According to the most recent edition of Newsweek, Picasso's Demoiselles, which was finished exactly 100 years ago, in the summer of 1907—is the most important work of art of the last 100 years. Its importance, according to art critic Peter Plagens, comes from
Picasso's merciless mishmash of styles: a bit of Matisse (the older guy he was trying to dethrone as king of the avant-garde), some appropriation from African masks, a dash of casual realism in one of the hands and a fruit arrangement down in front, and a whole lot of cubism 1.0.
Picasso's good friend and "loyal patron Gertrude Stein deemed the picture a veritable cataclysm." Demoiselles, which depicts five nudes in a brothel, was the first of its kind, even for Picasso. When he began painting it, he was 25 years old. When he finished it, at least one of his cohorts (André Derain) feared suicide would follow.
When Picasso began "Demoiselles" in 1906, Monet's
impressionism (generally realistic landscapes translated into flecks of
dappled color) and Matisse's brand of fauvism (scenes and portraits in
simple shapes and bright hues expressing the artist's emotional
enthusiasm) were painting's cutting edge.
One of the other finalists for most important work of the last century was Jackson Pollock's One (Number 31), which caught my attention because I just saw Ed Harris' award-winning film, Pollock a couple of nights ago. Harris spent close to ten years studying Pollock, learning to paint, and ultimately directing the film. He created a disturbing portrait of a disturbing man—a man who may well have committed suicide, or at least that's what the film implies.
Pollock's story left me with the feeling that, no matter the media, genius is ruthless and any artist who embodies genius is truly at its mercy—which often translates into a descent of self-destruction. I felt the same watching the recent release, Copying Beethoven, which coincidentally (or maybe not) also stars Ed Harris, this time as the deaf and dying Beethoven. He's composing his Ninth Symphony in 1824 with its choral section, as unheard in Beethoven's day as cubism was in Picasso's. The spectacular performance of the symphony makes an otherwise lack-luster film well worth seeing in my opinion.
In any event, I know it's an over-simplification, but I think artistic genius is an energy that the human mind/body can barely withstand, that it can literally rip a person to pieces, and most often does. Because of this, I find myself filled with great gratitude for those who can surrender to such a force and leave in their wake remarkable achievements. I think of it as an act of courage.
