Picasso Before Breakfast

Photo: Vojko Kalan

The dazzling brother of one of my nearest and dearest . . . and let me just pause here to say that dazzle runs rampant in that family. Seriously. Beauty and intelligence like theirs before morning coffee is NOT for the faint of heart. Genetically programmed with wit like lasers and cheekbones like razors. Daunting. Dazzling! And me without my sunglasses, too. But anyway, back to my story . . .

My friend's brother runs an art gallery that is currently showcasing a Picasso exhibit that highlights one of his most ardent and long-lasting love affairs, with Marie-Thérése Walter. And my much-loved and loving friend arranged for a private walk-through before our breakfast this morning.

Put aside for a moment that the collection -- which took nearly two years to pull together, because it involved borrowing pieces from museums and private collections -- includes pieces that have become iconic, in the literal sense of that word. Put aside (if you can) the fact that . . . well, it's PICASSO, for God's sake! Put all that aside.

Because what happened to me circa 7:37 a.m. today . . . before my morning coffee but after rising at 5 a.m. so that I could move furniture to accomodate the workmen coming to restore a wall in my bedroom that was damaged by a recent leak in a pipe behind it -- how mundane is that? . . . what happened to me circa 7:37 this morning was one of those transcendent experiences that sometimes (but not always) happens in the presence of truly great art. And because it was a transcendent moment, my words will a) not truly capture it and b) sound awkward and clumsy besides. But I'm still going to try because, well, that's what writers do, isn't it? Even though we sometimes fall on our face in the process.

Standing in the center of one room, surrounded by canvas drenched in color and alive with the geometric patterns Picasso used the way Nabakov used language, I felt myself part of something . . . an energy pattern, perhaps? The color and texture seemed to radiate through the room and we -- the three-dimensional, constantly changing, human sculptures of flesh and blood and bone-- became part of the art itself. Art in life; life in art . . . microcosm, macrocosm, telescopes and microscopes . . . the Universe shimmering within and without, melding for one brief but timeless moment.

This is always true, of course. But the awareness of it is exquisite . . .what the mystics call an ecsatsy. Spirtual thrill-seekers troll for such moments. Moments that at once lift us out of our mortal shells and connect us to all that is or has been. Something Divine. I don't believe such moments can be forced. It's not like sky diving or looking for electronics on Black Friday . . . the harder you look (I think), the less likely you are to get the thrill.

Read your quantum physics . . . or, for that matter, the Enquirer. Wisdom and truth can be found anywhere. Everywhere. And the truth is these moments surround us always. They are gifts. They are always with us.

All we have to do is show up and pay attention. And this morning, before breakfast, I did.