The Birth of Gala Dali

As I mentioned before, the poet Paul Eluard named me Gala. But Dali took that name and made it his own.

When he began signing paintings “Gala-Salvador Dali,” he commemorated for once and for all time our twin-ness, our one-ness, our inextricable bond.

My dear described it thusly:

“In signing my paintings Gala-Dali, all I did was to give my name to an existential truth, since without my twin I would no longer exist.  Through Gala, I acquired not only the right to my own life, but the male and female part of my genius.”

And while he called me his savior, the muse who weaned him from his crime and cured his madness, so too was I reborn through Dali, who painted me in word and flesh into the immortal realms of art.

Together, here, you may see us reborn in the creation of something new, as Dali’s boundless passion for experimentation drove him to devise this shattering video. Enjoy, and perhaps you will learn from the master.

 

 

Portrait of moi

Sometimes Gala likes to arrive fashionably late.

The only thing better than having a museum dedicated to one’s favorite artist is being the top model for that artist, and seeing oneself at every turn. The topic of today’s post is one I will explore many times – myself. More specifically, paintings that feature moi.

So as not to overwhelm you, dear readers, this occasional series shall begin with analysis of a small work called Portrait of Gala. Never fear – I will work my way up through future installments to explore Galacidalacidesoxiribunucleicacid, a large masterwork whose title alone is priceless.

Salvador Dali, Portrait of Gala (1932-33) In the USA © Salvador Dali Museum, Inc. St. Petersburg, Florida, 2011 Worldwide rights © Salvador Dalí. Fundación Gala-Salvador Dali (Artists Rights Society) 2011

Meanwhile, Portrait of Gala, though smaller than a postcard, is a work of pure genius. If you have only glimpsed it on the so-called ‘web,’ or reproduced in a book, you are missing the true power of the art. Unless you have come to see it in person, you might as well look at a photograph of the Louvre and imagine you know all the works hidden inside.

I am usually the only authority I ever need consult on my husband’s work. However, in this case it felt natural and appropriate to hear what others have to say.  Gala can approach humility, when necessary. In this instance I quote from the words of Robert Lubar, who has written most brilliantly the following:

“In Portrait of Gala, the artist’s muse appears as the all-powerful phallic mother, commanding the foreground space of the tiny oil painting in front of a brilliantly illuminated olive tree, which, like the burning bush of biblical narrative, suggests the force of Gala’s presence. “

 

While I do not disagree, I sometimes wonder where critics derive these ideas and associations. But I digress. Again, I will remind you that this “phallic mother / burning bush” is conveyed within a work measuring a scant 2 5/8 inches by 3 7/16 inches.

It cannot be contested. Dali is genius.

 

Art on screen

Darlings, this is going to be brief. Gala has a headache, and the very thought of writing is agony. But I will not totally abandon you, my dear readers and fans – I am going to give you a visual treat instead.

On November 3, the museum will feature screenings of the luminous cartoon, Destino. Although I am not supposed to call it a cartoon and I usually have no time for animated drivel, this particular moving picture is a work of art.

My Dali and Walt (that’s Mr. Disney to you) worked together on this groundbreaking project more than 60 years ago, and others almost as talented finished it in 2004.

It’s a story as old as time, a simple love story of boy-meets-girl, but told as only Dali could imagine it, complete with images that spring from his mind like no other’s: melting clocks, tuxedo-clad disembodied eyeballs, metamorphosing ballerinas, ants that become  bicycles, and surprising baseballs.

Still from Destino, 2004

But why all this talk? Come by next Thursday and see the full magic for yourself – on screen, accompanied by a wonderful documentary that can educate you all on how Dali made the film, yet another masterpiece.

Meeting the Morses

I always keep my promises when it suits me … and I promised to write more about the events surrounding our meeting with dear friends, Eleanor and Reynolds Morse.

We met for drinks at the Hotel St. Regis’ famous King Cole Bar (made famous because we frequented it, of course). Perhaps that relaxed environment was responsible for the tone the conversation soon took. Reynolds – whom we learned to love but hardly knew at the time – asked Salvador and I why we did not have children. My Darling then entertained us with a story of one of Picasso’s sons, who ran around the streets of Paris half-naked but for a loin cloth on which a death’s head was painted.

“If the son of a genius like Picasso was that crazy,” my dear Dali said, “imagine what a son of mine would be like.”

Despite our efforts, we learned a few things about the Morses. They had met only a year prior at an orchestra, in some place called Cleve-land. Reynolds was 28 years old and quite dashing. I admit were it not for the lack of another drink perhaps I would have sought to entertain him in a different manner. Eleanor was charming, and we discovered we had a lot in common, including our very petite dress size. I don’t make it a habit to befriend women – they are silly creatures – but Eleanor was everything I liked in a man: spirited, intelligent and strong.

As I mentioned, the Morses had already purchased artworks by my Darling, including Daddy Longlegs of the Evening – Hope! and The Archaeological Reminiscence of Millet’s Angelus. When we received Eleanor’s note requesting a meeting, we thought it might be the beginning of something unique. After all, they had clearly demonstrated great taste, they were young, and most importantly they had money – the perfect place to start any relationship, don’t you think?

