*installment 9: meeting picasso
home
young picasso
big city triptych
Yesterday was pleasant.

It was a beautiful day. It was hot--a scorcher. I love hot
weather. I worked for a bit and hit the pool at school. I
swam and played  volleyball.

This is a good sport. I prefer the two man version. It is
strenuous and is a good way--via the vicious spiking of
the ball into an opponents face--to get some of the
garbage out of your system. I enjoy sports. Athletes are
artists. I say this because they do what they do for the
pleasure of the doing.

I am a good athlete. I played  soccer in high school.

Madeline was there. She looks good in a bathing suit. I
could see a few squiggly (red) hairs improperly tucked
into the suit poking out from the pussy area.

We swam and stretched out beneath this brutal sun and
rubbed each other with  oil while munching sandwiches
while chatting about Rembrandt--while I  studied the
pussy hairs poking out from the crotch area.

We played some volley ball. She plays volley ball like
she  does everything-like its the end of the world. She
has a good serve and a fine touch when it comes to set
ups. I made several excellent spikes.   We won 3 and
lost 2. She doesnt like losing. She was steaming. This is
her way.



I am painting the triptych. Its coming along. I have the
cartoon sketched out and the composition is gradually
beginning to refine itself. I am using Madeline for a
model.

Yesterday I had a visitor--Mother Ey. She has been on
the road--looking for painters.

She is the same. The energy is undiminished. She has
been to italy and France--and the United States. She
was in New York, Chicago, a city called St Louis and San
Francisco.

What was New York like?

Incredible.  It was incredible, stupendous, unbelievable.
It was fabulous.

She also liked Chicago. She met a man named Al
Capone--a gangster. They have a law called
Prohibition--no more drinking.

I say: no more drinking?

Thats right.

I dont understand.

Neither do the americans. It doesnt seem to be
working.  The only thing it has accomplished is to create
a new breed of gangster--the "bootleggers"

What means this word?

A bootlegger is someone who sells whisky privately.

Where does the whiskey come from?

They make it themselves or smuggle it from Canada.

What about the police?

The police are not a problem.

But why are they called bootleggers?

There you have me.

Al Capone is the King of the Bootleggers.He is 28 and
makes 5 million a year.  He has 9 houses and 14 cars.
He lists his occupation as sardine importer.

Al Capone told Mother Ey he is interested in painting and
promised to visit the gallery if he ever comes to
Germany.


In Saint Louis she went to a baseball game. This is their
great sport.

I have heard of this game. What is it like?

It is impossible to describe. She was introduced to
someone called Babe Ruth--a baseball player. Babe
Ruth is a big hero. His nickname is "the Sultan of Swat"
He was an orphan and now makes $80,000 a year. The
president of the country makes $50,000 a year. Babe
Ruth said: I get paid more because I am better at my
job.

What about the painters?

There are some good painters--but they are not in our
league.

She fills me in on the news.

Any suicides?

Only one--Maurer.  He was 40.  Why?  The usual:
apathy towards his work.

I ask about business. Business is terrible. No one is
buying. She cant even sell cornball work. The mood is
changing. Its becoming more conservative. It is getting
harder and harder to sell decent work--not that it was
ever easy. She is getting hammered, etc.

I have been painting for 20 years and in 20 years I have
never heard a dealer once say business was good. It
gives them the excuse to beat you down.

She is thinking of starting an interior design business.
She met a Nazi architect who has been giving her some
small jobs.

Felixmuller is the same--painting and living off his wifes
income.

Well--they are happy so why not?

And what about me--what am I painting these days?

I show her the triptych

She says: its fabulous!

Can she sell it?

Maybe the middle panel.

I explain: its a triptych.  Triptych means three.

She explains: Otto we/ve had this conversation
before--no  more war cripples.

But its a triptych!


I invited her to speak to the students.

She says: what will I say to them?

Anything you want. Talk about money. That will perk
them up.

So the next day she arrives dressed in one of  her
patented silk outfits with the jewelry dripping off her like
ornaments on a christmas tree and gets up in front of
them and delivers the following remarks:

As a student at the university I thought I wanted to
paint. But I didn't have the temperament.  I didnt have
the discipline or the ability to apply myself to projects
that require sustained concentration.

Also: I cant be alone. I must be with people and talking.
I need action. So I went into the gallery business. At
once I realized I had made the right choice. I am at my
best taking someone  with money to an expensive
restaurant for lunch and revealing to this person certain
needs he never knew he had.

