at age thirteen,
Picasso could surpass the talent of his teacher,
drawing at the level of Raphael, the prince of painters.
at age sixteen,
Picasso skipped his classes to explore gypsies,beggars, and prostitutes,
and at eighteen,
became exposed to anarchists and radicals who were artists and intellectuals
when his eyes were unveiled to a world of color, pinwheels of ideas, and a milky-way of lifestyles,
he unleashed a new form of art.
abstract, colorful, broken up into chunks, scribbles and slashes,
a child's coloring book,
from the five year old who couldn't seem to find the lines.
in this chapter of his life,
Picasso said:
It took him no time to paint like the prince of painters,
but decades to learn how to paint like the children.
one hundred and sixteen years later
i sit in the whirling emotions,
of the "i don't know yet"
and the "i have no idea"
and the "what am i going to do"
and the "why am i even doing this"
and the "who did i become"
and the "what will i be"
and the "who will i disappoint"
and the "honey you can't please everybody"
and the "what am i here for"
and the "is anybody out there waiting for me"
and "what capacity do i have to connect the constellations that form my dreams?"
and "what amount of this enormous world will i see with these mere two eyes and one small body?"
and "will i be the radical or the anarchist, or the artist or the intellectual, or the beggar or best of all,
the Picasso?"
and i can't seem to find the lines anymore
and everything is becoming a muddled mess of colors,
there is no symmetry, there is no balance,
there is not one face to a person,
there is not one specific meaning,
not one correct answer or distinction,
not a single definition.
and all though there are periods,
and I've been through the blue,
and I'm on the pursuit of the rose,
all i see is commas,
and as time goes on,
i understand more and more,
exposure to this world,
brings more questions and more blurs,
more pigments, and edges,
and adds miles from the distance,
of the lines.
