Transfer Interview, June 1988

(On June 7, 1988, the editor and art editor of Transfer interviewed painter Charles Cajori in his studio in Watertown, Connecticut. Painter Barbara Grossman, who is married to Cajori, also participated in the discussion. At one point, where she expands on one of Cajori's answers, she is identified as BG. Throughout the rest of the interview, we have identified all three questioners as T and Cajori as CC.

 Cajori was born in 1921. He came to New York City in 1946 and was a co-founder of the Tanager Gallery, where he held his first one-man show in 1956. Among the museums which own his work are the Hirshhorn, the Metropolitan, the Whitney, and the Walker Art Center. He has taught at various schools, including Cooper Union, Queens College, and the New York Studio School. As Cajori is often engaged in talking about painting, he was doing so as we began.)

CC: The area upon which the eyes can focus is extremely small and looking, outside of identifying things, requires that the eyes move. When one realizes this the world is changed. The expectations which come from perspective break down. That "marvelous floor" which DeKooning spoke about disappears. (1) The eyes track through the stuff of the world -- and rearrange it in constantly new sets — the structures of everything are transformed. Do you remember that experiment, maybe in the sixth grade, when you put a bunch of iron filings on a sheet of paper and moved a magnet underneath it and watched the filings reassemble themselves? It's similar to the way the eyes, moving, reorder the worid. 

T: Except, of course, that the eyes in the world move in three dimensions.

CC: Yes, exactly, and in their movement time enters — and it gets very complex.

T: How does seeing the world in this complex way affect the way you work?

CC: I ask of each location whether it is on the left or right of another — or whether it is higher or lower. It involves an imagined grid, dependent on our in-born sense of the vertical. I try, as quickly as possible, to engage the entire paper — the field of energy. As the locations, marked simply with a point or dash, proliferate and their relationships undergo constant reassessment, the figure and the objects emerge from the growing, intensifying totality. Unexpected configurations develop, the effect of one thing upon another produces extraordinary dislocations from the "normative." One's expectations are challenged. The new construction is the result of a long period of looking and it is intensely believable. It is this formation of the world which I would like to utilize in working from imagination — to freely imagine figures in this world, this space -- figures open to memory and desire.

T: I've heard you say that this mode of seeing came from Cézanne. It is his work that first made you realize...

CC: Yes. How to explain the breaks in the tables — the bent and twisted crockery — the "dislocations" which gave everything a new and extraordinary life in his paintings. I've been involved in trying to understand him — and the implications of his work, for a long time. Most people don't know this about Cézanne. They think of Cézanne as some kind of look or stylistic behavior, you see, rather than looking at it as a rediscovery of the structure of the world.

T: Especially now, people tend to look at anything as style. It's like a brand name.

CC: Yes. For many years I attempted to locate things, to put them together in those places that my eyes indicated. It was a strenuous and demanding pursuit. It was a kind of mapping of space — and in the constantly shifting locations — this proliferation and endless reassessment, a space came about — which was shallow and swift and continuous. It was a space which seemed to me entirely credible -- believable -- not linear, not a space that goes one, two, three, four -- foreground, middle ground, background. There may be four dimensions, since time is clearly part of the process, the figures are in motion, and the eyes move. But they're not in a motion that has been illustrated. You know the dog chain of Balla? Or "Nude Descending a Staircase"? Those are illustrations of an event in time, and indeed Cubism itself has that quality. The fragmentation of a head, so that you see several sides of it all shown at once, is a kind of illustration of movement. Cézanne never does that. Even though there may be a shift from one side of the face to the other — one eye is this way and the other eye is that way — it's the result of how he sees, his eyes moving, seen from a single position. The image is in time rather than about time.

T: So what happens to things or objects in a space that is constantly shifting?

CC: The objects underwent extraordinary changes as they interacted with the space. They tended to lose ground — to be eroded by the swift grinding actions of the space. They tended to lose their identity. They gave way to space — a space, formed in part by their presence. It turned upon them and threatened their recognizability — their existence. I believe Giacometti's method was similar — the pursuit of location — and that something of the erosion which space produces explains that long period when his figures became smaller and smaller, often crumbling to nothingness. Now Giacometti — do you know the business where you look at a Giacometti and the sculpture has a certain size, then you approach it and it remains the same size? Your relation to the work doesn't change. He is forming a visual structure so powerful that when you move in it, in and around the sculpture, you are locked into a structure which keeps you at a given distance. It is almost as though this structure is controlling your size.

