Salvador Dali surrealism in original wax sculptures transformed into bronze. Surreal jewelry for special occasions and every day
The article presents the sculptures of Salvador Dali, their photos, the history of their occurrence and impressions of what they saw.
Salvador Dali is not only a painter and a PR master. It turns out that Salvador Dali has wonderful surreal sculptures. Perhaps, if it weren’t for a member of my Facebook group who spoke well about the exhibition of these sculptures, I would not have paid attention to these creations. To be honest, I have never been attracted to surrealism as an art style in anything other than painting.
With all due respect to Breton, surrealist literature is similar to the delirium of a schizophasic patient. And the sculpture does not shine in this regard, although, for example, they managed to very organically introduce surrealism into sculpture.
However, Dali was able to surprise me here too - his works look elegant and original. In the sculptures of Salvador Dali, the same images are visible as in his paintings. At first, Dali simply molded his creations from wax, and then the Spanish art connoisseur Isidro Clot purchased these wax figures from El Salvador and made bronze castings from them. Subsequently, the sculptures were mostly scattered among collections and museums, but the first series remained with the Spaniard.
Sculptures of Salvador Dali, photo
Vaguely reminiscent of the ancient Egyptian god of wisdom and time - Thoth. 
A very elegant and light sculpture. Not a very typical image for Salvador Dali with his extravagant flow of the subconscious. I would call it “Ode to the Piano”. :) 
The famous elephant from Salvador Dali's paintings "The Temptations of St. Anthony" and "The Dream Caused by the Flight of a Bee Around a Pomegranate, a Second Before Awakening."
And this is the image and paintings of “The Burning Giraffe”. 
Soft watches - where would we be without them? 
This is obviously the unapproachable Gala and the lover Dali. 
More, even more soft watches. 
Looks like Cupid on a snail. :)
Dali, of course, in to a greater extent an artist rather than a sculptor, however, as they say, a talented person is talented in everything. It remains to say thank you to Isidro Clot, thanks to whom these wonderful creations saw the light of day. Salvador himself would hardly have ever gone beyond his wax prototypes, which is why art would have lost a lot. I must say that I liked these sculptures even more than Dali’s paintings. Salvador Dali's sculptures are devoid of the schizophrenic tension that is present in his canvases; they are lighter and brighter.
"Lobster Phone" - surreal sculpture, which was created by the famous spanish artist(1904-1989) in 1936. Unusual sculpture was created together with another surrealist artist Edward James. Part of the artist’s series of works entitled “Paranoia and War”.
The sculpture is currently in the Tate Gallery, Liverpool. It represents combined diverse things that are connected by a common idea. At the bottom there is a regular black phone. In the upper part there is a dummy of a lobster, which is created from plaster. The meaning of this combination, which at first seems completely stupid, is that Salvador Dali decided to express his protest against the universal worship of technology with such an action. The sculpture has something like this:
People have separated from nature and are now separated from each other. With the advent of telephones, people don't even need to meet each other to communicate. Now live communication is being replaced by wires and audio communications. Despite the fact that with the advent of telephones people can communicate even over long distances, it is telephones that alienate people from each other. The combination of telephone and lobster here can take many different forms and meanings. It all depends on the thoughts of the viewer himself. This may also be a hint of the need to be closer to nature. Salvador Dali also expressed in this a certain one-dimensionality of two things: the telephone, as a product of human industrialization, and the lobster, as a popular consumer product. In addition, lobster is an aphrodisiac and in this sculpture is a symbol of sexual desire. The fact that there is some sexual connotation behind the lobster can be evidenced by Salvador Dali’s illustration, which was created a year earlier and was called “Aphrodisiac Telephone,” where there was also a lobster instead of a telephone handle.
Salvador Dali himself said: “I don’t understand why, when I order fried lobster in a restaurant, they never serve me boiled lobster; I also don’t understand why champagne is always drunk chilled, but some telephone handsets, which are usually so disgustingly warm and unpleasantly sticky to the touch, are never served in the same silver buckets and are not covered with crushed ice.”
The work was first presented at the first London exhibition of surrealist art in 1936. Dali, who presented his works, gave a lecture in a diving suit.
There are five copies of the “Lobster Telephone” sculpture in total. The first is exhibited at the Tate Gallery in Liverpool, the second at the Dali Universe exhibition in London, the third at the Telecommunication Museum in Frankfurt am Main, the fourth at National Gallery Australia, and the fifth copy belongs to the Edward James Foundation.
All my efforts, every day, always, are subordinated to a single goal: to be able to be Dali.
One day people will have to be interested in my work - and it's all because of me.
My body does not extend beyond the boundaries of my clothes. Only the mustache crosses this border.
There are extremely rare cases in my life when I humiliated myself by dressing in civilian clothes. I always preferred to wear Dali's uniform.
The only difference between a madman and me is that I am not a madman.
The Divine Dali should always be taken seriously. No matter what he says. Well, those who find his words frivolous are themselves frivolous, because they do not take the divine Dali seriously.
When I was six years old, I dreamed of becoming a chef. At seven - Napoleon. However, with age, having acquired wisdom, I realized that my highest dream is to become Dali.
Everything that has to do with Dali is true. Except me.
If you want to make money, all means are good, all ways are legal - theft, plagiarism... - the funny thing is that many people imagine that making money will serve the good of humanity or will benefit posterity.
It is difficult to be in the spotlight of the whole world even for more than half an hour. I managed to do this for twenty years, every day.
Never, never, never, never has the excess of money, advertising, success and popularity made me want - even for a split second - to commit suicide... on the contrary, I like it all.
I can prove to you that I am capable of agreeing to take fifty thousand dollars even now, without any trouble.
If you start playing at being a genius, you will certainly become one!
Let our inner fire always burn in full force, bringing rules and regulations to white heat and changing them! Let our inner reality be so strong that it can bend the external reality under itself! And may our passions be unquenchable, but may our thirst for life become even more unquenchable in order to absorb these passions!
I was once asked on television: “What is the difference between the best reproduction of Velázquez’s portrait of Juan de Paredes and the portrait itself?” And I said, “Today that’s a difference of exactly six million dollars.”
Ideas are created to be copied. And I have a whole bunch of ideas. And I prefer that they are stolen, because it saves me from having to implement these ideas myself.
There is much less madness in my method than there is method in my madness.
The one thing the world will never get enough of is excess.
Don't be afraid of perfection. After all, you will never achieve it.
Don't worry about being modern. Unfortunately, modernity is the one thing that, no matter what you do, you cannot escape.
Guided by reason, we find ourselves in the fog of skepticism with its various shades. The mind reduces reality to coefficients of gastronomic uncertainty - gelatinous, with a Proustian and putrid odor.
The pig is a symbol of perfection. With Jesuitical hypocrisy, she moves forward, but never retreats, finding herself among the heap of garbage of our era. In this regard, I am a model pig.
All sorts of donkeys would not mind if I myself followed the advice that I give to others. But this is impossible, because I am not at all like the others...
Like love, painting enters through the eyes and flows out through the tip of the brush.
Even if the meaning of my paintings eludes me at the moment when I paint them, this does not mean at all that my paintings are devoid of meaning.
An artist is not at all someone who is full of inspiration. An artist is someone who knows how to inspire others.
I am always pleased when copies are made of my paintings: in my opinion, these copies are much better than the originals.
Picasso is Spanish, and so am I! Picasso is a genius, so am I! Picasso is a communist, I... no!
They say that Matisse's colors are combined according to the principle of complementarity. Indeed, Matisse’s colors do nothing but shower each other with compliments.
Great works of art are born due to the rigid and unconditional subordination of the coefficients of elasticity and imaginary viscosity to the merciless ethical structures of moral precepts.
This much is certain: every good artist drools. This is the result of the utmost concentration of attention and satisfaction that the images that appear before his eyes give the artist. True, although these images rarely leave other mortals indifferent, they never make them salivate.
If you are mediocre, then no matter how hard you try to paint the worst pictures, people will still understand that you are mediocre.
If you show Americans a picture of family members slicing a cello like a ham, it will not make the slightest impression on them. But if you add a mustache to a dog in the same picture, Americans will be confused and ask: why?
My mustache, like two sentinels, guards the entrance to my personality.
Every morning, when I wake up, I experience the highest pleasure, which today is revealed to me for the first time: the pleasure of being Salvador Dali. And I ask myself in admiration what other miracle this Salvador Dali will perform today. And every day it becomes more and more difficult for me to understand how people can live without being Gala or Salvador Dali.
In my daily life, every gesture turns into a ceremony. Even the anchovy I chew helps maintain the inner fire that illuminates me.
