Blog Dis
The genius of Picasso
2024-07-04
Yep. I'm one of them, a Picassophile, a hero-worshiper, a hopeless lover of abstract art, a follower... you name it, I've got it, bitten that is by the Picasso bug when I was just a wee lassie of fifteen. When in high school, I wrote my first paper on the profound impact of Cubism on the art world and was totally hooked. Back then in the late seventies, Picasso had been dead less than a decade but I don't believe the posthumous applause has ever ended for this artist.
Last evening, I was staring at my books, a habit I am known to do bcus my books are lined up, prominent where I can see them. Here be the titles of my Picasso books:
* Picasso and Dora: A Memoir by James Lord
* The Essential Pablo Picasso: Schaffner
* Picasso: Creator & Destroyer by Arianna Huffington
* Picasso: My Grandfather by Marina Picasso
* Picasso and Jacqueline by Norton
* Hispanics of Achievement: Picasso by John Selfridge
My Picasso fascination has never had anything to do with lust or love, quite the contrary. I'm just not into my heroes from a sexual fantasy point of view (no offence to those who are) bcus for me it has everything to do with his outpouring of creativity. The man simply couldn't stop creating. He was compelled to pick up a pencil or pen or brush and sketch or paint, even at the breakfast table. When painting, Picasso was known for standing in the same spot for hours on end, sometimes up to nine hours, without eating, and breaking only long enough to light another cigarette. Even as a young boy, at the age of four, he had an awareness of his genius to come and began drawing full figures, not stick men like other age counterparts. Sure, there have been numerous stories of Picasso's stormy relationships with women, and numerous stories about how women of all ages had flocked to him, some as young as 18 year-old art students when he was well into his 70s. But these reasons have never been my reason to not appreciate his paintings.
Of the many women who flocked to him, I've always wondered if some did so in the hope of being immortalized in his paintings, as he so often used as a muse and subject matter, like many artists. Back in 2003, some four months after I had undergone plastic surgery for skin cancer on my forehead, I traveled to Spain on a hiking trip, and specifically with the intention to visit the Picasso Museum in Barcelona. I signed up with a small Explorer group of less than nine people plus our tour leader. Great tour. Great hiking. Amazing fun! Only one woman in my group (Ann) was a Picassophile like me. We immediately found each other and the conversation began, "He's enigmatic," to which I said, "It's the art... his style." All to say, I stayed behind in Barcelona after the tour. I went every day to the Picasso museum . đ The guards recognized me and shook their heads in amazement, acknowledging to me, "It's that woman again from Canada." [Yes; that would be me.]
And here's where the story veers off to another weird dimension. Back in 1994, I met a clairvoyant, the one and only clairvoyant I've ever known in my life. I never believed in them before meeting her; she passed back in 2011 from a cerebral hemorrhage (may you R.I.P., my friend). I became a believer bcus while sitting across the table from her, she told me things about my life and my secrets (yes; we all have them) that I've never shared with anyone, and I mean not a soul. Well during this reading which lasted one hour, she casually said to me toward the end that I knew Picasso in a former life. "I did?" I asked, smiling to myself. "If it was a past life, then how come I've no conscious awareness of this former life?" At that time, she just smiled back at me and said you'll understand when you visit Spain. You may call this a coincidence or whatever you wish. I call it highly suspicious and curious.
Fast forward to 2003 when I went to Spain, and after the tour ended, I rented a room in the Gothic quarter, the same building where Picasso had rented one of his first apartments. Not much has changed about Barcelona's gothic quarter; the cobblestone streets are hundreds of years old. The gypsies still congregate outside in the alleys, and it's not advisable for women to walk these cobblestone streets at night, unless you wish to be robbed. While I stayed here by myself, I had planned to visit the famous café Els Quatre Gats (The Four Cats), the very same café where Picasso would meet his other artist friends. The walk from my rented room to this café was easily 30 minutes. I had no idea where it was, nor how to get there; yet all I did was step out the front door of the room I was renting and I walked mindlessly to the spot, through the winding cobblestone streets, taking turns when I needed to, without any awareness of the street signs in between nor did I have a map, or use Google or ask anyone for directions. I just knew. I knew where and how to get to this famous café. Lo and behold, I came upon the café as tho' I'd been going to it every day of my life.
I've known many men who adore his work in the same fashion as do women. I only know that creativity has a will of its own and spills forth to touch people and to affect reality. The last Picasso exhibit that came to Ottawa's National Gallery was in 2004: The Portrait of the Artist as Clown, during which (26) paintings and sketches of Picasso's were put on display. I went to the exhibit twice. I've seen as many exhibits of his work as possible, including perhaps one of the best, Picasso Erotique, which took place in Montreal in 2001. I guess this means I carry a torch for his work, regardless of the number of times I view it. And back in 2007, TVO broadcast a rare documentary called The Mystery of Picasso, which I was fortunate to record. I watched it multiple times. The filmmaker showed Picasso painting on a sheet of clear glass to demonstrate his ability to create without a net, that means no preliminary sketches, nor forethought, just a free-flowing brush and the will to believe in his own ability to amaze. For me, this is what writing should be about. No plotting until the cows come home. Truthfully, I plot out my novels but only broad strokes, like a single sentence to describe an entire chapter. Then I write. I try to write the way Picasso created.
