Cezanne, with his still lifes, wanted to conquer Paris with an apple, and arguably he did. Saved from his youthful depression and failures by his mistress, Cezanne spent more than 30 years with his still lifes. That’s an awful lot of apples and pears that went bad on his studio table. The life of an apple in the late 1800s. Red faced children might pick the stucked up skins out of their gapped teeth; or, if your the lucky apple in the basket, Cezanne might catch you up and immortalize you. It was never about the apple, Cezanne says. The apple was a pretext for color and line. In his 30 years of compulsion, soothed by the love of his woman, Cezanne has left behind at least two hundred still lifes and countless – only because I don’t want to count them – apples and pears that should never be eaten. And while they rotted, presumably untasted, they survive still.

I am no Cezanne. Although I have destroyed enough fruit. Not thirty years, here is eleven months of my still lifes. Here is eleven months of my still life. Here is eleven months of my life still. Still lives. I like that word still. Quiet, unmoving, unfaltering, at rest. Still. Yet, even now.

My still life. But still there is life. I live. I eat and sleep and walk my dog. I paint a little and write a little and rail a little and miss, a little, the saving soothsaying of a mistress. But still.

My still lives. Something solid and durable. A legacy, an electronic legacy, if only for myself. If only for when I am an old man perhaps with the calming salvation of a mistress, or perhaps not, if only for me, with or without my woman. It is not Cezanne’s legacy, no question. My pears and apples, not as immortal. As immortal as electricity perhaps. As immortal as eyes remain interested. And, yes, practically, as immortal as I might continue to pay for this domain.

Still, life. There is joy. And fear. And loneliness. And enthusiasm too. And hope. Still there is hope. There is always hope. So long as there is breath, so long as there is a quiver of ambition, so long as there is an itch of curiosity, there is hope and life too. I have spent these eleven months casting my look backwards for the most part; not forwards. Forwards is better. Forwards is more serving. Though they die of nostalgia, they shall never return.

At home, my still life. Yes I am still. At rest. Barely moving. It is my sabbatical. Is it hiding? Perhaps. Is it useful? Yes. And, of course, my artifacts of living. Seemingly infinite, though they only count to about 300 which is more than Cezanne noted but much much less than infinity. Three hundred is a hair off of infinity’s giant head. I will not count hairs.

My life still. I live. And it is enough. My dog, head flattened against, no, into the pillow, watches me serenely with one good eye. And it is enough. And still I’m here. And here I am. Still. And I am still and I am here. And it is all enough. And sometimes it is more than enough. More than sufficient, it is superfficient. It is more than enough. It is too much. I am here. I breathe. My heart beats. My body thrills.

SS