ground and tearing out a handful of my hair. I began to scream, out of pain – and design. My hysteria had the desired results. My adversary was taken aback, and stopped, as a teacher who heard it all came over to us. He asked what had started the fight.
With complete assurance, I stated that in smashing the violin I had wanted to establish the supremacy of painting over music. They all broke out laughing.
“How did you think you’d do that?” the teacher asked.
“With my shoes.”
More laughter from all concerned.
“That’s perfectly senseless,” the teacher now replied.
“To you and the fellows, it may be,” I countered, “but my shoes don’t see it that way.”
And I was right, as I have since proved in my paintings by showing the realistic virtues of the shoe – which I even immortalized by putting it on women’s heads when Elsa Schiaparelli executed my hat – while I reproduced musical instruments limp, soft, or broken, thus making a monument out of every detail of my existence, even the worst of them.
The teacher, floored by my answers, did not punish me, and I was the subject of even greater admiration. The efficacy of my eccentricities began to be intriguing and my alleged madness appeared as proof of my extraordinary temperament. I realized that my de lirium could convince people and subjugate them. It was easy to fool everyone about the origin and meaning of my actions, and thus create a beneficient confusion all about me.
I worked a great deal, except at those subjects needed for the baccalauréat. My artistic work went on apace. I began doing tempera paintings, my favorite subject being Gypsies, who happily filled my studio on Calle Monturiol, and willingly served as my models. Two or three works a day went up on the walls, but I was perpetually unsatisfied with the results, which to me always failed to come up to the idea I had inside myself.
What Hold Did Dalí Have Over His Schoolmates?
My legend preceded me. The armistice ending World War I was the occasion for great rejoicing in Catalonia. A public celebra tion was decreed for Figueras, with parades and flags.
And to the great delight of my father, who loved to do the sardana , there was to be dancing on the ramblas. The students, however, decided to debate whether or not to take part in these festivities. I was asked to make the opening remarks. My first public speech. I studiously figured out before the mirror what attitudes would make me appear to best ad vantage, and polished my words with fine Dalínian emphasis, which was to floor the audience by its originality.
I learned it by heart, but at the mere idea of speaking to an audience I got a mental block, and could not control myself. I was trembling with rage.
When the day came, I was more out of control than ever. I made a copy of my speech, and rolled it up carefully, then went to the Republican Hall an hour ahead of time to get used to the setting and the intimidating platform all decorated with flags. At the appointed time, I took my seat between the president and the secre tary, who got up to explain the aim of the meeting. He was heckled by a few spoilsports who did not think we were serious about demonstrating. Before turning the floor over to me, he mentioned what he called my “heroism”, in the incident of the incinerated flag. I got up.
Silence in the hall. I had not known how pleasing it would be to have this sensation of acceptance and total anticipation – intimidating though it was – presented to me by the group of men and women waiting just to hear me. What pleasure there was in that desire of which I could sense the fervor! But not the first word of my speech came back to me. I just eyed the crowd with the utmost authority. Blank. And then my genius pointed the way out. I yelled at the top of my lungs:
“Long live Germany! Long live Russia!” and at the same time overturned the table on the platform and knocked it down into the audience. But,
With complete assurance, I stated that in smashing the violin I had wanted to establish the supremacy of painting over music. They all broke out laughing.
“How did you think you’d do that?” the teacher asked.
“With my shoes.”
More laughter from all concerned.
“That’s perfectly senseless,” the teacher now replied.
“To you and the fellows, it may be,” I countered, “but my shoes don’t see it that way.”
And I was right, as I have since proved in my paintings by showing the realistic virtues of the shoe – which I even immortalized by putting it on women’s heads when Elsa Schiaparelli executed my hat – while I reproduced musical instruments limp, soft, or broken, thus making a monument out of every detail of my existence, even the worst of them.
The teacher, floored by my answers, did not punish me, and I was the subject of even greater admiration. The efficacy of my eccentricities began to be intriguing and my alleged madness appeared as proof of my extraordinary temperament. I realized that my de lirium could convince people and subjugate them. It was easy to fool everyone about the origin and meaning of my actions, and thus create a beneficient confusion all about me.
I worked a great deal, except at those subjects needed for the baccalauréat. My artistic work went on apace. I began doing tempera paintings, my favorite subject being Gypsies, who happily filled my studio on Calle Monturiol, and willingly served as my models. Two or three works a day went up on the walls, but I was perpetually unsatisfied with the results, which to me always failed to come up to the idea I had inside myself.
What Hold Did Dalí Have Over His Schoolmates?
My legend preceded me. The armistice ending World War I was the occasion for great rejoicing in Catalonia. A public celebra tion was decreed for Figueras, with parades and flags.
And to the great delight of my father, who loved to do the sardana , there was to be dancing on the ramblas. The students, however, decided to debate whether or not to take part in these festivities. I was asked to make the opening remarks. My first public speech. I studiously figured out before the mirror what attitudes would make me appear to best ad vantage, and polished my words with fine Dalínian emphasis, which was to floor the audience by its originality.
I learned it by heart, but at the mere idea of speaking to an audience I got a mental block, and could not control myself. I was trembling with rage.
When the day came, I was more out of control than ever. I made a copy of my speech, and rolled it up carefully, then went to the Republican Hall an hour ahead of time to get used to the setting and the intimidating platform all decorated with flags. At the appointed time, I took my seat between the president and the secre tary, who got up to explain the aim of the meeting. He was heckled by a few spoilsports who did not think we were serious about demonstrating. Before turning the floor over to me, he mentioned what he called my “heroism”, in the incident of the incinerated flag. I got up.
Silence in the hall. I had not known how pleasing it would be to have this sensation of acceptance and total anticipation – intimidating though it was – presented to me by the group of men and women waiting just to hear me. What pleasure there was in that desire of which I could sense the fervor! But not the first word of my speech came back to me. I just eyed the crowd with the utmost authority. Blank. And then my genius pointed the way out. I yelled at the top of my lungs:
“Long live Germany! Long live Russia!” and at the same time overturned the table on the platform and knocked it down into the audience. But,
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