Salvador Dali, thanks to his all-consuming talent, could turn everything he touched into a “museum exhibit”, into a masterpiece, a legacy for future generations. Whether it was a photograph or a painting, a book or an advertisement, he managed to do everything at the highest level. He is a genius who was cramped in his own country, his work was ahead of its time, and thanks to this, the artist became “great” during his lifetime. Today we, as you may have guessed, will talk about the most famous representative of surrealism - Salvador Dali and his best, most famous paintings.
“... I made up my mind and began to comprehend space-time by contemplating levitation, which destroys entropy” - the words of the artist, said as a description of his painting depicting the process of losing shape. Was written in 1956. Currently located in the Salvador Dali Museum in St. Petersburg.
"Landscape near Figueres" is one of the artist's earliest works, which he painted at the age of 6 on a postcard in 1910. This is a vivid example illustrating the impressionistic period of Dali's work. It is currently in the private collection of Albert Field in New York.
The Invisible Man or The Invisible Man is a painting painted by Salvador Dali between 1929 and 1933. Stored in the Reina Sofia Museum in Madrid. This is an unfinished experimental work in which Dali practiced double imagery. On it, the artist very exquisitely depicted the hidden meanings and contours of objects.
“The appearance of a face and a bowl of fruit on the seashore” is another surrealistic painting that demonstrates metamorphoses, hidden meanings and contours of objects. The similarity of a fruit bowl on the table and the landscape form a folded figure of a dog and a human face. This work was written in 1938. It is now in the Wadsworth Atheneum Museum in Hartford, Connecticut, USA.
In 1943, during the Second World War, Dali painted a picture about the birth of a new man. We see how a person is trying to hatch from an egg, which symbolizes the birth of a new force, and is also a symbol of the universe.
This work was painted in 1940, at the beginning of World War II in California, USA, where the artist lived for 8 years. Through his work, he condemns the horrors of war and the suffering of the people who face it. The canvas is located in the Boymans-van Beuningen Museum in Rotterdam, the Netherlands.
“Dream caused by the flight of a bee around a pomegranate, a second before awakening” is one of the few paintings painted by Dali in 1944. This is an example of Freud's influence on surrealist art, as well as the artist's attempt to explore the world of dreams. Located in the Thyssen-Bornemisza Museum in Madrid.
The picture was painted in 1954. This is an unconventional, surrealistic image of Jesus Christ crucified on the unfolding of a tesseract - a hypercube. The woman below is Gala, the wife of Salvador Dali. The artist, as it were, hints at the fact that Christ is crucified by the coldness of this world and soullessness. The painting is in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York.
Undoubtedly, this is one of the best and most famous paintings by Salvador Dali. Was written in 1931. It has three names - "Persistence of memory", "Persistence of memory" and "Soft hours". It is interesting that the idea of its creation was inspired by the artist's view of processed Camembert cheese. It depicts a person's experience of time and memory, which is enlivened by the area of the unconscious, in the form of a flowing clock.
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"My name is Salvador - the Savior - as a sign that in a time of menacing technology and the prosperity of mediocrity, which we have the honor to endure, I am called to save art from emptiness."
Catalonia, spring 1970
The morning sun filled the poor little room, and in the bright cheerful light the beggarly atmosphere seemed even more miserable and miserable. The dusty, dilapidated chest of drawers seemed to have drooped under the well-aimed aim of the rays, the shabby carpet shrank, the photographs in self-made frames evoked sadness, although the smiling people in the pictures seemed to correspond to good weather.
Anna sat up abruptly in bed, the edge of the blanket falling out of the torn duvet cover touched one of the frames on the scratched, paint-smeared table, and she flew to the floor. The glass broke. Anna reluctantly bent down, fished out a photograph from the fragments and looked at it almost with disgust. Crashed and good. She no longer remembers when it was. And what difference does it make if it never happens again.
Mother, father and she - Anna - stood, embracing, on the cathedral stairs and carelessly smiled at the spring sun, as bright as today. Mother - slender, pretty, in a long light dress with puffed sleeves, in low-heeled shoes, with a lace scarf casually thrown over her hair gathered in a strict bun and a rather large wicker basket bag in her hands, looked like a young lady descended from Renoir's canvas. Father - tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in his only, but really smart suit with steamed lapels and shiny jacket buttons and delightfully even trousers, with a perky look and an open snow-white smile, with one hand carefully supported his wife under the elbow, with the other tightly pressed to own daughter. The daughter did not look into the lens. The girl lifted her head with a shock of cheerful dark curls, knocking out of a short braid with a huge bow, up and admired her parents. The girl was wearing a long white dress, shoes with a tiny but still heel, and on the shoes there were silver buckles entwined with garlands of sparkling beads. For the sake of these shoes, my mother pawned an old brooch that she inherited from her grandmother - her only piece of jewelry besides a thin wedding ring. Anna would never have known if she had not overheard how her mother complained to her friend that if it were not for her daughter's communion, she would never ... She really wanted to hate shoes and refuse them. But alas! They were so beautiful and fabulously incredible among all the most ordinary and even rather poor clothes in her closet that it was beyond her strength to part with them. Anna whispered to her father about the brooch. He didn't answer, only the barely visible wrinkle on his forehead became deeper and more expressive for a fraction of a second.
