A bit of Spanish surrealism

I'm feeling Dali-esque

We got back from Spain exactly two weeks ago, but I haven't had time to finish processing it -- not to mention editing the pictures or writing about it! It seems like we hit the English ground running . . . so busy trying to catch up with all of the friends and family that we have no time to see during the school year. Our summer calendar, which I always imagine as white and wide-open, is all blacked out.

One of my dear blog friends described herself as a "sociable loner," and it seems like such an apt description to me (or should that be of me?). I need to unpack my suitcases and get back in touch with my loner side -- not to mention my blog friends. The sociable side feels as stretched as this reflection of Salvador Dali.

Teatre-Museu Dali

If you are ever in Figueres, or even close to it, I strongly urge you to visit Salvador Dali's Theatre-Museum. It is a completely over-the-top visual extravaganza created by the artist himself -- and truly unique, as this glimpse of the exterior wall reveals.

I'm not sure what the little golden man is meant to represent - was SD giving himself an Oscar? -- but those lumpish triangles are actually loaves of bread, and yes, those are eggs. Apparently, they were the fuel for Dali's creativity in more ways than one.

Bread has been one of the oldest subjects of fetishism and obsessions in my work, the number one, the one to which have I have been most faithful. (Salvador Dali)

Although Dali talked all sorts of rubbish, I agree with him about bread! (Bee)

As for eggs, I can't see an egg these days without thinking of the sad demise of Ralph and Lauren. When we arrived home from our Spanish vacation, they were reported missing by the neighbors. At this point, we have to assume that they are truly gone. Since the gate was closed, and no feathers have been found, we have to suspect hen-napping. It's all a bit surreal.

And for the first time in three years, I'm out of eggs!

Dali's table: in the Hotel Duran

I always like to know about the food aspect of things, so I was fascinated by Dali's special table at the Hotel Duran. Since we may never be in Figueres again, we opted for the Dali Smörgåsbord: Theater-Museum, jewelery display, and tour of Dali's Figueres -- which included his childhood home, his teddy bear, and his special "cellar" at this Figueres landmark. Anyone can reserve Dali's table, and observe the various pictures and other memorabilia on display. If you run out of vinegar (not to mention white wine), just help yourself from one of the casks!

As I was snapping this picture, the waiter suddenly emerged, like an apparition, from the darkness. The camera ending up catching what I hadn't seen -- a very Dali-esque effect, I thought. So much of his art deals with optical illusions, and he liked experimenting with lenses.

Jamón serrano

"the emblematic food of Spain"

This large pig haunch was displayed, rather luridly, in the middle of the restaurant. The waiter carved directly from it.

I suppose that Dali ate ham with his bread, but no one ever mentioned it.

Dali, Gaudi and pigs: the big three in Catalonia.

The Gala Dalí Castle in Púbol

(you can just glimpse the tower)

the Pyrenées loom in the background

According to the Dali myth, Gala was wife/mother/goddess/muse/queen to the great artist. Her face and form, often linked with mythological subjects, appear over and over in Dali's work.

I'm not sure if Muse is all that it is cracked up to be, though. Apparently, he wasn't the easiest man to live with. I got the impression that he didn't have much of a sense of humour -- for all of his love of trickery -- and that he was an egoist of the highest order. When persistently questioned, our tour guide revealed that he was often bad-tempered and known to berate Gala for her spending habits.

Nevertheless, Dali did buy his wife a castle -- complete with throne. Whether it was an act of homage, or penance, I'm sure it suited his own sense of self-aggrandizement and myth-making. The best bit is that he had to ask permission to visit. Well, supposedly.

Bon Bon and I thought that the castle was lovely, although given the chance we would probably re-decorate. Sigmund was underwhelmed by its dainty size, though, and kept referring to it as Gala's "semi." (Unlike Salvador, Sigmund does have a sense of humour -- particularly when it comes to taking the piss.)

It was a castle on a nice human scale. Quite unlike Gaudi's unfinished masterpiece -- La Sagrada Familia.

La Sagrada Familia

(still under construction)

My children are not the most willing of cultural tourists. (I think that we blew their fuses in Florence two summers ago.) Any kind of church or cathedral immediately provokes a powerful response -- but not of the sacred kind. It did sort of amuse me when my world-heritage-site-weary daughter said, "But why do we have to visit this church? It's not even finished."

I have quite the opposite response. Everything about this grand cathedrals fills me with awe. There is something about a project that won't be finished in a human lifetime -- or even several decent life-spans -- which I find unutterably inspiring, and yes, surreal. These ambitious projects transcend all of our petty human traits: greed, impatience, short attention-spans, the notion of private ownership. With a bit of luck (and lots of money), La Sagrada Familia might be finished . . . more than 100 years after Gaudi died.

Gaudi's work can be seen all over Barcelona, and although it is always described as "modern," it doesn't really suit my mental image (metallic, glassy and sleek) of that word. Supposedly, he drew his inspiration from nature's forms -- but they are terribly strange in his renderings. More often than not, they remind me of the witch's candy house in the Hansel and Gretel fairy tale. Alluring, ornate and a bit nightmarish.

You can look and look . . . but it's as if your eye can't entirely absorb what it is seeing.

From far away, I zoomed in on this tiny piece of the Nativity in the Temple of La Sagrada Familia. Apparently, every little detail has meaning. I think that it looks a bit like an overfrosted cake from a distance, but all of that texture is fascinating if you can home in on it.

from the Facade of Birth

one of the many details

from the Temple of La Sagrada Familia

Mae West said that Too much of a good thing can be wonderful. But more often, I think that too much of good thing is probably just too much.

Too Much of a Good Thing

I've neither time nor wit for heavy-duty rumination at the moment. I'm too busy gathering rosebuds -- both literally and figuratively.

Perhaps it's because of the flowering season; perhaps it's down to the rare and glorious sunshine; but May and June in England are cram-ful of buzzing activity.

Even though I do have a Garboesque side, at the moment I'm just a girl who can't say no.

In the last nine days: I've been to a 40th birthday party, a 50th birthday party, three children's birthday parties, a BBQ and a summer fete. I've had 15 fourteen year-olds dancing, laughing, screeching, and eating Mexican food in my house. I've had 15 rather more restrained old friends eating hamburgers in my garden. I've been to London with one set of Houston visitors, and Hampton Court with another set. I'm gearing up for another weekend of much the same -- with friends for July 4, two more birthday parties and the Race for Life.

Why am I living my life like it's a race?

On Saturday, I spent a chunk of the day at my youngest daughter's summer fete. In a moment of true madness, I volunteered to make 100 roll-out sugar cookies (in the shape of ice cream cones; very cute, actually) for a decorate-your-own-cookie booth. Although I have burbled on about my enthusiasm for cookies, quite recently in fact, I do think there is a limit -- and I may have reached it.

Mae West once suggested that "too much of a good thing can be wonderful . . . " but I'm fairly certain that she wasn't talking about cookies.

I might wear myself out for friends, but I draw the line at baked goods.

I know that one day it will be November, when the days fade by late afternoon, and everyone hunkers down. I will remember, wistfully perhaps, these long, frantic days. But at the moment, I feel like I could do with a quiet afternoon in a darkened room.

But never mind that! Tomorrow I'm off to Wimbledon.