Legendary Hoard Revealed —Picasso’s Picassos

Press, Volume C, Issue 29634, 3 October 1961, Page 9

Legendary Hoard Revealed —Picasso’s Picassos

No man of the 20th Century’s Midas-touched art world has done more to transform plain paint and canvas into than Pablo Hcasao—no painter of any time has risen farther from star vin misery to the frontierfess freedoms accompanying universal recognition.

Ho artist’s work has ever aroused more intense argument scathing denunciation or almost religious adulation among the peoples of his own time than that of Picasso. Wo BBS of any time has - ever before lived to tee the wort of his hands sett for higher prices, and yet in spite Ot the pressure of such an unsatisfied international market, no other artist has ever before continued to paint exactly u he desired, carefully hiding away dozens upon downs of canvases— ' ignoring the clamour of the . collectors and dealers— . simply because be loved the • works he had created as if , they were his own offspring, meant to shore his roof for ( as long as he lived. As the years, then decades, carried Picasao deeper into his century rumours and , legends grew around these , unknown paintings which , were believed to number in , the hundreds. Only a hand- i ful of his most intimate friends. like a fellow J Spaniard. Jaime Sabartes. , saw any of the pictures, but , they, like the Maestro, never spoke of the collection . . . non-commital shrugs met all queries. As more years passed. 1 "Picasso’s Picassos,” like the lost continent of Atlantis, was a treasure hoard of can- ■ vases enahroudad in mystery but was thought to exist—even though no-one actually seemed to know exactly where—no-one but Picasso who lived in Isolated mystery nearly as deep and impenetrable ss that surrounding the hoard itself. Hoard Suspected Then. in 1865, while en route from our assignment in Afghanistan, to another in Morocco, my work r.s a foreign correspondent took me through Cannes, on the Frepch Riviera. where Picasso made his home. Both as a journalist and as an amateur art collector, I was intensely interested in Picasso, a man who among Journalists was known to be among the most difficult in the entire world to see—and absolutely impossible to photagratdi as he painted in his studio. lii spite of hit recognition as the most powerful influin this century's art. Picasso the man was all but unknown. He let his work in the worid's museums and private collections represent him—and continued pointing in rigorously protected seclusion. Even though known to be one of the most prolific painters of all time. only a relatively few paintings appeared in the world market, channelled through his dealer in Paris. The vast bulk of his production was believed to be hidden carefully together with his hoard of earlier works. To view the hoard eould be roughly comparable to the experience of the Egyptologists who first piereed the hidden doorway sealing the burial treasury of Tutankhamen in the Valley of the Kings of the Upper photograph Picasso's Picassos was a dream ot dreams. Welcome At Villa In Cannes, having finally learned Picasso’s telephone number, I called his home, the villa “La California,” to explain who I was, that I was driving through town on my way to Spain and Morocco, that our only mutual friend who might have introduced me was a fellow-photo-grapher, Bop Capa, who had been killed the year, before while covering the war in Indo-China, and that X had a small gift for Picasso which I wished to leave at ths gate, if it was not an imposition. The gentle-voiced girl on the other end of ti* line asked me to wait a moment, then returned and asked that I come immediately to the villa. Thus, for ths first time, I spoke with Jacqueline Roque, who shares Picasso's life. It was »he who met me at the massive wrought-iron and ■ marble front door of “La California” when the gatekeeper let me drive through the high-fenced garden wall. Without a word Jacqueline

led the way to the villa’s second floor. past stacked sculpture* Minting*, books, ceramics, children’s bicycles,! • contentedly tethered Banny goat, into an upstairs sitting room overflowing with more becks and letters and dutches and unframed portraits (of Jacqueline), through a plain, white painted doorway to meet Pablo Picasso—We titan of modern art, the living legend of misery to miwwnanee, the most elusive subject imagin' able for the photo-jouraal-ist—casually waving me a cheery welcome, while con-1 tinning with his bath. That first meeting with Picasso developed into a deep and continuing friendship, and resulted in a book “The Private World of PaWo Picasso,” which was later to appear in five languages and I be the subject of nations! I magazine features, and coast-1 to-coast toMtom and radio] programmes' in toe United States. It resulted In my spending more tone in my own, tor more than » years. The doom of “I* California* heve always remained open since that first mcvain*; my friendship with Picasso and Jacqueline was simple, and tor ever. Locked Room One morning, while walking from,the upstairs acting room, round through toe bathroom (ho always follows precisely the same route from one floor to another in the villa). Picasso took me by toe

Um and asked whether I might not like to look into a locked, adjacent room before we had lunch. I had stopped at the villa on the way to Paris and New York, where I was deeply involved in the production of a book on the Tsarist art tree turn. "The Kremlin." I explained that X intended driving through the night, so had very little extra time. The Maestro still held my arm, so I followed him as he unlocked and walked into the darkened room—right into the centre of endless, carefully stacked canvasses. I stood, Quite literally, shoulder high in Picasso’s Picaksoe, the greatest unrecorded treasure in modern art 300 ■Paintings Throwing open the room’s shuttered windows, Picasso turned to me with » smallboy’s grin as sunlight poured into the room. Lunch was forgotten. For the next three hours Picasso, Jacqueline and I took turns lifting and spinning around canvas after canvas that had been packed face to the wall, while the other two sat in ancient chairs dragged from the sitting room next door. Paintings ranging from nine feet long to others a few inches square lined the walls, covered the floor, were stacked on tables and the

disconnected radiators. 1 estimated that there were more that 200 paintings in that room (I was wrong: there were more than 300) whieh no-one had ever recorded, and almost nobody had ever seen.