And then came that First Communion Day. Anna walked to the cathedral along with other equally proud and happy Girona boys and girls and thought that no one else had such amazingly sparkling buckles. And when it was all over and they left the church, and the photographer had already said the sacramental: “Attention! I'm filming!" - Father suddenly, apologizing, threw up his hand, asked to wait and, like a magician, fished out that very old brooch from his pocket! He pinned it on his mother's dress and froze, supporting his wife and hugging his daughter. And Anna admired her parents. In the eyes of the astonished, amazed, admiring mother, a silent question froze: “How?” Pride and complacency did not leave the face of the father in love. And ten-year-old Anna just smiled, looking at them and not at all doubting that it would always be so.
Only eight years have passed, but it seems like an eternity. According to Anna, all this was in a past life. She tossed the picture away in disgust, trying to put the happy pictures of the past out of her mind. It's not like it's all about her. Long time no about her. That's just these very eight years are not about her.
The father was made redundant at the factory. It became a blow. Against the backdrop of constant talk of the finally growing economy, which was heard everywhere: from radios, in cafes, in the market, against the backdrop of headlines of newspapers and magazines screaming about the economic recovery, the loss of a job was even more depressing. Mother pawned the brooch again (the ransom was out of the question) and got twice as many orders. Mother was a good dressmaker and always earned a pretty penny. Father used to be proud of this, he always enthusiastically dressed in that same formal suit with shiny buttons and at every step told that this was the creation of his beloved Elena. And now he even smelled of irritation from his own insolvency because of his wife's back constantly hunched over the sewing machine. He kept silent more and more, smiled less often, closed himself in and lay on the sofa, turned to the wall.
- Is daddy sick? For some reason, Anna avoided her father, who now seemed gloomy and embittered.
“A little, sunshine.
- What hurts him?
- It's clear. - Anna went to her room, took brushes and paints and painted her father's sick soul - a dark whirlwind of a black-and-red storm rising from the ashes of broken illusions and leaving into the abyss of dark green swamp melancholy. Mother was frightened by these pictures.
What are those stripes and circles? I wish I could draw something better. Apples, for example, or flowers. And why, in general, this drawing. Go better - I'll teach you how to sew.
The seamstress from Anna did not work. She only hurt her hands. There were many tears - little use, and her mother, in the end, left her alone. Their alliance collapsed. Mother now passed the time with a typewriter, father with a sofa, Anna at a makeshift easel that her father had made for her a few years ago. Anna spent all her free time at art school, half-heartedly listening to her mother's displeasure:
- Who needs this daub? And why did I take you there? Is an artist a profession? Who is she feeding?
- Salvador!
- Anna! Do not make me laugh! Where are you and where is Dali?
Anna did not dare to argue, she walked away from the conflict, but still whispered under her breath:
“At least we are both Catalan.
About a year later, my father got a job at a new factory, but this did not bring joy to my mother. New place - new acquaintances who were consumed by the idea of Franco's removal. Father, on the contrary, perked up, straightened his shoulders, spoke with slogans and believed in a brighter future. His mother, on the contrary, bent even more and whispered softly that he would end his days in prison.
- Don't croak! - the father was indignant and peacefully asked to give birth to his second child.
“We can hardly pull one,” the mother sighed and averted her eyes. She also wanted a second child: certainly a boy, and to be just as tall and smart, and, of course, so that later with an education, so that not like her parents. Well, not like a sister, of course, who imagines herself an artist. What kind of artist is in Girona, where, apart from an art school, is there nowhere else to learn? The boy wanted desperately, but it was incredibly difficult to decide. It seemed to the mother that if they didn’t put her father in jail, then they would certainly be fired again for radical views, and she would have to drag not one child, but two alone. And two children during the time of Franco for the Spaniard, to be sure, is a real luxury, and for her family - a luxury that is unaffordable. Still, maternal instinct took over. Anna was almost fifteen when she was informed of the imminent replenishment in the family. She was delighted, of course. Not that she dreamed of a brother or sister - she dreamed of painting. And it seemed to her that the mother, with the advent of the baby, would reconcile herself and let her, Anna, go to the Academy of Arts in Madrid. For a short time, an atmosphere of happy expectation reigned in the house. Family dinners were once again idyllic and quiet. There were no father's revolutionary slogans, no mother's nervous tears, no Anna's desire to hide in her room and throw out confusion on the canvas. Parents constantly discussed male names, because "a girl simply cannot appear, there will certainly be a boy, we already know." Anna was a little offended, it seemed to her that she, too, had mistakenly taken the place of some boy, whom her mother wanted with the same incredible strength, but did not happen. She ventured to voice her fears aloud, and, to save her from unrest, her parents even agreed to the name she had chosen for her brother, and her mother said, overpowering herself:
“After all, if it turns out to be a girl again, you won’t have to worry about the name. Alejandro, Alejandra - what's the difference!
