CEZANNE, MASTERS, AND ME

In the late 1990s, a middle-aged dreamer set out to make a career change and venture into art. Strange and serendipitous en-counters on this new path gave him soulful guidance from the works of the great painters Matisse and Picasso. Many forbear-ers and muses also spurred him to continue as he persevered in his search for the creative insights of Cezanne, the Father of Modern Painting.
The path is windy and rough throughout this unique journey, with plenty of laughs and tears. Therein is a story of fun, fascina-tion, and jaw-dropping discoveries.
The story contains some mysterious plots. However, the re-ferred pictures and schema inserts are based on the artists’ and writers’ renderings, providing solid relativities. The story’s de-velopment points the art to the secret of Nature and a long-for-gotten world linked to Bergson’s philosophy, which was once inspirational and multifaceted but contentious.
I sincerely hope you enjoy and benefit from this journey with me. Gratitude must go to Professor Vincent Shen, Professor John Rewald, Professor Noreen Larinde, Professor Johanna Liu, Professor Mark Antliff, Professor Michael Doran, Professor J.I. Liao, Professor Pete A.Y. Gunter, Professor Clair Chien, Mrs. Mary William Horsley, Ms. Annie LaBarge, Tony Lee, Yahsu Cheng, Bell Chen, Eric Sheu, Ben Yang, Lucia Liu, Shihui Yu, Angela Wang, Erica Lee, and Rebecca Chen for their help on various fronts; the meticulous English translation and proof-reading by Julie Sheu, Alice Lin, Helen Huang and a lady who wishes to remain anonymous.
I also want to thank all my partners and benefactors in the foreground and background. Dreams must be captured and real-ized so the story can be shared.

Chao-Liang Calvin Yu

尤昭良Chao-Liang Calvin Yu

輔大哲學系學士
師大美研所碩士
文大哲研所博士

現職：國立臺北護理健康大學副教授 (2002-19)
論著：《塞尚與柏格森》、《創造與變現—現代藝術的柏格森風》
小說：《塞尚密碼》

Special thanks to Mr. Tony Lee for the patronage of this publication.

In my mind, it appeared now.
Bergson’s tireless and sincere teachings: duration— creation—
By my ear, I could hear Cézanne’s plain yet strong blessings: crystallization—realization—

Preface
Contents

1. Prelude: Changing Career Midlife
2. My Compadres, Muse, and Mentor
3. My Encounter with Matisse
4. My Encounter with Picasso
5. The Painter and the Philosopher
6. My Encounter with Mother Nature
7. My Encounter with the Cézannes
8. Discovering a True Heart
9. Discovering Bergson’s Initials in Two Crucial Paintings

●1. Prelude: Changing Career Midlife●

Searching is my name.

