The Extreme Pleasure of Being Salvador Dali

I meant to post this a while back. It is the monologue I read (performed?) in Nova Scotia earlier this year. After dithering about what to read, I stumbled across a wonderful photograph of Dali in the old Church we were staying at and decided it was a sign. In fact, I used the picture as a prop. I have replaced the name Gary with Greg after a number of people thought there was some autobiographical sincerity in the work. Haha!

If you know a little about Salvador’s life, you might enjoy this piece . . .

The Extreme Pleasure of Being Salvador Dali

I am the reincarnation of Salvador Dali. Just like Dali, I was possessed. I’m not now. I got a priest to perform an exorcism. Father O’Flattery loved the hand-crafted crucifix sculpture I made as a thank you and wanted me to make more for him. The priest has always denied our encounter but, as my close friends and obscure acquaintances can attest, my memory is persistent. You need only to visit the Museum of Modern Art in The Big Apple to see for yourself. Ah, The Persistence of Memory.

Don’t be fooled by the lack of moustache

(SMOOTHS UPPER LIP) . . . I get it regularly waxed.

And don’t be fooled by my gender

(RUNS HANDS OVER BODY) . . . for, just like time, gender is fluid.

I had a brother. He only lived for nine months. He was, you see, the pre-incarnation of Salvador’s brother so universal laws prevented him from living longer. Of course I didn’t know all this when I was a child. There were many words adults used to describe me back then: eccentric, difficult, self-centred, gifted. When I was fifteen years old, I saw a photograph of Salvador and instantly recognised myself. His picture is more like me than my reflection. It is surreal.

First chance I got I headed to Barcelona, site of my – sorry his – first exhibition. I met a strange but very attractive poet by the name of Felicity Germaine Long (who I now know to be the reincarnation of Fredrico Garcia Lorca). Coincidence? Not likely. Felicity was a wonderful poet but I’m not really that way inclined so I gave her the slip when I left Spain. I’ve been told she wanders Europe clutching a sheaf of poems inspired by me. I have read one of them – a friend stumbled across it in a French newspaper. The poem – Sally Davis is Melting – is reasonable. Sally Davis. Yes, that’s my name in this lifetime. SD. As I always say, there are no coincidences.

What’s that? Yes, I do paint. But I steer clear of clocks – melting or otherwise – due to constant comparisons of my work to the old Dali’s. What is the point of trying to explain to a bunch of philistines that we are one and the same? I keep my optical illusion and negative space work to myself, finding it too taxing to convince gallery owners and arts journalists that he is me. Sally is Salvador.

My mother disowned me when, upon my return from Barcelona, I exhibited a drawing with the inscription ‘sometimes I spit on my father’s portrait’. Overtly, this was her reason for my expulsion. However, given that she couldn’t stand the sight of my father and practically danced on his grave, I am convinced it was more likely my marriage to Greg that sent her into a spin. You see, Greg is ten years younger than me, and he was a married man. I lured him away from his wife, the surrealist poet Paula Edward and my mother was appalled.

Greg is the only man for me, my safe harbour and my most favoured muse. He forgives my dalliances with occasional lesser muses.

Stormy seas ahead you say? What on earth are you on about? Greg? Drug me? Never! He adores me. Well, yes, it is widely reported that Gala fed Salvador some sort of cocktail but, personally, I imagine she was just concerned for his health. Just as Greg is for mine. He gives me a smorgasbord of vitamins every morning and I am brimming with vigour.

(COUGHS AND WIPES SWEAT FROM BROW)

What is that incredulous look on your face? Look I’ve shared stages with anteaters, Russian wolfhounds and imbeciles. There’s a desert in Bolivia named after me. And a crater on the planet Mercury. What? No, it’s not the Sally Davis Desert. Yes, I do know it is the Dali Crater. Why won’t you listen?

Just indulge me and allow me to quote my former self: ‘every morning upon awakening, I experience a supreme pleasure: that of being Salvador Dali.’

What gets you out of bed?