If there’s a heaven, I wonder if it might be done up in oils. Or maybe gouache or watercolors. I wonder if Picasso holds court in some outdoor café where they serve bottomless, eternal cups of espresso.
I can see Mr. Picasso talking and laughing as he sips his brew. Getting reacquainted with Matisse and debating artistic principles with Miro. Imagine him paying tribute to Leonardo and Rembrandt, cajoling with the likes of Hemmingway and Gertrude Stein, exchanging critiques with Velazquez and Van Gogh.
I can think up dozens of questions for the master. Hundreds. But there’d be no need. I wouldn’t say a word. I would simply relish the company, the atmosphere, the dialogue. I’d rest my face on my palm and drink it all in, along with my demitasse.