Complete Works of D.H. Lawrence (Illustrated)

by D. H. Lawrence

  When I read how far off the suns are, and what they are made of, and so on, and so on, I believe all I am able to believe, with the true imagination. But when my intuition and instinct can grasp no more, then I call my mind to a halt. I am not going to accept mere mental asseverations. The mind can assert anything, and pretend it has proved it. My beliefs I test on my body, on my intuitional consciousness, and when I get a response there, then I accept. The same is true of great scientific ‘laws,’ like the law of evolution. After years of acceptance of the ‘laws’ of evolution - rather desultory or ‘humble’ acceptance - now I realise that my vital imagination makes great reservations. I find I can’t, with the best will in the world, believe that the species have ‘evolved’ from one common life-form. I just can’t feel it, I have to violate my intuitive and instinctive awareness of something else, to make myself believe it. But since I know that my intuitions and instincts may still be held back by prejudice, I seek in the world for someone to make me intuitively and instinctively feel the truth of the ‘law’ - and I don’t find anybody. I find scientists, just like artists, asserting things they are mentally sure of, in fact cocksure, but about which they are much too egoistic and ranting to be intuitively, instinctively sure. When I find a man, or a woman, intuitively and instinctively sure of anything I am all respect. But for scientific or artistic braggarts how can one have respect? The intrusion of the egoistic element is a sure proof of intuitive uncertainty. No man who is sure by instinct and intuition brags, though he may fight tooth-and-nail for his beliefs.

  Which brings us back to Cezanne, why he couldn’t draw, or why he couldn’t paint baroque masterpieces. It is just because he was real, and could only believe in his own expression when it expressed a moment of wholeness or completeness of consciousness in himself. He could not prostitute one part of himself to the other. He could not masturbate, in paint or words. And that is saying a very great deal, to-day; to-day, the great day of the masturbating consciousness, when the mind prostitutes the sensitive, responsive body, and just forces the reactions. The masturbating consciousness produces all kinds of novelties, which thrill for the moment, then go very dead. It cannot produce a single genuinely new utterance.

  What we have to thank Cezanne for is not his humility, but for his proud, high spirit that refused to accept the glib utterances of his facile mental self. He wasn’t poor-spirited enough to be facile - nor humble enough to be satisfied with visual and emotional cliches. Thrilling as the baroque masters were to him in themselves, he realised that as soon as he reproduced them he produced nothing but cliche. The mind is full of all sorts of memory, visual, tactile, emotional memory, memories, groups of memories, systems of memories. A cliche is just a worn-out memory that has no more emotional or intuitional root, and has become a habit. Whereas a novelty is just a new grouping of cliches, a new arrangement of accustomed memories. That is why a novelty is so easily accepted: it gives the little shock or thrill of surprise, but it does not disturb the emotional and intuitive self. It forces you to see nothing new It is only a novel compound of cliches. The work of most of Cezanne’s successors is just novel, just a new arrangement of cliches, soon growing stale. And the cliches are Cezanne cliches, just as in Cezanne’s own earlier pictures his cliches were all, or mostly, baroque cliches.

  Cezanne’s early history as a painter is a history of his fight with his own cliche. His consciousness wanted a new realisation. And his ready-made mind offered him all the time a ready-made expression. And Cezanne, far too inwardly proud and haughty to accept the ready-made cliches that came from his mental consciousness, stocked with memories, and which appeared mocking at him on his canvas, spent most of his time smashing his own forms to bits. To a true artist, and to the living imagination, the cliche is the deadly enemy. Cezanne had a bitter fight with it. He hammered it to pieces a thousand times. And still it reappeared.

