![\"geldzahler\"](\"http:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/wp-content\/uploads\/2013\/02\/geldzahler-290x290.jpg\")
<\/a><\/p>\nSalvador Dal\u00ed\u2019s death, like so much of his publicized life, is taking on a grotesque, even a nightmarish quality. Now in his eightieth year, an enfant terrible for as long as he could get away with it, Dal\u00ed has lost his wife and mainstay, the redoubtable Gala, and with her his congenital optimism in the face of all that came his way. A depressed and justifiably paranoid old man, shaky with Parkinson\u2019s disease, he has retreated into virtual isolation in the beloved Catalonia of his youth, settled in an apartment adjacent to the Teatro Museo Dal\u00ed in Figueras.<\/p>\n
For several years stories have been circulating, not about Dal\u00ed so much as about the Dal\u00ed industry; who has access, who\u2019s in control and, naturally, where do Dal\u00ed and his<\/i> wishes come into the picture. This uncertainty, which has given rise to so much speculation, has its origin in three concomitant conditions, all of which have operated in gear: the phenomenal commercial value of the Dal\u00ed signature; the death of Gala, who was the chancellor of the exchequer; and the physically diminished, spiritually exhausted Salvador himself, for whom the sabor<\/i> for life has ebbed away.<\/p>\n
A brief shot on the early morning news of Salvador Dal\u00ed leaving the hospital in mid-October prepared me for what I would find in Figueras, Dal\u00ed\u2019s native town, and Port Lligat, his chosen haven twenty miles away. Dal\u00ed, the magician, still active and in high gear in paintings made as recently as 1982 and 1983, was now in limbo. An inhabited shell with imploring eyes was all that remained. Dal\u00ed not yet\u00a0dead, Dal\u00ed no longer fully alive\u2014his ego felled, his curiosity wonderfully intact.<\/p>\n
In 1926, at age twenty-two, Salvador Dal\u00ed was permanently expelled from the Instituto de San Fernando in Madrid by order of the King \u201cfor outrageous misconduct.\u201d He had gone to Madrid to study painting; in disgrace he deliberately left his luggage behind, signaling a total break from his youthful past. In 1928 Gala, married to the French poet Paul \u00c9luard, visited Cadaques and met Dal\u00ed, who was instantly captivated. \u201cWithout love, without Gala, I would no longer be Dal\u00ed. That is the truth I will never stop shouting or living. She is my blood, my oxygen.\u201d In 1929\u20131930 Dal\u00ed painted Le Grand Masturbateur<\/i>, directly inspired by his love for Gala, who by now was living with him. The landmark Surrealist film Un Chien Andalou<\/i> was\u00a0written with Luis Bu\u00f1uel during this time.<\/p>\n
Dal\u00ed\u2019s acceptance in America was virtually immediate. In 1932, Dal\u00ed was twenty-eight years old. He had three paintings in an exhibition at the Julien Levy Gallery in New York. It is from this exhibition that The Museum of Modern Art, then three years old, purchased The Persistence of Memory<\/i>, the famous melting watch that instantly became an icon symbolizing all that is bold, \u201cpsychological,\u201d and up to the minute. It is, in a phrase from its decade that has never been bettered, that Freudian will-o\u2019-the-wisp, THE HAND-PAINTED DREAM PHOTOGRAPH. In 1941,\u00a0on the brink of America\u2019s entry into war, The Museum of Modern Art gave Salvador Dal\u00ed a large retrospective exhibition, his first. The text mentions several times his scandalous reputation that has been talked about for a decade.<\/p>\n
Dal\u00ed\u2019s writing and statements throw a screen around his art, obscuring and illuminating sometimes in the same paragraph. He is brilliantly amusing, deliberately obfuscating, and, finally, supremely worth the trouble it takes to shuck the corn to its delicious meat. He has always claimed that he doesn\u2019t know what his paintings mean; at the same time he has also hung the most extended, involuted literary-psychological meanings on them. \u201cBe persuaded that Salvador Dal\u00ed\u2019s famous limp watches are nothing else than the tender, extravagant and solitary paranoiac-critical camembert of time and space.\u201d<\/p>\n
