Cezanne’s Doubts
He was a hard painter to pose for. Hours stuck
in the same spot, while he grumbled and fussed,
up to a hundred sittings till his nerves broke
and he junked the canvas and heaped abuse
on the unlucky model, friend or wife,
who had sat for weeks for absolutely no point.
His still lives took so long the flowers died,
forcing him to use paper flowers, wax fruit.
And so he would often paint himself. Only he
had the persistence to outlast his gaze,
but in each case something lies behind the calm,
perhaps a question or trace of uncertainty,
not of some weakness of his eye, but surprise
at the grim and outcast creature he had become.
—Stephen Dobyns
—found in Body Traffic (1990)