TABLE OF CONTENTS

PRINT March 1978

The Expressionist Cézanne

IN FEBRUARY OF 1910 the young Czech art critic Antonín Matějček proposed that all advanced French painters since Impressionism should be called “Expressionists,” and that Paul Cézanne should be recognized as the “spiritual father” of the new movement.1 Although such a designation has fallen out of favor in recent decades, a new approach to the problem of Expressionist art now makes it possible indeed to see certain works by Cézanne as expressionistic. One may consider, in particular, an interval of conflict in an artist’s development as an Expressionist moment, with a resolution of conflict leading to the cessation of Expressionist tendencies in his work.

The historical setting into which Expressionism was born was unique in one respect. Probably no society was ever so deeply unsettled as that of Western Europe in the generation following full urban industrialization, when Expressionism was born. In words written by the French poet Charles Péguy in 1913, “The world has changed less since Jesus Christ than it has in the past thirty years.”2 The psychology of the prevailing uncertainty was clear enough, for although the fact of change was perfectly evident, the direction of change was not. The real question was, were things getting better or worse? As early as 1857 two books were published whose titles look like opposing briefs in a debate: in England, Herbert Spencer’s Progress, Its Law and Cause; in France, Bénédict Morel’s Treatise on the Physical, Intellectual and Moral Degeneration of the Human Species. The optimists scored the first points, in part because the prestige of Charles Darwin’s 1859 Origin of Species by Means of Natural Selection was claimed for the evolutionist side. Still, the evidence of society’s increasing dissolution was presented in such later sources as Max Nordau’s 1892 Degeneration and Henry Adams’ 1910 Degradation of the Democratic Dogma. This had to be rebutted by the Neo-Darwinians. There was, of course, no logical outcome to this early materialist debate. Societies do stagnate and civilizations decline, just as each human being must age and pass away.

The argument nonetheless issued into a subtler cultural discussion. Darwinism itself had put a premium on the natural vitality of a species’ youth, thus making the wisdom of age—and of the ages—redundant. Older values had to be transvalued, and so Frédérick Amiel, for one, recognized the “new spirit” of the generation following his own. “Darwinism triumphs,” he wrote just before his death in 1881; “it is war, and war requires that the soldier be young.” Into the breech stepped an “avant-garde cult of youth,” according to Renato Poggioli, which eventually led “from youthful freshness to adolescent ingenuousness, to boyish prankishness, to childishness.”3 A cult arose around the art of Paul Gauguin after his death in 1903, when the bourgeois citizens of imperialist Europe, smugly enjoying the fruits of progress, had to witness the spreading fame of a self-professed rebel—one who gave up material security for the sake of “rejuvenation” among colonial peoples. Poggioli talks of a “sui generis primitivism” and a “psychological regression” producing what he calls “infantilism in certain aspects of avant-garde movements and art.” Did change in modern culture run forward or backward? All we can say is that the myth of bourgeois progress was now actively countered by a new myth of anti-bourgeois regress.

During the decades under discussion various directions were current in art, from Naturalism to Neo-Romanticism, from Impressionism to Symbolism, and from Art Nouveau to incipient Abstraction. But it is preferable, I think, to consider all of these as mere variants of the more fundamental categories of Realism, Idealism and Expressionism. As Sir Herbert Read once put it: “ ‘Expressionism’ . . . is a fundamentally necessary word, like ‘Idealism’ and ‘Realism,’ and not a word of secondary implications, like ‘Impressionism’ or ‘Super-Realism.’ It denotes one of the basic modes of perceiving and representing the world around us. I think that perhaps there are only these three basic modes—Realism, Idealism, and Expressionism.”4 But if these are indeed the basic modes, then one or more of them must also in some manner reflect the temporal dilemmas of the late 19th-century mind. In other words, the three directions must somehow embrace the symbolic conflicts, just described, between evolution and dissolution, progress and regress, forward-moving and backward-moving time.

The symbolic time of Realism, for example, is in principle progressive. With Honoré Daumier, 19th-century Realists could insist that “one must be of one’s time.” With Karl Marx, they could locate themselves at the exact interface between past and present: “All that was solid and established crumbles away, all that was holy was profaned, and man is at last compelled to look with open eyes upon his conditions of life and true social relations.”5 Timeliness indeed meant an inner dependence on outer, historical time. And looking with open eyes meant a subservience of the painter to the culture and a linkage of the artist’s protest to society’s. And yet, for these very reasons, any Realist wish for major change could never be gratified. For change in history, as in Realist art, is ongoing transition, and by remaining both timely and progressive, Realists could not become radical. In this sense Realist time, though eminently progressive, left open a utopian escape-hatch to the future that was unspecific, untimely and unreal.

