Picasso's Amazing Gallery - 1

The Man And His Art - Picasso In His Own Words:

The Grand Exhibition Tour

 
 A portrait of my son, Claude, with his horse Horsey who died from malnutrition only hours after I finished the painting. Claude took all the money I gave him for horse-food and used it to buy a baseball bat to club pigeons. Such a fine little Marxist.

 
What if children had a penis on their heads? 

No-one ever contemplated this question. Degas claims he did, but what does that impressionist ass know. I call this one "Flapping Arms Beneath A Strange Penis". The two round objects are underdeveloped breasts (no nipples, see); I also toyed briefly with the idea of every person on Earth having breasts. The chair is a director's chair – Richard Attenborough's chair, to be exact. His son served as the model. We had to get permission for him to skip a day in the London School For Very Retarded Kids.

 
"Horsey Doesn't Like Tsunami".

Horsey in his better days. A portrait of him trying to get into a house and safety from a giant oncoming wave. However, my son Claude had left a key in the lock just to annoy Horsey. He had to sit out the tsunami on the beach which had us all in stitches, quite frankly. Oh, how we laughed…

 
"Tired Breasts Of The Proletariat".

After a hard day's work, Soviet peasants enjoy life as only Communism can provide. Notice the muscles on that man-boy's arms. (I know I have…) This was only months before I started my renowned crappy breasts phase: I was just getting warmed up here.

 
"What Objects Do You See On This Picture? The Answer Is On Page 87".

A magazine editor asked me if he could use this gem as a picture-puzzle. I spat in his face. He then offered me $250 and a puzzle it was, with this new name. The original title was "The Conceptual Rituals Of A Multitude Of Screaming Meanies".

 
My daughter Paloma, after her third eye-surgery. Note how she has 6 fingers on one hand, just like her doll. So damn symbolic.

"A Couple Of Retards Fishing".

One of the best from my sublime cretins period.

 
"King Ptolemy Spits Into His Cup Of Milk".

One of my favourites from my spitting ruler phase. It came after my vomiting tsars phase, and just before the urinating barons phase which is particularly popular among piss-fetishists.

 
Watching my paintings day-in and day-out gives me headaches sometimes. The price of fame and Modern Art.

 
"King Ptolemy Has Run Out Of Spit".

This was my jubilee 35,000^th painting. I am referring to my work from 1958. In 1959 the output fell by a couple thou due to illness. More on that later…

 
"Beautiful Nude Woman With Bush".

Degas once asked me what size pair of shoes I would buy this woman. He is a moron, plain and simple. The reason one foot is size 41 and the other 68 is simple: the smaller foot is closer to the eye (the viewer's) hence it appears to be smaller than the other one. No, wait… Forget it. Next picture.

 
Belongs to my famous crappy breasts phase. I usually call it "16 Pubes" because that's how many pubic hairs there are, if you look closely. But don't look too close. Because if you do, you'll get sexually excited. (I know I do.) Whenever I look too closely at it I tend to call it "Oh, Mama! Oh Mama!!!", but eventually I calm down and then it's back to "16 Pubes Again"… Or "32 Pubes" - but that's only when I get drunk.

 
"Facially Deformed Girl Taking Solace In Sailing".

 
"Serenading A Vagina To Make It Ovulate".

The blue man is young, but his wife of 38 is having trouble getting pregnant. I met a couple like that once and I could immediately empathize: I had a similar situation in the 50s when I married a woman 45 years my junior. I couldn't ovulate, either. And her terrible clarinet-playing only made things worse. Belongs to my caterpillar vagina period.

A classic. And a major breakthrough in modern art. After I finished my crappy breasts phase, I went head-first into a new phase – the crappy detached breasts phase. Notice how the woman on the right is balancing the other woman's pair of breasts with her left leg stretched out. Should she lower the legs, the breasts would fall like a couple of marbles, roll down and get lost in the vast emptiness of the sand dunes. Hence the breasts symbolize their love, which lies on the shoulders – or a leg, in this case – of the dyke on the right. I briefly considered adding a third lesbo in there but I didn't know where to put her legs and arms – no space left. Note how calm the eyes of the right dyke are as compared to the tiny ant-eyes of her lover. The explanation is simple: the left dyke's eyes are close to the detached breasts and are keenly monitoring their safety. While the left dyke does trust her lover on the right to keep the leg straight hence keep the breasts from falling down, she still has a smidgeon of a doubt. This symbolizes the ultimate shakiness of any relationship, lesbo or otherwise.

