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Picasso and the art of simile

Reality, tweaked.

Françoise Gilot lived with Picasso for just under ten years and bore him two children. In Life with Picasso, she records that he was fond of referring to Braque as “only Madame Picasso”. When Picasso slept now and then with Nusch, the wife of Paul Éluard, Éluard knew but looked the other way. “The ultimate test of friendship,” Gilot says – to lay down one’s wife for one’s best friend. Picasso: “But it was a gesture of friendship on my part, too. I only did it to make him happy. I didn’t want him to think I didn’t like his wife.” What links these two stories? Condescension, a conviction of superiority, a certain droit du seigneur. Remember Picasso wrote “yo el rey”, I the king, on some early paintings.

In his essay “Borges and I”, Borges notes the gap between his intimate private self and the literary figure, the writer, the Borges of reputation. No such ontological fissure in Picasso. As an artist, he took what he needed – from other artists, from his acolytes, from his lovers, from his collaborators. Lionel Prejger, who worked with Picasso on his metal sculptures, recalled: “He loved all that kind of thing. When Picasso came to my scrap-metal yard, he’d look at all the bits of junk . . .” This self-belief led to a torrential oeuvre, a complete absence of doubt, a refusal of conventional discriminations. Gilot records: “One must be the painter, never the connoisseur. The connoisseur gives only bad advice to the painter. For that reason I have given up trying to judge myself.” Taste is always the enemy of art. But the refusal to discriminate means that as the torrent sweeps along unstoppably, it carries with it sweepings-up and a fair percentage of rubbish and repetition – of kitsch.

In “Becoming Picasso: Paris 1901”, the current exhibition at the Courtauld Gallery, you can see his Child with a Dove – the first in a long, lachrymose line of doves, harlequins, fauns and pan pipes. Then there is Picasso’s Blue Period sentimental melancholy, with its self-regarding student-bedsitter politics. Later, the megaphone megakitsch of Guernica (1937), not to mention the terrible attitudinising, the ramped-up rhetoric of Massacre in Korea (1951), whose composition is stolen from Degas’s Young Spartan Girls Provoking the Boys – a picture John Updike said resembled figures in a lift trying not to touch. Picasso took what he wanted. But in this case, his politics, his urgent banalities, were all hand-me-downs. He is an uneven, inconsistent painter.

There are, though, creations that move one by their brilliance, their spontaneity, their exactitude, their economy of means, their decisive perfection. In Ezra Pound’s Pisan Cantos, we read: “Here error is all in the not done,/all in the diffidence that faltered.” In the best Picasso nothing falters. His art is unhesitating. It is also various, teeming and impossible to encompass. So I’ll write about two drawings, one painting and two sculptures – most of them not widely known or reproduced, all of them incomparable.

On 4 May 1946, Picasso made a penciloutline drawing of two lovers having sex (Couple Enlacé). The man is taking the woman from behind. They are doing it standing up. You can see half of his scrotum like a fig. Her arms are behind her head. Her right leg is lifted high to let him in. His left hand reaches round and down to caress her vulva. His right arm goes over her right shoulder and round to caress the base of her left breast. They are intricately intertwined, inseparable, were it not for the fact Picasso has outlined the woman’s curves in blue crayon and the man’s harder slimness in red crayon. This way we can work out that the woman’s head is laid back, abandoned, ecstatic, on the man’s left shoulder.

The miracle here is first the freedom of the original pencil lines and then the accuracy of the covering crayon, which seems equally free and spontaneous. It isn’t careful in the least. It is carefree yet almost exactly in register as it follows the pencil’s template. It doesn’t seem to be following at all. It is the opposite of painstaking. Intricate though it is, it is as if Picasso was practising his signature. It is full of flourish and at ease with its skill. And it captures something previously uncaptured about the act of sex – its grace, the perfection of its fit, its ideal beauty, what we think we are doing when we lose ourself in the other person. A oneness dependent on differentiation – two colours, two sexes, with a shared pencil outline.

In his Rose or Circus Period, Picasso paints La famille de saltimbanques (1905). This large oil is in the National Gallery of Art in Washington. The second figure on the left, in front of a fat clown, is a girl with a basket of flowers. It is the study for her figure that I want to analyse. The girl has her back to us. There is no basket, only a dog. She is looking down to her right at the dog below. Her right hand rests on the dog’s head. The drawing has two colours only – black pastel and a faint, dull pink. Her dress is pink and her bolero top is black. Her hair is black with a pink flower in it. The dog too is black. It seems to be drawn on matt wrapping paper. You can see horizontal lines at regular intervals.

