Salvador Dali Quotes

Have no fear of perfection - you'll never reach it.

I don't do drugs. I am drugs.

At the age of six I wanted to be a cook. At seven I wanted to be Napoleon. And my ambition has been growing steadily ever since.

Intelligence without ambition is a bird without wings.

A true artist is not one who is inspired, but one who inspires others.

Surrealism is destructive, but it destroys only what it considers to be shackles limiting our vision.

An elegant woman is a woman who despises you and has no hair under her arms.

The sole difference between myself and a madman is the fact that I am not mad!

Take me, I am the drug; take me, I am hallucinogenic

The thermometer of success is merely the jealousy of the malcontents.

The first man to compare the cheeks of a young woman to a rose was obviously a poet; the first to repeat it was possibly an idiot.

The difference between false memories and true ones is the same as for jewels: it is always the false ones that look the most real, the most brilliant.

One day it will have to be officially admitted that what we have christened reality is an even greater illusion than the world of dreams.

It is not necessary for the public to know whether I am joking or whether I am serious, just as it is not necessary for me to know it myself.

Everything alters me, but nothing changes me.

Mistakes are almost always of a sacred nature. Never try to correct them. On the contrary: rationalize them, understand them thoroughly. After that, it will be possible for you to sublimate them.

Let my enemies devour each other

The secret of my influence has always been that it remained secret.

Drawing is the honesty of the art. There is no possibility of cheating: It is either good or bad.

Last year I went fishing with Salvador Dali. He was using a dotted line. He caught every other fish.

Everyone should eat hashish, but only once.

I do not understand why, when I ask for grilled lobster in a restaurant, I'm never served a cooked telephone.

This grandiose tragedy that we call modern art.

The one thing the world will never have enough of is the outrageous.

We are all hungry and thirsty for concrete images. Abstract art will have been good for one thing: to restore its exact virginity to figurative art.

What is a television apparatus to man, who has only to shut his eyes to see the most inaccessible regions of the seen and the never seen, who has only to imagine in order to pierce through walls and cause all the planetary Baghdads of his dreams to rise from the dust.

When I paint, the Sea Roars Others Splash about in the bath

Salvador Dali and fifty cents will get you a cup of clock melt.

One thing which I can't stress enough is thaft OCD is completely nonsensical and will not listen to reason. This is one of the most frightening things about having it. I knew that t o anyone I told, there are Salvador Dali paintings that make more sense.

My mother's death supervened, and this was the greatest blow I had experienced in my life. I worshipped her... I could not resign myself to the loss of a being on whom I counted to make invisible the unavoidable blemishes of my soul.” ― Salvador Dalí, The Secret Life of Salvador Dalí

أعتقد أن اعذب الحريات للإنسان على الأرض أن يستطيع الحياة دون أن يكون مضطرا للعمل

Let me be the first to admit that the naked truth about me is to the naked truth about Salvador Dali as an old ukulele in the attic is to a piano in a tree, and I mean a piano with breasts. Senor Dali has the jump on me from the beginning. He remembers and describes in detail what it was like in the womb. My own earliest memory is of accompanying my father to a polling booth in Columbus, Ohio, where he voted for William McKinley.

Salvador Dali offers these helpful reminders: “Those who do not want to imitate anything, produce nothing,” and “Have no fear of perfection, you’ll never reach it.

Salvador [Dali] was brought up in Spain, a country colored by the legends of Hannibal, El Greco, and Cervantes. I was brought up in Ohio, a region steeped in the tradition of Coxey's Army, the Anti-Saloon League, and William Howard Taft.

I was thinking about what a magical portal this lobby was when the heavy glass door opened as if swept by wind and a familiar figure in a black and scarlet cape entered. It was Salvador Dali. He looked around the lobby nervously, and then, seeing my crow, smiled. He placed his elegant, bony hand atop my head and said: "You are like a crow, a gothic crow.

I am the Don Quixote of unreality.

Like Salvador Dali’s paintings of watches melting in the sand, time wanders at its own curious pace whenever you’re on vacation in a foreign country.

Quixote shines from Lorca and Picasso, From Dalí and El Greco, From the gloomy 'View of Toledo.' He was born before Cervantes.

Of all the intoxicants you can find on the road (including a "national beer" for nearly every country in the world), marijuana deserves a particular mention here, primarily because it's so popular with travelers. Much of this popularity is due to the fact that marijuana is a relatively harmless diversion (again, provided you don't get caught with it) that can intensify certain impressions and sensations of travel. The problem with marijuana, however, is that it's the travel equivalent of watching television: It replaces real sensations with artificially enhanced ones. Because it doesn't force you to work for a feeling, it creates passive experiences that are only vaguely connected to the rest of your life. "The drug vision remains a sort of dream that cannot be brought over into daily life," wrote Peter Matthiessen in The Snow Leopard. "Old mists may be banished, that is true, but the alien chemical agent forms another mist, maintaining the separation of the 'I' from the true experience of the 'One.'" Moreover, chemical highs have a way of distracting you from the utterly stoning natural high of travel itself. After all, roasting a bowl might spice up a random afternoon in Dayton, Ohio, but is it really all that necessary along the Sumatran shores of Lake Toba, the mountain basins of Nepal, or the desert plateaus of Patagonia? As Salvador Dali quipped, "I never took drugs because I am drugs." With this in mind, strive to be drugs as you travel, to patiently embrace the raw, personal sensation of unmediated reality--an experience for more affecting than any intoxicant can promise.

Salvador Dali was much too intelligent to be a great painter. And he knew it.

