Rules of the Game

Gertrude Stein Seated at Her Desk, in 27, rue de Fleurus, Paris, 1920. Photograph. Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas Papers, Yale Collection of American Literature, Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Yale University. © 2008 Estate of Gertrude Stein. Used with permission of Estate of Gertrude Stein.

One of the many things that sets Pablo Picasso apart from most artists is that, while he did associate with other painters, it was with poets and writers that he associated most often. When Picasso moves to Paris in 1901, he meets the poet Max Jacob and soon shares an apartment with him. Over the door, Picasso places a sign that reads, “The meeting place of poets.” Yale University Press’ Picasso and the Allure of Language, the catalogue to the exhibition at the Yale University Art Gallery organized by Susan Greenberg Fisher, analyzes how Picasso’s visual art drew inspiration from the techniques and ideas of the poets and writers around him. Gertrude Stein (shown above writing at her desk in 1920, surrounded by walls covered with the works of Picasso) served not only as a patron of Picasso’s art, but also as a modernist template upon which he could elaborate. “In Stein’s prose, the rhythmic play of repetition and difference acts to undercut the separation of one thought from another,” Patricia Leighten writes of Stein’s influence on Picasso’s still lifes. “In Picasso’s painting the elements of pictorial illusionism serve not to delineate objects, but to confound our expectations, acting to merge objects with their surroundings.” If “a rose is a rose is a rose” for Stein, a table is a table is a table for Picasso—a commonplace from which he could spin out endless variation leaving the original far behind. Subtle, yet stunning insights such as these shed new light on Picasso the poet in pictures who seems deeper and more complex as his art becomes sparer and more simplified visually.

Pablo Picasso, Dice, Packet of Cigarettes, and Visiting-Card, Paris, early 1914. Painted and printed paper, graphite, and watercolor, 5 1/2 x 8 1/4 in. (14 x 21 cm). Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas Collection, Yale Collection of American Literature, Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Yale University. © 2008 Estate of Gertrude Stein. Used with permission of Estate of Gertrude Stein. © 2008 Estate of Pablo Picasso/Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York.

In the 1914 collage still life Dice, Packet of Cigarettes, and Visiting-Card (above), Picasso cites Stein by name by including one of her actual calling cards in the collage. This collage acts out in art the real-life relationship between Stein and Picasso, which followed the pattern of Picasso’s writerly relationships throughout his life. “Picasso took from [writers] what they had to offer,” Fisher explains in her introduction, “namely a deep knowledge of the mysteries of language. He kept in his personal archive all the letters, postcards, and essays they sent to him, as if the disposal of these items would break the bonds of friendship.” Stein’s calling card, which is drawn with a folder corner to indicate that it was delivered in person, serves as a talisman for the writer herself that Picasso clings to by inserting directly into his art as he had into his mind and heart. One of the pleasures of Picasso and the Allure of Language is that you get a full sense of the literary richness of Picasso’s works thanks to the deconstructive techniques more commonly applied to literature applied to art. The fact that these techniques as implemented by the writers in the catalogue work so well with Picasso’s art is itself a confirmation that Picasso’s art stems from the same source as much modernist literature. In this scheme, Stein’s modernism fuels the innovations that help Picasso develop Cubism. Picasso does not necessary copy or, worse, steal ideas from literature, but translates the ideas of literature into ideas conceivable in painting and sculpture.

Pablo Picasso, Dog and Cock, 1921. Oil on canvas, 61 x 30 1/8 in. (159.4 x 76.5 cm). Yale University Art Gallery, Gift of Stephen Carlton Clark, b.a. 1903. © 2008 Estate of Pablo Picasso/Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York.

