‘The Humbleness of all his Objects’: Cézanne, Still Life, and Modern Writers
p. 51-61
Résumé
In this chapter I revisit and reassess conventional characterisations of still life as a ‘humble’ or ‘minor’ genre of visual art. By examining the visceral encounters of modern writers with the still life paintings of Paul Cézanne, I suggest that we can open up a broader discussion of the aesthetics of the humble, revealing its significance for modern art.
Texte intégral
1The still life is widely regarded as a fundamentally humble genre of visual art. Typically depicting commonplace objects, it is, as the theorist Norman Bryson has suggested, ‘unimpressed by the categories of achievement, grandeur or the unique,’ and involves what he calls ‘a levelling of humanity, a humbling of aspiration.’1 The German poet, Rainer Maria Rilke, reflected upon something similar following a series of visits to a retrospective exhibition on the French Post-Impressionist painter, Paul Cézanne, held in Paris in 1907. In a letter written to his wife, which inspires the title of this article, Rilke exclaims: ‘And the humbleness of all his objects: the apples are all cooking apples and the wine bottles belong in the roundly bulging pockets of an old coat.’2 This observation takes us to the particular nexus between the textual and the visual that I would like to pursue in this article.
2Cézanne stimulated a range of modern literary figures to articulate their feelings for his work in ways that would stretch beyond formal art criticism. His work was an inspiration to numerous writers and poets including D.H. Lawrence, Virginia Woolf, Émile Zola, Katherine Mansfield, Gertrude Stein, and Wallace Stevens. As the art historian, Bridget Alsdorf, points out: ‘the strains of figurative language are necessary to contend with his creative achievement.’3 The focus of this inquiry is on British literature therefore my discussion primarily centres on D. H. Lawrence’s writings with excursions into the textual still lifes of his contemporaries. The apples of Cézanne—a frequent subject in his still life paintings—will become a touchstone as I probe the verbal strategies by which Lawrence engages and implicitly elevates the notion of the humble.
3But in what ways can we consider the still life to be a humble genre within art-historical hierarchies? It has conventionally been denigrated to a ‘humble’ position, below history and religious painting, portraiture and landscape. According to Marc Eli Blanchard, the ‘tradition of exclusion [. . .] goes from Pliny, who disparaged still life as riparographia or “low painting,” to Lebrun, who advised his students never to take their eyes from the realities of classical history and epic poetry,’ and continues through Joshua Reynolds’ Discourses to persist in some contemporary critical discussions, despite revisionary efforts by recent theorists such as Bryson.4 This depreciation of the genre can largely be attributed to a pejorative view of its everyday subject matter and to its apparent banishment of human life. It pertains to what Bryson describes as ‘rhopography’: ‘the depiction of those things which lack importance, the unassuming material base of life that “importance” constantly overlooks’ (61). Unlike the so-called ‘heroic’ subjects of history and religious painting, in still life we typically encounter the matter of the table, flowers, books, and other objects drawn predominantly from the domestic sphere, where associations with feminine space have also contributed to its deprecation. It is also historically the genre of vanitas and memento mori. Artists deployed motifs such as skulls, hourglasses, or rotten fruit in order to prompt the viewer to reflect upon his or her mortality and the transience of earthly existence. This humbling element implicit in the aesthetic experience of still life, is a point of tension in Lawrence’s interpretation of Cézanne, as we shall see later.
4Nevertheless, for many painters across the historical range, it is the familiarity and domestic ordinariness of still life that stimulates them to take up the genre. They inherently challenge the low status of these objects: by isolating them in an aesthetic space they become worthy of special attention, made unfamiliar, and are even transformed. As Bryson argues, ‘by detaining attention in this humble milieu [. . .] attention itself gains the power to transfigure the commonplace’ (64). This makes the genre important to a tradition of religious painting. As T. J. Gorringe points out in Earthly Visions: Theology and the Challenge of Art (2011), a ‘sense of grace in the everyday, or of its miraculous nature’ is the ‘primary [Christian] theological significance of still life painting.’5 Arguably, this attention to the familiar and the everyday— whether spiritual or secular—can be seen to intensify in modern reanimations of the genre over the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, bound up with a broader revision and democratisation of traditional art historical hierarchies during this period. For Bryson, ‘[t] he central issue is how to enter into the life of material reality as a full participant, rather than as a voyeur, and how to familiarize the look of the everyday without precisely losing its qualities of the unexceptional and unassuming’ (90). These questions will underpin my inquiries in the discussion that follows.