T: The scale is constant. —

CC: Because his subject was the distance between himself and his model. She was always at a certain distance and we participate, with Giacometti, in that distance.

T: Are there other artists who follow Cézanne in this way?

CC: None with quite the rigor with which Giacometti seeks location this way. The usual reading is that the Cubists followed in the footsteps of Cézanne — and they would not have been possible without him — but as I see it they took ideas from him — ideas about time, about space — and of course made marvelous paintings. But they ignored very important aspects — the centrality which he gave to perception. The Cubists do not touch those things in Cézanne that are most interesting to me. One of the things the Cubists removed was the sense of mass, or density,  the quality of, the integrity, for example, of the body. They fragmented it. It's marvelous. I'm not arguing against Cubism but what's happened is that that became the approved reading of Cézanne. The marvelous Cubist structures have petered out into all the horseshit we're now facing. The powerful structures of Braque, Gris, et cetera, are diluted. It's become sheer arrangement which underlies most of the work being done, whatever its content, whatever its "advanced" position in the critic/market apparatus. Of the major artists who retained that sense of mass — and who understood the clash of Space and object — there was Matisse, Mondrian–

T: Mondrian?

CC: Mondrian. Because those blocks of color are dense, massive, and as you watch them they move. The long development toward those verticals and horizontals — the apple trees — the plus and minus drawings of the ocean — are about location and space. It's interesting to note that Picasso, even during that time when he and Braque were working very much from the notions he got from Cézanne, was not as firmly committed to a Cézannesque view as might be assumed. One of the things about Picasso that's so very fascinating is how he could make a figure appear to be credible, believable, and show you the rear, the front, and all the facets amalgamated into one image. How did he do that? In trying to understand this, it occurred to me that he was still very much a Renaissance painter. That is, the space was conceived as linear, a steady state. You could move things (the parts of the figure) around in it. The figure as an absolute was supported by absolute unvarying space. He was able then to give credibility to a figure in that space and then do all sorts of things and not lose her identity. But if the space is fluid and constantly interacting with what's happening to the figure, then that's not possible. A new formulation is needed.

There are also those artists in the past which I associate with Cézanne's concerns — who reached that extraordinary level of conviction — in which the tension — the spatial event is so mysterious — the tension between things — the extraordinary sense of air between things. Velasquez, Ingres, Zurburan, Piero, Giotto, Lorenzetti, Duccio — the tension between the objects in some of the Zurbarans. The sense of air between things. And Velasquez. To understand his painting spatially...it's very hard to explain. You can't. The figures are really not on a floor that conforms to perspectival schema. The sense of the density of things, and the air between those densities, is marvelous. There's one of the Matisse drawings where the table does exactly what this Velasquez table does [Cajori looks at a reproduction of a portrait of the Infant Margharita from the Kunst Historisch Museum in Vienna]. So these things are the result of some apprehension of the world that transcends rational systems — and seems to possess a heightened reality.

T: But your work now doesn't seem to follow the rigorous mapping procedure that you've been describing. What happened?

CC: Well, all during the fifties and the sixties I'd been drawing every week with a group — it was a very productive thing to do. But I finally decided to hire my own model. So I did. She was a student from Cooper Union as I remember. And she was a very zaftig creature. So she arrived, and we started drawing. And she was lovely, very sexy. I'm drawing, and the atmosphere becomes very charged, which may have been entirely my own doing. I didn't know what her attitude was. So I'm drawing and making marks, locating the chair...the foot. We took a break, had coffee or something. And instead of doing what a normal man would do, I said, let's draw some more. And she took a pose and I looked at her arm and I thought I can't do this — measuring, marking out the locations — I went GRAHHR! and made an arm. The arm was no longer fragmented, but was a closed form. I really never drew again the same way as before. It was a turning point.

T: What made that happen?

CC: Well, it's obvious what made that happen. The sense, suddenly, that it was no longer adequate to analyze.

T: Because the full round sensuous presence really demanded completion in some way?

CC: Yes, exactly. Last night we were talking about the figure as a cluster, or a knot of energy, which has a gesture, except that it's not a narrative gesture, it's simply the figure seated and having in it the apprehension of a movement. [Cajori points to one of the paintings against a far wall.] In this painting I think the figure, particularly on the right, reaches something of that condition. She is sitting, and she's fairly stable. And yet she's turning, some activity is going on. But it's not the activity of the Duchamp down the staircase.

