; Cezanne's desires for the purification of painting kept him from attempting to improve on their medium.

Among a great scope of oil subjects one cannot say through which of them Cezanne has exerted the strongest influence. His landscapes have made as many disciples as his portraits, and his figure pieces and still-lives are universally copied. But his greatest work, his water-colours, has almost no following. In these he found his most facile and fluent expression. His method of working in oil had always been the posing of small, slightly oblong touches of colour which gave, his canvases the appearance of perfect mosaics. In his water-colour pictures these touches are placed side by side with little or no thought of their ultimate objective importance, and they become larger planes of unmixed tints juxtaposed in such a way that voluminous form results. His work in this most difficult medium has an abstract significance, for in it even the objective colouring of natural objects is unnoticeable. The colours stand by themselves; and while the aspect of Cezanne's pictures in this medium is flat and almost transparent, the subjective emotion we feel before them is greater than in his oil work. In these pictures there was no going back to retouch. They had to be visualised as a whole before they could be commenced. Each brush stroke had to be a definite and irretrievable step toward the completion of the ensemble. As we study them a slow shifting of the planes is felt: an emotional reconstruction takes place, and at length the volumes begin their turning, advancing and retreating as in his oil paintings, only here the purely aesthetic quality is unadulterated by objective reality. In these water-colours, more than in any of his other work, has he posed the question of aesthetic beauty itself. When we contemplate them, we are more than ever convinced that Cezanne was the first painter, that is, the first man to express himself entirely in the medium of his art, colour. Unfortunately these pictures are difficult of access. Only occasionally are they exposed in a group. Bernheim-Jeune has a magnificent collection of them, and it is to be hoped they will soon find their way into public museums. Eventually, when a true comprehension of this great man comes, they will supplant his other efforts. His desires for a pure art are here expressed most intensely.

Cezanne, however, is not always able to "realise," as he put it. Even in these water-colours he did not attain his desire. He started too late in life to acquire complete mastery over his enormous means. "One must be a workman in one's art, must know one's method of realisation," he said. "One must be a painter by the very qualities of painting, by making use of the rough materials of art." He failed to gain that great facility by which supreme realisation is achieved, because the span of life accorded him was too short. He was old when his best work was begun, and like Joseph Conrad, he had passed his youth before the great ambition fired him. "Realising" to him meant the handling of his stupendous means as easily as the academicians handled their puny ones. This he could never do, and his age haunted him to the end. Many have taken him literally when he said he desired to expose in Bouguereau's _Salon_, but though he earnestly wished it, he desired to be received there as Bouguereau was: as one who had mastered his expression. "The exterior appearance is nothing," he explained. "The obstacle is that I don't realise sufficiently." In other words, he did not have great enough fluency to permit only the highest qualities of his art to be felt. In his gigantic efforts to "realise," his pictures changed colour and form many times before they were finished. His respect and admiration for inferior men like Bouguereau and Couture was due to their enviable facility in handling their means. He knew that the fundamental and unalterable laws of organisation had been found and perfected by the old masters, and that, so long as we were human, we must build on their discoveries. "Only to realise like the Venetians!" he cried. And later: "We must again become classicists by way of nature, that is to say, by sensation.... I am old, and it is possible I shall die without having attained this great end." A year before his death he said: "Yes, I am too old; I have not realised, and I shall never realise now. I shall remain the primitive of the way I have discovered."

The prediction proved true, but his destiny was none the less a glorious one. Deprived of the phrenetic impulse which took him in all weathers over country roads to the "motif" from six o'clock in the morning until dark, he would never have achieved what he did. The fact of this great modern genius going to work in a hired carriage, too weak to walk, should be a lesson to those painters who are always awaiting the combination of propitious circumstances which will provide them with a perfect studio, a perfect model and a perfect desire. Cezanne, however, knew his high place in art history. Once when Balzac's Le Chef-d'OEuvre Inconnu was brought up in conversation and the name of its hero, Frenhofer, was mentioned, he arose with tears in his eyes and indicated himself with a single gesture. So sure was he of what he wanted to do that when he failed he discarded his canvases. Many of them are only half covered. He could never pad merely to fill out an arbitrary frame.

