The EY Exhibition: Picasso 1932 – Love, Fame, Tragedy @ Tate Modern

Pablo Picasso. You might just have heard of him, since he is probably the most famous artist of the twentieth century. Picasso had a number of ‘great years’, years in which he made stylistic innovations which really did send ‘shockwaves through the art world’ and change the way that educated people see and think about art.

The EY Exhibition: Picasso 1932 – Love, Fame, Tragedy has the simple idea of looking at one of Picasso’s Great Years in immense detail. It takes us month by month through Picasso’s life and output in 1932, ‘a time so pivotal in Picasso’s life and work that it has been called his “year of wonders”‘.

Pablo Picasso, rue La Boétie, 1933, Paris by Cecil Beaton ©The Cecil Beaton Studio Archive at Sotheby’s

Pablo Picasso, rue La Boétie, 1933, Paris by Cecil Beaton © The Cecil Beaton Studio Archive at Sotheby’s

The exhibition includes more than 100 outstanding paintings, sculptures and works on paper to give you a flavour of Picasso’s prolific and restlessly inventive character. It includes an unprecedented range of loans from collections around the world, including the Musée National Picasso-Paris, as well as many works from private collection, reuniting some of Picasso’s greatest works of art, many of which are rarely shown in public, for the first time in 86 years.

What was happening to Pablo Picasso in 1932

In 1932 Picasso turned 50. He was married (to Russian dancer, Olga Khokhlova) and had an 11-year-old son Paulo. Many galleries were vying with each other to stage a retrospective of his works, a competition won by the Galeries Georges Petit, which staged Picasso’s first major retrospective in June 1932.

Picasso was the most famous living artist. He  bought a big farmhouse in Normandy, created a studio in the barn and toyed with having an outdoor swimming pool built. He owned a luxury apartment in Paris and was ferried around in a chauffeur-driven Hispano-Suiza car.

Yet he was restless. He had been carrying on an affair with a sporty, outdoorsy 22-year-old blonde, Marie-Thérèse Walter. And the new flavour of the month in fashion-conscious Paris were the Surrealists, who in the 1920s had mostly been a literary movement, but whose visual experiments and confidence had been given a shot in the arm by the arrival of Salvador Dalí, who joined the group in the late 1929.

Some critics wondered whether Picasso was finished, a man of the past. He consciously set out to prove them wrong, with the result that 1932 marks an explosion of creativity and a restless set of experiments in oil painting, sculpture and drawing.

Nude Woman in a Red Armchair (1932) by Pablo Picasso. Tate. © Succession Picasso/DACS London, 2018

Nude Woman in a Red Armchair (1932) by Pablo Picasso. Tate. © Succession Picasso/DACS London, 2018

Pictures of women

When I (and the curators) say ‘experiment’ something must be emphasised right from the start: the exhibition showcases Picasso’s stunning creativity and includes a dozen or more quite wonderful works – but at the same time you can’t help noticing the monotony of subject matter. Women. Women are his subject. Or rather, single women. A woman in a chair. Sleeping woman. Woman reflected in a mirror.

Later in the show there are several women playing on a beach. Or a man saving a woman from drowning. Or women lying around while being serenaded by fauns. But at the imaginative core of the work is one woman.

You don’t get far into the exhibition before you’re being told that the woman in question is Marie-Thérèse, the mistress. She was blonde and she had the kind of nose which is an extension of the forehead without a dent or kink, a Roman nose it’s sometimes called.

Nude, Green Leaves and Bust (1932) by Pablo Picasso. Private Collection © Succession Picasso/DACS London, 2018

Nude, Green Leaves and Bust (1932) by Pablo Picasso. Private Collection © Succession Picasso/DACS London, 2018

The obsessive repetition of the same woman, sleeping or sitting in a chair makes the visitor wonder whether there was some kind of a trade-off – that Picasso had to limit his subject matter to the tiny world of the studio, and his one, central muse figure – blanking out the entirety of the roaring, industrial, political, urban world of 1932, rejecting every visual thing in the universe except his blonde lover and a few studio props – in order to be imaginatively free to submit it to so many fantastic and brilliant variations.