Oh, and did I mention, just a few days after this cozy meeting the dear couple bought another work – Average Atmospherocephalic Bureaucrat in the Act of Milking a Cranial Harp. This looked like the beginning of a profitable friendship.

Salvador Dali, Average Atmospherocephalic Bureaucrat in the Act of Milking a Cranial Harp (1933) In the USA © Salvador Dali Museum, Inc. St. Petersburg, Florida, 2011 Worldwide rights © Salvador Dalí. Fundación Gala-Salvador Dali (Artists Rights Society) 2011

 

Birthing genius, from palette to palate

It draws near, my friends – an event which has so held my attention for some time already. Chef Paco Perez, of whom I practically gushed last month, will be performing a culinary demonstration at The Dali on October 30. Finally! We welcome a genius into the fold, who can turn our minds toward the fantastical and exquisite.

He has told me in confidence that he will demonstrate how to prepare his Huevos Mar y Montaña, or Huevos “M y M.” Eggs of the sea and mountains … what a brilliant thought. Eggs, a universal symbol of birth or rebirth, coupled with the sea and mountains, steadfast symbols of constancy and strength.

Salvador Dali, Still Life (Fish with Red Bowl) 1923-24, In the USA © Salvador Dali Museum, Inc. St. Petersburg, Florida, 2011 Worldwide rights © Salvador Dali. Fundación Gala-Salvador Dali (Artists Rights Society) 2011

True birth is difficult, my darlings. I am not referring, of course, to the vulgar process of birthing a child … the off-putting screams of infant and mother alike are enough to make anyone lose their appetite. No, I speak of the moment in which an artist finally recognizes his true form. Genius is not easy to possess, dear friends. Artists are forced to cultivate their vision and imagination among the common masses. Imagine the strain!

But I digress. Huevos Mar y Montaña. Though I would sooner serve my own eyes on a dinner plate rather than spend time in the kitchen cooking for loved ones, the opportunity to see a master at work is too compelling to miss.

 

Gala becomes me.

Today I want to talk about my name. Gala – simple, elegant, nearly a chant – the perfect counterpart to Dali.

Dali was never content with simplicity. His genius was to take the simple and make it complex. In his rather scintillating autobiography, The Secret Life, he lists his pet names for me:

“Gala, Galuchka, Gradiva . . . Olive (because of the shape of her face and the colour of her skin), Olivete, the Catalonian diminutive of Olive and its delirious derivatives, Olihuette, Orihuette, Buribetter … “

One of my favorite of these pet names is Lionete (Little Lion), coined by my Dali because I roar “like the MGM lion” when I get angry.

You may not know this, but Dali was not the one to first call me Gala – that credit goes to my first husband, Paul Eluard.  The man was a great poet, and I think Gala becomes me.

Salvador Dali, Daddy Longlegs of the Evening - Hope! (1940) In the USA © Salvador Dali Museum, Inc. St. Petersburg, Florida, 2011 Worldwide rights © Salvador Dalí. Fundación Gala-Salvador Dali (Artists Rights Society) 2011

My name also appears on many of Dalí’s works, such as Daddy Longlegs of the Evening – Hope!, signed with our combined names: Gala-Salvador Dalí. His art, his writings, and even buildings bear my name: Gala Contemplating the Mediterranean Sea Which at Twenty Meters Becomes the Portrait of Abraham Lincoln – Homage to Rothko (Second Version), Galacidalacidesoxiribunucleicacid (Homage to Crick and Watson), Les Diners de Gala (his famous gourmet cookbook), even The Gala-Salvador Dalí Foundation in Spain.  I am worthy of a Foundation, don’t you think?

There is, however, one place my name has been used that I consider the absolute height of irony. The Dali Museum named its café after moi – Café Gala. I am willing to admit the name sounds delectable, but I barely know my way around a kitchen and certainly would not be caught dead making a bocadillo – a lowly sandwich! And yet, given any other name, would their food taste as fine?

 

Deeply rooted wishes

Had Pinocchio stamped out Jiminy Cricket, I would have applauded him. Who has the time to wish upon a star? Life is to be lived, not wished over. But Pinocchio did not squash the little creature, and now children all over the world grow up casting their dreams in vain upon burning orbs of gas.

Given the time or inclination, I would search for something with an earthier significance. Should I deign to cast a wish – something that I daresay would not happen often, for what might I wish for that I do not already have? – but if I found cause, I would cast my wish into the trees. My wishes should be deeply rooted, tied to the ever-spreading branches of a tree that can stand strong in fierce winds.

The museum has such a tree, a many-armed ficus in the Avant-garden festooned with secret hopes of the masses. And your wishes too can be clipped to its tendrils: private loves, contrite revelations and sentimental dreams all fluttering in the breeze along the branches of this earthly antenna.

In a special ceremony next month, new wishes will be read aloud and added to this Wish Tree. Send a postcard to the museum, forgo the stars and cast your wish upon a tree instead.