The drawing is a beautiful enigma. All its secrets are internal. Though it seems quietly realistic, there is a clue in its single, discreet, disguised anomaly. The girl’s left arm is raised and crooked. She appears to have no hand. The viewer allows for perspective and makes the correction, ekes out the drawing with expectation. But the etiolation is deliberate. Actually, the arm is configured to parallel the dog’s curved tail at the bottom right. And once noticed, this sets off a series of explosive parallels. Her head and the dog’s head are turned to the right. Her feet and the dog’s paws mirror each other. The line of the dog’s torso – an inverted mountain range of ups and downs – is picked up in the outline of her bolero top. And further repeated in the Toblerone of her hairline. A great harmonic drawing, a sumptuous chord.

The Two Brothers (gouache on cardboard) was painted in Gósol in 1906. Picasso kept this picture for himself. You can see it in the Musée Picasso in Paris. It shows a naked boy giving his smaller brother a piggy-back, his left leg advanced towards the viewer. Once more the palette is restricted, this time to brown-pink, though there is crimson and blue in the rim of a drum in the left foreground. The little boy has his arms around his big brother’s neck, his fingers interlaced. His legs poke through his brother’s arms and hang pointing outwards.

The drum has a small pottery dish resting on it, also being carried, and it makes the trelliswork compositional motif explicit, though not obtrusive. Its body is held by interlacing wire in an unequal diamond pattern. Why did Picasso reserve this picture for himself? Because, I think, it contains an artistic secret that is central to the development of Picasso’s art. On the right eyebrow of the little boy being carried is a fleck of paint, a little skin-tag of pigment. This is a sculptural inflection and tells us that the dusky, dusty pinks are intended to summon terracotta garden sculpture.

Picasso’s art really begins to accelerate once he discovers – in his effortlessly ver - satile way – how much sculpture can contribute to painting. If you consider the diagonal nasal striations around the time of Les Demoiselles d’Avignon (1907) – those primitive comb-like rakes along the ridge of the nose – you can see they represent rough carving, chisel marks, as well as pronounced shadow. A painting such as Dancing Couple (1921-22) uses the coarse, nubbly grain of the canvas to create the illusion of granite – helped by the monumental quality of the hands and the features (a shared simplified version of Picasso), especially the faintly rudimentary lashless eyelids. Then there is cubism’s initial impulse to represent in one dimension sculpture’s three dimensions and shifting viewpoint. In the 1930s, Picasso’s paintings are pastiches of monumental classical sculpture, with large-limbed subjects clad in pleated tunics – every one a sturdy Isadora Duncan dancer or a Joan Hunter-Dunn, with height and heft and burly wrists.

And Picasso became a wonderful sculptor, better even than Matisse, who can’t quite get his natural beauty into sculpture. Picasso is naturally rebarbative, though he can paint beautiful pictures on occasion – like the representation of his mistress Marie-Thérèse Walter asleep (Nude in a Garden, 1934) – where the arsehole, navel and nipples are a constellation of Cadbury’s chocolate buttons; the legs are another divided, large-scale vagina; and the fingers and blonde hair mirror their different, shapely strands. The river she lies by is ravishingly coloured, the narcissi above like butterflies trembling with cerebral palsy. Picasso could be beautiful, but mostly he chose to be realistic.

He made two Little Owl sculptures. One owl has a body made from a mattock. The other, even greater sculpture, is made from a dish. Its wings – the mattock silhouette – are made from nails, fixed with plaster to its back. The plaster coverage is only partial, like batter on courgettes cut into allumettes – and this creates the perfect, Platonic fledgling. Its claws are screws, the thread mimicking the hard, scaly legs and claws. Its eyes are screws, its beak a truncated sneck of metal found on a dump. It is brilliant bricolage, an act of improvisation, collage, makedo- and-mend, based on Picasso’s gift for seeing likenesses. His is an art of simile that can create a bull’s head from a bicycle seat and a pair of handlebars; a baboon’s face from two toy cars (a Panhard and a Renault); a little girl’s knitted cardigan from a wickerwork basket; her ears from teacup handles.

