An Immersion into the Depths of the Subconscious

A Visit to the Dali Theatre-Museum in Figueres

"Once again we come across figures with loaves of bread on their heads . . . All of them are holding the Dalinian crutch, so meaningful in Dali's imagery. These elements must surely have the meaning here that the painter himself explains in his autobiography, The Secret Life of Salvador Dali: 'It would take quantities and quantities of crutches to give a semblance of solidity . . . crutches immobilise the ecstasy of certain attitudes of rare elegance, crutches to make architectural and durable the fugitive pose of a choreographic leap.' These figures of women also have hollows in the solar plexus, since according to Dali information is contained in empty spaces. Between them is a diver in a diving suit . . . a symbol of the immersion into the depths of the subconscious that awaits the visitor to the Theatre-Museum." (from the guidebook)

Ten Recipes for Immortality, 1973
"An installation with two cases of the luxury edition of the book in which Dali wrote Immortality of genetic imperialism, where he speaks at length on matters that interested him most at that time: 'Today the latest scientific discoveries show that the laws of God are those of inheritance contained in deoxyribonucleic acid, DNA, and which the ribonucleic acid, RNA, is no more than the messenger responsible for transmitting the genetic code, which is the legi intimus of two acids in question . . . This said, I can only hand over to the famous Salvador Dali, who has explained once and for all how the emperor Trajan of Seville sowed the seeds of Europe on conquering Dacia, thus making it possible so that generations, imperially, in aeternum, would be able to differentiate themselves from kangaroos." (from the guidebook)



"From here we go to the bedroom area, which features the bed in the form of a shell . . . and beside the bed, a sculpture made up of a gilded skeleton of a gorilla . . . To help understand this creation we can read some fragments from the Mystical Manifesto, which Dali wrote in 1951: "Aesthetically, through the fierce self-inquisition of the strictest, most architectural, most pythagorical and most extenuating of all 'mystical fantasy', the mystical artist must form himself, through the daily inquisition of these mystical fantasies, in a dermal-skeletal soul (the bones outside, the extremely fine flesh inside) . . . where the flesh of the soul can only grow towards the sky; mystical ecstasy is 'super-happy', explosive, disintegrating, supersonic, undulating and corpuscular, ultra-gelatinous, because it is the aesthetic blooming of the maximum in paradisiacal happiness that the human being can ever experience on earth." (from the guidebook)

Here, in the Fishmongers' Crpyt, deep within his own museum, Dali is buried.



And around a corner (and not in the guidebook), a painting by Jean-Louis Ernest Meissonier:

What was he reading?

A glimpse of Napoleon as a young man, in the memoirs of Adèle d'Osmond, Comtesse de Boigne.

She writes:
In the month of January 1790, my father returned to France, and three months later we joined him there. I have forgotten to say that he had left the army in 1788 to take up a diplomatic career. Formerly he had been colonel of the infantry regiment of Barrois, in a garrison in Corscia. He went there every year.

One of these journeys gave rise to an episode which was of little importance at the time, but afterwards acquired interest.

He was at Toulon, staying with M. Malouet, the naval commissary and a friend of his, waiting for a change of wind to permit his embarcation, when he was informed that a Corsican gentleman desired to see him.

The gentleman was shown in, and after the preliminary courtesies, explained that he wished to return as quickly as possible to Ajaccio, and, the only felucca in the harbour being chartered by my father, he begged him to allow the captain to accept him as a passenger.

"That is impossible. Sir, as I have chartered the felucca, but I shall be very happy to take you on board as my guest."

"But, Marquis, I am not alone; I have my son with me and my cook, whom I am taking home."

"Well, Sir, there will be room enough for all of you."

The Corsican thanked my father profusely, and came to see him frequently for several days, at the end of which the wind changed and they embarked.

At dinner, to which my father invited the passengers, he requested an officer, M. de Belloc, to call the Corsican's son, who was wearing the uniform of the military school and reading at the end of the boat.

The young man refused.

M. de Belloc came back irritated, and said to my father, "I should like to throw the unsociable little fellow into the sea. He has an unpleasant face. Will you grant me permission, Colonel?"

"No," said my father, laughing; "and I am not of your opinion. His face shows character, and I am sure that he will be heard of some day."