You have to systematically create confusion, it sets creativity free. Everything that is contradictory creates life.” —Salvador Dali

yes, i have dated Salvador Dali guy when i was a high school girl. he was a great lover. but i had to dump him because he stole my inspiration of bent clock*~* .... who cares...

Hrabia de G., typowy bohater Dalego, zwykł mawiać:bale organizuje się dla tych, których się nie zaprasza. (...) Jajko na talerzu bez talerza na balu bez Dalego - to Dali.

Creo en el humanismo del ojo del culo.

Ash swirls in the air and the landscape is gray rubble that falls away into the sea. They kept saying global warming wan't going to be the end of us, that it was just threats from the fanatics, that we didn't have to make changes. But every year there were more earthquakes and flood and hurricanes and fires- every element expressing its imbalance. Every year the temperatures soared and the ice melted and no one did anything. My pink house - no longer mine - stands on the edge of nowhere like a rose in a Salvador Dali surrealist desert landscape . . .

Salvador Dali said “those who do not want to imitate anything, produce nothing.

Salvador Dalí’s aberrations are partly explicable. Perhaps they are a way of assuring himself that he is not commonplace. The two qualities that Dali unquestionably possesses are a gift for drawing and an atrocious egoism. ‘At seven’, he says in the first paragraph of his book, ‘I wanted to be Napoleon. And my ambition has been growing steadily ever since.’ This is worded in a deliberately startling way, but no doubt it is substantially true. Such feelings are common enough. ‘I knew I was a genius’, somebody once said to me, ‘long before I knew what I was going to be a genius about.

I am a prostitute. I don't want to know the client. I just want money, lots of money. My seed rises into the glorious eruption of a majestic orgasm when I picture the Divine Dali rolling in money. - Salvador Dalí

Ancient philosophy was framed by prodigies, Aristotle, Plato and Socrates. And even though their thoughts were deemed the aristocratic voice, they also had a thing for little boys. Katherine the Great so it's been said, needed large animals to be fulfilled in bed. From historic rulers to the Ancient Greeks, we're standing on the shoulders of freaks. Isn't life pretty? Earnest Hemingway once said, then he a bullet through his head. Salvador Dali's surreal paintings were God sent, you'd never know he ate his own excrement. Then there's Da Vinci for whom it required, dressing in women's underwear to be inspired. From the great romantics to the Ancient Greeks, we're standing on the shoulders of freaks. Truman Capote needless to say, would be intoxicated 20 hours a day. From the modern authors to the Ancient Greeks, we're standing on the shoulders of freaks.

Steve Jobs said creativity is “just connecting things.” Salvador Dali said “those who do not want to imitate anything, produce nothing.” Picasso said “good artists copy but great artists steal.” Mark Twain said “all ideas are second-hand, consciously and unconsciously drawn from a million outside sources.” No magnificent product of the imagination—whether a machine, painting, or philosophy—was created in a complete vacuum. The invention of the telegraph took the efforts of a thousand, but the last man, who added that final inspired touch, got the credit. When you start viewing

Dalí painted melting clocks. I suppose if he'd asked around first, quizzed people if they wanted to see a picture of a melting clock, the answer might have been something obvious, like 'Clocks don't melt!' But, lucky for us, Salvador didn't care what anyone else thought. You use what moves you.

Sana yirmi beş yaş dayanılmaz haşarılığını kanıtlayan yazılarından kopya ettiğim birkaçını gönderiyorum.Kızma!Biliyorum yanlıştı sana gelmem.Kalan yanlışlıklar değil midir zaten.Karşılaştığımız ilk gün gözlerinde beliren huysuzluğu duyumsamıştım.Seni değişmiş görmeyeceğim hiç.Görmek de istemiyorum.Hep o aynı aşk adamı,töre kaçkını delikanlı.Birdenbire gecikmiş çöküntüye dayanamayan Byron portresi.Ben çürüdüm senin adına durmadan bilerek.Ellerime baktım.Çoraktı,çatlaktı.Belki tek vurgunluğun gözlerimeydi.Onlardı eskitilemeyen.Yıpranmazdılar ben istesem bile.Bir süre oyalama gücü veren sana.Yakınmıyorum. Yanlışlığın nerede olduğunu tam kestiremeden öleceğim gene de.Kin tutmaya ödün vermez bir ölüm olacak,umutlarıma.Bunalımlarını neye dayandırmak istersen iste,açılamazdın,açılmana yardım edemezdim.Tüm cayabileceklerimi birbirine tutuşturmaya kalkışsaydım,nasıl küçülürdüm biliyordum.O bilişi,onurlu alınganlığını yerleştirdiğin yüreğimin suçu ne?Biz bir varoluşun içinde ya da dışındaydık,onu hiçbir payanda ayakta tutamazdı.Susacaksın kuşkum yok,bu susku'yu senden önce salt unutulmuşluğa götürmeyi diliyorum.Kanayan tutkularında neyi parçalasan içinde ben varım,dahası ruhgöçüne uğrayarak ben olacağım !...Mutluyum nasıl isterdim bunu bilmeni.Bildiğini bilmek umudu,arttırmıyor mu sanıyorsun acımı.Aynı zamanda şaşkın bir doğa çarpığı.Ne İskender'ler imgeledim,ne Salvador Dali'ler sende.Bir gün beni yersiz yücelterek içini rahatlatmaya zaman bırakacağımı da seziyorum.Kocadı artık yüreğim,durmaya gönüllü.Duymayayım da yanıl,kutsa benden sonra beni,bağışladım şimdiden.Masalımızı yazmayacaksın yaşadığıma inandıkça.İşin kötüsü,yok olduğuma da inanamayacaksın!Gene de esirgeyeceğim seni,kesin ardıma bırakacağım,senin dileğin de bu,öylesine hırpalıyorsun çünkü,değmez bulacak,insanlık tragedyası karşısına çıkarılmış clown fantezisi sayacaksın,bize göre dünyamızın çocuk kalmış sevdasını!Oysa,bir kez ölümlü bakışını durdurabilseydin zamansızlıkta...Dur,yokla bedenini,bak ne sıcacık!Hep kıskandın kendini,kendinden canım aptalım benim.Sen hep yanılgı ve yenilgilerden oluştuğun için yaşayabilensin!