It is the Realist world view, then, that gave rise to Impressionism. On the one hand, Monet’s or Renoir’s paintings of the 1870s embody a kind of impermanent progression. Blooming flowers and girls in the sun, after all, take on wholly different appearances from season to season, day to day, and moment to moment. Indeed the first Impressionists (like the first filmmakers) could consider their pictures as a succession of “stills” moving forward in real time. Henri Bergson suggested as much in 1907: “What is real is the continual change of form; form is only the snapshot view of transition.”6 However, it must be admitted that the Impressionist was eventually the captive of just such transition, since his “snapshot view” could also show how a spring sunrise or a summer noon could be frozen forever. Thus this art by the 1880s became the perfect embodiment of stopped time. If Impressionism’s outer clock told of progressive change, then such change could still be denied by its inner clock. The result would be what Roger Shattuck calls “simultanism”: “Without causal progression, everything is middle. All things in that universal middle exist in the rudimentary order (apparent disorder) of conflict, an order we conceive only when we experience its parts as simultaneous. Unity becomes not progression but intensification by standing still, a continuous present in which everything is taken together and always.”7 In this sense the symbolic time of Impressionism is typical of some other directions of the early avant-garde up to, and including, Cubism.

“Without causal progression,” however, one may also arrive at regression. This is the symbolic time of Idealism in which the future, and even the present, yield irrationally to the past. Unlike the Realist, the Idealist escapes the imperfection of the world by taking refuge in a Golden Age, a “timeless” innocence or, ultimately, in God. Thus Arthur Schopenhauer began his 1819 World as Will and Idea with the remarkable conceit, “The world is my idea,” and ended it with the equally remarkable claim that “this our world—which is so real, with all its suns and milky ways—is nothing.” True, the Romantic philosopher (par. 29) would place all advancing time—“eternal becoming, endless flux”—into his category of “Will,” but that was a lower order of sense experience. For contemplation of the “Idea,” especially of the Idea in music, quite releases man from any illusion of ongoing time (pars. 34, 52). Once “the individual has lost himself in this contemplation,” he becomes “the pure, Will-less, timeless, painless, subject of cognition.” “[Music] is entirely independent of the phenomenal world, ignores it altogether, [and] could to a certain extent exist if there were no world at all.”8 Such an Idealist esthetic “fascinated Wagner, Baudelaire, Mallarmé, and the French Symbolists in general.”9

And such an Idealist faith in transcendental music, beyond earthly time, can also apply to the art of painting. This was Wilhelm Worringer’s thesis in his 1908 Abstraction and Empathy: “Only where the deceptions of appearance and the organic have been silenced, does redemption wait.” Since worldly things decay with time, Abstraction must aspire to otherworldliness:

Thus all transcendental art sets out with the aim of de-organicising the organic, i.e. of translating the mutable and conditional into values of unconditional necessity. But such a necessity man is able to feel only in the great world beyond the living, in the world of the inorganic. This led him to rigid lines, to inert crystalline form. He translated everything into the language of these imperishable and unconditional values. For these abstract forms, liberated from all finiteness, are the only ones, and the highest, in which man can find rest from the confusion of the world picture.10

Thus we arrive at an insight of considerable usefulness. For Idealist time in modern art is no longer some Buddhist denial, in Schopenhauer’s sense of “suns and milky ways.” Much less is it now, as with devout Christians of earlier eras, Worringer’s “great world beyond the living.” No, the modern Idealist experience is not a belief in God’s futurity after mortal death. It is instead an escape from the future into the past—by means of a continually recurring regression. It is the artist’s willingness “to bend his head to the Almighty and to be carried back to the period when dependence on objects in the outside world dominated his life.”11 It is an unconscious return to that “timeless” or “imperishable” moment which—in the innocent infant—precedes all awareness of space, time and causality. In this sense the Idealist’s symbolic time is a powerful engine for change. It represents spiritual striving in a secular age, a return to the source of man’s highest art, of all metaphysical aspiration.

