The Sweet Sour Recipe of Being a Genius and an Asshole
Sometimes, you are a genius. Sometimes, you are an asshole. Sometimes, you are both.
I do not wish to be brute, but I must give you a fair warning so that you do not become a mere myrmidon.
Although there is nothing inherently wrong with that, the ‘mere’ signifies ‘solely’ which is what pulls at my heartstrings.
I would rather that instead of skulking or cowering, you are walking majestically, maybe even promenading.
This makes everything you do resounding.
This creates a new bubble for you so that you do not get enmeshed in theatrics, theories, and ghoulish patterns of other people’s lives.
This is the life of an observer and this is what leads me to discuss the wonderful, ever-widening gap in knowledge.
It is fair enough to say this now so that you can be careful, but not too careful else you will never do anything.
That you must be ruthless, but not too ruthless else you risk everything.
It is also fair enough to say that this is why I have a love-hate relationship with a man named Picasso.
Picasso’s legacy genuinely leaves me starry-eyed and in awe of his work which evinces every shade of authenticity and perfection.
A child prodigy as described in ‘Spark’ by Claudia Kalb. A creative genius.
Picasso defied time. He reinvented art.
His granddaughter even reported that ‘He was so prolific. It’s almost disarming’.
Picasso’s passion started very early in life and his first word was ‘piz’ which means pencil— short for lapiz.
I love the man. I do.
Some of his quotes still linger, nonetheless jarring. Like when he said ‘A painter’s worst enemy is style. Painters make themselves a little cake mould, then they make cakes. Always the same cakes.’
However, recently, I read a New Yorker review of "How Picasso's Muse Became a Master" —from a memoir of Françoise Gilton, one of Picasso’s wives.
And although you may say that this view is solely her prerogative and wonder how her memory is so keen which may be enough to grow a tinge of scepticism in you, you must remember that it is her story.
At first, I was intrigued. The story reeks of how she goes from muse to master yet enmeshed with the discordant intricacies of their love as a quest for dominance.
A few minutes into the article, I am disgusted.
I know Picasso was an asshole. I read about it in Spark.
The way he treated his wives is the major evidence. But this is not the only reason I am disgusted.
It does not even bother me that Picasso was 40 years older than Gilot—I mean it is shocking but not too shocking.
It does not bother me that she was the only one of Picasso’s women to leave of her own accord, to save herself.
I was slightly surprised but not even bothered about the curse Picasso made after Gilot told him she wanted to live with her generation.
I am still bemused at the length of the curse.
‘Even if you think people like you, it will only be a kind of curiosity they will have about a person whose life has touched mine so intimately. And you’ll be left with only the taste of ashes in your mouth. For you, reality is finished; it ends right here. If you attempt to take a step outside my reality—which has become yours, inasmuch as I found you when you were young and unformed and I burned everything around you—you’re headed straight for the desert.’
Well, it was a good thing the curse didn’t work because Gilot went ahead to happily marry Jonas Salk.
When she was ten months pregnant, she was reported to be in danger and the labour needed to be induced immediately.
Picasso was due to be at a World Peace Conference in Paris at the same time.
He eventually decides that his driver will drop him there and then come back for Gilot.
This stands out but oddly, doesn’t affect Gilot. What surprised her was the clothes he showed up in at the hospital.
I also cannot forget that he once held a cigarette against her cheek and threatened to throw her over a bridge into a river.
Yet, what bothers me, mixed with rage, is Picasso’s supporters who avenge the great man by claiming Gilot had the good fortune to be loved by the most inventive and creative artist of the century.
It is uncomfortable because I am not sure if there is a connection between talent and behavior so I try to make a mental note to rid myself of expectations.
Picasso truly craved women and his charisma was reported to attract women yet he was egotistical and misogynistic.
This Picasso virus spread rapidly to the extent that after Picasso died, tragedies piled one after the other with the suicide of his wives.
Picasso’s supporters claim that genius ultimately justified transgression.
They claim that art demanded sacrifice—particularly with someone like Picasso, whose life fed his work. And this, my beloved, is what bothers me.
It reminds me of the Stan culture—where members have the behaviour of extreme fandom to blindly support their celebrity, opposing anything contrary.
It feels like a blindfold was desultorily handed to Picasso’s supporters so that they would rather choose not to see what was happening even if it was before their eyes.
Perhaps it would not be fair to remember Picasso like this.
After all, he was a man whose name will forever be etched in the sands of time.
But now, this has led me to remember the Law of Avoidance by Mark Manson— ‘The more something threatens your identity, the more you will avoid it’.
I wonder if we project this law on other people too, beyond ourselves. Maybe that is what Picasso’s followers did too.
Still, there is something Maar—one of Picasso’s wives —said to him after he broke up with Gilot.
‘As an artist, you may be extraordinary, but morally speaking you’re worthless’.
That stung. Then, it started to fester.
Now my heart is suppurating from the sweet sour recipe Picasso made of being a genius and an asshole.
My feelings are conflicted because Picasso didn’t disagree after she said it. He knew. He had always known.
this is beautiful, lyrical, so very well written. danke!
This offers a nuanced and thought-provoking perspective on the intersection of art, morality, and celebrity culture.