Last semester I took History of Modern Art to satisfy a humanities requirement (apparently the humanities from my first BA were outdated or something... but that's a whole different discussion) and I got to know Mr. Picasso better than I ever had before. Admittedly most of my academic career has been spent toiling with chemicals and microscopes and not much of it has involved art, but it doesn't mean that I don't adore it just the same! I head to galleries and museums every chance I get and I have I spent a lot of time daydreaming about Parisian Bohemian life in bygone eras. I like to think I went to cabarets in a former life.
Anyway, when I heard the news that the Picasso exhibit was coming to the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts, I was first in line to get a ticket! OK, so that last part isn't true. I fully intended it to be, but then I thought about the crowds and the busloads of giggling middle school kids and decided to wait a bit.... which turned into me finally going at the last minute, mere days before the exhibit shipped out to the next city.
Not surprisingly, I was utterly blown away. My $150 text book didn't do his work any justice. Not even close... the colors and textures were breath taking. You can't get that from a text book! I believe art is an experience, and let me tell you by the time I left the museum I felt like I'd had an absinthe cocktail or two. Just being close enough to see every brush stroke gave me chills. Painting, drawing, sculpture, photography, ceramics... wow. His styles were constantly evolving throughout his incredible life and with each new room of the exhibit I felt a new level of awe.
Sadly, brilliance and talent don't have anything to do with compassion and decency, and ol Picasso was pretty much a jerk. He was a womanizer and at times abusive and cruel towards his many mistresses and family. His larger than life personality seemed to win him more friends than enemies, and his influence permeated the entire culture of the 20th century. I am the first to admit I can't get enough of the sordid details from his tumultuous marriage and subsequent string of tragic lady friends. More than one of them took their own lives in the end...
My very favorite Picasso is the portrait of his Russian ballerina wife, Olga, presumably painted when they were still living together (apparently he refused to divorce her because he didn't want to fork over half his money, but he just moved on with his life and had more children with other women anyway). Her eyes are so full of sadness, it's as if she knew she loved a man who could never love her back the way she wanted to be loved... there's a lot of beauty in melancholy, I think.
