Picasso the Man
MOST of what is written about Picasso is either sensational or stupid. Gossip writers, smart reporters, half-educated critics of every nationality pounce on the smallest item concerning him to make news. His work is alternately damned and praised for the wrong reasons ; the details of his private life and doings are blazoned in headlines. But what of the man himself? No one has yet attempted (with the exception of Gertrude Stein) to present a truthful picture of his personality. Not that aesthetic appreciation of a man's work should depend on a close knowledge of his marital or eating habits. For artists do not (or should not) need the elaborate Press " build-up " which film-stars and politicians find necessary to sustain belief in their abilities. If we can read, we should be able to understand the artist's meaning and form an image of his personality without ,reference to his private life. (Picasso is constantly saying this in the pages of this book.) There are, of course, exceptions, notably artists with a theory.
But in the modern world, as Europe becomes more and more victimised by the vulgar and ruthless American ways of thought, all the " great " are treated as public property ripe for exploitation. (In 1945 the American Red Cross in Paris even included a visit to Picasso's studio on the list .rof possible " sights " for visiting G.Ls.) To many this may seem an admirable state of affairs, but it -cannot be too often said that our sense of values and even our artistic heritage are being completely falsified by toleration of these methods. On the one hand they destroy the artist's ability to work continuously and in peaces; on the other they inevitably encourage in him exhibitionism. So we have no right to be shocked or sur- prised when, in an outburst of justifiable fury against the society which torments him, the artist deliberately paints some shocking and strangely contorted nude Which he christens "Portrait of a Lady."
"Picasso's ideal is to work—that is to say, to be able to work every day. If he does not work, it is because he lacks inspiration, or the requisite conditions ; and if he lacks the will to work, he has none for anything else. Fortunately this seldom happens. If the conditions requisite for work are absent, he seeks them ; and if he does not find them, he invents them."
As one turns the pages of M. Sabartes' memoirs this theme recurs time and again. Indeed, it is one of the most fascinating aspects of his book that it reveals the fundamental simplicity of Picasso's ideal life, the degree of pleasure with which he practises his art, the ceaseless flow of his ideas, his sense of fun as well as of reality and the restlessness induced in him by the abnormal
life he is forced to lead. •
"At the beginning of March of the same year (1936), he told me that he wanted to go away. He was sick and tired of people, of exhibitions, of hearing the same things from the same persons, and he had no desire to work, or, even if he did, he was bereft of incentive. He needed a change of air, and to find himself—but somewhere else—because here he could not do it."
For the first time a book has been written about Picasso by an author whose approach is unaffected. Simply, without sensa- tionalism or sentimentality, M. Sabartes tells how Picasso lives, thinks and talks, and how he finds the inspiration for his works. "Picasso believes that art emanates from sadness—and pain. .. . That sadness lends itself to meditation, and that grief is at the well- springs of life. . . . And since our life is passing through a period of grief, of sadness and of wretchedness, life itself with all its torments constitutes the very foundation of his theory of art."
The reader will search these pages in vain for traces of theories enunciated by Picasso, for "Picasso expounds his opinions but rarely, but whatever he withholds may be discovered in his work." Yet no one is better equipped than M. Sabartes to serve as his interpreter. The two men have been close friends for over forty years, and since 1935 M. Sabartes has been the great artist's secre- tary. But this is also a book with a personal theme, for the author hangs his memoirs around nine portraits of himself painted by Picasso since their first meeting. He shows the circumstances which gave rise to each of them, and since one of them is a " literary " portrait is even enabled to discuss Picasso's writings.
"In discussing his writings, Picasso has told me that his aim is not so much to narrate a story or describe sensations as to suggest them by the sound of words ; he does not try to employ them as a means of expression, but rather lets them explain themselves, as his colours do at times."
M. Sabartes' wry Spanish humour and the accuracy of his .record- ing memory make this a delightful book to read, for it is free of adulation and yet imbued with a rare sense of reverence and friendship. Picasso the man really lives between its covers, and M. Sabartes has been clever enough to leave his central figure free of entanglements. Backstairs chatter finds no place here, and even the women in Picasso's life (each of whom has inspired a whole period of his art) are passed over in silence. It may seem carping to say that the French edition published two years ago remains the more authentic text. But this present version is of foreign make. False chapter headings have been introduced, and the translator
(never very sure of his English, and apparently ignorant of the milieu with which the book deals) has cut up, reshaped and omitted passages for no visibly adequate reason. This does not make the book easier to read and succeeds in destroying the informality of
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