Dalíwood
"Every morning when I wake up, I experience an exquisite joy - the joy of being Salvador Dalí - and I ask myself in rapture: What wonderful thing is this Salvador Dalí is going to accomplish today?"
- S. Dalí
I saw the big exhibit today. I got to wear my little headphones and walk around for several hours and learn the inner workings of a very popular visual artist. I actually came to respect his work in a far greater capacity than I ever had previously. Dalí painted about love and fear and death, he created his own symbolism using everyday objects, and bore his demons out to the surface and exorcised them with his canvases. He used the classical mode of near photographic realism in painting and created an entirely new style of art.
And I got a little jealous.
Dalí from the perspective of whoever the ghost-like figure is that writes the art museum blurbs was always ahead of his time. From an early age he knew he was destined to be a great painter. He was ultimately expelled from the fancy-pants art acadamy he attended because he didn't deem any of his teachers worth grading his senior project. That's some balls of steel. And taking a look at the carefully laid out museum exhibit it seems that while Dalí didn't necessarily always know exactly where he was headed in a literal way, his artistic drive was pushing him towards further and further exploration. That somehow the deep part of him that told him he had to paint also told him what impulse he better follow in doing so. And that unshakeable little voice allowed him to continually evolve and often anticipate where the rest of the art world was headed. At least, that's what the curator would have me believe.
There's a point most people hit in life when you realize that you aren't ahead for your age anymore. I remember being told I was reading at the 8th grade level when I was in 4th grade (whatever that means) and I thought, "Look at that, I've managed to pick up 4 years here. Who knows what I'll be doing when I'm actually in 8th grade!" I became entranced by the idea that there was this magic time I'd managed to surpass, I'd skipped those paltry 4-7th grade years and skipped right ahead to that magical number 8. I liked the feeling of being more than my little 4th grade self might outwardly show. And if you take the time to tabulate all the advanced years accrued in various subjects over the years I ought to be operating at the ripe old age of 34 by this point in my life.
And sometimes I think I'm trying too hard to do just that. Being a driven person is a blessing and a curse. A blessing because I don't have to root around for the innate drive to want to pursue goals in life. I don't need direction, I've got plenty thank you much. I have so many objectives and plans that I sometimes, and here's the curse, forget to check in and make sure they're worth having. A lot of times I end up with ideas about what I'm supposed to be doing, be it in relationships, in my career, sometimes I even evaluate my emotional stasis level in terms of how I rate against my age group.
A few times when I went home to Chicago people not knowing me and my sister mistook her for the elder sibling. And I'm struck by the vehemance with which I felt the offense at the time. What a egregious and unpardonable mistake it felt like. How heinously demeaning a reflection on my persona it seemed to be. It's sort of shocking to me now how terribly much this perception upset me. It doesn't bother me any more. But why?
Because I've taken a step back and thought about how many ways I took pride in myself when I perceived myself ahead of the game: dating those older than myself, securing positions I could claim were beyond what I might expect of my years, being the youngest in a given situation and still having those around me treat me as an equal. I loved and still fall into the trap of loving to think of myself in these terms. And when I justify the behavior I tell myself it's not me trying to prove anything, I'm just "that way." But more likely it's really just me back in those 4th grade shoes pretending to be an 8th grader, needing desperately to feel ahead of the game. And I'm starting to think that's a little bit stupid. Ok, everyone wants to be a genius. But while there are lots and lots of smart people who do cool and interesting things, real honest to god geniuses are pretty rare. And they usually aren't very happy anyway.
I doubt Dalí was sitting around thinking what he could do at a given time to prove he was going to be a famous painter, what steps he could engage in to be as far along that road as he could. He was probably just trying to stay true to his impulses, however "childish," however ahead or behind his times they may have felt. He followed what his insides were telling him he needed to do to stay true to the best version of him, however ant-covered or melted-clock-filled that had to be. And when those things no longer struck a chord with him, he didn't worry if the timing was right, he just moved on. But not before really letting himself paint all the rocks shaped like his father trying to castrate him that he needed to.
I think I'm figuring out how to enjoy acting my own age. Because just perhaps there's stuff in those between years that I might miss experiencing if I skipped now and did mangage to go straight to 34. Things that would make me a better 34 year old when I actually get there. It's about time I called in those advanced reading level years anyway.