  Now again we can see why Cezanne’s drawing was so bad. It was bad because it represented a smashed, mauled cliche, terribly knocked about. If Cezanne had been willing to accept his own baroque cliche his drawing would have been perfectly conventionally ‘all right,’ and not a critic would have had a word to say about it. But when his drawing was conventionally all right, to Cezanne himself it was mockingly all wrong, it was cliche. So he flew at it and knocked all the shape and stuffing out of it, and when it was so mauled that it was all wrong, and he was exhausted with it, he let it go; bitterly, because it still was not what he wanted. And here comes in the comic element in Cezanne’s pictures. His rage with the cliche made him distort the cliche sometimes into parody, as we see in pictures like The Pasha and La Femme. ‘You will be cliche, will you?’ he gnashes. ‘Then be it!’ And he shoves it in a frenzy of exasperation over into parody. And the sheer exasperation makes the parody still funny: but the laugh is a little on the wrong side of the face.

  This smashing of the cliche lasted a long way into Cezanne’s life; indeed, it went with him to the end. The way he worked over and over his forms was his nervous manner of laying the ghost of his cliche, burying it. Then, when it disappeared perhaps from his forms themselves, it lingered in his composition, and he had to fight with the edges of his forms and contours, to bury the ghost there. Only his colour he knew was not cliche. He left it to his disciples to make it so.

  In his very best pictures, the best of the still-life compositions, which seem to me Cezanne’s greatest achievement, the fight with the cliche is still going on. But it was in the still-life pictures he learned his final method of avoiding the cliche: just leaving gaps through which it fell into nothingness. So he makes his landscape succeed.

  In his art, all his life long, Cezanne was tangled in a twofold activity. He wanted to express something, and before he could do it he had to fight the hvdra-headed cliche, whose last head he could never lop off. The fight with the cliche is the most obvious thing in his pictures. The dust of battle rises thick, and the splinters fly wildly. And it is this dust of battle and flying of splinters which his imitators still so fervently imitate. If you give a Chinese dressmaker a dress to copy, and the dress happens to have a darned rent in it, the dressmaker carefully tears a rent in the new dress, and darns it in exact replica. Aid this seems to be the chief occupation of Cezanne’s disciples, in every land. They absorb themselves reproducing imitation mistakes. He let off various explosions in order to blow up the stronghold of the cliche, and his followers make grand firework imitation of the explosions, without the faintest inkling of the true attack. They do, indeed, make an onslaught on representation, true-to-life representation: because the explosion in Cezanne’s pictures blew them up. But I am convinced that what Cezanne himself wanted was representation. He wanted true-to-life representation. Only he wanted it more true to life. And once you have got photography, it is a very, very difficult thing to get representation more true-to-life: which it has to be.

  Cezanne was a realist, and he wanted to be true to life. But he would not be content with the optical cliche. With the impressionists, purely optical vision perfected itself and fell at once into cliche, with a starding rapidity. Cezanne saw this. Artists like Courbet and Daumier were not purely optical, but the other element in these two painters, the intellectual element, was cliche. To the optical vision they added the concept of force-pressure, almost like a hydraulic brake, and this force- pressure concept is mechanical, a cliche, though still popular. And Daumier added mental satire, and Courbet added a touch of a sort of socialism, both cliche and unimaginative.

  Cezanne wanted something that was neither optical nor mechanical nor intellectual. And to introduce into our world of vision something which is neither optical nor mechanical nor intellectual- psychological requires a real revolution. It was a revolution Cezanne began, but which nobody, apparently, has been able to carry on.

  He wanted to touch the world of substance once more with the intuitive touch, to be aware of it with the intuitive awareness, and to express it in intuitive terms. That is, he wished to displac
e our present mode of mental visual consciousness, the consciousness of mental concepts, and substitute a mode of consciousness that was predominantly intuitive, the awareness of touch. In the past the primitives painted intuitively, but in the direction of our present mental-visual, conceptual form of consciousness. They were working away from their own intuition. Mankind has never been able to trust the intuitive consciousness, and the decision to accept that trust marks a very great revolution in the course of human development.