"The unsociable fellow was the future Emperor Napoleon." Belloc has related this scene to me at least ten times, adding with a sigh, "Ah, if the Colonel had only allowed me to throw him into the sea, he would not be turning the world upside down today."

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An episode "which was of little importance at the time, but afterwards acquired interest." Familiar, yet unbelievable. Too trivial to be made up, which means it must be true.

It's familiar - of course one doesn't like to be interrupted when reading.  Those of us who read constantly, obsessively, as a child - surely we would rather read than go to dinner - we carry our books with us everywhere - yes would read, even in a boat.

It's unbelievable - "I should like to throw the unsociable little fellow into the sea." Perhaps declaring, "This is the future Emperor of France!"  How could this transformation be imagined? It's as unlikely as that of any of today's cinematic superheroes.

Must say, I'm curious - what book was Napoleon reading? Others have written at length about that: Napoleon the Reader: the Early Years. It's what you'd expect - Plutarch's Lives, Rousseau, Voltaire.

But here Napoleon is reading something really interesting! It's an example of what is called mise en abyme, or the Droste Effect - a picture of the cover of a book - upon which is an image of Napoleon reading a book - which has a picture on the cover - of Napoleon reading a book . . .

Stamp Collection

 

 

 

The General Bonaparte, Returning from Jaffa, Enters Cairo, 1799, Gustave Bourgain

Transformations

On October 14, 1840, Napoleon's grave at St. Helena was opened. After nearly twenty years in the tomb, the Emperor, like an immortal vampire, was found to be incorrupt.

. . . an indescribable feeling of surprise and affection was expressed by the spectators, many of whom burst into tears. The Emperor was himself before their eyes! The features of the face, though changed, were perfectly recognized; the hands extremely beautiful; his well-known costume had suffered but little, and the colors were easily distinguished. The attitude itself was full of ease, and but for the fragments of the satin lining which covered, as with a fine gauze, several parts of the uniform, we might have believed we still saw Napoleon before us lying on his bed of state.
 
He kept his eyelids constantly closed, by which we had the opportunity of observing that the upper lids were garnished with eyelashes. Years and climate have effected upon the face of this great monarch only a trifling alteration; we may say, indeed, that Time has touched his Imperial and Royal Majesty with the lightest feather in his wing . . . The soldier of Marengo is among us again. His lips are thinner, perhaps, than they were before! how white his teeth are! you can just see three of them pressing his under lip; and pray remark the fulness of his cheeks and the round contour of his chin.

This is from The Second Funeral of Napoleon in Three Letters, to Miss Smith, of London. Published in 1841, it's an account of the disinterment at St. Helena, of the voyage from St. Helena to Paris, and of the elaborate procession and funeral ceremony in the Invalides. Written by one Mr. M.A. Titmarsh, it's a curious document, with reverence ironically represented, and reportage interspersed with sardonic commentary on vanity and human folly, on pomp, nations and glory.

Six years later, Mr. Titmarsh, who was actually William Makepeace Thackeray, published Vanity Fair, and loosed the irresistable adventuress Becky Sharp upon the world.

She proclaims her alliance towards the Emperor early in the book.
"Vive la France! Vive l'Empereur! Vive Bonaparte!"
"O Rebecca, Rebecca, for shame!" cried Miss Sedley; for this was the greatest blasphemy Rebecca had yet uttered, and in those days, in England, to say "Long live Bonaparte!" was as much as to say, "Long live Lucifer!"

Later, Rebecca's emerald eyes blaze across the water towards France.  

"How calm the sea is, and how clear everything. I declare I can almost see the coast of France!" and her bright green eyes streamed out, and shot into the night as if they could see through it.

Then, rather astonishingly, she transforms into a sea serpent.
In describing this siren, singing and smiling, coaxing and cajoling, the author, with modest pride, asks his readers all round, has he once forgotten the laws of politeness, and showed the monster's hideous tail above water?  No!  Those who like may peep down under the waves that are pretty transparent, and see it writhing and twirling, diabolically hideous and slimy, flapping amongst bones, and curling round corpses; but above the water-line, I ask, has not everything been proper, agreeable, and decorous . . . When, however, the siren disappears and dives below, down among the dead men, the water of course grows turbid over her, and it is labour lost to look into it ever so curiously.  They look pretty enough when they sit upon a rock, twanging their harps and combing their hair, and beckon to you to come and hold the looking glass; but when they sink into their native element, depend on it those mermaids are about no good, and we had best not examine the fiendish marine cannibals, revelling and feasting on their wretched pickled victims.

