My best friend, Alex, came all the way from London to visit me this week. She had good timing, as she got to tag along on my class excursion to the Dalí Museum in Figueres, a town about an hour and a half outside of Barcelona and the artist’s birthplace. Side note, excursion is just a grown up way of saying field trip. The only difference between the two is that on an excursion you get wine with lunch.
From my Spanish art class, I am officially an expert on the sex life of Salvador Dalí. I cannot tell you too much about his actual works of art, but I can lecture on the man’s personal life all day. Therefore, I was rather pleased to see an entire museum’s worth of the depraved Spaniard’s drawings, statues and painting. At everyone corner of the museum, something was twisted and dark and naked and confusing and beautiful and I liked it.
There was one painting in particular that stood out. It was that of a naked woman, the love of Dalí’s life Gala, contemplating the Mediterranean Sea. When you step back from the painting and try to take a picture of it, BAM. Abraham Lincoln. No really, the head of Lincoln fills the entire canvas. It was real weird, so naturally I was real into it.
I am not an art critic, nor do I claim to be, but I think that Dalí was quite the talented guy and he absolutely blows my mind.