“Art is felt not explained through chaos and truth”

I never thought stepping into an artist’s mind could feel like stepping into a storm, a storm that does not destroy, but reconstructs. A storm of color, of broken forms that somehow feel more whole than reality itself. But here I am, not just visiting, but breathing, living, working at Musée Picasso in Paris. Every morning, I cross the halls inhaling the scent of old sketchbooks, dried paint, and the sharpness of turpentine, totally like whispers of unfinished masterpieces echoing through the air. I am not just in a museum, I am inside his mind, and it is as electrifying as it is complicating.

For years, I honored Renaissance art, it was perfect, polished, divine. I traced the symmetry of Raphael’s faces, the heavenly glow of Michelangelo’s brushwork, and believed beauty lived in balance. Then came Picasso, a force I refused to understand. His fractured bodies, disjointed eyes, angular chaos, his art did not beg to be admired, it demanded to be felt. It was too wild, too unsettling. But now, as I spend my days immersed in his world, something shifts within me. I don’t just see his paintings; I experience them. His work is not meant to be observed, but entered through a door to another dimension where time, space, and form a beautiful collision.

Now, I started to understand. His brushstrokes pulse, his colors breathe, his compositions are not distortions but truths, raw, and unfiltered. The women in Les Demoiselles d'Avignon do not pose; they confront. They are not broken; they are rescued from the illusion of a single point of view. I feel their presence, their movement, their challenge. Yet even as I explore his work daily, even as I look through sketches and breathe in the remains of his restless energy, I cannot say I admire everything suddenly. His art, while a force of nature, is not one I am admired off but it has opened a door. A window into madness, into a world where forms fracture and rebuild, where beauty is not perfect but urgent. He has made me curious, not just about his work, but about all the wild, uncontrollable corners of art I never dared to step into before.

I lean in close to one of his sketchbooks, the pages fade with time, the ink dimed but the energy is still alive. I can almost hear the graphite scratching against the page, can almost see his fingers hold the pencil in restless creation. I close my eyes and I think I am seeing him. Picasso, cigarette in hand and a brush in the other, his striped shirt covered with paint, pacing, sketching, breaking reality into fragments only to rebuild it in a way only he understood. His presence remain in this chaotic yet magnetic space filled with unfinished canvases, sculptures, and stacks of paint-stained sketches. The air smells of turpentine and revolution. He is alive between his art. And yet how can I have a conversation with him over coffee?