Like James McNeill Whistler and Oscar Wilde before him, Dal\u00ed makes verbal perverseness and a dandy\u2019s aestheticizing stance and garb his signature style. Everything he says is calculated to shock us into thought; he questions your assumptions with the humor of a true hysteric. \u201cWhat I hear is worth nothing. There is only what I see with my open eyes and, even more, what I see with them closed.\u201d \u201cOne thing is certain, I hate simplicity in all its forms.\u201d \u201cEach time someone dies, it is Jules Verne\u2019s fault. He is responsible for the desire for interplanetary voyages, good only for boy scouts or amateur underwater fisherman. If the fabulous sums wasted on these conquests were spent on biological research, nobody on our planet would die anymore. Therefore, I repeat, each time somebody dies, it is Jules Verne\u2019s fault.\u201d It isn\u2019t only about his own work that Dal\u00ed can scintillate. He embroiders explanations of life with so much nonsense and true enigma that we are consistently caught off base. No wonder Harpo Marx is one of his heroes.<\/p>\n
\u201cBut I myself am living, and I will live without ever liking jazz or Chinese sculpture. I have never been a pacifist. I have never liked little children, or animals, or universal suffrage, or modern art, or El Greco, or theosophy.\u201d Sometimes sounding like an auto-intoxicated, highfalutin W.C. Fields, Dal\u00ed, along with Picasso, stands apart from his generation of artists; dismissed as a charlatan by the popular press, and, consequently, by the public. Charlatan is, of course, a left-handed\u00a0tribute. What rarely is noted, however, is the unlikelihood of an intelligent and passionate adult acting the charlatan, much of the time alone in his studio, sixteen waking hours for as long as fifty years. If it were possible\u2014what a hero of consistency the charlatan would be: how admirable!<\/p>\n
The Gallery of Modern Art, in the underrated Edward Durrel Stone building in Columbus Circle that now houses the New York City Department of Cultural Affairs, was the unhappy dream of A&P heir Huntington Hartford. His retardataire<\/i> and vehement hatred for all that was modern in art, especially abstract painting and the Museum of Modern Art, so agitated him that he took a full-page ad denouncing both in the New York Times<\/i>. In his Gallery of Modern\u00a0Art he made his case by exhibiting work by artists that were anathema to doctrinaire modernists; the English Pre-Raphaelites, Burne-Jones in particular, the French academic painters, Bougereau and Meissonier, and, among contemporary masters, Salvador Dal\u00ed, the only artist he collected in depth to have a retrospective exhibition at the enemy bastion, the Museum of Modern Art. Dal\u00ed\u2019s espousal by the know-nothing Hartford polarized opinion about his work and he was cast for the first time since his excommunication from the Surrealist movement by Andr\u00e9 Breton in the role of the anti-contemporary, an extreme position that was belied by his continuing admiration for Picasso, Mir\u00f3, and such Americans as abstractionists Barnett Newman and Willem de Kooning. A story is told about Dali’s visit to the great encyclopedic museum in Cleveland in the mid-sixties. Asked what he thought of the collection, Salvador Dal\u00ed is reputed to have said, \u201cWhat kind of shit museum is this, with no Barnett Newman?\u201d Both Dal\u00ed and Newman, at the time, were colleagues in the stable of Knoedler\u2019s art gallery.<\/p>\n
I met Salvador Dal\u00ed and Gala in 1962 at a small dinner in Marcel Duchamp\u2019s townhouse apartment on West 10th Street. Duchamp had seen me in a Claes Oldenberg Happening in the East Village several months earlier. The evening entertainment, two related Happenings entitled Ironworks<\/i> and Photodeath<\/i>, called on me to assume several roles. I alternated between sitting quite still and making extreme facial expressions at the public seated only a few feet from the room designated the \u201cstage\u201d; and I wrote with a big pen on a scroll when suddenly a piece of black velvet dropped on me. As with all Happenings, nothing was explained or susceptible to explanation. For many years, Marcel Duchamp had been a chess-playing chum of my boss, Robert Beverly Hale, the first curator of American Painting and Sculpture at the Metropolitan Museum. Duchamp, always curious about art and the vanguard, invited me to dinner as a potential source of information. I had been at the Met for a few years and, of course, admired Marcel Duchamp enormously. I was a bit shaky but delighted to be at his table. The Dal\u00eds\u2019 presence was an added fillip. French, with Salvador Dal\u00ed\u2019s exaggerated and charming Spanish accent, was the evening\u2019s language. Well over an hour into the dinner Duchamp asked me what was going on, in Happenings, Pop Art, underground film\u2014the whole range of New York artistic activity. I gave as thorough an account as I could on the spur of the moment, waxing enthusiastically on the subject of Jack Smith\u2019s film, Flaming Creatures<\/i>, in Dal\u00ed\u2019s mouth the almost undiscernible\u00a0FlaaaahMeeng Cray-a-tooo-Rrrressss. It was at this point that Gala Dal\u00ed noticed me. She turned to Duchamp while I was speaking to ask him WHO I was. He explained and she announced in a loud voice, Pour moi il n\u2019est pas expert<\/i>, For me he\u2019s no expert. Inflated by Duchamp\u2019s attention, deflated by Gala\u2019s rudeness, I passed a memorable evening.<\/p>\n