Dangus - nei aukštai, nei žemai, nei dešinėje, nei kairėje, Dangus yra žmogaus, kuris Tiki, širdyje.

When you understand the great secret with which man can influence anything he wants, you will understand your true nature and abilities.

Time melting like a Dali painting

Şi pentru că nu reuşesc să împărtăşesc niciuna dintre uimirile lor "cabotine", le spun că nu mă miră absolut nimic din ce se întâmplă în univers şi chiar aşa şi este. Unul dintre barcelonezi - un ceasornicar foarte cunoscut, ajuns la capătul răbdării îmi zice: - Nu vă miră nimic! Bine. Să ne imaginăm că e miezul nopţii şi că la orizont se vede o geană de lumină, ca şi cum ar fi zorile. Priviţi atent şi chiar vedeţi răsărind soarele. La miezul nopţii! Nici asta nu v-ar mira? - Nu, răspund, câtuşi de puţin. Ceasornicarul barcelonez strigă: - Ei bine, pe mine m-ar mira! Şi încă aşa de tare, încât aş crede c-am înnebunit. Atunci Salvador Dali a lăsat să cadă unul din acele răspunsuri lapidare al căror secret el singur îl deţine: - Da' de unde?! Eu aş crede că soarele a-nnebunit.

E greu să ţii trează atenţia publicului mai mult de o jumătate de ceas. Eu am reuşit să o fac timp de douăzeci de ani - şi zi de zi. Am avut următoarea deviză: "Să se vorbească de Dali, chiar dacă se vorbeşte de bine".

Que nosso fogo interno esteja ao máximo, para esquentar a regra ao rubro e modificá-la! Que nossa realidade interior seja tão forte que corrija a realidade exterior! E que nossas paixões sejam devorantes, mas que tenhamos um apetite de viver ainda maior, para devorá-las!

Reality was a trick of cognition, an illusion woven by the brain. Beneath the apparently solid skin of the world lay a fizzing unreality of quantum mechanics, playing out on a warped and surreal Salvador Dali landscape. Ghost worlds peeled away from the present with every decision. The universe itself would one day simmer down to absolute entropic stasis, the absolute and literal end of time itself. No action, no memory of an action, no trace of a memory, could endure for ever. Every human deed, from the smallest kindness to the grandest artistic achievement, was ultimately pointless. But it wasn’t as if people went around thinking

Wearing Deni's huge vicuna coat with the si cap over my ears, in cold biting winds of December New York, Irwin and Simon led me up to the Russian Tea Room to meet Salvador Dali. He was sitting with his chin on a finely decorated tile headed cane, blue and white, next to his wife at the Cafe table. He had a cane, blue and white, next to his wife at the Cafe table. He had a little wax moustache, thin. When the waiter asked him what he wanted he said 'One grapefruit...peenk!' and he had big blue eyes like a baby, a real or Spaniard. He told us no artist was great unless he made money. Was he talking about Uccello, Ghianondri, Franca? We didn't even know what money really was or what to do with it. Dali had already read an article about the 'insurgent' 'beats' and was interested. When Irwin told him (in Spanish) we wanted to meet Marlon Brando (who ate in this Russian Tea Room) he said, waving three fingers at me, 'He is more beautiful than M. Brando.' I wondered why he said that but he probably had a tiff with old Marlon. But what he meant was my eyes, which were blue, like his, and my hair, which is black, like his, and when I looked into his eyes, and he looked into my eyes, we couldn't stand all that sadness. In fact, when Dali and I look in the mirror we can't stand all that sadness. To Dali sadness is beautiful.

— Me lembrei de uma coisa inventada por Salvador Dalí — A Coisa era um pão. Sairia no jornal com manchete assim: “O Inevitável Aconteceu — A Descoberta do Pão”. Um pão monumental, exatamente igual a um pão-francês comum. A diferença estaria no tamanho: mediria dois metros de comprimento. O pão era encontrado na rua, levariam para a polícia. Estará envenenado? Conterá explosivo? Propaganda política? Os comunistas, o pão-para-todos? Anúncio de padaria? Os jornais comentavam e discutiam o que fazer do pão. Era só o assunto ir esfriando, e um pão maior ainda, de cinco metros, amanhecia atravessado no Viaduto. Toda a cidade empolgada com o mistério, a polícia desorientada, o pão analisado nos laboratórios. E continuava o problema: que fazer com ele? Para despistar, um de nós escrevia um artigo sugerindo que fosse cortado em milhares de pedaços e doado à Casa do Pequeno Jornaleiro. No Rio, em São Paulo, Recife, Porto Alegre começavam a aparecer pães, cada vez maiores, nos lugares públicos. Eram os membros de uma sociedade secreta já fun- dada, a Sociedade do Pão, que começavam a trabalhar. E um dia surgiria outro pão gigantesco em Roma, outro em Londres, outro em Nova Iorque. A humanidade deixaria de se preocupar com seus problemas, as guerras seriam esquecidas, até que resolvessem o mistério do pão. Era a vitória pelo Terror. — Você já pensou no tamanho do forno para assar esse pão? — Isso não é problema para nós: a idéia é de Salvador Dali, que, aliás, é um vigarista. — É uma besta. — Falso terrorista. — Abaixo Dali