Since the time of the Great French Revolution, a vicious tendency has prevailed, which can lead to general dullness: people are getting it into their heads that geniuses (if we put aside their creativity) are creatures more or less similar to ordinary mortals. This is a prejudice. And I, the genius of the modern era, destroy it.
The king should be a match for good cheese - constantly on the verge of moldiness. Half-witted - this is the ideal option. After all, there is nothing more noble than obeying a degenerate sovereign due to conscious respect for the law and the trouble-free operation of memory mechanisms.
There are people who are not smart enough to hold all opinions at once. I'm not one of those people.
I always avoided bending over the deceased in order to protect myself from the painful feeling that haunted me for several days in a row. In the same way, for fear of getting infected, I try to avoid crazy people.
I consider television, cinema, the press, journalism to be the great modern means of mass stupidity and brainwashing. That is why, using them, I experience a unique aristocratic pleasure. The more fools who start chasing Dali, the higher the price of my paintings will rise.
Since 1929 I have been clearly aware of my own genius. And, in truth, this awareness, which is taking root in me more and more deeply, has never evoked in me the so-called “sublime” emotions. However, I will not hide that I experience an extremely pleasant feeling of constancy.
Early in my life I betrayed the class from which I came, the bourgeoisie, to serve the aristocracy, and now I cuckold modern art.
I never give out advice for nothing. The price of each of my advice is much higher than the profit received from it.
Last May, on a metro train heading from Cambronne to Glacier station, a man of about thirty, sitting opposite a very pretty girl, deftly lifted a newspaper - pretending to read it - in such a way that no one, except for that girl, he could not see his penis, which had reached a full erection. Some idiot noticed this gesture of exhibitionism - a gesture that threw the girl into incredible and absolutely charming confusion, without a single hint of protest on her part - and this was enough for the public to condemn the exhibitionist and throw him out of the carriage. All that remains is to express all our indignation and contempt towards people who in such a disgusting way suppress one of the most innocent and selfless gestures that are still available to man in our age of general dullness and moral degradation.
I am in a state of constant intellectual erection!
My eroticism, like love, penetrates through my eyes and flows from the tip of my brush.
I prefer young girls and lobsters. Like lobsters, girls are amazing from the inside out. Like lobsters, they turn red when they are about to be made edible.
The female vagina, in my opinion, is a dark cave where moisture boils, where children and embryos emerge and where soft traps are placed.
Women: the thinnest waist and very wide hips, that’s perfection. Breasts are nothing. So it's better to keep them small. Or proportional to the body, and in the middle there is a halo of small granules, which makes me slightly excited, because it always seems that it can be used like a telephone receiver.
I am one of the great clowns of my age. I have written books, and no one - not even myself - will ever understand whether they are serious or delusional. Things that I consider to be trivial jokes, practical jokes invented for the sake of laughter, often become the basis for the most serious and tragic thoughts. And vice versa, the works on which I worked long and diligently are perceived as a children's joke that does not represent any value.
Clowns sometimes manage to amuse the audience, make them smile or laugh for, say, a quarter of an hour. I haven’t stopped entertaining the public for forty years.
The most brilliant ideas always come to me at the Perpignan train station, when Gala fills out the registration form for the paintings that we take with us on the train. Already a few kilometers before Perpignan, in Boulou, my imagination begins to gain momentum, but it is only at the Perpignan train station that a real intellectual ejaculation occurs, which reaches its magnificent speculative climax.
As a child, I experienced a characteristic Freudian anomaly: an indescribable pleasure in holding in my own feces. All red, squeezing my buttocks, I circled around the house, shifting from foot to foot. My parents followed me around in alarm. I hid in a secluded place, continuing to store my treasure in my swollen intestines. I looked for some unexpected place: a dresser drawer, a shoe box, a sugar bowl. I endured until the last, tears appeared in my eyes, my breath was taken away. Finally, shuddering in convulsions, with sweet regret, I defecated in my secluded corner. And then he ran as fast as he could into the garden shouting: “That’s it!” There was turmoil, panic, despair, shame in the house: with dustpans and rags, parents and servants embarked on an ill-fated search. Throughout my childhood, I was haunted by the desire to preserve and then hide my treasure.
When I am offered to do an exhibition in a large room, I first ask the manager if he is ready to lose his job. If he says yes, I get to work.
Am I proud? I am proud of the celebration of pride that the genius organizes within me.
As usual, a quarter of an hour after breakfast, I put a jasmine flower behind my ear and go to the restroom. As soon as I touch the toilet seat, I feel relieved - almost odorless. Only flavored ones smell fragrant toilet paper and a sprig of jasmine behind my ear. Probably this event was foreshadowed by the sweet, wonderful night dreams that I always have on the eve of a particularly pleasant and light bowel movement. Today's chair is the cleanest of all, if the adjective "clean" is even appropriate in such a situation. This purity is a consequence of my almost complete asceticism. With disgust, even with horror, I remember what a chair I had during the era of Madrid parties in the company of Lorca and Buñuel, I was twenty-one then. An indescribable, shameful stench, convulsive, with spasms, dirty splashes, convulsions, a living hell, with praises, existential, painful, bloody - compared to what I have today. This smooth, almost liquid continuity makes me think of honey made by industrious bees all day long.
For a woman's face to appear erotic, it must be moderately ugly.
Love penetrates me through the soul, eroticism through the eyes.
Out of love for Gala, I am even ready to become an exemplary Venetian artist.
Since I don't smoke, I decided to wear a mustache - it's healthier; however, I always took with me an expensive cigarette case with the inscription "Faberge", where, instead of tobacco, several pairs of mustaches were neatly folded in the style of Adolphe Menjou. With all the courtesy I offered them to my friends: "Mustache? Mustache? Mustache?" But no one dared to touch them.
I am in constant awareness that everything related to my personality and my life is unique and has an exceptional, comprehensive, inimitable nature.
Dali is a drug.
Are my jokes serious? Am I telling shocking truths? Do jokes turn into truth, and isn't truth childish? I balance on the edge all the time: I never know at what point I start pretending and when I tell the truth.
I have never been to a psychoanalyst: I have no obsessions, and I am not neurotic. Obsessive ideas haunted me only once, and even then they were of a sexual nature. That's when I met Gala. She cured me as no psychoanalyst could have cured me.
I have always said - although I could never boast of modesty - that if my paintings were compared with the works of Velazquez or another artist of the same magnitude, then my entire work would appear completely worthless. But if you compare me with contemporary artists, I'm not that bad. Let's put my genius aside: how bad are other artists at drawing...
I often compare my ambition to a century-old oak tree, and my mind to a grapevine that lovingly wraps itself around the trunk, striving upward. If the oak tree seems to me eternal, unshakable in its desire to grow, and its top - arrogant and harmonious, then the tree of my mind, on the contrary, grows restlessly and fussily, as if in jerks, because if I watch myself at the moment when I begin to I’m working on a painting or finishing this painting when I suddenly feel the convulsive, energetic tremors of young growing buds.
The thing I do with unshakable persistence is to be Dali. And this is a lot of work, because of all the modern artists, I am the only one who masterfully does what I want to do, and no one will prove that one day, continuing to joke and have fun, I will not become a modern Raphael!
I consider myself a bad artist, a bad writer, and even a bad actor. The main thing is my Archangel gift of cosmogony.
Dali continues to work on the opera he began fifteen years ago. There are three wars in this opera, including a third, although it never happened - where Freud, Marx and Lenin sing while they are castrated, then their throats are cut; the principle of combinatorial wheels of Raymond Lull operates: five hundred and fifty-eight pigs against the backdrop of a thousand motorcycles with roaring engines produce, with the help of electronic transparencies, sounds - genuine, piercing, animals that are Pythagorean-style orchestrated in the space in front of the altar gates - this music will sound until until the pigs die.
At the dawn of surrealism, I conducted research, looking for lovers of bread soaked in public urinals, and came to the conclusion that most of them were revolutionary-minded people who joined left-wing parties, professed the ideal of absolute justice and were impotent.
Fat is the exciting element of the real volume of meat, and we know that the human libido makes the excitement anthropomorphic, personifies the exciting volume, turns the exciting volume into real flesh, and metaphysical excitement into real fat.
All at least slightly convex parts of the human body have a common geometric prototype, namely, a cone with a rounded top, curved towards the sky or towards the ground, with an angelic look of depression from the realization of one’s own perfection: a rhinoceros horn!
I have never tried drugs because I am a drug myself.
I don't want to be anyone other than Salvador Dali. But as I get closer to this, Salvador Dali moves away from me.
I can give brilliant lectures and speak in public for a long time, with enthusiasm and ease, but only if I have shoes on my feet that are too narrow, because in this case I will have to step back and forth so that the shoes do not seem so tight, and this will speed up my pace my thoughts.
I know what I'm eating. I don't know what I'm doing.
