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The House of the Hanged Man

Pictures at an Exhibition

by Jimmy Jacobson

The House of the Hanged Man

It is a painting by Cezanne. It probably wasn’t even given that name by the artist. Somebody else tagged it on there. He was an Impressionist. There is a lot of beautiful art in the world, but I tend to identify most closely with Impressionism. Because it is superficial but not in a negative, materialistic sort of way, but in a light, “once around is quite enough, I’m ready to get off” kind of way. But this work is different. If you see it, you’ll know. The name is fitting, even if someone else called it that. Only a hanged man would dare live in a house like it. When I look at it, I don’t see any real lines to define any particular shape. But when I close my eyes I can’t imagine that there isn’t paint flaking off the walls of that house with the high peaked roof. A green tree grows in front of the house and obscures the view like a polite woman begging us not to notice the mess in her kitchen. But we notice and we see the dead brown that pervades the entire scene. Even the background tries to distance itself, though I am sure they buried the hanged man somewhere else. They always do.

Cezanne hung out with them, but I don’t think he was truly an Impressionist; anyway that painting leaves more than an impression on me after only seeing it once. I can’t look at it again. Truth be known, Impressionism is a tag that some reporter stuck on Monet and them. They were just artists trying to make something new. So Cezanne wasn’t really an impressionist, but neither were they. And I don’t think I am really superficial either. That’s because I have a birthmark black as night on my chest that actually is part of my soul that sticks out. Nobody with a black soul can be superficial. Not with a soul as dark as a tunnel.

On the subway this past week I was thinking about my hanged man’s house, Cezanne did quite a bit of thinking also. He displayed the painting during the first and third showing by the Impressionists. I was thinking when I fell asleep and had a dream. Have you ever stood on the edge of a cliff? The nausea overwhelms you and the briefest flick of the imagination sends you crashing to the ground, and reality. The same thing happens to me when I see someone lean out a window. There was a voice calling to me, whispering quietly like a tempest, “Hold On!” Then I awoke and understood that no one bought that painting between the two showings. For me, that’s not why he showed it again. Cezanne wasn’t a materialist. Then I slipped back into sleep and I heard her again, calling to me as I was dangling from her balcony. “Hold on!”

This time I awoke sweating and trembling. I hate materialism. When you are a hanged man it doesn’t matter what you have in your house. It doesn’t do you any good. They don’t even bury you there anyway.

One more time I dreamt. Now I stood on the edge of the cliff, again. Again I heard my name, “Holden!” It was old Jean Gallagher. “Holden Caulfield,” I heard her say as I faded way. As I was falling I knew that I probably wasn’t going to be all right. And when I awoke I wondered where they would bury my body.