Playing Robin Hood with a Picasso
Sooo! I stole a Picasso.
On 22 June, 2016 Picasso's "femme assise" (Seated Woman) work, sold for $63.7 Million dollars, at Sotheby's in London. At that time, it had been the most expensive Cubist painting ever sold at auction.
The buyer is my uncle, a rich modern day Scrooge. Why does the rich throw so much money into the inanimate, when the world keeps calling for peace, caring and love.
I decided to steal it from right under his nose. Sell it to some dark art dealer in the underworld.
The proceeds I intended for the poor.
They caught me. Locked me up.
Sorry world!
About the Creator
Novel Allen
You can only become truly accomplished at something you love. (Maya Angelou). Genuine accomplishment is not about financial gain, but about dedicating oneself to activities that bring joy and fulfillment.
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I used to believe silence was strength. When I was younger, I thought strong people were the ones who endured everything without complaining. The ones who swallowed their words before they could cause trouble. The ones who nodded instead of arguing. Who smiled instead of breaking. So I learned to be quiet. In our house, quiet was normal. It sat at the dinner table with us. It followed us into separate rooms. It slept between the walls. We spoke about practical things—bills, school, groceries—but never about feelings. Feelings were like fragile glass; no one wanted to be responsible for dropping them. My father believed in discipline more than conversation. My mother believed in endurance more than expression. I believed in survival. The first time I remember holding my words back, I was nine. I had drawn something at school—a messy picture of our family standing under a bright blue sky. I was proud of it. I ran home with the paper folded carefully in my bag. 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My heart rehearsed conversations I would never actually have. When they forgot my birthday, I said, “It’s okay.” When they canceled plans repeatedly, I said, “I understand.” When they slowly drifted away, I said nothing at all. The truth was simple: It hurt. But pain, when buried long enough, starts to feel like personality. I became the understanding one. The mature one. The strong one. People confided in me. They trusted me. They told me their fears and heartbreaks. I held their words carefully, like fragile glass. No one asked what I was holding. It wasn’t that they didn’t care. It was that I had trained them not to worry. I had built a version of myself that required nothing. Silence can be addictive. It keeps things stable. It avoids conflict. It makes you appear composed. But it also builds walls. The first crack in mine came unexpectedly. I was twenty-three when my mother and I argued for the first time in years. 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Comments (4)
Truly insightful.Food for thought. Keep up the good work
Great little story, loved this! You most definitely have a flare for the dramatic and whimsical stories! Great work Novel!
What’s that movie where he steals the painting… based on a true story.. the Duke! That’s it. I forget the reason for the theft… but yours is more noble surely!! 😅
You are a modern day Robinhood for sure, enjoyed this short story 🥰