I call this masterpiece "Two Nude Chinese Lesbians Flapping Their Tongues In The Yellow Sand." The Chinese are yellow, see.

 
"Woman Wiping Her Third Eye". 

A minor painting from my pointless purple sobbing phase. My ninth love, Fernande, the one and only real love in my life, posed for this even though she didn't want to at first. I explained that it takes me only three minutes to complete a work such as this but then she said she didn't feel well. It was so typical of these putanas: whenever they were pregnant, it was "I can't do this, I won't do that… nyah, nyah, nyah"… After an hour of heated debate I finally convinced her to pose. I told her to cry because I needed a crying face. She said she couldn't, so I thumped her into the stomach. She spontaneously had a miscarriage – out of the blue – but she finally cried. I never laughed so hard! I barely held the brush in my hand, thought I'd piss my pants from laughing…

 
A day after Fernande's unlucky miscarriage I did this painting to cheer her up. It's called "The Unborn Screams For Placenta". She hated it. Her reaction kind of threw me off because she said a million times that she liked hens. I even dressed the hen like a ballerina, knowing her love for ballet. But putanas are all the same: you give them your artistic life and soul on a plate and they hurt you.

 
"Hi, Genius". 

One day I wondered: "how far back into my childhood can my memories reach?" So I drew this instant classic of myself in my mother's womb, looking at my own image that was being reflected on the smooth, shiny surface of her liver. Nowadays doctors can look at the unborn, even film them and teach them to read (unless they're  unborn Pollacks) - but there is one thing they cannot do: draw a brilliant portrait such as this one.   

"Nude Lady Provoking Men".

A work of art that overlaps my crappy breasts phase with my monotonous parallel lines all over the place for no apparent reason period. The painting had a strange effect on me for a while; because I sleepwalk, I used to get up in the middle of the night, and french-kiss the painting right on those sensual light-blue lips. Only after I'd try to grab the tits as well would I finally wake up – no nipples, see.

"Great-Looking Hot Stud In The Nude".

My flower-in-the-hair phase. I had great trouble keeping the flower in the hair, however; it kept falling off, due to my fucking balding problem, so I placed it on my ear. When you're going to San Francisco put a flower in your hair, but when you're this bald better put it on an ear. And if you're going to Malaga put a knife on the other ear because they hate anything pansy there. Didn't last for longer than a few weeks: I took it off when a bee stung me in the head. 
Honestly, I know hippies are morons, but I wanted to make them accept me into one of their communes. After all, I am a Communist, albeit a very rich one. Nothing wrong with that. Absolutely nothing. I can be rich and left-wing! I heard they had great orgies in those communes. But when I saw footage of them eating each other's ear-wax I sort of had a temporary identity crisis and questioned my Marxist beliefs. Fortunately, that didn't last long: a beautiful thing happened in Cambodia in the late 70s and I was back to my good ol' extreme left-wing roots.

 
This work of art is untitled to this day. If anyone can tell me what the hell is going on on this picture, apart from the piece of cheese, write to my agent: 

Hector Gonzales, El Representativo Del Arto De Picasso Y Otre Craposados, La Rua Del Carmina Burana 34/4, 14507 Espana.

"El Toro Stupido".

My proud, if unintentional, contribution to the meat industry. What do you get when you cross Cubism and a bull? You get the exact division of meat parts on him. The president of Spain's Butcher Society congratulated me for this work, saying that it inspired him to cut up bulls in new and different ways.

Unfortunately, all that's left of "El Toro Stupido" is a picture of it. The original painting was desecrated by my son Claude at age 8. He calls it "El Jackolate".  

"Putanas".

I did this in March 1884. Back then there were no porn channels, so one had to improvise. It's always had a deep effect on me.

Listen, we'll continue in a minute. Gotta go to the john…

 
A perennial favourite among my crappy breasts phase fans. "Beautiful Woman Throwing Fit In Toilet".

The rumours that the encircled navel was Claude's doing quite frankly insults me. I encircled the navel, not that little prick. The circle is meant to signify that the woman is pregnant. Pregnant with a circle, a geometric form that dominates sex (breasts, nipples, asses, penis-tops: all are round, see), hence the logical and unavoidable conclusion that man, i.e. woman, must eventually conceive a circle. There was much debate in New York and Paris art circles (no pun intended) as to whether she is expecting a boy circle or a girl circle. I'll settle that once and for all: on second thought, no. I won't. The longer they argue about it the more the picture's value goes up! 

