Identify BOTH the quality of the chord and its inversion.
Questions
Identify BOTH the quаlity оf the chоrd аnd its inversiоn.
This clinicаl imаge is depicting whаt sectiоn thrоugh the head?
Whаt Mаde Picаssо Picassо? Inevitably, the genius mоves to the metropolis or a university. In 1904, Picasso abandoned Spain for Paris, taking up residence in the heights of Montmartre, then a scruffy suburb where progressive artists could live cheaply and look southward down on the rest of humanity. Van Gogh had lived there, and so had the composer Erik Satie. Penurious painters clumped together in a tenement building called the Bateau-Lavoir because it appeared to be just that—a laundry boat. Picasso’s quarters therein were squalid. But “poverty coupled with genius” attended him, said the poet Max Jacob. And so, too, did other artists and their ideas. But what made Picasso Picasso? In a word: imagination. Pretend for a moment that you are watching Picasso paint. Actually, you are urged to do so in the twelve-minute film The Mystery of Picasso (portions available on YouTube). In the film The Mystery of Picasso, the artist starts from an obscure point to draw a bouquet of flowers, which he turns into a fish, and then a rooster, and finally a clown-like cat. Had the camera not run out of film, Picasso’s imaginings could have run on forever--the ultimate flat-line of creativity. Notice, too, his laserlike stare. Many of his contemporaries commented on his Picasso’s intensely focused eyes. Concentration (maybe obsession) is a constant companion of the creative mind. Picasso could stand upright before a painting for three or four hours at a stretch: “I asked him if it didn’t tire him to stand so long in one spot. He shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘That’s why painters live so long. While I work, I leave my body outside the door, the way Muslims take off their shoes before entering the mosque.” Sometimes Picasso is bewitched and sometimes a somnambulist. Gilot mentions the importance of dreams to Picasso, as if these imaginings might account for the strange forms that appear in his mature works: “I dreamed that my legs and arms grew to an enormous size and then shrank back just as much as in the other direction. And all around me, in my dream, I saw other people going through the same transformations, getting huge or very tiny. I felt terribly anguished every time I dreamed about that.” Invention, fantasy, dreams—the power of the imagination differentiates Pablo Picasso. Picasso’s imagination was endlessly inventive, and his capacity to convert his visions into lines and colors was fast and fluent. But without some mystery, there is no genius. Other Necessary but Insufficient Causes An extraordinarily vivid imagination is not all that made Picasso a genius. Among his personal characteristics was self-confidence—that is to say, an unswerving belief in the correctness of his vision. Only with self-confidence could Picasso, or any innovator, persevere against indifference, hostility, and outright failure. The dismal public reception accorded Georges Bizet’s Carmen did not cause him to lose faith in what is today perhaps the world’s most popular opera. The first four failed launches of a SpaceX rocket did not dissuade Elon Musk from trying a fifth (successful) one. The perplexed reaction accorded Les demoiselles did not deter Picasso from continuing along the revolutionary path that would lead soon to Cubism. He believed in the semi-magical state of genius and that, because he was one, he was both empowered and protected. Picasso’s self-confidence bordered on the delusional, and it started early, with his mother. “If you become a soldier, you’ll be a general. If you become a monk, you’ll end up as the Pope!” When he was twenty-five, in 1906, Picasso created a masterpiece, his famous portrait of Gertrude Stein. Yet she and her friends were taken aback and said that the portrait didn’t look like her. Picasso’s retort: “Don’t worry, it will.” By this Picasso meant not that Stein would age into her portrait, but rather that he would change the world of artistic perception to the point that his vision would be seen as the vision of what art is supposed to be. Picasso saw himself as, if not God, at least someone who had earned the right to criticize God. “God is really only another artist. He invented the giraffe, the elephant, and the cat. He has no real style. He just keeps on trying other things.” If you believe you cannot fail because you are always right, why not risk everything? A high tolerance for risk is another hallmark of the genius and of Picasso. As he said: “Painting is freedom. If you jump, you might fall on