На заре я проснулся и, не умывшись, сел перед мольбертом, стоявшим в моей комнате рядом с кроватью. Первый образ сутра был - мое полотно, последнее, что я видел перед сном. Я пытался уснуть, фиксируя его глазами, чтобы сохранить его очертания во время сна, и несколько раз посреди ночи вставал, чтобы на миг взглянуть на него в лунном свете. Или, проснувшись, включал свет, чтобы видеть изображение, которое меня не оставляло. Весь день, сидя, как медиум, перед мольбертом, я фиксировал полотно и видел, как появляются фрагменты моего собственного воображения. Когда изображение точно закреплялось в картине, я тут же рисовал его. Но иногда надо было ждать часами, бездельничая с неподвижной кистью в руке, прежде чем что-то появлялось. Бывали у меня и ложные изображения, я задыхался и недоумевал, потом они рассеивались, и я говорил себе: "Ну что, теперь искупаемся?

Готовясь написать то, что следует ниже, я впервые прибегаю к помощи своих лакированных башмаков, которые никогда не мог носить подолгу, ибо они чудовищно жмут. Обычно я обувал их непосредственно перед началом какого‑нибудь публичного выступления. Порождаемая ими болезненная скованность ступней до предела подстегивает мои ораторские способности. Эта изощренная, сдавливающая боль заставляет меня петь не хуже соловья или какого‑нибудь уличного неаполитанского певца – кстати, они тоже носят слишком тесные башмаки. Идущее откуда‑то прямо из нутра острое физическое вожделение, нарастающая мучительная пытка, которые я испытываю благодаря своим лакированным башмакам, заставляют меня буквально извергаться словами возвышенной истины, до предела сжатой, концентрированной и обобщенной благодаря той верховной инквизиции боли, которую вызывают' лакированные башмаки в моих ступнях.

Netikiu, kad autobusų vairuotojai neturi vaizduotė ir kad kartais netrokšta važiuodami prošal išdaužti „Prisunic“ vitriną ir paskubomis pagriebti keletą dovanų savo šeimoms. Nesuprantu, kodėl tualeto bakelių gamintojai neįtaiso į šiuos aparatus bombų, kurios sprogtų patraukus už grandinėlės. Nesuvokiu, kodėl visų vonių forma vienoda, kodėl nesugalvojama brangesnių taksi su viduje įtaisytų dirbtiniu lietumi, kad keleivis turėtų apsivilkti lietpaltį, kai lauke giedra. Kodėl, kai užsakau keptą omarą, man neatneša virto telefono, kodėl ledo kibirėliuose vėsinamas šampanas, o ne telefono rageliai, visuomet šilti ir lipnūs.. Ir kodėl nėra mėtų žalumo omaro formos telefonų sabalinėje įmautėje, skirtų fatališkoms moterims, o su nudvėsusia žiurke viduje - Edgarui Poe, kodėl jie ne su pasaitėliu, kodėl nepritvirtinti prie gyvo vėžlio nugaros... Stulbina žmonių, visuomet darančių tą patį, aklumas. Stulbina ir tai, kad banko tarnautojas nesuvalgo čekio. Man keista, kodėl dailininkams iki šiol netoptelėjo mintis tapyti „minkštų laikrodžių“...

Как бы там ни было, в тот период я и в самом деле не был «нормальным». Впрочем, как определить для живого существа лимиты «нормальности» и «ненормальности»? Я говорю, что в 1929 году в Кадакесе я не был нормальным – и это означает, что это верно по отношению к сегодняшнему дню, когда я пишу книгу. Несомненно, я сделал огромные успехи, приспосабливаясь к действительности. Когда у меня появилась первая галлюцинация, я получал удовольствие от своей необычной психики и стимулировал свои «необычности». Каждое утро я немного поливал растение моего безумия, до тех пор, пока оно не стало цвести и давать плоды, которые чуть не пожрали мою жизнь, и так было до тех пор, пока я не понял, что пора уничтожить это растение, растоптать его каблуками, зарыть в землю и начать снова завоевывать свое «жизненное пространство». Девиз «безумие для безумия» я должен был за год сменить на «Обуздание безумия», который носил уже католический характер. Безумие открыло мне некоторые из своих секретов, которые я тщательно оберегал даже тогда, когда пристрастился к разрушительному его обузданию и пытался увлечь за собой всю группу сюрреалистов.

There had to be something new, some fresh angle. As the rain pattered down around him, Kapenda thought. What was the weirdest thing he'd seen since this all started? He'd been in the tiny town of Chew Stoke a few weeks earlier, filming the remains of a vehicle that had been washed into a culvert and whose driver had died. In Grovehill, no one had died yet but there were abandoned cars strewn along the streets and surrounding tracks, hulking shapes that the water broke around and flowed over in fractured, churning flurries. That was old. Every television station had those shots. He'd been there the year before when the police had excavated a mud-filled railway tunnel and uncovered the remains of two people who had been crushed in a landslide. What they needed was something like that here, something that showed how weak man's civilized veneer was when set against nature's uncaring ferocity. He needed something that contrasted human frailty and natural strength, something that Dali might have painted - a boat on a roof, or a shark swimming up the main street. He needed that bloody house to collapse. ("Into The Water")

