Picasso's Ghost

 



                                                        The Ghost of Picasso

        Sid Picasso, the first cousin of the famous Pablo Picasso, finally accepted the fact that his famous cousin was, Indeed, dead.  It happen when Sid's therapist pointed out that when Pablo came to Sid's house for dinner, he never drank the wine nor ate any of his cooking.  The food and the wine just sat there.  Sid instinctively knew that his Cousin Pablo would never have passed up a free meal unless, of course, he really was dead (or was a vampire).  Before Sid was cured of his delusion, and was jotted back into reality, Sid managed to tape a conversation that he had had with Pablo during the last time he came to dinner.  He presented it to his therapist who was deeply interested in this particular case, especially when there were two voices registered on the tape.  One was definitely Sid’s but, to this day, no one could identify the other. The tape was made public on October 31 of this year and the taped session went something like this:

       Sid: Thank you for coming,  Oh, and by the way, my therapist tells me that you are dead.  

       Picasso: And I am having a rough time accepting it. 

       Sid: Well, you 'll just have to accept it. 

       Picasso: No, I don't.  Life happened so quickly: it just came and left.  I was barely here before I had realized that I was dead. I didn't have a chance to really get acquainted with life: all the living I had yet to do, all the places that I haven't visited, all the wine, food and women I have yet to devour.  I needed more time...and I'm definitely going to make up for it by not leaving.

       Sid: What are you talking about?  Just listen to yourself.  You've been walking around irritating people forever and I think being around for 91 years should be more than enough for anybody.  You're such a terrible person that it's amazing you even managed to live this long.  There is no God.  I guess it's true that only the good die young.  But as nasty as you are...or were, you still can't stick around forever. 

       Picasso: Why not? 

       Sid: Because it's traditional that one should die, eventually, and it was your turn. 

       Picasso: But I'm one of the greatest artist that ever lived, and my greatness lies in breaking with tradition.  Do you realize how really great I am?  Do you know that I am the inventor of collage?  I, alone, have started an industry in craft merchandising, so therefore, I give myself permission to break with tradition.  And I will not be dead just to please your goddamn therapist.  No, I'm staying.

       Sid: You're sick, you know that?  What will you do?  My therapist, whom I trust more than you, says you're nothing but a figment of my mental illness.  You are nothing but puffs of air, a Halloween mask for kiddies to wear for trick or treat, a scary mask at that. You can't do paintings or drawings, nor can you play with clay, paper or scissors.  You can't even pick up a pen or a brush.  

       Picasso: I don't have to; you can do my drawings and paintings and collages for me. 

       Sid: I can't do that! 

       Picasso: Why not?  I will show you what to do, step by step.  It will be my ideas, my talent, my genius that will be guiding you…and you will get all the credit, all of it.  Let’s face it.  You were always envious of my fame and fortune, and it has tormented you all through your miserable life.  That is why you’re in need of a therapist.  Admit it.  You always wanted to be me, and now's your chance.  And you won't need therapy anymore.  Besides, you weren't a bad painter.  Just a bit mediocre.  Allow me to restate that...from just a bit to a lot.

       Sid: I can't sign my name to something that isn't mine!  My integrity won't allow it, and it will only make me more insecure and in need of more therapy. 

       Picasso: What integrity and who would know?  And that is beside the point.  It is the advancement of Art that is important.  Don't you understand?  You and I are insignificant, flea specks in the spectrum of our glorious culture.  It's Art, it's creative painting, that is important.  For Painting to be significant, it must progress or die.  These present day painters who call themselves artists are impediments to Art.  They progress into themselves; or worst, backwards.  They should have institutionalized Jackson Pollack when they had the chance.  He really opened the floodgates and legitimized finger painting and accidental spills.  When they say, "my two-year old can do that", they would not be far from the truth. 

       Sid: But that's what they said about your work when you and Braque were doing those cubist paintings, especially during your "Brown period", when all your colors had a shitty brown cast to them. The critics say that you ran out of subject matter so you and Braque started "Cubism" as a lark. 

      Picasso:  How dare you!  I never had your so-call "Brown period".  My period was Blue.  It was my "Blue period" when I first made my mark in the Art world.  It was Braque that painted that shitty brown, not I.  I was great, and how many people even heard of Braque?  Not many, I assure you.  No, I never painted in browns...your therapist put you up to this, didn't he?  He wanted you to agitate me, so that I will go away? 

     Sid:  No, she doesn't know enough about ancient art, like yours, to have an opinion, one way or another.  She likes Jackson Pollack. She thinks he's the greatest modern artist that ever lived.

      Picasso:  Oh, your therapist is a woman?  Good grief, when is a woman capable of anything professional, let alone being a therapist?

     Sid:  Yes, my therapist is a woman, and she claims that your fractured paintings of women faces was really that of you mother's.  She also says that all your paintings of women show that you are definitely a misogynist, and that if you weren't a ghost, you should seek help.

       Picasso: Keep it up and you will never see or speak to me again. 

      Sid: I will sincerely miss you.”

 The taped was edited and only selected conversations are reproduced here.  After the last sentence, Pablo Picasso never again accepted Sid's invitation to dinner, and Sid never heard from him again.

                             Yes, I was drinking when I did this painting.  But it had purpose...