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Yahoo
20-03-2025
- Entertainment
- Yahoo
Picasso, a monster? These women have something different to say
In 2023, on the 50th anniversary of his death, Pablo Picasso was posthumously selected as a candidate for character assassination. 'Monstrous misogynist', 'brutally chauvinistic' and 'notoriously cruel' were among the terms used in media headlines. The prominent British critic Adrian Searle referred to the artist as a 'vampire, sociopath and narcissist'. The BBC released a documentary titled Picasso: The Beauty and The Beast – the emphasis firmly on the latter. In New York, the Brooklyn Museum went so far that even the censorious were ashamed: It's Pablo-matic, an exhibition of Picasso works curated by comedian Hannah Gadsby, criticised its own contents at every turn – 'He's sold to us as this passionate, virile, tormented-genius man-ballsack,' Gadsby complained in looped clips – but was itself widely mocked. Sue Roe's new book, Hidden Portraits, follows the lives of the six main women in Picasso's life: Fernande Olivier, Olga Khokhlova, Marie-Thérèse Walter, Dora Maar, Françoise Gilot and Jacqueline Roque. Roe wants to illuminate the individual stories of these women, who've often been dismissed, she writes, as 'adjuncts to the artist's story… supporters, companions and muses.' The nuance of her approach is refreshing and admirable. Roe acknowledges that victim narratives, however fashionable, risk 'doing these women a disservice… Picasso transformed six women's lives – and fuller disclosure reveals the complexity, richness and excitement of life with him.' And yet the illumination Roe brings is a brief spotlight, for six whole lives – a collective 465 years of existence – have been crammed together into a 300-page book. Each woman's 'biography' is thus whittled down to about 50 pages: that's a light introduction, more than anything else. Despite Roe's initial claim that this work will combat the prevailing Picasso-centric narrative, Hidden Portraits inadvertently reiterates the idea that these six women were supporting roles to the main act – she just adds a little biographical colour. Even her title seems to fetishise these women as the artist's subjects. Furthermore, the claim that these stories are being 'released from the shadows' is marketing fluff, and hard to substantiate. Roe has made some important discoveries over the course of her research – for example, the truth about Walter's childhood and the identity of her father – but all these women's lives have already been documented by the women themselves in diaries or memoirs, or by biographers, or through interviews. Roe's task has been more one of accumulation and concentration than of true documentation. This isn't necessarily for the worst. Roe's collection of stories reveals her strength as a historically-conscious anecdotalist, and her lively prose evokes Paris, and Europe, in the early 20th century. We learn of how Khokhlova, Picasso's first wife and a member of Diaghilev's Ballet Russes, lost all communication with her family in the early days of her relationship with the artist because of the Russian Revolution of 1917. When letters resumed in January 1920, 'she kept from her family any details of her opulent lifestyle; she did not even tell them who her husband was' – because of the dire conditions in which her relatives were living. It was only when her brother Vladimir visited the Schukin Museum in Moscow in August 1925 that they began to understand the scale of Picasso's celebrity. Vladimir wrote to his sister: 'I was finally able to see your husband's paintings… [they] take up three rooms!' We read of the 'surrealist one-woman show' that Maar put on in January 1936 in the Deux Magots café in Place Saint-Germain des Prés, which won Picasso's attention. Dora was sitting at the cafe 'dressed all in black, cigarette in its long holder between her fingers, her gloves embroidered with red rosebuds'. Picasso watched from a nearby table with a friend while Dora 'peeled off her gloves, then began stabbing between her fingers with a penknife, occasionally drawing small drops of blood. Then she calmly replaced her gloves.' Later, when Picasso was with Gilot, Roe recounts that one of the 'eccentric tasks' the latter had to undertake was 'recounting the money Picasso kept in a locked truck, once he had counted it himself'. This was because Picasso had seen Charlie Chaplin 'count sheaves of bank notes in Monsieur Verdoux, his favourite scene in the film, and been impressed by the speed of his