When I was in high school, I loved Salvador Dalí. I knew all his paintings, read his biography, his novel, and his autobiography (The Secret Life of Salvador Dalí.) I vividly recall the first time I saw one of his pictures: it was in fourth grade, and I opened a book that had his premonition of the civil war. I thought it was the weirdest, most grotesque thing I had ever seen.
He did a lot of junk, but at his best, he was very good. I always wished I could have attended the Exposition Internationale du Surréalisme and seen Rainy Taxi, with the bedraggled mannequin in the back seat, water cascading through the roof, and snails crawling over her limbs. Seeing the car in the lobby of the Figueras Theatro Salvador Dalí was a thrill. I still get a kick out of much of his work. There’s no surrealist like him. The ancient church across the street from the theater is a beautiful complement to his craziness, and one he surely appreciated.