8513. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, #146

146. CEZANNE 

At the Studio School there

were daily drawing classes.

Ten or fifteen students, with

big drawing sheets and flip-

top drawing pads on easels,

with charcoal sticks, mostly.

One, sometimes two, models

up front, on a stage/pedestal

area, naked, just staring out

in some vacant pose, gazing.
(I don't think they used 'naked',
it was more like a genteel 'nude').

Various configurations of limbs

or contortions or not, for the

day. There were people, and

other students sometimes,

who hired themselves out

for this. Not self-conscious,

relaxed with their bodies,

and not much caring either,

I guess, with who saw what

and who thought what either.

It was never 'erotic,' though

it had its moments. Your

'attention ' was supposed

to be elsewhere; like, on

your work. None of this

was 'mandatory' per se,

nothing much there was,

but it was kind of needed

in order to facilitate a

relationship and a working

familiarity with your

instructor, and with the

others too. The idea was

that you'd be 'interested'

enough in working through

all facets of your 'art' for

personal development

and just genuine interest

too. So, yes, I sometimes

did it, though I never

enjoyed it. I certainly

never liked drawing

with charcoal  -  imprecise,

smudgy, unable to be

strong, with little 'line'

presence. And it always

ended up just seeming to

be an otherwise pretty vapid,

'academic' art exercise. No

one wants blotchy charcoal

drawings of some babe's

thighs and butt. Or do they?

Mostly I drew in the presence

of Charles Cajori, Esteban

Vicente, or Mercedes Matter.

It was OK, they spoke well,

on matters of art and all. I

never really spoke much with

Mercedes Matter on this, but

I did make my feelings known

with the two others. They

each had cool accents too. I

would conceptualize my ideas

about 'line-precision', strength,

direction, and all that, and try

to explain my dislike of

charcoal and why. These two

fellows would nod and say

things back, but I don't think

they ever really understood.

Their sort of approach was

traditional, academic and

artful representation of things.

Mine was never that. It was

a worlds-apart deal. Sometimes,
too, in their critiquing and all,
I thought they were just speaking
for the sake of saying something  - 
because they had to, to get paid. 
They were, after all, the chosen
'instructors' in this set-up,
but sometimes I really felt it just 
didn't work, more just talk for
the sake of traditional 'art
education and awareness. What
much can you say about a
charcoal drawing anyway?

-

For me, visual representation

pretty much began and ended

with Paul Cezanne. It was all

there, he'd done it, and who

else needed to? Past him, or

after him, 'Art' became a

different thing altogether. He

ended on a really high note -

the visual representation of a

psychological state , which

state was to be the future of

Mankind, and he knew it, or

his spirit sensed it. Some

things just always are,

'larger' than the individual

carrying forth the message.

He was that message carrier,

in this case. After him, Art

became psychological and

represented, for all, an entire

and other state of mind and

being. Traditionalists and

all those academics still

chasing light and perspective,

realism, portrayal, they were

all chasing the chimera

of a past. An old stew

which had lost its savor.

You could go up to the

Metropolitan Museum

and spend hours walking

through all that crud;

endless and correctly

colored scenes and

portraits of a past. The 

Furnishings of an old era.
Like all that ancient armor.

The dead were present. All

that stuff carried its own

prideful self-consciousness

like baggage. Animals,

hunts, sitting rooms,

majesty, endless religious

motifs, saints, sinners,

knights, queens, nudes,

soldiers, babies, castles,

drawing rooms, foundries.

Things no one did or had

anymore. Just every so

often there'd be something

maybe that stood out  -

for its daring, for its

different viewpoint.

That was modernity

seeping through. A sense

of excitement amidst all

that otherwise boring

dullness. It was quiet. 

Everything was separate 

and alone. No one really

thought about much  -

mannered ways of living

and thinking. Cezanne

broke apart space,

fragmented life,

tortured objects, and

brought us to today. Yes.

That should have ended it.

The leftovers, all these

grand and big palace hall

paintings I just spoke of,

they were just chattel,

things people owned to

show wealth; or to bid on

and buy from others.

Meaningless non-art,

Possessions. Commodities.

I wanted none of that,

and really didn't much

care how a buttock or

a face was portrayed.

Life was not like that

anymore  -  all things 

crashed into each other, 

meshed and mangled, 

overlapped and twisted.

Colors had qualities, but

they were no longer simply 

about 'color' itself. Their

was more a power in 

the source of things, 

which modern man, and 

certainly modern art, 

had somehow ferreted 

out. Whether by accident, 

by atomic power, or by a 

mass-breakdown of the

societal fabric, I wouldn't

know. If you view late 

Cezanne, any one of them, 

you can see it. The fracturing, 

the breaking apart, the 

dissolution of Reality.

-

Those smudgy, charcoal drawing

sessions just were never doing it

for me. I'd go upstairs once

more, back to my own studio

space, and begin work again, my

way, on my own. In the manner I

wanted. My content and form,

they were all to be incendiarily

different. I was on my own.