  Without knowing it, Cezanne, the timid little conventional man sheltering behind his wife and sister and the Jesuit father, was a pure revolutionary. When he said to his models: ‘Be an apple! Be an apple!’ he was uttering the foreword to the fall not only of Jesuits and the Christian idealists altogether, but to the collapse of our whole way of consciousness, and the substitution of another way. If the human being is going to be primarily an Apple, as for Cezanne it was, then you are going to have a new world of men: a world which has very little to say, men that can sit still and just be physically there and be truly non-moral. That was what Cezanne meant with his: ‘Be an apple!’ He knew perfectly well that the moment the model began to intrude her personality and her ‘mind,’ it would be cliche, and moral, and he would have to paint cliche. The only part of her that was not banal, known ad nauseam, living cliche, the only part of her that was not living cliche was her appleyness. Her body, even her very sex was known, nauseously: connu! connul the endless chain of known cause-and-effect, the infinite web of the hated cliche which nets us all down in utter boredom. He knew it all, he hated it all, he refused it all, this timid and ‘humble’ little man. He knew, as an artist, that the only bit of a woman which nowadays escapes being ready-made and ready-known cliche is the appley part of her. Oh, be an apple, and leave out all your thoughts, all your feelings, all your mind and all your personality, which we know all about and find boring beyond endurance. Leave it all out - and be an apple! It is the appleyness of the portrait of Cezanne’s wife that makes it so permanently interesting: the appleyness, which carries with it also the feeling of knowing the other side as well, the side you don’t see, the hidden side of the moon. For the intuitive apperception of the apple is so tangibly aware of the apple that it is aware of it all round, not only just of the front. The eye sees only fronts, and the mind, on the whole, is satisfied with fronts. But intuition needs all-aroundness, and instinct needs insideness. The true imagination is forever curving round to the other side, to the back of presented appearance.

  So to my feeling the portraits of Madame Cezanne, particularly the portrait in the red dress, are more interesting than the portrait ofM. Geoffroy, or the portraits of the housekeeper or the gardener. In the same way the Card-players with two figures please me more than those with four.

  But we have to remember, in his figure-paintings, that while he was painting the appleyness he was also deliberately painting out the so- called humanness, the personality, the ‘likeness,’ the physical cliche. He had deliberately to paint it out, deliberately to make the hands and face rudimentary, and so on, because if he had painted them in fully they would have been cliche. He never got over the cliche denominator, the intrusion and interference of the ready-made concept, when it came to people, to men and women. Especially to women he could only give a cliche response - and that maddened him. Try as he might, woman remained a known, ready-made cliche object to him, and he could not break through the concept obsession to get at the intuitive awareness of her. Except with his wife - and in his wife he did at least know the appleyness. But with his housekeeper he failed somewhat. She is a bit cliche, especially the face. So really is M. Geoffroy.

  With men Cezanne often dodged it by insisting on the clothes, those stiff cloth jackets bent into thick folds, those hats, those blouses, those curtains. Some of the Card-players, the big ones with four figures, seem just a trifle banal, so much occupied with painted stuff, painted clothing, and the humanness a bit cliche. Nor good colour, nor clever composition, nor ‘planes’ of colour, nor anything else will save an emotional cliche from being an emotional cliche, though they may, of course, garnish it and make it more interesting.

  Where Cezanne did sometimes escape the cliche altogether and really give a complete intuitive interpretation of actual objects is in some of the still-life compositions. To me these good still-life scenes are purely representative and quite true-to-life. Here Cezanne did what he wanted to do: he made the things quite real, he didn’t deliberately leave anything out, and yet he gave us a triumphant and rich intuitive vision of a few apples and kitchen pots. For once his intuitive consciousness triumphed, and broke into utterance. And here he is inimitable. His imitators imitate his accessories of table-cloths folded like tin, etc. - the unreal parts of his pictures - but they don’t imitate the pots and apples, because they can’t. It’s the real appleyness, and you can’t imitate it. Every man must create it new and different out of himself: new and different. The moment it looks ‘like’ Cezanne it is nothing.

