It is not what the artist does that counts, but what he is. – Cézanne

I just finished a book on Cézanne.[1] Many of his thoughts, the thoughts of the artists he knew, and of the many writers that he cherished keep bouncing around in my head. The ideas are somewhat difficult to talk about. The world of Paris circa 1870 in which these creative types lived seems to have been so broadly different than ours. Not only would we not recognize it, if we were to magically inhabit that world, alla Woody Allen’s Midnight in Paris let’s say, we would probably feel uncomfortable. We might even be mocked, so different are we contemporaries today.

In my choice of books to read, I try to stay away from what various experts think these artists were up to. Instead I look for letters and conversations, recorded by friends for example, so I can get a sense of how those artists interpreted themselves and what they thought they were doing as painters. I want to know their motivations in their own words, their own explanations for their work and way of life.

For example, the phrase “the sensation” was used again and again by a few of the Impressionists and Cézanne was no exception. He talked about it endlessly. One stands before nature, “vibrates” with nature, does not recognize things (a “head is painted as a door”), “realizes” feelings as one paints, and “becomes” who one truly is. The emphasis was on what today we might call personal growth. Cézanne lamented the fact, for example, that he never had a master teacher who could have “restored me to myself.”

And whom did Cézanne, and the others, perceive as enemies of this project of the senses? Anyone or anything that might undermine or disturb the experience of “the sensation,” especially those who wanted “to get their hooks into me.” The rising entrepreneurial class (“the dirty bourgeoisie”) were high on Cézanne’s enemy list. They were predators whose feelings had been “castrated” (a paraphrase by the author), and who engaged in the disgusting practice of self-promotion. Flaubert, a writer whom Cézanne enjoyed greatly, targeted anyone with “power.”

“Stupidity about art, wrote Flaubert, comes less from the public than from ‘(1) the government, (2) theater managers, (3) publishers, (4) newspaper editors, and (5) official critics – in short, from holders of power, because power is essentially stupid.’”[2] Or, more cryptically, Cézanne put it this way: “What bastards respectable people are.” It is a tad ironic that today’s art world elites, who profess their love of “challenging” ideas, sidestep this splendid group of Parisian painters and writers and their terrific insights.

Cézanne and company had precursors, of course. Fed up with the power of the Salon over who and what was exhibited, Courbet was the first to bolt, setting up his own independent pavilion where he exhibited only his own work. That was 1855. Manet, similarly frustrated, did the same thing. In 1867 he, too, set up his own independent pavilion and exhibited only his own work. Then of course came the biggest break of all: a group of painters, known as “the intransigents” organized independent exhibitions over a 12 year period (1874-1886). The intransigents, of course, would later be known as the Impressionists. The need to be free to respond to sensations, it seems, was congenial to a way of exhibiting that was independent.

Fast Forward 140 Years

I’ve never had a good feeling about being in galleries. In spite of the “niceness” of some gallerists, my relationship to them was clearly worker-to-boss. In one gallery in San Francisco that had accepted me, my paintings of boats in a harbor were rejected. The masts of the boats went out of the painting. I was told that the masts couldn’t be cropped – a pragmatic market consideration, no doubt. In another gallery I was the “street scene guy.” They wanted only paintings of San Francisco streets. However, in one painting, I had put some older guys standing around on a corner. Nope. “Who wants to see that?”

But that’s not the worst of it, of course. Talk galleries with painters and before you know it you are talking horror stories. One time, a meeting was arranged at an upscale San Francisco gallery where I was invited to bring in some work to be reviewed. I was hoping to be accepted at the gallery. When I arrived, with boxes of paintings in tow, the gallery owner, whom I had never met, was upstairs in her office. I was asked by an assistant to wait downstairs in one of those viewing rooms. So I waited and waited and I waited some more. The more I waited the more I began to feel like some kind of homeless bum. I was convinced the owner had totally forgotten about me. Then I had an epiphany. Given that I had all this time to kill, I thought I would do a little installation, a kind of artsy shock-and-awe. So I took down all the paintings that were hanging in the downstairs level of the gallery and replaced them with the paintings I had brought in. After all, what better way to demonstrate the impact of my art in her gallery? The owner eventually did come down. She wasn’t pleased. After the assistant was ordered to remove my paintings immediately and after she calmed down, I did manage to have a conversation about my work.

“Where’s the angst?” she asked. No fool was she.

“Angst?” I responded. “You want to see my angst? Really? You haven’t seen enough?” We weren’t, as they say in the trade, a “good fit.”

Then came the final break. I had invited the gallery owner of the place where I was the “street artist guy” to visit my studio so I could show him my latest breakthrough. “Yes, that would be fine.” We made an appointment. I still remember the time: Thursday at 3PM. And so I cleaned up my studio and positioned my paintings with great care and waited. He never showed.

That did it. That’s when I said to myself, “I’ll never exhibit in a gallery again. They treat you like shit.” (I hadn’t yet armed myself with the clever little sayings of Cézanne.) That was 1990 and I’ve kept my word and, not coincidentally, have made a living from my art and from teaching painting – exclusively – ever since.

So it was with serious ambivalence that I made a recent gallery inquiry, I must confess. A friend of mine visited my gallery in Bellagio and purchased two paintings. He seemed to like what I was doing and offered, “Why aren’t you in a gallery in Milan?” Rather than go through the whole bloody story, I said, “Oh, I don’t know. I like being able to paint anything I want.” “Yea,” he said, “but you could really make some serious money in Milan. Besides, I have a close friend who runs a good gallery there. I could introduce you.”

So I thought about it. Gee, big bucks! Maybe that could work. Our gallery in Bellagio is quite small so maybe I could put my larger paintings in a Milan gallery. I like painting large but I don’t have the space to exhibit anything very big. So I jumped through the hoops and eventually sent off a PDF version of my recent Lake Como book with over 100 images, as mutually agreed upon. “We have received all your information. Let us reflect on it.” That was six months ago. Not a word. Apparently, they are still reflecting. Boss-worker anyone?

An Old Friend Visits

A few weeks ago my old friend Monte from grad school visited me. We hadn’t seen each other in 35 years. I showed him my gallery. “What? You only show your own work? I thought only people who painted on black velvet did that.”

“Yup,” I responded. “Well, that’s what it has come to, Monte. Me and the black velvet people.”

“Well,” added Monte in a consoling voice, “At least you’re independent.” Bright guy, that Monte.

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[1] Alex Danchev, Cézanne: A Life, Profile Books (Great Britain, 2012). [2] IBID, 147.