Spring flowers were blooing, and the sun was bright on this soft afternoon in March 1997 as my son Bean and I ap-proached Dr. Sun Yat-sen Memorial Hall in Taipei to participate in a Lego Competition for Families hosted by the Taiwan Trans-portation Association.
The laughter of other families having fun echoed at the plaza as we registered. With the box of large Lego pieces and the huge cardboard we had been given, we hunted for a spot in the four rows of tents to get started on our project.
The theme for this event was “Transportation Vehicles.” Everywhere, families were skillfully assembling cars, planes, ships, and other vehicles. Since my company’s business was about operating container ships, I proposed that we build a cargo truck. Bean clapped excitedly in agreement and immediately jumped into making the wheels. I worked on the front and frame of the car.
My portion of the work involved cubes and rectangular blocks, which didn’t take me long to construct. Bean’s super-size wheels posed a challenge as he attempted to get them up-right. I explained the proportions of container truck parts a few times, but he was so intent and focused that he refused to scale back the wheels he had completed.
I was concerned about the wobbling wheels, but Bean looked so cute in his absorption that I did not have the heart to correct him. This was, after all, a fun event and hobby that we were here to share as father and son.
Finally, it was time to submit the work. At four o’clock sharp, the loudspeaker announced, “Please bring your creation to the judges’ area.” Some contestants could not wait to show off their masterpieces and moved quickly to the judging area. Bean was still assembling the fourth wheel with his whole mind.
I reminded him that time was up. He was unperturbed. Only when everyone around us had left did he feel the urgency. He scrambled to complete the wheels and stuck them onto the frame. Using the cardboard, we very carefully carried it to the judging area.
Sadly, the truck collapsed midway. The front of the vehicle was too heavy for the body, causing it to break into several pieces. Upset, Bean started to cry. People looked at us sympa-thetically. I attempted to comfort Bean while carrying our truck to the designated area, squatting down to reinforce it hurriedly once we got there.
The judges began examining and discussing the submitted works one by one. Bean looked at the meticulous work of others and then back at his broken truck. He started bawling even louder.
I no longer had the time or energy to tend to him.
Before we knew it, the host, four or five judges, and many competitors had approached us.
“Sir, what kind of vehicle is yours?” the host inquired po-litely through a microphone. I courteously stood up, awkwardly searching for something to say. Looking at our truck from its side, I was suddenly reminded of an old broken ox-cart. With this new-found perspective, I hesitated, “Um, uh, this…this is… ‘Broken…Ox-cart.’”
The host raised his voice in surprise, “Broken Ox-cart?” The crowd moved closer toward us with great curiosity. A heavy-set judge raised his head and yelled out his praise in glee, “A homely ox-cart, such local flavor!” Another judge followed, applauding in Taiwanese, “Love for Taiwan!” One after another, the rest cheered, “Wonderful!” “Very innovative!” “So rustic!” “How unique!”
In the end, we were miraculously awarded second place. Be-wildered, Bean’s tears transformed into laughter. I led him onto the stage to accept our prize: NT$8000 (around 260 US dollars) in book vouchers! I would never have thought the “Love for Taiwan” theme could bring us such houkang (Taiwanese, mean-ing good fortune).
We joyfully went to the bookshop to redeem the award vouchers and reward ourselves. Because I planned on changing career and taking the entrance exams for a fine arts graduate study, I picked a few educational tapes and browsed the book section. I riffled through book after book, trying to decide what to buy. A peculiar photo in Joseph Beuys’ Biography, depicting an artist holding a giant gray rabbit while explaining art, caught my eye. Curiously, I bought it too.
I surprised my wife, Lena, that night with an exquisite brooch. Elated, she kept saying this was a good omen, and I felt the same. I had yet to figure out where today’s ingenuity and luck came from. It had been a long time since happiness enve-loped this house.
For the last 18 years, I worked a 9-to-5 job as a salesman. Although work was busy, I was competent with what I had.
My salary was above average, which was pretty lucky for a man with a philosophy degree, no particular marketable skills, and no ambitions other than daydreaming. This job allowed me to start a family and live moderately well.
Unfortunately, the good times were about to end. Because Taiwan’s economic structure had changed, exporting and ship-ping business prospects were less profitable. Consequently, the company’s operational focus shifted, leading to fiercer compe-tition. My work hours grew longer and longer, and the stress also worsened.
My sense of crisis management told me that I had to find a way to maneuver these changes. After assessing the situation and discussing it with my wife, I decided to change my career in midlife, hoping to invest in a two-year graduate study at the Taiwan Academy of Fine Arts. It was a program that I had al-ways longed to attend. With a new degree, I would hone my craft and enter a new profession in a different job market.
I looked at the books and tapes I had just bought and thought seriously. There were three weeks until the application’s due date and a little more than a month before the entrance exams. For now, I had to keep my job to fill our bellies. At the same time, I had to make the best use of my spare time to prepare for the exams.
Everything was tightly scheduled and followed, but my optimism did not last long before I bumped into an obstacle. Only after having bought the application pack from the school did I find out that the Western Art Theory track of the program, for the first time in its history, required a practical test, a full-sized oil painting to be done at the exam.
