Cézanne Comes to Washington, D.C.

Inside this building, the world of Provence, France, circa 1880-1906 comes alive from the work of this immortal artist, considered the father of modern art.

Seeing Cézanne in the National Gallery is quite an experience. He lived in a time when our modern social upheaval was in its infancy. Workers agitated for better conditions and a more socially responsible society. Many artists aligned themselves with the workers. They regarded themselves as workers, separating themselves from the establishment artists of the Academy.

Cézanne was one of these new types. Aside from a few years studying in Paris, he lived in his native land, Provence most of his life. He painted mostly out in the open in the midst of nature. It was hard work. By time he was 67, he was worn out from his labors.

I stood for long periods of time before the many great paintings that came from his hand, his mind, his eye, his soul. I stood and marveled at the enormity of this artist’s output. He produced great works incessantly, even to his last days, painting in the rain. The exposure was too much. A few days later, he passed on.

I couldn’t help contrasting his time from ours. My wife is a great artist. You can see her work at http://margotbergman.com to understand what I mean.

When she paints a scene from nature, she works from a photograph. She sits in her studio and paints, takes a break, has a cup of tea, and then paints some more. She’ll go work in the garden for an hour or so, and then back to her painting. A lunch break. Then more work with the brush. And so goes her day.



But Cézanne did not have the modern comforts, nor the photographic technology that could produce vivid images in color to work from.

He had to stand for hours in the harsh sunlight, sweating in his old fashioned, heavy 19th century clothing, plagued by bugs, mosquito bites, and God knows what else.

Yes, he was a worker. And here are two examples of what he produced.

Going to see Cezanne

His work is on display at the National Museum in Wshington, D.C. and I am going there for the day. A two hour drive to see the works of a master artist. My wife, who is also a master artist and whose work will some day also be in the famous museum, accompanies me.

I'll give a report when I get back.

A Sign of the Times

We live on a country road three miles from a village. There is only one way in and out. Whenever I need to go somewhere, I pass the same handful of houses and farms each time.

One of the houses sits right on the edge of the road. It’s an old tenant farmhouse built probably around the turn of the old century - in other words, around 1900. Built when the old road was closer to the river. We live on the Shenandoah River.

Sometime last summer something new appeared outside this house. A sign was constructed on the front lawn, set in such a way that one passing by on the road could not help seeing the message.

This sign was constructed of two four-by-four wood posts set in the ground. The posts stand about ten feet high, about twelve feet apart. Two cross beams hold them together. The cross beams are about two feet apart, three-quarters the way up the vertical posts. Maybe you can visualize how the whole thing looks.

Inside the two horizontal beams was placed a sign made of some heavy white material upon which was written in plain handwritten black and white: “Proud Parents of a Soldier in Iraq.”

Next to the sign stood a flagpole perhaps twice the height of the wood signpost, an oversized American flag proudly waving in the breeze.

Every time I drove by this sign, I would feel a certain kind of ire. Three, four times a week I was reminded of the horror, the upheaval, the terror and the destruction of human life going on day in and day out, seven days a week, four weeks a month, twelve months a year – now four long years of bloodshed and heartache for so many.

The turmoil half-way around the world had entered my personal world. It was nothing like the black and white print of newspapers [which I avoided.] nor like the full-color gore of the TV stories [which likewise I avoided].

Every time I drove by, I wondered about this family’s pride. Wondered about their mindset. I understand the meaning of patriotism and all that. Nevertheless, I just don’t understand how it comes about, this new brand of it, which I am prone to label “righteous violence.”

I mean these are ordinary, honest, hard working, decent folks. Their place is immaculate. They have a small parcel of land, perhaps an acre or less. Three brown horses munch away in a tiny pasture. Two teenagers, and guy and a gal, regularly mow the lawn. A clean small pick-up sits in the driveway. The house is brightly painted every other year.

How, I wondered…how do they find themselves proud of a son’s horrifying ordeal?

But I kept urging myself to resist making judgments. I kept telling myself I had made a commitment to be non-judgmental. Do not condemn, my motto.

Every year we go south to spend January and February fleeing the coldest months. We take ourselves in our old twenty-one foot RV, and ramble on down to Florida. What with the cost of heating fuel these days, shutting down the house for two months saves us enough cash to pay for a good part of our stay in the warmer south. We visit friends and hang out in small, inexpensive campgrounds. Such is the lifestyle of a retired bloke.

So, the last day of February we are coming home. It’s still a bit chilly, but tolerable. 2006 has been not bad.

Once you cross the bridge, the road curves to run parallel with the river. Not far from this point stands the old farmhouse. As we approached, I remembered the sign, and steeled myself for the moment.

The signpost was still there, of course. But the sign was gone. Instead of the proud-parents message, there was nothing. An empty space.

Only two red fabric bouquets. They were pinned to the upright poles right where the cross beams connected. They reminded me of the poppy flowers people use to wear on their lapels commemorating the dead heroes of World War One.