  But at the same time that Cezanne was triumphing with the apple and appleyness he was still fighting with the cliche. When he makes Madame Cezanne most still, most appley, he starts making the universe slip uneasily about her. It was part of his desire: to make the human form, the life form, come to rest. Not static - on the contrary. Mobile but come to rest. And at the same time he set the unmoving material world into motion. Walls twitch and slide, chairs bend or rear up a little, cloths curl like burning paper. Cezanne did this partly to satisfy his intuitive feeling that nothing is really statically at rest - a feeling he seems to have had strongly - as when he watched the lemons shrivel or go mildewed, in his still-life group, which he left lying there so long so that he could see that gradual flux of change: and partly to fight the cliche, which says that the inanimate world is static, and that walls are still. In his fight with the cliche he denied that walls are still and chairs are static. In his intuitive self he felt for their changes.

  And these two activities of his consciousness occupy his later landscapes. In the best landscapes we are fascinated by the mysterious shiftiness of the scene under our eyes; it shifts about as we watch it. And we realise, with a sort of transport, how intuitively true this is of landscape. It is wo?still. It has its own weird anima, and to our wide-eyed perception it changes like a living animal under our gaze. This is a quality that Cezanne sometimes got marvellously.

  Then again, in other pictures he seems to be saying: Landscape is not like this and not like this and not like this and not . . . etc. - and every not is a little blank space in the canvas, defined by the remains of an assertion. Sometimes Cezanne builds up a landscape essentially out of omissions. He puts fringes on the complicated vacuum of the cliche, so to speak, and offers us that. It is interesting in a repudiative fashion, but it is not the new thing. The appleyness, the intuition has gone. We have only a mental repudiation. This occupies many of the later pictures: and ecstasises the critics.

  And Cezanne was bitter. He had never, as tar as his life went, broken through the horrible glass screen of the mental concepts, to the actual touch of life. In his art he had touched the apple, and that was a great deal. He had intuitively known the apple and intuitively brought it forth on the tree of his life, in paint. But when it came to anything beyond the apple, to landscape, to people, and above all to nude woman, the cliche had triumphed over him. The cliche had triumphed over him, and he was bitter, misanthropic. How not be misanthropic, when men and women are just cliches to you, and you hate the cliche? Most people, of course, love the cliche - because most people are the cliche. Still, for all that, there is perhaps more appleyness in man, and even in nude woman, than Cezanne was able to get at. The cliche obtruded, so he just abstracted away from it. Those last water-colour landscapes are just abstractions from the cliche. They are blanks, with a few pearly-coloured sort of edges. The blank is vacuum, which was Cezanne’s last word against the cliche. It is a vacuum. And the edges are there to assert the vacuity.
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br />   And the very fact that we can reconstruct almost instantiy a whole landscape from the few indications Cezanne gives, shows what a cliche the landscape is, how it exists already, ready-made, in our minds, how it exists in a pigeon-hole of the consciousness, so to speak, and you need only be given its number to be able to get it out, complete. Cezanne’s last water-colour landscapes, made up of a few touches on blank paper, are a satire on landscape altogether. They leave so much to the imagination! - that immortal cant phrase, which means they give you the clue to a cliche and the cliche comes. That’s what the cliche exists for. And that sort of imagination is just a rag-bag memory stored with thousands and thousands of old and really worthless sketches, images, etc., cliches.

  We can see what a fight it means, the escape from the domination of the ready-made mental concept, the mental consciousness stuffed full of cliches that intervene like a complete screen between us and life. It means a long, long fight, that will probably last for ever. But Cezanne did get as far as the apple. I can think of nobody else who has done anything.

  When we put it in personal terms it is a fight in a man between his own ego, which is his ready-made mental self which inhabits either a sky-blue self-tinted heaven or a black, self-tinted hell, and his other free intuitive self. Cezanne never freed himself from his ego, in his life. He haunted the fringes of experience. - ‘I who am so feeble in life’ - but at least he knew it. At least he had the greatness to feel bitter about it. Not like the complacent bourgeois who now ‘appreciate’ him!