This is my absolute favorite thing I have written!!!! It is the other work that was published it the Talent Unlimited Journal. It's long but worth the read. It is a "wishful thinking" aoutobiography. Once you have read it, you will understand. I had to write a research paper and chose to write about Salvador Dali. We were required to incorporate our research into a story. it was supposed to be 5-9 pages...this story is around 10 pages (in microsoft word).oops. Have fun!
I needed to write a report on Salvador Dali for my Art History class. I had found a lot of information from books, the Internet, and videos, but they did not give me anything really interesting. I wanted to know things like where his ideas came from, and why he wore clothes from a century before his time. I figured I would receive better information from an expert at a museum. I located a museum that Salvador Dali had created himself, in Figueras, Spain, and decided to check it out. The tour I took was not as helpful as I had thought it would be. The tour guide rattled off facts I already knew, in a very tiring monotone, and insisted that there was no time for questions during the tour, but that there would be time afterwards. As he went on to discuss a self-portrait of Dali, I leaned against the wall next to the painting and tuned out the droning guide. “And here we have a self- portrait of Dali, done in 1919, titled Self Portrait in…blah, blah, blah.” By now I was just ignoring the guide and enjoying the art. I was admiring the different elements of Dali’s Self-Portrait in the Studio, when I heard someone whisper my name. I looked around, expecting another disgruntled tourist to complain at me about the guide, but found, instead, that everyone was listening intently to the man. I again heard the whisper and was startled to notice that it seemed to come from behind the painting. I leaned in as close to it as I could without setting off the alarm. I heard nothing. As I stared at the painting in bewilderment I saw Dali turn his head, wink, and motion for me to follow him. I looked around to see if anyone else saw what I was seeing. No one did. I looked back and, again, Dali motioned for me to follow. Taking one last look behind me, I climbed into the painting. I found myself in a world more bizarre and dreamlike than one could ever imagine.
I was terrified and intrigued at the same time. I did not know what to think as I stared at the “Surrealist par excellence” beckoning me to follow him farther into his world. The background of the portrait was morphing into other paintings of his. As we walked, nothing was said. Dali simply pointed out the giraffes, human figures with half-opened dresser drawers protruding from their bodies, and the soft watches that he so loved to place in his art. It was strange to see the giraffes and drawers, considering we were walking in one of his most famous paintings, Persistence of Memory. The painting only held the soft watches. As I climbed up the dead tree’s only branch to sit on the melting watch, I could see that we were not just inside the one painting: The world was a melding of all of Dali’s work. The sculptures, jewelry, movies and other creations of his were featured in this fantastic Dalinian-type world. The world did not stay in the same combination of works either. Every so often, the scenery would change to that of another work, or a new mixture of works.
I decided to try and talk to him. I asked him what his full name was, as I climbed down from the tree. He looked at me with slight amusement and recited his full name, “Salvador Felipe Jacinto Dali Domenech. And what is yours?” “Emilia de Haven,” I replied in a shaky voice. I was elated to find that we could communicate! I continued to ask him questions, while he pointed out more of his art. He seemed delighted to have someone to show it to and discuss it with. I was most curious to know how he came up with his ideas. Instead of speaking, he turned and pointed to one of the watches. The watch center melted, revealing a television-type screen. A black and white “movie” played, showing Dali sleeping with a thought bubble above his head to show his current dream. He awoke with a start, grabbed paper and a pen, jotted down the dream, and went back to sleep. At that moment, the screen disappeared and the watch face was returned to its normal, droopy self. He then explained that he would take the dreams he had written down and meld them into one idea and create a painting. We were then momentarily separated as the figures and the background of the current landscape switched places. Dali simply stepped into the foreground, where I had remained, like nothing unusual had happened, and encouraged me to continue with the questions. He must have been so used to creating the deception in his art, that he did not take any notice of it when it actually happened. A question popped into my head while I marvelled at the illusion I had just experienced. The “watch video” had explained the wonderful dreamlike quality of his art, but I was curious to know if the woman depicted in so much of his art was really his wife, Gala. He told me that he was infatuated with his wife, and loved to use her as a subject.