5Paul Cézanne is widely regarded as the modern master of still life. He painted nearly two hundred still lifes in which he reinvigorated the genre, offering a model that reconceives the polarities of stillness and movement and demonstrates a radical mode of perception and attention to humble domestic objects. He produced still lifes that are anything but static: they vibrate with a precarious energy and it was this phenomenon that fascinated as well as disconcerted modern writers. In Cézanne’s Kitchen Table (Still-life with basket) (1888–90, musée d’Orsay, Paris), the objects seem precariously balanced, particularly the fruit basket on the edge of the table, while the lemon represented in the foreground appears ready to roll down the shaft-like tablecloth. Similarly, in Still Life with Apples (1895–98, Museum of Modern Art, New York) the fruits seem to shift within their undefined contours amidst the undulating landscape created by the peaks and valleys of the tablecloth. The disrupted perspective causes the right corner of the table to appear tipped forward and out of alignment with the left, as if it is protruding outside the pictorial space. Contemporary art historians have noted the effect of instability in Cézanne’s still lifes. Alsdorf, for instance, describes the objects in Still Life with Apples (1893–1894, J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles), as ‘poised on the brink of tumbling out of the picture plane’ yet ‘exud [ing] an uncanny stasis’ (316). However, a fascination with the animate quality of these works is peculiarly manifest in writings of the early twentieth century.
6In his classic study of still life, Charles Sterling proposes that Cézanne’s embodiment of his ‘complex researches’ in still life signified the ‘definitive emancipation of a subject hitherto neglected, which at last took its place on an equal footing with other subjects.’6 Indeed, in their Cubist experiments Picasso and Braque chose this genre to address complex questions about art and the role of the artist in society, and it was crucial to the innovations of many of the subsequent movements in twentieth century art.
7We know, then, that still life had renewed importance for modern artists. But how might the genre be revealing about the nature of representing objects more widely, and in particular about the ways in which modern writers attend to the world? I would like to address this by closely examining Lawrence’s encounter with Cézanne’s still lifes. He revealed his attraction to the painter’s ‘unsteady apples’ in the essay ‘Art and Morality’ (1925), which concludes with the following declaration: ‘Let Cézanne’s apples go rolling off the table for ever. They live by their own laws, in their own ambiente.’7 However, it is in a later essay, ‘Introduction to his Paintings,’ written in 1929, that they receive prolonged attention. The essay was written to accompany a catalogue of Lawrence’s own paintings, but it delineates an idiosyncratic and revisionary interpretation of art history in which he turns from ‘the poor, feeble history of art in England’ to celebrate the French Post-Impressionist painter.8 He presents Cézanne as a ‘small and timorous’ and ‘rather insignificant’ figure, yet in the aesthetic sphere a ‘pure revolutionary’ (330, 331, 339). Lawrence’s verbal portrait of the artist gestures toward the paradox, or perhaps rather the intertwining of insignificance and greatness, which is characteristic in the aesthetics of still life. Crucially, Lawrence foregrounds Cézanne’s still lifes as his ‘greatest achievement;’ in his view, it is in this genre that the painter escapes the ‘cliché denominator, the intrusion and interference of the ready-made concept,’ and it is here that he achieves ‘a complete intuitive interpretation of actual objects’ (340–341). He acclaims Cézanne’s return to ‘form and substance and thereness, instead of delicious nowhereness,’ which he aligns with the dissolution of substance into light in Impressionist painting (323, 326). This shift towards rendering the ‘thing itself,’ which is often associated with Post-Impressionism, is closely identified in the essay with still life.
