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I see in his painting above a young pretty ballerina wife Olga, begging
to be space between Picasso’s ears, watching him from every angle,
I see the two living in high society, 1920s Paris. She was not his one and only. Immortalizing his women, he painted them as diamonds,
he was afraid of commonality, affection and commitment, In the mirror, I see Olga reaching for him with elongated limbs and full passionate breasts, and I see him turning his backside to her after a cataclysmic orgasm, I see vertical and horizontal lines and arresting colors representing his many passions, like money, sex, and statue, I see his son Paulo's face on Picasso's body, a wild and free spirit that fell short of Picasso's artistry,
bazooka, Picasso's done it again, in another painting he painted Olga dancing and playing the Tambourine, a collage of many sensual parts, a mystery to explore, she's dancing to an unheard melody in Picasso's head, it's magical getting to know her in a cubic sense, even though she's kind of odd to us, to Picasso, she's perfectly mapped; a massive tragedy of parts, recalling them with a madness he never-ever sought, he could do nothing more or less, then reconstruct his women as he knew best.
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