FRANCIS PICABIA

To my mind Picabia has caught and imprisoned in his pictures all the best things in life—spontaneous gaiety, happiness, a fearlessly clear insight into things, the spirit of adventure, of change and of the unexpected that is in the essence of all things that are alive.

He has the courage to express life as he feels it, in complete disregard of all formulas, and he has the courage to change as all life changes. Nothing alive ever stays still; why should a painter invent a formula for himself and then sit down and expect it to last him forever?

Picabia's spirit is completely free, and when a man ceases to be the slave of material things all matter becomes his slave. In his pictures one feels a complete mastery over both materials and ideas—he is not limited in any way. He has gained the power to use any shape, colour or thought in the universe to express his dreams. He is not modern, academic, futurist, cubist or any other “ist”, he is beyond classes or schools, and no one who is not hopelessly blinded by pre-conceived formulas or theories about what “Art” should or should not be can fail to feel a sense of joy at the transparent clarity and the fearlessness of thought in Picabia's pictures, and the fact that they are so intensely alive.

The world is tired of theories, tired of schools and tired of formulas. It is so refreshing to find oneself in the presence of something that brings a keen sense of joy without explanations or arguments, something that convinces by its very presence, like the sunshine, a blue sky, or just a beautiful day.

MERAUD MICHAEL GUINNESS

## MARCEL DUCHAMP (Rose Selavy 8-3-1926)

En 1916 Francis Picabia évolue encore et donne une suite d'aquarelles qu'on peut appeler « machine », dans lesquelles la précision de la ligne froide donnera le ton à tant d'imitateurs d'après guerre (côté pionnier de Picabia). La gaité des titres, le collage d'objets usuels montrent son désir de se défroquer, de rester un non-croyant en des divinités trop légèrement crées pour les besoins sociaux.

## ANDRÉ BRETON

(Préface à une exposition 1922)

* l'homme qui nous change de Picabia c'est Picabia

* lui qui le premier a peint la terre bleue et le ciel rouge....

Et comment la majorité des hommes s'apercevrait-elle que, pour la première fois une peinture devient source de mystère après n'avoir été longtemps que spéculation sur le mystère et qu'avec cet art sans modèle, ni décoratif, ni symbolique, Picabia vient sans doute d'atteindre au degré le plus élevé de l'échelle de la création

JACQUES HENRY LEVESQUE

(Les 20 ans de l'esprit Dada
Conférence à la Sorbonne - 4 Mai 1936).

Picabia est l'un des seuls qui ne fasse pas
deux pas en arrière lorsqu'il a fait un pas en
avant.

GERTRUDE STEIN (Novembre 1937)

Conversation à Belignin.

En regardant les paysages de Picabia.

Mes paysages ne ressemblent pas à des
paysages qu'on voit.

Oui oui je suis pas sure si on se promène
beaucoup seule et regarde les paysages, mais
vous vous ne les regardez pas les paysages vous
ne les regardez jamais.

Bien entendu je ne les regarde pas, moi
j'aime pas la concurrence.

TABLEAUX PROVENANT DES COLLECTIONS

GABRIELLE BUFFET

JACQUES DOUCET

JEANNE LÉGER

M. MILLS

MARTHE PIGNON

LÉONCE ROSENBERG

GERTRUDE STEIN

WET PAINT

One day Picabia said to the world, “I’ll be seeing you tomorrow.”
It was an opening. Several critics were to speak over the radio and there
was some confusion. In front of the mike, Picabia met a friend and said to
him, “I’ll be seeing you tomorrow.”

Not knowing it, wanting nothing but his independence, a stray cat of
the Place Vendome, an old hand at painting and at the Paris rooftops, he
made an appointment with the whole world. Tomorrow. Any time you like.
Here we have a painter who has neither system, nor pattern, nor is in the
least pontifical. A bland humour pervades him that goes far beyond ferocity.
We are in France, in the heart of Paris. From here it is easy to speak to the
world. But Picabia does so without knowing that he does so, as one has a
child with a pretty girl without thinking and so he paints without thinking.

Picabia has always painted enormously. He has followed all the roads
in painting; probably some of the worst, too. This year he has burst out like
fireworks into a series of astounding canvases that join hands with the fine
work of 1913 (Udnie and Edtaonisl) more than 35 years of seeking, of
adventurous life, passionately in love with play and pleasure.

The cycle is complete. Picabia has rediscovered the juice of the dada
period; the same careless grace. The same painting anti-painting that is real
creation. Once again it is he who leads the way to freedom for the youth
of today.

Daring does not necessarily belong to youth. But I think that a true
master has perennial youth. Thus Picabia could take to himself the words of
Nietzsche, "I am young now in a better way."

Michel Seuphor

Paris 1949

TRANSLATION BY DOLLIE PIERRE CHAREAU

CABIA

ROSE FRIED GALLERY
THE PINACOTHECA

40 EAST 68 • 1:30-5:30
and by special appointment

FEBRUARY 15th-1950

S PICABIA

PRESERVATION, PHOTOCOPY: ORIGINAL MATERIAL RESTRICTED

the Christopher Columbus of art. No one attains his philosophical "indifference," his creative facility, his artisan. He sails without compass. The "iles Concretes" where the abstract gentlemen consume one another, oy him. At the extreme end of the world, at the most advanced outpost of our unbridled civilization, at the desert of emptiness, where even the irritating weathercock of vanity disappears, he has heard the humming of spinning the flaming thread of sombre and unreal fire; the thread of human existence with an ever growing e of modern "merancolie" he meets with a naked figure, recoiling in fright from his own image that the mirror

