Traditionally, style was the artist's signature or trademark, the unique and distinctive means by which he expressed his ideas or perceptions. The break with this traditional conception was pioneered by Picasso.
Cézanne, Kandinsky, and Mondrian all understood that they were artistic seekers, who innovated cautiously and continuously; Picasso and Malevich equally understood that they were finders who made sudden and discrete artistic leaps.
We created abundance in the civilized world and cherish the history of our culture and the culture of our history, or so we say, and that last room before the museum's shop exhibits the best we can do in and with the visual arts sector?
Could Picasso not again face what humanity had done? Did he recoil at the idea of any aesthetic response to horror and devastation on that scale? Or, in the face of such unimaginable suffering, did he find art unequal to the task?
The experience of being moved to tears by art is not entirely foreign to me. I will tell you, in all honesty, that I can feel a van Gogh in the room. His art exudes an emotional quality, at times a frenzied desperation.
What's a workation? Let me explain. We are living in chaotic times and we can never catch up. This is how people must have felt, too, at the beginning of the industrial revolution. Either you adapt and keep up, or die.
Mazet-Delpeuch, in her early 70s, is in town to talk about Haute Cuisine, a film loosely based on her experiences as personal chef for French president Francois Mitterand and her year-long-plus tenure as cook for a research lab on an island off Antarctica.
If there was ever any shred of a doubt that Pablo Neruda, nee Neftalí Ricardo Reyes, lived an epic, fantastical life, it can be permanently eradicated by visiting La Chascona in Santiago's Bellavista neighborhood.