Information

Each room is dedicated to a month or two, and the audioguide zeroes in on pictures often painted on a specific, named day.

The exhibition includes a huge amount of biographical information, a host of articles about what was going on in Paris at the time, about the fashionable popularity of Freud and Jung’s psychoanalytic theories, about the competition from the Surrealists and the launch of the Surrealist magazine Minotaur (first edition published June 1933 and devoted almost entirely to Picasso), about Picasso building the sculpture studio at his Normandy house, a detailed account of his comings and goings during the year, and the elaborate preparations for the retrospective exhibition.

So much so that it’s almost easy to lose sight of the art in the blizzard of explanations and timelines.

Reclining Nude (1932) by Pablo Picasso. Private Collection © Succession Picasso/DACS London, 2018

Reclining Nude (1932) by Pablo Picasso. Private Collection © Succession Picasso/DACS London, 2018

Practicing curves

One way to approach them is via the room devoted to some of the black-and-white charcoal drawings on canvas which Picasso made throughout 1932. The commentary very usefully pointed out that the sweeping lines, the curves and arabesques of the charcoal lines, are like a preparation for the paintings. For in the paintings, the scholars tell us there was little if any preparation. Picasso rarely painted from life – he started from memory and imagination and created shapes and patterns by great sweeping curves of his hand.

The charcoal pictures show his hand and arm building up the technique of creating great sweeping curves first time, with no afterthought or adjustment, again and again depicting the kind of curve which, in the finished paintings, become a woman’s face or nose or arms or torso or bottom.

His habit was to mark out shapes and patterns in black paint and, once he was happy with the composition, to fill in the shape with colour, but quite happy to leave both elements (black lines and colour) unfinished, rasping the paint, letting undercolours or even blank canvas show through.

All of the paintings here benefited from looking at close up to see this technique up close. Colouring and setting varied a little, but the fundamental idea of the defining black line (almost, at times, the thick black line of a cartoon) is always paramount.

Wallpaper

It may sound trivial and the commentary didn’t mention it, but I was struck by the care with which he depicts the wallpaper behind the subjects.

The Mirror by Pablo Picasso (12 March 1932) Private Collection © Succession Picasso/DACS London, 2018

The Mirror by Pablo Picasso (12 March 1932) Private Collection © Succession Picasso/DACS London, 2018

The curator’s commentary dwells on the fact that these are paintings of a woman, and paintings of Picasso’s mistress. Either angle gives the opportunity for lengthy discussions of either his private life, or the long tradition of painting women in Western art. A woman near a mirror is bound to set off a small explosion of art theory referencing the long tradition of associating women with ‘vanity’.

Maybe. But when I look at this picture the first thing I notice is the dark blue patterned wallpaper and then the orange frame of the mirror, in other words the overall design of the composition, long before I notice the broad-nosed sleeping blonde with her ripe-apple boobs. And after processing her shape and curves, it is to the extraordinarily deep blue of the backdrop that my eyes returns.

In this concern for the decorative ancillaries to the main image a lot of these paintings reminded me of the purely decorative concerns of Picasso’s long-time frenemy, Henri Matisse.

The subject may be a female nude, it may be his hushed-up mistress, she may be passively sleeping and yet reflected, in a semi-surreal way, by the mirror. But the painting is also an arrangement of colours on a flat surface. It is a decorative object, whose subject you can almost ignore, if you will. It is first and foremost a big bright image and I think the viewer reacts immediately, either for or against the size and vibrancy of the colour and shape of the composition, long before you get round to thinking about the ‘issues’ of women and mirrors or marriage and mistresses.

Angles

Again, putting aside the subject matter for a moment, by the time I’d got to the end I realised Picasso had roughly three approaches or ‘styles’, at least in this year of 1932.

