MAY 14-16 & 18

I was 19, drunk, and crouching on the living-room floor. “You leave this apartment and it’s over!” I screamed, gulping down another shot of Mad Dog. Chris, my live-in boyfriend, sat on the edge of our waterbed, pouring himself into a pair of leather pants. “You’re fucking crazy,” he mumbled, probably hoping I would pass out. “I’m crazy, and you’re screwing that girl Tiffany from work!” I cried. Across the room, precariously perched on the uneven sheetrock, Chris’ first artistic achievement taunted me: a 4-foot-high portrait of his idol, Pablo Picasso. “Later,” Chris growled, slamming the front door behind him. Picasso’s image smiled down on me in my alcohol-induced psychosis. “He’s getting some,” he mocked in a seductive Spanish accent, “and she swallows.” Rage shot through my body, bringing me to my feet. I grabbed an X-Acto knife off the drawing table next to me and aimed for Picasso’s eye. “Bastard!” The canvas ripped with a high-pitched zip; flecks of acrylic paint filled the air. I was possessed. The spirit of every woman spurned by Picasso, the art world’s most infamous bitch magnet, channeled through me with a fury from the great beyond. So, I trashed the place. I remember waking up in the bathtub, the faint smell of kerosene and pieces of Picasso littering the floor. Today, Chris is married to a stripper in Phoenix, Ariz. A documentary about Picasso’s life and better-known inheritors, Pablo Picasso: The Legacy of a Genius, (pictured) screens at 12:30 p.m. Wednesday-Friday and 1 p.m. Sunday at the National Gallery of Art’s East Building Auditorium, 4th & Constitution Ave. NW. FREE. (202) 737-4215. (Elisa Nader)

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