But Idealist time is not, in itself, Expressionist. For the symbolic time of Expressionism embraces the antithesis between both modes of temporality. The Expressionist conflict between forward- and backward-moving time is simultaneously a conflict between Realism and Idealism. Expressionist progress through regress in fact reduces to Realist protest through Idealist escape—whereby the two attitudes are interconnected.

Each of the three directions attaches a different weight to the “present.” Where the Realist present leads directly to the future, for example, the Expressionist present is always conditioned by the past. The Expressionist actually uses the pluperfect past to complete the imperfect present. Most important, however, is the Expressionist’s categorical opposition to the “stopped time” of later Impressionism and, by extension, to any esthetic involving the “world of the inorganic” (Worringer), “timeless” contemplation (Schopenhauer), or a “continuous present” (Shattuck). Indeed, where Impressionists and Abstractionists, Realists and Idealists would each wrest a painted permanence from nature’s transience, Expressionists try to turn even inert space into ever-changing time. For as Paul Klee wrote in 1920, “Only the dead point is timeless. Motion is . . . the basis of the universe. When nothing moves on earth this is due to an accidental restriction of matter. It is a mistake to interpret this restriction as essential.”12

To recapitulate: the myth of bourgeois progress was countered by a myth of anti-bourgeois regress and, further, the Realism of the former was opposed by the Idealism of the latter. The man in the middle of this temporal dilemma, who was the first historical agent of its contradictions, was predictably a man in search of his roots. Paul Cézanne was by blood the son of a self-made moneylender and banker, but by temperament a rebel against his class. To Roger Fry he was a man who “trusted always to the Pope for direction,”13 but to Paul Gauguin he was “an essentially Eastern nature”14 and to Camille Pissarro a “refined savage.”15 He was the first to be scorned as an Impressionist “madman” and also the first to be recognized as the “father” of Post-Impressionism, Expressionism and Abstraction alike. “Yet it is well to remember,” in Richard Murphy’s words, “that his influence on countless individual artists and on such movements as Symbolism, Fauvism, Cubism and Expressionism does not necessarily have any bearing on his own intentions.”16

We should not be surprised that even as a young man Cézanne displayed considerable ambivalence toward his father. At the time of his high school graduation in 1858, as Theodore Reff tells us, he showed remorse in disobeying “the conventional warning against masturbation that [he] undoubtedly heard from his own father.” Perhaps, too, there was “an unconscious desire to eliminate his own father as a rival and a threat.”17 Nevertheless, Cézanne père remained the dominant figure in his son’s life. Even at the age of 39, for example, the artist walked some 30 kilometers after missing a train—in order not to provoke “the good man” by missing dinner!18

As he felt about his father, so he responded to tradition: with ambivalence, rebelliousness, and yet with respect. In an 1865–66 Self-Portrait we already find just such a mock fidelity to the late Romantic style that typified the age. To be sure, the palette knife strokes are awkward, in that they confuse the contours of neck and hair. But they cannot blunt the head’s animation as it twists 120 degrees on its neck, nor can they quench the fire of a smoldering eye placed exactly on the composition’s midline. There is a calculated conflict, in short, between passion in personality and deliberation in design. Realist in its fidelity to every nuance of character, Idealist in its glorification of the artist as alienated hero, the painting is nevertheless true to neither viewpoint alone. For in such early oils Cézanne already “anticipates Expressionist effects of the 20th century,” as Meyer Schapiro once remarked: “In his first pictures, painted in his native Aix and Paris, he is often moody and violent, crude yet powerful, and always inventive.”19

Schapiro goes on to mention a “picture with struggling nudes” that embodies the artist’s “burden of emotion”—Cézanne’s Bacchanal (La Lutte d’amour) of 1875–76, in which conflicts of form and content are now rooted in those involving time. The work is, first of all, Impressionist in style, thanks to the outdoor palette which the artist had adopted under Pissarro’s tutelage, beginning in the summer of 1872. But the subject matter is decidedly anti-Impressionist. For it stands at an iconographic crossroads between two rather sophisticated traditions and one archaic one. It brings to mind certain Renaissance festival paintings by Bellini or Titian in which Bacchic revelry is deemed sacred to the gods. But it also recalls the Baroque garden-of-love theme of Rubens, where portly ladies are embraced by courtly gentlemen. Despite such parallels, however, the subject is hardly so civilized. For this Lutte d’amour or “amorous struggle” also involves some kind of return to instinctuality. It can be seen as a pre-Classic encounter between lusty men and women, orgiastic and “Dionysian” in Nietzsche’s original sense. Or it may even be seen, more subjectively, as an autobiographical regress by which the mature artist expresses his immature emotions. Indeed Cézanne’s imagery at 36 or 37 seems most to resemble that erotic fantasy of adolescence by which the sexes embrace one another in reckless abandon. Still, to complete our interpretation, we should note that the “struggle” remains unconsummated. The satyrs do not possess their maenads; the woman are willful enough to rebuff their attackers.