Alejandro is born. Alejandro was diagnosed with cystic fibrosis. The father somehow immediately wilted, he avoided approaching the child who was breathing heavily and tuned in advance for a quick end. The mother, on the contrary, seemed to be mad in her desire to outwit fate. With burning eyes, nervously sorting through the diapers and undershirts, she inspired Anna:
“Doctors say that with good care, he can live up to forty!” Only you need a lot of protein, and vitamins, and inhalations, yes, certainly inhalations, and also, of course, antibiotics, because pneumonia will be almost constant. Both exercise and massage. Of course, everything is so expensive. But the state helps, and we are working, and we are not at all old, we will raise the boy. But medicine is advancing. Who knows what will happen in twenty years, perhaps they will find a cure. They are already talking about a future lung transplant, can you imagine?
Anna had no idea. That night, she dreamed of a picture: a pair of lungs, entangled in a poisonous green cobweb, escaped from the sternum. One rushed down, where the flames intended to devour him raged, the other seemed to want to soar and disappear into the shark's mouth approaching from above. And around this terrifying confusion flies were flying, snakes were swarming and grasshoppers were jumping. In the lower right corner was an autograph, which Anna could not help but recognize. The signature "Dali" was written so clearly and read so clearly that the dream receded. No, no, Anna shook her head. The genius couldn't draw grasshoppers. This is one of his phobias, she herself read the interview, how at school, knowing about his fear, classmates mocked Salvador and put hateful grasshoppers under his collar. Dali would not draw them. This is her - Anna - surrealism. The girl heard the baby's booming, hoarse cough behind the thin wall and grinned. Oh no! This is her realism. She went to the canvas and painted her dream. The father will work, the mother will take care of her brother, and maybe they will still let Anna go to Madrid. After all, they didn't mind art school that much. They liked to hear that their daughter had talent.
- Let him walk. Moreover, the lessons are free - that's what the parents said. And although Anna remembered that they did not consider the profession of an artist a profession, she really hoped that she would be able to convince them, using free education as an argument. “You can enter the academy through a competition, but I can’t get into other faculties - I have been drawing all my life and I can’t do anything else, and I don’t want to be able to” - this was the phrase she had prepared, which she intended to say in two years.
Two years later, just before Anna's high school graduation, her father received an industrial injury: an irreversible fracture of the spine. He was lying on the couch again, only he couldn't turn away. He couldn't do anything at all. Only to cry when his wife and daughter turned his immobilized body, trying to avoid pressure sores. On the day when her father was discharged from the hospital for "survival", Anna removed the picture from the easel, which she had been working on for two months. It was a picture of the church in Figueres. She intended to send the work to the admissions office in Madrid - they needed a cityscape. She had to go to Figueres three or four times, and the landscape would be finished. Anna put the painting away on the closet. She put away all the paintings, brushes and paints. All! Not for painting! Not for dreams! Not for life!
Anna, think! Her elderly art school teacher was barely holding back her tears. “Are these hands,” she squeezed the girl’s long, thin fingers, “are made for working in a factory?” Your brushes were born to create paintings!
“I’ve already made up my mind,” Anna insisted stubbornly. We need money, but the plant needs people.
Anna, this is wrong. What happened in your family is, of course, terrible, but sacrificing your dream is wrong.
If Anna had seen herself from the side at that moment, she would have noticed that for just a moment the same wrinkle flashed across her forehead as her father had when he heard about the pawned brooch.
“Time will tell,” Anna replied.
But time seems to have stopped. The days passed, equally monotonous, as if fate mocked Anna and her family. The girl worked at the factory as a layer of ceramic tiles. Sometimes she looked into the art shop and, with bated breath, watched the work of artists for several seconds. They hand-applied a design, invented by an important and strict designer, onto expensive tiles. Oh, if only Anna had a chance to become (no, of course, not a designer, she didn’t dream about it) at least one of these artists who sat for hours in one place and solemnly painted curls, petals and twigs. A minimum of creativity, a minimum of imagination, but still they drew. And Anna came home half dead, but she still had to sit with her father, wash him, feed him, after all, her mother was also completely exhausted - the whole day was torn between two invalids. Play with Alejandro - the kid is not to blame for anything, he is just a child who needs attention. So the mother said, and Anna did what was expected of her. She had already forgotten that she herself had recently been a child with her sky-high dreams and bright plans. It would be easier for her if the mother showed sympathy, pity, or at least asked what her daughter really wanted from life. But it seemed to the mother that no one in the world could have other tasks than to prolong the life of her precious son. And Anna continued humbly, without grumbling.
I extended it as long as I could. Two years. Two long years of dust, dirt and heaviness. Two hardest years of constant coughing, inhalations, pills, injections. Two years of maternal hope and almost insane faith. They ended in one day. Anna returned from work and, from a stingy tear that rolled down her father's silent cheek, she realized that it was all over. Mother was not at home. And Anna was even glad that for some time she could stop crying and moaning. I didn't want to cry at all. She seemed to herself disgusting, disgusting, a person with an ugly, unmerciful soul. After all, a feeling of great relief and heady freedom overwhelmed her much more than dreary pity for her dead brother. “He doesn’t care anymore,” her head pounded, “but I will live, live, live.”
The key turned in the lock. Anna wanted to rush to her mother, wrap her arms around her, cry on each other's shoulders, finally talk about how incredibly hard it all was and, perhaps even better, that what happened happened earlier than it could. But her mother got ahead of her:
- Satisfied?
Gray, unwashed strands hung like icicles along the face. Anna's eyes bored into her with a heavy, almost insane look.