8The following passage illustrates the palpable sense of discovery and affirmation Lawrence experienced in his encounter with these works:
Here Cézanne did what he wanted to do: he made the things quite real [. . .] he gave us a triumphant and rich intuitive vision of a few apples and kitchen pots. For once his intuitive consciousness triumphed, and broke into utterance. And here he is inimitable [. . .] It’s the real appleyness, and you can’t imitate it. (341)
9Cézanne had famously declared that he wanted to ‘astonish Paris with an apple,’ and apples are the subject of a large body of his still life paintings.9 Responding to this, Lawrence developed the term ‘appleyness’ as a central concept in his art-critical vocabulary. The resolutely unacademic inflection of the word suggests a mocking riposte to Bloomsbury’s formalist lexicon of art criticism, and to what he derided as its ‘jargon’ (324).10 ‘Appleyness’ reflects Lawrence’s insistently sensuous, subjective vision. The neologism also reveals a linguistic attempt to capture the haecceity, or ‘thisness,’ which exudes from Cézanne’s representations. Lawrence deploys this vague yet suggestive and expansive term throughout his essay to convey the painter’s mode of intuitive awareness and his recognition of the vital, physical presence of his subjects. Yet if this apparent self-abnegation in the face of commonplace objects demonstrates humility, for Lawrence it is of an empowering and radical kind. In his reading of the painter’s creative process, ‘it wasn’t a question of becoming humble,’ rather it was an attempt to expunge ‘cerebral conceit,’ and the ‘intrusion of the egoistic element’ (327). The ‘humble,’ a word he deploys on several occasions in the essay, is firmly enclosed in quotation marks, suggesting that it remains in question. As readers, we too are required to remain alert to our pre-conceived and often depreciatory assumptions about its meaning.
10It is worth noting here that Lawrence’s use of the term also puts a lens to his larger quarrel with Bloomsbury. In one instance he paraphrases Roger Fry, the art critic and champion of Cézanne, who observed that the painter ‘had to learn humility,’ to which Lawrence adjoins the derisive quip, ‘a bad phrase,’ and a little later he scorns it as ‘cant’ (332, 333). In his monograph on Cézanne published in 1927, Fry argued that ‘every artist who is destined to arrive at the profounder truths [. . .] requires an exceptional humility.’11 Lawrence re-invokes and unpicks this phrase later in his essay when he rejects the notion of ‘humility,’ proposing instead that the painter possessed a ‘proud high spirit,’ an attribute that incidentally, the Oxford English Dictionary uses to define the antonym of the humble in its adjectival form (336).12 Despite this ongoing critique of Bloomsbury art criticism, we shall see that Lawrence’s interpretation of Cézanne’s creative approach equally evoked a state of self-denial and self-abnegating attention, which bears comparison with Fry’s reading.13 As the Lawrence scholar, Anne Fernihough has shown, the Bloomsbury art critics shared his conviction of the importance of a physiological response to art. She points to the coincidence between Lawrence and Fry, for both of whom a ‘startling stillness emerges from these vibrations, from this restlessness made up of endless, tentative approaches towards the apple.’14
11Virginia Woolf also seized upon Cézanne’s apples as a source of creative sustenance. In April 1918, after her encounter with his Still-life with Apples (1877–1878, Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge), a work celebrated by the Bloomsbury painters and purchased by the economist John Maynard Keynes, she was prompted to wonder, writing in her diary: ‘There are 6 apples in the Cézanne picture. What can 6 apples not be? ’15 While Woolf was influenced by Bloomsbury’s formalist bias and by the aesthetic theories developed by Fry, her fascination with the substantial physical presence of Cézanne’s apples is comparable to Lawrence. Her diary entry concludes on a similarly intriguing note, as she describes an experience of almost hallucinatory intensity: ‘The apples positively got redder & rounder & greener. I suspect some very mysterious quality of potation in that picture’ (140–141). Her response to Still-life with Apples has elicited considerable critical attention, but the unusual reference to ‘potation’—an archaic word associated with intoxication, potions and alcohol—usually goes unremarked.16 This ‘magical’ property seems to make the painting ferment, exerting a super-sensory influence on the viewer’s perceptual faculties so that the apples take on a life of their own; they ripen and yet contract (seven apples are in fact represented in the painting). This mysterious process engenders not only intoxicating affect but also temporal excess: the composition strains the stasis on which nature morte is predicated. The attention Woolf bestows upon the apples not only elevates their status; but also unsettles and implicitly critiques the conventional aesthetic order, which would depreciate their significance.