T: It's not a charted activity.

CC: No, and you can't really say what the activity is. The activity is essential for the engagement of the figure with the space. Her stirring is the link between herself and her surrounding. She is formed by the dynamics which are about to produce a gesture. A sort of turbulence which precedes movement. I think of the account of the movement of river water as it approaches a waterfall. That it rearranges itself in anticipation of that event. It seems to know beforehand that it is coming to the fall. Feigenbaum walking along intuited how it was — had just a glimpse. Somehow that water's motion, its anticipation, is connected in my mind with the incipient gesture of these women. (2) I think the problem of how to represent ourselves is crucial. Landscape, trees, hills, and so on, lend themselves to this continuum, this credible space which were speaking about. The ingredients in a landscape fit together without causing a problem. But the figure, by its singularity, refuses. The figure has a different character — the human sense of autonomy — a closed form — which is shattered by the encroaching spatial storm. The dynamics of an impending gesture provide the weapons for survival — much as the river's dynamics prepare for the coming fall. The issue, finally, if you want to enlarge the meaning, is, I suppose, the relationship of the human being to his or her surroundings, and that's central to the issues we're facing. Where are we in the world — how can we find a new attitude, a new stance?

T: Since we're on the subject of figures, then why just women in your paintings? I mean, how much of that is sexual energy...

CC: Oh, I think it's fairly clear.

T: I know, but if you're talking about our situation in the world, clearly there's more than women in the world.

CC: Yes...I suppose there is...but for me the erotic is the vehicle for getting at the credibility of the figure.

T: Because it's so uncluttered as a response? It is pretty direct.

CC: Sure it is. I have difficulty assigning a very intense meaning to things other than the figure.

T: How much do you work with direct observation now?

CC: Very little. The paintings are entirely made-up — imagined — and the black and white things also. I still draw occasionally from the model — but mostly to touch base, to refresh my sense of how the body works. What I try to do is invent in the space which observation has provided — invent the figure and her interaction with that space. That is one of the reasons for my interest in Matisse — since so much of his work is imagined and takes place in the non-linear structures which we've been talking about. It is difficult since there are no reasons, and it has to be felt out each time, and finally only happens in a flood of intuition, so to speak. Naturally I found Cézanne's Bathers fascinating — inventions which are formed from his explorations in direct perception.

T: Your concern with space. It's not deep space — but yet real space?

CC: Real space? No, nobody knows what's really out there, what it really looks like. Mostly we project the structures we see. There's a story about Bonnard, where he's working on a still life and a reporter comes in and notices that the still life is way over in a corner and Bonnard is working on the painting far away from the actual motif. So the reporter says, what are you doing? And Bonnard answers, I work about 40 minutes in front of the still life and then it threatens to overcome me and I have to work away from it. Then he said, "I'm not armed against nature the way Cézanne was." Painters imagine out the world, so to say, construct a schema to explain where they are in the world and in civilization. A momentary suspension of doubt.

T: So when you talk about your interest in space, it's not an abstract idea at all. It's about your location or our actual location in the world. It's not an idea about space...

CC: Well, it is an idea. Even though it seems quite real because it is confirmed by seeing, it still is an idea. We see what we allow ourselves to see, how we have been conditioned, what permissions are given us, as well as the needs and urgencies which we experience. Painters have a great deal to do with how we see. They give the permissions, set the terms, provide the language. The omnipresence of photographs is very disturbing — it has become a control, the determination of how the world looks for most people.

T: You mean it's a reduction of the visual language?

CC: Not so much a reduction as a fixation — its seeming veracity, its seeming objectivity have stunted the growth of the visual language — a language central to our notion of ourselves and the world.

T: As the photograph becomes more hegemenous in controlling our way of seeing, who has the visual sophistication to actually see a painting?

CC: It's very hard. I think painters do, some painters, the best painters. One or two art historians, maybe. Most critics don’t. Most of the discourse on art, or painting, concerns itself with what the painting is about, or what its social and political position and meaning may be, not about what the painting is. I think that much of what is now being done and is being shown, doesn't demand visual sophistication but is involved with messages, messages which are easily translatable — or may actually depend on the use of words for meaning — or for ironic comment — or detachment — whatever. 