 

Accounting for taste

I know said I might continue my New York stories this week, but I am distracted by something else. I hear the public is enamored of this concept called Groupon – an opportunity for those of you who count your pennies so judiciously to experience some of the things I can do without thinking twice about who pays the bill.

I was amazed when I was told that the Dali was participating in Groupon. My darling Dali’s work on display, at a discount? It is obscene! Or genius – I can’t decide which.

Salvador Dali, Basket of Bread (1926) In the USA © Salvador Dali Museum, Inc. St. Petersburg, Florida, 2011 Worldwide rights © Salvador Dalí. Fundación Gala-Salvador Dali (Artists Rights Society) 2011

This is a good thing, you say? It exposes more people to Dali? Can the subtle beauty of Basket of Bread be fully grasped after devouring olive tapenade at the bar? Basket of Bread is breathtaking, but not enough to miraculously convert a foul-exhaling proletariat into an appreciator of art. No, my friends, all this will do is fog the glass with a thin veil of garlic.

And yet I am told they will continue to host these events, though thankfully not until the new year. You will certainly not see me wandering the galleries on these days, but should you decide to join the masses, I can only advise you to bring an Altoid … and a friend.

Memories of Gotham

Ah, New York in the fall.  My thoughts always turn to the city this time of year.

We visited New York for the first time in November 1934 – Dali introduced the charming portrait of me with lamb chops on my shoulder at his second exhibition in New York. The press went wild over it, and of course the public did as well. No one can deny the power of raw meat.

Salvador Dali, Portrait of Gala with Two Lamb Chops Balanced on her Shoulder (1933), Worldwide rights © Salvador Dalí. Fundación Gala-Salvador Dali (Artists Rights Society) 2011

At the Hotel St. Regis, we met a reporter from American Weekly who said Dali’s flair for publicity made the late P.T. Barnum look like an amateur. You can be sure that this was due in no small part to my influence. Talent without flair is like a single burning candle: warm, but forgettable. Throw some gasoline on it, and you will see something spectacular!

Oh, glamorous New York! There were parties all the time. Any time Gala and Dali were in town there would be parties. One fete stands out, hosted by our dear friends Caresse Crosby and Joella Levy: The Bal Onirique at the Coq Rouge.  All of New York society turned out for it. There was even a two-page headline in the Sunday Mirror. To put it in terms you might understand, the headline is too long to tweet:  “Mad ‘Dream Betrayal’ of New York Society at the Astounding Party to its Newest Idol. All-Time High in Gotham Smart Set’s Traditional Pursuit of New Thrills, No Matter How Crazy, is the Latest Cock-Eyed Rage for Salvador Dali, the ‘Super-Realist’ Who Paints His Nightmares Which Critics Applaud While Mortals Grow Dizzy.”

Indeed. My costume featured an elaborate headdress of a woman birthing a doll.  I was quoted in the Mirror as saying, “It was an experiment to see how far New Yorkers would respond to a chance to express their own dreams. Only a dozen or two actually succeeded in this expression. The others may think they are expressing themselves, but, really, they have betrayed themselves.” I must admit I was too kind in my assessment.

Salvador Dali, The Archaeological Reminiscence of Millet's Angelus (1933-35) In the USA © Salvador Dali Museum, Inc. St. Petersburg, Florida, 2011 Worldwide rights © Salvador Dalí. Fundación Gala-Salvador Dali (Artists Rights Society) 2011

Of course it was in New York, and at the St. Regis, where we met our cherished friends, Eleanor and Reynolds Morse. You should know them as the Founders of the Dali Museum in Florida.  This was April 1943, just after the Morses purchased The Archaeological Reminiscence of Millet’s Angelus.  They had such exquisite taste. We received a letter from them asking to meet, and I wrote back to darling Eleanor in French (we always spoke French together, mon cher).

We met at the King Cole bar at the St. Regis … and who could have predicted the far-reaching results of that meeting? But I grow bored sitting here reminiscing on things long passed. Perhaps I will continue this story on Thursday if the old ghosts of New York continue to haunt my mind.

Unspeakable Confessions, indeed.

As a rule, I do not like plays. I prefer the cinema, as it is much more glamorous. Also, plays involve actors and, as my good friend Henry Miller said, “Actors die so loud.” My Dalí wrote many things – but no plays. And that, my dears, speaks volumes.

This play at the Museum – this Unspeakable Confessions: Gala Dali Declines to Explain Herself – I daresay approaches cultural blasphemy. I never confessed anything, unspeakable or not, and am not about to start. And now that Garbo is gone I cannot imagine who would dare to play me.

The playwright was wise to assume I would decline to explain myself, and I am slightly appeased by that fact. These days there is far too much explaining undertaken by public figures. Everyone wants complete vomiting of the so-called truth. Why a celebrity does or does not drink or take drugs hardly seems important. What is important is how a celebrity hones their craft.

But back to this play, in which my “secrets, fears, promises and lies” will be paraded about for anyone with time on their hands to see. Incidentally, who are these people that will come to sit in the dark and watch someone play me?  Perhaps they are more discerning than the average person – after all, I can think of worse ways to spend an evening. Even an imitation Gala is better than no Gala.