What a shock! Even now, I remember how that initial anti-cipation and excitement became a fainting spell as my world spun out of control.
“Oil painting”—these words burned into my brain; it was a fascinating term. It suddenly charged into my life, taking hold of my mind and filling me with anxiety and distress.
The exam was right around the corner. Where and how could I cram to learn oil painting?
How could I compete with the other applicants? My only experience with creative art was watercolor in elementary school and Chinese calligraphy in junior high.
Over and over, I racked my brain: “Should I give up now?” “Should I postpone taking the exams until next year?”
But I was an arrow mounted on a bowstring. There was no turning back for me!
Having acquired the unkillable and invincible “cockroach spirit” of a salesman, I came up with a brilliant idea. I’d seen street artists in the flower market; I could ask them to teach me a few essential techniques. It was worth a shot. The following weekend, I took my wife and my daughter Dorian to the “Arts Precinct” of the flower market.
There, I found a bald painter with the aura of a great artist. His olive skin and large nose resembled those of Pablo Picasso. After explaining what I had come for, we agreed on a price. Dorian went first as his model to demonstrate how to sketch. My wife would then be the model when demonstrating oil painting.
Within three minutes, this quiet artist had already deftly finished his sketch of my daughter before I could figure out what was happening. That drew lots of admiring crowds. He then soft-ly asked if he could use the Fauvist style to paint my wife’s portrait. Since I was there to learn, I naturally agreed.
He adroitly squeezed a row of paint onto the palette like handling toothpaste. Then, half squinting his eyes and smacking his lips, he quickly moved his paintbrush to outline my wife’s fair face.
But strangely, he then switched to a thick and heavy paint knife, liberally yet nimbly spreading the paint. The bold colors and strokes turned the facial features into something resembling the makeup in Chinese opera. While the crowd let out cries of shock, the artist kept his stern look, with a cold glare in his eyes and raised brows. His posture was that of an undefeatable warrior.
Upon finishing the painting, the Street Picasso picked up an old towel and cleaned his hands. “Ahh, I haven’t felt this good about my work in years!”
“Thank you for the illustration.” I bowed to him. “Umm, may I ask why you chose a Fauvist style?”
“Oh, sure! Do you know of Henri Matisse? He’s my favorite artist. He’s like a magician that enchanted the world with his colors.” The painter patiently explained the creative process be-hind his painting and the individual steps he took to render it.
As he continued talking, he took an album of Matisse’s paintings from his bag and handed it to me. I didn’t want to dis-appoint his generosity and enthusiasm, so I accepted the offer and brought it home.
After dinner, I casually flipped through the album. Slowly but surely, I was drawn to Matisse’s simple composition and unique colors. Notably, on a page titled “Indoors,” the unpre-tentious lines, ordinary objects, and well-balanced design made me feel that oil painting was not that distant and unapproachable. The album also describes how Matisse became an artist and his essential art concept.
As I pondered all of this, an idea abruptly came to me. As-suming that the practical exam would be held indoors, why not memorize the composition and color scheme of this painting as my baseline? I could then scale down the test’s painting subject and insert it. This is a bold assumption, but I could hide my severe lack of technique in oil painting. It was perfect!
I had no oil paints, so I used Dorian’s coloring markers to repeatedly copy that “Indoor” painting tirelessly into the night. I felt a sense of joy and contentment that I had never felt before.
On the exam day, about seventy exam takers trickled in one after another to the large room. My assigned seat was in the back corner. Soon after the bell rang, the “subject” arrived—or should I say, “she” was “carried in.” She was a white plaster replica of a female sitting on her side, contemplating with an actual purple scarf on her head. She was placed on a platform in the room. It’s all indoors!
For the first time, I sat before a blank canvas about the size of an opened newspaper. I stared at it, hesitated, and did not know where to start. Luckily, I could easily observe what others were doing: closing one eye and squinting to find the proportions or starting their sketches skillfully.
I took in a deep breath and put down my first stroke. Then, I reminisced about a quote by Leonardo Da Vinci: “Painting is not difficult; it’s just a stroke here, a stroke there until you are happy with the results.”
Several examinees in front of me quickly covered their can-vases with a mono color and took out the extension cords and hairdryers. The street artist did not mention anything about this. Curious, I asked the pretty girl with long hair next to me, “Why blow air on the canvas?” She rolled her eyes and replied un-willingly, “To dry the underpainting, duh!”
I did not want to ask her again what “underpainting” meant, so I copied what she did and put a thin layer of paint all over my canvas. I didn't want to borrow her hairdryer, so I picked up a rag and quickly wiped over the canvas. I was unaware that the noise I was making caused all the examinees to turn to see what was happening, leaving me to wonder what the commotion was about.
Soon, a number of them came over to see for themselves. Their strange facial expressions and exaggerated reactions re-minded me of Street Picasso. He maintained his unwavering fo-cus and determination despite all of the disturbances.
