Sean Koenig     Roses Are Blue "If only we could pull out our brain and use only our eyes." -Pablo Picasso The pressing mass of humanity squeezing into a small corner of beautiful. Between the spring sun sucking metal Taun Tauns and wide eyes of kite clutching youths we homerically passed on Cromoly veloci-donkeys. Where the footpath, singed black in the green, crossed the airpath, humming in beeps and sweeps, bodies were strewn everywhere to spite the roar. An abstruse interest between strangers planted and aluminum-wrapped angels descending, a dynamic difference in gravitational potential energy more potent than inspired by the steel stalagmites yonder. A monument to sailors supplied a cool water bed, a crow's nest from whence the objective cross-pollinated across the ugly river. At the uneasy boundary between filth beached and filth floating, mascara-less lashes stretched out for ugly fish, while farther out a friendly- painted police boat fished for things discarded or decomposing. Everywhere casting. A bridge -- a choice -- a city -- Washington, a trip taken both ways, if not the words. Forced to dismount, pressured by pushing people pursuing the same serenity. Here the pedals sought revenge, and every time they gained her calves they stained and laughed. The Tidal Basin was pulsing with sickle-cell circulation, multi-colored minions mindlessly delivering carbon dioxide to the George-Washington-fearing inhabitants and removing repugnant oxygen. The marble encompassed basin buoyed ducks both feathered and plastic, the water sparkling with pale pink petals fallen. Behind a fence, construction workers positioned quarry fruit, making a big deal of our New Deal Delanor. "... Stones are from South Dakota" smiled a lunching laborer wearing a Windows 95 T-shirt. Past the fledgling history a field presented itself to lofting the white disk. Perhaps the two parking tickets, the flat tire, the missed exit, the air-pump that self destructed should have -- but no, no I was still the November turkey when the sky swam mackerel and the wind unwound. Jefferson had guided me through high school and college and now his dome would once again keep me dry. Thousands of people screaming and sprinting with newborns like sweating Heismans. Once stoic cherry blossoms mounted like baby opossums on cheeks and backs as the wind supplied their cries. The rain conspired with the altitude to weep comet-ous hail, and the Tidal Basin unleashed four-foot fury on her paddling suitors. The brimming monument harbored British big band musicians, joggers, foreigners, and fellow cyclists reveling in mutual escape from Mother's wrath. Huddling masses yearning to be dry. America. Weathered, we finally arrived at the East wing of the National Gallery of Art. A fifty-foot flyer heralded our canvas fleece: "Picasso: The Early Years 1892-1906." The most complete compendium yet assembled of our century's most influential artist's first steps. The circular rooms forced clash under a veil of symmetry as a surprising diversity of humanity clamored to be cultured. Thematically organized, the portrait-focused art included the old fisherman Picasso's father employed as his first model, close compadre Carles Casagemas whose death induced Picasso's blue period, his oft-painted lover Fernande Olivier imbued with the chalk shades of the rose period, and Pablo's ever morphing self portraits. A refreshing array of sketches, rough drafts, and doodles intercalating the grandiose paintings let slip the bagged feline: to unmask the many influences, ideas, and explorations that launched the premier painter of his day. A confidant Spaniard in a v-neck camisa clutching a palette ends the exhibit. Chuckle. What? I don't know if I could pull off a poofy shirt like that. I bet you could. I bet you could too. First steps are often the best.

back to Decweb main