I wrote about my time in Aix en Provence, but now it’s time to tell you about a famous artist who spent most of his life there, and to give you a look at a museum that holds some of his paintings. But, I’ll go a little farther than that, with one of Cézanne’s most famous paintings, which taps into his art and a strong difference between Europe and America, that twists into morals and customs. What if men and women in middle America decided to take a swim, when an artist comes by.

 

“If you don’t mind, take off those clothes. I’d like to paint you while you slosh around in the nude. No worries, I’m an artist.”

 

“Pervert!” Followed by sirens and a night in a chilly cell.

 

Puritanism stuck like glue across the Atlantic, but faded away long ago in Europe.  In Europe, swimming in the nude is not sex.  But in America any nudity is sex. Ok, you’ll say, there are nude beaches in America. Have you been there? Me neither.  Rare in the U.S.A. In Europe it’s normal to go at least partially naked on most beaches, and you'll get a surprise when you step into a spa. Why should I mention it? Cézanne is why. He said it well: “Art is a harmony parallel with nature.”

 

Like it or not, we are a part of nature. Now that you have a taste for European art and artists and are suddenly thinking about dips in a pool a group, let’s wander on to the Musée Granet and more art by Paul Cézanne.

 

 

The rather small museum, in the center of old town, is next to Eglise Saint-Jean-de-Malte. The museum was once a part of the church, but no longer. And it holds much more than Cézanne’s art, all of it interesting and dating back to the 1700s.

 

Costs about 8 bucks to enter, but worth it. I went twice. I’m one of those who dally and ponder. I like art! Especially art known as impressionism.  Yes, Cézanne was part of the first Impressionist exhibition, held in Paris in April 1874, featured 30 artists, including core members Claude Monet, Pierre-Auguste Renoir, Edgar Degas, Camille Pissarro, Berthe Morisot, Paul Cézanne, and Alfred Sisley. The artists held an independent exhibition to defy the traditional, state-run Salon, that wanted nothing to do with them. 

 

A French art critic, Louis Leroy coined the name Impressionism as sarcasm, saying the paintings were just impressions, not finished works. What is it about art that brings out voices of resistance? Guess it’s just human. Hey, we’re all critics. As if we really know or understand art or artists. I do my best to stifle my inner critic, and did pretty well with this museum and especially Cézanne. His work is easy to like. It draws you in.

 

Seeing Cézanne’s paintings, from his early to his later work, you’ll find a progression, and begin to understand why Leroy wrote what he did. All things new, and especially art, are difficult to work their way into the 'what-the-hell-is-that" mind. 

 

Interesting that Impressionism took only a relatively short time to become cherished art. By the 1920s many new artists settled in Paris and followed in the footsteps of the Impressionists and took even more different artistic directions.

 

But back to Cézanne!

 

The painter himself walked a strange road, depending on his father, a banker, who insisted his son become a banker. Cézanne did his best, but artist in the bank didn’t last. Finally, his father tossed in the cash and allowed his artist son to go to Paris, where he painted alongside a host of wonderful Impressionist artists, leading to the Impressionist exhibition.

 

But Paris didn’t last all too long either, although he would go back and forth. But fairly soon Cézanne was drawn back to Aix en Provence to settle and stay. Not a sad story. His father came recognized his son’s art and skill.

 

Like all true artists, Cézanne, lived to paint, not caring if others liked his work or not. On the other side, he was also his own toughest critic, often tossing away what he thought was not good enough, or what was on the canvas just didn’t work to suit him. In one case, he had an important person pose for him every day for weeks, only to decide, sorry, “I can get it right.”

 

With the paintings in the museum, you can see the development of his art from beautiful, but conventional into more unconventional.  The more I looked, the more I became enchanted by the curves of his art, and how the young artist blossomed into the artist he became.

 

Now let’s look at some more art!

Another of his earlier painting

Note the intensity in the eyes.

 

 

 

 

A Trip to Aix en Provence

I see Aix en Provence as the heart of civilization, with people generously nice and helpful. Even with my broken French, which they probably scratch their heads and think they’re listening to a lame, growling dog, I get smiles anyway, and perfect English comes back at me that would satisfy an English professor. 

And what are some differences in Aix?  Let’s take French food. Why is it different? In Aix en Provence, almost all the food is local. Vegetables you see at the markets, come from nearby farms. Likewise, bread comes from any of the many bakeries on nearly every street, not like the U.S. bakeries /chemical factories.  

 

Even jams and such are made there, likewise cheeses, and judging by my breakfast, bacon (which is wonderful) came from a farm close enough to hear  oinking.  Do I sound a little bitter about American food standards? Damn right I am.

 

I once heard a French woman say: I won’t buy a vegetable that doesn’t have dirt on it.  I say keep it going, baby!

 

Why stop now? Let’s keep blithering onward!

 

The people here dress well, unlike many of my American friends, who think tee-shirts and flipflops are just fine for weddings and funerals. Also, American men don’t shave their beards or cut their hair. Washing optional. Table manners? Don’t be disgusting! French may have long hair and beards, but those are mostly older men and they keep themselves well groomed. 

