Oh boy, Picasso's time in Paris during the shitshow that was World War II?
Picasso, our guy, the painter extraordinaire, was living it up in Paris when the Nazis decided to crash the party. Now, you'd think for a guy who basically reinvented art more times than I’ve reinvented my Netflix password, he'd be treated like royalty, right? Wrong.
The Nazis, with their love for all things bland and uncreative (except for their uniforms, those were snappy), didn't really get Picasso's vibe. His art? Too weird, too out there. It was like serving a gourmet, five-course meal to someone who thinks fine dining is a hot dog eating contest. They labeled his work "degenerate art" because, well, Nazis had a knack for missing the point on a cosmic scale.
But they didn't chuck Picasso into the slammer or anything. No, they sort of let him be, but in a "we’re watching you, buddy" kind of way. Picture this: Picasso, in his studio, surrounded by paintings that would sell for more money today than I could make in ten lifetimes, and he's just there, giving zero fucks, continuing to create while the Nazis are goose-stepping outside.
It’s said that when a German officer saw a photo of the Guernica painting and asked Picasso if he did that, Picasso sassily replied, “No, you did.” If that’s not the ultimate "fuck you" to the Nazis, I don’t know what is.
So, in short, Picasso was treated like that weird uncle at a family gathering by the Nazis: kind of tolerated, mostly ignored, but never silenced. And thank crap for that, because Picasso just kept on Picasso-ing, proving that true art and spirit can’t be squashed, not even by the biggest assholes in history.
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