Perhaps after all this is not so surprising. The voluminous skirts of the period hid many mysteries beneath a demure facade.

All these images were drawn by Thackeray himself, to illustrate the first edition of the book.

Paramount Theater, March 24

The curtains are parted without a sound, displaying side panels where the action unfolds with extraordinary scope and strength. The audience feels miraculously liberated. Reality and dreams no longer appear through a tiny casement; a whole wall grows transparent like crystal and opens up another universe. The spectators suddenly become a crowd watching a crowd. The onrush of this magical world causes an emotional shock of rare intensity. (from a review of Abel Gance's Napoleon, by Émile Vuillermoz, 1927)

St. George and the Dragon

We go into the church through a vestibule of utmost fantasy in stucco ornament, its overdoors in several shades of gold and silver, in jade green, and in vivid tones of white and coral.

The oval body of the church, opening beyond this, glitters across at us like a lit cave or grotto, and projects a gilded crown that fills the circle of the dome as with a cornice.

There are magnificent side altars, difficult to take in because of the drama and excitement, as we move in the direction of that grotto towards the scarlet and gold curtain over a projecting balcony that is surely a theatre-box, with another theatre-box and curtain facing it across the chancel, and overdoors below both that are like side entrances onto the stage with a motif above them that is a woman's bust in silver, with a head-dress  of silver plumes.

The proscenium, itself, is framed in by four very tall Salomonic columns of elegant twisting shape, with gilded capitals, linked together by chains of gilded flowers. They carry a cornice which embodies, and to purpose, a trophy of the coat-of-arms of the Bavarian Order of St. George, in chequers again, of blue and white, crowned with the ducal hat, this touching in its turn upon a burst of clouds, and on a host of angelic figures upon a nimbus that vanishes in a blinding gliitter of golden rays into the heavens.

Below this, and filling the centre of the stage, the life size figure of St. George, a knight in golden armour on a silver stallion, rides out into the light. His high-plumed helmet is like that of the cavaliers in the court masquerades of Le Roi Soleil, and with a courtly gesture of his right-hand he despatches the dragon. His lance, like the tournament lances, is given the same Salomonic twist as the twisted pillars upholding the proscenium.

The maiden, but it its difficult not to think of her as Andromeda, is dressed like a peasant girl, and holds up her hand before her eyes at this blinding vision. At the side of the pillars, in front of the stage, two saints are commenting upon the stage action. St. Martin in golden robes takes off his biretta in homage; and opposite him St. Maurus points to the audience, while the golden goose at his feet takes the action from the stage into the church by hissing at the dragon.

The ineffable grace of St. George's horsemanship, his attitude of arrival to the rescue, are rendered in a wonderful blaze of inspiration, yet with all the intensity of a ghostly vision.  

When I read this passage in the book Monks, Nuns and Monasteries, by Sacheverell Sitwell, I too must have been blinded by this vision of utmost fantasy. Like the maiden (whether she is a peasant girl or Andromeda) I almost held up my hand before my eyes in surprise at the vision of this building - a building with an altar with panniers, like an 18th century dress - like the bust of a woman's body - like a feathered head-dress - like a theater box - like a grotto - like the heavens - like the sun.

Blinded, surely, for what other than color blindness could explain the image on the following page.

Well, it's an old book, written in 1965, and the illustrations are all in black and white.

St. George and the Dragon. Man and Lizard. St. George, always wearing armor, and seated on a horse, which makes him a kind of dragon himself. St. George and the Dragon - both carapaced, both scaly, one rearing, one slithering, in recognition. Where do their encounters take place? In Sitwell's book it occurs on the altar of Weltenburg Abbey, in Bavaria. There's also somewhere in England where it is said to have happened, in a village appropriately called Wormingford, in Essex - there's a stained glass window commemorating the encounter in St. Andrew's Church, and a mound in the village where perhaps the dragon is buried.

Where else? My house. Both St. George and the Dragon, on the wall of my living room, present present trophies. And to purpose.