Picasso’s relationships with poets fall into two periods: the early, Cubist days with Max Jacob and Guilaume Apollinaire and the later, between the wars days with Surrealist poets Andre Breton, Louis Aragon, Paul Eluard, and Jean Cocteau. Peter Read’s Picasso and Apollinaire: The Persistence of Memory (my review here) argues for a continued influence of Apollinaire throughout Picasso’s life, like a phantom limb, which I’m sure this study’s writers would agree with. But they make a compelling case for a Surrealist Picasso, a label Picasso himself resisted. When Picasso gave up painting for a year from April 1935 through April 1936 for reasons still unclear, he turned to writing poetry, which Breton and his fellow Surrealists encouraged and even published. Fisher characterizes Picasso’s Surrealism as an “impulse” he couldn’t resist fully yet couldn’t embrace either because of his disagreement with their goals. Picasso’s Dog and Cock (above, from 1921) verges on the brink of Surrealism not only in its approach to the dog and cock, but also to how the newspaper comes into play. Fisher stresses how Picasso saw the newspaper as an example of the immediacy of the word in modern life. In addition to placing a newspaper on the table beneath a series of egg-like objects in Dog and Cock, Picasso arranges the entire painting in an almost columnar format. Plus, as Fisher points out, “[i]t may not be a coincidence that the overall shape of the cock resembles a large P, and the round shapes resemble the letters I, C, A, S, O.” Picasso thus “writes” his own name into the composition—a playful game with both language and paint. Picasso’s Surrealist “impulse” may come from this playful side, but his view of art as a serious force in the world for meaning prevented him from going all the way.

Pablo Picasso, pages 86–87 from Pierre Reverdy’s Le chant des morts (The Song of the Dead). Published by Tériade, Paris, 1948, Transfer lithograph, 17 x 13 in. (43.2 x 33 cm). Yale University Art Gallery, The Ernest C. Steefel Collection of Graphic Art, Gift of Ernest C. Steefel. © 2008 Estate of Pablo Picasso/Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York.

One of the most interesting parts of Picasso and the Allure of Language is the examination of Picasso’s book illustrations. As Irene Small explains, “Very few of Picasso’s images for illustrated books function as ‘illustrations’ in any ordinary sense of the word.” When Picasso illustrates Jacob’s Saint Matorel in 1911, Small writes, “rather than responding to Jacob’s existing text, Picasso’s etchings may have prompted a new text by the poet, as if to retroactively cement the tenuous relationship between text and image.” For Picasso and his authors, illustration was a two-way street of interplay and dialogue. In 1948, Picasso created abstract, almost calligraphic illustrations for Pierre Reverdy’s Le chant des morts (The Song of the Dead) (above). “The large and red abstractions are at once menacing and full of dignity against the black of Reverdy’s spaced-out handwriting,” Fisher writes, “and this baroque red and black against the white page, this blood and this mourning, are like the life of death, the very opposite of moribund.” Still reeling from the bloodshed of World War II, Picasso creates a new language of pure gesture in blood to accompany Reverdy’s attempt to put those feelings into words. Fisher cites Picasso’s study of illuminated medieval manuscripts as a source for these illustrations, which recapture and modernize the medieval view of death.

Pablo Picasso and André Derain, Four Still Lifes, Avignon, summer 1914. Oil on four ceramic tiles, 21 x 21 in. (53.3 x 53.3 cm). Yale University Art Gallery, The Philip L. Goodwin, b.a. 1907, Collection, Gift of James L. Goodwin, 1905, Henry Sage Goodwin, 1927, and Richmond L. Brown, 1907. © 2008 Estate of Pablo Picasso/Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York.

“Throughout a lifetime of friendships with writers,” Fisher writes in the introduction, “Pablo Picasso deeply understood language, both visual and verbal, and how it created meaning. But he was particularly sensitized to how language and textuality related to the ‘work’ that was closest to him: himself.” Picasso’s ultimate literary creation is the phenomenon of “Picasso” the character, the Proteus of modern art continually constructing and deconstructing personae while paradoxically maintaining a consistency in that very inconsistency. “My life has been the poem I would have writ,” Henry David Thoreau once wrote, “But I could not both live and utter it.” Similarly, the “poem” of Picasso’s life is his lifetime of visual art, which, except for one year devoted to poetry, consumed him entirely in the making. When Picasso and André Derain created Four Still Lifes in 1914, they painted on ceramic tiles and intended for the work to be laid flat, like a game board or writing desk. Thus, Picasso equates not only painting and writing, but also the idea of play. For Picasso, writing and painting and the ideas of writers and painters were all pieces in a great chess game played out in his mind. Picasso and the Allure of Language allows us to watch that game play out and challenges us to follow Picasso’s moves, which are always far, far ahead even today.

