The Success and Failure of Picasso

PREFACE

I wrote this book more than twenty years ago. When it first came out, in 1965, it was attacked in many places, if not everywhere, as being insolent, insensitive, doctrinaire and perverse. In England, the land of Gentlemen, it was also dismissed as being in bad taste. Picasso was still alive and at the height of his fame. Hagiographic books and articles came out every year. The critical response to my book somewhat surprised me. I thought I had written an essay informed by sympathy for the artist and the man it concerned. Perhaps now, with the passing of the years, this sympathy for the protagonist of the story I tell is more evident.

For example, the essay begins by discussing Picasso’s wealth, a beginning which was, at the time, considered vulgar and tasteless. To translate the sums of money I mention into current currency, one should multiply by at least ten. Then Picasso died. Soon afterwards, the internecine litigations concerning his estate began. More recently, one has witnessed similarly sordid affairs following the deaths of other artists: Salvador Dali, for instance. So long as works of art are primarily objects of spectacular investment, such situations are bound to occur. The point, however, is that the alienation which this implies is usually first suffered as a solitude (the solitude of the bank vault) by the ageing artist. This solitude was the starting point of my essay, and as I re-read it, I find that time has also confirmed many other points I made.

There is, however, an omission. When writing this book I failed to give enough importance to certain typical works which Picasso painted between 1902 and 1907. To put it simply, I was too impatient to arrive at the moment of Cubism. In failing to give enough attention to this early period, I missed, I think, a clue about Picasso’s essential nature as an artist. I felt the nature of his genius, I talked around it, but I failed to formulate it well enough. Perhaps I can make good this omission.

a. Picasso. Self-Portrait. 1906

Painting is the art which reminds us that time and the visible come into being together, as a pair. The place of their coming into being is the human mind, which can coordinate events into a time sequence and appearances into a world seen. With this coming into being of time and the visible, a dialogue between presence and absence begins. We all live this dialogue.

Consider Picasso’s Self-Portrait, of 1906. What is happening in this painting? Why can this apparently uneventful image move us so deeply?

The young man’s expression — not untypical for a man of twenty-five — is solitary, attentive, and searching. It is an expression in which loss and waiting combine. Yet, this is at the level of literature.

What is happening plastically? The head and body are pressing towards the visible, are searching for a perceptible form, and have not fully found it. They are just at the point of finding it, of alighting on it — like a bird on a roof. The image is moving because it represents a presence striving to become seen.

Metaphorically speaking, this is a fairly common experience. What is extraordinary is that Picasso here finds (stumbles upon but somehow recognises) the painterly means necessary to express this tentative but almost desperately urgent coming-into-visibility. Between 1902 and 1907, the years leading up to the Demoiselles d’Avignon and including the first proto-Cubist works, he painted and drew numerous images which express the first hope of a settlement with the visible: a settlement which offers an assurance — an assurance which just before seemed impossible — of being seen.

In the self-portrait, there are pictorial devices which aid the expression of this just-coming-into-visibility: the way that the flesh-coloured pigment spills over the outlines; the minimal, unfinished painting of the shadows; the lines of the facial features, painted on rather than into the face — like figures painted on a vase. (‘He is like Adam the instant after he was created and before he drew his first breath.’)

In other paintings of the same period he used other devices. I doubt whether his use of them was conscious. The means used were engendered by a profound intuitive conviction, a conviction which lay at the heart of Picasso’s activity as a painter. Picasso did not accept visual reality as innate and inevitable. On the contrary, he was always aware that anything he saw might have taken a different form, that behind what is visible lie a hundred other unchosen visible possibilities.

Chosen or unchosen by whom? Not, of course, by the artist, nor by the presence seeking visual form, nor, in fact, by God during the days of creation. The question has to remain unanswered, but it was in the hope of coming closer to some answer that Picasso, in face of the visible, was always to go on playing with the possibly visible, before the visible, as we know it, has been assured. His demonic drive for invention, sometimes profound and sometimes superficial, derived from this fundamental conviction that, in origin, the visible is arbitrary.

Intuitively he separated the energy of growth from the existent. And this separation allowed him to play with the enigma of the preexistent. Another way of describing the poignancy of the 1906 self-portrait would be to say that it is an image of preexistence, a portrait which is about to give birth to its subject.

I try to make clear in words what can only be said or questioned clearly by the pictorial. Picasso’s questioning or quest did not, however, simply depend upon the experience of art. It was grounded in other, much wider human experiences, especially those in which the energy of the body surpasses the normal dispositions of the physical. This is why Picasso was so haunted by, and was so capable of creating, images of passion and of pain: images in which energy surpasses the existent, images which reveal how the existent, and its dispositions, which we take for granted, is never complete or finished.

He was the master of the unfinished — not of the unfinished oeuvre, but of the experience of the unfinished. If all painting is concerned with a dialogue about presence and absence, Picasso’s art, at its most profound, situates itself on the threshold between the two, at the doorway of coming-into-existence, of the just begun, of the unfinished.

OCTOBER 1987

QUINCY, MIEUSSY

FRANCE