One is the curvy, ‘feminine’ style exemplified in the pictures shown above. But there was another, very different style – characterised by uncomfortable angles, distortions, harsh straight lines and geometric interactions. There are quite a few of them here and they feel completely different to the soft curvy sleeping blondes.

The most striking instances are a sequence of smaller works he made which are all variations on the idea of a woman sunbathing – but not a woman as you or I might conceive the subject.

Woman on the Beach (1932) by Pablo Picasso. The Penrose Collection © Succession Picasso/DACS London 2018

Woman on the Beach (1932) by Pablo Picasso. The Penrose Collection © Succession Picasso / DACS London 2018

The commentary points out that the small circle in the middle is the woman’s anus. Apparently, Picasso’s usual gallerist refused to exhibit the series because he said he didn’t want a load of ‘arseholes’ in his shop. But I think this rather typical obsession with sex and the body on the part of critic and seller is missing the more obvious point – which is the entire conceptualisation of the human figure which has, in a work like this, become fantastically stylised.

In the strange combination of the zoomorphic (i.e. curved shapes) with harsh geometry (the set of triangles and the table leg-style legs) there’s a lot of the influence of Surrealism, maybe of Max Ernst, influencing Picasso’s own abstracting tendencies.

But Picasso never actually becomes abstract – his paintings are always of something, almost always of people, and overwhelmingly of young nubile women.

Henry Moore

The closest he comes to pure abstraction is in the works of his third style, which kept reminding me of the drawings and sculptures of Henry Moore. In both the styles identified above – curvy and angular – the image is essentially flat. There may be token references to chairs or wallpaper but they don’t really create a sense of depth.

In the works where he does go for a sense that the picture is a window into the world, the effect is strikingly odd, for there’s a thread throughout the work of pictures made up of blobs and odd, curved shaded shapes, which look like the products of a pot-maker or clay modeller who’s gone mad.

Seated Woman in a Red Armchair (1932) by Pablo Picasso. Musée national Picasso © Succession Picasso/DACS London 2018

Seated Woman in a Red Armchair (1932) by Pablo Picasso. Musée national Picasso © Succession Picasso/DACS London 2018

Here the two balls in the middle, the curved object which seems to contain them, and the curving cowl up towards two tiny eyes in a blank monster’s face – all of them have shade and shadowing which give them the illusion of three dimensionality.

Can you see why I mention Henry Moore? They look like paintings of Henry Moore sculptures.

One room in the show is devoted to a rarely-seen sequence of thirteen drawings Picasso made based on the crucifixion section of the Isenheim Altarpiece by the German painter Matthias Grünewald.

The Crucifixion, from the Isenheim Altarpiece (circa 1512-15)

The Crucifixion, from the Isenheim Altarpiece (circa 1512-15)

The commentary goes heavy on the religious subject matter, but what struck me was how Picasso recast almost all his versions by breaking down the human figure into a sequence of Henry Moore-style blobs and craws.

The Crucifixion (1932) by Pablo Picasso. Musée National Picasso © Succession Picasso/DACS London, 2018

The Crucifixion (1932) by Pablo Picasso. Musée National Picasso © Succession Picasso/DACS London, 2018

The approach may also, possibly, owe something to the Surrealists Hans Arp or Yves Tanguy. It was very much a style of the age. But on the evidence of all these works it does look as if, when Picasso thought of depth and perspective, everything turned into shaded, blobby shapes.

Sculpture and landscapes

There are many more themes and subjects. It is, ultimately a staggering and exhausting exhibition. How did he manage to think and see and create so many different things in one short year?

There is a series of surprisingly charming landscapes of the view from his Normandy house over the nearby village, Boisgeloup, which could almost be illustrations of a children’s book.

There is an entire room dedicated to classic works from earlier in Picasso’s career – including Blue Period, Rose Period and Cubist paintings – to give us a flavour of the major retrospective of June 1932. Picasso was very careful in which works he chose to include in it and, most strikingly, he mixed them all up, eschewing chronological order in order to create a solid wall of art, all of it as relevant as any other.

