Every four-year-old demands squeals of praise and a place of honor on the fridge for every finger painting, but as we mature we learn that fishing for compliments is not quite the thing.
It is quite possible, if Picasso had died the day he painted Les Demoiselles that neither he nor his painting of five awkward-looking, two-dimensional prostitutes parading their wares in front of the viewer would be any more than footnotes in the story of modern art.