The Secret Life of Salvador Dali (45 page)

It was under these circumstances that I received a telegram from my dealer Camille Goemans. Aided and counseled by my father, I had in a series of letters reached a basis of agreement, by the terms of which I was to receive three thousand francs and he was to handle all the pictures I should paint during the summer, which would be exhibited in his gallery in Paris at the beginning of winter. He would have a percentage on the sale of each painting and would keep, besides, three canvases of his choosing. My father found these conditions honorable, and
I did not give this matter a moment’s reflection. For that matter I had not yet acquired a precise notion of the value of money. I still had the impression that five hundred francs in small bills ought to “last” infinitely longer than a single bill of a thousand. I know that this will seem improbable to my readers, and only the testimony of my friends who knew me at this time could banish their doubts, which as a matter of fact are quite unfounded, for I am myself always the first to let them in on my mystifications.

Termite (Nevroptere)

Goemans arrived and was enthusiastic over
Le Jeu Lugubre
(The Lugubrious Game), which was not yet altogether completed. A few days later René Magritte arrived with his wife, and Eluard had just written that he would come later. Luis Bunuel also arrived at about the same time.

Thus within four days I was surrounded for the first time by surrealists who, when one came right down to it, had been attracted here by the unusual personality they had discovered in me. For Cadaques offered none of the comforts and conveniences indispensable to a resort, if one did not have one’s own house.

My fits surprised everyone, and this surprise which I observed on all their faces each time I burst out laughing only aggravated the intensity of my fits. Sometimes, stretched out on the beach of an evening to enjoy the coolness, everyone would be deep in a philosophic conversation, when suddenly I would interrupt them, showing that I wished to say something. But the moment I opened my mouth I would again explode with laughter. I finally gave up talking entirely, for instead of talking I could only laugh. My surrealist friends accepted my laughter with resignation, considering it to be one of the drawbacks of possessing a genius so manifest as mine. “Don’t ask Dali what he thinks about this,” they would say, “for naturally he will laugh, and we will be in for a good ten minutes of it.”

From hour to hour my fits of laughter grew more violent, and I caught in passing certain glances and certain whisperings about me by which I learned in spite of myself the anxiety which my state was beginning to cause. This appeared to me as comical as everything else, for I knew perfectly well that I was laughing because of the images that came into my mind. “If you could see what I imagine,” I would say to them, “you would all laugh even more than I do.” Finally I could no longer resist the avid curiosity which I saw reflected on all the faces.

“Imagine to yourselves, for instance,” I began, “that you see in your own mind a certain very respectable person. All right. Now go on and imagine a little sculptured owl perched on his head—a rather stylized owl, except for his face which must be quite realistic. You see what I mean.” Everyone, very serious, tried to represent to himself the image I had just described, and they said, “Yes, yes!”

“Well, then, imagine on the owl’s head a piece of my excrement!” I repeated, “Of my own excrement!”

Everyone still waited, and no one laughed.

“That’s it!” I said.

Then everyone laughed very feebly, as if to humor me.

“No, no,” I said, “I see it doesn’t make you laugh at all. For if you could see all this as I do you would be rolling on the floor.”

I was writhing with laughter in this way one morning when a car stopped in front of our house. It was the surrealist poet Paul Eluard, accompanied by his wife. They were tired from a long trip, having arrived from Switzerland, where they had been visiting René Crevel. They left us almost immediately to go and rest, and we arranged to meet at five o’clock at their hotel, the Miramar.

Eluard’s wife, Gala, struck me as having a very intelligent face, but she seemed to be in very bad humor, and rather annoyed at having come. At five o’clock our whole little surrealist group went to look up the Eluards. We drank in the shadow of the plane trees. I took a Pernod and had a little fit of laughter. My “case” was explained to Eluard, who seemed to be very much interested. But all the others, who were used to my fits, seemed by their expressions to say, “It’s nothing yet, wait a little and you’ll see!”

That evening, during the walk, I spoke with Gala of intellectual questions, and she was immediately surprised by the rigor which I displayed in the realm of ideas. She even admitted to me that earlier, as we were drinking in the shade of the plane trees, she had thought me an unbearably obnoxious creature because of my pommaded hair and my elegance, which she thought had a “professional Argentine tango slickness.” My Madrid period had in truth left its imprint on me in love of adornment. In my room I was always completely naked, but as soon as I had to go into the village I would spend an hour in fixing myself up, plastering down my hair, shaving with maniacal care, always wearing freshly creased white trousers, fancy sandals and pure silk shirts. I also wore a necklace of imitation pearls, and a metal cloth ribbon tied to one of my wrists. For evening I had had made shirts in a heavier material with low necks and very full sleeves, which I had designed myself and which gave me a completely feminine appearance.

Walking back, I spoke with Eluard. I saw immediately that he was a poet of the category of Lorca—that is to say, among the greatest and most authentic. I waited impatiently to hear him praise the landscape of Cadaques; but he “did not see it yet.” Then I tried to put a little owl on his head to see what effect it would produce. It did not make me laugh. I tried it on Lorca—this had no effect either. I tried it then on other poets. But no. It was as though the hilarity-provoking virtue of my owl had disappeared. I tried again and again; and even on those on whom it had formerly produced the most efficacious results—nothing. Then suddenly I imagined my owl upside down, with his head stuck to the sidewalk by my excrement. This provoked such a violent fit that I had to roll on the ground before I could continue my walk.

We accompanied the Eluards back to the Hotel Miramar, and we agreed to meet, all of us, on the beach in front of our house the next day at eleven o’clock and go swimming.