One of Picasso’s other great discoveries is interchangeability. In The Embrace (summer 1925), the nose and the eye are a single unit, a penis and scrotum; the bearded mouth and the fringed eye are both vaginas. Breasts can be eyes. The sign for pubic hair – a notched triangle – can also stand in for a belly button and armpit hair. Part of Picasso’s greatness is bound up with the idea that equivalence is more effective than literal representation, dull mimesis. The sign for something shows you have thought about what is being represented. It is reality tweaked.

Picasso’s 1958 Bull at MoMA in New York is a white-wood, simplified outline of a bull in profile, tail down to the right, head to the left and turned to face the viewer. The horns are not pointed but rounded like a boomerang. The lower body of the bull is masked with a second outline, not of white wood but of a coarser, darker wood, the texture of packing cases. To this smooth/ coarse, white/raw-mahogany template, Picasso adds four things: the sinews of the bull, the veins of the bull, the flies on the bull and the sweat on the bull.

The sinews and veins are stripped reddish- brown twigs, roughly nailed to the other two textures. The nails are sturdy and have been hammered in, then bent across the twigs. The nail heads bite into the white plywood finish and the packing case material. Flies and sweat are clusters of gunmetal tin-tacks – darkly glittering, strategically placed where you would expect to find them. The eyes are unforgettable – nuts and bolts right through the head, full of menace – their intensity further focused by a wooden frame.

Picasso said of his goat that it was more real than a goat. You can smell this bull; you can see the sinews; the hair is there before you in the coarse hirsuteness of the wood. To the idea of the bull, to its billboard outline, to its almost cartoon conception, Picasso has roughly added its actual roughness, its animal force, its beastliness.

“Becoming Picasso: Paris 1901” is at the Courtauld Gallery, London WC2, until 27 May. Craig Raine writes regularly on visual art for the New Statesman

This article first appeared in the 12 April 2013 issue of the New Statesman, Centenary Special Issue

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Inside the minds of the Isis murderers

As pressure on the terror group who claimed responsiblity for the Manchester attack intensifies, the threat to Britain will only become more acute.

The police and security services had consistently warned that a significant terrorist attack in Britain was inevitable. Yet no warning could have prepared us for the horror of the suicide attack on the Manchester Arena on Monday night. Twenty-two people were killed and at least 60 were wounded as they were leaving a concert by Ariana Grande in what was the most deadly attack in Britain since the London bombings of 7 July 2005, in which 56 people died.

Like the London bombers, the Manchester suicide attacker, Salman Ramadan Abedi, was British. He was 22, lived in Manchester and studied business management at Salford University before dropping out. He worshipped at Didsbury Mosque. The son of Libyans, Abedi is said to have returned recently from a visit to the North African country, where Islamic State has a foothold.

Ariana Grande is a former children’s TV star who made her name on channels such as Nickelodeon. Her fan base is overwhelmingly young and female, and many of those killed or wounded were children, including Saffie Rose Roussos, an eight-year-old girl from Leyland, Lancashire.

Islamic State inevitably claimed responsibility for the massacre, dismissing the victims as “crusaders”, “polytheists” and “worshippers of the cross”. This is not the first time Islamist terrorists have targeted children.

A Chechen jihadist group calling itself ­Riyad-us Saliheen (meaning “Gardens of the Righteous”) took more than 1,100 hostages, including 777 children, in a school siege in Beslan, Russia, in September 2004. In the event, more than 330 were massacred, including 186 children. Gunmen from the Pakistani Taliban also stormed a school in 2014, killing 148.

For terrorist actors, these are neither whimsical nor irrational acts. Contemporary jihadist movements have curated a broad and expansive intellectual ecosystem that rationalises and directs their actions. What they want is to create an asymmetry of fear by employing indiscriminate barbarism to intimidate and subdue their opponents into submission.

We have grown accustomed to a wave of terrorist attacks being carried out in the name of the self-styled Islamic State ever since the group’s official spokesman Abu Muhammad al-Adnani began prioritising them in 2014. (He was killed in an American air strike on Aleppo province in Syria in August last year.)

The US-led coalition against Islamic State has weakened the terror group in its former strongholds of Mosul in Iraq and Raqqa in Syria. In response, IS has been forced to concentrate more on what it calls “external operations” – by which it means inspiring its sympathisers and operatives to carry out attacks on Western countries. Indeed, al-Adnani encouraged the group’s supporters not to migrate towards IS-held territory but rather to focus their efforts on attacks in their home countries.

“The tiniest action you do in the heart of their [Western] land is dearer to us than the biggest action by us,” he said in an audio statement released last year. “There are no innocents in the heart of the lands of the crusaders.”