Man has two vices: modesty and women.
Woman is the divine source of male dullness.
Don't ask me if I need eroticism. All aspects of life are necessary.
From an intellectual point of view, I am a homosexual: here I prefer only men.
Who are secular people? These are people who, instead of standing on both legs, try to stay on one, like a flamingo. This habit, aristocratic and deliberate, indicates their desire to maintain a standing position, which will allow them to look down on everything and at the same time touch earthly vanity only in cases of extreme necessity. This self-centered posture quickly becomes tiresome. In addition, secular people need support, and they surround themselves with a crowd of one-legged people who - under a variety of guises, from artists to pederasts and drug addicts - are ready to serve them and protect them from the first shocks from the Popular Front.
Death to everything useful! The time has come to use technology to sublimate trifles, to spread pleasures, dreams and luxury. It's time to finally understand that life ideal- have many passions and enough funds to indulge them!
Throughout my life, it has always been difficult for me to get used to the absurd “normality” of the creatures to whom I am somewhat similar and who inhabit this world. Every now and then I tell myself: what could happen never happens. It boggles my mind that there is so little individuality in human beings and that in their behavior they do not deviate one step from the strictest laws conformism. Take, for example, such an elementary thing as derailing a train! All our five continents are simply abundant railways- millions of kilometers - and very few trains derailed. The number of people who like to derail trains and who actually do it is insignificant compared to the number of people who love to travel and satisfy this passion of theirs.
I don't care about other people's opinions. The only thing that is important to me is that everyone around me talks about Dali. Even if they say good things about him.
In my opinion, eroticism should always be ugly, aesthetic and divine, and death should always be beautiful.
I never allow myself to become soft and sentimental.
Sperm? Doesn't have human nature, but it very well could.
Sexual attraction is the basis of creativity. Accumulated for for a long time dissatisfaction develops into a process that Freud calls sublimation. Everything that we lack in terms of eroticism is sublimated into a work of art. People fixated on physical love create absolutely nothing: they find self-expression through sperm. Not so with the divine Dali. If he inadvertently leaks a drop of sperm, he immediately demands a check for a large amount so that the expense will be reimbursed immediately.
A woman’s spiritual qualities directly depend on the length of her tongue.
The easiest way to refuse a gold concession is to own the gold yourself.
The dollar rain fell on me with a wonderful monotony.
Fame - even the most mediocre - fascinates me. Glory, like the sun, is reflected in all bodies of water, both crystal clear and stagnant rotten swamps. Any evidence of my existence, a sign of my presence in another person, frees me from the worry that reality is unsteady - the reality of things, the world and my “I”. From all the eyes in which I see my reflection, I draw my own essence.
The only true incentive is excessive pleasure. Then all the characters in the tragedy begin to get boring.
I'm waiting for you, Death, but just come so quietly and unnoticed that I won't know about your approach, because the pleasure of dying can fill me with vitality again.
I hate freedom: it forces us to make choices.
An elegant woman - what is she like? This is a woman who despises you and who has no armpit hair.
I am the container of genius.
I am an exemplary prototype of a “polymorphic pervert”, phenomenally retarded in development and retaining intact all the rudiments of a heterogeneous paradise that an infant possesses.
I value my health very much and try to protect what is most amazing to me in the world - myself.
The least that can be asked of a sculpture is that it does not move.
Africa is everywhere in my works. I have never been to Africa, but I remember so much about it!
Anxiety is a banal, even, perhaps, base component of everyday life. Every time I got worried, I did it in the most idiotic way.
The main thing is that my anti-Nietzschean mustache always reaches into the sky, like the towers of the cathedral in Burgos.
The Dormition of the Virgin Mary is an elevator. The Virgin Mary rises due to the gravity of the body of the dead Christ.
The highest mission of man on earth is to spiritualize all things, and excrement needs spiritualization most of all.
Not for a second did I doubt that we initially possessed knowledge about all phenomena in the world. Everything we strive to know is already contained in the depths of our minds, and we could not master either mathematics or Chinese if sciences and languages were not implicitly present in the cells of our brains.
Of all the beauties of the human body, the scrotum makes the strongest impression on me. Contemplating it is a real metaphysical pleasure. My teacher Pujol said that testicles contain the lives of unconceived beings. Therefore, when I look at the scrotum, heavenly creatures come to mind, invisible and immaculate. I hate saggy balls that look like beggars' bags. Neat, compact, round and strong, like the shell of a shell - that’s what I like.
What is heaven? Gala is already a reality! The sky is neither above nor below, neither to the right nor to the left, it is in the very center of the chest of a person who has faith.
Life is inspiration, breathing and giving up the spirit.
The day I went ashore in New York port, my photograph appeared on the cover of Time Magazine. In the photo I had the smallest mustache in the world. The world has become a smaller place since then, but my mustache and the power of my imagination have only grown.
There are two irreparable things that can happen to a former surrealist: the first is if he becomes a mystic, the second is if he learns to draw. These two abilities came to me at the same time.
Whiskers should be washed frequently, as animals that have whiskers instinctively do. There is even an assumption that a person's mustache has the properties of antennas. All this is very mysterious, but I have no doubt that the mustache gives me vigor and makes my mind sharper, I quickly notice everything that happens and - most importantly - moves around me. Probably because of their length and their pointed tips, every fluctuation in the shades of light catches my mustache and instantly catches my eye. So, one day I realized that the sun was setting behind me, noticing how the tips of my mustache were glistening like two tiny cherries.
My ability to make the best of everything is truly unique. In less than an hour, I was able to find sixty-two uses of whale vertebrae: they can be used to make a ballet, a film, a painting, a philosophy, a medical visual aid, a magical effect, a trick with hallucinations and Lilliputians, a psychological primer - due to their size, which has a strong effect on imagination; from them one can make a morphological law, a pattern of proportions incommensurate with human growth, as well as new way pee or brush.
Beauty is nothing more than the conscious totality of all our anomalies.
The rhinoceros horn is a member pointing to the sky, or rather a useful gift, a compact materialization of the primary energies of nature. This is a cosmic member, the completion and commemoration of antediluvian times - concentrated, compressed, strongly infused, squeezed out, properly boiled under a hermetic shell thousands of years ago.
Geology has a depressing sadness that it can never shake off its back. This sadness is due to the fact that time works against geology.
I don't like animals or children. They are moving. When something moves around me, I become anxious. It would be nice if the animals were still. In a pinch I could put up with sea tongues, flat as postal envelopes, laid out on the carpet, like Persian patterns. But they flutter, as if they are suffocating, and this irritates me. So it’s better if they are artificial.
I only love bad loud music or confused, pompous music with paroxysms of disharmony - like, for example, "Tristan and Isolde." When I receive visitors in Port Lligat, in the evening, on the patio, I always play a record of Tristan and Isolde. The record is all scratched, the performance is poor. There is a continuous crackling sound, and it is so wonderful: it’s as if sardines are being fried.
I can’t stand dirty city flies, and even country flies, with pale yellow swollen bellies and black wings, as if smeared necrophiliacally with mournful black ink. I only like neat, clean, sparkling flies, dressed in tiny gray woolen suits from Balenciaga, sparkling like a rainbow in a cloudless sky, transparent like mica, with eyes the color of garnet and with bellies of a noble yellow color - these wonderful little flies from olive tree of Port Lligat, where only Gala and Dali live.
I am outraged to the core! I demand that, having moved to other world, man has preserved earthly memory!
From tender childhood, every time they told me about the inevitability of death, I shouted that it was a lie. And he assured himself that at the last moment everything would work out. I haven't changed a bit since then. If I believed that I would someday die - in the traditional sense of the word, which implies decay and non-existence - I would begin to tremble like an aspen leaf, and out of fear a piece would not go down my throat. So I don't believe in death.
I try to behave as respectfully as possible with my enemies. The deader Le Corbusier, the more life in my! It is the feeling of contrast that stimulates all my reflexes. With what pleasure I will savor every skinny sardine, remembering at the same time all my fallen comrades, preferably those who were shot or died under torture.
Fine cuisine is not part of my natural nature. This is a feature of my secondary personality - a decorative addition necessary for the revelation of genius in the rarefied regions of pure aestheticism.
The paranoid-critical method is Lydia, and only her, because she masterfully mastered the skills of paranoia. One day Picasso gave her a book to read. When Lydia read it, he gave her the next one, which had nothing to do with the first. Some time later she told Picasso: “I really liked the second part, thanks to it I understood what was said in the first.” She systematized everything.
They say that the anatomical perfection of a plucked woodcock on a platter is akin to the ideal proportions of Raphael!
Disgust is the sentry that keeps watch at the door of our deepest desires.
There is always bad taste creativity. This is the dominance of biology over the mind.