 

Do I dare mention that even at schools, the kids dress well? Let us pray.

Another thing about Aix, in my weak and unsettled mind, I find wandering the streets, and sitting in lovely cafes, sipping and casually watching the passersby is a wonderful pastime.  For me it beats being whisked quickly this way and that, trailing a group and guide to the places I “should go see.” 

 

For me, there is more to be said about piddling, stopping at my leisure, looking and tarrying on the old cobbled streets, glancing up at old buildings, and stopping here and there to watch the locals. It gives me the feeling that I am really here. For me, roaming is a part of the reason I came. I converse with the locals, mostly short conversations, but that’s enough to get a few similes.

 

Being an art aficionado I also like to roam museums. Museums are not for rushing in and out. I watch. Read. Ask. And come back tomorrow to do it again.

 

By the way, this city was the home of Cézanne, one of the leaders of Impressionism.  You might ask, where did the word impressionism come from?  But that and more about Cézanne comes in the next Blog, if you can stand the wait.

 

How about the city itself. Too easy to dance away,  keep moving, without a bare nudge to history. Too much for a simpleton like me to guide your way, but yes, the Romans were here well before Christ was even a boy. Then came this tribe and that one, and medieval times and lots of wars. Just ask the English. Through may wars, they thought France was theirs, until France settled the question. And of course, the Germans tiptoed in and out, leaving death and trash behind.

 

Now I will push my opinions aside and show you what I just told you about. No chance.  I can push, but opinions won’t go away. Here’s a tip for American ladies. If you want to be slim, right down to size zero, become French. And latching on to the sweet French accent and  grabbing some beautifully fashioned clothes would work wonders.

 

What a lovely city, Aix en Provence is!  The old city, with narrow streets and stone buildings  slide you into times long gone. Admire the heavy architecture, dream your dreams and try not to notice the cars parked on every street. 

As you walk and ponder, I will sip my crème café, even if the rain does its best. Take a moment to look at my photos. 

 

Plenty of time. I just ordered another: la même chose. I said it, and the waiter understood!  By golly I’ll sleep well tonight and to heck with my high school French teacher! Being understood beats the hell out of getting through a useless test. 

 

By the way, the city is pronounced X. Sounds more like “eggs” to me.

 

Of course, no city is perfect. In Aix, if you’re in the mood to be rundown, plenty of bicycles and skateboards are there for you. Just the right place to see what God thinks about you. 

 

Or, maybe you want your last words to be “MOTORCYCLE!!”, followed by a very loud “SHIT!”  What the heck, I didn’t die. And I will go back. Soon as I can.

Creativity

 

Deep bright passion lingers 

in the blood  

Trickles through the vains 

Pushes through the colorful mind 

Always rebounding in need, 

Always at a scrambling pace 

Like a squirrel chasing a nut

This way and that with a tumbling need 

More colors to brush the palate, 

Next pages for the book 

Another line for the poem

One more flower for the garden 

Even as the night falls 

Creative spirt haunts the dreams 

Morning scans the sun, plays with clouds 

New colors for the brush 

Twists and lines for the poem 

Bouquets from the  flower garden

Creativity’s wicker basket bulges forever 

Oh what a blessing for the ever churning mind. 

Listen to the Wind

 

Feel soft fingers of wind

Brushing, teasing across your face, 

Twisting gaily through restless leaves 

Urging tassels of color into the air

Traipsing across the ground, rising

Falling past branches, dancing past trees 

Singing sweet notes, listen, listen! 

A whistling serenade

Charming, phantom voices  

Sweeping by, dancing, twirling

Through your hair, through the forest  

Voices of wind, whispering a promise 

We are alive and one with the world

Reading Books

 

Do you really read a book?

I wonder if you do 

Or just turn pages for a look. 

Reading leads to new places  

Down rambling roads 

Often to new times and faces 

Books can make you laugh out loud 

Others leave you breathless 

On new grounds or into clouds 

With new books you never know 

Where it goes

Warmth of sun or freezing snow 

I’m always reading a book or two 

Never knowing what I’ll find 

Some are joyous, some are blue 

They always take me somewhere new.

We Are the Waves

 

Oh, watch the waves, their rolling sounds

Whiteness at the break, turning, twisting 

Flowing, tumbling, such roaring they make

Carving their white way with crushing force

See our twisting lives spread before us

Bound and tossed like heavy waves

Ground and crunched on rolling sand

By sun and rain, swells and calms

Dwelt and scanned with petty moments

Raked by salt, brushed and polished by wind,

Our eager lives, lived and shaped by ripping sand.

Melted Love

 

I loved her once, or maybe twice

 

Remembrances strain through the

Dust of tattered yesterdays. 

 

Even her breasts, her hips that twisted

Me through soft whispers, now gone.

 

Wings that fluttered turned limp and cold.

 

Perhaps I remember her face, but 

Now the smiles allude me.

 

The eyes so blue tossed love away

In sodden blinks of guile.

 

Covers of soiled snow, bypass the sun

With long-gone trickles of love.

 

Her breasts an icy glaze, lost in clumsy steps

Of melting snow.