T: Well, it actually starts with words. What was so disappointing about that show at the Museum of Modern Art, “The Political Print," was not just that the works were reducible to the ideas that motivated them, but the ideas so clearly preceded the work and then the work did nothing but dilute the idea, work it out in what seemed to be some terribly academic illustration. We were talking about how painting and meaning come about at the same time, but do you think an artist can know what he means before painting?

CC: It's difficult for me to imagine. Meaning arises in the process. Even when a painting gets finished its meaning resides within itself — often quite hidden from the painter himself. For example, Velasquez clearly set out to paint portraits of King Phillip IV and the court — and certainly that is part of their meaning — but there are the further meanings which emerge from the color, the locations, the sensuous language. The two levels of intention are knit together. They can't be pulled apart as a formalist might, without damaging that mysterious connection.

T: Do you consider yourself a Second Generation New York School painter?

CC: Well, I'm the right age I guess, but I'm not sure I know what the New York School is. There are so many attitudes, such varied work. Being around in the late forties and the fifties was tremendously exciting. Kline and deKooning, James Brooks, Cavalilon, McNeil, and so many others. It was a great privilege...

T: Did you ever work abstractly — without reference to the figure?

CC: For a period of about three years, in the late forties. But I didn't know what I was doing, I couldn't say this was good or this was bad. If I went to see a show and gold lines were used I'd go back and try gold lines. Why not? I had no traction for decision making.

T: I heard Grace Paley talk about teaching writing, and she said she didn't use the terms good and bad writing with her students, just true and false. 

CC: Well, I think good and bad can be used. Not in the sense of good and evil, but rather, does whatever is happening have resonance? Does it answer the language requirements that are basic to it? It is the resonance of the language which tells the truth.

T: Do you think authenticity is a valid critical term?

CC: I suppose so. Making judgments is important. If resonance of language is a basis for judging, then one looks for the presence of tension — of the tautness of the language. I wrote something in 1963, which Louis Finkelstein used in an article that year which describes one kind of tension.

The tension, as Cajori expressed it, is that "if the object is placed in space there is difficulty grasping its identity, if it is given identity the space tends to fail. Uncertainty becomes unbearable. Painting approaches suicide. Between the object and the space falls the shadow, not to be relieved through compromise and uneasy shuffling. What is at stake is a new formulation, its instrumentality, the thrust of the eye, precise, measuring, and more difficult, the thrust of belief." (3)

Last spring, I went to see the Basel sketchbooks at MoMA. I fell into conversation with two gentlemen who were intently examining Cézanne's marvelous drawings. One of the things we discussed was the non-linear non-Euclidean character of the structures in the drawing. As we talked it became clear that they were scientists. One was a mathematician and his friend was a physicist. And the mathematician said, "A mathematician looks at nature and sees a problem. As he approaches a solution the question becomes, 'Is it elegant? Is it beautiful?’ Aesthetics enters and then tension arises between the demands of nature and aesthetics. Is it not the same with you painters?" In other words, the two disciplines -- mathematics and painting -- share that tension between nature and aesthetics. When I left the exhibition some time later, they were still there, watching Cézanne.

T: I've had the experience of seeing something finally, four or five or ten years after I learned that it could be seen that way. All of a sudden I could see it, but if somebody hadn't told me to look for it, I would never have had the experience of walking down the street and actually seeing something that way. A lot of this is being prepared or attuned to look for something. In other words, this is a very active way of looking.

CC: It's learning a language. I think the visual language is much more central to our lives than we think. It's certainly as central as words. Now we're not talking about prose, we're talking about poetry. Because that thing that poetry does, and points to, which is ineffable and never to be finally revealed exactly, is what this visual language points to. It's not a utilitarian language, in the sense of having immediate use. But maybe in the sense that poetry is crucial, so is this language crucial. Because it does touch on how we are, how we find ourselves, how we locate ourselves in the world.

T: I wonder what other painters now do that, broaden our experience in some way in terms of our location in the world?

CC: I was in Washington recently and had the opportunity to sit before several Cézannes at the National Gallery. The "Chateau Noir" was among them. I went several times, and sat there and just fell into them. Exploring their multiple readings, constantly discovering them.