Art is a business. That is the reality. But it isnt a
business like the insurance business or the construction
business or the auto repair business.  These are
business that operate on some logical or rational basis
that more or less comply with the laws of supply and
demand.  

The art business doesnt work that way.  It depends
entirely on hype. It depends on people like
me--hustlers. The issue is money. My relationship to the
artist is based on this proposition. When I am looking at
your work I am thinking one thing: who can I sell this
to?

These are the facts. Its like being an actor. The
rejection factor is high. You must learn to accept this.  
Dont take it personally.  There is something called the
market and it is a market with no rhyme or reason.  Its
completely unpredictable. All you can do is keep
working.

There is a saying: luck favors the prepared mind. This is
true.

Thats all. And by the way--you are lucky to have this
man as a teacher.



Later I took her to the train station.

I said: you were a big hit--and thanks for the plug.

I liked your students. The redhead has talent.

The redhead is Madeline.

Yes.  Are you fucking her?

No. Its against the rules.





How to describe this?

I was in my office.

Knock, knock.

I said: enter.

It was Madeline.

I stood.

Hello Madeline.

Hello Otto.

She entered, closed the door--and locked it. She came
over and threw me down on the chair and unzipped my
fly and retrieved my dick and started to suck.

I was so shocked by this behavior I was unable to resist.



Yesterday there was a meeting.

The subject was: visiting artists. They have a problem
getting people to speak.

I made a suggestion: have they thought about paying  
these people?

Tony says he is going to invite Picasso. This gets our
attention.  It also draws a laff. It is well known Picasso
doesnt do this. He doesnt travel and when he does his
destination is usually the south of France.

Tony says: I know Kanweiler--his dealer.

So--this means what?

He says: I will get Picasso.



I took Madeline to lunch.

We had a long talk. The subject was sucking dick.

I said: the problem is this: you want to fuck and I want
to keep my job.

She said:  dont you get lonely?

Yes: but I prefer loneliness to unemployment.

She said she would drop the class.

I said: no. Its too obvious--plus I prefer not to lose
students.

She said a blow job was already a major indiscretion
that most people lumped together in the same general
category under intercourse. If she was sucking my dick
we might as well be screwing.

I said no.  There is a difference. The issue was
penetration. There must be penetration by the dick into
the pussy.

This is what you talk about when you become a
professor.

She said we were getting sidetracked by semantics here.

Etc, etc.

Now she said: do you have a girlfriend?

I said: yes.

Who is this person?

Its a long story.

She asked to hear.

I gave her the short version.

She said: what a mess.



This talk with Madeline has not made a dent. She
continues to pursue me in a relentless way. This girl will
be a good painter. She doesnt give up.

This is a new role for me: playing hard to get. Normally
I am the one in hot pursuit. I should have been doing
this all along. There are dramatic results here. On the
other hand--I have been told--you have to mix it up a
little. It is important to provide some encouragement
from time to time--like in the way of a blow job or
eating pussy.  If you are too rigid they get discouraged.



This is interesting: Madeline is a lesbian.

She told me.

We were in the studio. I was working on the triptych. I
am using her for a model.

We took a break for tea.

She says: did I tell you I was a lesbian?

I said: you failed to mention that one.

She goes back and forth. She likes woman but not
eating pussy. She can take it or leave it. She prefers
dick. Etc, etc.

Now we are smooching it up on the couch.

This is a first: kissing a lesbian.

I am on my knees with my head up her dress. I am
horny as a goat.

I stand.

I say: I will just rub it around a little bit in the bush
without putting it in and cream on your stomach.

She says OK.

So off comes the underwear and up is hiked the dress  
and out wide are the legs spread  over the shoulders
and I rub my dick in the bush.

Somehow it slips in.

I push it in all the way. This is no problem. It slips right
in. In and out it goes.

I have been trying to correct this premature ejaculation
problem. I read a book which said to withdraw the penis
from the pussy and to squee hard at the root for a 15
count. You relax the pressure for another 15 count. You
repeat the process. You do this three times. The idea is
to pinch off the nerves receiving the orgasm signal from
the brain. Then you resume fucking until the next period
of urgency occurs.

I try this.

It seems to work. I go in and out for a bit until my brain
receives the unmistakable SOS type signal that an
orgasm is on the way and I withdraw and squeeze the
blood off at the root for the 15 count and then relax the
pressure for another 15 count.

I do this 3 times.

Madeline says: leave it in and come. Tell me when you
are going to come. Leave your eyes open.

Later she said: how does it feel for a man to have an
orgasm?

This was a good question.  I had never been asked this
question.

