Meeting Picasso
Lynn Heyman

It was late spring, mid-Tuesday in Antibes. The sky was clear and cloudless, the air warm. Narrow streets invited daring drivers in the smallest cars to find their way between old stonewalls and potted red geraniums.
The Musée Picasso was the former home of the artist himself, The backdrop was the glittering Mediterranean. The salt air stung her nose as she pulled into a rare parking spot. She walked up the stone ramp to the massive wooden doorway. She entered. The museum was empty.
The view from the lobby was of the azure blue waters of the French Riviera. A small area outside the French doors beckoned to her. She thought she was alone. She was mistaken. To her right was a bronze sculpture of a woman with her arms crossed. To her left was a short man in a well-fitted black t-shirt, elegant black pants and a gleaming black belt, his profile and bald head were outlined by the sea.
She walked toward the low wall and leaned out, letting the breeze catch her blonde hair. She watched the profile of the man out of the corner of her eye and it appeared to be the artist himself. Perhaps because of the glint of the sun, he appeared to be smiling at her. She walked back into the lobby.
The receptionist raised her head of stylishly coiffed burgundy hair and said in heavily accented English, “May I assist you, Mademoiselle?” She added in French “Est-ce que je peux vous aider?”
“I wondered if that was Picasso out there on the terrasse?”
“Oui, Mademoiselle, it is the artist. Go and speak to him. I can assure you he would enjoy that very much.”
“Oh, I don’t want to disturb...” her voice trailed off.
“No, you would not be disturbing him at all. He likes to speak to people. This used to be his home, as you may know. He will welcome you as a guest.”
She was very skeptical as she walked out onto the stone terrace overlooking the sea. To her surprise, he moved toward her. “Bonjour, Mademoiselle,” he said with sparkling, penetrating eyes.
“Bonjour, Monsieur Picasso,” she said.
“You know who I am?” he said with surprise. He was seventy years her senior, but he spoke with a young confidence.
“May I ask you a question about my favorite painting in the side gallery?” she ventured.
“With pleasure.” He smiled broadly. “Let’s go and see.” He walked quickly and with great determination.
“It’s called Joie de Vivre,” she offered.
“Look at this one,” he said. “I don’t like it. I never liked it.” He took the painting of the sad woman off the wall. She stood there, stunned. She waited for an alarm to go off. Silence.
He opened a hidden closet, which appeared to be part of the white wall. Canvases were stacked inside. He pulled out another painting and placed it on the wall. It resembled a study of Manet’s Luncheon on the Grass, in the style of Picasso, with nude bathers. The breasts of the women were enormous.
He went back into the closet and stepped out carrying a wet paintbrush. He began to repaint a part of the canvas with a bright blue paint. He could do that, she thought. He was Picasso. He could do anything he wanted to do in his museum.
“There. Much better.” He said.
“Let me show you my ceramics. They are upstairs. Follow me,” he commanded.
She could not speak. She followed him as he had asked.
They arrived at the top floor, light flooding in through the many windows.
“I have a whole collection of these plates and cups at my house. I dine off my plates all the time. I don’t like the other dinner plates, so I created my own. They are all over my kitchen.”
“Oh,” she managed. Picasso made his own dinnerware. He held out a square plate with a blue fish on it.
“Would you like to join me for dinner tonight?”
She smiled at him in disbelief.
“If you do,” he continued, “you can keep this plate, or would you prefer a cup or a bowl?”
She felt her face flush in the humidity and the heat of the sun that was now pouring into the gallery.
“Do you know La Californie? My villa is there up on the hill not far from here.”
“I … I don’t know,” she stuttered.
Is Picasso asking me out on a date? He looked like her grandfather somewhat. She remembered reading about his reputation for womanizing and physical violence towards women. His libido was renowned.
She viewed the ceramic owl with the head of a woman next to an animal jug on four feet.
“I don’t think that would be a very good idea,” she said, blinking and clearing her throat.
“No. You are right,” he said. “Not a good idea at all.”
He disappeared between the white walls in his black pants and black shirt. She never had an answer to her question, which now seemed superfluous.