Henri Diacono, a former AFP reporter and friend of Pablo Picasso, had the chance to witness the renowned artist live out his final days in his farmhouse of Notre-Dame de Vie, nestled in the heart of the Alpes-Maritimes in the south of France. During the winter of his 90th year, he shared precious intimate moments with him. Here is his testimony, broadcast on April 9, 1973, one day after the painter’s death.

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In Nice, at his voluntary retreat, surrounded by his loved ones, a few friends, his brushes and pencils, he had preserved himself from the aggressive pace of this century’s end. (…) “The old Spaniard” awoke late, slept little at night, worked a lot. Shortly before his death, he was still painting and rarely left his home. He appreciated it when people “came to see him.” Each visit filled him with joy, but he only accepted visitors when he felt “ready to receive.”

Henri Diacono, a former AFP reporter and faithful friend of Picasso, had the honor of admiring the great artist live out his last days in a haven of peace exemplified by the Notre-Dame de Vie farmhouse, which is nestled in the Alpes-Maritimes, in the south of France. During the winter that saw Picasso turn 90, the tranquility of this enchanting place bore witness to his regained serenity. Protected from the impetuous assaults of our century, the illustrious Spaniard awoke late, as he would be disinclined to sleep at night. He dedicated himself body and soul to his brushes and pencils. Even in the last days of his life, he did not abandon his passion for painting. The master rarely left his cozy den and found solace in the visits of his close ones and a few handpicked friends, whom he only received when he felt like it. 

“Why should I welcome my dear friends if I am too busy or in a bad mood?”, he wondered. “I’d rather not see them in such cases than offer them a lukewarm welcome. I only open my door when I am cheerful, in high spirits, and available.”

One night in 1971, Picasso, who felt less tired than the people around him, went to bed later than usual. With humor and mischief, he escorted us to the door around 4 am. He reproached us for our lack of appetite and kept asking us to help ourselves again and again. “Have more champagne. Have it on my behalf. I’m not allowed to do it… Eat chocolate… Eat for me… I’m not supposed to taste it… Candied fruits are good, you know…” In a gesture of anger, he lifted his shirt to show us a scar resulting from a surgical operation, which forced him to follow a very strict diet.

During our encounters, he avoided discussing his art or work, as he showed interest in everything and asked endless questions. He made sure to enhance whatever answers he would get with his own memories. He was a hospitable man who desired above all to live in peace. He hated contradictory conversations. He only tolerated tranquility. And, when in a bad mood, he would lock himself away and refuse any contact with the outside world, which he referred to as “that of others, not mine.”

In the evening, when the house would get quiet as Picasso gets ready to start working, he would occasionally watch television to enjoy a moment with his family. He took pleasure in reminiscing about the past, as he would only focus on the amusing aspects of the events he recounted, such as his last social outing with Jacqueline in Cannes about a decade ago. That evening at the casino, the painter had put on his very old tuxedo, the only one he had ever owned. “It was moth-eaten under the sleeves. So, I kept my arms stiff, along my body. Jacqueline had worn an evening gown with some buttons missing. I was the one who fixed it with a safety pin.” “I was very happy,” he had told me. “A woman even approached me to invite me to dance. I declined.” Despite everything, the painter was cheerfully telling his friends that a woman had even invited him to dance, and that he had to turn down the invitation because he was 80 years old at the time. During these visits, these long, rambling conversations, we never talked about the topic of death. Even when he would mention a departed friend, Picasso would refuse to use the past tense.

The last image of the painter that Henri Diacono holds is that of a smiling man, upon whom the years seemed to glide without leaving a trace. Dressed in his favorite outfit – velvet pants, a plaid shirt, and a woolen vest – he would shake his wife’s hand when he would not accompany them to the door, citing the winter cold as an excuse. These privileged moments took place in the final days of 1972, as the great Picasso embarked on his 91st year.

With AFP