From time to time the neurotic inquest of boys bears fruit, the pelting, morbid rain of dread that soaks them from above breaks open, lifted by some fluke of light. Then they turn, and recite the desperate cry, themselves, to see how it is done.
What are you doing in there, Maître, in the dark at Vauvenargues?
How long the neurotic inquest framed the fabric of our days is deeply in our heart when we are free. What could this anxious hounding have so feared? On seeing a Picasso, one doesn't have to know who he was to love what he did. To be so coaxed by strength and not by dread, as finally to trust one's sight, is rather like being given over to the wisest university, to restore one to oneself. It is a reclamation to be shared.
There have always been many, yet seldom so bold as here, this year, to restore us to the pelting reign of dread. Now is not the time to forget how to play.
iii Derek
Pablo Picasso
Photograph David Douglas Duncan
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