Most critics up to now have sneeringly dismissed the art of Salvador Dali. It’s almost as if they resented its popular impact. I myself believe he’ll eventually be revered as an uneven, weird, yet absolutely topnotch “Old Master.”
Dali’s signature image hangs at Manhattan’s Museum of Modern Art. Created in exquisite Flemish Primitive style, “The Persistence of Memory” features a half-melted watch dangling from the outstretched arm of a dead tree.
Done in 1931, that picture foreshadowed the horrors of World War Two. Hiroshima and Nagasaki were great cities untll American atom bomb attacks melted and tossed whole multitudes of Japanese urbanites in mid-thought and their wristwatches in mid-tick.
The limp watch that Dali depicted still ticks, tocks, and knocks upon public consciousness. This never would have happened, were it not for the input of an intellectually intense and sexually insatiable Russian woman nicknamed Gala.
(Excerpt from Alex’s forthcoming memoir, to be published by WriteSpa Press)
“The first thing that struck me about Buddy Hackett was the switchblade in his hand. I could tell it meant a lot to him by the devoted way he held onto the thing, even while saying “Hello.” His round brown eyes were anything but blank, yet returned at once to his blade. He was sharpening it, so tenderly, as if with a feather. This happened in Budapest. Buddy, who is now starring in the musical, I Had a Ball, on Broadway, was there to star in a Cinerama comedy called The Golden Head. Curiosity was what had drawn me to the Hungarian capital. It is a fabulous place, steeped in human cruelty and human love, where bullets pockmark the walls, everyone sings, and the girls smile as suggestively as tearing silk.”
“For the first time in a decade, Britain’s most durable top-rank painter was having a one-man show. On opening day, the doors of London’s little Leicester Galleries had parted promptly at 10 o’clock and the corduroy-jacketed clique of fellow artists hurried in for a long, appraising look. If anyone came with doubts, there was colorful evidence on every side that Augustus Edwin John’s considerable gifts are still as full-blown and as fresh as they were when he gave his first exhibition, 49 years ago.”