This was one of my favorite toys as child: a 3D block puzzle of “Woman with a Parasol.”
I think I got it around my 8th birthday, since I remember feeling a giddiness to have received a gift meant for kids older than me. And of course, after having solved it, a boastful sense of pride as well (“I’m smarter than a 10 year old!”).
And I would continue to solve it, many times.
Over and over again, I would turn the blocks around in my hands, noting which parts were unique and comparing their surfaces to one another. And when I placed the last rectangle in the box, I would quickly dump all the pieces out to prevent myself from remembering the final arrangement of the solution. A disciplined amnesia to prolong the novelty of play.
When the routine of solving it became too ingrained in my fingers, I then devised other ways to play with it— such as reasoning through the process starting with the boy’s face or the shadowed canopy of the umbrella. Always, without fail, I would scramble up the solution.
Today, when I see the painting online, it feels very familiar as I know its brushstrokes well. But also indulgent— like there’s still a remnant tingle of guilt in me from having trained myself to never look at the completed puzzle. To see this painting is a gift I give to myself, but I can't bear to look at it for too long.
(p.s. I am in LA for the week and you’ll have to take my word that I solved the puzzle today. No picture, obviously.)