Imagine, after a night of exhausting work, crawling into bed and drifting away. A dream begins, and it’s your average subconscious compilation of past and present, but after a day or so (dream-time?) it contorts into bizarreness. Lamps reciting John Donne, television sets vomiting the remnants of your sixth-grade homework, your college professor ferrying your classmates across the River Acheron; anything goes. This persists for sometime before your body finally rebels and you jump out of bed, grasping your table lamp around its ‘neck’ to choke out its endless poetry. Three seconds later you relax your grip and realize that you’re okay, and your lamp is as lifeless as it has always been. Welcome to the art of Salvador Dali.
I grew up hearing about Dali, his Persistence of Memory, and surrealism, but I didn’t see my first Dali painting until I was sixteen. I had always liked the ‘idea’ behind paintings, but I didn’t fully comprehend it. My art teacher would try to persuade us of important qualities in art, but I still only saw paintings as paintings. Rembrandt’s The Night Watch was nothing more than a pretentious photograph of outdated men standing around talking. It was of little importance to me when I saw Dali’s Persistence of Memory because I couldn’t see beyond the melting clocks; I couldn’t prescribe any meaning to the painting other than what I could see. It wasn’t until two years later, when my art teacher showed our class the Temptation of St. Anthony, that I actually hesitated and thought about what I was seeing. I remember thinking that it wouldn’t have been the same if Joseph Conrad had written a description of the same images, however eloquent and precise his writing was. The legs of the animals were like stilts trailing off into wispy threads, the altar atop an elephant in the background shone with a brilliant golden aura that drew your gaze to the center of the painting, the defiant tilt of the white horse’s head frozen in place emphasized the immortal moment they were caught in. This was a static image, but this was evocative imagery, this was art.
But why did I react so strongly to a painting? I had never felt this way about a film, or even a book (and I read constantly). Sure, I had defining moments in film and literature, but my reaction to The Temptation of St. Anthony was revolutionary. The story in that painting was there, in one frame. What differentiates a painting from a book or a film is the construction of meaning around that one image. Dali was able to incorporate his symbolism directly — through images augmented by color and texture. No dialogue, no fade-outs, just the sensation of an eternal moment. I was engaged in a medium through only my eyes — all sound and movement had to be imagined. This isn’t just true for Dali — all paintings are engaging to a degree. Sometimes paintings aren’t laden with symbolism; they’re exactly what they show. But others require patient participation and a careful eye; otherwise we might miss the opportunity to understand what they really are.