counting, but in trying to match (or beat) it, he made mistakes.' One of Roe's accomplishments is that she draws out how each of these women influenced Picasso's work: and how they correspond to different periods: Olivier was 'central to the development of the Rose Period', Maar played a key role in the technical design of Guernica's (1937) monumental structure. Roe's voice lends itself to beautiful descriptions of Picasso's work, albeit the close stylistic analysis of these paintings – as well-executed as it is – occasionally detracts from the stated focus of the book. This is at its most obvious when Roe spends a large part of the chapter on Roque discussing Picasso's artistic influences and his struggle with his own mortality. Most importantly, in Hidden Portraits Picasso doesn't come across as an irredeemable monster. He gave most of his ex-wives and lovers pensions for the rest of their lives, and left some of them houses or apartments to live in. In an interview with Cabanne in 1974, after Picasso's death, Walter recalled that 'He was the one that did the washing, did the cooking, took care of Maya [their daughter], he did everything, except perhaps make the beds.' Obviously, not all of his behaviour was exemplary, but he didn't purport to be a paragon of virtue. He wasn't Jesus, but a Cubist genius. Or rather, in the words of Walter, he was a 'holy devil… but a most wonderful terror'. Hidden Portraits is published by Faber at £25. To order your copy, call 0330 173 5030 or visit Telegraph Books Broaden your horizons with award-winning British journalism. Try The Telegraph free for 1 month with unlimited access to our award-winning website, exclusive app, money-saving offers and more.
Telegraph
19-03-2025
- Entertainment
- Telegraph
Picasso, a monster? These women have something different to say
In 2023, on the 50th anniversary of his death, Pablo Picasso was posthumously selected as a candidate for character assassination. 'Monstrous misogynist', 'brutally chauvinistic' and 'notoriously cruel' were among the terms used in media headlines. The prominent British critic Adrian Searle referred to the artist as a 'vampire, sociopath and narcissist'. The BBC released a documentary titled Picasso: The Beauty and The Beast – the emphasis firmly on the latter. In New York, the Brooklyn Museum went so far that even the censorious were ashamed: It's Pablo-matic, an exhibition of Picasso works curated by comedian Hannah Gadsby, criticised its own contents at every turn – 'He's sold to us as this passionate, virile, tormented-genius man-ballsack,' Gadsby complained in looped clips – but was itself widely mocked. Sue Roe's new book, Hidden Portraits, follows the lives of the six main women in Picasso's life: Fernande Olivier, Olga Khokhlova, Marie-Thérèse Walter, Dora Maar, François Gilot and Jacqueline Roque. Roe wants to illuminate the individual stories of these women, who've often been dismissed, she writes, as 'adjuncts to the artist's story… supporters, companions and muses.' The nuance of her approach is refreshing and admirable. Roe acknowledges that victim narratives, however fashionable, risk 'doing these women a disservice… Picasso transformed six women's lives – and fuller disclosure reveals the complexity, richness and excitement of life with him.' And yet the illumination Roe brings is a brief spotlight, for six whole lives – a collective 465 years of existence – have been crammed together into a 300-page book. Each woman's 'biography' is thus whittled down to about 50 pages: that's a light introduction, more than anything else. Despite Roe's initial claim that this work will combat the prevailing Picasso-centric narrative, Hidden Portraits inadvertently reiterates the idea that these six women were supporting roles to the main act – she just adds a little biographical colour. Even her title seems to fetishise these women as the artist's subjects. Furthermore, the claim that these stories are being 'released from the shadows' is marketing fluff, and hard to substantiate. Roe has made some important discoveries over the course of her research – for example, the truth about Walter's childhood and the identity of her father – but all these women's lives have already been documented by the women themselves in diaries or memoirs, or by biographers, or through interviews. Roe's task has been more one of accumulation and concentration than of true documentation. This isn't necessarily for the worst. Roe's collection of stories reveals her strength as a historically-conscious anecdotalist, and her lively