Some artistic mediums like painting, writing, acting and music are subject to the organic process so much so that forethought kills the spontaneity, the creative outpouring that needs a wide-open road on which to roam, to travel up and over the horizon, to the other side that can't be seen from where we stand. I think this is something that Picasso could and would relate to, even from the grave.
Last evening, I was staring at my books, a habit I am known to do bcus my books are lined up, prominent where I can see them. Here be the titles of my Picasso books:
* Picasso and Dora: A Memoir by James Lord
* The Essential Pablo Picasso: Schaffner
* Picasso: Creator & Destroyer by Arianna Huffington
* Picasso: My Grandfather by Marina Picasso
* Picasso and Jacqueline by Norton
* Hispanics of Achievement: Picasso by John Selfridge
My Picasso fascination has never had anything to do with lust or love, quite the contrary. I'm just not into my heroes from a sexual fantasy point of view (no offence to those who are) bcus for me it has everything to do with his outpouring of creativity. The man simply couldn't stop creating. He was compelled to pick up a pencil or pen or brush and sketch or paint, even at the breakfast table. When painting, Picasso was known for standing in the same spot for hours on end, sometimes up to nine hours, without eating, and breaking only long enough to light another cigarette. Even as a young boy, at the age of four, he had an awareness of his genius to come and began drawing full figures, not stick men like other age counterparts. Sure, there have been numerous stories of Picasso's stormy relationships with women, and numerous stories about how women of all ages had flocked to him, some as young as 18 year-old art students when he was well into his 70s. But these reasons have never been my reason to not appreciate his paintings.
Of the many women who flocked to him, I've always wondered if some did so in the hope of being immortalized in his paintings, as he so often used as a muse and subject matter, like many artists. Back in 2003, some four months after I had undergone plastic surgery for skin cancer on my forehead, I traveled to Spain on a hiking trip, and specifically with the intention to visit the Picasso Museum in Barcelona. I signed up with a small Explorer group of less than nine people plus our tour leader. Great tour. Great hiking. Amazing fun! Only one woman in my group (Ann) was a Picassophile like me. We immediately found each other and the conversation began, "He's enigmatic," to which I said, "It's the art... his style." All to say, I stayed behind in Barcelona after the tour. I went every day to the Picasso museum . đ The guards recognized me and shook their heads in amazement, acknowledging to me, "It's that woman again from Canada." [Yes; that would be me.]
And here's where the story veers off to another weird dimension. Back in 1994, I met a clairvoyant, the one and only clairvoyant I've ever known in my life. I never believed in them before meeting her; she passed back in 2011 from a cerebral hemorrhage (may you R.I.P., my friend). I became a believer bcus while sitting across the table from her, she told me things about my life and my secrets (yes; we all have them) that I've never shared with anyone, and I mean not a soul. Well during this reading which lasted one hour, she casually said to me toward the end that I knew Picasso in a former life. "I did?" I asked, smiling to myself. "If it was a past life, then how come I've no conscious awareness of this former life?" At that time, she just smiled back at me and said you'll understand when you visit Spain. You may call this a coincidence or whatever you wish. I call it highly suspicious and curious.
Fast forward to 2003 when I went to Spain, and after the tour ended, I rented a room in the Gothic quarter, the same building where Picasso had rented one of his first apartments. Not much has changed about Barcelona's gothic quarter; the cobblestone streets are hundreds of years old. The gypsies still congregate outside in the alleys, and it's not advisable for women to walk these cobblestone streets at night, unless you wish to be robbed. While I stayed here by myself, I had planned to visit the famous café Els Quatre Gats (The Four Cats), the very same café where Picasso would meet his other artist friends. The walk from my rented room to this café was easily 30 minutes. I had no idea where it was, nor how to get there; yet all I did was step out the front door of the room I was renting and I walked mindlessly to the spot, through the winding cobblestone streets, taking turns when I needed to, without any awareness of the street signs in between nor did I have a map, or use Google or ask anyone for directions. I just knew. I knew where and how to get to this famous café. Lo and behold, I came upon the café as tho' I'd been going to it every day of my life.
I've known many men who adore his work in the same fashion as do women. I only know that creativity has a will of its own and spills forth to touch people and to affect reality. The last Picasso exhibit that came to Ottawa's National Gallery was in 2004: The Portrait of the Artist as Clown, during which (26) paintings and sketches of Picasso's were put on display. I went to the exhibit twice. I've seen as many exhibits of his work as possible, including perhaps one of the best, Picasso Erotique, which took place in Montreal in 2001. I guess this means I carry a torch for his work, regardless of the number of times I view it. And back in 2007, TVO broadcast a rare documentary called The Mystery of Picasso, which I was fortunate to record. I watched it multiple times. The filmmaker showed Picasso painting on a sheet of clear glass to demonstrate his ability to create without a net, that means no preliminary sketches, nor forethought, just a free-flowing brush and the will to believe in his own ability to amaze. For me, this is what writing should be about. No plotting until the cows come home. Truthfully, I plot out my novels but only broad strokes, like a single sentence to describe an entire chapter. Then I write. I try to write the way Picasso created.
Some artistic mediums like painting, writing, acting and music are subject to the organic process so much so that forethought kills the spontaneity, the creative outpouring that needs a wide-open road on which to roam, to travel up and over the horizon, to the other side that can't be seen from where we stand. I think this is something that Picasso could and would relate to, even from the grave.