Islamic State refers to its strategy as “just terror”. Its framing places culpability for attacks on Western states on these nations themselves by claiming that IS actions are a response to aggression or assault. That much has been outlined in the group’s literature. “When will the crusaders end their hostilities towards Islam and the Muslims? . . . When will they recognise that the solution to their pathetic turmoil is right before their blinded eyes?” the militants ask in the IS magazine Dabiq. “Until then, the just terror will continue to strike them to the core of their deadened hearts.”

IS offered a rationale of this sort as justification for its bombing of a Russian commercial aircraft – Metrojet Flight 9268, travelling from Sharm el-Sheikh in Egypt to St Petersburg. That attack in October 2015 killed 224. Similar reasoning was offered for the attacks in Paris the following month in which 137 people were killed, in a series of co-ordinated, commando-style gun and bomb outrages across the city.

“Revenge was exacted upon those who felt safe,” IS declared in Dabiq. “Let the world know that we are living today in a new era. Whoever was heedless must now be alert. Whoever was sleeping must now awaken . . . The [caliphate] will take revenge for any aggression against its religion and people, sooner rather than later. Let the ­arrogant know that the skies and the lands are Allah’s.”

***

Through my academic research at King’s College London, I have ­interviewed scores of Westerners who became foreign fighters in Syria and Iraq to quiz them about their motives. Last year, one man from High Wycombe who had joined IS told me that it wanted to attack British targets in response to the vote in the House of Commons to extend British air strikes against IS targets to include sites in Syria (the British had only been targeting the group in Iraq until that point). “Do they [the British government] expect us to sit back and do nothing? ­Idiots,” he said.

In this respect, IS frames its attacks as acts of “revenge” and predicates its response on the Islamic principle of qisas, which is comparable to lex talionis or the doctrine of “an eye for an eye”. Qisas was always intended to be a tool of private redress for an individual or his/her family to seek justice in matters relating to bodily harm. Typically, it relates to cases of murder and manslaughter, or acts involving physical mutilation (say, leading to loss of limbs). The principle creates a framework for retributive justice.

The contemporary Salafi-jihadi movement has adopted a particularly innovative approach to the concept of qisas in two ways. First, groups such as IS have taken the idea and construed it in a way that justifies indiscriminate terrorism, such as the attack in Manchester. They argue that qisas has a political dimension and that it can be applied to international affairs in a way that holds civilians responsible for the perceived crimes of their governments.

Second, qisas is normally applied only in cases where the aggressor is known. IS, by contrast, holds every citizen-stranger of an enemy state responsible for the actions of his or her government. Thus, when it released its statement claiming responsibility for the Manchester attack, it said that it had struck against a “gathering of the crusaders . . . in response to their transgressions against the lands of the Muslims”.

It is this militaristic construction of qisas that allows IS to rationalise the bombing of a venue where large numbers of young girls had gathered to watch a pop concert, dismissing them as “crusaders”.

This is not new. In 1997, Osama Bin Laden told CBS News that “all Americans are our enemies, not just the ones who fight us directly, but also the ones who pay their ­taxes”. His rationale was that all Americans, by virtue of citizenship alone, are vicariously liable for the actions of their government.

Just a few years later, Bin Laden used the same idea to justify the 11 September 2001 attacks and also invoked it in reference to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. “The blood pouring out of Palestine must be equally revenged,” he wrote. “You must know that the Palestinians do not cry alone; their women are not widowed alone; their sons are not orphaned alone.”

IS used the concept most dramatically in January 2015, when it burned alive a Royal Jordanian Air Force pilot, Muath al-Kasasbeh, whose plane had crashed in its territory. A video of the killing was circulated on the internet and social media. The group claimed his bombing raids had killed civilians and that it wanted to punish him with “equal retaliation”, in keeping with qisas.

What is well known about al-Kasasbeh’s murder is that he was burned alive inside a cage – but that is not the whole story. To understand how IS tethered this to the principle of qisas, it is the end of the gruesome video that is invested with most significance. After al-Kasasbeh has died, a truck emerges and dumps rubble over the cage. It was claimed this was debris from a site he had bombed, thus completing the “equal retaliation” of returning like for like. The idea was that IS had retaliated using the two principal forms in which a missile attack kills – by fire or debris.