My brother was just a test copy of myself, created in the space of the absolutely impossible!
My eroticism: fried eggs made from just yolks.
When I first saw a woman's smooth, hairless armpit, I began to think about God.
I love Gala more than my mother, more than my father, more than Picasso and even more than money.
My privacy is guarded by the dragons of my own mythology.
My goal? Systematize the confusion and make every possible contribution to the complete discrediting of reality.
My father suffered a lot because of me. Due to my egoism and Jesuitical inclinations, I get rid of remorse in three moves. The first move: I rise above remorse, make it worthwhile, cheapening it with a sense of my own guilt, and convince myself that it was I who ruined my father. Second move: I understand that it’s still not worth killing myself like that, and I experience indescribable joy from the realization that I am not a criminal. Third move: I triumph in being who I am, because if my father had seen me so famous, his delight would have been a hundred times greater than his suffering.
We have no children. And I don't regret it. [...] It doesn’t matter whether beings are born who will bear my name or not. I don’t want to pass on a single grain to Dali. Let it all end with me. Besides, the children of geniuses are all nerds. They do not create anything, they only disgrace you and bear your name, not realizing the magnitude of their father’s talent.
Sometimes, for fun, I spit on my mother's portrait.
When I look at the starry sky, it seems small to me. Either I'm getting bigger, or the Universe is shrinking - or maybe both at the same time.
Without my enemies, I would not have become what I have become.
If caviar is the result of the life experiences of sturgeons, then this statement is equally true of the surrealists. Like sturgeons, we are predatory fish that, as I have already noticed, swim on the border of two currents: the cold current of art and the warm current of science. It is at this temperature and in movement against the current that our experience of life and our experience of fertilization reaches that vague, exciting depth, that amazing moral and irrational clarity that is possible only under conditions of Neronic osmosis, which is the result of a powerful and continuous fusion of sole flesh and chilled warmth , the satisfaction and cutting of the foreskin of the sea tongue and the tin visor, territorial ambivalence and agrarian tolerance, heightened collectivism and the exquisite visors of helmets with white letters on the gangs of the old robber - in a word, an alloy of all sorts of warm and dermatological elements that exist side by side and carry the characteristic properties inherent in things through which the concept of “elusiveness” is defined, a simulacrum concept that has earned unanimous public recognition only to serve as an epithet to describe the indescribable taste of caviar; a simulacrum concept from which the sprouts of a tasteful perception of tangible irrationality timidly emerge, which, remaining just the apotheosis and paroxysm of this subtle goal created from the precision and pointillist clarity of the caviar of the imagination, will become, having philosophically established the right of its exclusive monopoly, incredibly demoralizing and incredibly complex the result of my experiences and creative innovations in the field of painting. One thing is clear: I hate simplicity in all its forms.
Every day I destroy with my own hands - with a kick and my addiction to dandyism - the image of my poor brother. Today I once again took flowers to his grave. He is my ghostly deity. He and I are Castor and Polydeuces; I am Polydeuces, the immortal of two brothers, and he is mortal. I constantly kill him, because the divine Dali should have nothing to do with this once earthly creature.
With her patient love, Gala protects me from the ironic and crowded world of slaves.
First: Gala and Dali. Second: Dali. Third: everyone else, again including the two of us, of course.
Dali is first of all smart, unlike God. God is the supreme creator who invented everything. Intelligence is always the opposite of creativity. So I'm a bad painter and a bad artist, because I'm too smart.
Everything changes me, but I remain unchanged.
If a man at forty still takes the subway, then he is a loser.
Americans suffer from hemorrhoids. That is, their anus is constantly open. Unsure of their merits, they squander money and immediately pick up this money, rushing to relieve themselves immediately after eating.
I am only interested in the number of newspaper articles: neither their quality nor content count. When they bring me newspaper clippings, I only evaluate their length or the thickness of the entire stack. I never read them.
My ethics are exceptional and infallible. I live where the money is. I chose the United States to be under a cascade of checks that is like an eruption of diarrhea.
The Assumption of the Virgin Mary is the culmination of the female will to power in Nietzsche's understanding: a superwoman who is lifted to heaven by the male power of her own antiprotons!
Reality is simply the amnesia of meditation.
My personality excludes any possibility of ridicule or mystification. After all, I am a mystic, and the concepts “mystic” and “mystification” are opposite to each other according to the principle of communicating vessels.
My intuition tells me that if we could make human stool as viscous as honey, our lifespan would increase, because stool is the thread of existence, and every time we stop defecating or pass gas, we lose precious minutes.
Yes, yes, and yes again, to everyone’s amazement, I report that Salvador Dali, a Catholic professing the religion of the Roman Church, decided at all costs to become the first and main pig hibernating during the winter.
In Roman law, which protects private property and encourages the accumulation of wealth, the best thing is the idea that the highest degree of freedom, the greatest merit and measure of success achieved lies in the ability to do nothing.
The envy of other artists has always served me as a thermometer of my success.
Already as a child, I decided to go through life as a bit of a multimillionaire.
It always seemed natural to me that every morning they write about me in the newspapers, and I could never suppress the unpleasant feeling associated with the fact that these same newspapers might be interested in something else besides me, or at least in something , not directly related to the orbit of Dali’s existence.
Sperm has a divine nature because it serves as a receptacle for beings not yet conceived.
Women should never try themselves in creativity - they are not capable of it by their very nature.
Aviation is the most colorful expression of sexual instinct.
Eroticism is Main way souls of God.
I am a nurse. I take out my breast and give the nipple to my era. All my contemporaries did nothing but feed on my ideas.
It doesn’t make much difference to me whether I’m considered an artist, a TV presenter or a writer. The main thing is that there is a myth about Dali, even if it is misunderstood or completely fictitious.
I love smart enemies and hate fools who take my side.
For most artists who dream of fame, success comes with the purchase of an expensive car. Success increases when a well-trained driver is added to the car.
The deep structure of my personality is always dual: I am two-headed and two-faced.
Bankers are the great clergy of Dali's religion.
Fans of Dali's work are creatures who are trying to cling to me under the pretext that I can marry them off to princes, give them main role in a film or just pose with them in front of the camera lens. They are all careerists.
My personal history is politics, my life is strategy.
The more stupid my enemies are, the more I try to shower them with all kinds of honors. Let the scoundrels rise!
Every time journalists come to me, I declare that they should dedicate the entire newspaper from beginning to end to me so that there is enough space to print everything that I can tell them. Or at least I try to convince them that I will give them enough material to fill the longest article of their career.
When ill-wishers gather around you, their hostility becomes like the wind, the force of which floats the ship of your victory with full sails.
Today, on All Souls' Day, I sent a wreath to Le Corbusier's grave, because, on the one hand, I hated him, and on the other hand, I am the last of the cowards. In the end, let’s imagine that the afterlife really exists, which means I need to keep something like a protocol in order to have a minimum guarantee of getting there.
Having your own universe is much better than owning a car.
Every time one of my friends dies, I have to act in such a way that everyone will think that I am their killer.
I have always been impressed by very rich people. And the poor too. Only people with average incomes left me indifferent.
To be a true admirer of Dali, you must first of all become a true masochist.
More than anything else, Dali likes the Inquisition, even if the torture is directed against Dali himself, especially against me! The Inquisition forces strong-willed people to make the most of their feelings and ideas. Undoubtedly, the Inquisition is the greatest good.
I am a real flatterer and specialize, like all flatterers, in licking the ass of all important people and kings, including Raphael and Velazquez! I try to please everyone who, it seems to me, is at least in some way superior to me. I lick the ass of angelic creatures.
My philosophy is the philosophy of a man who works and plays at the same time, in other words, a man who thinks and acts, and whose life is nothing more than a process of thought formation, and whose thought constantly expresses itself in play.
My craziest paintings are done in the Spanish realistic style, because I myself am Spanish and there is nothing I can do about it.
During early childhood- at the age of six, when I still did not know about masturbation, - I was interested in the question of the good of all humanity and I had sociological dreams in which all people were happy. I imagined crowds gathering around me, standing on a pedestal, expressing their gratitude to me. Tears welled up in my eyes when I saw what enormous services I provided to people. But one day I couldn’t resist - for the first time ever - and said: “Humanity doesn’t interest me anymore.” I became interested in my own penis and my sexual problems. From the pinnacle of honor, humanity has slipped to almost complete contempt on my part.
I don't believe in justice. It's not even clear what gender she is. Justice is a woman with a beard!
Sitting on the oars in the company of brave paranoid sailors, Columbus discovered America.
In my opinion, the main place of hibernation in the human body is the anus, because animals that hibernate in winter first stuff their butts with a mixture of soil and feces to slow down the metabolic process. In addition, this is a guarantee of comfort!
