Gertrude Stein's writing can be… challenging. A dense, swirling vortex of words that seems to defy conventional understanding. I confess, for years, I avoided her work. Why grapple with prose that felt deliberately obtuse when countless other authors offered a more readily accessible path to enlightenment? Yet, something kept drawing me back, a nagging suspicion that buried within her labyrinthine sentences lay profound insights.
Then I encountered her biography, "Picasso," a short exploration of her friendship with the legendary artist. And those opening lines, they seized my attention with an unwavering grip. In just 50 pages, Stein manages to capture the essence of Picasso, his artistic process, and his groundbreaking approach to reality. But it's not an easy read. Like peering through a kaleidoscope, you catch glimpses of brilliance amidst a fragmented narrative. But is the struggle worth it? Absolutely. Because in that struggle, you begin to truly see.
Stein posits that Picasso's portrait of her, painted early in their friendship, marked the genesis of his cubist explorations. He possessed an innate "signature sight," an ability to perceive the world in a way that defied easy articulation. For Picasso, cubism wasn't a conscious invention, but rather a consequence of grappling with the limitations of representation. How do you capture the multi-faceted reality of a person, a scene, on a two-dimensional canvas? That, Stein argues, was Picasso's lifelong quest.
He wasn't interested in simply replicating appearances. "As I have already said," Stein wrote, "in looking at a friend one only sees one feature of her face or another…he did not wish to paint the things that he himself did not see, the other painters satisfied themselves with the appearance…which was not at all what they could see but what they knew was there." This distinction is crucial. Picasso aimed to capture not just what was visible, but what was known, what was felt, what existed beyond the surface.
For years, I dismissed Picasso's early works as primitive, a deliberate attempt to shock. But reading Stein, I began to reconsider. What if I stopped trying to label, to categorize, to impose my preconceived notions onto his art? What if I simply looked?
Forget everything you think you know about painting. Forget portraiture, color theory, art history. Strip away the labels, the pretense. Look at the lines, the shapes, the relationships. Look at the way forms interact, the way they simultaneously face both inward and outward. See the contours of a shoulder, the curve of a neck, the slope of a hip. Suddenly, a cohesive image begins to emerge. Like a stereoscopic image snapping into focus, disparate elements coalesce into a unified whole, revealing not just one perspective, but multiple perspectives simultaneously.
"A kind in glass and a cousin, a spectacle and nothing strange a single hurt color and an arrangement in a system to pointing. All this and not ordinary, not unordered in not resembling. The difference is spreading." - Gertrude Stein, "Picasso"
Stein's words, initially baffling, began to resonate. The struggle to understand, the act of actively engaging with the artwork, became the key to unlocking its meaning. The truest form of seeing, I realized, wasn't passive observation, but active participation.
In our hyper-mediated world, where every image is filtered, curated, and consumed through the detached lens of technology, Picasso's challenge feels more relevant than ever. Whose eyes are we looking through? What biases are shaping our perceptions?
Stein argued that the 20th century, with its unprecedented advancements in technology and perspective, irrevocably altered our understanding of reality. "The automobile is the end of progress on the earth… But the earth seen from an airplane is something else." Picasso, though never having seen the world from above, intuitively grasped this shift in perspective. He knew that reality was no longer confined to the limitations of our immediate surroundings.
So, why should you bother grappling with Stein's challenging prose and Picasso's often-abstract art? Because in doing so, you embark on a journey of self-discovery. You learn to question your assumptions, to challenge your perceptions, and to see the world with fresh eyes.
Picasso wasn't just painting pictures; he was deconstructing reality, forcing us to confront the limitations of representation, and ultimately, inviting us to participate in the act of creation. And in a world saturated with pre-packaged narratives, that's a skill worth cultivating. Maybe Leonardo Da Vinci was a great artist, but Picasso changed the game.
The journey to understanding Picasso may be challenging, but the rewards are immeasurable. So, take a deep breath, open your mind, and prepare to see the world in a whole new way.