12For modern writers, then, Cézanne’s model of still life seems to have valorized a mode of exhaustive attentiveness to everyday objects, with the power to create a whole sensory reality. Indeed, it could take the painter one hundred sessions to produce a still life as he was committed to conveying the gradations of light and colour on an object over time and from multiple perspectives; and his brush could remain suspended over the canvas for hours before making a single stroke.17 This prolonged, tentative approach, which verges on a meditative exercise, held a special fascination for Lawrence. It was part of his capacious conception of ‘appleyness,’ as the following passage from his ‘Introduction’ elucidates:
[. . .] appleyness [. . .] carries with it also the feeling of knowing the other side as well, the side you don’t see, the hidden side of the moon. For the intuitive apperception of the apple is so tangibly aware of the apple that it is aware of it all round, not only just of the front [. . .]. The true imagination is for ever curving round to the other side, to the back of presented appearance. (340)
13This lyrically defined imaginative flexing, this ‘curving round’ of the creative faculty opens the way for an aesthetic mode which connects physical consciousness with expression. For Lawrence, the ‘true imagination’ harnesses instinct and intuition in a voracious, sense-based exploration that embodies the ‘hidden side’ of appearances. From ‘appleyness,’ then, emerges a new ontology of stillness, in which the approach to the human subject is undifferentiated from the comestible object. The humbling implications of this aesthetic attitude are even more evident in the preceding passage:
If the human being is going to be primarily an apple, as for Cézanne it was, then you are going to have a new world of men: a world which has very little to say, men that can sit still and just be physically there, and be truly non-moral. (339)
14This reciprocal contemplative state implies an ethical corollary. Cézanne’s still life provides an aesthetic framework that verges on the ascetic. Lawrence envisages the painter’s creative process as a detached yet empathetic mode in which his will is humbled and his personality effaced through the intensity of the act of attention toward everyday objects. As he observes, ‘Cézanne’s great effort was [. . .] to shove the apple away from him, and let it live of itself’ (326). Fernihough is perceptive to the tensions this engenders when she writes: ‘The dual impulse to encompass and to renounce finds a physical correlative in the fact that Cézanne’s paintings seem to be simultaneously dynamic and still’ (122).
15If one of the defining pejorative characteristics of still life is its immobility and apparent lack of life, then Lawrence’s intuitive sense of the animate within the apparently inanimate is crucial to his re-evaluation of the genre. He sets up a verbal version of the still life, which plays with and dissolves binary characterizations, showing how oppositions, particularly between ‘stillness’ and ‘motion,’ but also between notions of ‘significance’ and ‘insignificance’ are misleadingly reified and can be deconstructed. The semantic slippage between the French nature morte and the English translation, ‘still life’ enacts an animating transition or ‘resuscitation’ of the subject, which resonates with Lawrence’s interpretation in his ‘Introduction.’ In the following passage, he directs us to the potential for movement within stillness as he applies the characteristics of the still life to portraiture:
When he makes Madame Cézanne most still, most appley, he starts making the universe slip uneasily about her. It was part of his desire: to make the human form, the life form, come to rest. Not static—on the contrary. Mobile but come to rest. And at the same time he set the unmoving material world into motion. Walls twitch and slide, chairs bend or rear up a little, cloths curl like burning paper. (341)
16Lawrence plays on the semantic implications of stillness to disrupt the rigid parameters that limit still life. His ekphrasis of the portrait of Madame Cézanne blurs genre boundaries in a manner comparable to the French painter. By presenting the sentient, vaguely hostile background as the central subject he disrupts the traditional subordination of background to foreground to create a Surrealist vision of twitching walls and rearing chairs. Accordingly, the seemingly unimportant and unassuming is given prominence as it becomes animate.
17The syntax of Lawrence’s prose responds to the counter pressures of stillness and motion, attraction and resistance, reinforced visually through the text’s typography in the extended passage. The italicised words pertaining to stillness create an effect of leaning forwards into motion and invite analogy with still lifes by Cézanne in which objects appear on the very brink of motion. Indeed, Lawrence’s concept of ‘appleyness’ is intimately related to something he defines as Cézanne’s ‘intuitive feeling that nothing is really statically at rest’ (341). In the section of the essay that follows, he suggests that the painter experienced this feeling most strongly in contemplating still life:
—as when he watched the lemons shrivel or go mildewed, in his still-life group, which he left lying there so long so that he could see that gradual flux of change: and partly to fight the cliche [sic], which says that the inanimate world is static, and that walls are still. In his fight with the cliché he denied that walls are still and chairs are static. (341–2)
18‘Still’ and ‘static’ are the terms around which Lawrence’s essay circles. Receptive to the painter’s visual evocation of inanimate objects, he attempts to stretch the connotations of language and, as the painter does, to invest representations of ‘stillness’ with greater possibility and nuance.