the wrong side of the rope. But if you’re not willing to take the risk of breaking your neck, what good is it? You don’t jump at all. You have to wake people up. To revolutionize their way of identifying things.” This high-risk tolerance applied to his personal life as well. “When I was a child, I could paint like Raphael, but it took me a lifetime to learn to paint like a child.” What specifically did childlike Picasso mean by this? That the child has the capacity to see the simplest and purest of forms, knowing nothing of learned artifice and convention that might disguise truth. Mozart, with his simplest, mature melodies (his Kinderlein he called them), might serve as a model of the sublimely mature child. But child-adult Mozart stayed mostly within the rules of harmony and counterpoint, while child-adult Picasso progressively ignored the rules of realistic representation. Ignoring the rules subverts the rules, but it impels change, which is essential to creativity, which is essential to genius. Why do we have art? It exists because the artist himself can do no other than obsessively explain and reveal. For some, art is catharsis, and Picasso was one of these continually cathartic artists. The end of one work became the beginning of the next. “There is never a moment when you can say, ‘I’ve worked well and tomorrow is Sunday,’” said Picasso. “As soon as you stop, it’s because you’ve started again —the curse of the compulsive genius. And as Gertrude Stein observed: “He always has need of emptying himself, it is necessary that he should be greatly stimulated so that he could be active enough to empty himself completely.” Again, Picasso himself: “I have only one thought: work.” He worked to reveal the danger confronting him: his own annihilation. And he worked efficiently. No time was squandered; no thing and no person spared. Most obviously floating dead in the flotsam of Picasso’s life were “his women,”—all except one. Between 1904, when he settled permanently in France, and his death in 1973, countless women entered and exited Picasso’s world. He needed the relationships. Verbal abuse was the opening volley. Two sayings Picasso often repeated were: “There is nothing so similar to one poodle dog as another poodle dog, and that goes for women, too;” and “For me, there are only two kinds of women—goddesses and doormats.” After the birth of his wife’s second child, he said: “You look like a broom. Do you think brooms appeal to anybody? They don’t to me.” Then there was the physical abuse. Olga was knocked down and dragged by her hair around the floor of the apartment on Rue La Boétie. Dora was knocked unconscious in the studio in Rue des Grands Augustins. Françoise was nearly bitten by three Mediterranean scorpions while Picasso laughed delightedly—deadly Scorpio was his zodiacal sign. Once in Golfe-Juan he burned Gilot’s face with a lighted cigarette. Burning seems to have appealed to Picasso: “Every time I change wives, I should burn the last one. That way I’d be rid of them. They wouldn’t be around now to complicate my existence. Maybe that would bring back my youth, too. You kill the woman and you wipe out the past she represents." Perhaps because they, too, were creators, Picasso feared and hated women. Having terrorized his women in life, now-energized Picasso set about transferring his psychic state into visual form—his art. “He first raped the woman . . . and then he worked. Whether it was me, or someone else, it was always like that,” recounted Marie-Thérèse Walter. More could be said, but the point is made, and Picasso knew it well. He was a monster. But in his mind only a monster could subdue another monster, and for Picasso that other monster was the specter of his own death. Destroy it before it destroys you. This is what his art required. “They [the public] expect to be shocked and terrorized. If the monster only smiles, then they’re disappointed.” Of course, this monstrous fight left collateral damage, the female victims. The list of the dead and wounded is long, but Picasso didn’t much care. “Nobody has any real importance for me. As far as I’m concerned, other people are like those little grains of dust floating in the sunlight. It takes only a push of the broom and out they go.” Accordingly, out went his children (except Paulo) and grandchildren, all of whom he refused to see. The Moral Dilemma of Genius To paraphrase what Nannerl Mozart said in 1792 about her brother’s sometimes irresponsible behavior, “Mozart was to be excused because he was a genius.” But is the genius really entitled to a “get out of jail free card?” Had the bard stayed up in Stratford, we might have had one big happy family, but