I thought and said: it feels deep
mother ey
charcoal drawing
picasso
sculpture
head of woman
(Marie Therese)
archives
I am living in an apt in town. I have also rented a studio.
I am a little lonely. This town could use a good
whorehouse. Yesterday there was a letter from Martha.


Dearest::

I miss you.  How is your job?  Do your students adore you? I am
not so sure about this teaching business. Here things are  the
same--horrible. Hans is still fucking Eva. He is fucking her then he
isnt fucking her then he is fucking her again.

I dont care.  I am finished with him--and her too. My own sister! My
mother still knows nothing.  Can you imagine that conversation?

I bought a rug for the study. Its an antique. I got a very good price.  
The dealer wanted 12,000.  I offered 5,000. He said: I would be happy
to give it to you for 5,000 if my intention was to go out of business.
He said 10,000.  The truth is--all I had was 5,000. I wasnt trying to
bluff. I explained this. He said there was no way.  I said fine. I left the
store. So I am crossing the street and this young boy comes running
up behind--the assistant--and he says to me: you can have it for
5,000.

We went to a show. A young woman named Francesca Schifferin.
She is excellent. You would like her work. She studied with Lovis
Corinth. You can see his influence but she has her own style. I
bought a small watercolor.

I have seen Mother Ey.  She is fine. She asked about you. She says
she is going to pay you a visit. Maybe you should have her give a
talk. The students would enjoy it I think.

Have you been dancing--and with who?

The children are fine. I manage to keep them alive somehow. We
were in the car stuck in traffic and two of our fellow motorists
became enraged with each other and Maggie picked up some of the
terminology and now her favorite expression is: you fucking
asshole! So we explain that this is not permissible language but
meanwhile we are laughing like hyenas so she takes this as a signal
to continue. Its hilarious.

Enough . Should I come to visit you?



Once a month I hold a critique.

Everything goes on the wall and I go down the line. I
have to be careful here. Some of these people are
sensitive to criticism. I cant afford to lose students. Plus
it makes no difference. The real artist doesnt concern
himself with the opinions of others--good or bad. He
believes in himself or he doesnt. The word is  
commitment.

The critique over we break out the food and wine. There
is some good eating here. If they cant draw they can at
least have a mother who cooks.

There is music and dancing.  I show them a few steps.
They love this.


I have a new student: Madeline.

She is 20. This could be trouble. She is a redhead. She is
tall with big tits. She has talent. Many of them talent.
There is talent and there is work. I tell them: give me
work.

This girl has one problem: she thinks about painting too
much. I tell her: painting is a job.  That is the only way
to think of it. You do it  4 or 5 hours every day and then
you do something else--play volley ball, swim 40 laps,
climb a mountain--something physical.  

But its no dice. This is her nature. She is intense. Its like
getting a dog to stop thinking about food.

She is from Dusselfdorf. Her father is a lawyer.  She has
two brothers. She got interested in painting after seeing
a Max Beckmann show.

Beckmann is living in Dusselfdorf. Beckmann doesnt
teach. He married a rich wife.

She also attended a lecture. She was impressed. A smart
man. He is so smart she  could not understand one word
he said.  

I have also heard Beckmann speak.

This is a familiar story. Painters should stick to painting.
But they insist on being deep thinkers. When they write
they are on  unfamiliar ground and it shows. Why this
occurs I have no idea.

I would prefer to hear something about technique--or his
formula for medium. In Beckmans case he has the brains
to set the theories aside while painting.



I am getting a lot of work done. I am painting a triptych.
If you are a painter you have to paint a triptych. This will
be my masterpiece. A masterpiece should be big. The
center panel is 170 x 170cm and the side panels 40 x
170cm.

My theme is this: the city.

Into this painting goes everything I know about life. The
center panel is a night club. There is a band--fronted by
Herr Bechstein--reedman superb. He honks heroically on
his trusty baritone sax--a monstrous instrument.

I like painting musicians and their instruments
--especially saxophones.

Also I have included Herr Robinson--american negro
drummer.

People are dancing. In the foreground is a solo figure--a
beautiful girl in an amazing dress. The dress is from a
japanese fashion catalogue. I will use  Madeline for the
model here.

At the edge of the  dance floor are a few small cocktail
tables with seated couples. Who are these people? They
are rich people.

Its a gay scene. I will paint this in a high key--a flaming
pink. There is a certain kind of intense and visually
disturbing light you get in a nightclub that seems to exist
nowhere else.

The side panels establish a contrast to this action. They
occur in the street outside the club. They are dimly lit.

