A Shared Breath with Picasso

Spacious rooms filled with light and hight, with an essence of spirituality and respectful church silencing. Wall after wall hung with the arts of humanity. Ceilings caping off the sounds from stilettos and tiny whispers. My eyes slowly scan the textures on the walls with the same interest as a child does when dragging their fingers along the fence on the way home.

These are the art works of our humanity, of our history, the realities of our existence.


I slide my foot a bit closer and lean in. I stretch my head out over the front of my body as my eyes squint to absorb the micro lines of his brush strokes. I seep into his reality watching the muscles in his fingers harden as he presses the paintbrush to the canvas, compressing the paint as it oozes into globy hills of soft impressionable material- manipulated into blues and greens to the satisfaction of his mind and emotion. Specks of paint in which he mixed, touched, watched, and breathed – there they lay for me to connect with, to love, and to be obsessed with. There, there I stand connected to his  movement, dancing on his feet, belonging. There, I stand pierced with its existence- hypnotized by a shared breath with Picasso.

A screeching halt, a piercing voice alarming me to disconnect. I stood too close, I connected too much.

She left.

I repeated.

She alarmed.

I had to say good bye.

How naïve I am to write about a viewing of Picasso, to be truthful it just happened to be his painting. I longed to be connected with any of those composed frozen layers of life left behind.


I later came across  Maria Popova‘s Brain Pickings “Leo Tolstoy on Emotional Infectiousness and What Separates Good Art from Bad,” which should be read as a follow up to the moment in time that you are peering into.


Photo credit: 2011 Tbilisi, Georgia: the window dressings at the brother-in-law’s apartment. An obsession with doctors offices internationally and my free healthcare granted by their government sent me on an adventure of getting my wisdom tooth pulled. I stood there examining the fibers of the dressing. End of story- now half of my lip left numb. Life Experiences.

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