SALVADOR DALI: dangerous moustaches
Every year is the centenary of someone's birth. I am glad that in 1904 a lot of decent guys were born to become plumbers, electricians, railways engineers, doctors, dentists, veterinarians, social workers and the rest. Women were getting restive and eventually, tied up to the railings in London, achieved more than what had been hoped at the time. Nobody seems to think about plumbers. We all need plumbers at many times in our life. A very old friend of mine, who is a wizard in the financial scene and a titled gentleman told me the other day that quite honestly when he comes back in this earthly life he will set up a special plumbing business: "Sir********* Bespoke Plumber to the Gentry ". " I'll make more money that way" he sighed heavily.
We are at an age when all countries in the world contrive to imagine idiotic laws to achieve a high quota of University passes so that the country in question can boast a high rate of education. Bah!…If you asked an undergraduate from any country in the Western world now what a semi-colon is, the answer would probably be that it might a drink made up with a mixture of different spirits and diluted with half measure of lager. As far as hand-writing is concerned… Well. Let's not talk about that. The youngsters of today would not know how to uncap a fountain pen. The computer does correct (to a point) your mistakes so why bother? In his admirable film "2001 Space Odyssey" Stanley Kubrick used his famous "Al" computer to give a taste of what could happen in the future. The machines will take over. They are already doing the works of architects and planners. And this brings me to the centenary we are "celebrating" this year.
In 1904 Salvador Dali was born in the northern town of Figueras as the son of a very wealthy notary. Knowing modern notary's fees that boy must have been well heeled at birth. Even, and particularly, in those days. Nothing is known of his mother but I assume that this human pollution had one. Computers were only in tealeaves at the time and even cloning was only a thought in the brains of a small Austrian boy whose father was a railway crossing keeper. But of mother no sign.
His "talent" was discovered when he was 10 years old. Arrogant and a pain in the ass for his teachers he was dismissed twice from the Royal Academy of Art in Madrid. The best is still to come: He never took the final examinations. He thought that he knew more than the people who would have examined him did. He walked out. I would have kicked his backside from Madrid to Greenland. By sea.
Of course, if you are the black sheep of the family and the monthly cheque arrives on time you move to Paris. There, our Salvador met Picasso and Miro. Another pair of tricksters. Picasso had been pushed out of his family home (Plaza de la Merced in Malaga) for misdemeanour and generally being an embarrassing pain in the bum. Nothing really to do with the Spanish Civil War. Guernica came later and for other reasons. But it is always a good story when you want to exhibit in New York. Together they managed to steal the surrealism style that had been established by André Breton. The latter saying, years later, that Salvador Dali was supporting fascism, and guilty of excessive self-presentation and financial greediness. Why does it remind me of a certain footballer of today?
Luis Buñuel, the very talented Spanish film director who eventually made his home in France (despite having other unsavoury compatriots émigrés to cope with) described Dali as "a toad in a pool of shit". What is that for an epitaph?
But even so people bought his works. Personally I don't fancy waking up in the morning glaring at giraffes on fire and melting watches. Those were his trademarks but obviously a lot of so-called art collectors thought it was worth waking up at dawn and rushing to the loo to have a good puke. Could help the system I suppose.
What I admired was the way he painted seashells. But then a good camera could have done the same. The precision was pure draughtsmanship. But then a draughtsman's skill is the result of precise and laboured practice. It has nothing to do with art.
Talking about shells and as we approach the season to appreciate them may be my way to prepare some could be some help.
Clean any shells in plenty of water. Do not keep them for more than a few hours in the fridge. In a large pan heat up some olive oil, add a few cloves of garlic, a few slices of onions, a sprig of thyme, a bay leaf. Stir well and watch until the onions are tender. You have time to have a glass of white wine. Add the clean shells (could be anything from mussels to cockles) and if there is anything left in the bottle add a couple of glasses of wine. I cheat and add a cube of fish stock and if Chris has not drunk it all a few drops of Ricard or Pernod. He keeps it for purely medicinal purposes. Toss well and don't dilly-dally. Serve as soon as the shells start to open. Plenty of bread and of course plenty of cold white wine.
Antonio Lopez Garcia, a well-know columnist in the Spanish press wrote a couple of weeks ago about Salvador Dali : Salvador Dali de quien este año se celebra el centenario de su nacimiento FUE AMORAL y jugo un juego diletante que puede hacer mucho daño a quienes no estan preparado.
Loosely translated: Dali played an irresponsible game that could be very dangerous to whoever was not prepared for it.
An artist has got responsibility towards its audience and admirers.
But then, of course, he was no artist. Just an immoral and dangerous craftsman with moustaches to make up for what was missing somewhere else.
JOCELYNE