There are hookers, vagrants, street punks and--the one
element that must occur in any Otto Dix painting--the
diseased street mutt urinating on a war cripple.

I have painted a beautiful whore. She wears these
skittery heels and a short dress and a gorgeous wrap
with this fur trim at the collar and lapels and a sliver of
fluttery pink silk lining wriggling down to the waist. With
the fluttery pink silk lining wriggling down to the waist I
am aiming at a not too subtle trompe l'oeil effect. There
is something about the fur trim and this fluttery silk pink
lining--something quiviering, moist--labial.

Its a giant pussy!

This is a fabulous touch!
Picasso is here.

Tony did it. How?

He said: its called being a nag.

There is one stipulation: no speeches.  He will spend a
couple days meeting students and looking at work.

So there we were--gathered around out front awaiting
his arrival.

I am excited.  I have always admired this man. There
are two reasons.  I love the way he draws. Also--he
lives the life of a child. He is free. He does what he
wants and that only.

He says: I think I will eat--and he eats.

He says: I think I will sleep--and he sleeps.

He says: I think I will paint--and he paints.

He says: I think I will fuck--and he fucks.

Etc, etc. This is easier when you have money.

Normally I have mixed feelings about meeting people
whose work I admire.  The disappointment factor is
high. Most artists are dismal birds. People make them
nervous. They communicate best when alone.  This is
why they became artists. Maybe this man is different.  
We will see.


He arrives.

Up rolls this huge car--a Suiza-Hispano.  This is a
beautiful machine. It is  sculpture.  The fenders are like
giant flour scoops. It has 16 cylinders. That means 8
cylinders can fail and you will still arrive at your
destination on time. Its in the cabriolet style with the
driver outside and behind him a roofed-in passengers
compartment.

Picasso is sitting up front with the chauffeur. Inside are
2 women.  A young girl and an older woman.

Tony scoots up to greet him. The rest of us follow.
There are hellos and introductions made. The two
women are his girlfriend and her mother.

This is classic. I just had Mother Ey for a visit to lecture
them of the grinding poverty  awaiting them as painters
and now Picasso arrives in his chauffeur driven
Suiza-Hispano with his 17 year old girlfriend.

I know about the girlfriend from Tony. Picasso was out
for a walk. Here was this young girl looking into the
window of a dept store. There was something about her
face.  And the body wasnt so bad either. But it was the
face.

He went up and said: my dear--I would like to paint
you.  I am Picasso.

There was no response.  The name drew a blank. She
was a convent girl.

She said: I am Marie-Therese.

And she never has figured it out. She knew him a year
and a friend asked how she and Pablo were getting
along and she said: he seems to spend an awful lot of
time painting.

Picasso is short. He is built like an ape. He has black
hair.

The eyes are black. They are oily, expressive. He has
large ears. The lips are fat.  The neck is thick. My first
impression is this: intelligent, stubborn, obsessive,
ironic.

He has charisma--energy. It leaks off in  waves--like
heat from a furnace.

There is a famous quip from his mother: If Pablo were a
priest he would be Pope. If he went into the army he
would be a general.

If he was a doctor he would cure cancer. Instead he
chose painting and became Picasso.


We go inside for lunch.

The conversation is in French.

Picasso says: normally I dont do this.  I hate traveling. I
have no curiosity about the world. Ive been told this is a
major flaw--particularly for an artist.  My answer is that
I could spend the rest of my life painting the things I see
within 3 blocks of my house every day. But Tony was
persuasive. He said all the right things: good food, a
free room and unlimited adulation.

We laugh. The food part is certainly true.  Nobody has
ever lost weight attending this school.

We eat and chat. Picasso does the talking. This is a man
ill-suited to handle a supporting role.

He says:  fame has its good and bad side.  When I was
young I was already well known among painters. They
came to see me from all over Europe.  They were
interested in the work. Now its quite different.  I have
become too famous. I am treated as an exotic beast.  
People come not to see the work but to gawk. They
want some sort of performance. I could take my dick
out and piss on them and
they would love it.


We eat and show him around. We visit the library, the
painting and sculpture studios, the pottery studio, the
cinema. We visit the tennis courts, the soccer field, the
volley ball area and the  pool where a few students are
stretched out taking a break from their labors.

P is laughing.

To me he says: Dix--do you realize what a set-up you
have here?



Picasso continued.

He visited my class.  This was hilarious.  Imagine being
an art student and have Picasso stand there watching
you draw.

They were working from the model.

He makes the circuit and does it again.

