I loved her once, or maybe twice
Remembrances strain through the
Dust of tattered yesterdays.
Even her breasts, her hips that twisted
Me through soft whispers, now gone.
Wings that fluttered turned limp and cold.
Perhaps I remember her face, but
Now the smiles allude me.
The eyes so blue tossed love away
In sodden blinks of guile.
Covers of soiled snow, bypass the sun
With long-gone trickles of love.
Her breasts an icy glaze, lost in clumsy steps
Of melting snow.
A gorgeous museum, with art a well told tale, bringing the colorful pieces of Dali’s incredible life. Maybe you’ve seen some of his paintings. No matter what you’ve seen, there are so many more pieces to astonish and enthrall available here organized from his early work to his later creative passions.
But, let’s take you back to the start, from his birth and death in Figueres, Spain, north of Barcelona. His brother, who was born in 1901 and died in 1903, before Dali was born, played an interesting part. When Dali was five, his parents took him to see his brother’s grave and convinced him he was his brother’s reincarnation. It followed him forever, and even wove into his art.
Salvador Dali (full name: Salvador Domingo Felipe Jacinto Dali Domenech, (May 11, 1904 to January 23, 1989) was a man passionate about art of every form. He was one of those artists who can quickly be bypassed if you let yourself judge by just a couple of his surrealist paintings. To know his art, you need to dig deeper, get to know the man, linger among his paintings of different genres, discover his life, a continuing progress, beginning with paintings from when he was thirteen. In that early age, his paintings are not only traditional but beautiful.
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| Self Portrait by the 13 year old Dali |
Dali's sister, painted when he was 18.
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| Painted when he was 21 |
You might say Dali became his art. Quirky for sure. Some of his friends said they couldn’t decide if he was really crazy or faking it. I think he was faking, but looking at his art you might go either way. Was art his personality or was his personality his art?
He was able to attend the major art school in Madrid. He did well, but when it came to graduation and taking the face-to-face examination, he refused, saying he knew more about art than the professors. That bothered his father, of course, but artists are artists, making their way in their own fashion, unlike professors looking for students whose intentions are getting good grades and staying within the traditional bounds.
Dali certainly followed his own trail and in 1926 his yearning took him to Paris. Paris in the twenties were the golden years. The First World War was over and a decade of art sprang forth. Not only Dali, but Picasso, Chagall, Modigliani, and many more artists found new, independent trails of art, Cubism, Surrealism, Dadaism. Other creative realms blossomed, such as big-name authors like Hemingway, Fitzgerald, James Joyce.
Can you pick out the matador and crocodile? Look closely.
Just a few more paintings.
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Different art and designs always spring out of artistic imaginations, spilling into music, clothes, jewelry, fashions, cars, architecture. Many of the same names bounded their way into the twentieth century. Meanwhile, Dali continued to paint, discovering and wandering into more and different art forms. As you walk through the museum you will find his jewelry, telephones, furniture, and sculpture.
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| Notice the breasts, stomach, and knee are all drawers. |
Wandering through the Dali Museum I found the soul of the man and his amazing artistic journey. Take your time, a lot of time. Every step you take will amaze you.
As a side note: the museum was designed by architect Yann Weymouth while he was with the firm HOK. Dali would be proud.
Lots to know and see in St Augustine, Florida. Once you’re there you may suddenly wish you had come sooner. There's Astounding food, lots of shopping, and a history that stretches so far back that I can’t even begin to cut you a slice. So I won’t try, except to note the coming and going of Spanish and French armies. And by the way, St Augustine lays claim to being the oldest city in the United States.
Instead of talking history until your pants are wet, I’ll settle with giving you a way to spend a lovely afternoon. You see, I’m just not the kind of tourist who likes to jump off and back on the tourist bus, thinking, well I saw lots of stuff and the beer was cold and my wife bought some slacks and Spanish perfume for her cousin.
Yes, there is a huge Spanish fort overlooking the harbor, but that’s for another day and no they don’t sell perfume
But, let’s get to the Lightner Museum, which is huge, but not as large as the once magnificent Hotel Alcazar, only a portion of which is the Lightner. The Hotel Alcazar, often noted as a hotel of The Golden Age, commissioned by Standard Oil executive Henry Flagler, opened in 1888 and closed in 1931, then sat for some time, kept from falling apart by St Augustine’s largesse. The museum opened in 1948, founded by Otto C. Lightner, 1887-1950, to house his collections. Yes, he owned the hotel and mansions here and there
I’ll give you a few tidbits and photos of the museum, but not nearly enough for you to hop back on the bus and go shopping for slacks. The museum is several floors, with lovely antique furniture from around the world, never ending exquisite art, and architectural wonders, not to mention giving you outstanding views of the landscape of St. Augustine.
Yes, you cheapskate, it does cost to get in! About the same as two beers at a nice bar.
The indoor swimming pool was 12 feet deep in
one end and 3 feet in the other. Now the
swimming pool is gone. Restaurant is here now.
Now that I’ve gotten you though the fabulous Lightner Museum, time to enjoy a lovely lunch at Harry’s Seafood, New Orleans style. Be seated on a lovely patio, surrounded by trees and exotic florals. Grab some beer if you must, although for lunch in the sunshine, my taste buds fancy white wine. A gentleman and lady’s lunch. No damn flip-flops and baseball caps. But Harry’s understands those with a total lack of couth and I understand gotta go in the direction the money flows. They just don't have to sit with me.
Gentle waves sweep against my feet
And continue a gentle sweep across the shore,
In a rhythm of grace that won a smile
Careless children, born of mother ocean’s womb,
Teasing my toes with ceaseless, rushing voices,
Chasing gulls that fly and meander here and there,
Their feathers, once soft and gray now
Touched in tarnished silver by rays of sun
That splendid ball of fire, reaching down, to warm the Earth
And calm my beating heart, and carve away the darkness
That bares the promise of new beginnings
An orb so bright it shares a splashing chorus with the waves.
Traveling on, I stroll in the warmth of the sand,
Humming my song of blessed contentment.
I only know I do not know
Touched by whispered murmurs
Like butterflies in the sunshine
Trailing melodies on frayed cords
Oh, that those cords were golden
Yet on I go on careless steps
With heart thumping reasons
Trudging onward in muddy slush
Ignorance beneath my feet.
Hope, my only companion,
A scatterings of my mind behind me
Yet on I trod with restless whims
The more I know, I do not know.
The painting above the Poem is by:
What is more pleasing than taking a breath,
Even the last one as we slid to our rest
The in and the out and the softness we feel
I think that each breath gives a soothing appeal
We honor the sky and wind through the trees
The beauty of clouds is a breath, yes indeed
I’m sure it’s the earth just taking a sigh
Just think of that when the wind whistles by
And when the whiff of pot roast spells hunger
Where would we be without breath I ponder?
So, take a deep breath you ladies and gents
And consider just all that your breath represents.
Creatures of the depth of time shred my slumber with their claws
Spewing boiling tar as I lay stricken by grind of their fearsome jaws.
Crackling tongues spew their venom, oh the putrid smell!
Oh, the wicked things that curl like all the snakes of hell!
They sing of all the multitudes who felt my cruel bent,
Coming back to torment me with devils they have sent.
Sweat turning into boiling oil and trickles down my back
Flashing scenes that shame me by all the good I lacked.
Riders on their flaming steeds, with hoof of red hot steel
Oh yes, the very worst of me I know will never heal
Far too late to sooth the past, my wickedness abounds
Devoid of hope, the rudder lost, my ship has run aground.