prose evokes Paris, and Europe, in the early 20th century. We learn of how Khokhlova, Picasso's first wife and a member of Diaghilev's Ballet Russes, lost all communication with her family in the early days of her relationship with the artist because of the Russian Revolution of 1917. When letters resumed in January 1920, 'she kept from her family any details of her opulent lifestyle; she did not even tell them who her husband was' – because of the dire conditions in which her relatives were living. It was only when her brother Vladimir visited the Schukin Museum in Moscow in August 1925 that they began to understand the scale of Picasso's celebrity. Vladimir wrote to his sister: 'I was finally able to see your husband's paintings… [they] take up three rooms!' We read of the 'surrealist one-woman show' that Maar put on in January 1936 in the Deux Magots café in Place Saint-Germain des Prés, which won Picasso's attention. Dora was sitting at the cafe 'dressed all in black, cigarette in its long holder between her fingers, her gloves embroidered with red rosebuds'. Picasso watched from a nearby table with a friend while Dora 'peeled off her gloves, then began stabbing between her fingers with a penknife, occasionally drawing small drops of blood. Then she calmly replaced her gloves.' Later, when Picasso was with Gilot, Roe recounts that one of the 'eccentric tasks' the latter had to undertake was 'recounting the money Picasso kept in a locked truck, once he had counted it himself'. This was because Picasso had seen Charlie Chaplin 'count sheaves of bank notes in Monsieur Verdoux, his favourite scene in the film, and been impressed by the speed of his counting, but in trying to match (or beat) it, he made mistakes.' One of Roe's accomplishments is that she draws out how each of these women influenced Picasso's work: and how they correspond to different periods: Olivier was 'central to the development of the Rose Period', Maar played a key role in the technical design of Guernica's (1937) monumental structure. Roe's voice lends itself to beautiful descriptions of Picasso's work, albeit the close stylistic analysis of these paintings – as well-executed as it is – occasionally detracts from the stated focus of the book. This is at its most obvious when Roe spends a large part of the chapter on Roque discussing Picasso's artistic influences and his struggle with his own mortality. Most importantly, in Hidden Portraits Picasso doesn't come across as an irredeemable monster. He gave most of his ex-wives and lovers pensions for the rest of their lives, and left some of them houses or apartments to live in. In an interview with Cabanne in 1974, after Picasso's death, Walter recalled that 'He was the one that did the washing, did the cooking, took care of Maya [their daughter], he did everything, except perhaps make the beds.' Obviously, not all of his behaviour was exemplary, but he didn't purport to be a paragon of virtue. He wasn't Jesus, but a Cubist genius. Or rather, in the words of Walter, he was a 'holy devil… but a most wonderful terror'.
The Guardian
22-02-2025
- Entertainment
- The Guardian
The Australian Ballet: Nijinsky review - riveting, defiant portrait of madness ain't pretty
Ballet often seems burdened by cultural associations that are hard to shake: it's thought of as overly reliant on formalism and tradition; it has to be pretty above everything else, even if the result is slightly prudish; its power and athleticism are subsumed under mountains of tulle. Of course, none of this is necessarily true. Case in point: John Neumeier's riveting, heart-rending narrative ballet about the life and torment of Vaslav Nijinsky, which is as far from pretty as ballet can be. Nijinsky was, before Nureyev, the most famous and beloved male dancer of the 20th century, a key figure in the Ballet Russes and the lover of that company's impresario, Sergei Diaghilev. He achieved some stunning professional highs – and a fair share of onstage controversy – but his career was terminated prematurely by schizophrenia. He spent the remainder of his life in and out of institutions. Sign up for a weekly email featuring our best reads In telling this tragic story, Neumeier eschews the kind of literalism that stymied Christopher Wheeldon's recent ballet, Oscar. In that work, the biographical details of Oscar Wilde's life were laid out chronologically, resulting in a staid, join-the-dots narrative arc. Here, the facts and pivotal moments of Nijinsky's career are presented in disjointed, hallucinogenic slivers; there is a haunted