Another meal I had with Salvador Dal\u00ed took place on the top floor of the Gallery of Modern Art, the Gauguin room (named for the two unauthorized tapestries after his South Sea paintings). Seated opposite Dal\u00ed, I found myself suddenly shy under his watchful glare. We chatted in French and English and, at the end of the meal, he asked me to visit him in his studio at the St. Regis Hotel. I was happy to comply; he continued to fascinate me as an artist and as an amazing contemporary presence, a wild man who had once jumped out of the window at Bonwit Teller in an event planned to\u00a0publicize his art. A few days later I made an appointment through his long-time personal secretary, Captain Peter Moore. Dal\u00ed\u2019s startling revelation at this meeting was that he wanted to do a sculpture of my head in gold, with a moving tongue accurately modeled from life. I hesitantly asked him how we would come up with this unpleasant artifact? Dal\u00ed said casually, \u201cYou cast it from life. Bring it to me.\u201d After consulting with a dentist friend in Washington, Dr. Teddy Fields, I unreluctantly abandoned the project. What second and third levels of satiric meaning may have been concealed in Dal\u00ed\u2019s desire to portray me with une langue qui bouge<\/i>, a moving tongue?<\/p>\n
One evening a year later I gave a fundraiser for Julian Bond, an old friend from Harvard Square (in the summer of 1958). Julian was running for reelection to the Georgia State Senate. After dinner I took him with me to a party for Peter, Paul, and Mary at the St. Regis. I had known Peter Yarrow since high school and when we ran into each other in the lobby I introduced Julian Bond and Peter Yarrow. Suddenly the old Surrealist of the St. Regis, Salvador Dal\u00ed himself, advanced on us, a flush of excitement on his face; \u201cCome up to my studio and I will show you the most rrreeemarrquable objet<\/i> of the twentieth century.\u201d Sweeping my friends along with me he led us into the elevator, an oddly assorted crew taking off on a daring mission. I did what I could to introduce everybody, each with a tag line, for example, he sings, he writes laws, he\u2019s a Spanish painter. We got to the studio, the door slammed open, and there! under a white sheet!\u00a0in the corner! stood the most remarkable object of the twentieth century, discovered that very day by the zeitgeist<\/i> himself! Dal\u00ed with panache and grace whisked the sheet away and there stood an eighteen-inch-high rubber incarnation of !!!!!! LE BOOGS BOONEY<\/i>, splattered through his chest and tummy with paint freshly squeezed from the tube with utter prodigality. Yes, Bugs Bunny, the Woolworth version, stood in all his leering innocence, under an inch or so of rapidly applied color. Pop Art, I guess, had met with Action Painting; a new icon for our times was the result. Needless to say we were severally amazed and no one, to my knowledge, has ever heard of Le Boogs<\/i> again.<\/p>\n
Dal\u00ed adores Art Nouveau architecture and decoration. In Barcelona, one senses the influence of the city on his waking dream, especially in Antoni Gaud\u00ed\u2019s use of stone as a medium that can droop and melt, that can, as it does in his masterpiece the Cathedral of la Sagrada Fam\u00edlia, aspire to heaven in the fashion of gothic architecture, at the same time as it metaphorically dies and rots into the earth, dripping like the wax candles that are everywhere for sale in Barcelona\u2019s gothic quarter. Dal\u00ed takes Art Nouveau architecture so seriously that early on he wanted to pursue his identity with it to the point of eating it. One thing about Salvador Dal\u00ed, he always goes the extra mile.<\/p>\n