We returned to silence as we dodged the characters in his movie, Un Chien Andalou. I wondered, but did not ask, what it was like to dodge getting hit by oneself, for I saw that he had played a part in a rather bizarre scene in the film. I also did not fail to notice the shoebox, upon which the manuscript for this particular movie had been written, lying haphazardly in a corner. After listening patiently to my questions, Dali started initiating conversation. He told me of the phases he went through as an artist: Cubism, Futurism, Metaphysical painting, and Surrealism, in that order. As he named them, we walked through a painting from each phase. First, Sandia, then I did not know the names of the next two, and finally, back to Persistence of Memory. It was quite thrilling to actually experience the ideas and influences in the paintings as we passed through them.
Tired of walking, we each climbed onto a giraffe. It was a peculiar sensation, riding on the back of the creature. If someone were looking at a painting containing the giraffes we were perched on, it would look as though we were riding from the left of the painting to the right, so they would see the right side of our bodies. Keeping this in mind, I was curious to see what the left side of our bodies looked like while in the painting. I ceased observing the scenery, and looked at Dali. His left side was gone! I was so frightened that I nearly fell off my ride. Regaining my wits, I looked to my own left side, and found that my body had also disappeared. But it was not gone; it just wasn’t there at the moment. And it wasn’t as though my guts were hanging out, my body simply vanished. As I leaned on the giraffe, I saw the missing half of my body reappearing from what I guessed to be another dimension. I was surprised that I had not noticed this phenomenon while in the Memory tree. A few possibilities raced through my mind. Maybe it hadn’t happened then because I hadn’t been in the painting long enough. Was I going to get stuck in this painting forever? I wanted to explore further, but when I looked up, I found half of Dali turned around and smiling at me. I refused to move, and demanded he explain why half of us was missing. He calmly explained that, unlike the sculpture he created of the melting clock on the tree, one couldn’t see all the sides of a figure in a painting. I thanked him sheepishly and I realized that he, too, had not taken notice of this when I was in the tree, but I did not press the matter further.
Oops! Hold that thought for just a moment please, because I just realized I never described Dali, or myself. First off, I’m not the usual teen, dressed in just one style forever. My style changes often. In September I may be artsy, but in October and November, I could go through a Gothic phase. My style coincides with whatever happens to be holding my attention at that time. When all this happened, my obsession was Salvador Dali, so I was in an artsy, eccentric mood; wearing pants painted in art class, a shirt on the brink of not matching them, and red flowered shoes. As for Dali, he too, was dressed eccentrically, wearing clothing from the nineteenth century, a century before his time. When I inquired as to his reasoning, he stated that he would prefer it forever remain a mystery to the public.
Now, where was I? Oh yes, our half-bodied state. As I said earlier, I wished to explore the possibility of having half a body, but Dali wanted to continue with the adventure. So pushing my curiosity of that subject to the back of my mind, I urged the giraffe forward so as to be next to Dali. We passed into a room that looked like a study/ library. Dali told me that this was where he did his thinking and brainstorming. I saw on the wall, a photograph of Sigmund Freud, and on the desk, many written works of Freud’s and information about Adolf Hitler. “I am fascinated by Hitler and Freud. I have read many of Freud’s works. I can tell by the astonished look on your face that they intrigue you too. I have also not failed to notice that you have been eyeing a certain book by Freud since we arrived in here. You may borrow it if you wish.” I stopped gaping at him, and picked up the book titled, The Interpretation of Dreams, and tucked it into my pocket, thanking him. I was now distracted by a new phenomenon. A book normally too large to fit in my pocket, was now nestled quite comfortably there. Again, lacking the patience to allow me to explore further, Dali urged me to follow him out of the room. I again refused to move, and asked how the book size phenomenon could happen. He hesitated before explaining, “I like surprising the viewers of my art with illusions and allowing them to make discoveries in it. Naturally, this would occur if you were not only observing my art, but were inside it. Now, Vamanos!” “Si,” I replied, somewhat worried that the conversations would now be in Spanish. Considering I was not experienced enough to hold a true conversation in the language, that would not be a good thing.
The scenery changed from a study, back to the Dalinian world I had become fond of. As I looked to the sky, I could see quotes of his painted on the clouds and across the blue and pink of the atmosphere. One cloud proclaimed his opinion of modern art with his quote: “This grandiose tragedy that we call modern art.” A patch of blue stated, “Each morning when I wake, I experience again a supreme…” It was in the process of being finished, which I discovered when a paintbrush flew over my head, and up to the quote, dripping dark blue paint on me in the process. “ pleasure-…that of…being… Salvador Dali.” He has quite the ego, I thought. He had strong political views, denoted by a quote, smothering a pink patch of the sky, declaring: “Wars have never hurt anybody except the people who die.” I remembered, from my research prior to this journey, that Dali had gotten kicked out of a surrealists group because of his support of General Franco being in Spain. I also thought this a curious remark when I reflected on the violent images portrayed in Soft Construction with Boiled Beans: Premonition of Civil War.