“I don’t…” Anna covered her face with her hand, as if trying to protect herself from those eyes.
- Satisfied! - Mother shook her head and laughed hysterically, more like crying. - You should be satisfied. You dreamed about it right away. Do you think I didn't see it? Do you think you didn't understand?
- Mother! What are you saying?! It was just hard for me, that's all.
- Hard?! What do you know about how hard it is?! It was my son who died! I have! I have! The mother walked past Anna. - It was you who took it! Anna didn't dare say another word. She stood silently and thought about her father, who was forced to helplessly listen to all this and suffer from the impossibility of changing anything. “Do you think I didn’t notice how longingly you look at your stupid closet? I have long wanted to throw away all this art - it only collects dust, all hands did not reach, but that's okay, I'll figure it out, I still ...
- I'll finish you, tomorrow.
* * *
Anna was going to keep her promise. She carefully placed the photograph she still held in her hands on the chest of drawers. "I'm glad the photo didn't get damaged." Yes, she does not remember those happy times. But after all, there is a photograph, which means that Anna's happy childhood is not a mirage at all. She listened to the silence of the house. The only sound that came from the next room was my father's measured and drawn-out snoring. The girl glanced at the simple alarm clock at the head of the bed. Eighth hour. She slept for almost ten hours. When was the last time this happened? She went to bed late, got up early, and at night she woke up every now and then from her brother’s strained barking cough. Probably, his father was still sleeping precisely because for the first time in two years, no one and nothing disturbed his night's sleep.
Anna looked out of her room. The blanket on my father's bed rose and fell to the accompaniment of wheezing. The mother's bed was left untouched.
- Mom? Anna tiptoed across the room and peered into the small kitchenette. She was empty. The girl blushed and bit her lip in anger. Well, of course! Mother decided to wallow in grief: she went to wander around Girona, or shed tears in the hospital, or light candles in the cathedral. Wherever she is, it doesn't matter! The important thing is that she is not in the house. A great way to keep Anna from leaving. Mother knows perfectly well that Anna will not dare to leave her father. Such a peculiar punishment: if you want to leave the plant, stay at home. Don't you see, we have a helpless person here, and your job is to take care of him. Anna grimaced. Well, I do not! She will not leave anyone, but leave for a while - why not? "Stop living someone else's life! she repeated the words of her master. “It’s time to live yours!”
Half an hour later, Anna was already in a hurry to the station. The father was washed and fed. Fresh newspapers lay on the table next to his bed, there was a bottle of water, several sandwiches on a plate were covered with a napkin, the radio hummed softly in the voice of Raphael. Anna's soul was calm. She had nothing to blame herself for. Except that only a few hours after the death of her brother, she, almost dancing, walked down the street and also hummed softly under her breath:
- Heart, it can't be! You don't want to kill me! A line from a song by the famous Spanish singer Rafael.
Anna herself did not understand why this romantic melody about unrequited love became attached to her. Most likely, it was just a futile attempt to calm down so that the heart would not beat so hard. But it jumped, galloped, fluttered and sang. It sang when Anna, in a trembling voice, asked at the box office for a ticket to Figueres; then with her sixth sense, the girl hoped to meet a miracle.
Anna looked out the window at the rapidly changing landscape. Quite dusty, withered from the sun and somehow bleak environs of Girona were soon replaced by bright, dense green colors of almost French Catalonia. Looking at this amazingly tasty, attractive, as if unreal nature, the girl suddenly remembered the painting "Spain" The picture was painted in 1938. his beloved Dali. Yes, the artist depicted a country suffering from a civil war. Nevertheless, the colors he used on the canvas were also common for the appearance of modern Spain: a stretched Spanish plain the color of coffee with milk - a mixture of dirt, dust and chaos. The sky is on the horizon. But not bright and not blue, but somehow dull, gloomy, as if inanimate and dull from what the country has to endure. And in the center of the canvas is the suffering Spain itself in the form of a strange cabinet with an open box from which a bloody rag hangs, and a naked female hand, as if grown out of a horse's head and figures of other animals and soldiers randomly scurrying around the picture.
Spain has not been at war for a long time, but has it really changed? Not for Anna at all. She herself reminded herself of this image of dullness and dullness, dreary and joyless.
Under Figueres there was a morning mist - a light, gentle haze, behind which one could guess the brightness of the sun, and the deep blue of the sky, and the juicy aroma of raging greenery everywhere, and the rustle of living mountain streams. Dali did not write such Spain. He preferred to live in it. What about writing? For what? An idyll is a plot for limited minds. Well, Anna does not claim to be a genius. She is also happy that she breathes the same air with El Salvador. And he will write with pleasure the Spain in which the maestro lives.
Figueres met the girl with the warm rays of the spring sun and the aroma of freshly baked croissants (the proximity of the French border made itself felt). Anna easily picked up an easel and a tube of brushes and paints and quickly walked towards St. Peter's Church. For two years the landscape has not changed. Anna physically felt the exhaustion of a hungry man who had not been allowed to eat for too long, and now was led to a table laden with dishes and offered to make a choice. Where to start? Painting deep clear skies or dealing with the unfinished west wing of the church? Or maybe add to the canvas this ginger cat that cheekily washes himself right on the tavern table? Yeah why not? Great hint: the mundane next to the divine. And this couple of old people who drink morning coffee and smile at the sun, which has already won a piece of the square. We must hurry. In about three hours it will fill the whole space, the light will change, and it will become too hot to work.