And another room has been carefully arranged to recreate something of the atmosphere of the rough and ready sculptor’s studio he created in a barn at his Normandy house, with one entire wall of the room covered in a massively blown-up photo of the studio with its decrepit barn doors, a sequence of b&w photos made of the artist at work on his sculptures by the classic photographer, Brassaï, and a handful of actual sculptures – big, semi-abstract heads. (Notice the Roman nose – I wonder who this could be a bust of?)

Bust of a Woman (1931) by Pablo Picasso. Musée National Picasso © Succession Picasso/DACS London, 2018

Bust of a Woman (1931) by Pablo Picasso. Musée National Picasso © Succession Picasso/DACS London, 2018

The rescue

But the exhibition ends with a turn to a completely new subject, something you wouldn’t have predicted at all from all the sleepy blondes or blondes in armchairs from earlier in the show.

1932 ended traumatically for Pablo when Marie-Thérèse fell seriously ill after swimming in the river Marne. During the illness she lost most of her iconic blonde hair. The result in his art was a series of paintings, large and small, showing the rescue of a drowning woman by a man – all heavily stylised.

Some of the variations take on a dark overtone with the male presence not rescuing but threatening the drowning woman, and at least one of them is titled The Rape.

Or there are variations like this one in which a woman appears to be saving the drowner. And who is the third figure at bottom right – a passing swimmer or a siren reaching out to drown the unwary? (And note the scrappier use of colour – in the earlier sleeping woman pictures the colours tended to be uniform within each section demarcated by a solid black line- – in these last paintings the colours are more blotched and varied within each section.)

The Rescue (1932) by Pablo Picasso. Fondation Beyeler, Riehen/Basel, Sammlung Beyeler © Succession Picasso/DACS London, 2018

The Rescue (1932) by Pablo Picasso. Fondation Beyeler, Riehen/Basel, Sammlung Beyeler © Succession Picasso/DACS London, 2018

Here, in the last room, the commentary leads off into a load of history, explaining that only a month or so later, in January 1933, Herr Hitler became Chancellor of Germany, and it was only 3 years later that General Franco rebelled against the Republican government of Spain, triggering the brutal Spanish Civil War. And then World War Tow. And the Holocaust. And the atom bomb.

Yes, yes, yes, I know that terrifying things were just around the corner, but I think a) nobody in 1932 had an inkling that any of that was going to happen, and b) the curators are over-politicising a painter who went to great lengths not to reference the contemporary world in any way at all in his art. Guernica was still seven years off and even then it is a thing of primitive people and horse. Not many planes, trains and automobiles in Picasso’s entire oeuvre. In this respect – in  terms of subject matter – he was a very unmodern, a surprisingly conservative, artist.

Anyway, I had never seen any of the works in this room before so, in some ways, found it the most rewarding room of the exhibition. The many variations on The Rescue, although mostly done in the big, cartoony, boldly coloured style of the previous rooms, were nonetheless haunting and powerful.

For reasons I can’t put into words I found one particular painting in this room especially hypnotic and upsetting.

The Rescue by Pablo Picasso (1933)

The Rescue by Pablo Picasso (1933)

It’s at the most abstract end of his range. Probably the ‘figures’ are women, but they really seem more like creatures caught in some agonising death dance and suddenly turned to bronze, against a crude sea and an eerily realistic sky.

Picasso almost never painted landscapes, certainly not intending to make them ‘realistic’ depictions. This reproduction doesn’t convey the incongruity of setting such a completely abstract, modernistic, sculptured shape against that extreme rarity, a realistic Picasso sky.

I don’t know if I was more upset, or scared, or touched by it.

Sometimes it is good to just be in front of a work of art, undistracted by curatorial talk about mistresses and wives, breasts and anuses, analysis of the male gaze, and the theme of the mirror, and rivalry with other painters, and the vagaries of the Paris art market, and the looming European catastrophe, and all those other issues and stories.