Всю мою жизнь мне действительно было очень трудно свыкнуться с озадачивающей «нормальностью» существ, которые населяют мир. Я всегда говорил себе: ничто из того, что могло произойти, не происходит. Не могу понять, как это человеческие существа могут быть так мало индивидуализированны и всегда руководствуются самыми строгими законами приспосабливаемости. Возьмите такую простейшую вещь, как крушения поездов. Сколько тысяч железных дорог покрывают пять континентов — и так немного крушений. Тех, кто устраивают крушения, в тысячи раз меньше, чем тех, кто любит путешествовать по рельсам. Когда в Венгрии арестовали диверсанта Марушку, устраивавшего крушения поездов, это был сенсационный и уникальный случай. Не верю, что человек настолько лишен фантазии, чтобы у водителей автобусов время от времени не появлялось желание выбить витрину Присуник, чтобы на лету не выхватить несколько подарков для своих семей. Не понимаю, не могу понять, почему фабриканты бачков для спуска воды не вложат в их конструкцию бомбу, которая взрывалась бы, когда потянешь за цепочку. Мне не понять, почему все ванны одной формы. Почему бы не придумать страшно дорогие такси — почти как все, но с искусственным дождем внутри, чтобы путешественник надевал плащ, когда на улице прекрасная погода. Не понимаю, почему мне не приносят отварной телефон, когда я заказываю жаренного омара, почему охладиться в ведерке со льдом ставят шампанское, а не вечно теплых и липких телефонных абонентов. И почему бы не заворачивать в соболиные меха разбитые телефоны с зеленой мятой в форме омара с дохлой крысой внутри — прямо Эдгар По, почему бы не водить их на поводке или не ставить на спину живой черепахе… Поражает ослепление людей, всегда совершающих одно и то же. Меня также удивляет, почему служащий банка не съедает чек, мне удивительно, что художники раньше меня не додумались рисовать «мягкие часы»…

A strange thought crossed my mind as I ate. Suppose you had been butchered and diced and served in place of the chicken, would you taste as good? I believed that eaten in this way, one can completely merge the beloved's body into his own. The soul too—if there is one—mingles with the lover's soul in the same manner. Can there be a more convincing way to prove love? I have heard that Salvador Dali ate his pet rabbit in this manner. The creature's blood, flesh and marrow, its very soul, merged with his.

Çinli sanatçı Xiao Yu heykellerinde gerçek ceset parçaları kullanır. Nitekim 2005 yılında Bern'de bir martının gövdesi ile bir ceninin başındna oluşan bir kombinasyon sergiledi. Sanatçının taze malzeme bulmak için bir kadını kürtaja zorladığı ya da bunun için ona para verdiği söylentileri ayyuka öıkınca, Bern Müzesi'ne protesto ve tehdit mektupları yağdı ve müze müdürü objeyi mecburen sergiden kaldırdı. Fakat serginin küratörü eseri "gen manipülasyonu konusuna yepyeni bir biçimsel katkı" olarak savundu. Dehşet gösterisinden ucuz lunapark eğlencesine geçiş çok hızlı olabilir. Buna en iyi örnek ceset terbiyecisi Gunther von Hagens'tir. Bir zamanlar Heidelberg'de işinde gücünde bir anatomi uzmanı olan von Hagens, "plastinasyon" adını verdiği özel bir ceset koruma yöntemi geliştirdi. Plastinasyon, kadavranın dokularındaki bütün sıvılarının kurutulması, ardından sertleşen silikonla kaplanması. Von Hagens bu yöntemle ölüleri en ince ayrıntısına kadar "plastinat"a dönüştürüyor, üstüne üstlük bir de en absürd şekillerde deforme edip sergiliyor. Bir cesedi örneğin Salvador Dali'nin tanınmış motifi "Çekmece Adam"a dönüştürdü. Von Hagen bu aktiviteleri için devamlı mantıklı açıklamalar bulmak için yırtınsa da, ceset bulmak için Doğu Avrupa'da ve Çin'de yasadışı yollara başvurduğu kuşkusunu asla tam olarak ortandan kaldıramadı. Şapkasıyla ve dur durak bilmeden zırvalamasıyla Joseph Beuys'un acıklı bir karikatürünü andıran von Hagens, tipi sayesinde kabus etkisini mükemmel hale getiriyor. Fakat sanat dünyası "Plastinatör"ü reddederken, işleri arasında gerçek bir insna dilinden yapılmış bir heykel de bulunan Teresa Margolles'e avangard sanatçı olarak kucak açıyor. Sanat sektörünün keyfiliği burada artık had safhaya ulaşmış durumda.

To invest your life, you must invest your time and make sure it doesn’t just melt away like Salvador Dali’s melting clock.

Salvador Dali said “those who

Dünyada müzik ve sanat öğeleri bir sanatçının etkileşim alanına yaptığı propagandadır. Salvador Dali, yaptığı tablolarla bize hayal gücü ve zihnindeki delilikleri anlatır. Bir kilise ilahisinde yapılan sözlü ve müzikal propagandanın bir benzeri pop, rap ya da metal müzik türündeki bir şarkıda da vardır. Sadece konular farklı olsa da insan zihni sürekli olarak bir propaganda altındadır

As Salvador Dali once put it, ‘Intelligence without ambition is a bird without wings.

It happened in Chicago in 1886. On the first of May, strikes paralyzed cities across the country. The Philadelphia Tribune offered a diagnosis: 'The labor element has been bitten by a kind of universal tarantula - it has gone dancing mad.' Dancing mad were the workers who fought for the eight-hour day and for the right to form unions ... On every May first, the entire world remembers them. With the passing of time, constitutions, laws, and international accords have proved them right. But some of the most powerful corporations have yet to find out. They outlaw unions and keep track of the workday with those melting clocks painted by Salvador Dali.

The canvas looked like Salvador Dali had had a stroke.