Dal\u00ed himself first conceived of a museum for his hometown, Figueras, as the first example of true Surrealist architecture, a building that would express his art, his humor, and his take on the world. The art that would hang in the building was to be his collection, what he admired and wanted to share with his public. The town officials of Figueras were adamant that without Dal\u00ed\u2019s own art in preponderance, there would be no Dal\u00ed Museum in Figueras, and, surprisingly, given the track record of municipalities on questions of art, they had the right idea. The Dal\u00ed Museum, officially the Teatro Museo Dal\u00ed, a large building with four crowded floors and a huge courtyard, is a museum in the traditional sense, a former grand residence filled to brimming with Dal\u00ed’s drawings, paintings, sculpture, and prints. It is, at the same time, Dal\u00edesque in the extreme; crowds of Catalans and a heavy sprinkling of foreign tourists swarm through it, amazed, impressed, and, at some exhibits, elbow-nudgingly giggly. At several points in the museum the public is urged to stop to look through the telescopes at what becomes, at a proper distance, a portrait of Abraham Lincoln, or in another, an arrangement of furniture in a large room that reads, through a framing device, as the face of Mae West. Works from every moment in Dal\u00ed’s career are unsystematically arranged, with no information, no titles, and no date. Refreshingly Dal\u00ed-like, it rhymes with the old magician’s nose-thumbing at the official art world and its self-importance. The people, his audience, need only Salvador Dal\u00ed\u2014he communicates directly without apparatus. Dal\u00ed said it best in 1981; speaking of a catalogue of the collection at the Teatro Museo Dal\u00ed, Dal\u00ed pronounced that it must be “hypocritical, in a manner to trouble people’s spirits.” “It is necessary that all the people who come out have false information.”<\/p>\n
I had read some of Dal\u00ed’s rhinocentric musings in the art magazines, and, needless to say, found them hard to fathom. One day in the mid-seventies I got an invitation to join the Dal\u00eds for lunch at a now defunct restaurant, The Baroque, very near the St. Regis. When I got there, Tom Hess, the editor of Art News<\/i>, and several other guests were already seated at a\u00a0round table in the almost deserted dining room. Dal\u00ed instructed us, when Gala swept in about fifteen minutes later, that we were all to stand at our places and applaud her as she approached the table. Puzzled but game, we did as we were told. Lunch, after this off moment, progressed much as usual. The only other untoward incident was impelled into action by my chatting with the lady to my right\u2014Gala, wielding the weapon-like pasteboard menu, cracked me smartly on the head, with a Moi je suis aussi<\/i>, I’m also here! Ignoring the blow as best I could, I took forceful advice and chatted with her. After the dessert and coffee, before anyone could leap to leave, Gala shushed us all and Salvador Dal\u00ed announced that this very morning he had written the most important art-historical article of the\u2026century\u2026I think it was. He was going to read it to us in his amazing Spanish-French-English, and, the event that began the meal, our applauding Gala’s entry to the restaurant, was echoed perfectly by Gala insisting that, as Dal\u00ed read his piece, we all applaud politely until he finished. What little I can remember about the content of that day’s lecture was concerned in some way with Vermeer and the rhinoceros horn, an ancient aphrodisiac in the civilizations of the Mediterranean.<\/p>\n
The “Dal\u00ed question,” how good an artist is he, how much of his work and words are to be taken seriously, has always preceded and hounded the enigmatic Catalan. Has he been the court jester of painting in our century? Has he used Surrealism as a theater of techniques, ideas, and images for his own aggrandizement? These “Dal\u00ed questions” have never been answered definitively; we are still too close to the phenomenon of his personality to know what is meat and how much is sauce. If he has been a jester (a noble role in the Renaissance hierarchy) has he, like Lear’s fool, addressed his puns, visual and verbal, at higher truths?<\/p>\n
I think the answer is yes, with the qualifier that the higher truth has always been profoundly autobiographical. This program, which ties all Salvador’s art and explanations to a single logic and value system, has been so savagely adhered to, so openly the single subject of his life’s musings, that, unable to take the son et lumi\u00e8re <\/i>that has attended his morbid self-absorption, we have been tempted to shrug and smile at much of his infantilism. The great question that hounds all artists and their posterity, will the work survive the artist’s absence, the death of his personality, is asked with particular urgency in Dal\u00ed’s case and accounts, I believe, for the constant sandstorm that roils the air when the man and art are considered seriously.<\/p>\n
