I hesitated. There was still time to turn back. I had met the Little Spaniard before and did not like him. But Simone’s words urged me on.

Picasso answered the door in paint-stained overalls. Told me to sit while he painted. Too busy to stop and be cordial.

The studio reeked of linseed oil and turpentine. And dog. An ugly old thing asleep at Picasso’s feet. There were canvases everywhere. All in the new cubist style. Fragmented and ugly. I spied two small sculptures that looked familiar on a shelf. Iberian and primitive. All the rage in Paris. It took only a moment to remember where I had seen them last. At my job. At the Louvre Museum!

I kept my tone casual as I asked Picasso where he had gotten them.

When he told me from his friend the art critic Guillaume Apollinaire I felt a rush of anger. Apollinaire had singled out my paintings from a recent gallery exhibition. Had called them old-fashioned and dull. Words that still burned in my gut.

Did Picasso know the sculptures were stolen? Perhaps he had even been a party to it. I was not sure. But I made a note of them being here.

Picasso sang while he painted. A popular dance-hall ditty.

Oh Manon ma jolie

mon coeur te dit bonjour

ma jolie ma jolie ma jolie

He sang the silly verse over and over. Then he lectured me on art and my responsibility as an artist. I listened without comment though his lecture offended me. He talked of his friend the other cubist artist Georges Braque. Referred to them as the Wilbur and Orville Wright of painting. Such conceit! He talked on and on about old-fashioned artists and their concern with beauty. I knew this was aimed at me. The same words Apollinaire had used in criticizing my work.

Picasso put his brushes down. Faced me. Turned his painting around so I could have a look. He explained at great length how he was reinventing three-dimensional form on a flat surface.

All I could see was a fractured mess. But I did not say a word.

He asked if I understood what he was saying. I felt anger rise up in me. But I answered calmly. I told him I understood perfectly and asked a question of my own. Why not paint the most beautiful picture possible?

Picasso spat his answer. Because it has been done before and better than you or I could ever paint it again!

I told him that all I had ever wanted was to make the most beautiful paintings possible.

He looked at me as if I were an idiot. Said beauty was a thing of the past.

We went back and forth like this. Neither one of us willing to concede our point.

Picasso finally offered me a cup of coffee. But it was too late. I had had enough of his lecturing. Enough of his insults.

I made an excuse and left.