Richard and Anita outside Cezanne’s studio.
Cezanne’s studio holds a tranquillity that reminds me of Monet’s garden in Giverny. The building sits shaded by trees near the top of a hill in Aix-en-Provence. After paying the discount student entrance fee, I climb the staircase to the first floor, noticing on the way the chipped light burgundy paint flaking off the walls in large dry leafs. The studio itself is spacious if only because it is not being used. The room is almost square with worn dark wood flooring and large north-west facing sheet windows. The air smells soft and round from the old fruit that lies unpainted. I wonder if the apples are sad to be the neglected the grandchildren of their famously documented forefathers!
My day’s companion, Anita is a fellow traveller who I met on the way to the train station in Arles. She notices the same bowl and cherub sculpture that I would see painted at an exhibition in London next year. They sleep on the same table next to the same wine bottle and glass that any art lover would recognize. The light glistening of cobwebs indicates that the corner still life is frozen in real life too!
We are treated to the many cups and jars that Cezanne would have easily picked up without a thought. They are now preserved by the watchful eye of one of the informal studio’s attendants: The artefacts are as touchable as those in the paintings. The smaller windows that face south-west let in the low morning light and I can no longer smell the fruit. His paints and brushes have lost their scent as well. It is a simple act to view the cloak and hat that still hang on the far wall, not to mention the books and easels that remain for tourist like us. But its simplicity belies its memorable significance: the experience seems to glow as the ochre house at morning.
I arrived in Aix-en-Provence yesterday after a train ride spent chatting with Anita, an American environmentalist recently returning from a nature sanctuary south of Arles. Only a small lack of self-assurance caused the hesitation in designating herself an environmentalist and she smiled as I forced her to jump off the fence. We walked to the youth hostel only to find it closed until five. Waiting on the grass, we exchanged thoughts and stories before finding a late lunch. Talkative and genuine, she dislikes bananas and brussel sprouts. We’d have a chance to watch a free magic show while strolling the beautiful city streets under the protection of a small travel umbrella.
Tags: travel