I revel in the glory that people have given me and which grows with the increase in the means of mass stupidity.
The anger of a fool is proof of your genius.
Fame is related to cruelty as a rose is to a rosebush, and true masters are always cruel.
Freedom of speech means nothing compared to the enormity of freedom to bask in the sun when you don’t feel like working.
The revolution in Russia is the French Revolution, delayed due to the cold.
The clown is not me, but this murderously cynical and naively foolish society, which pretends to be serious, trying to hide its madness.
The symbol of the monarchy is a sphere. In architectonics, a sphere is a dome. Under the dome of absolute power of the ruler, the people should feel protected and fill with juice, like a melon in a greenhouse. The Republic, which the Parthenon represents, provides only an illusory protection that is endlessly questioned. This is an abuse of power and its usurpation, constant and blatant betrayal, an illegal form of government. There is nothing rougher than the right angles of the roof of the Parthenon, on which all the garbage, all the impurity, starting with swallows' nests, accumulates. One has only to look closely and it becomes clear: the pediment is just a chicken coop. Nothing could be more ridiculous.
Congresses are strange monstrosities, shrouded in the spirit of backstage life, through which people glide whose bodies seem designed to slide - in other words, slippery people.
Engineers are the most humiliating phenomenon born of necessity.
The Catalan expression “onions in the head” corresponds exactly to the concept of a complex in the field of psychoanalysis. If a person really has a bulb growing in his head, then it can bloom from time to time, and you will get a real Narcissus!
The temple, whose name is Dali, was built on gold, with great frugality and prudence. And the thought that my gold is making a profit, stored in banks - motionless, prudently hidden in safes - fills me with joy, calms and inspires me.
Just as a person has only one nose on his face, and not hundreds of noses sticking out in all directions, there is an amazingly rare thing on the globe, the result of a confluence of wonderful and inexplicable circumstances - called landscape - which can only be found on the coast of the Mediterranean Sea and nowhere else.
People need to be put in jail. I'm for prison. The most happy time My life was marked by four years spent in a Spanish prison. Before that, I was absolutely free and spoiled by parental care; I got everything I wanted. But I was overcome by a painful anxiety, because I didn’t know what to do - write poetry or draw, paint oil paintings or hang out with very young girls, or just become a little bit of a pederast. The most severe doubts, believe me! And then I was put behind bars. All worries disappeared at once, and I began to enjoy life in a sybaritic way.
I am happy to report that a wonderful future awaits humanity, and all thanks to one thing that will save people from spiritual death - the emission of gases by my wife Gala. After all, it is because of this that I became the greatest of geniuses.
Gold is a celebration of the soul. Americans fear gold as much as they fear their own souls. They transform gold into some formless, indivisible, abstract substance, which they call passion for action and civic valor. They barely have time to touch him before they throw him away. And what do they really need it for?
Politics is an anecdote of history.
If in our era of dwarf people, to be a genius means to cause a huge scandal, thanks to which a person is not stoned like a dog, and he does not swell from hunger, then this is only by God’s grace.
All my slaves.
Everyone is a pacifist now. And this contradicts the principles set forth since the times of Antiquity and the Renaissance, contradicts the wonderful statements of Michel de Montaigne about art, nobility, the greatness of military affairs... everyone has fallen into pacifism, from Soviet people to the Americans. Complete degradation! I am convinced that the presence in a monarchical state of an anarchist who wants to kill the king truly deserves respect, because this anarchist brings diversity to social order monarchy (and any society should be diverse), and the fact that people now see a future for humanity without war seems monstrous to me.
After the epiphanies that I had had for several years at the Perpignan train station, I began to realize something. And each time the joy of discovery became stronger. Today it would take the strength of a dozen strong Indians to restrain my impulse, to plug the cork that was bursting from the bottle, so that Dali's champagne would not pour onto the glass walls of the Perpignan station.
Today a young man, who was more old than young, came to me and begged me to give him some instructions before he went to America. The situation interested me. So, I put on Dali's costume and go to meet him. The point is this: he wants to go to America and succeed there - it doesn’t matter what, but he certainly wants to succeed. The dullness and wretchedness of life in the States is beyond his understanding. I ask him:
Do you have any passions? For example, do you like to eat delicious food?
I can eat anything! - he answers greedily. - Sitting on dry beans and bread for years!
This is bad,” I say thoughtfully, making a concerned expression on my face.
The young man is surprised. I explain:
Eating beans and bread is very expensive. To earn money for beans and bread, you will have to plow from morning to night. But if you preferred caviar and champagne, it would cost absolutely nothing.
He smiles like a jerk, thinking I'm joking.
I'm not used to joking with own life! - I blurted out. And he suddenly became silent, completely depressed.
Refined ladies, perfumed from head to toe, who own the most luxurious houses, are treated to free caviar and champagne. However, for this you need to look different: you came to Dali with blackness under your nails, but I received you in Dali’s costume. Go think about the problem of dry beans. Think about this for now. Moreover, with dry beans you are similar in the number of premature wrinkles. As for your spinach-colored shirt, there can be no doubt: this color is worn by those who have aged before their time, as well as by losers.
I am amazed at the blindness of people who do the same thing over and over again. It’s surprising why a bank employee doesn’t eat checks, and it’s equally surprising that no artist before me thought of drawing a soft watch...
I don’t understand why, when I order fried lobster, they don’t bring me a nicely toasted telephone, and why they put a bottle of champagne in the ice, and not the telephone receiver, which is always so warm and electrified - it would be much better in a bucket of ice cubes. Why aren't there refrigerated phones - with green mint leaves, lobster-shaped, wrapped in sable fur (for femme fatales), stuffed with a dead rat (for Poe), on a leash or screwed to the shell of a live turtle.
I don’t understand why a person’s imagination works so poorly and why it doesn’t occur to bus drivers from time to time to ram the window of the Prizyunik store in order to catch a few gifts for their wives and children on the fly.
When images are born in Dali’s head, they are not at all ephemeral - they turn into concrete.
There comes a moment in every person's life when he realizes that he admires me.
From early childhood I developed the vicious quality of considering myself different from all mere mortals. And this ensures my success.
Modesty is not my thing.
With a pinch of genius, I am trying to spiritualize and immortalize the seventy kilograms of flesh of Dali, whose last name means “desire.”
From an aesthetic point of view, freedom is the failure of form.
Art is a weapon of war in the service of desire, which fights against the supremacy of realism.
The ship, which seems to us the freest and lightest thing in the world, in fact has a very clear design.
I really never read anything. I don't have time for this. However, Gala reads aloud to me when I paint, but I don’t listen to what she reads, because there is also music playing, which I don’t listen to either, and I don’t pay any attention to what I’m drawing. An amalgam of complete inattention.
The greatest service I can do to someone who writes a book about me is to give him a kick in the ass every time we meet. If he can bear it, it means he is truly passionate. And if he can’t bear it, then he’s not worthy of writing a book about me.
Mistakes are almost always sacred. Never try to fix them. On the contrary, become aware of them, try to understand these mistakes in their entirety. Then you can transform them into something sublime. Observing all the laws of geometry is a pure utopia, and besides, it interferes with an erection. However, geometry lovers rarely achieve an erection.
Everything that is devoid of harmony of proportions gravitates towards death.
There is every reason to believe that in the very near future reality will be viewed simply as a state of oppression and apathy in thought.
In the life of a modern artist, only two important events can happen:
- to be born a Spaniard;
- bear the name Gala Salvador Dali.
And both of these events happened to me. The name Salvador indicates my calling to save modern painting from decay and chaos. The last name "Dali" means "desire" in Catalan, and I have Gala. Of course, Picasso is a real Spaniard, but he can only dream about Gala, and his name is simply Pablo, like Pablo Casals or the popes, that is, like the first person he meets.
The man I hate most in the world is Auguste Rodin, because he is the author of a disgusting sculpture of a thinker sitting with his chin in his palm. No creativity is possible in this position; it is only suitable for sitting on the toilet.
When I was twenty-seven, before coming to Paris, I made two films with Luis Buñuel that went down in history: Un Chien Andalou and The Golden Age. Then Buñuel worked alone and made many other films, thereby providing me with an invaluable service - to convey to the public's consciousness which of the two of us was a genius and who made real masterpieces out of Un Chien Andalou and The Golden Age.
The main thing is to sow confusion and confusion, and not to try to get rid of it.
Deep down, I love dragonflies. These insects undoubtedly have anti-gravity properties. It's the same story with flies. Dragonflies are the units of the future.
The difference between the surrealists and me is that I am a surrealist.
Aragon: so much careerism for such a flat career!
Breton: so much inflexibility for such petty degradation!
If you have healthy sperm, you will never be creative: you will have children, that's all. All great artists are impotent.
