I digress. The dinner party was like this. Everyone standing around. Exchanging glances. Conversation is minimal. You get the vibe. We're ushered into the dining room and seated according to a chart. Food arrives full of presentation. Complete with a price tag hanging from the cloth in the bread basket. New and expensive, nice.
Before we dig in we are directed to the wall to the left (my right. But, anyway.) There it is. In all its glory. "A real live Picasso."
I've never felt more awkward. I think he would have, too. Picasso, I mean. When I recall that night several quotes come to mind.
Like "Art is a finger up the bourgeoisie ass."
And "People who try to explain pictures are usually barking up the wrong tree."
Or this gem "If everybody is looking for it, then nobody is finding it. If we were cultured, we would not be conscious of lacking culture. We would regard it as something natural and would not make so much fuss about it. And if we knew the real value of this word we would be cultured enough not to give it so much importance."
And his famous last words "Drink to me, drink to my health..." which, I often imagine had this been his last dinner party on earth, would have been appended somewhat with the likes of "... and tell this guy to stop being such a pretentious asshole." End of quote.