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On April 12, we will turn to the world of international art. In January  1939, Pablo Picasso was renowned in Europe but disdained by many  in the United States. One year later, Americans across the country  were clamoring to see his art. How did the controversial leader of the Paris avant-garde break through to the heart of American culture?

The answer begins a generation earlier, when a renegade Irish  American lawyer named John Quinn set out to build the greatest  collection of Picassos in existence. His dream of a museum to house them died with him, until it was rediscovered by Alfred H. Barr, Jr., a cultural visionary who, at the age of 27, became the director of New York’s new Museum of Modern Art.

Barr and Quinn’s shared goal would be thwarted in the years to come—by popular hostility, by  the Depression, by Parisian intrigues, and by Picasso himself. It would take Hitler’s campaign  against Jews and modern art, and Barr’s fraught alliance with Paul Rosenberg, Picasso’s  persecuted art dealer, to get Picasso’s most important paintings out of Europe. Mounted in the  shadow of war, the groundbreaking exhibition Picasso: Forty Years of His Art would launch  Picasso in America, define MoMA as we know it, and shift the focus of the art world from Paris  to New York.

Picasso’s War is the never-before-told story about how a single exhibition, a decade in the  making, irrevocably changed American taste, and in doing so saved dozens of the twentieth  century’s most enduring artworks from the Nazis. Through a deft combination of new  scholarship and vivid storytelling, Hugh Eakin shows how two men and their obsession with  Picasso changed the art world forever.

On March 8 at 1:30. we will discuss a first-rate drama of mobilization and  diplomacy “not unlike that of war.” When fifteen years of struggle  by Suez veteran Ferdinand de Lesseps to build a canal through the  Panamanian isthmus collapsed through tropical disease, logistical  barriers, and financial disgrace, two Americans managed literally  superlative accomplishments: moving billions of cubic yards of dirt, harnessing one of the world’s most savage rivers, developing an  unprecedented lock and electrical system, and, not least, defeating  the Anopheles mosquito. In an open, vigorous style, author David  McCullough contrasts the manic-depressive attitudes of French and  American populations and leaders toward the canal with the cool  perseverance of his two heroes: the engineer John Stevens, a  former common laborer who took charge of the collapsing canal  project and realized that the problem was not digging but  transportation; and Dr. William Gorges, who conquered malaria and yellow fever in a region  where hospital rooms used to literally shake from patients’ chills.

Ironically, it was the often jingoistic “Manifest Destiny” rhetoric and the medical experience of  the brutal Spanish-American War that provided Congressional backing and scientific leads for  the Panama task. A further twist was the origin of the Panamanian republic which permitted  the canal to go through: French adventurer Phillippe Bunau-Varilla executed a coup against  Colombia in 1903 for “the greater glory of France,” then, according to McCullough, promptly  put the new nation and its treasury under the wardship of the U.S. State Department and the  House of Morgan, respectively. Meanwhile, viewing the French example, Congress so feared possible graft in Panama that it threw horrific red tape around the canal project. But Stevens  was able to recruit the greatest engineering minds of the period – and the book is able to  recapture their breakthroughs.