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Cezanne's reaction to the critical and traditional response to his art scares me. As an introvert, a homebody, and someone who doesn't enjoy criticism unbridled by tact, sheer accuracy, and comfort, I'd like to think that if I had been in Cezanne's situation, I wouldn't have isolated myself to quite that extreme, cutting myself off from everyone but my own small world. By 1880, he was living in Aix again, where he had grown up, and had begun painting some of his most extraordinary work - the chateau noir, the still-lifes, the bathers. Cezanne painted things deliberately and frequently, planning the composition and the color carefully. I am nothing like this. Lately, I've not been painting at all, and when I do, it's like everything else I do: a sloppy rush, pell-mell at my subject. I plan, but when I do, the plans go out the window. 
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