Looks like you’re expected.
Think they saw me?
They’re horrible.
The more obnoxious I am with them, the more they love me.
How’s that?
You’re the talk of the Salon des Indépendants.
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Oh, no! Ugh!
The perk is your stock goes up.
I’m not even showing.
“You’d have lapped it up.”
These days he’s at the vanguard of modern art.
How could you fall for these cheap imitations?
Miss Stein!
Derain, Braque — I taught them everything they know, and you know it!
Certainly, dear Master… But all the Matissians are now Picasso-ites.
False advertising, and you enjoy spreading it around!
But I won’t stand for it! Your Picasso — that troublemaker, that impostor, that hack —
I’ll put an end to him!
Wiegels, I told you I needed some quiet to work. Sorry, Master.
Did he really say that? Master!
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It’s about—
And I’m not your master.
NO!
Herr Picasso...
Der Meister!
There he is!
I wanted to recite my latest poem for you. e ’neath “In a humble Teuton villag —” ht lig the pale
VIVA AMERICA!
All you need is a Stetson, Pablo.
VIVA BUFFALO BILL! 311
From then on , Picasso knew no bounds . Adventurer , boxing champ , guru... fame was closing in fast , and he could smell it .
Soon he would be a holy terror.
It’s champagne!
Leetle darlink, you are all alone. You need zome company?
Rrrr! Have I got an appetite tonight!
No thank you, Madame.
He wants to buy some paintings of mine.
Corot, Delacroix, Courbet, Seurat, Géricault… what taste! Goetz is a collector.
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Are you enjoying the evening?
I’m going, Master. Bye!
Uh… thanks, Monsieur Goetz. Anything wrong?
Master—
Take this and go home.
You, too!
Take it! Take it all!
I like sunsets and mauve clouds! Is that scandalous, my dears?
You OK, kid?
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A daily dose of ether , opium or hashish , plus cocaine at Goetz’s… we found the little Teuton in a sad state.
Mommy, where are you? These old whores look like you and I don’t love any of them.
After three days of soup and bed rest , Wiegels seemed to be doing better.
He said, “I’ll never be a cowboy, Fernande.” Weird… something’s swinging over there...
He smiled at me this morning.
Picasso wasn’t able to save that one , either.
Behind the window.
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Wiegels’ death devastated all Montmartre , and since he liked colours…
We followed the hearse all the way to St.-Ouen. Everyone…
…except Pablo.
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You think you can stop me with a funeral?
Another one who’ll never grow old!
What do you want from me?
Oh, no! I’ll never go, you hear me? Never! I’d rather paint.
Yes, paint with death!
He’s been like this for two days, Doctor.
Here’s my tribute! Homage to Wiegels!
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Slightly overworked, no doubt.
Taking anything? Drugs? Medicine?
I think he means opium.
I want to stop.
Detoxify him?
Then take a long trip! ?
The doctor put us in touch with a farmer’s wife who lived far from civilization.
Taking all that with you?
Plus the painter who goes with it.
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