19In David Trotter’s exploration of the idea of ‘mess’ in nineteenth-century art and fiction, he comments on the sense of discomfort and reluctant intimacy we experience in Cézanne’s still lifes. He locates this anthropomorphically: the tilted angle of a jug signifies an invitation to look down its ‘throat,’ stimulating a wave of nausea: ‘[t] he sickness [. . .] from having looked too hard for too long.’18 For Lawrence to see the decaying fruit in Cézanne’s compositions is, according to Trotter, ‘to see a mess or blur, the after-image of movement, and to see death’ (219). Yet to place nausea and death at the pinnacle of the ‘form of fascination’ Lawrence felt for these paintings, is surely to limit his experience (Trotter 217). Whilst he certainly registers the morbidity and sense of the uncanny implicit in nature morte, we should not overlook that for him, as for several of his contemporaries, the rigour and intensity involved in Cézanne’s contemplation of still life enacted a way of knowing, of probing the ‘hidden,’ which verges on the mystical.
20Lawrence writes in a rich ekphrastic tradition that plays on the multiple resonances of ‘still,’ perhaps most memorably exemplified in John Keats’s ‘Ode on a Grecian Urn.’ The objects within Cézanne’s paintings exist in an open temporality, a precarious state of ‘rest,’ which simultaneously indicate repose and prior or potential movement. Lawrence’s phrase, ‘Mobile but come to rest,’ thus encapsulates the dynamic equilibrium of these works, and alludes to the paradox at the heart of the genre. His interpretation of stillness acts as a challenge, too, to critics such as Murray Krieger. In an essay titled ‘Ekphrasis and the Still Movement of Poetry’, Krieger relegates the still life to a footnote and claims that ‘the “still” of the genre’ ‘unhappily means only “stilled,” inanimate, even in a sense dead.’19 As we have seen, for Lawrence, definitions of matter as inanimate or static are the outcome of a stunted or predetermined mode of perception, which fails to penetrate its ‘living’ quality. He implies that in dissolving the ‘cliché’ view of inanimate matter as static, Cézanne opened up a new way of experiencing the world that could enlarge the limits of the senses. The painter’s struggle with the cliché was, he offers, no less than ‘truly heroic’ (330).
21Lawrence deploys Cézanne to corroborate his vitalist aesthetic and visceral responsiveness to the ‘living’ element of matter. While the highly coloured and sometimes didactic tone of his essay puts an unashamedly subjective lens to the artist’s work, it also illuminates the mysterious, paradoxical quality of animation in his still life paintings and their capacity to confer heightened attention upon everyday objects. By reading Cézanne’s still lifes through the paradigms offered by Lawrence, Woolf, and Rilke, we find a genre far from humble in any conventional sense. Their writings allow subtle, unexpected and even paradoxical resonances of the ‘humble’ to emerge. For these writers, Cézanne’s ‘animate’ compositions subvert the very terms on which still life is predicated: they provide the locus for aesthetic experiences and transformative acts of attention, which are at once deeply sensory and border on the supersensory. Indeed, if the still life exerts a humbling power, then this is precisely because it represents a site in which the apparently commonplace and insignificant have the potential to become, in Lawrence’s words, a ‘triumphant and rich intuitive vision’ (341).
Notes de bas de page
1 Norman Bryson, Looking at the Overlooked: Four Essays on Still Life Painting (London: Reaktion Books, 1990) 61.
2 Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters on Cézanne. ed. Clara Rilke. trans. Joel Agee (London: Vintage, 1991) 29. Letter to Clara Rilke, 7 October 1907.
3 Bridget Alsdorf, ‘Interior Landscapes: Metaphor and Meaning in Cézanne’s Late Still Lifes,’ Word & Image 26 (2010): 314–323; 315.
