Picasso: A Biography. Patrick O’Brian

strange if they had not disagreed.

      He left home and spent several weeks in a bawdy-house. He cannot possibly have been a guest who paid in cash, but he returned the girls’ kindness by decorating the walls of the room in which they sheltered him. The location of the murals (covered over long since, no doubt) and the exact sequence of events has eluded the researches of even Josep Palau, yet it is probable that it was after the brothel had fulfilled its didactic purpose that he moved in with his friend Santiago Cardona, the brother of the sculptor he had known at the Llotja. Picasso had a small room where he worked and slept, and its window gave on to the Calle d’Escudellers Blancs, a narrow, densely-populated street leading from the Ramblas towards the cathedral: it was here that he was painting in April, 1899. The other rooms were devoted to the making of corsets, and at intervals of painting and drawing Picasso loved to operate the machine that made the holes for the necessary tapes; since the workmen liked him, as workmen always did, he could indulge himself as much as ever he chose.

      The break with his family was neither violent nor lasting, however; there are kindly drawings of his father from this period, and his sister often came to see him. And it was here, too, in this little room, that later in the same year Sabartés first met Picasso, brought by a fellow sculpture-student, Mateo de Soto. “Science and Charity” was leaning up against a wall, together with “Aragonese Customs,” and Picasso, among piles of drawings and sketchbooks, was busy at another painting for which Soto was the model. His piercing black gaze put his diffident visitor out of countenance; the pictures and the drawings quite overcame him; and when they said good-bye Sabartés bent in a kind of respectful bow. This was the beginning of what may be called a friendship, according to one’s definition of the word, and of what must be called a domination that lasted, with one long interruption when Sabartés was in America, until his death in 1968.

      

      For Dr. Johnson every conversation was a contest for superiority: this was also true of Picasso, and there were few relationships in which he did not quickly establish himself as the dominant partner. Later in his life, when he could bring world-wide notoriety and great wealth into play, victory was fatally easy; but even at this stage, when he was eighteen, penniless and unknown, he was accepted as a leading figure at the Quatre Gats, even by those who can have had little notion of his talent and even by those who disliked him.

      It was not that he talked much at the Quatre Gats; in fact he was often silent, moody, withdrawn, absorbed or apparently bored, as well he might have been with some of the morphine creeps who frequented the place—he was always easily bored, and more easily as the years went by. But when he did speak he spoke well, often wittily, and always with the unconscious authority of a man who could already draw and paint better than any of the artists there except perhaps Isidro Nonell.

      A man: in some ways certainly a man. Much of his painting had been fully mature these four or five years past. But he was not yet formed: he had read little, he had had virtually no formal education, and in the nature of things he had very little experience of adult life; what is more, the child Pablo still lived on in him then, as it was to live on for the rest of his life, with comic hats, false noses (and child-fresh painting) at the age of ninety.

      At this time he was beginning to work out his own aesthetic, an aesthetic destined to destroy painting as it was then conceived and to thrust the boundaries of perception far beyond their known limits: one is tempted to say “to enlarge the idea of beauty” except for the fact that Picasso was primarily concerned with being rather than with what is ordinarily understood by that vague word beauty. “Beauty?” he said to Sarbatés, “… To me it is a word without sense because I do not know where its meaning comes from nor where it leads to.”

      It was an enormously ambitious project, and it was accompanied by self-doubt, periods of depression, and false starts: one does not shatter one’s own matrix, eat one’s own father, without some hesitation; yet in ten years from this time it was largely accomplished. Already the results of the process were evident in the prodigiously rapid development of his work in 1899 and 1900; but as a wholly conscious process it was only just beginning, and the milieu in which it began helps to explain at least some of the external forces acting upon it.

      As I said earlier, Picasso has often been compared to Goethe, and certainly they had much in common, including the “virtue of lasting” and an extraordinary physical vitality; but whereas Goethe was an insider, solidly based in his social and national contexts, endowed with an elaborate education and with money, and supported on all sides by the culture of his time, Picasso was socially peripheral, his sense of national identity was at least troubled, his schooling had scarcely passed the elementary stage, and the culture of his time, such as it was, oppressed him on every hand. His eventual aim was to revolutionize a great part of this culture, and apart from his native genius all he had to help him in his intellectual formation for the task were his contacts in Barcelona and his early years in Paris: the Quatre Gats and Montparnasse were to be his Leipzig and Strassburg, his Greek, Latin, and philosophy.

      As far as it was political at all, the general feeling at the Quatre Gats was of course left-wing. In this it was opposed to the Cercle Artístic de Sant Lluc, the respectable haven of the academic painters, good Catholics, patronized by Church, state, and big business. The two groups did resemble one another in being separatist and in the fact that at least some of the Sant Llucs were devoted to Modernismo—Gaudi himself was a member—but as far as religion was concerned they were poles apart. The Sant Llucs sympathized with the strong rise of right-wing Catholicism so evident in Spain during the long regency of the Habsburg Queen Christina: whereas at the Quatre Gats, although plenty of mysticism was to be found, it was mostly of the cloudy, imported kind, pantheistic, wooly, scarcely of the native growth at all; and since there was also a strong anarchist element, downright atheism was sometimes added to the left-wing anticlericalism—a striking contrast to a young man fresh from the age-old rural piety of Horta de Ebro.

      The anarchism, in its more general implications, struck a responsive chord in him: Picasso was increasingly conscious of the misery caused by the system and its injustice—the evidence lay all about him in Barcelona—and his awareness was increased by Nonell. In 1896 Nonell, who was eight years older than Picasso and who had been drawn to Modernismo earlier, went to Caldas de Bohí, a village with hot springs right up in the mountains, under the Maladetta, and notorious for its goitrous idiots. He made a series of drawings of them which he exhibited in the hall of the Vanguardia and at the Quatre Gats. They are masterly, disturbing drawings, with a strong, fluid line enclosing the highly simplified figures. They may be said to belong to Art Noveau, but they injected a vital hardness into the milk-and-water lakes and fairies, chlorotic maidens stuff produced by Puvis de Chavannes, Maurice Denis, and so many others at the time, and they made a considerable sensation. Nonell’s was a direct expression of true, unsentimental sympathy: when Picasso produced his hospital patients in the article of death and his raddled whores it is tempting to say that he went one better, for here the savagery is not only far more intense, but it is unjudging, a flat statement—empathy rather than sympathy. Yet, “one better” implies competition or at least influence, and it is dangerous to speak of influence where Picasso is concerned. So much was already implicit in his early work and he had preconceived so many tendencies before their public birth elsewhere that an apparent influence is often no more than another man’s discovery of something that Picasso had already found out for himself—a discovery more fully developed, perhaps, by the kindred spirit (van Gogh comes to mind), but not radically new to Picasso. In this case the savagery, the guts, which both he and Nonell brought to Modernismo was perfectly evident in Picasso’s childish work; and in this case as in so many others “reinforcement” is nearer the mark than “influence.”

      Anarchism too had formed part of his early outlook, and the talk at the Quatre Gats can have done little more than illustrate and encourage an existing hatred for authority and a determined rejection of rules imposed from without.

      The most esteemed anarchist at the Quatre Gats was young Jaume Brossa: he had no great opinion of the artists he beheld there—”neurotic dilettanti, only concerned with being different from the philistines and the bourgeois”—but he did feel that there was promise for the art of the coming century, the anarchists’ secular millennium. “Man, carried away by a just