Among the, ahem, inspiring resources they gave us in the fine-arts course at Toronto’s York University were a sharp stick and these sheets of paper coated in black ink. Go at it, they said. What the hell did we know? Click for the full-size shot.
“There are some days,” Salvador Dalí once said, “when I think I’m going to die from an overdose of satisfaction.”
I’m not sure of the context of his sentiment, but it certainly has a fetching existential ring to it. A big hand for Salamander, for all the satisfaction he’s given me since I first encountered his work in the 1960s.
I’d long marvelled over pictures of his paintings, from all of his eras, and he kept showing up in the newspapers and magazines like Life, that wild waxed moustache and flaring eyes, doing something crazy at the side of someone even more famous than he was. Then next thing I knew he was hanging around Studio 54 and Warhol was choking back his jealousy while trying to get him into his Interview rag, although Andy was more interested in scoring a whopping great commission for painting Gala, Dalí’s wife. He never got it, but the point is that Dalí’s life just seemed to get silly. See the rest.
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