What's My Line?

One year ago, Pablo Picasso's young and beautiful wife, Francoise Gillot, left him. She took along their two children, aged 6 and 4, explained that she was "sick of living with a monument." The "monument" bestirred itself, and by February produced a series of 180 drawings that may well stand among the richest flowerings in soth century art. The drawings were first put together as a book in Paris. Last week they were available on U.S. book counters as Picasso and the Human Comedy (Harcourt, Brace; $25).

The book is the work of an old (73) man who has, whatever his weaknesses as a painter, a virtuosity in line drawing unsurpassed in the whole history of art. The legion of shapes he brings to life are not always pleasing, but invariably turn out to be convincing.

Picasso's new drawings prove that in his feelings he is still very much a man like other men--despite his troubles with Francoise.* Erotic, nostalgic, satiric, philosophic and clownish by turns, he shows bafflement, bitterness, faithlessness, a saving sense of humor and an even healthier sense of mystery. He can limn a breast or buttock, an evil grin or a sorrowful eye, with one stroke of his pen, but he never stands on skill alone, and even scorns perfection. A devoted artist, he keeps showing by purposeful slips and elisions that art is a matter of illusion. "What's my line?" he seems to ask. and never waits for an answer.

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