Art history often finds its most compelling voice in those who approach it with both rigour and curiosity—qualities that define the writing of Abha Mehta. With a keen interest in researching landmark works and unpacking their layered meanings, Mehta brings a considered, interpretive lens to masterpieces such as Guernica by Pablo Picasso. In this piece, she moves beyond surface readings to situate the work within its historical, artistic, and emotional contexts, offering a nuanced exploration of one of the most powerful anti-war images of the 20th century.
Guernica by Pablo Picasso. 1937 By Abha Mehta “When I was a child, I painted like Raphael, but it took me a lifetime to learn to paint like a child,” said Pablo Picasso—a remark that finds its fullest expression in Guernica. Painted in 1937, the work remains one of the most searing visual indictments of war ever created a monumental canvas where anguish is stripped to its rawest, most elemental form. The trigger was immediate and brutal.
On 26 April 1937, during the Spanish Civil War, German warplanes bombed the Basque town of Guernica for over three hours, decimating much of its population. The attack, carried out in support of General Franco, shocked the world. Picasso, then living in Paris and already commissioned to produce a mural for the Spanish Republic’s Pavilion at the 1937 World Fair, found his subject.
What followed was an extraordinary act of artistic urgency: within weeks, working from newspaper photographs of the attack, he produced a vast monochromatic canvas—over 25 feet x 11 feet—that transformed reportage into myth. An Allegory showing the effects of war (‘The Horrors of War’) – by Peter Paul Rubens 1638, currently displayed at the National Gallery, London Despite its immediacy, Guernica is not reportage. Picasso avoids literal depiction; there are no planes, no bombs, no identifiable geography.
Instead, he constructs an allegory—one that draws from a deep art historical lineage. The influence of Rubens ‘An Allegory showing the Effects of War (‘The Horrors of War’) painted in 1638, is evident in its conceptual framing: war not as event, but as force—inevitable, consuming, and resistant to reason. The painting depicts Mars, the God of war, being pulled towards war by Alecto (one of the furies) and even the efforts of Venus the Goddess of love will not stop him.
The Third of May 1808 – by Francisco Goya Likewise, echoes of Goya’s The Third of May 1808 surface in its emotional register, where suffering is both individual and collective, immediate and eternal. Goya’s The 3rd of May 1808 depicts a nightmare massacre. The pose of the central character is reminiscent of the screaming woman.
And in both the paintings we can see signs of stigmata on the hand of the soldier which is also sign of the ultimate sacrifice as in the case of Jesus Christ. The comparison between Ruben’s ‘Horrors of War’ and Picasso’s ‘Guernica’ showing the effects of war Yet Picasso’s language is unmistakably modern. The canvas is rendered entirely in black, white, and grey—an aesthetic choice that evokes the starkness of newsprint while amplifying the emotional severity of the scene.
Colour, which might have aestheticised the violence, is deliberately withheld. At first glance, the composition appears chaotic—figures collide, limbs fracture, space collapses. But beneath this apparent disorder lies a rigorous structure.
The painting is organised into three vertical groupings, anchored by a central triangular axis of light. This underlying geometry stabilises the visual field, allowing the chaos to unfold within a controlled framework. The classical organisation of the characters in the painting by Picasso Within this structure, Picasso deploys a cast of symbolic figures.
To the left stands the bull—dark, impassive, and confrontational. It is the only figure that meets the viewer’s gaze directly, its stillness contrasting sharply with the surrounding hysteria. Beneath it, a grieving mother cradles her dead child, her mouth open in a silent, endless scream.
At the centre, a wounded horse collapses in agony, its body pierced, its form distorted. Picasso himself associated the horse with the innocent, brutalised, yet enduring people. The Bull and the grieving mother The burning woman is entrapped by fire, her right hand suggesting the shape of an airplance Scattered across the foreground lies the dismembered body of a fallen soldier.
His broken sword suggests defeat, yet from it emerges a small flower—a fragile but persistent symbol of hope. Nearby, a fractured dove—traditionally an emblem of peace—appears barely intact, its presence more elegiac than reassuring. The dismembered body of a fallen soldier.
His broken sword suggests defeat, yet from it emerges a small flower Light, too, becomes a charged symbol. Overhead, a stark electric bulb glares down, its form resembling an all-seeing eye. Often interpreted as a reference to modern technology—the very machinery that enabled