Modern artists don't believe in anything. And it is quite natural that if an artist does not believe in anything, then he will write almost nothing.
Cézanne would soon become known as the greatest master who managed to depict the dilapidated structures of the past.
I must admit with all sincerity that painting loves me more than I love it. She gets annoyed every time I leave her for literature; I feel how she is languishing, even if, like now, I write only about her. I know that she showers me with bitter reproaches, because painting is never satisfied with words thrown to the wind. She wants, dear reader, you to satisfy her at least three times a day, and not a night goes by without her slipping under the covers with you.
Among Gustave Moreau's students, the best will always be the one who taught them painting.
For several years, brainless critics wrote nothing but about Piet Mondrian, as if he embodied the quintessence of all creative activity. He was quoted on any occasion. Pete for architecture, Pete for poetry, Pete for mysticism, Pete for philosophy, Pete's misses, his hits, Pete, Pete, Pete, Pete, Pete... Pete, Pete, Pete, poor Pete, Pete. Well! Pete - I'm telling you this, Salvador - is nothing more than an empty phrase.
In 1936, I visited an exhibition of so-called abstract painting in Paris in the company of the late Maurice Heine, a scientist and specialist in the work of the Marquis de Sade. He noticed that the entire time we were walking around the exhibition, I was looking at an empty corner of the hall, where no paintings hung.
“It’s as if you’re deliberately avoiding looking at the paintings,” Eine turned to me. - It’s as if something invisible is attracting you to itself!
“There’s nothing invisible here,” I answered, trying to calm him down. “I just can’t take my eyes off that door, it’s so masterfully painted!” By and large this best job throughout the exhibition.
And this was the absolute truth. None of the artists whose paintings hung in the hall would have been able to paint that door. Moreover, the worker who painted it could successfully copy any of the paintings on display! [...] Time will pass - I think it will happen quite quickly - and the value of paintings that are so easy to copy will be lower than the value of doors that are not even painted at all.
Geometry and the principle of the golden ratio are slavery in the prison of the lucky ones.
It has long been known and is universally accepted that thinking artist- a bad artist, and I dare to add that the same applies to philosophers who think too much - take, for example, the pathetic "The Thinker" by Rodin. There is no doubt that almost nothing happens in the heads of such creatures.
A true artist is able to patiently paint a pear from life, even if everything around him collapses and flies upside down.
Artists, be rich rather than poor. And to do this, follow my advice.
When you paint a picture, think about other things.
Artist, drink alcohol and chew hashish no more than five times in your entire life.
Paint, painter!
Artist, if you want to secure your place in the sun, you must give society a kick in the right foot from a very early age.
Painter, you are not a speaker! So paint for yourself and keep quiet.
To delve into thoughts about aesthetic taste is already a sign of powerlessness.
If you know the meaning of your picture in advance, then you shouldn’t paint it.
If you don’t want to study anatomy, drawing techniques and the laws of perspective, principles of aesthetics and working with color, then let me tell you that this is more a sign of laziness than genius.
Be a snob. Like me. Snobbery is the ability to enter places where others are not allowed to enter, and this causes in those “others” a feeling of inferiority.
Every artist should have a wife and a mistress. However, all three must live in complete harmony. Of course, you already guessed that we're talking about O family life three of us. You will begin to live with your legal wife at the age of twelve - from the very moment when she turns exactly thirteen centuries old, her name is Painting, her cheeks are fresher than roses, and you are unlikely to have ever seen such lush breasts as hers. And you will give her at most thirty-six years of your life. Know that she will never grow old.
Sex is a cross, and we are lucky that we are not nailed to it all our lives.
Dali's sweet eroticism has as much in common with an orgy as a domestic goat has with a divine unicorn.
Every time someone dies, Jules Verne is to blame, because he is responsible for people's desire to travel across galaxies, which is only suitable for scouts or underwater fishing enthusiasts. If only those fabulous sums that are spent on conquering the world were spent on research in the field of biology. magical worlds, there would be no more deaths on our planet. And I repeat: every time someone dies, Jules Verne is to blame.
God created the world without being convinced of the necessity of the act of creation. He needed to do something. He might as well have sung or danced. So one should not be surprised to discover that He is completely devoid of morality and He has neither a direction of movement nor a goal, He simply creates, disinterestedly and absent-mindedly. Creates a world and populates it with creatures. There are noticeable mistakes and patched holes. God erases what has been done, abandons the previous plan, feels for a different direction, crosses some things off the list biological species and comes up with others, here is His draft, bold pencil sketches, no pre-thought-out plan. A true man. An extremely successful job.
Spaniard and mystic, I passionately love death, which brings me spiritual bliss. An esthete and connoisseur of erotica, I try to prolong the orgasm - the Archangelic pleasure of my own destruction. That's why I dream of living as if in hibernation. My deepest, almost animal desire is to exist as long as possible in my current bodily shell; At the same time, I know that self-restraint and refusal only inflame desire, inflame it, and the endless prolongation of the waiting period brings desire to its highest point. I play erotic games with death in the manner of the courtly games of troubadours in order to feel the highest bliss from Dali’s transformation into an angel!
Mysticism is cheese; Christ is made of cheese; Moreover, the mountains are also made of cheese! Doesn't St. Augustine say that in the Bible Christ is called montus coagulatus, montus fermentatus, - which means he is a real mountain of cheese!
Resurrection of the body. Probably, this formulation carries a symbolic meaning, and the particles from which our body, reborn after death, will be composed have nothing to do with living human flesh. Yes, undoubtedly, we are talking about immortality, but immortality is the blinding of consciousness, the expansion of matter, some kind of abstract splendor. And the very thought that my body will change its composition, even if this composition turns out to be excellent, causes me genuine disgust.
Hell is a state of endless celebration. There is no morality in hell. Intercourse between brothers and sisters is the order of the day there, and fornication is refined.
The human body is a huge factory for the production of divine aromas, but as soon as a person is born, the factory stops working and resumes it only after death.
If someone, no matter how nice he is, starts talking to me about his horoscope or asks me my zodiac sign, I never call him again.
In an era when I loved humanity, I invented a system called "Defecate and Eat." The Towers of Immortality - each city had to have one such tower - were created on the model of Bruegel's Tower of Babel. Each resident who wanted to relieve himself relieved himself strictly above the resident who was sitting on the floor below and was hungry. With the help of methods of improving the spirit and diet, human beings began to defecate a viscous substance that in every way resembled bee honey. As soon as one opened their mouth, the feces of their neighbors from above would fall there, and then those who ate would defecate in turn... this is how complete harmony was achieved from a social point of view. Besides, everyone was well fed without having to work. I saw nothing ridiculous about this project, and I firmly believed in it. But when I discussed it with one of the medical students, I learned that human feces are completely devoid of vitamins, proteins, etc. and have no nutritional value.
Then I had to give up my dreams of the Tower of Babel of Immortality, which - unlike the tower in the Bible, designed to reach heaven - was supposed to provide immortality on earth.
When one of the important or semi-important people dies, I experience a sharp, strange feeling of satisfaction, because this death turned out to be one hundred percent in the spirit of Dali, because from now on there will be fewer obstacles to the recognition of the genius of my creations.
Original sin is ambition, the Golden Fleece, their direct embodiment.
It took me three days to absorb and digest Nietzsche. At the end of this predatory meal, the last bone remained to be gnawed: I was missing only one single detail to grasp the uniqueness of the philosopher’s personality, namely the shape of his mustache. Later, Federico García Lorca, admiring Hitler’s mustache, declared that “the mustache is a tragic constant of the human face.” I even surpassed Nietzsche in the shape of my mustache! My mustache does not make me sad at all and does not cause a feeling of depression, it has not drooped from the fog or the music of Wagner, no! They are pointed, imperialistic, ultra-rational, they reach for the sky, like vertical mysticism and the Spanish vertical syndicates.
I always maintain that the buttocks are the key to unlocking great mysteries. I even managed to discover a deep similarity between the buttocks of one of the ladies, whom I invited to my place in Port Lligat and forced to undress, and the universal continuum, which I nicknamed the continuum with four buttocks.
I don't believe that reality can be found everywhere at the same moment in time. But God - you can.
I affirm that God is the most anthropomorphic being. God has a human form. God is incredibly beautiful, He is exactly one meter tall. It is unlikely that He wears a beard in the manner of radical socialists.
I am amazed at the insignificance of the philosophical and metaphysical understanding with which the human mind has accorded such a subject of paramount importance as excrement. And it’s shameful to note that among intellectually developed people, many relieve their needs in the same way as everyone else.
Ecstasy is a state of purity and hyperaesthetic clarity of consciousness, requiring a lot of effort, a state of blind clarity of desire. This is the fullest expression of the critical state of mind that modern thought - false, hysterical, surreal and phenomenal - strives to make lasting.