- S. Dalí
I saw the big exhibit today. I got to wear my little headphones and walk around for several hours and learn the inner workings of a very popular visual artist. I actually came to respect his work in a far greater capacity than I ever had previously. Dalí painted about love and fear and death, he created his own symbolism using everyday objects, and bore his demons out to the surface and exorcised them with his canvases. He used the classical mode of near photographic realism in painting and created an entirely new style of art.
And I got a little jealous.
Dalí from the perspective of whoever the ghost-like figure is that writes the art museum blurbs was always ahead of his time. From an early age he knew he was destined to be a great painter. He was ultimately expelled from the fancy-pants art acadamy he attended because he didn't deem any of his teachers worth grading his senior project. That's some balls of steel. And taking a look at the carefully laid out museum exhibit it seems that while Dalí didn't necessarily always know exactly where he was headed in a literal way, his artistic drive was pushing him towards further and further exploration. That somehow the deep part of him that told him he had to paint also told him what impulse he better follow in doing so. And that unshakeable little voice allowed him to continually evolve and often anticipate where the rest of the art world was headed. At least, that's what the curator would have me believe.
There's a point most people hit in life when you realize that you aren't ahead for your age anymore. I remember being told I was reading at the 8th grade level when I was in 4th grade (whatever that means) and I thought, "Look at that, I've managed to pick up 4 years here. Who knows what I'll be doing when I'm actually in 8th grade!" I became entranced by the idea that there was this magic time I'd managed to surpass, I'd skipped those paltry 4-7th grade years and skipped right ahead to that magical number 8. I liked the feeling of being more than my little 4th grade self might outwardly show. And if you take the time to tabulate all the advanced years accrued in various subjects over the years I ought to be operating at the ripe old age of 34 by this point in my life.
And sometimes I think I'm trying too hard to do just that. Being a driven person is a blessing and a curse. A blessing because I don't have to root around for the innate drive to want to pursue goals in life. I don't need direction, I've got plenty thank you much. I have so many objectives and plans that I sometimes, and here's the curse, forget to check in and make sure they're worth having. A lot of times I end up with ideas about what I'm supposed to be doing, be it in relationships, in my career, sometimes I even evaluate my emotional stasis level in terms of how I rate against my age group.
A few times when I went home to Chicago people not knowing me and my sister mistook her for the elder sibling. And I'm struck by the vehemance with which I felt the offense at the time. What a egregious and unpardonable mistake it felt like. How heinously demeaning a reflection on my persona it seemed to be. It's sort of shocking to me now how terribly much this perception upset me. It doesn't bother me any more. But why?
Because I've taken a step back and thought about how many ways I took pride in myself when I perceived myself ahead of the game: dating those older than myself, securing positions I could claim were beyond what I might expect of my years, being the youngest in a given situation and still having those around me treat me as an equal. I loved and still fall into the trap of loving to think of myself in these terms. And when I justify the behavior I tell myself it's not me trying to prove anything, I'm just "that way." But more likely it's really just me back in those 4th grade shoes pretending to be an 8th grader, needing desperately to feel ahead of the game. And I'm starting to think that's a little bit stupid. Ok, everyone wants to be a genius. But while there are lots and lots of smart people who do cool and interesting things, real honest to god geniuses are pretty rare. And they usually aren't very happy anyway.
I doubt Dalí was sitting around thinking what he could do at a given time to prove he was going to be a famous painter, what steps he could engage in to be as far along that road as he could. He was probably just trying to stay true to his impulses, however "childish," however ahead or behind his times they may have felt. He followed what his insides were telling him he needed to do to stay true to the best version of him, however ant-covered or melted-clock-filled that had to be. And when those things no longer struck a chord with him, he didn't worry if the timing was right, he just moved on. But not before really letting himself paint all the rocks shaped like his father trying to castrate him that he needed to.
I think I'm figuring out how to enjoy acting my own age. Because just perhaps there's stuff in those between years that I might miss experiencing if I skipped now and did mangage to go straight to 34. Things that would make me a better 34 year old when I actually get there. It's about time I called in those advanced reading level years anyway.
posted by A at 11:54 PM
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