In his fascinating but infuriating spiritual autobiography, The Unspeakable Confessions of Salvador Dal\u00ed<\/i>, the artist spends the greater part of the book making every effort he can to gross us out. As a very young boy, Dal\u00ed tells us, “My shitting habits, I must say, were not without charm, either. I always tried to think of some perfectly unexpected place: say, the living-room rug, a drawer, a shoebox, a step on the stairs, or a closet. Then I went about it discreetly. After that, I ran through the house proclaiming my exploit. Everybody immediately rushed to discover the object of my elation. I became the leading character in the family play. They grumbled, they yelled, they lost their tempers as time dragged on. I tried preferably to select a time when my father was around so he could see it happen, if not be involved himself. One day, just to make things better, I dropped my doody in the toilet. They looked everywhere for the longest time, but no threat would get me to reveal the place I had chosen. So, for days on end, no one dared open a drawer or set foot on a step without worrying about what they might come upon.” All the essentials\u00a0of the Dal\u00edesque drama and call for attention are present in the microcosm of this noisome vignette. Salvador the magician turns dross into gold by making its discovery the object of a “treasure” hunt; hiding it somewhere else each day gives an inconsequential story endless permutations, surprise endings and, at the same time, keeps the action close to home and in control. The fact that almost all <\/i>the drama takes place in Dal\u00ed’s own mind is yet another constant with his artistic strategies.<\/p>\n
The adoration he accords Gala, his elder by a decade, almost from the moment he meets her in 1928, at age twenty-four, is the keystone of his bid for maturity, or rather for the “normalcy” always beyond his grasp. A masturbator until he meets her, his mother-twin, he finds in her his paradigm for heterosexuality; on first seeing her back, “Gala was there, sitting on the bench. And her sublime back, athletic and fragile, taut and tender, feminine and energetic, fascinated me as years before my baby-nurse’s had. My most daring action was to graze her hand so I might feel the electric shock of our mutual desires. I had no other intention than to remain eternally at her feet.” Pre-verbal, touch the sense that turns him on, how like a little boy!<\/p>\n
From the perspective of 1984 Dal\u00ed’s achievement is mixed, but, on the whole, more positive than we might have thought a decade ago. In spite of Modernism’s continued hegemony over the visual arts in this century, we see another vein that goes straight back to the nineteenth century and Dal\u00ed’s much-admired French realists Meissonier and Bouguereau; their highly polished and technically breathtaking art had its parallel in every national style of the late nineteenth century. It now seems obvious that the public’s slightly salacious adoration of this art, so despised by Modernism, has continued unabated and found popular expression in photography (the Marilyn Monroe calendar) and sharp-focused film. Love of the recognizable, the enemy of total abstraction, is more tenacious than we thought. The human need to “see” the familiar, and to feel oneself at the center of the universe, remains amazingly seductive and perhaps even talismanically necessary.<\/p>\n
Seen in this context Dal\u00ed’s special brand of Surrealism, concocted as it was from de Chirico, Tanguy, Mir\u00f3, Arp, and Ernst, as well as from the Spanish and Dutch seventeenth-century still-life painters, jolts us anew each time we return to it for the very reason that the disorienting visions he constructs so convincingly, the soft bones on crutches, the putrefying cadavers and the melting watch, speak at one and the same time to our secret dreams and fears and<\/i> our guilty love for the precision and shiny glow, the fin-de-si\u00e8cle rot, of sentimental realism. Dal\u00ed’s most successful work introduces new subject matter, dream matter released by Freud, in a most comfortingly rendered vision, his canny crutch for the soft viewer to lean on, to make the unbidden supportable.<\/p>\n
It is impossible to think of another painter in our century who has cast as much pepper in the face of his public as has Salvador Dal\u00ed. From the beginning he has refused to be judged on his merits; he has taken pride in his ability to continue into maturity and beyond the infantile behavior that so shocked his parents. His credo may well have been, if it worked then, I’ll do it again.<\/p>\n
Salvador Dal\u00ed, the naughty boy who shocked his parents and the King, is fading, but until his light goes out completely, let us not underrate his wit, tenacity, and flair. While alive, and even in his death no doubt, Dal\u00ed will always manage somehow to shock us one more time.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