The soft watch is nothing more than a paranoid-critical Camembert cheese, delicate, extravagant and lonely in time and space.
Whether the watch is soft or hard, it doesn't matter. The main thing is that they show the exact time.
Crutch: A wooden support that dates back to Cartesian philosophy. Typically used as a support for soft and flexible objects.
Slowness inherent to the modern mind, is one of the reasons for the blissful misunderstanding of the essence of surrealism by those who, at the cost of incredible intellectual efforts, pinching their nostrils and closing their eyes, tried to bite off Cezanne’s by definition inedible apple, and then were content with “pure contemplation” of this apple and platonic love for it, since the structure and sex appeal of this fruit was not allowed to go any further.
Just as a snowflake can cause an avalanche, a kick in the priest's ass started a great heresy.
There may be some similarities between a fly and an elephant. But between me and you?
I never part with one valuable device with which I create most of my paintings. Outwardly, this device looks more like a small, fragile color TV than a terrible camera, ugly in its mechanics. And the most amazing thing is that my device is not solid at all! Yes, it's an EYE!
Form is always the result of a ruthless inquisitorial process to which matter is subjected.
The opposite of Voltaire is a rhinoceros. With Voltaire, “everything is inside,” while with a rhinoceros, “everything is outside.” Voltaire is full of depressions and notches, while the rhinoceros, the most irrational and cosmic of all animals, has protrusions everywhere. From the point of view of morphology, in Voltaire everything is drawn inward - only cavities and voids; the rhinoceros represents the imperialist system of bulges and bumps. Both in morphology and in metaphysics, any depression and emptiness is a flaw, and convexity, on the contrary, is an advantage.
They said so much about the extravagance of my mustache, but I myself desperately wanted to have instead of just a mustache - 2258 hard and sharp, like needles sea urchin from the Mediterranean Sea, and then, with my mustache bristling well, I would prove that, unlike Voltaire, Dali believes in everything.
I love the pain in my stomach and the feeling of thirst. Therefore, I am inclined to eat foods that cause indigestion and aggravate thirst to the extreme. Because of this gastric dizziness, a painful state of all the insides arises, which is surprisingly beneficial for a paranoid perception of the world.
I am one of the rarest examples of viable madmen that has ever existed.
Salvador Dali, who is a clown?
- The clown is you. This is the one who makes you laugh with every question.
I love being surrounded by doughy idiots with huge hydrocephalic heads, dressed in lace, and whose mouths never close, causing them to constantly drool, because this breed of idiots prides themselves on their superiority over the consumer society and its adherents. From time to time they utter exquisite words, and they have much more fluid in their heads than mere mortals - therefore, their connection with the cosmos is stronger.
Most idiots need to work to make money. And I need to earn money in order to work calmly.
I am absolutely incapable of giving money to someone who asks me for it, even if he is dying of hunger. Giving money means going against my moral principles.
Is loving Dali tough? - Oh no, it's soft!
As the greatest flatterer of my era, I agree to absolutely everything, with only one condition - that I be paid well.
Matisse said: " Good picture should be like a comfortable chair." Dali believes that the chair serves to instantly release the arrogant, decorative, frightening and quantified ghost of the era - the main ghost of the style. The chair should serve to release the choicest arrogance and shameful truth. Take, for example, the portable chair of the Roman The Pope, which lightly touches the sky, and the electric chair, propped up by the hell of death.You can even sit on the chair, but only on the condition that it will be uncomfortable to sit on it.
Yes, the divine Dali is a pig who drools on his snout and grunts with pleasure, has a shameful passion for delicious food and obsessed with desires; he appeared with his sticky and voracious mouth in the midst of the heap of ammonia, disgusting garbage of our era, to make his way through the tunnel of sausage peelings and stupidity personified by the press, radio, television, Dali admirers and his opponents - all of them floundering in the oatmeal slurry of cybernetics.
Orange crossed with lettuce is a moral monster that becomes even more terrible as the storm approaches.
Beauty is either edible or completely inedible.
Voltaire's bust is everywhere except where it is.
Here are some of Dali's inventions:
- kaleidoscopic glasses that are worn during boring car rides;
- ovosiped - a plexiglass ball, a means of transportation, the mechanism of action of which is based on heavenly intrauterine phantasms;
- transparent mannequins filled with water, inside which fish swim, simulating blood circulation;
- photo masks for newspaper correspondents;
- furniture with the fingerprints of its owner;
- false nails with tiny mirrors you can look into;
- boots with springs to make walking easier.
Just remember that in Dali’s aesthetic system, a tulip is a terrible thing compared to celluloid; that sardines above a certain size become vulgar, and that shrimp are the most delicious of all that exist in nature architectural structures and the shape with which the shrimp blends most harmoniously is that of a bulb.
In the dining room you need to hang a picture of a bull tied to a helicopter taking off into the sky. Food must rise vertically upward to God himself, which goes against the principles of existentialism of Jean-Paul Sartre.
It is one of the human rights to decide that warm telephones are disgusting, and to demand telephones that are cold, green and stimulating to sensuality, like the prophetic and sensitive sleep of Spanish flies. Telephones, as barbaric as church sprinklers, will shed the sugary warmth of Louis XV spoons and slowly become covered with the icy modesty inherent in the heterogeneous styles of our captivatingly degraded era of decadence.
Flour is ground in mills. And I make mills out of flour.
I spill a cup of coffee onto my shirt. In such a situation, the first reaction of those who are not geniuses like me, that is, all other people, is to immediately wipe themselves with a napkin. For me, everything is completely different.
Of all the sybaritic pleasures of my life, one of the most subtle and piquant is, probably (perhaps, even without “probably”), basking in the sun surrounded by flies.
- Let the small flies fly here quickly! In Port Lligat, at breakfast, I pour oil left over from a plate of anchovies onto my head. The flies fly away instantly. Usually the work of my thoughts does not stop for a minute, and when flies tickle me, this work is simply in full swing. However, on those rare days when flies bother me, I take it as a sign that something has gone wrong inside me and the cybernetic mechanisms of my ideas have rusted, because I firmly believe that flies are fairies of the Mediterranean.
Here is a brilliant theory of three-dimensionality: the tense tensor twitching of the paralyzed tendons of the genitals, the tone, the trachea, conveyed through the complete traumatism of the twilight, which from time to time turns into sultry streams of spinning solar disks, a miraculous transformation in the Roca washbasin, not a single spot, triumphant, like the Emperor Trajan, tantalum, terrible, tragic, like the Tarpeian Rock, and also completely silently and transcendentally theatrical.
Dali's invention: a magical bed-pencil sharpener.
The little cherub face at the head of the bed is a golden cage. An ermine lives in it, perched among the pillows, and the tip of a huge pencil is inserted into its slightly hungry mouth - the ermine gnaws on it, wetting it wooden pencil saliva and painting the memory of the royal couple, who is unable to get up from their bed, with pictures in the style of Proust, illustrating life in this luxurious room, where the couple studies the smell of a sharpened pencil and tastes it. Pillows - with every slightest touch of your cheek, and sheets - if you slightly move your toe among their folds, cascades of Mozart's music will be shaken out at you, and crickets will chirp, frogs will croak, and tiny albino monkeys will descend from the bed canopy, trembling, on parachutes. rightly called snowflakes. All this miracle work was invented to conceive the most beautiful children, not at all like middle-class officials.
And finally, I must apologize to the serious hunger that I imagine my readers felt when they began this meal of theoretical dishes, when they expected to receive the food of savages and cannibals with exquisitely civilized caviar and heady, flabby Camembert for dessert. . But don’t trust these delicacies: behind both delicious simulacra served at the table hides a healthy, famous, bloody, irrational fried chop that will swallow us all.
I'm going to make a film that tells the story of a paranoid woman who falls in love with her decrepit car. Gradually, the rattletrap is endowed with all the features of a loved one, whose dead body is perceived by the heroine as a means of transportation. Eventually the car comes to life and turns into flesh. That's why my film will be called "Rack in the Flesh."
For the film to seem miraculous to the audience, the first important condition is that the audience must believe in the miracles that are happening before their eyes. The only way to achieve this is to do away once and for all with the stupid rhythm of modern cinema, with the vulgar, boring rhetoric of camera movement. Is it possible to believe, even for a split second, in the authenticity of the most banal of melodramas, when the camera follows the killer everywhere in travel mode, right up to the restroom, where he goes to wash the blood stains from his palms? Even before he started filming his film, Salvador Dali made sure to nail the camera to the floor, nailing it tightly, like Christ was nailed to the cross. So much the worse for the film's action if it goes beyond the cameraman's view! With anxiety, despair, annoyance, holding their breath, shifting from foot to foot, impatiently, or better yet, dying of boredom, the audience waits for the action to finally return to the visual framework established by the camera. However, they will be entertained by some cute pictures that are in no way related to the plot of the film, which will float in front of the motionless, paralyzed and static eye of Dali’s camera, aimed at its true object, the camera - the slave of my whimsical imagination.