Meredith Etherington-Smith Meredith Etherington-Smith became an editor of Paris Vogue in London and GQ magazine in the United States during the 1970s. During the 1980s, she served as deputy and features editor of Harpers & Queen magazine and has since become a leading art critic. Currently, she is editor in chief of Christie’s magazine. She is also a noted artist biographer; her book on Salvador Dali, The Persistence of Memory, was an international bestseller and was translated into a dozen languages. Her drawing room that morning was much like any comfortable, slightly formal drawing room to be found in country houses throughout England: the paintings, hung on pale yellow walls, were better; the furniture, chintz-covered; the flowers, natural garden bouquets. It was charming. And so was she, as she swooped in from a room beyond. I had never seen pictures of her without any makeup, with just-washed hair and dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt. She looked more vital, more beautiful, than any photograph had ever managed to convey. She was, in a word, staggering; here was the most famous woman in the world up close, relaxed, funny, and warm. The tragic Diana, the royal Diana, the wronged Diana: a clever, interesting person who wasn’t afraid to say she didn’t know how an auction sale worked, and would it be possible to work with me on it? “Of course, ma’am,” I said. “It’s your sale, and if you would like, then we’ll work on it together to make the most money we can for your charities.” “So what do we do next?” she asked me. “First, I think you had better choose the clothes for sale.” The next time I saw her drawing room, Paul Burrell, her butler, had wheeled in rack after rack of jeweled, sequined, embroidered, and lacy dresses, almost all of which I recognized from photographs of the Princess at some state event or gala evening. The visible relics of a royal life that had ended. The Princess, in another pair of immaculately pressed jeans and a stripy shirt, looked so different from these formal meringues that it was almost laughable. I think at that point the germ of an idea entered my mind: that sometime, when I had gotten to know her better and she trusted me, I would like to see photographs of the “new” Princess Diana--a modern woman unencumbered by the protocol of royal dress. Eventually, this idea led to putting together the suite of pictures of this sea-change princess with Mario Testino. I didn’t want her to wear jewels; I wanted virtually no makeup and completely natural hair. “But Meredith, I always have people do my hair and makeup,” she explained. “Yes ma’am, but I think it is time for a change--I want Mario to capture your speed, and electricity, the real you and not the Princess.” She laughed and agreed, but she did turn up at the historic shoot laden with her turquoise leather jewel boxes. We never opened them. Hair and makeup took ten minutes, and she came out of the dressing room looking breathtaking. The pictures are famous now; they caused a sensation at the time. My favorite memory of Princess Diana is when I brought the work prints round to Kensington Palace for her to look at. She was so keen to see them that she raced down the stairs and grabbed them. She went silent for a moment or two as she looked at these vivid, radiant images. Then she turned to me and said, “But these are really me. I’ve been set free and these show it. Don’t you think,” she asked me, “that I look a bit like Marilyn Monroe in some of them?” And laughed.

Els Quatre Gats was just a five-minute walk from our house and one of my favourite haunts. My parents had met there in 1932, and I attributed my one-way ticket into this world in part to the old cafe's charms. Stone dragons guarded a lamplit facade. Inside, voices seemed to echo with shadows of other times. Accountants, dreamers, and would-be geniuses shared tables with the spectres of Pablo Picasso, Isaac Albeniz, Federico Garcia Lorca, and Salvador Dali. There any poor devil could pass for a historical figure for the price of a small coffee.

I'm trapped in a Salvador Dali painting

I'm trapped in a Salvador Dali painting

It must be plain that the later Henry Miller cannot in any sense be called a Christian. He is doing the same as Salvador Dali and the new theologians are doing—namely, using Christian symbols to give an illusion of meaning to an impersonal world which has no real place for man.

The moment a desire is born, the result is born, at least on the other side of the world. You just have to make a connection. Then time loses its significance.

Beliefs rule the world. And the church has always abided by that. After all, behind every secret society lies either the motivation to rule the world or renunciation of dogma.

Сonsciousness, which is an integral part of the human organism, actually resides in the fourth dimension, which doesn’t have the same laws as the real world.

Science and religion must prove each other. Only in this way would the world be saved from the misery that is to come.

Salvador Dali’s unusual rendering of the crucifixion, “Christus Hypercubus,” employs a tesseract to convey a four-dimensional aspect for this unique event.

They found a lush, green spot on a small hill behind the park. Danny could have sworn that it was that one hill from that Salvador Dali painting. You know, the one with the hill? Then again, he thought the same thing of every mailbox that he walked past each morning. Neither was in any way, form, shape, or former shape related to Mr. Dali. As such, Danny’s assumptions never really did hold much weight; they weighed only about two pounds each. "Wolf! Wolf! The sky is falling! The sky is falling! Salvador Dali! Salvador Dali!

But perhaps Hubbard’s most enduring contribution to psychedelic therapy emerged in, of all places, the treatment room. […] Though he never used those terms, Hubbard was the first researcher to grasp the critical importance of set and setting in shaping the psychedelic experience. He instinctively understood that the white walls and fluorescent lighting of the sanitised hospital room were all wrong. So he brought pictures and music, flowers and diamonds into the treatment room where he would use them to prime patients for a mystical revelation or divert a journey when it took a terrifying turn. He liked to show people paintings by Salvador Dali or pictures of Jesus or to ask them to study the facets of a diamond he carried. On patient he treated in Vancouver, an alcoholic paralysed by social anxiety recalled Hubbard handing him a bouquet of roses during a LSD session. “He said, ‘Now hate them’. They withered and the petals fell off, and I started to cry. Then he said ‘Love them’ and they came back, brighter and even more spectacular than before. That meant a lot to me. I realised you can make your relationships anything you want. The trouble I was having with people was coming from me.’” What Hubbard was bringing into the treatment room was something well-known to any traditional healer. Shamans have understood for millennia that a person in the depths of a trance or under the influence of a powerful plant medicine can be readily manipulated with the help of certain words, special objects, or the right kind of music. Hubbard understood intuitively how the suggestibility of the human mind during an altered state of consciousness could be harnessed as an important resource for healing—for breaking destructive patterns of thought and for proposing new perspectives in their place.