With Cezanne's death came his apotheosis. As he had predicted, thousands rushed in and cleverly imitated his surfaces, his colour gamuts, his distortions of line. His white wooden tables and ruddy apples and twisted fruit-dishes have lately become the etiquette of sophistication. But all this is not authentic eulogy. Derain, his most ardent imitator, is as ignorant of him as Nadelmann is of the Greeks or Archipenko is of Michelangelo. And the majority of those who have written books concerning him merely echo the unintelligent commotion that goes on about his name. Cezanne's significance lies in his gifts to the painters of the future, to those in whom the creative instinct is a sacred and exalted thing, to those serious and solitary men whose insatiability makes of them explorers in new fields. To such artists Cezanne will always be the primitive of the way that they themselves will take, for there can be no genuine art of the future without his directing and guiding hand. His postulates are too solidly founded on human organisms ever to be ignored. He may be modified and developed: he can never be set aside until the primal emotions of life are changed. Only today is he beginning to be understood, and even now his claim to true greatness is questioned. But Cezanne, judged either as a theorist or as an achiever, is the preeminent figure in modern art. Renoir alone approaches his stature. Purely as a painter he is the greatest the world has produced. In the visual arts he is surpassed only by El Greco, Michelangelo and Rubens.

VII

THE NEO-IMPRESSIONISTS

The Impressionists, although they turned their backs upon casual selectivism and branched out into analytic research, had--contrary to the generally accepted opinion--no precise and scientific method of colour application. This came later with the advent of a group of painters who have been called, in turn, Pointillists, Divisionists, Chromo-luminarists and Neo-Impressionists, but who chose to regard themselves only as the last of these four designations. And there is perhaps more logic in this nomenclature, for it is not limited technically; it contains no claim to achievement as does Chromo-luminarism; and it suggests this new school's consanguinity with the movement out of which it grew. With Delacroix's Journal, the pictures of Claude Monet and Chevreul's pioneer treatise on colour, De la Loi du Contraste Simultane des Couleurs, the Neo-Impressionists evolved a coldly scientific method of technique. By carrying a simple premise to its ultimate conclusion, regardless of everything save the exacting demands of logic, they endeavoured to heighten the emotional effect of the Impressionist vision. In this movement, as in other similar ones, can be detected the spirit which animates the ardent visionary when he contemplates a novel method--the spirit which invites him to go to even greater extremes. In it there is as much enthusiasm as serious purpose, as much of the essence of youth as of the _arriviste_. In no instance has such a spirit led to significant results; and the Neo-Impressionists prove no exception. In looking too fixedly at means, they lost sight of their ends. Their debut took place at the last concerted exhibition of the Impressionists in 1886 where the canvases of Seurat and Signac were hung beside those of Cassatt, Bracquemond, Morisot, Camille and Lucien Pissarro, Gauguin, Guillaumin, Redon, Schuffenecker, Tillot, Degas, Forain and Vignon. Here was seen for the first time the logical extension of the earlier methods of Monet and Pissarro.

Georges Seurat had once been a good student at the Beaux-Arts, but his quick, precise and questioning intelligence had saved him from falling under the professorial injunctions. Most of his studying was done in the art museums where he contemplated for long the old masters. Here he discovered that "there are analogous laws which govern line, tone, colour and composition, as much with Rubens as with Raphael, with Michelangelo as with Delacroix: rhythm, measure and contrast." (By rhythm, measure and contrast he meant curved lines, space and opposition.) Still searching for the secrets of art he studied the works of the Orient and the writings of Chevreul, Superville, Humbert, Blanc, Rood and Helmholtz. Then, by analysing Delacroix, he found substantiation for his discoveries. The result of this study was, as Signac tells us, his "judicious and fertile theory of contrasts." From 1882 on he applied it to all his canvases. The theory in brief was to use scientifically opposed spots of colour of more or less purity. This method he might have learned direct from the first modern French master, for in that artist's Journal are discussed at length colour division; optical admixture; the dramatic unity of colour, line and subject; and the juxtaposition of complementaries for brilliancy.

Paul Signac's evolution was different. He had first been under the influence of Pissarro, Renoir, Monet and Guillaumin, and though being a zealous pupil of their methods, he knew little of their motives. It was only after he had observed the interplay and contrast of colours in nature that he sought explanation in the works of his masters, the Impressionists. Failing, he turned again to nature. In copying it, he discovered that in the gradation from one colour to another, let us say from blue to orange, the transition was always muddy and disagreeable when mixed on the palette, although if distinct spots of these two colours were juxtaposed in alternating ratio, the modulation would be smooth and clean. This observation impelled him to seek a method whereby this "passage" could be highly clarified. Consequently he completely divided the Impressionists' spots so that each individual touch remained pure and at the same time left patches of the white canvas showing for purposes of brilliancy. His next step led him to Chevreul whose theory of complementaries he committed to memory. His technical education he now deemed complete.