To just stand in front of a work and be awed and puzzled and confused and absorbed and transported.

Videos

A brief, wordless overview of the exhibition.

A longer tour of the show by two art experts.


Related links

Reviews of other Tate exhibitions

Picasso’s Portraits @ the National Portrait Gallery

‘All portraits are caricatures.’ Picasso

Somewhere in the Royal Academy’s massive show of American Abstract Expressionism, there’s a quote from Jackson Pollock sometime in the 1950s yelling, ‘That **** bastard Picasso, he’s done everything.’

Picasso’s longevity (1881-1973) and prolific output (50,000 works – comprising 1,885 paintings, 1,228 sculptures, 2,880 ceramics, roughly 12,000 drawings, many thousands of prints, and numerous tapestries and rugs) and feverish changes of style and vision from early Fauvism through cubism to postwar neo-classicism and on and on – presented a massive challenge to his contemporaries, to up-and-comers in the 50s and 60s, and even to modern-day artists. He did so much, he tried so many things, he invented so many styles.

This exhibition presents a rich cross-section of Picasso’s styles and approaches by bringing together an impressive 80 portraits by the artist in all media. It is the largest exhibition of Picasso’s portraits in a generation, and it is full of riches, treasures and insights.

Self-portrait by Pablo Picasso ( 1896) Museu Picasso, Barcelona © Succession Picasso/DACS London, 2016

Self-portrait by Pablo Picasso ( 1896) Museu Picasso, Barcelona © Succession Picasso/DACS London, 2016

The works are arranged in chronological order but are grouped into themes. Thus there is a room devoted to depictions of his first wife, the Ballets Russes dancer, Olga Khokhlova – a room of photographs he had taken of himself in his Paris studio – or of his earliest caricatures of the gang of Bohemians, artists and poets who assembled at the El Quatre Gats café in Barcelona.

Caricatures

This early emphasis on the cartoons and caricatures he drew of fellow artists in the cafe at first seems a bit eccentric or of historical interest only – but in fact as the exhibition proceeds you come to realise that there was something of caricature – the quick, impressionistic throwing off of outlines, the exaggeration of features – which in fact endures throughout his entire career. Compare the early caricature of art critic Maurice Utrillo with the caricatures he knocked off of poets and composers in Paris after the war, and then again in another wave of line drawing caricatures in the 1950s.

The famous peace doves are just the most famous of the hundreds of later prints, etchings and lithographs he did, many of which use the lightest of lines, for example the famous Vollard Suite of images produced from 1930 to 1937.

Much later, in the 1950s, Picasso knocked off a series of ‘humorous compositions’ where he took pinups of glamour girl movie stars and quickly sketched onto them the figure of his friend, the poet and writer Jaime Sabartés – in reality, apparently, a fairly chaste and happily married man – as a short, tubby, bespectacled buffoon, hopelessly making up to these impossibly burnished screen idols.

Humorous Composition: Jaumes Sabartes and Esther Williams by Pablo Picasso (1957) Museu Picasso, Barcelona © Succession Picasso/DACS London, 2016

Humorous Composition: Jaimes Sabartes and Esther Williams by Pablo Picasso (1957) Museu Picasso, Barcelona © Succession Picasso/DACS London, 2016

Note the schoolboy crudity of the hair drawn under her arms and crotch. There are three or four of these ‘humorous compositions’ in the show, a selection of the scores Picasso apparently knocked off. They bring together several features of his approach: 1. Humour – obviously they’re for fun. 2. Caricature – exaggerating the serious bespectacled intellectual Sabartes into a ludicrous parody. 3. It’s a close friend, one of the gang, a member of his circle. 4. It’s rude i.e. sexual in broad outline and in pubic detail. 5. It’s subversive of an ‘official’ image. 6. It’s quick quick quick, a hastily knocked-off jeu d’esprit.

