"Who now discusses the Impressionists, Van Gogh, Cézanne... etc.? Almost all of them are dead, if not ignored, at least vilified and denied. We, on the other hand, have had exceptional luck."
950€
Albert GLEIZES (1881.1953)
Autographed letter signed to his cousin.
Two quarto pages on paper stamped with his name and address. Damp stain on the front.
Saint-Rémy de Provence. July 19, 1947.
"Who now discusses the Impressionists, Van Gogh, Cézanne... etc.? Almost all of them are dead, if not ignored, at least vilified, denied.
We were exceptionally lucky
A rich and fascinating letter from the Cubist painter looking back on his artistic youth.
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"My dear Geo, if I had to wait for rainy days here to come and chat with you, as you invite me to do, I'd have to immediately ask the heavens to change the climate of Provence. Especially in summer. When it rains in our region for an hour or two these days, everyone takes shelter. We're a little glad for the crops, but it's never enough. So it's not the rain that makes me write to you, but simply the desire to have a little chat with you. I can't resist.".
Have you received my book, "Life and Death of the Christian West"? It's obviously not a very cheerful book. But at least it will give you a sense of my state of mind. Besides, it's not pessimistic, because my conclusions, on the contrary, point toward resurrection and merely highlight, by contrast with evil, that which alone can restore health to a very sick country! This book, written almost twenty years ago, has just been translated and published in London. I've been told, "You were right in the past, and you'll be even more right in the future ." I can feel it. I won't elaborate on that. You'll read it and tell me what you think.
I was so pleased to receive your mother's charming and kind letter. Her handwriting still has the same authority I remember, and her serious yet amused disposition is still that of the Aunt Jacqueline of yesteryear. You know I can still hear the delightful sound of her unusual, melodious voice. I would love to see her again, and we could reminisce together about a host of memories—a bit childish on my part, I know, but precious nonetheless. And despite their insignificance, I'm certain she would see in them backgrounds I've overlooked. Childhood memories! A few years ago, a Parisian publisher asked me to write "my memoirs," a tribute to age and circumstances. I didn't want to limit myself to my artistic and intellectual pursuits, so I went back to the beginning, thinking that beyond myself, there were many things that needed to be recorded. The atmosphere in which I spent my early years, the way those Parisian suburbs looked back then—so rural, so peaceful, now veritable hellholes—and then there's my family. You can imagine how prominent your family is in that, and that your father is at the forefront. I bring these returns to the past into the present through reflections related to my current thinking and its development. I strive to understand mindsets very different from my own and to do them justice. It's easy to condemn those who don't think like us, especially in these aesthetic circles, which, on the whole, are a fantastic hornet's nest . In short, we touch upon opposing views that, to be heard, would require patience and goodwill, discernment, and that basic charity of acknowledging each person's contributions . I know it's sometimes difficult. I've often fallen into this trap, which I now denounce, and I've often been unfair .
But as one matures, it's about mastering one's passions, or rather, using them for other forms of enrichment. Writing these memoirs led me to seriously reflect on all these things: I had all the elements to reach a conclusion. A childhood spent in a conformist environment, of which your father was the leading figure. My father sided with yours. So you can imagine the struggles I had to undertake, the assaults I had to endure when, with painting, almost without realizing it, I crossed to the other side of the barricade . It takes faith, tenacity, and a certain spirit of adventure to persevere, to venture alone into unknown lands, amidst general disapproval and ridicule. Fortunately, I was able to be financially independent and, very early on, I discerned what was exciting and decisive in the research I was undertaking ; When I was able, in a way, to transcend painting while discovering and preserving its experiential virtues of unparalleled richness, I was able to wander into broader, more human realms. And today, when I look back, I forget those petty miseries, and ultimately, those oppositions I encountered were necessary and strengthened my faith. I don't know what your tastes are now, but I imagine that if you like Debussy, Ravel… you can't have the same feelings about Massenet or Gounod that you once did. It's like in poetry; when you like Mallarmé and Apollinaire, you're rather lukewarm about Sully-Prudhomme and François Coppée . In the visual arts, it's obviously the same. But what I understand now, and what I didn't see before, is that you mustn't confuse talent with a state of mind. All these men were talented, Massenet as well as Debussy, Apollinaire as well as François Coppée. However, what attracts us to some and repels us from others is simply that we like a certain mindset in some and dislike that of others. And once we understand this, it becomes interesting to try to understand why these two mentalities could have met almost simultaneously. I tried to do this with regard to painting, and it allowed me to take stock. Who now discusses the Impressionists, Van Gogh, Cézanne… etc.? Almost all of them are dead, if not ignored, at least vilified and denied. We, on the other hand, had exceptional luck. Was it the anxiety of the era regarding all these values? Perhaps. In any case, we are entering into History in our lifetime ; it's rather amusing. For me, it's certainly not yet tranquility; Some approve of me, others disagree. God willing, it will continue this way until the end. I ask for nothing more. I fear nothing more than hype, this mass enthusiasm that is nothing but hot air. I also distrust criticism, so ignorant and muddying of everything. Even those among them who strive for clarity soon prove inadequate. How many errors of all kinds they make!
I will send you, typed, this first part of my memoirs. You will read the pages, especially, where yours appear, and you will give me your opinion. I would be very happy. I don't want to pay you a longer visit today. I had hoped to go to Paris in July for the opening of the Salon des Réalités Nouvelles. I won't be making the trip; too much work is keeping me here. I had told your mother that perhaps, if I were in Paris in July, I would naturally go to Le Vésinet. I regret it immensely, but it will be for a little later. Tell her how sorry I am for this setback. Give my warmest regards to everyone around you, kiss your mother for me, and believe me, my dear Geo, your cousin and, I hope, your friend.