Anna decided to start with the wing of the church. She was afraid that she might lose the gift of exact reproduction. Who knows if the eyes are washed out, if the hands are confused after many months of inactivity. The girl began the work exactly as one feeds a man who has gone without food for a long time. Slowly, with small strokes, stopping, looking closely, feeling the wonderful taste of every stroke, Anna applied the stone outlines of the church to the canvas. Like any person who is passionate about her work, she did not notice anything around. But it was impossible not to hear this exclamation. First, something knocked from the left, then a loud indignant voice rang out:
- Manipulate! By whom? Me? Unacceptable, outrageous and extremely reckless! What did they imagine?!
Anna did not even understand what attracted her attention. These words that came to consciousness, or the fact that the entire square froze at once and turned in the direction of the voice. The girl also looked in that direction and froze in dumb amazement. No, there was nothing too outrageous in the loudly speaking man today. Regular dark suit. Unless the trousers are excessively narrowed and the tie is chosen deliberately bright, so that it can be seen from everywhere. Shoulder-length hair is carefully brushed back and styled with gel, a graceful cane taps indignantly next to expensive polished shoes. Apparently, with this cane, its owner hit the stone wall of the destroyed theater. Almost an ordinary, well-to-do Spaniard. Even if there are not so many of them, such rich people, in modern times, but they are. And they probably wear expensive shoes, smart jackets, bright ties and ironed pipes. But this citizen could not be confused with any of them. It was not only Anna who recognized him. The whole square was staring at him, preparing to raise their hats or bow politely in greeting. These eyes are slightly protruding, these long mustaches are famously twisted upwards ... He said that he cut off the tips, and then glued them again with honey. The mustache grows, famously twisting upwards, and makes the appearance of its owner unique and easily recognizable everywhere.
- Señor Dali! - The arch of the ruined theater seemed to vibrate from a loud voice, and a breathless man ran out of there. - Salvador! - He caught up with the famous artist and almost decided to touch his elbow, but changed his mind in time. The hand froze in the air, and the words in the throat. He just stood next to the man who riveted everyone's attention to himself, and repeated, as if wound up:
- Senor Dali, Salvador!
The artist impatiently waited for the continuation, tapping his cane, and, without waiting, jokingly bowed either to his interlocutor, or to the grateful spectators and loudly introduced himself:
- Salvador Domenech Felip Jacinte Dali and Domenech, Marquis de Dali de Pubol.
“Nooo,” Anna moaned too loudly, and the artist turned to her, raising an ironic eyebrow. He clicked his shoes, bowed his head and confirmed with a chuckle:
- Himself.
- Can't be! - Anna already said this in a barely audible whisper. Her lips stuck together, her throat was dry, it seemed to the girl that even the church on canvas, and maybe even on the square, squinted in surprise. - Salvador Dali! Anna squeezed the brush she held in her hand so that her knuckles turned white, her nails dug painfully into her palm.
If you look, this meeting was not so impossible. After all, Figueres is the artist's hometown. Here he was born, grew up, his father lived here, his sister's family probably lives here. Yes, and Dali himself may well have an apartment or even a house here. Although, as far as Anna remembered, the newspapers wrote that he built a castle for his wife in Pubol. Perhaps they live there. Or, as before, in Port Lligat. Be that as it may, but all these places are very close to Figueres. Dali is a free man, much more free than others. And he certainly can afford to be where he pleases. Perhaps if it had been announced last year that Armstrong had landed on the moon with a famous Catalan, Anna would have been less impressed. Although, of course, in itself this assumption is incredible and not at all in the spirit of the artist. Dali is very sensitive to his health, to issues of safety and self-preservation. He may well have decided that space is teeming with unknown bacteria. But if he was persuaded to put on a spacesuit and explained that the flight would be the most grandiose event in the history of mankind (how could such a grandiose event do without Dali himself?), then the shocking king could take advantage of the offer for another dizzying exit. But the artist did not fly to the moon. But he stood here, in the center of Figueres, a few steps from Anna and her easel, casually leaning on a cane and looking at his companion with an expression of extreme displeasure. And this unexpected proximity of a genius, this wonderful moment, which Anna could not dream of even in her wildest dreams, seemed so unreal that the girl even had to close and open her eyes several times and pinch her hand painfully to believe: this is not a dream. and not a mirage.
Having produced the desired effect, the artist forgot about the world around him and completely paid attention to the man who stopped him. He said something quietly, hastily to Dali. Even at a distance, Anna could see how worried this elderly, rather plump man: perspiration appeared on his forehead, his face turned red, his hands were constantly moving in some kind of unrestrained dance, designed to convince the artist that the interlocutor was right. It was impossible to make out the words, but Anna noticed how one of the dancing hands touched Dali's brush, and he immediately twitched in disgust, took a snow-white handkerchief from his pocket and hastily wiped his palm (the artist experienced a pathological fear of germs). However, the interlocutor of the artist did not notice anything and continued to bombard him with unknown arguments. Anna understood that she was acting ugly, but she could not force herself to look away and kept her eyes on what was happening. She could not see the face of the artist, but for some reason it seemed that he was listening inattentively and even dismissively. She was probably right, because very soon Dali waved his hands, as if trying to push the man away from him, and said quite sharply and loudly:
- It's outrageous! They want the impossible! Never! Do you hear?! This will never happen!
