Francis Picabia had been out of it for the past few weeks. His last show turned out to be a financial disaster. Only one sale, a small painting of a black cylinder. He could hardly believe it. While Picasso was brilliantly publicizing the work that he spit out at an alarming rate, he couldn’t even manage to create some kind of hype around his paintings. He strolled down the streets of Paris, stopping for a few drinks at every tavern and bar that crossed his path. Those drinking holes were all the same to him; they were full of the same strangers, stories and hopeless destinies. He went from one to the other, sampling some Muscadet, trying to make sense of what had just happened to him. Going back to his studio, Francis Picabia found he couldn’t pick up his brushes. He just sat there, staring out the window, getting annoyed by his neighbor’s gramophone music, worrying about how he was going to pay his rent. And the Muscadets kept flowing. At the end of the month, when he finally woke up from his lethargic state, Francis Picabia ran to his studio. He took off his clothes and masturbated to his neighbor’s melodies, then grabbed one of the many unsold paintings that were scattered about his studio. On top of a white wheel and copper pistons, he painted a woman with vaguely Spanish traits and slightly crossed eyes. Exotic ladies, he thought, might sell better than machines.