This time he corrects some work. He takes charcoal
and works in a few strokes.  It doesnt take long.
He briefly studies the model and then: wham,
wham, wham! The strokes are fat, juicy, wormy.
They twitch  and wobble and flip and flop. They bite
into the paper. They exist.

But he doesnt like.

He smears and smudges and wipes off and re-draws.

I am studying his hands.  They are the hands of a
farmer. They are battered with work. The fingers are
heavy and stubbed at the end--like cigar butts. A
woman who was an expert in this field--of analyzing
hand physiognomy--was given an unidentified
photograph of Picassos hand.

She said: this is a man who can go thru walls.

He continues to attack the drawing. He draws and
redraws. He smears and smudges and wipes off and
draws and redraws.

Its starting to happen. Where there was an anemic,
babbling, unsightly mess he has created a space and
established within this space a turbulence--of energy,
rythym, gesture, weight.

There is value--the darks and lights.

He pops some flesh into the nose, he thumbs out a
mouth, he scratches forth an eye. Its something any
good art teacher can do.  But this is Picasso. When its
Picasso it adds a little fizz.

While drawing he speaks.

I love charcoal. You must learn to draw.  This is done by
drawing. You must draw, draw, draw.  You must have a
notebook with you at all times. On the bus, eating
dinner, performing a bowel movement. I am serious.
For me the nose is the key.  The nose and mouth.  Get
these right and the eyes will follow. Draw an interesting
head. All heads have a skull inside.  This is called
anatomy. Remember this. The hair is a shape. Get the
shape right.  You can provide details later. Dont forget
the negative space.  Do something with this space.

Etc, etc.

The same things I have been hammering them with:
Draw what you see! Loosen up! Make mistakes!
Simplify! Attack!



Picasso is still here.  He must like this place.  He came
for 2 days and has been 5.

Yesterday we played volley ball. It was P and Madeline
vs myself and Maria Therese. He likes Madeline. He
likes tall women. He comes up to her nose. They make
a good team.  They would both spike their
grandmother. Also--he cheats.  He made several poor
calls on shots that were clear winners. He was jumping
around out there like a monkey. He was dressed for this
in a green wool bathing suit the size of a jockstrap with
his balls hanging out.


After we took a swim.

He is stretched out on the grass with his balls hanging
out of the green wool bathing suit and his head in Marie
Thereses lap.

This Marie Therese creature is a sweet thing. They
make a good match.  1) She is young pussy. 2) She
doesnt nag. 3) She is the mothering type. He needs
this. He is labor intensive.

He waves his hand. He says:  Dix--you must draw
this!


In the studio.

Picasso is here. He is leaving today. He asked to see my
work.

I show him the triptych.

He is enthusiastic.

He says: Dix--its fabulous! I love the palette here.
These pinks are too succulent. The values are amazing.
How did you do this?

He studies the whore--and the fur wrap painted like a
giant pussy.

He laughs. He says: you are a twisted human being.

I show him a few portraits and drawings.

I make coffee.

We chat about this and that.  We agree that art dealers
are scum.

He says: my life is a nightmare. You cannot imagine. I
have no peace. I am like one of those water buffalos in
the nature films crawling with flies. I have all these
people in my life. They all want something. I have
dealers, publishers, journalists,  servants, tailors,
wives, girlfriends, landscape contractors, real estate
agents, wallpaper consultants, etc. It is a miracle I
continue to paint.

I havent mentioned my wife.  She is mad. Shes a
Russian. Why did I marry this woman?  She was a
dancer. I got invited to these fancy parties.  I met all
these upper class types. It was a new experience for
me.  I was a poor Spanish painter. It went to my
head--or dick.

Now I am stuck with this lunatic.  She wont divorce me.  
Why should she?  She lives a like a queen.  I do the
work--she spends the money. I said to her one day:
why dont you just get a needle and stick it in my arm
and draw the blood directly?

Thank god for Marie Therese. This girl saved my life.  
She truly loves me.  The money means nothing.  Later
this will change.

Its all work, Dix. This is what I have learned. You must
work, work, work.  Women are not the answer.  They
want different things.

He stands. We embrace.

He says: Dix--mon vieux.  What can I tell you. Its been
fabulous. I had fun. Remember that concept? I love
your work. I am going to tell Kanweiler about you. You
must visit me in Paris. You can stay with me.  

And then he was off to collect Marie Therese and the
mother--out shopping--and into the Suiza-Hispano and
he was gone.



*for previous installments and an intro to
the book go to: archives/dix
next month: hitler speaks