By starting with a selection of Picasso’s caricatures, and showing their recurrence throughout his career, the exhibition suggests that speed, and exaggeration, are a kind of fundamental approach which underlay many works which superficially appear so very different in style.

Self portraits

The exhibition tells us that his first ten years or so featured the most self portraits, as Picasso used himself as subject matter, restlessly trying out styles. The one above was done when he was just 16. 10 years later comes the amazing Self-portrait with a palette, with its use of a primitive mask-like face, its emphasis on the image of the artist as working man, with brawny bulging muscles. But it is the tan-and-grey colour palette which also impresses. The commentary points out the debt to Cezanne, who died when Picasso was 25, and of whom he later said, ‘We are all his children’.

Self-Portrait with Palette by Pablo Picasso (1906) Philadelphia Museum of Art: A. E. Gallatin Collection 1950 © Succession Picasso/DACS, London 2016

Self-Portrait with Palette by Pablo Picasso (1906) Philadelphia Museum of Art: A. E. Gallatin Collection 1950 © Succession Picasso/DACS, London 2016

Individuals

Unlike most painters in history, Picasso didn’t paint from commissions. He painted who he wanted to, generally friends, fellow artists or patrons. In a sense he created ‘circles’ like that original circle in the cafe in Barcelona, wherever he went, and then subjected them to intense investigations through the style of the moment.

Thus, only four years after the primitivism of the Self-portrait with a palette, comes this high point of analytical cubism, a portrait of the German art historian and collector, Daniel-Henry Kahnweiler. Apparently the poor man sat for it on over 20 occasions. On reflection, this suggests the effort Picasso put into his cubist compositions. Later works don’t often match this amount of labour.

Daniel-Henry Kahnweiler, autumn 1910 by Pablo Picasso (1910) Art Institute of Chicago © Succession Picasso/DACS London, 2016

Daniel-Henry Kahnweiler, autumn 1910 by Pablo Picasso (1910) Art Institute of Chicago © Succession Picasso/DACS London, 2016

Olga Khokhlova

It’s a very good idea to have grouped the works into themes; it brings structure to what sometimes threatens to become an overwhelming inundation of images. Even in the final, very big room, containing maybe thirty-plus works, they have been carefully arranged into pairs or trios which the (excellently informative) audioguide compares and contrasts, to bring out Picasso’s use of different approaches for different subjects. I think the show has been excellently curated, arranged and displayed.

An obvious place where this grouping pays dividends is in the room devoted to Olga Khokhlova, Picasso’s first wife. She was a dancer with the Ballets Russes when Picasso met her in Rome in 1917, on a commission to create the set and designs for a production of Eric Satie’s ballet, Parade. (It is fascinating to learn that dwelling among Italian architecture for a few months had a classicising effect on Picasso’s style and that this was well-suited to Olga’s own classical, symmetrical good looks and her litheness and elegance as a trained dancer.)

The room contains several busts of her, as well as photos. In a darkened side room 4 minutes of silent black and white home movies of Pablo, Olga and their dogs play on a loop. But it is three major paintings which dominate.

My favourite is Olga in an Armchair, painted in 1917. In fact it was based on a photo (in the show). I like the way it is realistic but unfinished. I like her doll-like expression. Five years later, this portrait of Olga in a brown dress is recognisably the same person, but with something of the blankness of the eyes from the 1906 self-portrait.

Portrait of Olga Picasso by Pablo Picasso (1923) Private Collection © Succession Picasso/DACS London, 2016

Portrait of Olga Picasso by Pablo Picasso (1923) Private Collection © Succession Picasso/DACS London, 2016

None of these pretty traditional depictions prepare you for the leap to this 1935 portrait. The commentary goes heavy on a biographical interpretation, pointing out that by this stage the marriage was on the rocks and Olga had become withdrawn and depressed, anxious not only about her philandering husband, but about her family who were suffering badly in Stalin’s Russia.