The following day I awoke well before sunrise, in the throes of a great anxiety. The idea that my friends, and especially the Eluards, would be there already at eleven o’clock, on the beach in front of my window, and that since I wanted to be polite I would have to go out, stopping my work an hour earlier than usual, greatly exasperated me, ruining my whole morning in advance. In the framework of my window the morning sang the song of my impatience, and the pebbles stirred by a early fisherman sent a shudder through me. I should have liked to stop the rising course of the sun that was implacably advancing, so that in plunging back into the sea from which it came it would leave unbegun the uncertain battle that my presentiments announced to me.

But of what battle was I thinking? The morning shone like every other morning, perhaps with a little more of that utter foreboding calm which habitually precedes momentous events. After that “morning void” that kept my heart in suspense the myriad forms of life were stirring and awakening, with the daily noises a thousand times heard—the kitchen door just opened by the maid, struck several times with a closed fist before the key was turned and it made up its mind to open with a sandy crunching; the shepherd passing by with his tinkling flock. At this moment I shut my eyes to get the full impact of it, and to greet with dignity that troubling, intoxicating and symphonic odor of the sheep, in the midst of which the virile and arrogant odor of the ram resounded in my sniffing nostrils like a dominant genital note. I also made out, among a hundred others, the characteristic rhythm of the fisherman Enrique’s oar, coming always about ten minutes later than the passing of the flock. All this was repeating itself chronologically, and with the same accent as on other days. And yet... What was going to happen?

I would frequently get up from my easel on the most varied pretexts. I tried on my sister’s ear-rings several times. I liked them on myself, but decided they would be a nuisance for the swim. Nevertheless I put on my pearl necklace. I made up my mind to get myself up very elaborately for the Eluards. It would be much better, without any clothes on, to have my hair tousled rather than plastered down as usual. I decided that they had already seen me with my hair slicked down yesterday, and I would grease it again in the evening. When they come, I thought, I will go down with the pearl necklace, my hair very tousled, and with my palette in my hand filled with brushes. This, combined with the blackness of my skin, darkened by the sun like an Arab’s, might produce a rather interesting effect on them. Nevertheless I was not satisfied with my attire. Definitely giving up attempting to paint any more, I took my finest shirt and cut it irregularly at the bottom, making it so short that it did not quite reach my navel. After which, putting it on me, I began to tear it artfully: one hole, baring my left shoulder, another, the
black hairs on my chest, and a large square tear on the left side exposing my nipple that was nearly black.

Once I had torn the shirt in all the appropriate places the great problem that confronted me was that of the collar of the shirt: should I leave it open or closed? Neither the one nor the other. I buttoned the top button, but cut off the collar entirely with a pair of scissors. But the most difficult problem was the trunks, which struck me as too sporty, impossible to fit into that composite of beggarly painter and exotic Arab which I was trying to make myself into. Then I had the idea of turning the trunks inside out. They were lined in white cotton, which was discolored with rust stains from the oxidation of my belt.

What else could I do on the necessarily limited “theme” of a swimming costume? But this had but just begun. I now shaved the hairs under my arms. But failing to achieve the ideal bluish effect I had observed for the first time on the elegant ladies of Madrid, I went and got some laundry bluing, mixed it with some powder, and dyed my armpits with this. The effect was very fine for a moment, but immediately my sweat caused this makeup to begin to run, leaving bluish streaks that ran down my sides. I then wiped my armpits, and the skin, already chafed, became quite red from the rubbing. Then I had a new idea which this time struck me as fine and worthy of me. I understood that the artificial bluing was not the thing, and neither was the present bright pink. On the other hand dried and coagulated blood on this part of the body ought to make an extraordinary impression. There was already a small bloodstain where I had cut myself in shaving, which gave me the proof and sample of what I contemplated. So without more ado I took my Gillette and began to shave again, pressing harder so as to make myself bleed. In a few seconds my armpits were all bloody. I now had only to let the blood coagulate, and I daintily began putting some everywhere, especially on the knees. The blood on the knees pleased me beyond measure, and I could not resist the temptation to make a small cut on one of them. What a work! And it was not yet finished. My transformation appeared to me more and more desirable, and each moment I fell more in love with my new appearance. Adroitly I stuck a fiery-red geranium behind my ear.

I should have liked some kind of perfume, but I had only Eau de Cologne, which made me sick to my stomach. I would therefore have to invent something else for this. Oh, if I could only perfume myself with the odor of that ram that passed every morning! I sat down and meditated deeply on this question of a perfume, but could not find the solution. But wait! Salvador Dali has just sprung to his feet, and his attitude is resolute. This means that something very unusual has just passed through his mind, for what could otherwise be the cause of his new agitation?

I got up and ran to fetch some matches. I lighted a small alcohol burner that I used for my etchings, and I began to boil some
water in which I dissolved some fish glue. While waiting for this to boil I ran out in back of the house where I knew several sacks of goat manure had been delivered. I had often smelled it after dark in damp weather, when the smell became stronger. It pleased me very much, but it was not complete. Back in my studio, I threw a handful of this manure, and then another, into the dissolved glue. With a large brush I stirred and stirred it until it formed a homogeneous paste. For the moment the stench of the fish glue eclipsed that of the goat dung, but I foresaw that when it “jelled” it would be the goat smell that would have the best of it. But the secret of this strong odor that was already beginning to fill the whole house was a bottle of aspic oil which I also used for my etchings, a drop of which was enough to cling to a material with a tenacity that lasted several days. I poured out half the bottle, and—miracle of miracles!—the “exact” odor of the ram which I was seeking emerged as if by a veritable magic operation. I let the whole thing jell, and when it was cold I took a fragment of the paste that I had made and rubbed my whole body with it.