But I was stuck for a long time by myself at Abraham Lincoln's portrait, standing in the middle of the huge hall as people moved all around me with mostly children. I felt as if time had stopped as I watched Lincoln, facing him, while watching the woman’s back as she was looking out the window. I felt wronged, so much like Truman from the movie, standing there in the middle of the museum alone. I was wondering what would Abraham Lincoln do if he realized he was the slave in his own cotton fields, being robbed by evil thieves, nazis. I had taken numerous photos of Martina from behind, as well as silhouettes of her shadow. I remember standing there, watching as she stood in front of the window; it was almost as if she was admiring the view of the mountains from our new home, as I did take such pictures of her, with a very similar composition to that of the female depicted in the iconic Lincoln portrait looking outwards from the window. I hadn't realized how many photographs I snapped of Martina with her back turned towards me while we travelled to picturesque places. Fernanda and I walked side-by-side in utter silence, admiring painting after painting of Dali's, without exchanging a single word. Meanwhile, Luis and Martina had got lost somewhere in the museum. When I finally found her, she was taking pictures outside of the Rainy Cadillac. We both felt something was amiss without having to say it, as Fernanda knew things I didn't and vice versa. We couldn't bring ourselves to discuss it though, not because we lacked any legal authority between me and Martina, but because neither Fernanda or myself had much parental authority over the young lady. It felt like when our marriages and divorces had dissolved, it was almost as if our parenting didn't matter anymore. It was as if I were unwittingly part of a secret screenplay, like Jim Carrey's character in The Truman Show, living in a fabricated reality made solely for him. I was beginning to feel a strange nauseous feeling, as if someone was trying to force something surreal down my throat, as if I were living something not of this world, making me want to vomit onto the painted canvas of the personalised image crafted just for me. I couldn't help but wonder if Fernanda felt the same way, if she was aware of the magnitude of what was happening, or if, just like me, she was completely oblivious, occasionally getting flashes of truth or reality for a moment or two. I took some amazing photographs of her in Port Lligat in Dali's yard in the port, and in Cap Creus, but I'd rather not even try to describe them—they were almost like Dali's paintings which make all sense now. As if all the pieces are coming together. She was walking by the water and I was walking a bit further up on the same beach on pebbles, parallel to each other as we walked away from Dali's house in the port. I looked towards her and there were two boats flipped over on the two sides of my view. I told her: “Run, Bunny! Run!

They used my name and permit to grow the weed and earn money to repay their debts and compensate their investors. To keep my girlfriend. To take her. I am uncertain if any of them have ever spent a minute in jail for any of these activities. Adam proudly showcases his new motorcycles on Instagram, posing on a hill above Barcelona. He also displays his brand new electric camper van, which they use to travel and transport drugs across Europe and Iberia, as well as his gigantic marijuana cultivation located in Portugal. People like Ruan and Martina admire his public images. I came across a picture of Ruan and Martina together in Berlin, where their mother Fernanda visited them. Martina became member of the Evil Eye Cult, and the custom made mafia group in Spain, which used her as a pawn in their porn and drug-related activities. She now operates as their representative in Berlin. Martina and I have lost the ability to genuinely smile. Her social media posts only show disinterest or a malicious demeanor. ‘A boot stomping on a human face.’ In a picture with her brother and mother, she puts on a forced fake “good vibe” and “happy” smile, revealing her flawless teeth and the subtle lines of aging. With each passing day, she bears a greater resemblance to her rich and so happy mother, the bad person. As far as I know, none of these individuals have faced consequences for their actions, such as having their teeth broken. As I had. Innocently. Taking care of business and their lives. With love. I find this to be incredibly unjust. In the 21st century. In Europe. On planet Earth. By non-EU criminals. “Matando – ganando” – “killing and gaining” like there were no Laws at all. Nowadays, you can observe Sabrina flaunting her fake lips and altered face, just like Martina her enhanced breasts. Guess who was paying for it? It seems that both girls now sustain themselves through their bodies and drug involvement, to this day, influencing criminals to gain friends in harming Tomas and having a lavish lifestyle filled with fun and mischief. Making a living. Enjoying Spain. Enjoying Life. My money. My tears. This is the situation as it stands. I was wondering what Salvador Dali was trying to tell me. I stood in front of the Lincoln portrait for a long time, but I couldn't grasp the point or the moral behind it. I can listen to Abraham Lincoln and ‘trust people. To see. If I can trust them.’ But he ultimately suffered a tragic fate, with his life being taken. (Got his head popped.) I believe there may have also been a female or two involved in that situation, too, possibly leading to his guards being let down. While he was watching: Acting performances, he was facing a: Stage. Theater. It is disheartening, considering he was a good person. Like Jesus, John Lennon and so on. Shows a pattern Machiavelli was talking about. Some individuals are too bright for those in darkness; they feel compelled to suppress those brighter minds simply because they think and act differently. Popping their heads. Reptilian lower brain-based culture, the concept of the Evil Eye, Homo erectus. He couldn't even stand up properly when I was shouting at him, urging him to stand up from the stairs. ‘Homo seditus reptilis.’ But what else was there in the Lincoln image that I didn't see? What was Dali trying to convey or express or tell me? Besides the fact that the woman is in his mind, on his mind, in the image, exactly, his head got popped open. Perhaps because he was focusing on a woman, trusting her for a split second, or turning his head away for a moment.