“What forces our interest is Cézanne’s anxiety—that’s Cézanne’s lesson,” Pablo Picasso once said.20 And it is indeed in his nudes of the 1870s that such anxiety is first in evidence. Recently dated to around 1875–77,21 Cézanne’s Three Bathers is another good example. Here the confrontation with Impressionism is more subtle, for there is both the confirmation and the violation of a subject favored by Cézanne’s contemporaries. We must remember that the theme of the secular bather without historical association was an invention of the Impressionist generation: Bazille’s Summer Scene with male figures in skimpy bathing suits was shown at the Salon of 1870, and one of Cézanne’s own pictures of male bathers was first shown at the third Impressionist exhibition of 1877. Thus the transience of the women’s poses and the shimmering reflections of yellow light on green-blue leaves and blue-black water heighten an impression of temporal impermanence and transition. The girls will move, the sun will pass, the wind will blow and the waters flow, for there is no sign here of deorganicizing Abstraction. The image is characterized not only by an Impressionist transience but also by a Realist timeliness.

Despite all this, the painting is more Expressionist than Impressionist. For in depicting these female nudes by a forest pond Cézanne gives us both a modern holiday scene and a mythic vision of woodland nymphs. His three nudes are indeed of a graceless and primitive type. Obviously feminine, they nevertheless have a masculine thickness across the waist and a sinewy strength, like the tree trunks nearby. Their ambivalent sex is the stuff of archaic myth, and thus presents yet another aspect of temporal regression. Moreover, the artist’s anxiety and his archaism are linked. For Cézanne, in painting the female nude, would not or could not make use of live models.

The most important aspect of these nudes, however, is that their Idealist escape into the past embodies a Realist protest for the future. For the bi-polar sexuality of the Three Bathers departs directly from the image of frivolous femininity so common in French painting of the time. These are hardly the saccharine confections of a Bougereau, or even of a Renoir. In their place Cézanne has created a regressive, atavistic race of nature deities. He has lent to the female form a primordial power it had not possessed since Michelangelo, dissenting, however unconsciously, from his generation’s view of women as passive playthings. This revolutionary protest, embodied in Cézanne’s early nudes, explains his lifetime reputation as a “primitive” and his posthumous reputation as an Expressionist. Furthermore, it is just the awkward androgyny of the figures that appeals to us today. So did it once appeal to Henri Matisse, who purchased Three Bathers in 1899, and also to Picasso, who used its right-hand nude as a source for the similarly placed figure in his 1907 Demoiselles d’Avignon.

However, if Picasso intuitively understood both the awkwardness and the anxiety of the Expressionist Cézanne, Matisse chose not to do so. “Look . . . at one of Cèzanne’s pictures,” he advised in his 1908 Notes of a Painter: “all is so well arranged in them that no matter how many figures are represented and no matter at what distance you stand, you will be able always to distinguish each figure clearly and you will always know which limb belongs to each body. If in the picture there is order and clarity it means that this same order and clarity existed in the mind of the painter and that the painter was conscious of their necessity.”22 If Matisse was looking at Cézanne’s Three Bathers hanging in his studio, he obviously wanted to read a “clarity” into the master’s work that the master himself had as yet perceived dimly, if at all. In a similar manner the notion of “expression,” stressed so prominently in these 1908 Notes, is given a classicistic connotation of harmony and order.