I remember that I said practically nothing, it was a time to look. But Picaaco nodded and welcomed each revealed painting almost as though he were witnessing the return home of long wandering children. There were pictures painted during the yean when Spain, his native land, was convulsed by civil war—and the canvases showed it* agony; paintings when he was heartbroken and miserable (“one of the worst periods of my life”)—and the paintings spare nothing—pictures painted when he was in love, and the colours sang his own songs, .songs of his own invention but. later to be familiar in many lands, in many tongues; portraits of children, where their world and his were one; paintings so complex in concept and execution that they may well have been created generations, or possibly centuries, before the time when they would be fully understood. There was the first painting made when, as a youth of 14, he moved with his family to Barcelona, and there, blocking the doorway of their new home with a rug-covered bed, improvised an altar, complete with image of the Holy Virgin, and proceeded to paint a deeply religious scene utterly unrelated to his family's house-making efforts ("Don't ark me why—l just painted itl”)..

/There wu another extremely early canvas of a Nativity, in which the Christ Child reaches exploringly for the heard of Joseph. There were collages, and cubist works. Blue Period and of Rose Period and African,

More Rooms Finally, still with many stacks of painting* untouched. Picasso called a halt dosed the windows and shutter-returning the canvaaea to their protective gloom—and we headed downstairs to lunch which had been kept waiting. On the villa’s spiral staircase I called down to Picasso (wha with Jacqueline on his arm, was whistling a

Mexican army marching song) that the unknown I [paintings would make an I historic picture story Picasso, without turning around, or stopping, or scarcely miss-1 ing a note in his song, raised one right finger—the bend* master demanding a precise note tram his orchestra—l and called back, "Fine! But only in colour!” During lunch he almost snorted when I got excited thinking about the picture [possibilities in what I had just seen. Jacqueline just kept smilinc as though over unshared secret Then Picasso explained: I had seen only one room of paintings, only a fraction at the entire collection of bis unknown works. There was [another room in “la Cali* fomie” also filled with canI Vases and two more rooms at his ancient chateau cd Vauwnargucs. His only answer Ito how many there were pras: “AU you want" Pennincon For Book [New York, while discussing the Maestro's cfler wltb friends in the magazine and intmlishiM field nhisnr & which aroused Sdiate excitement—l suddenly realised that I was discussing making a book of thTpams! ings at- Picasso without his miHiimlin On the stair* ease at "la Caiiforri!e’‘ I had suggested ma lung a “cuento," a story, at his unknown works, not a “libro,” book. There was a vast difference. In Spanish, the language In [which we converse, there could be no misunderstand* 'ing. So I got on the cwgg*

seas telephone, explained the dilemma confronting me. Picasso's reply was typical— I could practically see the half-smile and shrug, as though what he was offering was an. everyday gesture, "Do both!’’, then asked when I was returning to “La California,” to get to work—and to accompany him to the bull fights on week-ends. As casually as that first day when he greeted me from his bathtub, he had just given permission for the most exclusive, exciting, newsworthy and valuable story in the art world today . . . something as rare as the phenomenon of the rainbow that appeared over his shoulder, enframing him and his chateau of Vauvenargues, the afternoon when he first showed me his unknown paintings stored away in its fortress-like rooms. Now, nearly a year later, more than 500 paintings have been copied in full colour. An equal number, or more, still await me. Picasso is hard at work painting in his studio, which is next to the room in "La Califomie" where I am, working from early.morning until late at night—many times turning to discover the Maestro, with his half smile, at my shoulder. He is entering his 80th year, and seemingly only getting really started. Value Of Hoard During these months of photographing and handling hundreds of Picassos, the thought naturally sometimes occurs that I’m surrounded by immense, easily marketable treasure—and I start wondering just how much each armload of paintings would be worth if offered for sale in New York Paris or London. „ Many of the works, of course, would be valued far beyond their size might indicate, like great gems of particular, and unique characteristics. Others, by the very fact that Picasso saved them for his own collection, would possess peculiar value, perhaps greater than if they had been known earlier in the art world. Thus, striking a balance of value for the entire collection in the art market of 1961 is hazardous, at best. However, taking that risk, and guessing that there are around 1200 paintings in the Maestro's darkened rooms. I would also guess that the total value Of Picasso's Picas-

sos is somewhere around 50,000,000 dollars. Yet the place where they are truly valued is in the world <A art —and there they are priceless.

In thU article DAVID DUNCAN, who it wett knew* for hit book of ptetomphs, "The Private , WoruT of Pablo Pteaeeo." tells how M earn* to photo* erraph the hundreds of patntingt that Picatto hat kept for Mmtelf. Many of the photograph! win be reproduced in "PicaeSo’e PteassM." which will be psbUsMd tn Britain by MocmiUan** on October 25, Ptoauo’s eightieth birthday. eoeeoeoeeeeeoetoooeeOeeeee*