And the flagpole was bare. No flag waving. The ropes to raise a flag were draped to a nearby tree. As if the wind had tossed them into the branches where they had gotten stuck. The curve of the white ropes, coming down from the top of the flagpole and then rising into the tree branch, traced a heart wrenching, eloquent silent message.

Their son was dead. Gone. They had lost their precious child.

My heart went to my throat. I know the feeling well. I too have lost a son. Sixteen years ago. He was nineteen, a motorcycle courier, absolutely fearless, a bit too careless, crushed by a Canada Dry beverage truck. He too, caught under the heels of the machine – the industrial/military machine.

I drove past their house feeling so saddened. I wanted to stop and offer condolences. We are not close neighbors. Our house is two miles further down the road. We have never met, nor spoken to each other.

Now, every time I pass, my urge to stop and commiserate gets stuck in my throat. I am afraid to approach the family. I picture myself walking up the porch steps to the front door, knocking or ringing the bell, waiting for whoever is inside to come and open the door. I picture the mournful face of the mother, and tremble at the thought of looking into her eyes. I am afraid of what I will see.

I’m afraid to discover that we really don’t live in the same world. Afraid we won’t understand the nature of our individual grief. Losing a son, we both know how that feels. But do we both attach the same meaning to the event? Do we both see the same way, see who is the real culprit behind this tragic moment?

I’m afraid...really and more simply put…just afraid.

So, I drive by, saddened for them, and, more often than not, with tears in my eyes.
I tell myself, I must stop…maybe tomorrow I’ll stop and knock on their door.

Maybe tomorrow…

Another Past Life Recall Experience

Egypt

I’m in ancient Egypt. But actually, I’m lying on a couch in Waynesboro, Virginia, at the home of a regressionist.

The year is 1977.

I don’t recall his name. I’ve come to find out more about my past lives. His technique is rather unusual. He sits on the floor beside me, offering me only the simple suggestion to “go back in time.”

Gently, he rubs my thumb with his finger over and over again. He rubs, and I wait for something to happen. Minutes go by. I’ve paid $40 for this thumb rubbing, is all I can think of. Nothing is happening.

I feel myself getting exasperated. I’m about to get up and put an end to this futile exercise, when suddenly a scene appears before my inner eye.

I see myself standing outside a dome shaped building made of crude brick, or what seems to be brick. The structure is about twenty feet high and shaped something like a beehive. There are no windows, only a single door. I am standing there as if I am guarding the entrance to the beehive. A thought tells me this building is a granary.

I am in ancient Egypt. I see myself in a costume similar to images I’ve seen in museums. I am wearing the clothing of an official. I sense myself as an agent of the Pharaoh, in charge of the food supply.

Outside the building a large crowd has gathered. They are imploring me to let them into the granary. They are starving. We are in a time of famine. Drought has been the situation now for several years. Life is hard and bitter.

My job is to make sure the stored food is well protected and dispensed only to those who are registered with the governing authority. These are the people who over the years paid their taxes with valuables such as precious metals, or in kind, meaning a portion of their harvests in grain deposits.

Only those are allowed to take food from the storehouse. These others who are imploring me for grain, have no right to it. They failed to comply with the requirements, and now they are suffering. Indeed, they are dying.

And I must stand there and refuse them food. It is my job, my responsibility. Should I not do my duty, I fear the consequences, not even knowing what exactly would happen to me.

I am ashamed of myself for having to refuse these people. Day after day, they come imploring me. I think of running away. But what would become of my family. What would happen to them? I feel myself to be in an impossible situation. How did this happen to me? I had enjoyed a prestigious position. I had learned the techniques of preserving the grain, of preventing vermin from entering the buildings and destroying our insurance against famine times. I was a model figure in our circle, supporting my family and serving the population and the Pharaoh with dignity and loyalty.

Loyalty, I considered the hallmark of my life. And now, I felt I was betraying the people. Some of the people. I was beginning to hate them, to despise them for not having done the right thing when they could have. But in my heart I knew that they had always been poor and had not been fully able to part with the little they had to give to the storehouse what was the Pharaoh’s due.

Lying on the couch in Waynesboro, I squirmed in anguish over my plight. I saw myself shrinking. My soul was shrinking. My life became ever more darker. A guilty conscience permeated my entire existence.

And with that last thought, the session came to an abrupt close. I groaned and opened my eyes. The man whose house I was in, got up from the floor. He neither asked me how I felt, nor what had transpired during that half hour or perhaps longer time in which I visited a past existence. He waited for me to get to my feet, then ushered me out the front door, inviting me to return whenever I wished.

I thanked him and left, never to come back.

Margot had come with me. I’m sure I was aware of her presence. Yet, possibly because of the mental anguish I had undergone, for some reason, I didn’t see her. Only after I was in the car, did I realize she had left the house with me and was now sitting beside me as I silently steered home, an hour’s drive up the Shenandoah Valley, immersed in a mood I can only describe as something like bereavement. I was in mourning over my past life.