So what about the square in the upper left corner? Is she screaming at an object whose form is so utterly opposite to her children's own form? Is she protesting against a world of "squares" who won't except her revolutionary new brood? Perhaps. Or maybe she just can't open the window because it's stuck and it pisses her off. Despite her long arms which may be long but no hands on them! No hands: but circles instead! Get it?? Brilliant, aren't I.

 
For a couple of weeks I was totally obsessed with serial-killers. This was my take on how a body reacts to being split in the middle by a madman with a large axe.

 
Unfortunately, this despicable, desecrated version is also in circulation in many art books. Claude did this when I was away in Russia, doing a tour of Soviet gulags. I swear I wanted to kill the little fucker! Luckily for him, I remembered that I hadn't issued an insurance policy on his life yet.

Left: "Ballerina In Need". Right: "Ballerina No Longer Needing".

 The drawing on the left shows that Claude's interference in my artistic endeavors wasn't all in vain. The clarity of my creative vision was all-too apparent in the left drawing. However, once I made a few changes the art became more succinct – and I emphasize the first half of this word in particular. Both sets of genitalos have cajones of different sizes, which is how it really is with real cajones – and I am nothing if not a realist. Hence my male genitalos show a maturity far beyond Claude's, who thought nothing more than to draw cajones that were the same size, which shows his inexperience with using the most basic art forms. I have drawn two sets of genitalos to represent a soprosistic duality in a virtual dialectic form. (Sorry, I don't have a clue what the fuck that means, either. It sounds great though.)

People always ask me whether the lower curly black thing is an extension of the ballerina's upper dress or whether it is a bushido. My answer is always the same: have you ever seen an el penis fuck a ballerina dress?

What at first looks like a woman sleeping blissfully while her long Greek nose casts a huge shadow on her nearly symmetrical face, is in fact nothing but a painting from my serial-killer period.

"Large Axe Splitting Woman's Head In Half" is a watershed painting of this phase because it moves away from the hacking and butchering of the torso to the hacking and splitting of the head. I was almost universally praised for giving her six fingers on each hand instead of the standard three. The reason I did this is also the explanation as to why the woman isn't sexually assaulted by the killer: he didn't want to have children with six fingers. Of course, I had some criticism from morons that "the killer wouldn't think about his potential offspring with a woman he has just killed, and that indeed a dead woman doesn't bear children – except maybe in Picasso's twisted world…" There have been recorded cases of serial-killers considering the genetic traits of their dead female victims! And to call my world "twisted"… that's the only positive thing in that review. Note how the middle breast protrudes: the serial killer sliced her head and then smooched on her breasts for a bit before going on to his next victim…

… which happens to be an owl. Another one from my serial killer period. A simple but effective portrait of how an owl would look if a mass murderer attacked it from behind and split its furry head in half with an axe. In "Hoot Did This?" the vase-like shape is a message to society: it is that a murdered owl need not be thrown away but can be put to good use as a vase. The opening in the bird's head is ideal for putting flowers, don't you think? I thought of adding some flowers inside the crack in the skull, but I changed my mind; I didn't want the message too be that obvious.

I couldn't get that dead woman from "Large Axe Splitting Woman's Head In Half" out of my mind for weeks, so I re-did the original which I rarely do - unless accidentally, like when I come home drunk from the pub and pee or vomit on the work. (In which case my work often sells even better.) There is something to be said about killing women indiscriminately… or killing anybody, for that matter. Perhaps that is what draws me to Socialism: the paradox of caring about your fellow man so much that you are willing to kill him and his whole family and all of his neighbours and friends just to prove your love for them.

A total departure in my serial-killer period. The woman, in spite of  being profoundly axed in the head, remains standing. This painting signaled the commencement of  my walking zombie phase.

There was an outright bidding war over this one, and the bidders were all male which is hardly surprising given the amazing tits portrayed. In the end, tennis star Andre Agassi outbid them all. His taste for beautiful women is well-known and appreciated. He phoned me the day after he bought it and asked me if I could pop over to his ranch in Las Vegas and make the nose bigger. He calls this painting "Almost Perfect".