Woman in a Hat (Olga) by Pablo Picasso (1935) Musée national d’art moderne Centre Pompidou, Paris. Musée national d'art moderne / Centre de création industrielle © Succession Picasso/DACS London, 2016

Woman in a Hat (Olga) by Pablo Picasso (1935) Musée national d’art moderne Centre Pompidou, Paris. Musée national d’art moderne / Centre de création industrielle © Succession Picasso/DACS London, 2016

Just as interesting or valid, is to see it through the prism of Picasso’s attempts to find a semi-abstract style adequate to the troubled times, with Hitler, Mussolini and Stalin in power. The following year the Spanish Civil war would break out and the strangely childish, half-abstract depiction of the human (and animal) figures would reach its apotheosis in the famous political painting, Guernica.

The very first wall label explains that Picasso’s main subject for most of his career was the human figure and that the majority of portraits are of single figures, not groups.

Women as muse

The big room at the end of the exhibition contains works from the 1930s to the 1970s and is a bit overwhelming. the grouping methodology works well to introduce and compare works on a similar theme or of the same person.

Most if not all the portraits in this final room are of women. The internet supplies a handy list of the main women in his colourful love life, and the dates of their involvement:

  • Fernande Olivier (1904 to 1911)
  • Eva Gouel (1912 to her death in 1915)
  • Olga Khokhlova (married 1918, to her death in 1955, mother of Paulo)
  • Marie-Thérèse Walter (1927 to 1935, mother of Maya)
  • Dora Maar (1936 to 1944)
  • Françoise Gilot (1944 to 1953, mother of Claude and Paloma)
  • Geneviève Laporte (during the 1950s)

Marie-Thérèse was ‘the first blonde’ he’d had an affair with and his works of her are full of a golden yellow. This last room opens with

Having closely inspected a dozen or more caricatures, cartoons and comic sketches tends to bring out the cartoonish elements in this painting: the cartoon eye and face, the half-hearted attempt at the hands (more like cats paws), the two breasts thrown in, just in case. As the commentary says this is one of countless brightly coloured works which draw comparison for its emphasis in colour and design with his great contemporary and rival, Matisse.

Dora Maar and the war

But, in this selection at any rate, it’s Dora Maar who makes more of an impression. She was his inspiration from the outbreak of the Spanish Civil War (1936) to the Liberation of France (1944) and the images of her accentuate nerviness, worry and anguish. She is represented in many works of the time which show a woman weeping.

I assume there’s a word for this style – the style of weeping woman and Guernica, but I don’t know what it is. Here is Dora with her face contorted into a corkscrew of anguish, and the brilliant detail of her blood red nails gripping the chair rests like a harpy.

Woman in a Hat, 9 June 1941 by Pablo Picasso (1941) Musée Picasso, Paris. © Succession Picasso/DACS, London 2016 © RMN-Grand Palais (Musée Picasso de Paris) / Jean-Gilles Berizzi © Succession Picasso/DACS London, 2016

Woman in a Hat, 9 June 1941 by Pablo Picasso (1941) Musée Picasso, Paris. © Succession Picasso/DACS, London 2016 © RMN-Grand Palais (Musée Picasso de Paris) / Jean-Gilles Berizzi © Succession Picasso/DACS London, 2016

In the creative and thought-provoking manner of this exhibition, this painting is hung next to a contemporaneous one of Nusch Éluard, performer, model and wife of the Surrealist poet Paul Éluard.

Apparently she was thin and lithe to begin with – she had at one time been a street performer. But the commentary emphasises that the grey palette and flat chest are emphasising the grim atmosphere and privations of wartime Paris under the Nazis, a time of collaboration, fear and torture. The commentary compares the expressionist angst of the first image with the more romantic pathos of the second; but neither word really seems adequate to describe the mood of each painting.

Again, the ideas of caricature and simplification, so firmly established at the start of the exhibition, seem more useful reference points.

Dialogue with tradition

Towards the end the exhibition focuses on works in which the ageing Picasso consciously engaged with the tradition of Western art. There’s a series of painting based on the Las meninas of Spain’s greatest artist, Velasquez, and etchings which evoke or depict Raphael, and Rembrandt.

