The Secret Life of Salvador Dali (37 page)

El Greco’s statue of Christ. The Loyalists called it “El Rey de los Maricones.”

“My Secret Life,” engraved on my forehead. (Courtesy Halsman)

One of the famous “Lovers of Teruel,” disinterred at the outset of the Civil War.

“Observe this cocktail carefully,” I said to the bartender. “This is one you don’t know!”

Then I turned on my heels and calmly left the Ritz Hotel.

I thought over what I had just done, and I felt as greatly moved as Jesus must have felt when he invented Holy Communion. How would the bartender’s brain solve the phenomenon of the apparition, in a glass which he had observed with his own eyes to be half empty a moment before, of the red liquid which now filled it to the brim? Would he understand that it was blood? Would he taste it? What would they say to each other, the lady and the bartender, after my departure?

From these absorbing meditations I passed abruptly and without transition to a mood of joyous exaltation. The sky over Madrid was a shattering blue and the brick houses were pale rose, like a sigh filled with glorious promises. I was phenomenal. I was phenomenal. The distance which separated the Ritz Hotel from my street-car stop was rather long and I was hungry as a wolf. I began to run through the streets as fast as my legs would carry me. It astonished me that the people I passed were not more surprised at my running. They barely turned their heads in my direction and continued about their business in the most natural way in the world. Peeved by this indifference, I embellished my run with more and more exalted leaps. I had always been very adept at high-jumping, and I tried to make each of my leaps more sensational than the last. If my running, unusual and violent though it was, had not succeeded in attracting much attention, the height of my leaps surprised all passers-by, imparting an expression of fearful astonishment to their faces which delighted me. I further complicated my run with a marvelous cry. “Blood is sweeter than honey,” I repeated to myself over and over again. But the word “honey” I shouted at the top of my lungs, and I pushed my leap as high and hard as I could. “Blood is sweeter than HONEY.” And I leaped. In one of these mad leaps I landed right beside a fellow-student of the School of Fine Arts, who had never known me otherwise than in my studious, taciturn and ascetic aspect. Seeing him so surprised I decided to astonish him even further. Making as if to whisper an explanation of my incomprehensible leaps, I brought my lips close to his ear. “Honey!” I shouted with all my might. Then I ran toward my streetcar which was approaching and jumped aboard, leaving my co-religionist in study glued to the sidewalk and looking after me till I lost sight of him. The next day this student told everyone, “Dali is crazy as a goat!”

That next morning I arrived at the Academy immediately before the end of classes. I had just bought the most expensive sport suit in the most expensive shop I could find in Madrid, and I wore a sky-blue silk shirt with sapphire cuff-links. I had spent three hours slicking down my
hair, which I had soaked in a very sticky brilliantine and set by means of a special hairnet I had just bought, after which I had further varnished my hair with real picture varnish.
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My hair no longer looked like hair. It had become a smooth, homogeneous, hard paste shaped to my head. If I struck my hair with my comb it made a “tock” as though it were wood.

My complete transformation, effected in a single day, created a sensation among all the students of the School of Fine Arts, and I immediately realized that, far from getting to look like everybody else as I had tried to, and in spite of having bought everything in the most exclusive and fashionable shops, I had succeeded in bringing these things together in such an unusual way that people still turned round to look at me as I went by exactly as they had before.

Nevertheless my potentialities as a dandy were now definitely established. My grubby and anachronistic appearance was replaced by a contradictory and fanciful amalgam which at least produced the effect of being expensive. Instead of inspiring sarcasm, I now released an admiring and intimidated curiosity. On coming out from the School of Fine Arts I ecstatically savored the homage of that street, so intelligent and full of wit, in which spring was already seething. I stopped to buy a very flexible bamboo cane from whose leather-sheathed handle dangled a shiny strap of folded leather. After which, sitting down at the terrace of the Café-Bar Regina, and drinking three Cinzano vermouths with olives, I contemplated in the compact crowd of my spectators passing before me the whole future that the anonymous public already held in reserve for me in the bustle of their daily activities—activities that left no trace, activities devoid of anguish and of glory.

At one o’clock I met my group in the bar of an Italian restaurant called “Los Italianos,” where I had two vermouths and some clams, after which we went over to occupy a table which was reserved for us. The story of the tip I had given the bartender had spread like wildfire into
the dining-room, and when we got there all the waiters saw us coming and stood at attention. I remember perfectly the menu that I selected on that first day at the restaurant—assorted hors-d’oeuvres, jellied madrilene, macaroni au gratin, and a squab, all this sprinkled with authentic red Chianti. The coffee and the cognac served as a further stimulant to the continuance of the principal theme of our conversations, which was none other than the initial theme of the vermouth developed in the course of the meal and which, naturally, was “anarchy.”

There were about half a dozen of us at that dinner, all members of the group, but already it was apparent that a large majority tended vaguely toward the kind of liberal socialism which would some day become a fertile pasture for the extreme left. My position was that happiness or unhappiness is an ultra-individual matter having nothing to do with the structure of society, the standard of living or the political rights of the people. The thing to do was to increase the collective danger and insecurity by total systematic disorganization in order to enhance the possibilities of anguish which, according to psychoanalysis, condition the very principle of pleasure. If happiness was anyone’s concern it was that of religion! Rulers should limit themselves to exercising their power with the maximum of authority; and the people should either overthrow these rulers or submit to them. From this action and reaction can arise a spiritual form or structure—and not a rational, mechanical and bureaucratic organization. The latter will lead directly to depersonalization and to mediocrity. But also, I added, there is a utopian but tempting possibility—an anarchistic absolute king. Ludwig II of Bavaria was after all not so bad!