 I didn't make the nose bigger. As much as I wanted to make "Almost Perfect" even prettier, I had to refuse him. Because if I did that for him, I'd have to do it for everyone else who bought my art and asked for changes. Do you have any idea how many artworks I would be changing per day?... People ask for bigger breasts, or they think seven legs aren't enough on a cat, or they want the sex to be more explicit, or they want the sperm in the upper-left corner to mix with the victim's blood in the lower-right corner, etc, etc, etc. I just don't have the time!

However, for Agassi I decided to do it, just to satisfy my own curiosity.

When Andre saw this he nearly shit himself. He now calls it "Perfect". We've been great friends ever since. He says this is the best thing he'd ever since ever since he witnessed Steffi vomit through her nose once.

"The Violin". 
One of mine and Braque's first Cubist works. We actually had to smash a violin into pieces of rectangles, triangles, and squares in order to paint this. As we did with all our Cubist works. So I'm not sure it's correct to call this abstract: what you see is what we had as the model.

Me with my favourite striped shirt. I love parallel lines. All geniuses wear them. It symbolizes something. 
I can't think what right now, but I will get back to you as soon as I come up with something appropriately "deep", and then we shall round up the art critics to fawn all over me.

And if this isn't genius, I don't know what is.  
"Woman With Rock Preparing For Attack". 

Remember those lesbians in the desert? Here's one of them, preparing to catch a desert snake by hitting it over the head with a rock. Her lover has left her for a traveling circus and left her to die in the desert. But at least she still has her breasts with her, balanced skillfully on one of her incomplete legs (dehydration will do that to legs – shorten them). The fact that her breasts are still intact, as crappy as they may look, represents the ray of hope that every one of us should have in any difficult situation life can throw on us. Ergo, the message is this: never give up if your tits are still there!

"Nude Woman Playing Mandolin". 

The first piece that resulted in a fusion of cubism and serial-killerism. Namely, we had our first living object as a cubist model. We had to cut up the model into squares, triangles, and rectangles in order to do the art, which we hadn't done before with living models. Of course, we had to find a victim first. Fortunately, a person fell right into our lair. However, we didn't use a woman: an art critic came to our studio for an interview and he said that cubism sucked – though he phrased it in far many more and longer words - so me and Georges kind of spontaneously decided to strangle him. We put a wig on his head, and a pair of fake breasts i.e. apples, and voila – the first cubist mandolin player in drag was born!

Even an uncultured modern-pop-art-hating idiot can see the obvious implications and ramifications of this post-cubist masterpiece. 
A couple of billiard balls, having escaped from the seemingly permanent captivity of the confining green pool table, develop and grow a couple of rabbit-feet (because they bring luck) with which they escaped. The painting doesn't show the escape itself. It shows the next logical step: it is Christmas time, and the billiard balls are in hiding, dressed up as Father Christmas. Note how cleverly the balls use the rabbit feet to imitate a white beard. The working title was "Father Christmas Is Monitored By A Protruding Alien Snake-Eye From Above" until I realized what was going on and re-named it to "Butch Cassidy & Sundance Kid As Billiard Balls In Snowy Denver".

"Dead Man Playing Violin".

Me and Georges thought it would be a waste to throw away the fragmented violin and the critic's bits and pieces before using them for another cubist masterpiece. I arranged the violin bits, while Georges went back to the river to pick up whatever was left of the critic.

"Fall Again And I'll Paint Someone Else!". 

People think my grandmother is blue because this isn't from my blue phase. Actually, I used to torture granny Maria by painting her blue when she was asleep. She died in 1912 when I painted her whole body blue and her skin couldn't breathe. (Like in Goldfinger, when the dumb and decadent Western agent watches as his favourite whore dies covered with gold paint.) This painting is also from 1912. In fact, it was done three days after her post-mortem. I had to lean her on a wall, but she kept falling, so I had to pin her to the wall with nails. If you look at her breasts you will notice that they're both too firm and pointy for her age. I know this is supposed to be modern art, but have you ever seen an 87 year-old woman with such firm features? No, those breasts were very floppy, and it is the pins creating the illusion of eternal youth. I do admit that I made her face too pretty, though, pins or no pins. In fact, I caught Claude masturbating to the painting when he was only 23. These kids today sure start masturbating at a young age to their great-grandparents…

Georgina Braque, my 17^th wife, and the true love of my life, here decades after the sex-change. Even in old age she looked hot, though I could never get it through that thick skull of hers that too much make-up makes you look like a clown whore. She is a little senile now, mostly spending her time playing with those IQ-test triangles and squares, trying to fit them in the right hole. It ain't exactly cubism, but it keeps her docile. And docileness is a prized commodity in any nursing home; while she plays with her geometric toys they can calmly collect her pee that exits her quasi-vagina now more often than when we were married, which was so long ago.