Raphael is referenced in cartoonish spoofs of Ingres’ painting Raphael and La Fornarina (1814). This shows the great Renaissance painter Raphael (well known, apparently, for his love affairs) with his mistress on his lap. In 1968, at the age of 87, Pablo Picasso created a series of twenty five pornographic etchings inspired by the legend of Raphael and La Fornarina.

We know from his biography that Picasso was a virile, highly sexed man, with a string of wives and mistresses, strongly inspired, in fact almost exclusively devoted to depictions of the human body in countless styles and ways. But only in his old age did he either feel confident enough, or was society finally ‘liberated’ enough, for him to create images of the penis, and they abound in these etchings.

An embarrassment of riches

This is a brilliant, well organised, informative and beautiful exhibition. Everywhere you turn there is something new to laugh at or marvel at. What a giant! With a subject as rich as this there are numerous ways to slice through it, to analyse it, countless threads to follow:

  • to go chronologically and watch him evolve through his styles
  • to take each piece in its own right and judge them on their use of colour, composition, lines and angles
  • to dwell on the biographical context – on the soap opera of his numerous lovers and muses
  • to catch references to earlier painters who Picasso revered such as Velázquez and Rembrandt, and enjoy the jokes and variations on themes
  • to focus on the self-portrait as a distinct genre, with reference to the traditions’ great masters and how Picasso twisted it out of recognition – Picasso self portraits aged 18, 25 and 90

Sex and style

At several moments the commentary mentioned the ‘mystery’ of a work and its impact. Although I appreciated the breath-taking brilliance of many of the works here, I wasn’t moved by many. In fact I think the mystery of Picasso’s art is the way there is no mystery about it. Because it is so rooted on the human figure and on private individuals there is little or nothing to say about the depiction of history or politics in them, there are no landscapes and little or no wildlife or plants or flowers. All these really is is his biography, which often boils down to an account of the women in his life, pretty logically, since so many of his works are portraits of the current woman in his life.

And sex. One of the earliest private caricatures is a pretty explicit depiction of one of his Barcelona friends and a courtesan, and the notion of virility and masculinity runs beneath all these depictions of women until it emerges in the pornographic etchings late in life. It’s not difficult to associate the sexual act with the creative act, or the sexual urge with the creative urge.

Since the post-structuralist turn in critical theory around 1970 (in the work of French writers like Roland Barthes or Michel Foucault) sex – and especially its academically respectable form, ‘desire’ – have invaded large parts of critical and aesthetic thought. And feminist theory’s focus on the wrongs of men and the injustices suffered by women have given rise to plenty of ‘revisionist’ accounts of Picasso’s often brutal and manipulative relationships with women. Fine.

These are just some of the ways critics attempt to give a meaning to Picasso’s work, to kind of ground or root it in something apart from itself. But although I think this is a major and very successful exhibition, and confirms the extraordinary breadth and range of Picasso’s styles and visions, for me, ultimately, it confirmed the sense that there is no ‘mystery’ about Picasso’s art because there is no depth.

It is pure art in the sense that it is about the style itself. The restless moving from one style to another, the countless variations and iterations of new methods and approaches – and the hurried lack of completion of so many of the works, particularly the slapdash late works – these all bespeak a lack of concern about ‘truth’, or ‘finish’ or ‘completeness’ or ‘depth’ or ‘meaning’.

The art works may well be, at a superficial level, ‘about’ this or that man or woman in this or that mood or setting – and scholars can flesh out each piece with background information, biographical context and so on. But these works seem to me to be much more ‘about’ the act of creation, about being an artist, about ‘arting’. More than any other artist I know Picasso’s art is ‘about’ the act of creating art, it rejoices in the endless fecundity of its own creativity.

Videos

The National Portrait Gallery has produced some useful introductory videos:

In this one critic Sarfraz Manzoor picks his five highlights from the show.

Related links

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