He moves, under the late afternoon sky, through the lush green expanse of the quiet park perfumed with the burnt brownish aroma of the earth and dotted with the sparkle of flowers and vegetables that he picks often for the kitchen or studio. He savours this habitual pastime, taking the midday air in the still garden that overlooks the blood-hued foothills of the Maritime Alps and borders the large stone villa at Mougins on the French Riviera where he stays. Jacques, the gardener, squatting nearby, calls for his attention like an excited schoolboy, to a generous new spray of anemones and pansies. He responds with a cool affirmative wave and a subtle appreciative grin that seems to say, ‘I like them very much.’
He spends the cool April evening, laughing for most of the time, in high spirits and careless happy conversation with a group of close friends over a casual dinner. Jacqueline, his wife, sits close and conceals secret smiles as she observes his careless naiveté and eternal excitement. “Drink to me, drink to my health,” he exclaims, as he pours the sweet fragrant wine into the glass of a friend, “You know I can’t drink any more.”
He rises from the dinner table at 11.30pm and embraces the studio, working tirelessly in close measure and preparation for the upcoming show in Avignon. Outside, the night screams a darkening silence and vainly tugs at the heartstrings of the great villa. He works until 3am and sleeps.
He rises at 11.30am, his usual hour, but finds that he cannot rise.
The doctor is quickly summoned. Ten whole minutes pass.
Pulmonary edema. Fluid in the lungs. Heart attack.
Pablo Picasso leaps into the canvas of death.
11.40am. 8 April 1973. Sunday.
Silence. For a minute. Please.