 He's an extraordinarily complex artist. You can read a Cézanne by scanning: your eye travels through it and recognizes events happening in it and then comes back and you reread it in a different way, and the eye travels through the painting all the time. But there's another way of reading some Cézannes. It's happened to me, not often, but sometimes. Where you absolutely Stare, right at the center of the painting, and usually at the object closest to you, and suddenly the image becomes extraordinarily deep and encompassing. So you get these two readings contained in the same image, and that blows my mind, because how the hell do you do that? Which is the correct way? What did he intend? Did he intend both simultaneously? Because they almost contradict each other. So the whole question of containing contradictory systems is involved. Cézanne has many surprises. I don't find that sort of experience happening much with contemporary work.

T: Don't you think that after a certain period you have your own concerns which you work on and that's that? You look at other people and see what their concerns are but they're different from yours.

CC: Yes. It's a narrowing of one's focus, I suppose. One goes to lots of exhibitions — endlessly — looking at work, judging whether it is anything more than arrangements of well-worn modes, reworking of cubist structure or figuration "in the manner of," the safety of the grid. Sometimes it's well done, quite tasteful — mostly very thin — design, more or less well done. One of the difficulties in going to galleries and museums these days is that they often make viewing very difficult — looking for any length of time certainly. The ghastly Cézanne room in the new Modern — small, no place to sit, and artificial lights are required even though a few feet away the escalator is well lit with north light. Most of the art seems made for a quick glance, and cannot endure a longer look. Mostly it's unbelievably boring. I like something Merleau-Ponty wrote, in a discussion of Cézanne: 

There is thus no art for pleasure's sake alone. One can invent pleasurable objects by linking old ideas in a new way, or by presenting forms that have been seen before. This way of painting or speaking at second-hand is what's generally meant by culture. Cézanne's or Baizac's artist is not satisfied to be a cultured animal, but assimilates the culture down to its very foundation and gives it a new structure. He speaks as the first man spoke and paints as if no one had ever painted before. What he expresses can not, therefore, be the translation of a clearly defined thought, since such clear thoughts are those that have already been uttered by ourselves and others. Conception cannot precede execution. Cézanne's difficulties are those of the first word. (4)

That's so precise, isn't it? Painting is in a crisis, there's no doubt. I can agree with Stella on that. And that the crisis has to do with space. But his answer is dumb, from my point of view. Working on a flat, continuous plane is closely linked to fundamental aspects of seeing — one of which is the fact that we are all surrounded by a continuous visual field, which is ours alone. Drawing and painting provide an analogous sort of concordance with experience. To make reliefs is to enter the domain of sculpture. The whole metaphoric aspect of painting, its real mystery, is bypassed. Al Held sees the crisis I think — he got impatient with the field of ambiguity so beautifully articulated in the Black and White paintings of some years ago. I think of my impatience with the analyzing of the arm, and the wish to make the arm whole. When Held introduced color, the forms demanded closure. What seems to be at risk in his work is the loss of ambiguity so essential for a feeling of life, and a return to a perspectival mode. What I want is the closed form and the ambiguity.

T: Why is a closed form so important?

CC: Possibly as the sign of the human presence — of our integrity. 

T: Could you elaborate on that? I don't quite follow.

CC: Maybe the closed form, when it represents a figure, is the recognition of our separateness. Trees and mountains accommodate themselves to the flow of space – figures have a harder time. Our notions of the world and our notions of ourselves are at odds. Perspective was a view which expressed the notion of the centrality of man — very aggressive toward nature, arrogant. The bulldozer and the camera are the children of that view. It's clear that a new form must evolve — a new means of representing ourselves. It's a matter of survival.

T: Your subject, which in its broadest definition seems to have been the same for many years, how does it change for you and stay interesting?

CC: How does it stay interesting? While the subject is the same, the cluster of problems arising around it are always there, and they undergo transformations and changes. For example, two summers ago we were in Greece and suddenly these women sitting around were located in a landscape. And that made them suddenly have a whole new context and a new set of issues. The new set of questions still centered on women sitting around, but now they were sitting on beaches, with islands and the ocean. That doesn't really answer your question, does it?

BG: I have a suggestion. Part of the way it stays interesting is that it's a non-formulaic way of painting, so each time Cajori reinvents the wheel. I mean he's learned something, so the wheel is more complicated right from the start, but each time, even though there's an idea, it's never approached with the idea that you get from point A to point B to point C and you just keep solving the problem. You start and then the painting leaves you, so each time it's a new experience. And if it's not interesting, you put it aside and do something else because there's no point in pursuing it.

