Sitting for Picasso was deeply unsettling. He stared at me for long stretches without painting, as though dismantling my face internally before rebuilding it according to laws known only to him. Around the studio, distorted portraits watched silently from the walls while fragments of Guernica seemed to scream in frozen agony behind us. When Picasso finally painted, my familiar features disappeared almost immediately into sharp angles and fractured planes. Yet the strange thing was this: the finished portrait somehow felt more truthful than my actual face. Through my camera lens, I understood that Picasso was not painting appearances. He was painting simultaneous perspectives of the human soul.
