Dali House

I’ve always wondered about those paintings you used to see in English country pubs of some behemoth of a horse standing under a tree on a hill overlooking a farmscape, or a mighty steer being held by a tiny little man in breeches.

Who paints these things, I thought, and why? Clearly there was something proprietary about them, indicative of the animal’s proud owner, but in my meagre existence I only came across ribbon-bedecked farmers at harvest fairs posing for a photo for the local newspaper alongside their beloved re-creations of the Fatted Calf. To commission a full-scale painting seemed rather over the top, but I looked ‘er up on the Innernut, and lo and beholy smokes … See the rest.

The son of frequent Dali House guest Lydia Scott thought he was dreaming, but it turned out he’d fallen asleep in front of his computer while browsing for more optical illusions than can be found at Dali House. Fortunately for us, he’d come across a website featuring photographic proof that people are willing to go to a lot of trouble to keep other people in a state of nervous apprehension.
All you need is a bunch of paint, an eye for perspective and an understanding spouse, boss and/or landlord, and you can create the illusion above, which seems to be a big X in a frame barring your access to the other side of the room. In fact, as the second photo shows, it’s just very cleverly applied drawing. We’ve got more examples. See the rest.

A reader writes:
I was struck by your fascination with Dali, and felt I must relay this story.
When my lovely lady finally relented and agreed to go out with me we quickly went off to Paris. Finding ourselves in Montmarte we stumbled upon the Dali Museum, and Sylvie, being a painter herself, insisted on taking a look. It may have been a Wednesday, but it definitely was not too busy and after an hour or so we came upon the washrooms. In true European fashion they were not the paltry little stalls of North America, but whole rooms with doors…
She walked into the women’s bathroom and gave me a sly little wink and a crook of her finger and soon we were shagging in the Dali Museum. It’s now our little dinner party joke if the subject of art ever comes up. “My favorite is Dali,” I always say.