no plays. If Gauguin had remained with his wife and five children in Amsterdam, foregoing the voyages to Tahiti, would we have his colorful Polynesian paintings? Had Wagner not fallen for the wife of another man, would we have Tristan and Isolde? Did Picasso have the right to throw his women under his relentlessly approaching bus? Can humanity be sacrificed in the name of art? Can you love the art but hate the genius? Here, too, morality is an individual decision. Françoise Gilot would likely vote “no,” as suggested by her appraisal of Picasso: “As an artist, you may be extraordinary, but morally speaking you’re worthless.” The other of Picasso’s women would likely have voted “yes.” They understood that they would be immortalized through him, and they were right. But all participated willingly. Only Gilot left. The rest stuck around to be abused. Picasso himself was aware of the moral dilemma: “We are always in the midst of a mixture of good and evil, right and wrong, and the elements of any situation are always hopelessly tangled. One person’s good is antagonistic to someone else, and so one has to have the courage of the surgeon or the murderer.” For Picasso, the end--in this case, immortal art--justified the means. “Anything of great value—creation, a new idea—carries its shadow zone with it. You have to accept it that way. Otherwise, there is only the stagnation of inaction. But every action has an implicit share of negativity. There is no escaping it. . . . . The genius of Einstein leads to Hiroshima.” From Prodigy to Genius and Back Every human is motivated. Some of us are motivated to be happy and “enjoy life;” others are motivated to do good works for fellow humans. Some are motivated to tell their life’s story—to lay out the human experience as they see it. Writers do so in books, poetry, or plays; philosophers philosophize, and teachers teach. Picasso, of course, told his story by means of art; it was his autobiography. Although his body is gone, his psychic state remains visible to all at any time in galleries and on the internet. To feed a vividly imaginative psyche, Picasso was compelled to live large in the external world. Life fed the art, and art kept him alive. Said he: “When a man knows how to do something, he ceases being a man if he stops doing it.” Doing it, and doing it well, however, are two different things. In his last years, Picasso raced around southern France in a frantic quest for the fountain of youth. As Françoise Gilot said after he turned seventy: “His constant dread of death had moved into a critical phase and, as one of its effects, had apparently provoked a taste for ‘life.” Continual sexual conquests—victims--were needed. But the life of an aging Don Juan, at least to Gilot, had become “grotesque” and “ridiculous.” As Picasso’s engine of life—his considerable sexual energy--slowed and eventually stopped, so too did the availability of partners interested in his sort of energizing psycho-sexual drama. His last woman, Jacqueline Roque, was more nurse than combatant. In the end, Picasso’s engagement with life-assuring sex was relegated entirely to his mind. A prostate operation in 1965 left him impotent. But although the body aged, the imagination did not. Like hell-bound Don Giovanni (Don Juan), he seemed to say, “No, no, I will not repent.” This genius, at least, was relentlessly consistent. In his teens, Picasso imitated the masters and in his twenties, created a new standard for what a masterpiece should be. The world watched. In 1966, a million people came to the Grand Palais to see a retrospective of his work. As an old man, however, Picasso’s work became derivative (built on Delacroix, Velázquez, Manet, Rembrandt, and Degas) and often cheaply pornographic. Said his former collaborator Georges Braque: “Picasso used to be a great artist, but now he’s only a genius.” And likewise, another former friend, Marc Chagall: “What a genius, that Picasso. It’s a pity he doesn’t paint.” The prodigious technique and all the celebrity remained, but Picasso’s creations, once frighteningly original, had become variations on the themes of others. “Picasso is only happy when working. Yet he has nothing of his own to work on. He decorates pots and plates that other men make from him. He is reduced to playing like a child. He becomes again the child prodigy.” The prodigy only mimics the work of others but does not create. In the course of his ninety-two years, Picasso had gone from prodigy to genius and back. https://alumniacademy.yale.edu/sites/default/files/2021-06/6-23%2010PicassoWrightEssay.pdf Which characteristic does the author identify as the most important factor in making Picasso unique?