Seurat and Signac first met at the _Salon des Artistes Independants_ in 1884, and their discoveries were at once mutually appropriated. Signac's colour divisions, combined with Seurat's more scholarly equilibrium of elements, formed the nucleus from which evolved the Neo-Impressionists who later repudiated Impressionism, using it only as the point from which they leapt off into a morass of set formulas. It was a laudable desire on the part of these new men, especially of Seurat, to try to snatch from a purely inspirational school its halo of mystery and to place painting methods on a sound rationalistic basis. But while they were right in believing a picture should be more than the visual accompaniment to sentiments, they should have gone deeper than the mere exterior of painting. For example, they should have tried to see in what plastic way their colour theories could be used, instead of limiting themselves to the synthetic unity of aesthetic illustration. And they should have tried to make a form-producing faculty of their light instead of introducing into it another poetic element in the shape of dramatic line. But they were more concerned with the clothes in the wardrobe of art than in its body. Their painting, as a result, was without sustaining structure.

With the Impressionists, as with all significant art movements, the desire for change and for higher emotional power came first: the method came later. With the Neo-Impressionists this order was reversed. Their canvases for this reason are less emotional than those of their forerunners. By limiting their palettes to certain pure colours they restricted their diversity of interest. Even their aim at a scientific art has gone far of the mark because their science was in many instances faulty. By conditioning their methods on the observations of inaccurate writers they were able to progress only so far as these observations went. Chevreul is far from authoritative today: in fact there is no comprehensive scientific work on colour in existence. Tudor-Hart, the greatest of all colour scientists, has blasted many of the older accepted theories of such men as Helmholtz, Rood and Chevreul, and his experiments have shown conclusively that many of their postulates are unreliable. The Neo-Impressionists were unaware of Chevreul's errors, and their minds were too literal to enable them to make new and more advanced observations in the realm of colour. The meagre attention paid them is not due to their novelty, but to the fact that they have done nothing the Impressionists did not do better. They are like a cartridge which, having all the combustible ingredients, fails to explode because it is wet.

The Neo-Impressionists may, in refutation, point to music as a scientific art. But it must be remembered that taste brought about the construction of chords and that the mathematical explanation came later. The primitive peoples who found an aesthetic pleasure in broken-up major chords were ignorant of nodal points and the laws of vibration. The early Assyrians had a pipe of three notes, C, E and G, perfectly attuned, yet they were ignorant of the science of harmony. Taste in the arts has always come first: science follows with its interpretations. The Impressionists, through instinct, created their marvels of light and atmosphere. Afterward the science of optics explained their efforts. Personal taste was their only criterion, and no books could have taught them their lesson, because their methods were so plastic that whatever was to them artistically consistent was right. Had they been familiar with science, it still would have remained to be applied: and it is only by the superimposition of taste that knowledge in the artist becomes pregnant. The Divisionists, by making a hard and fast code of science, enslaved themselves to the demands of theories. The functioning of their tastes was nullified. They therefore fell short of art.

In Signac's book, D'Eugene Delacroix au Neo-Impressionnisme, are explained many points of divergence between this school and that of the Impressionists. The difference of the two methods may be exemplified by describing the manner in which each approached a landscape wherein the grass and foliage were partly in shadow and partly in sunlight. In such a landscape the artist's eye records a fleeting, dimly-felt impression of red in that part of the green of the shadow which is nearest the light region. The Impressionists, satisfied with having experienced this sensation, hastened to put a touch of red on their canvas, while the actual colour in nature might have been an orange, a vermilion, or even a purple. In this haphazard choice of a red Signac detected slovenliness. He says that the shadow of any colour is always lightly tinted with the colour's complementary; that if the light is yellow-green the shadow will be touched with violet; if orange, the shadow will contain blue-green. Had the Impressionists known this fact and cared to use it, says Signac, they could have made their pictures scientifically correct by posing the exact complementary of light in their shadow. And he adds that it is difficult to see in just what way this process would have harmed their work.

It is, however, not so difficult as he imagines. If, in copying nature by a strictly scientific vision as the Neo-Impressionists advocate, we closely study the light, we will discover not only that a local colour is modified by the colour of the sun's rays, but that an added suite of colours is introduced by the absorption of some of the object's particles, by the encompassing air, and by the circumjacent reflections. We may have (1) the local colour which, let us say, is green, (2) the colour of sunlight, (3) the colour caused by atmospheric conditions, (4) the reflection of sky, and (5) the reflection of the ground. Furthermore, if the object has any indentures their shadows will lower to a limited degree the whole tone of the object. At the least calculation then we have (1) green, (2) yellow-orange, (3) any colour in the cold region of the spectrum, (4) blue or violet, and (5) green, brown, Venetian red or any colour in the warm region of the spectrum:--all of which colours change and shift unceasingly, dependent on the density of the air which obscures, to a lesser or greater degree, the sun's rays and hence changes the reflection from sky and ground, thereby modifying the local colour. Thus it is impossible when copying nature even to determine the colour of its lightened parts. And if a colour premise cannot be established, it is obviously impossible to find its exact complementary.