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No longer does he synthesise
La Tragedie Humaine – nor plumb
the awesome bathyscopic depths
of black despair, profound ennui,
or destitution nadir’d by his skill –
reduce the man/maid rapport to
a basic brutish need, or try
to free his art from what he claims
to be the falsity of light.

Immortalised, if only by
his peak-reached period in blue –
“Guernica’s” impressive spread –
his creed the inverse ratio
that splits reality from truth
(a paradox to justify distortion as
a norm) he plies his facile brush
as if in mass production – Jacqueline’s
sharp features frequently his theme,
his theme, that is, until a change
of mood persuades him he has tapped
his fount of inspiration all
in vain: for people don’t and will
not understand.

No longer young enough to paint
floor-seated, wall-propped canvas taut
against his fervid strokes: with smile
as subtle as the painted hoax
(sequential in its deft deceit)
that he alone will know, he moves
towards the picture, easel-held,
and, confirmation of contempt
for critical acumen, signs
‘Picasso’ with a mischievous élan
that proves the Spanish blood
does not lie dormant in the man.

T. C. Hudson

© T. C. Hudson.
This work may not be reproduced without prior permission of the author.

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