Matisse’s misunderstanding is instructive. For it projects on the earlier Cézanne qualities which actually derive from work of the 1880s and 1890s. In fact Roger Fry, three years older than Matisse, had the mature paintings in mind when he wrote that

Cézanne counts pre-eminently as a great classic master. We may almost sum him up as the leader of the modern return to Mediterranean conceptions of art—his saying that he wished to “do Poussin again after nature” is no empty boast. Cézanne then was a Classic artist, but perhaps all great Classics are made by the repression of a Romantic.23

The mature Cézanne certainly was “a Classic” in such paintings as the London Self-Portrait from c. 1880, the New York Bather from c. 1885, the Paris Card Players from c. 1890–92, or the Baltimore Mont Sainte-Victoire Seen from Bibémus from c. 1898–1900. Each is ordered, centered, monumental, harmonious, and clear. The artist, we feel, worked in a slow, methodical, and empirical manner, patiently transposing visual data into pictorial form. The result was a “still-life style,” objective and expressionless, lacking any emotional involvement between artist and subject—even when that subject was his wife or himself. Indeed in the Bibémus quarry picture we can see how the artist imposed an order and clarity on a scene which was somewhat less coherent in nature. From a later site photograph, that is, we find the mountain considerably smaller and the motif much more rugged, even threatening, than one might guess from the painting itself. In this case we can say that Cézanne is making the site more classical by painting it, that he is doing nature again, as it were, after Poussin.

Nevertheless he was a man like any other, subject to changing moods and to a variety of unforeseeable stimuli in moving from one motif to another, or from one painting to the next. One of the merits of the recent exhibition, “Cézanne: The Late Work,” is that it shows us the master’s human feelings and aspirations. For it places side by side works similar in subject which nevertheless show an astonishing range of emotion. Only the “touch” of the artist’s brushstroke, for example, relates the gray and gloomy Rocks in the Forest from c. 1893 to the airy and scintillating Cabanon de Jourdan from 1906. As another example, one may savor the dark and somber Chateau Noir of 1900–04, from the National Gallery in Washington, only to receive a contrasting impression from the Museum of Modern Art’s bright, nearly manic Chateau Noir of 1904–06. Or, again, there is the black mood of the several three-quarter views of The Gardener Vallier from 1905–06, which yields to the dramatically lit and lyrical profile versions of 1906. Thus we come to understand that the painter’s Romanticism, subdued after 1880, became increasingly prominent around 1900. Indeed, if Cézanne’s classicism involved, as Fry suggested, the repression of the romantic, then this show documents the return of the repressed.

If our reasoning is correct, the late work involves not just a replacement of one form of Idealism by another but a reemergence of the Expressionist conflict of the 1870s. Particularly in the artist’s exalted treatment of Mont Sainte-Victoire will we find the old contradictions between the Real and the Ideal. For as we see from the c. 1904 Mont Sainte-Victoire in a Michigan private collection, the exact colors of rock and sky provide a concrete reality of mass and atmosphere, while an intricate web of delicate strokes helps dematerialize—and thus idealize—these forms. Or, again, in one of half a dozen paintings of Mont Sainte-Victoire Seen from Les Lauves—the one from Kansas City—the composition is divided by two horizontal bands that are Classical and Abstract, while vibrant, shimmering strokes within each banded area help to articulate the specific natural forms of earth, rock and sky. In two other versions of the same theme from 1902–06, one in the Philadelphia Museum, the observer’s eye is absolutely confounded by the surface interweave of Abstract pattern and Impressionist detail, of Classical structure and Realist articulation. The overall effect is one of ceaseless flux, ever-present change, transformation. Before the 1904–06 version, on loan from Basel, one might think of a mirage.

If there is an Expressionist conflict in the late Cézanne, however, its emotional context will be seen to be less sexual than spiritual, less erotic than existential. In order to identify the later conflict, let us assume that Georges Rivière was correct about the earlier one. In his 1877 review of the third Impressionist exhibition, Rivière made this statement on Cézanne: “In all his paintings, the artist produces emotion, because he himself experiences before nature a violent emotion which his craftsmanship transmits to the canvas.”24 If this is true, then we might expect the artist himself to be aware of his emotional involvement in old age. But this was apparently not the case. In his discussions with Emile Bernard in the spring of 1904, the only hint that Cézanne gives of his feeling is the remark that “Gothic art is deeply inspiring; it belongs to the same family as we do.”25 His more typical view is that the painter is involved not with feeling, but with seeing and knowing: “There are two things in the painter, the eye and the mind; each of them should aid the other. It is necessary to work at their mutual development, in the eye by looking at nature, in the mind by the logic of organized sensations which provides the means of expression.” If Cézanne in old age indeed felt any “violent emotion” before the motif, then it would have been a deep-seated conflict between sensation and intellect or, in short, between Nature and Mind.