Dali’s interlocutor, obviously, was tired of persuasion, he also switched to raised tones and recited in syllables to the entire square:
- Do-may, Sal-va-dor! You went to e-th-th for ten years. Bu-det o-bid-but, if ...
- Get out! - Dali squealed furiously and waved his cane, almost hitting his companion. The man recoiled and turned pale. Then he pulled himself together and, with a short nod: "As you wish," he turned sharply and walked back to the theater. In a few seconds he had already disappeared behind the stone ruins. The artist was left alone.
The square was full of people. Eleven o'clock is coffee time for all of Spain. And if the weather is good, tables in street cafes will never be empty at this time. Even the sassy ginger cat had to give way to lovers of the magic drink. The mysterious morning silence was replaced by delicious smells, loud sounds, a hurried mood. The town came to life, hurried, bustled, and in this short pause at the shabby wooden tables under the rays of the spring sun, no one cared about the thin man who stood alone in the square. He looked around in confusion, as if seeking consolation. Anna felt pity for the artist spread in her soul. As a rule, most famous personalities are burdened by inattention to their immodest personas, and even Dali, such behavior of the public should have frightened, annoyed and simply enraged. He looked around with the dissatisfaction of a predator that missed its prey. His intense gaze met Anna's pitiful eyes. The artist moved towards the girl. Her heart began to pound. Blood rushed to her cheeks. "God help me! What to do?" Anna turned to the easel and began to apply random strokes to the canvas. At the same time, she understood that she risked spoiling the landscape, but she could not force her hand to stop.
“Eleven,” came a moment later behind her. Anna did not dare to turn around, and the artist continued:
It's a crime to work during this time.
“I… I…” the girl bleated indecisively, “I know.
She pulled herself together and, turning to the artist, explained:
In an hour the sun will change the light and I won't be able to finish.
“So, finish another time,” Dali grimaced. - It's coffee time. And you have the right company for this. The artist tilted his head, acknowledging the invitation.
“Even if I die tomorrow,” Anna suddenly flashed through her head, “life has not been lived in vain.” With trembling hands, she folded the easel and, unable to utter a word, stared at Dali, nodding hesitantly in the direction of the full tavern.
- Pfft. Dali snorted. - Dali? Here?! Follow me and hurry up. I am extremely upset and annoyed. What can I say, I'm beside myself! And I just need to speak up. In addition, I see that you know something about painting ... So, the genius of Dali is familiar to you and you simply have to understand it.
Anna heard about the artist's habit of talking about himself in the third person. And now she wondered how organic it sounded. It does not cut the ear at all and does not cause rejection. As if it should be. Indeed, if you say that you are a genius, you will immediately cause displeasure and skepticism of those around you. And “Dali is a genius” is already an axiom, beyond doubt.
The artist took her to the restaurant of the Duran Hotel.
“Here is the best wine list in the city,” Dali announced boastfully, opening the door for Anna. At eleven, honey, you don't have to pump up coffee. It is quite possible to afford to skip a glass. Choose a table. Just don't borrow that one from the wine barrels. This is the territory of Gala, - a breath was heard in the voice, the look brightened, - but it is inviolable.
- Maybe here? Anna, barely breathing, pointed to the first table by the window. She didn't know how to take a step in this establishment: snow-white tablecloths, heavy hanging chandeliers, chairs that looked more like thrones, walls strewn with ceramic plates. Unless the barrels of wine filling the space allowed her to relax a little and said that she was not at a royal reception, but only in a restaurant. Let it be in a place you've never been in, but never say never. "Stop! How is it not accepted? She is at the reception of Maestro Dali. She was so lucky, and she stands and looks at the restaurant. But what difference does it make where she was told to come and sit if Dali himself said it. And she was also offered to choose.
The waiter was already hurrying towards them, smiling and bowing. If Dali's companion surprised him, then his professionalism did not betray him in any way.
– Menu? He bowed politely.
“Just coffee for me,” Anna was frightened.
- Try the consommé. - Dali easily switched to you. Gala loves him.
- I am not hungry. Anna tried to calm her legs, which were shaking under the table.
- As you wish. Then you change your mind. You will be shy - you will never become a brilliant artist. You need to believe in your talent, and others will also believe in it. And if you look like a timid hare with trembling knees, you will remain an amateur who subscribes to churches in the square.
Anna did not think to be offended. Well, who is she compared to Dali. An amateur is an amateur.
- I "Botifaru" A traditional Spanish dish (sausage fried in caramel with bread, served with boiled sweet apples), which, according to the owner of the hotel and restaurant "Duran" Luis Duran, liked to order Dali. and a glass of Bina Real Plato. And, perhaps, I am ready to eat a fresh orange, - the artist placed an order. “And coffee, I’m sure, is of no use. Rather the opposite. Much better cherry compote.
The waiter walked away, and Dali immediately stunned the girl with the phrase:
“They are bastards and stupid!”
- Who? Anna was embarrassed when she thought about the waiter. He seemed to her quite amiable and not stupid at all.