I wanted to ask how people had reacted to his art at first, but was afraid that it would be a touchy subject. Then I figured there was not much he could do if it did upset him so I asked, “How did the public react to your art at first, did they accept it?” “No,” he replied, “porque es no bonita y es obsceno y sensual. Mi arte atravesa de un lado de otro la linea de asunto apropiado para arte.” I translated the Spanish faster than I thought I could: “No, because it’s not beautiful, and it’s obscene and sensual. It crosses over the line of appropriate subject matter for art.” “Who were the people who did accept it?” I pressed. Dali pointed to the front of the painting we were in, and I was startled at the sight of the very eccentric woman admiring the painting. I fell from the giraffe, and crouched behind it so she would not see me. Dali slid from his giraffe and bent down, looking quizzically at me. I returned the look, and pointed at the woman. He said it was all right, and that she could not see us; she only saw the portrait that had winked at me so long ago. I slowly left my hiding place, and stood in front of the woman. I crossed my eyes and stuck my tongue out at her, to see what would happen. When I had righted my face, I saw, to my horror, that she had stopped scanning the picture, and was staring directly at me. I screamed, and dove back behind the animal just as she grabbed hold of her friend and told her to look. The friend glanced unenthusiastically at the painting, and walked on to catch up to the droning guide that was leading our tour. Sarah, as her friend had called her, stared for a second longer, then ran to join the group that I was supposed to be a part of. I stopped panicking when Dali started talking (as usual like nothing had happened), though I had not completely calmed down. “Mostly eccentrics, like you and Sarah, and mystics, and those interested in the supernatural, like it.” I practically shouted at him, asking if she had seen me make the face at her. I shivered with fear. He looked at me as though he did not know what I was talking about. Still flustered, I squeaked out my explanation, no longer able to shout for my throat had grown coarse, and told him, again, about Sarah staring at me. He said she may have seen me or may have just been impressed by the painting. He did not know.
I was now having thoughts of going home, and wondered when and how that would happen. He seemed to sense what I was thinking, and asked if I now possessed enough information to make my report interesting. Before I could ask, he said that he had seen the notebook I was carrying entitled notes for my Dali report. I realized now that I did not have the notebook with me and I figured it lay on the floor in front of the portrait. Dali jumped suddenly and started digging in his pockets for something. I giggled as he flailed and spun around, trying to reach into his back pocket. This was the first real undignified thing I had seen him do, and figured it was to make me laugh before we said goodbye. Finally, getting his hand into his back pocket, he produced a small notebook, which I figured to be his own personal notes. He handed it to me, looking pleased that I had been amused by his antics. Flipping through the book, I noticed that Renaissance Art was its subject. “You may take this notebook, also. I have made a few copies, lest one gets ruined, so it will not be missed. I noticed how you were most awed by my works influenced by Renaissance Art and thought you would enjoy my notes too.”
The world shifted to my favorite of his paintings, Persistence of Memory, and he led me to the melted clock on the tree, where I had sat before. He reached past me and turned the clock’s flaccid hands until the time read 5:11. I recognized the time to be a mix of his and Federico Garcia Lorca’s birthdays. I did not bother asking if the two men really did have a romantic relationship. I wanted to leave the answer to that question a mystery. The clock face shimmered and became translucent, and I could see the museum floor. I turned to thank Dali, and to say goodbye. As we shook hands, Dali began to parse. I was not startled, as glasslike fragments of Dali fell into my hand and onto the ground and were picked up by a sudden wind, swirling around me and away. Regretfully turning my back on Dali’s magnificent world, I stepped through the portal.
I felt a tap on my shoulder, and awoke with a start. Looking around, sleepy-eyed, I saw Sarah in front of me. “How did you get paint on you?!” she asked. “Nevermind, our group is way ahead and we need to catch up. Where were you? I’ve got your notebook, by the way. Our guide is so boring isn’t he?…” Ignoring her, I checked my pockets for the book from Dali, curious to know if this was all a dream.
Slowly, I pulled Freud’s book and Dali’s notes from my back pocket. I stared at them for a moment, smiling, unable to speak. Sarah stopped, noticing I was not following. She walked back and looked at the books in my hands. “What’s that?”
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