[Many thanks to Yale University Press for providing me with a review copy of Picasso and the Allure of Language and for the images from the exhibition.]

Express Train

Unlike the rest of his fellow Italian Futurists, Gino Severini spent the First World War living just outside Paris rather than in Italy itself. Born April 7, 1883, Severini would watch the trains pass by carrying people, including soldiers, and supplies, including munitions. The increases speed of train travel epitomized the power of technology for Severini and the Futurists—a power on full, disastrous display in the war itself. J. M. W. Turner’s 1844 painting Rain, Steam and Speed - The Great Western Railway, one of the first examinations of rail power’s thrilling and chilling implications, seems almost quaint beside Severini’s disjointed, Cubist-influenced scene, Suburban Train Arriving in Paris (above, from 1915). We have no idea from the painting or the title what the train holds, but the year itself makes it likely that soldiers, perhaps wounded or dying, were aboard, returning from the front in search of medical care. In the background, the word “Kneipp” rises recognizably. “Kneipp” was a popular malted beverage of the time. It’s advertising lends an ironic note of normalcy to the abnormality of the times, as if a Coca Cola sign hung on a graveyard’s entrance.

Later that same year of 1915, Severini painted another train scene, titled Red Cross Train Passing a Village (above). Severini makes the context clearer by including the Red Cross in the title and adding the recognizable Red Cross symbol to the side of the train. We now know exactly who is riding through the countryside and the urgency behind the train’s speed. Whereas the train in Suburban Train Arriving in Paris is almost inconspicuous thanks to the Cubist styling integrating it with the background, the train in Red Cross Train Passing a Village appears clearly against a jumbled landscape. The Red Cross train actually seems to slice through the Futurist style of the rest of the picture, as if Severini were trying to hint that the reality aboard the train trumped any visual games Futurism and its credo could produce. Guillaume Apollinaire mocked the Futurists for their disconnect with the main currents of art and society. Severini eventually agreed with Apollinaire, but only after the war. Red Cross Train Passing a Village may enact in paint the conflict in Severini’s mind as he struggled to hold onto his Futurist faith despite the evidence mounting against it.

Severini’s greatest train painting of this year 1915 remains Armored Train (above). He based it on a photo showing French soldiers firing back at German soldiers in trenches from the safety of an armored train. In 1915, such attacks against trenches remained possible, but eventually the war turned into a slow grind of attrition with entrenched armies locked in a seemingly endless stalemate. Severini makes the most of the lines of the rifles and cannon pointing outward. Lines of energy mark the bullets and bombs sped perpendicularly to the movement of the train itself. The soldiers enjoy the false sense of security of the armored car, much as Severini enjoyed the false sense of satisfaction in technological triumphs throughout the early war years. At this point, Severini might have identified with the isolation of the soldiers on the armored car as they are entrapped by the womb of steel plating against certain death outside. Severini didn’t face death himself in France, but he was surrounded by it, with new doses of reality arriving daily on the trains that passed him by.

Poetic Deliverance

God strengthen me to bear myself;
That heaviest weight of all to bear,
Inalienable weight of care.

All others are outside myself;
I lock my door and bar them out
The turmoil, tedium, gad-about.

I lock my door upon myself,
And bar them out; but who shall wall
Self from myself, most loathed of all?


—From “Who Shall Deliver Me?” by Christina Rossetti

When the Belgian Symbolist painter Fernand Khnopff traveled to England in 1889 and met up with the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, Khnopff found kindred spirits in such artists as Dante Gabriel Rossetti and William Holman Hunt, but it was in the poetry of Rossetti’s sister, Christina, that Khnopff found a source of inspiration. Born September 12, 1858, Khnopff became obsessed with one particular poem by Christina—“Who Shall Deliver Me?” In 1891, Khnopff painted one work using the same title as the poem and another taking one of the key lines for a title, I Lock the Door Upon Myself (above, from 1891). In Christina Rossetti’s ode to alienation, Khnopff found an analogue to the alienation he sought to depict in his strange, Symbolist paintings of half-mythical creatures and humans longing to connect. The fact that Khnopff’s Symbolism and the Victorianism of the Rossettis and others in the Pre-Raphaelite circle meshed so well shows just how progressive the art of that era could be, despite the common preconception of the Victorian Era as one long constipated bout of repression.

