Walls of work
Portraits of hidden feelings
of chain thoughts
Plates of paint
Sculptures of night owls
Years of moments on canvas
Still not finished yet
You walk through a street, towards the museum.
At a crossing, you see Picasso's posters, leading to an underground entrance.
You walk down, surprised. Wasn't the exhibition supposed to happen in a museum?
Are you wrong or right?
are right. You buy the ticket at the sublevel ticket booth. There is a corridor.
A glass door. You are there. A room unfolds in front of you. You are three meters
above ground. A long walkway leads to the paintings. You let your eyes wander
through the room, trying to get some orientation. Paintings and paintings. Where
To your right, in eye level, an endless white wall. On this
wall: drawings. Drawings and drawings and drawings. Not only dozens, but hundreds.
Like a mosaic, like tiles of moments, like calendar pages of creativity. You are
surprised, you didn' t know that Picasso did so many drawings in his life. You
walk down the walkway, following the lines of drawings. When you reach the floor,
you take a step towards them, take a closer look, see the patterns of theme in
them. Women. Horses. Women. Women. Men. Women. Women. Fauns. Women. Women. Women.
Women. An endless chain thought, reaching through months, through years, or so
It is only some dozens of drawings later that you notice the
letters above the paintings that tell the period of time in which Picasso did
all those drawings you just saw. 3 months. You stand there, amazed. You stand
there, looking at the drawings, wondering where he got the energy from to create
them all, them and so much more. His paintings. His sculptures. The drawings,
they probably were the smaller part of his work in those three months. It seems
You walk on, see paintings, huge huge paintings, small paintings,
portraits, faces, emotions. You sit down, on one of the wooden benches. Take a
understand. He had to do it. It had already been there, and he had to create it
to make it visible. He just had to. It never was a question.
That at least is how Picasso's
pieces of work felt for more, there, on this day, in this year. Like dreams that
thought I crossed almost exactly a year ago already, in London, a thought that
crossed my way again there, in Munich:
"This need to strive,
to express, to create, to share, to live, it is so strong that it almost hurts,
and at the same time it feels simply natural, feels like the only thing to do,
as if all the words and pictures already waited somewhere for me to find them,
like dreams waiting to come true, like
dreams that need completion."