Dali's idea: a liturgical bullfight, in which brave priests dance in front of a bull, which will then be picked up from the site by a helicopter.
(War in Spain): a pliable structure with boiled beans - a premonition of civil war.
Unpleasant institutions like UNESCO need to be given at least some libido. Transform UNESCO into the Ministry of Public Stupidity, so as not to lose what has already been achieved. For example, glorious folk prostitution, which, however, needs to be pumped up with powerful spiritual and sensual energy. Thus, UNESCO, this most boring hole, will be transformed into a real erogenous zone, the patronage of which will be St. Louis himself, the main legislator of corrupt love.
The orchid of snobbery grows from the ear.
Here is an example of an animated aerodynamic mechanism. Find yourself a neat, clean old woman of the highest degree of decrepitude, dress her in a bullfighter's costume and place a carefully shaved omelette with spices on the top of her head, which will constantly vibrate due to the senile trembling of your experimental subject. You can also put a twenty centime coin on the omelette.
As I already said when talking about my meeting with Freud, Freud's skull looks like a grape snail. The consequences of this are obvious: if you want to eat a thought, you need to get it out with a needle. Then you will extract the whole thought. IN otherwise it will fall apart - and there is nothing you can do about it, you will never achieve your goal.
I was amazed to see Hitler's doughy, full back, always pulled tightly into his uniform. Every time, starting to draw the leather sling that was attached to his belt and thrown over his shoulder, tracing his back along an oblique, Hitler’s soft flesh, compressed in a military uniform, brought me into a state of ecstasy and sharpened my taste sensations to the limit, reminding me of something milky , nutritious and Wagnerian. My heart began to pound wildly - this almost never happens to me, even when I make love.
Power will not allow itself to be recognized by the vile trepanation of a petty principle of contradiction, by the quiet, like the ringing of a bell, erosion of a humiliated old cripple, cold, Breton by birth and electrified, who is stuck in nostalgic memories of space-time coordinates; recognized by the nonsense and stupidity reigning everywhere, by the barely audible sniffing of the vile old hag, which is called “causality,” flabby and pitiful, reminiscent of a wretched clock made of ashes mixed with food and blown along with this food from the nostrils of a mediocre official, sugary and thoughtful , due to the attack of suffocating cough and frenzied convulsions that grabbed him - the piece got stuck in his throat, and he suddenly lost his breath at the end of a vulgar dinner alone, which ended uncertainly in the twilight of the summer twilight, scattering rainbow sparks on the timid and faded stained glass windows depicting storks, dressed as nurses, in empty hall a huge restaurant, modest and entirely perpendicular.
Space, according to Euclid, who believed that the intersection, the point and the plane are nothing more than idealized material objects, space, I repeat, could not, according to Euclid, achieve a density that would exceed the density of a liquid tapioca broth, completely utopian and chilled.
A hair that unexpectedly sticks to the crust of bread is removed with a sharp, quick, completely hypocritical movement of the hand. Everything is completely different if a hair is suddenly noticed inside a tightly molded bread crumb - all that remains is to close your eyes before the obvious failure of any “anti-geodesic” attempt to pull it out. This cannot be confused with anything, and there is no need to pretend to be blind: there it is, a hair, inside the bread! Yes, he is here, and his very presence contradicts the deep meaning of the loose structure of the bread crumb; he is here, demonstrating his morphological appearance, which in no way fits with the seriousness of the problem in its physical aspect. If the hair, like a thread, became isomorphic to the loose grain structures, there would still be hope of settling the matter. But this hair, even if it is thin or wet, will never change its shape and will continue to bend its line. In part, however, it will still bend under the pressure of the crumb, but this will only complicate the situation, because the hair will stick out in the most inappropriate and critical place, revealing its nightmarish curves to the eye. Hair caught in mayonnaise is also a nightmare (by and large, filling a sink or bathtub to the brim with mayonnaise is also quite disgusting). And it’s even more nightmare to notice hysterical hair baked together with cheese and breadcrumbs on fat pork legs.
What could be simpler than carefully cutting two even holes in a loaf of bread and inserting a couple of inkwells there? And what could be more immoral and more beautiful than watching the bread gradually become covered with blots from Pelican ink? The square hole made in the crust of this inkwell bread makes it very convenient to insert feathers. And if you want to always have fresh soft bread, which absorbs ink so well and is great for cleaning pens, you just need to change the loaf in the morning.
If the snail had a distinct taste, would the human palate, in a very Pythagorean manner, begin to sample this delicacy of the Mediterranean civilization, deathly pale, horn-shaped, with a blue-lunar hue, in the agony of violent euphoria - would it taste clove of garlic? Garlic lights up the cloudless sky with sheaves of sparks, making your eyes water. What comparison can there be with a fresh, tasteless snail?
A play on words: the term "expressionism" is derived from the word expression, "expression".
Sex appeal (English) - sexual attractiveness.
Tarpeian Rock is the name of a sheer cliff in Ancient Rome, located on the western side of Capitol Hill. Criminals condemned to death who had committed treason, incest, or escaping from their owner were thrown from this cliff.
From English to travel - to travel.
“Lobster Phone” is a surreal sculpture created by the famous spanish painter Salvador Dali (1904-1989) in the second half of the 30s of the twentieth century. The extraordinary sculpture was created together with another surrealist painter Edward James.
Part of the artist’s series of works called “War and Paranoia.”
On this moment the sculpture is in the Tate Gallery, Liverpool. It represents combined diverse things that are connected by a non-specialized idea. At the bottom there is a simple dark-colored telephone.
In the upper part there is a model of a lobster made of plaster. The essence of this combination, which at first seems completely stupid, is that Salvador Dali, with such an action, decided to express his own protest to the general worship of technology. The sculpture has approximately the following subtext:
People have separated from nature and are now separated from each other. With the advent of telephones, people also no longer need to see each other in order to communicate.
Nowadays, live communication is being replaced by wires and audio communications. Despite the fact that with the advent of telephones people will also be able to communicate over enormous distances, it is precisely telephones that alienate people from each other.
The combination of lobster and telephone here can take on a variety of meanings and different forms. It all depends on the thoughts of the viewer himself. This is possible and a hint of the need to be closer to nature.
In addition, Salvador Dali expressed in this a certain one-dimensionality of two things: the telephone, as a product of human industrialization, and the lobster, as a popular consumer product. In addition, lobster is an aphrodisiac and in this sculpture is a sign of sexual thirst.
The fact that there is some sexual connotation behind the lobster can be said by Salvador Dali’s illustration, which was created a year earlier and was called “Aphrodisiac Telephone,” where in addition there was a lobster instead of a telephone handle.
Salvador Dali himself said: “I don’t understand why, when I order fried lobster in a restaurant, under no circumstances am I served a boiled telephone; and besides, I don’t understand why champagne is always drunk chilled, but some telephone handsets, which in most cases are so disgustingly warm and not very pleasantly sticky to the touch, are under no circumstances served in the same silver buckets and don’t cover it with crushed ice.”
For the first time, the work was presented at the first English exhibition of surrealist craftsmanship in the second half of the 30s of the twentieth century. Dali, who imagined his works, gave a lecture dressed as a diver.
There are five copies of the “Lobster Telephone” sculpture in total. The first is exhibited at the Tate Gallery in Liverpool, the second at the Dali Universe exhibition in London, the third at the Telecommunication Museum in Frankfurt, the fourth at the National Gallery of Australia, and the fifth copy is owned by the Edward James Foundation.
Undoubtedly, the name of Salvador Dali is known throughout the world. And this is primarily due to his own merit: Dali was an artist, sculptor, writer, and director. He had his own unique view of the world and was a prominent representative of surrealism.
Surrealism is a movement in art, its homeland is France, distinguishing feature which is a combination of paradoxical forms and illusions. It also has this concept: combining dream and reality. This direction has many followers, including Salvador Dali.
His work was greatly influenced by his muse and also his wife, Gala. It was she who was often depicted by the artist in his canvases. Many also remember the sculptures of the great Spaniard.
Among them is a telephone receiver with a lobster located on it. The lobster itself is made of plaster, and the phone is real. In this sculpture Dali wanted to show a protest to the whole world against the development of technology. He believed that technological communications alienate people from each other.
The exhibition itself was first presented in 1936 at the London Exhibition of Surrealist Art. In total, the sculpture was made in five versions and can now be viewed in various museums around the world: in Australia, in Liverpool, and so on.