Of course, Khnopff’s taste in poetry often did favor poets known as Symbolists as well, such as Stephane Mallarme. Khnopff’s painting Stéphane Mallarmé's Poetry's (Listening to Flowers) (above, from 1892) beautifully captures the indescribable experience of indulging oneself completely with poetry. The subtitle “Listening to Flowers” seems nonsensical until you accept that listening to Mallarme’s poetry itself is often a non-rational, nonsensical exercise. Just as with artists trying to paint music, Khnopff sets himself up with a tremendous challenge in trying to translate poetry into a visual medium beyond just simple illustration, which the Pre-Raphaelites often did for the works of Tennyson, Keats, and others.

Years later, Khnopff returned to the theme of poetry in his painting Sappho (above, from 1912). In his depiction of the famous Greek poetess (and infamous “original” lesbian), Khnopff accentuates the sexual nature of her poetry in a decidedly non-Victorian way. Such works inspired younger artists such as Gustav Klimt to take similar figures of the past and explore the sexual possibilities in the new, symbolically evocative style Khnopff (and Gustave Moreau before him) pioneered. By openly flirting with the taboo of homosexuality, Khnopff broke new ground that Klimt would delve even further into in his drawings and paintings of women together. At the moment in which classical poetry began to evolve into what we know as modern poetry, Fernand Khnopff helped give it visual form and added another dimension to it that later artists such as Picasso (with Guillaume Apollinaire) would take even further.

Funeral for a Friend

Painters are often called poets with colors and poets are often called painters with words, but few painters and poets ever shared as close a bond as Pablo Picasso and Guilaume Apollinaire. “United in mutual respect, intellectual agreement, and a shared sense of humor,” Peter Read writes in Picasso and Apollinaire: The Persistence of Memory, Picasso and Apollinaire helped shape each other’s art from their first meeting in 1905 to Apollinaire’s death in 1918. Like a phantom limb, Apollinaire remained a presence in Picasso’s life for the next half century and continued to shape Picasso’s never-ending evolution. Read masterfully examines the depth of their relationship from its warm humor in caricatures such as Picasso’s drawing of Apollinaire as a tea pot (above, from 1905) to the inventive use of typography in Apollinaire’s Calligrammes to the haunting seriousness of Picasso’s forty-year quest to create a fitting memorial to his friend’s memory. Against the backdrop of avant-garde Paris before the Great War up until the 1970s, Read shows how these two men and their undying friendship placed them at the forefront of modern art.

Whereas most painters socialize with other painters, Picasso found himself most often in the company of poets—Jean Cocteau, Max Jacob, Andre Breton, Louis Aragon, Paul Eluard, and others. But none match the influence of Apollinaire, whom Picasso met through Jacob. The two immediately became fast friends—soul mates from the start. Alfred Jarry served as the patron saint over all the artists of this period. “Jarry’s Rabelaisian vulgarity,” Read writes, “which inverted the hierarchy of human faculties, paved the way for Picasso’s 1907 revolution against established canons of beauty and retinal perspective in Les Demoiselles d'Avignon.” When Picasso and Apollinaire meet, they both still cling to classicism in their art—Apollinaire in his Alcools poems and Picasso in his Blue and Rose Periods. Apollinaire’s choice of a Cubist portrait of himself as the frontispiece to Alcools, however, announces a new direction in his art and links that direction to Picasso’s development. Apollinaire’s next collection, Calligrammes, features shaped poems in which the typography builds visuals such as the Eiffel Tower (above). At the same time, Apollinaire writes as an art critic for several publications, using his media outlet to promote Picasso’s art as well as all modern art looking to sweep away the conventions of the past. Like Vasari praising Michelangelo in his Lives, Apollinaire uses “Promethean and Pentecostal imagery” to posit Picasso as the culmination of all that came before. Unlike Vasari, however, Apollinaire refuses to cast other artists as villains and provide the anti-modernists with ammunition, which allows him to promote Matisse—a pseudo-third leg to the Apollinaire-Picasso love triangle—and others. Picasso even appears in Apollinaire’s fiction, playing out the same artistic struggles as in real life. In all these writings on Picasso, Read asserts, “Apollinaire is fully engaged as a creative writer, blurring the frontiers between journalism and literature, poetry and prose,” while simultaneously spurring Picasso to follow suit in blurring all lines of movements and “isms” in finding his own unique vision.