4 Marc Eli Blanchard, ‘On Still Life,’ Yale French Studies 61 (1981): 276–298; 276.
5 T. J. Gorringe, Earthly Visions: Theology and the Challenge of Art (London: Yale UP, 2011) 150.
6 Charles Sterling, Still Life Painting from Antiquity to the Twentieth Century, 2nd revised ed., trans. James Emmons (1959; New York: Harper & Row, 1981) 128.
7 D. H. Lawrence, ‘Art and Morality,’ Study of Thomas Hardy and other Essays, ed. Bruce Steele (Cambridge: CUP, 1985) 161–168; 168.
8 D. H. Lawrence, ‘Introduction to His Paintings,’ Selected Essays (London: Penguin Books, 1950) 307–346, 320. (All further references to Lawrence’s writings will be taken from this text). Lawrence began painting late in life, relishing the physicality of the process, and on 15 June 1929 an exhibition of his work opened at the Warren Gallery, London. The paintings, many of which depicted nude figures with emphatic sexuality, were widely denounced as obscene by contemporary critics, and the exhibition was forcibly closed the following month.
9 Cézanne, quoted by Meyer Schapiro in his seminal essay, ‘The Apples of Cézanne: An Essay on the Meaning of Still-Life’ (1968), Modern Art: 19th and 20th Centuries (London: Chatto & Windus, 1978) 1–33; 30.
10 Lawrence’s attack on Bloomsbury’s art critics, whom he calls ‘the Primitive Methodists of art criticism,’ perhaps reaches its height in the ‘Introduction’ when he parodies the notions of ‘Significant Form’ and ‘aesthetic ecstasy,’ developed by Clive Bell in Art (1914). (See especially 324–332).
11 Roger Fry, Cézanne: A Study of His Development (London: Hogarth Press, 1927) 29.
12 ‘Humble, adj.’ OED Online.
13 In ‘The Apples of Cézanne,’ Schapiro’s reading of these works as personal, in fact as sublimated portraits of people, sets up an interesting opposition with both Lawrence and Fry. Schapiro’s essay provides an iconographic and psychoanalytic interpretation of the painter’s habitual subject, in which he identifies an expression of latent eroticism.
14 Anne Fernihough, D.H. Lawrence: Aesthetics and Ideology (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993) 123. In Chapters 4–6, Fernihough argues that the view of Bloomsbury art criticism as disconnected from the body—a view articulated by Lawrence in his essay and one perpetuated by many critics—is based on a misunderstanding of Fry’s theories and of their development over time. She makes an important corrective to ‘the received view that Lawrence and Bloomsbury were poles apart,’ arguing instead that an intuitive and physiological response to art was central to both (12).
15 Virginia Woolf, The Diary of Virginia Woolf 1915–19, ed. Anne Olivier Bell, assisted by Andrew Mcneillie, 5 vols. (London: Hogarth Press, 1977–84) I. 1977, 140–141. 18 April 1918.
16 The denotations for ‘potation’ include: ‘The action or an act of drinking, esp. the consumption of alcoholic drink; a drink (of alcohol)’; ‘A drinking party or drinking bout’; ‘A medicinal drink or liquid; a concoction, a potion’. ‘potation, n.’ OED Online. Many critics comment on Woolf’s powerful response to Cézanne’s painting and cite this diary entry, but they often omit or glance over the final suggestive line in the paragraph. For instance, Jane Goldman omits this from her citation in her perceptive study, The Feminist Aesthetics of Virginia Woolf: Modernism, Post-Impressionism and the Politics of the Visual (Cambridge: CUP, 1998) 139.
17 For further discussion see Bryson’s analysis of Cézanne’s slow method of construction, ‘saturated with self-reflexive attention’ (Looking at the Overlooked 82–83).
18 David Trotter, Cooking with Mud: The Idea of Mess in Nineteenth-Century Art and Fiction (Oxford: OUP, 2000) 217–218.
19 Murray Krieger, ‘Ekphrasis and the Still Movement of Poetry; or Laokoon Revisited,’ Ekphrasis: The Illusion of the Natural Sign (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Press, 1992) 267.
Auteur
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Claudia Tobin
University of Bristol, United Kingdom
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