You walk into a museum and find yourself standing in front of a Cubist painting. Instead of a familiar landscape or figure, there’s a puzzle of shapes that makes no sense at all. You wonder: Is this art? At some point, we’ve all felt that uneasy sense of disorientation. Cubism is one of the most mythical art movements—but, let’s be honest: does anyone actually like it? Would you tell me that Les Demoiselles d’Avignon—arguably the most “beautiful” Cubist painting—is genuinely beautiful?

To make matters worse, Cubism is not only aesthetically challenging but also intellectually intimidating. That, in fact, is the real reason many of us shy away from it—whether we realise it or not—for it makes us feel ignorant, or worse, excluded. It’s as if there’s something important happening on the canvas, but we’re not invited to the party. We just don’t know what it’s all about. And yet, we know Picasso is world-famous for it, and that maybe, if you drink only water, eat rice, save all your income, live twice, and hope for a market crash, you might one day afford one of his Cubist paintings—a small one.

The good news is that this ends now. I might never convince you to like Cubism—fair enough—but what I will do is help you understand it. Rest assured: Cubism just needs to be explained.

As with many stories, it all begins in Paris. In the early 20th century, the city was on fire with ideas, and traditional painting suddenly felt too narrow to capture the complexities of modern life. Think of the soft transitions of light and shadow in an Impressionist landscape by Monet, or the carefully modelled figures in an academic painting: each one presented the world as stable, harmonious, and unified. But the world didn’t feel that way anymore—and Cubism was born from the need to shatter the illusion of a single, calm reality.

Two young artists, Pablo Picasso and Georges Braque (who is often given far less credit), took up the challenge. Inspired by Cézanne’s idea of reducing nature to basic shapes, they did something very clever: they played with perspective.

Picasso was born in Málaga, Spain, in 1881, and from a very young age, his talent was undeniable. He moved to Paris in 1904, hungry for the city’s vibrant art scene. Before Cubism, he went through his Blue and Rose periods—phases marked by melancholic figures and warm, romantic tones. Although he is often credited with a child-like style, this is far from true; at 13, he could already paint in any style required of him. In fact, at just 14, Picasso applied to the prestigious School of Fine Arts in Barcelona. The entrance exam, typically a month-long deal, was completed by him in a single day. His work was so exceptional that he was admitted immediately, bypassing the initial two years of coursework.

Braque, by contrast, was French—born in Argenteuil, near Paris, in 1882. His early work was deeply influenced by Fauvism, with its bright colours and wild brushstrokes, but he quickly found that style too decorative for his taste. Braque’s temperament was quieter than Picasso’s—more methodical, more introspective. He was a craftsman at heart, trained in house painting and decorative art, and he carried that meticulousness into his approach to painting.

These two shared not just ideas but also a studio in the early days. They worked side by side, challenging each other with questions about form, perspective, and how to represent reality. Until World War I, in 1914, Braque enlisted and was seriously wounded in battle, which forced him to step back from painting. During his long recovery, their artistic paths naturally diverged. After that, Picasso moved on to other styles and became world-famous, constantly reinventing himself. Braque, on the other hand, stayed committed to exploring Cubism and never left.

Let’s try this: Imagine a vase with flowers in the centre of a small table. Now, picture yourself looking at it straight on. Then, walk around it, never letting it out of your sight. Once you’ve seen it from all sides, go grab a staircase and climb on it to see it from above. Perfect. Now, get down and lie on the floor to look at it from below. Excellent. Take all these different views—all the angles from which you saw the vase with flowers—and try to paint them together on a single canvas. The result? Cubism.

Between 1908 and 1912, Picasso and Braque developed what we now call Analytical Cubism—a fancy name that, for a change, does actually make sense. During this period, their palette was reduced to muted browns and greys, blacks and ochres, with just a touch of white here and there. They focused on dissecting familiar objects—guitars, bottles, human faces—into geometric planes, as if they were breaking them open to study their insides. In these early paintings, it was all about experimentation. The subject itself hardly mattered. What counted was the interplay of shadows, lines, and perspective—when you see these paintings, you understand why Les Demoiselles d’Avignon is considered so beautiful…

By 1912, Cubism had evolved into something richer and more playful: Synthetic Cubism. It marked a shift from breaking objects apart (analysis) to putting them back together (synthesis)—hence the name. Artists began reassembling objects using bolder, brighter colours, and simpler shapes, often incorporating textures and collage elements. But, truth be told, this phase lasted only a couple of years and was not particularly successful.

Cubism’s impact wasn’t confined to painting. Its challenge to perspective—its notion that reality is not a single point of view—reshaped literature, music, and architecture. Modernist writers experimented with fragmented narratives; composers like Stravinsky broke musical lines into rhythmic bits. Architects like Le Corbusier, inspired by Cubism’s geometric clarity, helped shape modernist architecture.

Here’s how to look at a Cubist painting: The first thing to do when standing before a Cubist painting is to resist the urge to find a “scene.” It’s not an interpretive work but a perspective exercise; a joint effort between the eye and the mind. Try to identify the most recognisable forms, or the subject—a violin, a café table, a woman’s face—and imagine yourself walking around it, seeing it from above and below. Remember, what you see on the canvas is something that has already been viewed from multiple angles. Let your eye wander, following the rhythm of the shapes rather than searching for a single focal point.

At first glance, Cubism can feel like a challenge to our trust in art. But it is, in truth, an invitation: an invitation to break free from the single point of view, to explore the world from every angle at once. It teaches us that reality is complex, layered, and never just one thing. At its heart, Cubism shows us that understanding is not about finding one answer, but about learning to see in many ways.

Welcome to the party…

By Carlos M. Suárez Tavernier