Ah, the Grand One… "Guernica: Heads And Arms Doing Things". 

A classic of the 20^th century. Look at the left side of the painting: a bull reaches to french-kiss a human who has his head up, enveloped in sexual ecstasy while holding a corpse that he is molesting. This was typical of Franco's soldiers; they had sex with all the Socialist dead soldiers, then tried to make out with our bulls. Such scum. Critics of the painting – and I can count those on one six-fingered hand – say that it's a woman getting sexually excited upon seeing her child die in her arms, and spontaneously reaching to the bull for a kiss. This is a lie. That corpse is obviously not a child but a bald-headed midget.

See that idiot in the middle of the right half, holding a candle? I mean, the whole battlefield is lit up rather well with a lamp (middle-left), and yet this dumb Fascist pig lights up a candle! It's so fucking symbolic!

One of the most popular aspects of this tour-de-force work is that I used texts from the Communist Manifesto; it's on the horse. I have chosen the most fitting parts, and I quote one of my fave bits that you'll find on the horse's ass: "We shall include the proletariat in the campaign of mass extermination of the proletariat, even if that sounds a bit paradoxical, monstrous and even a little unfair. And when we finish with them, we shall exterminate, butcher, and maim proletariat from neighbouring countries, and then their neighbouring countries, and so on. This will go on until all proletariat has been pretty much wiped out, apart from a small group that we need to maintain the infrastructure, which will result in Utopia – a place of peace and harmony, for there will be barely anyone left to cause waves, ask questions and be a nuisance to the Revolution. Then, and only then, will our immortal and divine leaders be able to live in bliss, in this atheistic Utopia which has no place for icons and such crap…"  

Not many know this or they forget it, but this work fit in nicely and overlapped with my serial-killer period. Under the pretense of showing the horrors of war and Fascist atrocities, I used the opportunity to get as many hackings, mutilations and axe-deprivations onto this large canvas. The intellectual study of severe bodily harm was very prevalent in this period. Observe the bald person lying on the floor on the bottom left, screaming: he isn't screaming because he is hurt but in fact is ecstatic that he finally had the opportunity to slice a man in half. In his right hand (bottom middle of painting) he is holding a baseball bat which he broke hitting another man on the head with after the batteries ran out of his chainsaw.

You know what? I was planning to make some major changes to this painting, and then re-release it as "Guernica: Some New Stuff Extra". In fact, I might as well do it now… Won't take a minute… I do this sort of thing real quick.

There! Fan-tas-tic!... What do you think? Don't say a word!... It's genius, I know. We'll make tons of dough with this. And then a year later I'll re-re-release it with a couple of more tits and maybe a large pair of cajones this time, as well… I might also scribble something on the back of the canvas, promoting the re-re-release as a sort of B-side bonus.

Don't ask me about that one, much less show it to me! Every time I see it I have to laugh.

It was supposed to be a poster for UNICEF, underlining the oppression of children in the Third World, but it ended up being this hilarious image of a blue boy running away from a smelly toilet! Hilarious. UNICEF used it anyway, but for their DFCWST (Don't Frighten Your Kids With Smelly Toilets) campaign. The working title was "Save The Children", but I changed it to "Panic-Stricken Boy Steps On Millipedes That Get Stuck On The Soles Of His Blue Shoes".

Jesus Christ, another brilliant UNICEF project. This one represents the official campaign for fat handicapped kids and their right to be fondled by adults pretending to be clowns. After it was found out that the then-head of UNICEF was a pedophile (and an ex-clown even) they fired him, and was replaced by Joey Fatone from that boy-group. Get it? Fat-one! I submitted this painting to him but he said the campaign changed from the whole "fat kids/fondling clowns" shamble to "fat kids and their god-given right to eat like pigs". I thought Fatone wouldn't use it, but he loved the fat kid's obesity so much that UNICEF ended up using it for their "fat kids love blue rooms" campaign.