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Authors: Susan Vreeland
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pear can’t stand up at that angle. That’s ridiculous. And apples and oranges aren’t ripe at the same time. France doesn’t even grow oranges.’ She flung out her arm dismissively. ‘And they definitely can’t stay in place on that crazy, tipped plate.’
“ ‘Ignore her,’ Julien said. ‘Leave the painting here for me to love until someone buys it.’
“ ‘And you’ll hope no one will,’ says madame. ‘Meanwhile he won’t pay what he owes us.’
“ ‘The apples, so smooth. I want to caress one,’ Julien said.
“ ‘Non!’ declared Cézanne. ‘What do you think I want to hear—that it is real, that you want to hold it, take a bite out of it, or that it is beautiful because the passage of colors in it from green to yellow to red makes it unique in that pyramid of apples?’
“I could not be silent. ‘That I want to take a bite,’ I blurted, ‘because it is real.’ But Cézanne shook his head.
“ ‘ Non . I paint to paint, not to depict. See with your eyes, man, not with your mind.’
“ ‘What if I see with my memory?’ I say. ‘That painting means more to me than any apple. It means my mother and her compote that I broke. And it means Provence, the indienne , and the green terre vernissée . The colors of the apples and oranges mean Roussillon, where I come from. I used to mine those ochres.’ ”
“ ‘ Eh, bieng . Then you understand color. It remains to be seen whether you understand form.’
“ ‘I want to buy it,’ I burst out.
“ ‘ Non . You are too quick. You have to study it until you forget about your mother and her compotier . See it as an ellipse. The foreground edge is straighter, and the background edge is more arched. Can you see that? It’s contrary to perspective vision, but that gives it character.’
“ ‘You’re a fool, Paul,’ says madame. ‘Don’t give him a lesson. Sell it this instant so you can pay your debts.’
“ ‘Let it hang here awhile, Julien, and you, monsieur, come in and look at it from time to time. I’ll come back in a month. If you have learned anything and still want it, then—’
“ ‘I will want it, but I can only pay in frames, you understand. Do you need any frames?’
“ ‘Frames? A painter always needs frames.’ ”
Pascal straightened his shoulders as if that was all.
“That’s a good story, Pascal,” I said.
“I’m not finished.” He motioned to me to sit down.
“In a minute.” I headed to the courtyard to get a ladder, wondering whether what he had told me was just a delusion of an old man, a real experience, or something in between.
Irritated that he didn’t have my full attention, Pascal talked louder when I returned. “The next time I saw Paul Cézanne, I told him that his painting made me think that the apples and oranges knew each others’ positions, that they fit together comfortably, each tilted its own way, like boulders in the Calavon River when it’s dry, and that their colors were all friends—red streaks on the yellow apples, yellow streaks on green apples, the chartreuse of new spring leaves in our vineyards, and the orange of a Roussillon rock.
“ ‘Don’t think of vineyards or rocks,’ he says. ‘See the parallel slanting brushstrokes. Notice how each piece of fruit displays its colors in visible steps.’
“ ‘In streaks?’
“ ‘Yes, if you want to call them streaks.’
“That satisfied him, so he let me have it for eight large carved frames. Madame Tanguy sold me two bottles of gilt so the frames could look reasonably like the expensive ones with real gold leaf, only she charged me double because she made me pay for her instruction in how to apply it. In the end, everybody was happy except Julien, who pouted when I took the painting away. And that’s how it started, my second friendship with a painter.”
“That’s nice.”
“ Nice! Is that all you can say? That it’s nice ? Just imagine, Lisette,what it was like to be in his
“ ‘Ignore her,’ Julien said. ‘Leave the painting here for me to love until someone buys it.’
“ ‘And you’ll hope no one will,’ says madame. ‘Meanwhile he won’t pay what he owes us.’
“ ‘The apples, so smooth. I want to caress one,’ Julien said.
“ ‘Non!’ declared Cézanne. ‘What do you think I want to hear—that it is real, that you want to hold it, take a bite out of it, or that it is beautiful because the passage of colors in it from green to yellow to red makes it unique in that pyramid of apples?’
“I could not be silent. ‘That I want to take a bite,’ I blurted, ‘because it is real.’ But Cézanne shook his head.
“ ‘ Non . I paint to paint, not to depict. See with your eyes, man, not with your mind.’
“ ‘What if I see with my memory?’ I say. ‘That painting means more to me than any apple. It means my mother and her compote that I broke. And it means Provence, the indienne , and the green terre vernissée . The colors of the apples and oranges mean Roussillon, where I come from. I used to mine those ochres.’ ”
“ ‘ Eh, bieng . Then you understand color. It remains to be seen whether you understand form.’
“ ‘I want to buy it,’ I burst out.
“ ‘ Non . You are too quick. You have to study it until you forget about your mother and her compotier . See it as an ellipse. The foreground edge is straighter, and the background edge is more arched. Can you see that? It’s contrary to perspective vision, but that gives it character.’
“ ‘You’re a fool, Paul,’ says madame. ‘Don’t give him a lesson. Sell it this instant so you can pay your debts.’
“ ‘Let it hang here awhile, Julien, and you, monsieur, come in and look at it from time to time. I’ll come back in a month. If you have learned anything and still want it, then—’
“ ‘I will want it, but I can only pay in frames, you understand. Do you need any frames?’
“ ‘Frames? A painter always needs frames.’ ”
Pascal straightened his shoulders as if that was all.
“That’s a good story, Pascal,” I said.
“I’m not finished.” He motioned to me to sit down.
“In a minute.” I headed to the courtyard to get a ladder, wondering whether what he had told me was just a delusion of an old man, a real experience, or something in between.
Irritated that he didn’t have my full attention, Pascal talked louder when I returned. “The next time I saw Paul Cézanne, I told him that his painting made me think that the apples and oranges knew each others’ positions, that they fit together comfortably, each tilted its own way, like boulders in the Calavon River when it’s dry, and that their colors were all friends—red streaks on the yellow apples, yellow streaks on green apples, the chartreuse of new spring leaves in our vineyards, and the orange of a Roussillon rock.
“ ‘Don’t think of vineyards or rocks,’ he says. ‘See the parallel slanting brushstrokes. Notice how each piece of fruit displays its colors in visible steps.’
“ ‘In streaks?’
“ ‘Yes, if you want to call them streaks.’
“That satisfied him, so he let me have it for eight large carved frames. Madame Tanguy sold me two bottles of gilt so the frames could look reasonably like the expensive ones with real gold leaf, only she charged me double because she made me pay for her instruction in how to apply it. In the end, everybody was happy except Julien, who pouted when I took the painting away. And that’s how it started, my second friendship with a painter.”
“That’s nice.”
“ Nice! Is that all you can say? That it’s nice ? Just imagine, Lisette,what it was like to be in his
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