quality to the work, a kind of swirling hysteria. It opens at the Suvretta House in St Moritz where Nijinsky gives his final, improvised solo performance to a collection of bemused hotel guests, and where his mental decline becomes inescapable. As the crowd gathers, frivolous and glib, Nijinsky (Callum Linnane) enters, imperial if slightly dazed. He begins to dance, and immediately we are captivated by two contrasting qualities: his poise, that regal characteristic which earned him the moniker of the 'god of dance'; and the instability of his anxiety, expressed by footwork that seems involuntary, disconnected to his thought processes. Soon various embodiments of the parts he once danced appear before him – from Harlequin (Marcus Morelli) and the faun (Jake Mangakahia) to Petruschka (Brodie James) – along with an increasing number of lovers and family members. The hotel ingeniously breaks apart like a fissure in space-time, and memory kaleidoscopes in increasingly fraught visions. Solos become pas de deux which become pas de trois and quartre; a layering of relationships is mirrored by the layering of bodies on top of each other. Much of Neumeier's choreography here is highly charged and psychosexual, playing overtly with themes of dominance and submission. It's also defiantly queer. If the first act is fragmentary and febrile, the second sees Nijinsky descend further inside his mind. Biographical detail is completely abstracted as images of war collide with memories of the stage, and familial relationships – notably with his equally mentally ill brother, Stanislav (Elijah Trevitt, in a performance of great urgency and vulnerability) and achingly committed wife, Romola (Grace Carroll, noble and resigned) – come under growing strain. If madness in ballet has become a trope – from Giselle and the Red Shoes through to Black Swan – then Neumeier manages to thread a genuinely poignant, respectful portrait of the artist pushed to breaking point. The ostentatious gestures of distress – a hand repeatedly bashed against the skull or a foot suddenly turned out at right angles – may signify mental disorder but they also feel credible and psychologically authentic. Even the cliche of the Byronic artist sacrificed on the pyre of creativity feels appropriate and earned. Nijinsky is a ballet that largely plays out among the principals and featured dancers; there's a distinct impression that Neumeier could have done away with the corps altogether. He creates several scenes of powerful and arresting group work, but it's the individuals who shine. Maxim Zenin is a haughty but steadfast Diaghilev, and Jake Mangakahia draws out the deep sensuality of both the Golden Slave and the faun. Jill Ogai is magnificent as Nijinsky's sister Bronislava, and Morelli's Spectre of the Rose is vividly sexual and suggestive. Sign up to Saved for Later Catch up on the fun stuff with Guardian Australia's culture and lifestyle rundown of pop culture, trends and tips after newsletter promotion Of course, we would be nowhere without a Nijinsky who could conjure the fire and elan of the premier danseur himself. While Linnane doesn't have the lifts that made Nijinsky's reputation, he more than compensates with an intensity of purpose and emotional range that brings Hamlet to mind. His hooded features – those recessed, owl-like eyes and ghostly pallor – can shift from a sunny litheness to a brooding melancholy, and his slippage into psychosis has a grandeur that never stoops to bathos or melodrama. Linnane's is a singular talent at the height of its power. Jonathan Lo conducts the Australian Ballet orchestra with great control and warmth, from the stately restraint in Chopin's prelude in C minor to the rich intricacies of Rimsky-Korsakov. Neumeier's musical selection is wonderfully evocative of the history of ballet, and he channels Diaghilev in his approach to the gesamkunstwerk, or total work of art. His often sparse lighting, the precision of his costumes, the asymmetry in the mise-en-scene, all combine to thrilling effect. Australian Ballet have only mounted Nijinsky once before, in 2016. If the zeitgeist has moved away from the lionisation of tortured male artists who suck the vigour from their life partners, Neumeier's work still retains the power to shock and move us. Ballet can often seem like an act of suppression, intrinsically coy, but here it is searing and passionate, an act of defiant majesty. The god of the dance would surely approve. Nijinsky runs at the Regent Theatre, Melbourne, until 1 March; and at Sydney Opera House from 4-22 April