CC: I think that's correct. You start each painting not knowing anything, and then pretty soon it goes through a whole set of stages, and some of them take three, four, five years. So it's a complicated journey. It may be a sign of stupidity, because I seem to go over and over the same set of problems. Sometimes I become very impatient with them and I try to vary it, so the one in the middle over there [Cajori points to a distant painting] is very different from the one on the left, except I'm quite sure that by the time it gets finished it will look more like the other, because I have the same difficulties in each situation. There have been changes over this long period of time. The subject remains the same, but there have been changes. In the period in the seventies when I was drawing a lot directly from the model, it became much more specific and involved a level of specification different from previous concerns. At some point, that specification became disruptive, interfering with the host of dynamics which I wished the figure to contain in the imagined work. The clustering of energy which we talked about earlier.

T: The palette changes a lot. Where do the colors come from? 

CC: It seems to me that there are waves, that are not simply from one painting to the next, though you were mentioning that in the show each seemed individual. That painting on the left relates to the big one in the center room, in its color, in its general sense. The one around the corner, there's a black in it, but it's still within this hot kind of color. But there have been periods when I was working almost wholly in blacks and greys, and I don't know whether I can chart why those changes occur. I mean it must be some sort of psychic state, — and I'm not necessarily sure that dark means depression — it's simply that as the painting evolves a color occurs and then a color says, "I'm a color in relation to another color." Then it might happen, let's say two months into the painting, that the initial pressure which occurred between the first two colors might be lost, so they would have to be changed.

T: How has your enthusiasm for jazz influenced your painting?

CC: I don't know whether it has influenced it directly, except in making titles. I find a sympathy for and a similarity in its activity and in what I think I'm doing, in at least two ways. One is its spontaneity, its process...that you’re winging it. The other thing is a structural affinity, that jazz is not climactic, in the sense that it rises to da, Da, Da, DA, DAH! It goes on, and to some extent, that horizontality seems to relate to something that I have referred to as a swift continuum.

T: One more question. The poet Ted Berrigan once said that one of the most important things you do as a poet is choose your teachers. Cézanne is obvious, but what about Matisse and Mondrian? 

CC: I guess I look at Matisse as much as at Cézanne these days. Mondrian was not someone who influenced me. DeKooning was very important early on. There have been a lot of influences along the way. You must remember that I'm an ancient type. When I was in high school, outside of Philadelphia, I used to go to the Philadelphia Museum and the Johnson Collection has an extraordinary collection of Sienese painting. I thought medieval painting was terrific and had no use for the more florid late Renaissance painting.

T: What was it about the Sienese paintings that got you?

CC: I thought the color was extraordinary, the location was...everything was so marvelously felt and precise. I didn't say these things that way then. I was just a kid. But in retrospect I'm sure that was what was borne in on me. Then I got all involved in American Scene painting, the WPA murals and Mexican painting. Benton. Orozco. I didn't understand Cézanne. Cézanne was a cold dish of tea. I liked Delacroix. You know...say something. Force! “Third Class Carriage"! There was a big Picasso show at the Museum of Modern Art, "40 Years of Picasso," and that show came to Cleveland where I was going to school. Suddenly modern art was in front of me and I began to face problems in my own work that related to problems that modern art posed. I was still not very sure about what I was looking at or thinking about. One of the first things I did when I first got to New York was to go to the South Street Ferry and sit on the curb and make a watercolor of the buildings, looking at one of the slips. I made this watercolor and the street went back, the houses went back. I liked it, so I tried to use it for a painting. And the street went back and then it made a hole in the painting. How the hell do I get out of that hole? The thing just tore the painting apart... 

T: I don't understand. You mean things just kept going back and...

CC: Yes, it was very disturbing, and it made me question the nature of perception and of painting and finally how the world was made and how it might be represented. Anyway, Cézanne came later. Before, I wanted to make things that were like Orozco — that were about birth and death, blood, unions, the Spanish War. All that seems quite remote to me now.

Notes: 

1. “The Renaissance and Order", Trans/formation, Vol. 1, No. 2, 1951.

2. James Gleick, Chaos (Viking, 1987), pp. 157-187.

3. Louis Finkelstein, "Cajori in the Scene". Art News, March 1963.

4. Merieau-Ponty, "Cezanne’s Doubt", Northwestern University Press, 1964.