Ferran was not as mad the next day; he even cracked a smile and seemed to be normal. Nice to Martina. He had brought a pair of glasses for Adam, made in Israel, and asked me to make sure that I gave them into his hands. He said he would not be able to see without them. I wish I had known that I was supposed to break those glasses. Interestingly, Ferran also handed me Adam's brand new Israeli passport, although Adam had not been in Israel for over 10 years. The signature in Adam Maraudin's Israeli passport was the same signature as the letter “L” in Tom Titelany's French passport, which I had photocopy of. How did they do that without Adam entering Israel or sitting in a jail in Israel? It must be: “Magic.” Martina was reading a book, George Orwell's 1984, in the store. One of my favorite books of all time. One of my favorite authors of all time. The strange thing was only that Martina should have read it before in high school. In Hungary, it was part of the curriculum, being a crucial piece. To recognize the Evil and terror in all its forms and shapes. She was so cute, reading in wintertime Barcelona, in Urgell, that I couldn’t just watch her; I had to interrupt her and kiss her from time to time, as I checked up on her while working in the office and the storage during the day when I stopped by. Poor baby, she was bored. Somehow like Sabrina had been, arriving in the same rhythm at the end of summer, with not much to do in wintertime Barcelona. But. Drugs. And. For. Some. Reason. In. Secret. Behind. My. Back. With. Strangers. I didn't consider how it would sound when I told Martina Sabrina's story - how she had fallen so low, becoming unemployed, sleeping with strangers, and indulging in drugs and alcohol. It didn't come across as a success story at all. I thought. “The Dream of Venus” by Salvador Dali. Also, Martina had come from the Southern hemisphere at the end of winter there, and had arrived in the Northern hemisphere when winter started here. She was in the middle of her personal year-long winter, reading so cutely with her cute glasses in the dark Urgell store upstairs with Pinto cat. Martina was wearing glasses for reading only; they had a cute frame. She seemed like she was just waiting for something to happen, almost as if she was waiting for Santa Claus to arrive. And I should have been listening to my instincts, because that was precisely what was happening, what she was doing - waiting for Santa to appear.

Hij [Salvador Dali] heeft wel eens andere vrouwen verleid, met name Amerikaanse miljardaires, maar hij volstond er dan bijvoorbeeld mee ze in zijn appartement uit te kleden, twee eieren te bakken, die twee eieren op hun schouders te leggen en ze weer terug weg te sturen zonder verder nog een woord te zeggen.

I'm neither right nor left, see Salvador Dali in this context - I'm only dali48 "The goal isn’t money, the goal is to spend your days as you wish." (@ML_Philosophy) “Give a child a good birth (if at all possible, no drugs to the mother)=1 and a good first three years, especially a good first three months, and a major part of the job of child rearing is done.” ― Arthur Janov, The Biology of Love

Intelligence without ambition is a bird without wings.

Have no fear of perfection, you will never reach it – Salvador Dali -

Unless you must write a book, you mustn't.

Let's go over to Salvador Dali's suite at the St. Regis Hotel for a nightcap." This sounded like a surreal idea to me.

A dandy," wrote Charles Baudelaire, "must be looking in his mirror at all times, waking and sleeping." Dali could easily have become the living proof of Baudelaire's dictum. But the literal mirror was not enough for him. Dali needed mirrors of many kinds: his pictures, his admirers, newspapers and magazines and television. And even that still left him unsatisfied. So one Christmas he took a walk in the streets of New York carrying a bell. He would ring it whenever he felt people were not paying enough attention to him. "The thought of not being recognised was unbearable." True to himself to the bitter end, he delighted in following Catalonian television's bulletins on his state of health during his last days alive (in Quiron hospital in Barcelona); he wanted to hear people talking about him, and he also wanted to know whether his health would revive or whether he would be dying soon. At the age of six he wanted to be a female cook - he specified the gender. At seven he wanted to be Napoleon. "Ever since, my ambition has been continually on the increase, as has my megalomania: now all I want to be is Salvador Dali. But the closer I get to my goal, the further Salvador Dali drifts away from me." He painted his first picture in 1910 at the age of six. At ten he discovered Impressionist art, and at fourteen the Pompiers (a 19th century group of academic genre painters, among them Meissonier, Detaille and Moreau). By 1927 he was Dali, and the poet and playwright Federico Garcia Lorca, a friend of his youth, wrote an 'Ode to Salvador Dali.' Years later Dali claimed that Lorca had been very attracted to him and had tride to sodomize him, but had not quite managed it. Dali's thirst for scandal was unquenchable. His parents had named him Salvador "because he was the chosen one who was come to save painting from the" deadly menace of abstract art, academic Surrealism, Dadaism, and any kind of anarchic "ism" whatsoever." If he had lived during the Renaissance, his genius would have been recognized at an earlier stage and indeed considered normal. But in the twentieth century, which Dali damned as stupid, he was thought provocative, a thorn in the flesh. To this day there are many who misunderstand the provocativeness and label him insane. But Dali repeatedly declared: "... the sole difference between me and a madman is the fact that I am not mad!" Dali also said: "The difference between the Surrealists and me is that I am a Surrealist" - which is perfectly true. And he also claimed: "I have the universal curiosity of Renaissance men, and my mental jaws are constantly at work.

Salvador Dali’s devastating Basket of Bread, the masterpiece that he painted just before being expelled from Madrid’s Academia

It was Salvador Dalí who said the red wine of Cadaqués has the bitter taste of tears.

Modern man is desperately struggling with the concept of man in his dilemma. Most of the paintings of the crucifixion today, Salvador Dali’s for example, are not of Christ dying on the cross in history. They are using the Christ-symbol to exhibit man in agony.