- City Hall of Figueres and those terrible bureaucrats in Madrid.
- ABOUT! - only the girl said.
- Imagined me ... Me! Dali! An errand boy who will do whatever they please. They decided that since I had been talking about the museum for ten years, I could be played around like a novice scribbler. Gala will be beside herself!
Anna shifted in her chair and squeezed out:
– What happened?
- What?! The artist rolled his eyes. – She still asks what! It's not "what", it's "something". They finally agreed to sign the papers and let me create a theater museum, but conditions, conditions! Indignantly, he took out his snow-white handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his forehead. “They demand the originals of the paintings!”
- ABOUT! Anna said again. She could not be blamed for her eloquence. And what else to say, she did not know. Not to say that any museum has the right to rely on original works. And if the museum will be created by the author himself, then why place copies there?
The originals are much worse than the photographs. Dali seemed to hear her question. - Photos are clearer and more modern. They should be shown to the public. And in the originals, she still has time to be disappointed. For ten years, Figueros City Hall fought steadfastly with the General Directorate of Fine Arts in Madrid and convinced these stubborn people to finance the project. Ten years of litigation, correspondence, endless waiting. Ten years of hope. And now what? They tell me: either the originals, or no museum for you.
- ABOUT! - Anna was already ready to hate herself for these senseless exclamations, but nothing smarter came to mind.
A waiter came up with coffee for Anna, an orange, apples, and a bottle of mineral water.
“Wine, coffee, an orange and apples for Botifara,” he announced, and placing an iron bowl on the table, he began rinsing the fruit in it with the mineral water he had brought.
Anna almost uttered another surprised "Oh!".
Never wash anything with tap water! – categorically advised Dali. “Typhus is on the alert, and so are other microbes.
– Not everyone can afford to waste mineral water like that. Anna expected Dali to be ashamed, but it was Dali. He raised his eyes to heaven and said:
Thank God I can! Drink your coffee. In it, I hope, the water is boiled. No, well, what are the bastards, huh?! - He again returned to the topic of conversation, but immediately cut it off, unexpectedly asking:
- Why are you so sad?
And then he answered himself:
- Although, if I stood under the scorching sun and painted an unnecessary urban landscape, I would also be sad.
One could argue, say, for example, that the cityscapes of Monet, Pissarro or Van Gogh are very valuable specimens. But instead, the girl announced:
“My brother died yesterday.
It wasn't until she said it out loud that Anna felt like she finally realized what had happened. Unexpected tears came into her eyes, she felt ashamed and bitter that she felt relief from the departure of little Alejandro.
The artist looked at her without blinking. In his eyes - no sympathy, no understanding.
“My brother is dead,” Anna repeated, already sobbing.
- Senior? Dali asked sharply.
- Jr. Small at all. Two years old.
- A. - The artist casually waved his hand, as if he had lost all interest in the conversation, then uttered: - You were lucky.
Anna, dumbfounded, dropped the spoon with which she was going to stir the sugar. Of course, Senor Dali is eccentric, but to such an extent ... The artist, not paying attention to the condition of his companion, followed the flight of the spoon and continued as if nothing had happened:
- It's lucky that the younger one. But in any case, I advise you not to delay and paint his portrait. It took me too many years and suffering to get rid of the ghost.
"Well, of course!" Anna almost slapped her forehead. "The artist's brother, who died before he was born." How did she not realize?
“My Salvador,” Dali leaned back in his chair and mournfully rolled his eyes to the sky, “he left the world seven months before my birth. When I was born, I did not suspect that I was named after him. But it is so. My parents created me to save themselves from suffering. They didn't hide it. They took me to his grave, constantly compared us, and when I turned five, they even announced that I was his reincarnation. You imagine? Can you imagine what it means to be a copy of the deceased? - The artist jumped up, immediately sat down again and depicted the seal of irrepressible sadness on his face. He took a deep breath and continued:
“Is it any wonder that I believed that I was him? But at the same time, I constantly wanted to get rid of his presence. For me, one Salvador is much better than two. What I am grateful for is the name. It suits me incredibly. My parents thought that I was sent by them to save the family. But I am the savior of the world. This is a heavy burden, but I bear it responsibly and am not going to abandon my mission. Salvador means "savior" in Spanish..
If Anna had not seen the face of the artist at that moment, she would probably have allowed herself to laugh at such boasting. But Dali, who was sitting in front of her, was so sure of his chosenness that everyone who saw and heard him at such moments did not have to doubt her.
“It is a heavy burden to carry a dead brother within you. I was weary of it and constantly wanted to get rid of it, I tried to do it through the plots of my paintings. I have already talked about this. Did you hear?
“Something like that…” Anna began uncertainly…
You couldn't hear anything! How old were you nine years ago in sixty-one? Seven or eight years? There's no way you could have been to Dali's lecture at the Polytechnic Museum in Paris. And Dali admitted there: “All the eccentric acts that I tend to do, all these absurd antics are the tragic constant of my life. I want to prove to myself that I am not a dead brother, I am alive. As in the myth of Castor and Pollux: only by killing my brother, I gain immortality. It wasn't until two years later, in 1963, that I finally realized what I had to do to find peace. There was no need to kill anyone at all - it was necessary to paint a portrait of my brother, show everyone that he had nothing to do with me, and finally calm my fears. Why didn't I figure out sooner why I spent almost sixty years in agony and doubt? Even when Garcia Lorca suggested writing poetry about it, I didn't think that since the poet wants to express his feelings in poetry, the artist must find a way to get rid of it on canvas. And if the plots chosen earlier did not work, then it was necessary to change them. As soon as The Portrait of My Dead Brother saw the light of day, I finally got rid of the non-existent double.