So many facets to Dal\u00ed. I\u2019m always writing haiku about Dal\u00ed. Different thoughts come to me about Dal\u00ed, and one thought came to me, that Dal\u00ed used to be very pretty, very good-looking. Garcia Lorca fell in love with him. When pretty-boy Dal\u00ed outgrew his pretty-boy looks he became \u201cclown Dal\u00ed.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":676,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[82],"tags":[60],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\n
Traveltainted | A Dal\u00ed Quartet - Turtle Point Press Magazine \/ TPPM<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/a-dali-quartet\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Traveltainted | A Dal\u00ed Quartet - Turtle Point Press Magazine \/ TPPM\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"So many facets to Dal\u00ed. I\u2019m always writing haiku about Dal\u00ed. Different thoughts come to me about Dal\u00ed, and one thought came to me, that Dal\u00ed used to be very pretty, very good-looking. Garcia Lorca fell in love with him. When pretty-boy Dal\u00ed outgrew his pretty-boy looks he became \u201cclown Dal\u00ed.\u201d\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:url\" content=\"https:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/a-dali-quartet\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:site_name\" content=\"Turtle Point Press Magazine \/ TPPM\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:published_time\" content=\"2013-02-18T22:55:30+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:modified_time\" content=\"2015-03-15T17:02:13+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:image\" content=\"https:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/wp-content\/uploads\/2013\/02\/salvador-dali-desk-e1305349995247.jpg\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:width\" content=\"493\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:height\" content=\"380\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:type\" content=\"image\/jpeg\" \/>\n<meta name=\"author\" content=\"Ruth\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:label1\" content=\"Written by\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data1\" content=\"Ruth\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:label2\" content=\"Est. reading time\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data2\" content=\"28 minutes\" \/>\n<script type=\"application\/ld+json\" class=\"yoast-schema-graph\">{\"@context\":\"https:\/\/schema.org\",\"@graph\":[{\"@type\":\"WebPage\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/a-dali-quartet\/\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/a-dali-quartet\/\",\"name\":\"Traveltainted | A Dal\u00ed Quartet - Turtle Point Press Magazine \/ TPPM\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/#website\"},\"datePublished\":\"2013-02-18T22:55:30+00:00\",\"dateModified\":\"2015-03-15T17:02:13+00:00\",\"author\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/#\/schema\/person\/e5c2652b24c751cebb8a98cc59b32f17\"},\"breadcrumb\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/a-dali-quartet\/#breadcrumb\"},\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"ReadAction\",\"target\":[\"https:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/a-dali-quartet\/\"]}]},{\"@type\":\"BreadcrumbList\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/a-dali-quartet\/#breadcrumb\",\"itemListElement\":[{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":1,\"name\":\"Home\",\"item\":\"https:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/\"},{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":2,\"name\":\"A Dal\u00ed Quartet\"}]},{\"@type\":\"WebSite\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/#website\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/\",\"name\":\"Turtle Point Press Magazine \/ TPPM\",\"description\":\"brought to you by Turtle Point Press\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"SearchAction\",\"target\":{\"@type\":\"EntryPoint\",\"urlTemplate\":\"https:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/?s={search_term_string}\"},\"query-input\":\"required name=search_term_string\"}],\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\"},{\"@type\":\"Person\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/#\/schema\/person\/e5c2652b24c751cebb8a98cc59b32f17\",\"name\":\"Ruth\",\"image\":{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/#\/schema\/person\/image\/\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/fbd40cccaac0d925a639f7db868bd1e2?s=96&d=mm&r=g\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/fbd40cccaac0d925a639f7db868bd1e2?s=96&d=mm&r=g\",\"caption\":\"Ruth\"},\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/author\/ruth\/\"}]}<\/script>\n<!