“Each combined coherent development with constant renewal,” Read writes of his title pair. Not even the onset of World War I could sever their ties. Sadly, just as the war ended, the 1918 Spanish Flu Pandemic claimed the life of Apollinaire, who had been weakened by exposure to gas warfare in the trenches. The entire circle centered upon Apollinaire grieved over his loss and gathered at his grave in Père Lachaise Cemetery each year on the November 9th anniversary. When a committee formed to erect a memorial at the poet’s grave, Picasso seemed the natural choice, but the artist struggled with the commission. Read recreates wonderfully the debate over the memory of Apollinaire—split between those who admired his classical side and those, like Picasso, who admired more the poet’s experimental side. Mimicking Apollinaire’s cut-and-paste poet technique, Picasso developed a cut-and-paste metal sculptural technique with the help of Julio Gonzalez. In 1930, Picasso offers Woman in a Garden (above) as a memorial for Apollinaire’s tomb. “Built to guard a poet’s tomb,” Read writes, “the sculpture fuses human, animal, vegetable, and mechanical forms in a structure whose main lines of force emphasize vertical energy.” Unfortunately, the modernism of Picasso’s memorial overwhelms the committee, including the widow, Jacqueline. “The committee wanted an ornament,” Read concludes, “but Picasso designed an idol.” In 1935, the committee allowed another artist to design the graveside memorial, but Picasso remained the true keeper of the Apollinaire flame.

Each year on the November 9th anniversary of Apollinaire’s death, Picasso would make some great gesture or create some noteworthy work of art. For the thirtieth anniversary, in 1948, Picasso painted The Kitchen (above). Since Apollinaire’s death, Picasso had witnessed much more death, visiting the extermination camps in Warsaw, Auschwitz, and Birkenau to witness first-hand the horror of the Holocaust whispered about in occupied France during World War II. The title of The Kitchen creates a false sense of domesticity, but the skull-like face in the center, with plates for eyes, disrupts the reassuring atmosphere. “The Kitchen,” Read believes, “uses a language of abstract black calligraphy, spread over empty space, to express the inexpressible.” As Apollinaire once patterned his poetry into shapes decades before, Picasso here reaches for poetry through his own use of line when words themselves fail. Read never fails to link the living Picasso to the deceased Apollinaire. Among all the ghosts of the entire haunted twentieth century, Apollinaire speaks loudest to Picasso from the beyond, constantly reminding him of the need to move on and create in even the darkest times.

Read ends this love story with a happy ending. Apollinaire’s widow Jacqueline never stopped asking Picasso to create some memorial to her husband, his friend. Other artists, including Matisse, flirted with the idea of public memorial to the poet. Finally, in 1959, Picasso donated the sculpture titled Head of Dora Maar (above) as a memorial to Apollinaire to be placed on Saint-Germain-des-Pres. Read includes a slew of photos taken on the day of the unveiling in 1959, but Picasso himself seems conspicuous by his absence. The sculpture itself stands for his monumental presence in the honoring of his friend. Both classically scaled yet modernly abstracted, Picasso’s sculpture acknowledges both sides of the poet as well as both sides of his own art, bringing the relationship that began almost half a century before back full circle. Read neatly ties up all the loose strings and brings down the curtain gently on this long friendship, presenting a casebook example of how a common artistic spirit can transcend all media. Anyone who wishes to understand the head and heart of Picasso needs to know the works of Apollinaire. Anyone who wishes to understand exactly how the works of each of those two artists, so individual yet so united, fit together in life and in death, needs to know Peter Read’s Picasso and Apollinaire: The Persistence of Memory.

[Many thanks to the University of California Press for providing me with a review copy of Peter Read’s Picasso and Apollinaire: The Persistence of Memory.]