But I was touched when a lovely girl came forward. Upon looking at my sketch, she clasped one hand over the other in a fist, like a martial art heroine in the TV shows, as an obeisance gesture. With her sparkling eyes and cute nose, she said words from heaven, “Mister, you seem like a master artist!”
I was puzzled at first, but soon, I nodded back with a smile. Her comment, far more potent than ten cans of Red Bull, gave me a sudden boost of confidence. I felt a profound awakening in all of my cells; I was brought back to the time in elementary school when my art teacher encouraged me to enter a watercolor contest while patting my head.
I felt the same gush of glory in middle school when my teacher praised my calligraphy in front of the class. Artistry seeped from my pores, and my fingers tingled with creativity. At the same time, I was impressed by her eye for fine art. Intro-ducing “indoors” to my painting made it stand out from the heap of boring headshots.
The second day was the written exams. The subjects in-cluded English, Chinese, and the specialty subject, Western Art Theory. I did well in English because I use English at work. Chinese, however, was a challenge. It had been over eighteen years since I last wrote an essay, so I inevitably encountered writer’s block. I crossed out sentences and rewrote them again and again. I nearly ran out of time and had to scrawl my con-clusion in messy cursive when the bell rang.
However, I had a stroke of luck with the Western Art Theory exam! This double-weighted section was worth 200 points. It encompassed a reading comprehension on a four-page English art critique in the ant-sized font, followed by a short question-answer section. I could not believe my eyes when I saw the arti-cle’s title. The Chinese translation of this article about the legend of avant-garde artist Beuys appeared in the book I bought! I had yet to learn who this guy was before then. Thank heavens, I read it just a week ago.
So, I could painlessly uncover the meaning behind the com-plex vocabulary and lengthy narrative, making the questions in-credibly easy for me. After scanning the paragraphs and reading the conclusion, I could confidently answer the questions within five minutes.
The result was that I was admitted by the Graduate School of the Academy of Fine Arts and ranked third on the Western Art Theory program entrance exam. But I could not be too happy then because I faced an imminent resignation and no income afterward. I had talked to my wife a few times before this, which usually ended up with us arguing over this matter.
She had suffered postpartum depression twice and became highly sensitive and easily anxious. I tried to avoid distressing her. My plans for graduate study were only tentative initially; there was no rush to face our financial situation. But now that I got into the program, I knew I had to adjust. Where would the money come from without a job?
More surprisingly, I received a notice in early June, only a few days after the exam result was published, that I must attend an information session for my Art Theory class. On that day, a dozen or more students showed up. I was delighted that the lovely girl who greeted me with a salute was also there.
With graying hair and a lean figure, the sixty-or-so professor asked his assistant to bring in a stack of books. Professor Syoseki received his PhD in Fine Arts from the University of Tokyo. He was known among his students for his strict but diligent teaching and his no-nonsense attitude. He wrote his name on the board and then asked us to introduce ourselves.
The graduate school had two program tracks: Creative Art and Art Theory. Under each track were three groups with four students each. We had to take specialty subjects as well as elec-tives. In descending order of entrance exam scores, only three people were in my group: Clio, Jolunana, and myself. I heard that the fourth student was taking a gap year.
Clio was a petite girl with an intelligent look. She wore a plain white top, pale jeans, and red-striped sneakers, radiating youthful energy. After graduating from Tsing-Shan University with a chemical engineering degree, she reclaimed her child-hood interest in art. She spoke confidently, greeting me with a smile without any shyness.
Jolunana was a shapely woman with lovely facial features. She spoke with excellent intonation, clear and pleasant, almost like performing on a stage. She said that she was half-Atayal (one of the indigenous tribes of Taiwan) and was born to sing. She graduated from theater studies at the Sihai School of Arts but was also interested in art history. When she was not talking, her long and delicate fingers tapped on the table like she was playing a memorized piano piece.
After the introduction section, Professor Syoseki laid out his teaching plan and gave us a mountain of homework for the summer. He even listed a dozen topics we had to choose from for our reports. Woah, wasn’t this a little too much, too soon? Ultimately, only the three of us, plus Meilan from the Arts Ad-ministration group, stayed. Meilan had curly hair, bright red lips, and a loud voice. All four of us looked at each other, helplessly accepting the cruel reality of our short-lived summer break that had ended far too soon.
When asked why she was brave enough to stay, Meilan shrugged and said that her boss had made the recommendation. After graduation, she worked at the City Museum for five years and took leave to further her studies. She hoped to study in Japan someday.
Even though I wouldn’t have had a summer vacation anyway, changes were coming at me faster than I could mentally prepare for. In addition, working and studying part-time seemed im-possible. The company would never accept this arrangement. How was I going to bring this up to my boss? He had just men-tioned a promotion for an overseas position; now I am jumping ship.
The bottom line was that we needed to tighten up our spend-ing at home. I had made my bed; it was time to lie in it.