-- \/ Yoast SEO plugin. -->","yoast_head_json":{"title":"Traveltainted | A Dal\u00ed Quartet - Turtle Point Press Magazine \/ TPPM","robots":{"index":"index","follow":"follow","max-snippet":"max-snippet:-1","max-image-preview":"max-image-preview:large","max-video-preview":"max-video-preview:-1"},"canonical":"https:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/a-dali-quartet\/","og_locale":"en_US","og_type":"article","og_title":"Traveltainted | A Dal\u00ed Quartet - Turtle Point Press Magazine \/ TPPM","og_description":"So many facets to Dal\u00ed. I\u2019m always writing haiku about Dal\u00ed. Different thoughts come to me about Dal\u00ed, and one thought came to me, that Dal\u00ed used to be very pretty, very good-looking. Garcia Lorca fell in love with him. When pretty-boy Dal\u00ed outgrew his pretty-boy looks he became \u201cclown Dal\u00ed.\u201d","og_url":"https:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/a-dali-quartet\/","og_site_name":"Turtle Point Press Magazine \/ TPPM","article_published_time":"2013-02-18T22:55:30+00:00","article_modified_time":"2015-03-15T17:02:13+00:00","og_image":[{"width":493,"height":380,"url":"https:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/wp-content\/uploads\/2013\/02\/salvador-dali-desk-e1305349995247.jpg","type":"image\/jpeg"}],"author":"Ruth","twitter_misc":{"Written by":"Ruth","Est. reading time":"28 minutes"},"schema":{"@context":"https:\/\/schema.org","@graph":[{"@type":"WebPage","@id":"https:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/a-dali-quartet\/","url":"https:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/a-dali-quartet\/","name":"Traveltainted | A Dal\u00ed Quartet - Turtle Point Press Magazine \/ TPPM","isPartOf":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/#website"},"datePublished":"2013-02-18T22:55:30+00:00","dateModified":"2015-03-15T17:02:13+00:00","author":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/#\/schema\/person\/e5c2652b24c751cebb8a98cc59b32f17"},"breadcrumb":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/a-dali-quartet\/#breadcrumb"},"inLanguage":"en-US","potentialAction":[{"@type":"ReadAction","target":["https:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/a-dali-quartet\/"]}]},{"@type":"BreadcrumbList","@id":"https:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/a-dali-quartet\/#breadcrumb","itemListElement":[{"@type":"ListItem","position":1,"name":"Home","item":"https:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/"},{"@type":"ListItem","position":2,"name":"A Dal\u00ed Quartet"}]},{"@type":"WebSite","@id":"https:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/#website","url":"https:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/","name":"Turtle Point Press Magazine \/ TPPM","description":"brought to you by Turtle Point Press","potentialAction":[{"@type":"SearchAction","target":{"@type":"EntryPoint","urlTemplate":"https:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/?s={search_term_string}"},"query-input":"required name=search_term_string"}],"inLanguage":"en-US"},{"@type":"Person","@id":"https:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/#\/schema\/person\/e5c2652b24c751cebb8a98cc59b32f17","name":"Ruth","image":{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-US","@id":"https:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/#\/schema\/person\/image\/","url":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/fbd40cccaac0d925a639f7db868bd1e2?s=96&d=mm&r=g","contentUrl":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/fbd40cccaac0d925a639f7db868bd1e2?s=96&d=mm&r=g","caption":"Ruth"},"url":"https:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/author\/ruth\/"}]}},"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/473"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=473"}],"version-history":[{"count":10,"href":"https:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/473\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1005,"href":"https:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/473\/revisions\/1005"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/676"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=473"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=473"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=473"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}![\"artistimage_HanD\"](\"http:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/wp-content\/uploads\/2013\/02\/artistimage_HanD.jpg\")
<\/a><\/p>\n