Guernica: The Work of a Lifetime

A Story by Matthew Little

Pablo Picasso created a painting to represent his country. When he died, pages upon pages of that painting were found in his studio. To him, it was never complete.

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Unlike the rest o the artists, he was in disguise, hiding in one corner, near the Russian art. He was only there because he couldn't bare to not see how people reacted to his painting. As he was, he was in a perfect position to see the observers' true reactions to the painting. If he had been standing proudly next to it, as the other countries' artists were, the patrons would at least try to mask their real thoughts about his work. All he wanted to do was see the honest reactions of the patrons. Mainly, he wanted to see if they understood how much of himself, of his pain, he had injected into the painting. He wanted to find out if they would feel his pain, if they would feel their painting's subjects pain. The burning women, clutching their dead babies to their breasts; the helpless veterans who, at the sound explosions, took up their arms and went to search for a foe, only to find hat their enemy was in the air and soon enough, long gone back to Germany. Would they understand that the comic-like expressions on the victims' faces were in fact agony and despair, people battling with the knowledge that they would never get out of the burning inferno that had been their family's home? For some reason, he had a feeling that none of these men and women, who had enough riches to pay their way into the exhibition, would possibly comprehend the true meaning behind the painting. But, for some even stranger reason, he had come despite the feeling in his gut, and stood in his corner, nursing the hope that maybe this time, this one, single time, someone might understand.

The first of the patrons was coming towards his painting. Suddenly, he found that he was afraid. He wanted to run across the gallery and tear his painting from the wall before any of them could see it. Before they set their greedy eyes upon it, and discussed how much it might be worth. But he knew it was hopeless. He couldn't possible hide a painting that covered the whole of a wall. That didn't make him stop wanting to, though. But in the end, it didn't make any difference away; they were looking at it.

Reality has a way of being unexpected, and far more real than any one person's imagination, usually in a bad way.

They loved it. In fact, it delighted then to no end. It represented Spain perfectly. Oh, and where was the brilliant artist?

He watched them from his hidden corner, watched them gush over his work, watching them enjoy the torment in the painting, relish the baring of his soul. 'Fool', he thought to himself.

He left.