PRESERVATION PHOTOCOPY: ORIGINAL MATERIAL RESTRICTED

Francis Picabia is the Christopher Columbus of art. No one attains his philosophical "indifference," his c
sangfroid as an artisan. He sails without compass. The "Iles Concretes" where the abstract gentlemen co
were discovered by him. At the extreme end of the world, at the most advanced outpost of our unbridled
c edge of the great desert of emptiness, where even the irritating weathercock of vanity disappears, he has
of the brass distaff spinning the flaming thread of sombre and unreal fire; the thread of human existence w
furia. In this abode of modern "merancolie" he meets with a naked figure, recoiling in fright from his own ir
throws back at him. The naked figure, trembling with disgust, as he confronts the human face that reminds
head, staggers back into an armchair, tossing about his arms and legs as if they were tentacles. Stubborn
movements; the absurdity of existence takes him by the throat, he shakes the tentacles convulsively. Will he
Will he render his disgust on canvas? The naked figure decides for disgust and painting and Picabia r
despises tragedy.

I made Picabia's acquaintance when he visited Zurich in 1917. He came as the emissary of the American I
colleagues at Zurich. Tristan Tzara and I both curious and excited went to his hotel. We found him very h
to pieces. I couldn't help recalling the "Anatomy Lesson" by Rembrandt which is at the Amererdam Muse
was a step nearer to abstraction. He attacked his alarm clock ruthlessly till he got to the spring w
triumphantly. He stopped working to greet us, then taking the wheels, the spring, the hands and other sec
he immediately impressed them on paper. He connected these imprints together by lines and added to the
full of wit. Remote from the world of mechanical stupidity he created anti-mechanical machines. At this ti
predilection for wheels, screws, engines, cylinders, electric conducts; making use of these forms he drew a
that had unconscious secrets. From these gratuitous machines blossomed an entire flora. "La fille née sans r
verse that moved us deeply was written at that time. In that book there is no trace any more of the dried up
not a single sparkling sentence, no more "Trompe l'oeil in a bra."

But Picabia has not only one string to his bow. There are melodies of his that I know that sing of the
of the swan; and of the movements of the swan. Clouds with a mythical voice, gather, swell, and disappear
siroco becomes the "sirococo" and Picabia approves. How can we enumerate all his finds, his countless inv
canvases of his made of straws, of confetti, canvases for harems, canvases for dwarfs. He has painted b
wings, bouquets of empty eyes, bouquets of hearts revolving in a void. Couples smothered in forget-me-not
The challenges and wisecracks in his paintings are innumerable.

Whether Picabia is examining metamorphoses or writing a picture in answer to a letter, his document
multiplied a hundred times. Picabia is a hopeless case. From his childhood he was affected with "furious
night he paints with all the strength of his arms and legs. At night he covers up the canvas he painted c

PRESENVATION PHOTOCOPY: ORIGINAL MATERIAL RESTRICTED

spinning the flaming thread of sombre and unreal fire; the thread of human existence with an ever growing
of modern "merancolie" he meets with a naked figure, recoiling in fright from his own image that the mirror
n. The naked figure, trembling with disgust, as he confronts the human face that reminds him of a Medusa's
ck into an armchair, tossing about his arms and legs as if they were tentacles. Stubborn, he persists in his
surdity of existence takes him by the throat, he shakes the tentacles convulsively. Will he cling to emptiness?
disgust on canvas? The naked figure decides for disgust and painting and Picabia rejoices because he

acquaintance when he visited Zurich in 1917. He came as the emissary of the American Dadaists to greet his
ch. Tristan Tzara and I both curious and excited went to his hotel. We found him very busy pulling a clock
't help recalling the "Anatomy Lesson" by Rembrandt which is at the Amererdam Museum. All the same it
r to abstraction. He attacked his alarm clock ruthlessly till he got to the spring which he pulled out
topped working to greet us, then taking the wheels, the spring, the hands and other secret parts of the clock,
pressed them on paper. He connected these imprints together by lines and added to the drawing sentences
from the world of mechanical stupidity he created anti-mechanical machines. At this time he had a great
eels, screws, engines, cylinders, electric conducts; making use of these forms he drew and painted machines
us secrets. From these gratuitous machines blossomed an entire flora. "La fille née sans mere" a thin book of
s deeply was written at that time. In that book there is no trace any more of the dried up sponges of rhetoric,
ing sentence, no more "Trompe l'oeil in a bra."

It has not only one string to his bow. There are melodies of his that I know that sing of the sensitive whiteness
of the movements of the swan. Clouds with a mythical voice, gather, swell, and disappear. Sometimes the
"sirococo" and Picabia approves. How can we enumerate all his finds, his countless inventions? I have seen
ade of straws, of confetti, canvases for harems, canvases for dwarfs. He has painted bouquets of withered
d empty eyes, bouquets of hearts revolving in a void. Couples smothered in forget-me-nots, the rind of kisses.
d wisecracks in his paintings are innumerable.

Picabia is examining metamorphoses or writing a picture in answer to a letter, his documents are "palimpsests"
ed times. Picabia is a hopeless case. From his childhood he was affected with "furious painting." Day and
th all the strength of his arms and legs. At night he covers up the canvas he painted during the day; and
e covers up the canvas he painted at night. His canvases grow bigger and bigger. His need to paint
plains itself by a fanatical and mad concern that is in complete contradiction with his dadaist irony. This
neither the mockery nor the "fin de siecle" wit where blasphemy is indispensable. It is the act of creation
—body and soul. It is not a beautifully finished off and framed picture that he is seeking. Contrary to all
ows closer to the first gesture of origin; the absolute; and none of the "Jesus Rastaquouere" go to his rescue.

Jean Arp

ASCONA 1949