Mijn ontmoeting met Salvador Dali

Vorig weekend ontdekte ik een oud toegangsticket van El Museo del Prado.  Ik dacht terug aan hoe ik als twintigjarig meisje mijn rugzak vulde en alleen de nachttrein naar Madrid nam.  Ik verbleef bij een Spaanse vriendin die ik een jaar eerder had ontmoet tijdens vrijwilligerswerk in Groningen.  De reis werd een ontdekking van de Spaanse keuken,  het Spaanse temperament, de Madrileense straten en ... de droomwereld van Dali.

De tweede dag van mijn verblijf liep ik in de zinderende hitte naar El Museo del Prado en dwaalde daar door de lange gangen op zoek naar de schilderijen van El Greco.  Plots kwam ik oog in oog te staan met de schatten van Dali.  El Greco was ik eensklaps vergeten.  Ik verloor mezelf in complete verwondering en bewondering voor de surrealistische kunstwerken.  Op dat moment had ik nog geen idee hoe dit treffen mijn smaak en mijn levensvisie zou veranderen.

Ik wandelde op het einde van de dag in totale verrukking naar buiten.  Alles leek anders.

Overal ontdekte ik het absurde surrealisme : in de Spaanse zakenlui die tijdens de lunchpauze in donkerblauwe pakken, schijnbaar sereen, in de verstikkende hitte rondliepen;  in een avondje stappen in een discotheek waar ik torenhoog boven iedereen uitstak; in de ontdekking van de beklijvende film 'The Cook, The Thief, His Wife And Her Lover' van Peter Greeneway in een cinemazaal in het midden van Madrid; in de meisjes die zichzelf verkochten in de lichten van voorbijrijdende auto's en in de woordenwisselingen van mijn vriendin die met de nodige 'hija de puta's' haar mening kenbaar maakte in de verlaten, nachtelijke straten van Madrid.

Het contact met haar is allang verloren, maar mijn reis en de bijhorende ontdekkingen ben ik nooit vergeten.

Dali moved to El Museo Nacional Centro de Arte Reina Sofia in 1992

Meeting Salvador Dali

Last weekend I discovered an old entrance ticket to El Museo del Prado.  I looked back on how I, as a twenty year old girl,  filled my backpack and took the night train to Madrid.  I stayed at a friend's home who I had met while volunteering in Groningen one year earlier.  The trip became my discovery of the Spanish cuisine, the Spanish nature, the streets of Madrid and ... the dreamworld of Dali.

The second day of my stay I walked in the scorching heat to El Museo del Prado.  I wandered through the long corridors looking for the paintings of El Greco.  Suddenly I was face to face with the treasures of Dali.  I bluntly forgot all about El Greco.  I completely lost myself in astonishment and in admiration for the surrealist works of art.  At that time I didn't have a clue on how this meeting would change my taste and my view on life.

At the end of the day I walked out of the museum in total rapture.  Everything seemed different. 

I discovered the absurd surrealism everywhere : in Spanish businessmen dressed in dark blue suits who walked the streets in the suffocating heat, seemingly undisturbed; in having a night out in a discotheque where I towered over everybody;  in discovering the unsettling movie 'The Cook, The Thief, His Wife And Her Lover' of Peter Greeneway in a cinema in the middle of Madrid;  in seeing girls selling themselves in the lights of passing cars and in hearing my friend fights accompanied by the unavoidable 'hija de puta's' in the deserted, nocturnal streets of Madrid.

I have lost contact with her long ago but I have never forgotten my trip and its disclosures.

Salvador Dali door David Gascoyne


The face of the precipice is black with lovers;
The sun above them is a bag of nails; the spring's
First rivers hide among their hair.
Goliath plunges his hand into the poisoned well
And bows his head and feels my feet walk through his brian.
The children chasing butterflies turn round and see him there
With his hand in the well and my body growing from his head,
And are afraid.  They drop their nets and walk into the wall like smoke.


The smooth plain with its mirrors listens to the cliff
Like a basilisk eating flowers.
And the children, lost in the shadows of the catacombs,
Call to the mirrors for help :
'Strong-bow of salt, cutlass of memory,
Write on my map the name of every river.'


A flock of banners fight their way through the telescoped forest
And fly away like birds towards the sound of roasting meat.
Sand falls into the boiling rivers through the telescopes' mouths
And forms clear drops of acid with petals of whirling flame.
Heraldic animals wade through the asphyxia of planets,
Butterflies burst from their skins and grow long tongues like plants,
The plants play games with a suit of mail like a cloud.


Mirrors write Goliath's name upon my forehead,
While the children are killed in the smoke of the catacombs
And lovers float down from the cliffs like rain.

Salvador Dali in 50's game show 'What's my line ?'