Polemics gave an increasingly sharp form to my ideas. (Never has it served to modify my ideas, but on the contrary to strengthen them.)

Let us examine, if you will, the case of Wagner. Consider the Parsifal myth impartially from the social-political point of view... I reflected for a moment and, as if overcoming my doubts, turned to the waiter who had quickly become corrupted by our intellectualism and never missed a word of our discussions.

“Waiter, please ...” I said, and he stepped forward respectfully, “on thinking it over I think I’d like a little more toast and sausage.”

He went immediately. I called after him,

“And another drop of wine!”

The case of the Parsifal myth, considered from the political and social point of view, did in fact require still further reinforcements . . .

Leaving the Italian restaurant I went back to the Students’ Residence to get some more money. What I had taken in the morning had been incomprehensibly spent. Getting money was simple. I went to the Residence office, I asked for the sum I wished, and I signed a receipt.

When I had finished my business at the Residence our group reconstituted itself at the table of a German beer-house where authentic brown beer could be had. With it, by way of accompaniment, we ate some hundred
cooked crabs, the shelling and sucking of whose legs was most propitious to the continued development of the Parsifal theme.

Evening fell very fast, as if by miracle, and we were obliged to move to the Palace in order to drink our
apéritif
, which this time consisted of just two Martinis. These were my first dry Martinis, and I was to remain pretty faithful to them from then on. The
soufflées
potatoes disappeared dizzily from our table, but immediately a swift and willing hand brought new ones in their place.

The question soon arose as to where we should eat! For the idea of returning to the clean and sober refectory of the Students’ Residence did not occur to me for a moment. I have always adored habits, and when something has succeeded I am capable of adopting it for the whole rest of my life.

“Suppose we return to The Italians?”

Everyone acclaimed this suggestion; we telephoned to Los Italianos to reserve a small dining-room, and we patiently directed our footsteps toward this spot, with a growing famine devouring our entrails.

The dining-room was small but charming. There was a black piano with lighted pink candles on it, and a winestain on the wall, as visible as a decoration. What shall we eat? I should be lying if I were to tell you that I can remember. I know only that there was white wine and red wine in abundance, and that the conversation became so stormy, everyone shouted so loudly, that I ceased to take part in it. Sitting down to the piano I tried to play Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata with one finger. I even succeeded in inventing an accompaniment for my left hand, and they had to tear me from the piano by main force in order to take me along to the Rector’s Club at the Palace (which was one of the smartest places) to drink a little champagne. This “little” I knew was a good deal, for after all the hour was approaching at which I had already planned to get drunk. Once we were seated Bunuel, who was more or less our master of ceremonies, suggested,

“Let’s begin by drinking some whiskéy, and later on we’ll eat a few tidbits before going to bed—and then we’ll take some champagne.”

Everyone thought this idea excellent, and we set to work. All of us agreed that a revolution was necessary. This point was not arguable. But how was it to be made, who was to make it, and why did it have to be made? This was not so clear as it had seemed at first. Meanwhile, as the revolution was not going to break out this very night, and as it would serve no good purpose to become too much absorbed in this question, we ordered a round of iced mint to fill in between whiskeys, for after all we had to rest from time to time. At the end of the fourth whiskey everyone began to get impatient, and ask Bunuel anxiously, “What about that champagne?”

With all this it was getting to be two o’clock in the morning and our wolfish hunger made it a foregone conclusion that the champagne would have to be accompanied by something. I took a plate of hot spaghetti
and the others a cold chicken. Toward the end of my spaghetti I began to regret my choice and to look more and more longingly at the cold chicken. I had been offered some several times, and as I had refused I did not want to go back on my decision. The talk now revolved about the theme imposed by the lyricism of the champagne which had been flowing for several minutes. This theme, as you have already guessed, was “love and friendship.” Love, I said, strangely resembled certain gastric sensations at the first signs of seasickness, producing an uneasiness and shudders so delicate that one is not sure whether one is in love or feels like vomiting.

“But I’m sure that if we went back to the subject of Parsifal it might still throw some light.”

Everyone uttered cries of protest. They wanted to hear no more of that!

“Well, then we will come back to it another day. But anyway, save me a chicken wing for later on, for just before we leave.”

It was five o’clock, and the last minute was approaching. It was a cruel thing to have to go to bed just when everything was beginning to go better. With a sense of bitterness we uncorked a fresh bottle of champagne. My friends’ eyes were moist with tears. The Negro orchestra was excellent and stirred the depths of our bowels with the spoon and fork of its syncopated rhythm which gave us no respite. The pianist played with a divine incontinence, and in the high lyrical moments, during his accompaniments composed of expectations, one could hear the sound of his panting rise above the noises; and the saxophone player, having blown out all the blood of his passion, collapsed with exhaustion never to rise again. It was our discovery of jazz, and I must say in all honesty that it made a certain impression upon me at the time. In the course of the night we sent up several sizable tips, discreetly folding the bills into an envelope, and this was so unusual that all the Negroes, at the order of the pianist who conducted them, got up in unison and bowed, machine-gunning us with the dazzling fire of all their teeth laughing at once. Bunuel proposed that we serve them a bottle of champagne, and because of this we ordered still another one so as to be able to clink glasses at a discreet distance with the musicians, for the Negroes would never have been allowed to approach our table. For us money did not count. We were really of a limitless magnificence and generosity with the money earned by our parents’ labors.