Salvador Dali. To some he was that crazy guy with a curled-up pencil moustache, to some he was the dude that designed the Chupa Chups logo and to some he’s the guy who just had an exhibition at the NGV that you didn’t go to see (if you’re that last one – it sucks to be you).
Probably everyone here gathered in this little sphere, reading their little computer screens has seen pictures of Dali’s work in books and magazines and just about any other form of paper based medium you can think of. I was one of those people until a few days ago. And I thought I knew my shit. I thought I had well formed critical opinions and views that would stand up to the interrogation of other self-congratulating ‘culturites’ like Marc Fennell or Robert Hughes (if we’re naming names). Well, I can say this, if I hadn’t been to see the actual, real-life, in the frame, touchable (when the guards aren’t looking) art; the worth of my opinions would have stood up like a 102 year-old man with 7th degree arthritis.
There is one simple reason for this. His shit glows. And the only way to know how goddamn much it glows – and then be able to communicate that fact – is if you went to the exhibition and pressed your nose to the canvas. Walking down the gallery aisle was like walking down the main strip of Vegas – only in this case the content of the glowing things was a little more sophisticated. At one stage I even convinced myself that the curators had conspired together and planted little neon lights behind each picture or payed out of work Glow Worms and Fire Flies to rub their luminescent glow-juice over the works to lure in wilful paying customers. Thanks to stupid old reality, this was not the case. And to think that some of this work was done in the 1920’s was nearly enough to expose the inner lining of my brain cavity to nearby civilians; I just stared and made strange quiet noises instead.
So what can we take away from all this reading kids (apart from the 1 minute and 44 seconds you could have better spent watching this)? Never trust anything you see or read in books; they’re never as good as the real thing. Here’s to living. And if you really didn’t see the Dali exhibition, I feel sorry for you. Unless you’re going to Italy, in which case I’m jealous.
Ice Creaaaaaaaaaam!
it sure does glow.