Salvador Dali meets Lorca
When I first encountered the work of Salvador Dali as a young man, I was fascinated. His melting clocks and surreal landscapes spoke of the same existential reality I was living as a cab driver in Chicago. Good stuff. As I grew older, I had to separate the man from his art, as if that can really happen. I found his signature moustache offensive, as though it was hiding something. He was treating his face as a canvas. The face is the window to your soul, not canvas. A man only wears facial hair if it speaks of his inner journey (or to hide something.) Dali’s inner journey led to fascism, Nazism, communism, and then, too late in life to mean anything in this world, repentant Roman Catholicism. But of course, like all of us, his sins will be forgiven.
His big sin was pure ego, pure personality. By his own admission, his values were fame and wealth. Unlike his intense best friend in youth, Garcia Lorca, he failed to make the connection between his art and his values. Lorca never surrendered his values and died by a fascist firing squad. Dali went to Paris and became rich and famous. I love Lorca and his work. He lives. I admire Dali’s work. I weep for the man. I don’t think that is how he wanted to be remembered.