Anna, listening to the artist's monologue, recalled the painting. The face of the boy, much older than Dali's brother at the time of his death, is written in dots. It seems that this technique was quite common in pop art. And in this case, he also hinted at the illusory nature of his owner. The very face seemed to grow out of the sunset landscape. Strange figures with spears were advancing on him in front, and on the left Dali depicted Millet's Angelus in miniature. It seems that the artist himself said that with the help of X-rays it can be proved that Millet originally wanted to depict not a basket, but a child's coffin. The idea of death was also hinted at by the wings of a raven, like young men growing out of their heads. A gloomy, heavy, hopeless picture.
- Unusually bright work! - Anna was taken aback by the artist.
Apparently, she could not wash off genuine surprise from her face, because the maestro condescended to an explanation:
- Dali became light and easy. Dali became himself. And now, for seven years, he has no fear of being swallowed up by a long-dead relative.
“I understand,” Anna nodded slowly.
- And you paint a portrait of your brother to get rid of grief and guilt. Feelings of guilt make life insipid and faded. And it has a lot of colors that no one should neglect. And even more so as an artist!
Anna exploded. Dali called her an artist!
“Your Botifara, Señor Dali.
The artist pulled the dish towards him and meticulously examined it and sniffed it. The inspection apparently satisfied him, as he cut off a small piece of sausage and, with a touching expression on his face, put it into his mouth.
“Do you really think—” Anna began.
Dali raised the index finger of his right hand up, urging the girl to shut up, pricked another piece of sausage on a fork and closed his eyes. For the next fifteen minutes, he enjoyed his meal very slowly. There was silence at the table.
Today, May 11, is the birthday of the great Spanish painter and sculptor Salvador Dali . His legacy will forever remain with us, because in his works, many find a piece of themselves - that very "madness", without which life would be boring and monotonous.
« Surrealism is me", - shamelessly stated the artist, and one cannot but agree with him. All his works are imbued with the spirit of surrealism - both paintings and photographs, which he created with unprecedented skill. Dali proclaimed complete freedom from any aesthetic or moral coercion and went to the very limits in any creative experiment. He did not hesitate to implement the most provocative ideas and wrote everything from love and the sexual revolution, history and technology to society and religion.
great masturbator
The face of war
Atom splitting
Hitler's riddle
Christ of Saint Juan de la Cruz
Dali began to take an early interest in art and took private painting lessons from the artist while still at school Nunez , professor at the Academy of Fine Arts. Then, at the School of Fine Arts at the Academy of Fine Arts, he became close to the literary and artistic circles of Madrid - in particular, with Luis Buñuel And Federico Garcia Lorca . However, he did not stay at the Academy for a long time - he was expelled for some too bold ideas, which, however, did not prevent him from organizing the first small exhibition of his works and quickly becoming one of the most famous artists of Catalonia.
young women
Self portrait with Raphael neck
Basket with bread
Young woman seen from behind
After that Dali meets Gala, which became his muse of surrealism". Arriving to Salvador Dali with her husband, she immediately inflamed with a passion for the artist and left her husband for the sake of a genius. Dali but, absorbed in his feelings, as if he did not even notice that his "muse" did not come alone. Gala becomes his life partner and source of inspiration. She also became a bridge connecting the genius with the entire avant-garde community - her tact and gentleness allowed him to maintain at least some kind of relationship with his colleagues. The image of the beloved is reflected in many works Dali .
Portrait of Gala with two lamb ribs balancing on her shoulder
My wife, naked, looks at her own body, which has become a ladder, three vertebrae of a column, the sky and architecture
Galarina
Naked Dali, contemplating five ordered bodies, turning into carpuscles, from which Leda Leonardo is unexpectedly created, impregnated with the face of Gala
Of course, if we talk about painting Dali , it is impossible not to recall his most famous works:
A dream inspired by the flight of a bee around a pomegranate, a moment before awakening
The Persistence of Memory
flaming giraffe
Swans reflected in elephants
A malleable structure with boiled beans (Premonition of Civil War)
anthropomorphic locker
Sodomy self-gratification of an innocent maiden
Evening spider... hope
The ghost of Vermeer of Delft, capable of serving as a table
sculptures Dali brought his surrealistic talent to a new level - they jumped from the plane of the canvas into three-dimensional space, taking shape and additional volume. Most of the works have become intuitively familiar to the viewer - the master used in them the same images and ideas as in his canvases. To create sculptures Dali I had to spend several hours sculpting in wax, and then creating molds for casting bronze figures. Some of them were then cast in an enlarged size.
Among other things, Dali was an excellent photographer, and in the age of the very beginning of the development of photography, together with Philip Halsman he managed to create absolutely incredible and surreal pictures.
Love art and enjoy the work of Salvador Dali!
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