In Proust’s questionnaire — a test that the author of the masterful Research did not create, but to which he devoted himself several times – he replied to the following question in 1884 at the age of 13: “For what faults do you have the most indulgence? “: “For the privacy of geniuses”.
At a time when the private life of celebrities is a collective obsession, his answer seems absurd. It’s good to put everything into perspective, but isn’t our time, by lecturing the giants of the past, also trying to reinforce itself? To erode the power of the creative act over minds? Next Saturday will nevertheless be marked with fanfare in the world the fiftieth anniversary of the death of Pablo Picasso.
From the powerful and prolific painter of Ladies of Avignon and Dreamwhich would revolutionize the artistic planet especially with cubism, in recent years the bad character has been underlined a lot.
Domestic tyrant and simple tyrant, unrepentant choleric. Too gendered to be honest. For several years, a re-reading of his colossal work in the light of the excesses of his life was in order.
In the after #MeToo, pedestals shook. We had then become accustomed to seeing signposts contrasting the portraits of the muses of the Andalusian giant with their marital distress. At the National Museum of Fine Arts of Quebec in 2021, the exhibition Picasso. tricks, presenting his masterpieces on the human body, related to current issues, recalling the misogyny and psychological violence of the sacred monster. It was legit, though tricky to cook. Too many caveats spoiled the fun. We came out of there puzzled. At the Brooklyn Museum in New York, an exhibition is devoted to Picasso, to feminism, but also to the complexity of genius. In Europe, the controversies over his life remain the subject of literary works. The fact remains that the museums of Paris, Madrid, Antibes and elsewhere, in this anniversary year, are focusing on the work above all. Backwash effect.
It would have been a shame if his famous monumental canvas Guernica no longer bears witness as much as it once did to the atrocities of the Spanish Civil War—of all wars, by extension. His creatures in convulsion shed light on the misfortunes of Ukraine. The cry of horror in black and white of this painting, the sight of which is overwhelming at the Reina Sofía Museum in Madrid, finds its meaning again. It’s still Picasso, and his legacy is a clap of thunder.
White male par excellence, hungry ogre, yes, but also the most important painter of the XXe century, who would dabble in all genres in 50,000 works on all media between Spain and France, his adopted land. Figurehead of modern art, pacifist, prodigal painter from childhood, beacon of Parisian bohemianism. Nourished by primitive arts, by Goya, by a thousand sources, but unique.
Far be it from me to deny the patriarchy, from which he came, at the origin of so much injustice. This reign helped masters and beggars to rise to the top by stifling other voices, including those of women. So much the better if the works of these are highlighted on the picture rails. So much the better if great living artists can no longer cover up their crimes by wrapping themselves in their talent! But the dead can no longer testify. Let’s not reduce the phoenixes to their wanderings. Not to excuse behavior – while also detecting signs of the era – but to identify their artistic process and tremble under the shock wave. Otherwise, entire generations risk turning their noses up at the treasures of art by misplacing their enchantments.
Let us be clear: the Minotaur made the misfortune of his wives and lovers, consumed, painted and then generally thrown away after use. Depressions, deaths, conflicts: his children, legitimate or not, have suffered from it together. He brought bad luck to those close to him. But Picasso could have been a murderer without losing his artistic gifts. One does not exclude the other. The disruption of the senses advocated by Rimbaud also generated its share of masterpieces. Genius is not a matter of morality. The game is played elsewhere.
What if it was ultimately better to separate the life from the work in order to grasp its full significance? “A book is the product of another ‘I’ than the one we manifest in our habits, in society, in our vices”, estimated Marcel Proust in Against Sainte Beuve. In his eyes, every work of art is born of the deep self of the creator that his biographers will never be able to define. In short, the great French writer warned us against the temptation to enclose geniuses in small bottles with a skull on the label. Because they will always escape.