I put the issue in these terms because of my twin convictions that all emotion involves conflict, and that the greatest spiritual emotion involves the greatest metaphysical conflict of all. Mental thought and natural transience, cosmic order and mortal disorder, eternal being and ceaseless becoming are the great poles of certainty between which all spiritual doubt must hang. This is the burden of Cézanne’s remarks to Joachim Gasquet, made presumably between 1896 and 1899:

Everything we see falls apart, vanishes, doesn’t it? Nature is always the same, but nothing in her that appears to us, lasts. Our art must render the thrill of her permanence along with her elements, the appearance of all her changes. It must give us a taste of her eternity. What is there underneath? Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. Everything, you understand!26

And this is also the meaning which Theodore Reff would give to the late paintings of Mont Sainte-Victoire Seen from Les Lauves: “And as the variants succeed each other, they become more passionate in execution and more spiritual in content, the peak seeming to embody that striving upward from the darkness of the valley toward the luminous sky in which Cézanne’s own religious aspiration can be felt, yet at the same time dissolving in the torrent of energetic brushstrokes, fusing with the air filled with similar strokes all around it.”27 The mountain was both a vision of permanence and a mirage of faith in an era of flux and a time of change. As he looked stoically ahead to his death, Cézanne also faced spiritually back toward his God.

Donald E. Gordon

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NOTES

1. Antonín Matêjcêk, introd. to Les Indépendants; XXX Vÿstava, Prague, 1910, pp. 1–11.

2. Roger Shattuck, The Banquet Years: The Origins of the Avant-Garde in France, 1885 to World War I, rev. ed., New York, 1968, p. [xv].

3. Renato Poggioli, The Theory of the Avant-Garde, Cambridge, 1968, p. 35. See also: H. F. Amiel, Journal Intime, two vols., Geneva, 1882,1884.

4. Herbert Read, The Meaning of Art, Baltimore, 1959, p. 160.

5. Linda Nochlin, Realism, Baltimore, 1971, pp. 103,60.

6. Henri Bergson, Creative Evolution, New York, 1944, p. 328.

7. Shattuck, p. 347.

8. Erwin Edman, ed., The Philosophy of Schopenhauer, New York, 1956, pp. 3–335 passim.

9. Walter H. Sokel, The Writer in Extremis: Expressionism in Twentieth-Century German Literature, Stanford, 1959, p. 25.

10. Wilhelm Worringer, Abstraction and Empathy, New York. 1953, pp. 133–134.

11. Ernst Kris, “On Inspiration,” Psychoanalytic Explorations in Art, New York, 1964, p. 302.

12. Paul Klee, “Creative Credo,” in Victor H. Miesel, ed., Voices of German Expressionism, Englewood Cliffs, 1970, p. 86.

13. Roger Fry, Cézanne: A Study in His Development, London, 1927, p. 37. Fry, of course, was very much a Protestant.

14. Maurice Malingue, ed., Paul Gauguin: Letters to His Wife and Friends, Cleveland and New York, 1949, p. 34.

15. John Rewald, ed., Camille Pissaro: Letters to His Son Lucien, London and New York, 1943, p. 275.

16. Richard W. Murphy, The World of Cézanne, 1839–1906, New York, 1974, p. 9.

17. Theodore Reff, “Cèzanne’s ‘Dream of Hannibal’,” The Art Bulletin, June, 1963. pp. 150–151.

18. John Rewald, ed., Paul Cézanne: Letters, New York, 1976, p. 158. Ne

19. Meyer Schapiro, Paul Cézanne, w York, 1952.

20. Alfred H. Barr, Jr., Picasso: Fifty Years of His Art, New York, 1946, p. 274. John Elderfield, The “Wild Beast”: Fauvism and Its Affinities, New York, 1976, p. 121.

22. Alfred H. Barr, Jr., Matisse: His Art and His Public, New York 1951, p. 121.

23. Fry, op. cit., p. 87.

24. Georges Rivière, “L’Exposition des Impressionnistes,” L’Intransigeant, April 14, 1877, as translated in: Judith Wechsler, ed., Cézanne in Perspective, Englewood Cliffs, 1975, p. 27.

25. Emile Bernard, “Paul Cézanne,” L’Occident, July, 1904, as translated in: Wechsler, op. cit., p. 42.

26. J. Gasquet, Cézanne, Paris, 1926, p. 131, as translated in: John Rewald, “Catalogue,” Cézanne: The Late Work, New York, 1977, p. 406.

27. Theodore Reff, “Painting and Theory in the Final Decade,” Cézanne: The Late Work, New York, 1977, p. 27.