***

The Manchester attack came on the fourth anniversary of the brutal murder of Fusilier Lee Rigby in Woolwich, south London. Rigby was killed by Michael Adebolajo and Michael Adebowale in the middle of the afternoon on a street outside a military barracks. That attack was in keeping with a pattern we have become increasingly accustomed to in Europe: an unsophisticated plot that employs ordinary, everyday items – a car, say, or a knife.

The consequences of such attacks have been seen across Europe, most notably in Nice on 14 July 2016, when 86 people were killed during Bastille Day celebrations after a jihadist drove a truck into crowds on the promenade. Similar attacks followed in Berlin, Westminster and Stockholm.

The security services find that these murderous attacks are extremely hard to disrupt because they typically involve lone actors who can mobilise quickly and with discretion. The Manchester attack was different. Explosives were used, which means the plot was inherently more sophisticated, requiring careful planning and preparation.

We know that two of the 7/7 bombers had previously trained in Pakistan’s lawless tribal regions, where they honed their skills. In other plots, such as the connected attacks in London and Glasgow Airport of 2007, the explosive devices failed mainly because the bomb-makers had found it difficult to travel abroad and develop their skills in safe environments. Whatever Abedi’s connections, the long war in Syria and Iraq has once again created a permissive environment for terrorist training and attack planning.

The devastating impact of this has already been felt across Europe. Since the Syrian uprising began in 2011, more than 800 Britons are believed to have travelled there to fight. From Europe as a whole, the figure is over 5,000, of which a significant number are believed to have joined IS. Of the British contingent, the security services estimate that about half have returned or become disengaged from the conflict. Of those who remained, a hundred are believed to be active, the rest having been killed.

It is improbable that Abedi acted alone in Manchester or that this plot had no international component. Indeed, he was already known to the authorities (and had returned recently from Libya). As pressure on IS intensifies across Syria and Iraq, the threat to Britain will only become more acute as the group’s sympathisers prepare for what they consider to be a fightback.

This speaks to the scale of the threat facing Britain, and Europe more generally. Our police and security services have been stretched and continuously tested in recent years. Just recently, in March, the Metropolitan Police assistant commissioner Mark Rowley told Radio 4’s Today programme that 13 plots had been thwarted since Lee Rigby’s murder in 2013. Put another way, the police have disrupted terrorist plots every four months for the past four years.

Naturally, Islamic State is not the only threat. On 13 May, one of Osama Bin Laden’s sons, Hamza, released a video, titled “Advice for martyrdom-seekers in the West”, on behalf of al-Qaeda. Hamza, 27, who was his father’s favoured successor to lead the group, called on its supporters to concentrate on attacks in the West rather than migrating to conflict zones in the Middle East and beyond. Scenes of previous ­terrorist attacks in Britain played throughout the video.

The central leadership of al-Qaeda is increasingly looking for opportunities to reassert itself after being eclipsed by Islamic State and losing control of its affiliates in Syria. It needs attacks and a cause in the West with which to revive itself. Hamza therefore cited the January 2015 Charlie Hebdo attack in Paris as a critical example, calling for the assassination of anyone deemed to have “insulted” Islam.

The Charlie Hebdo attack was especially important for al-Qaeda because it enabled the group to transcend the fratricidal conflicts that frequently define relations between the various jihadist groups. In Syria, for instance, al-Qaeda’s affiliates (when it had better control over them) and Islamic State have been in open war with each other.

Yet, the Charlie Hebdo attack brought warm praise from the group’s Islamist rivals because none of them wanted to appear ­unsupportive of an atrocity that had, as the terrorists proclaimed, “avenged” the Prophet Muhammad’s honour.

The British man from High Wycombe who joined IS told me the group had welcomed the attack for precisely those reasons. It was something that, in his view, had confirmed the “nobility” of the attackers, even if they had not been members of IS.

Is it too late for the West to save itself, I asked him. What if the West simply accepted all of Islamic State’s demands: would that provide respite?

The answer was as emphatic as it was stark: “We primarily fight wars due to ppl [sic] being disbelievers. Their drones against us are a secondary issue.”

He went on: “Their kufr [disbelief] against Allah is sufficient of a reason for us to invade and kill them. Only if they stop their kufr will they no longer be a target.”

In other words, we are all guilty, and we are all legitimate targets.

Shiraz Maher is a contributing writer for the New Statesman and a senior research fellow at King’s College London’s International Centre for the Study of Radicalisation.

This article first appeared in the 25 May 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Why Islamic State targets Britain

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