The World Behind the Door (2 page)

      
"No, of course not. It is just a painting."

      
"Then it is not real."

      
"The
painting
is real," says Dali irritably.

      
"What if you are right and this is a dream and you have imagined me, and when you wake up you paint the very same picture. Now is it a painting of a real lion?"

      
"I don't know," admits Dali.

      
The lion smiles a very human smile. "You see?" he says. "Reality is a lot trickier than you think. We will have to discuss it further."

      
"Right now?"

      
The lion shakes his head. "No, right now you are about to wake up. Of course," he continues, "there is the possibility that this is reality, and you will waken into an incredibly boring dream world in which you live in an imaginary country called Spain."

      
"It is very confusing," says Dali.

      
"It is more than confusing," says the lion. "It is a conundrum."

      
"Will anyone ever solve it?" asks Dali, suddenly aware of the pillow beneath his head.

      
"There is one man who can," says the lion.

      
"Who is it?" asks Dali. "Will I ever meet him?"

      
Suddenly the woman begins laughing. The giggles become wild peels and shrieks as she gasps for breath. Dali wonders what he has said that is so amusing, and finds himself back in his bed, staring at the ceiling of his Madrid apartment.

      
He gets up, puts on his slippers, pulls his brocaded satin robe around him, and wanders out of the bedroom, past the small kitchen, and into the studio, where he pauses before the easel and surveys the canvas that sits there, clearly a work in progress but far enough along that he knows exactly what the final painting will look like. He is not pleased with it. There's nothing especially wrong with it; it's just, well, not exactly dull, but . . .
 
he doesn't know. It lacks something, though he can't put his finger on what's missing.

      
Probably the best work he has done to date is the painting he has titled
Madrid Slums
. He walks over to where it hangs and studies it. Good lines, good muted colors, very competent composition. Yes, the critics were right: it's good, there's no question of it. His mastery of technique is unquestioned. And certainly a Madrid slum is a more interesting subject than yet another portrait or landscape.

      
But there is nothing of
him
in the painting, nothing that speaks up and says "This is the unique vision of a man named Salvador Dali, and no one else in the world could possibly have painted it because no one else sees the world in remotely the same way." It's not naturalistic; no one will ever mistake it for a photograph. But no one will ever look at it and say, "Of
course
it's by Dali," either.

      
Picasso could have painted it in an afternoon, and all the details would be the same, but it would nonetheless be uniquely his own. Dali frowns. Picasso can create twenty paintings a week if he feels like it, and every one of them is clearly by him and no one else. What is the secret? He himself is as unique a human being as Picasso, but his paintings, though well received, don't shout at the world, "I am by Dali and no one else!"

      
He hasn't admitted it to himself before tonight, but clearly he is trying to, in his dreams.

      
A strange dream, that one. Strange, but familiar, too, as if he's had it dozens of times, forgetting it each time he awakens, but feeling strangely comfortable every time he falls asleep and revisits that dreamscape.

      
He shakes his head, as if that will shake off his uncomfortable analysis of his work. It doesn't.

      
Maybe it's his subject matter, he thinks. Anyone can walk through a slum. Maybe he needs to see things no one else has ever seen, and paint
them
.

      
But what has no one else seen?

      
Well, then, maybe he should take the commonplace and turn it into something no one's ever seen. Take his father, for instance. What if he painted a huge spider with his father's face?

      
He grimaces. He knows exactly what would happen, and there is not the slightest chance that he might live through it.

      
No, that's not the answer. He's clearly missing something, though. What could Picasso bring to a painting of a Madrid slum that he couldn't? There's no question in Dali's mind that in terms of technique he can match Picasso brushstroke for brushstroke. So what is the real difference?

      
He has a feeling that if he
knew
the difference, it would show up in his paintings.

      
Am I just a dull, uninteresting man,
he wonders,
destined to paint very well-crafted, dull, uninteresting paintings?

      
He doesn't know. He hopes not.

      
Finally he shrugs, and walks out of the house to enjoy the first rays of the rising run. He stops at a nearby fruit stand, buys a pomegranate, and nods to a couple of bypassers he knows.

      
Enough self-pity and self-doubt,
he thinks.
Tomorrow is a brand-new day, filled with mystery and promise. In fact, here it is tomorrow, and I will spend the entire day painting.

      
Well, not the
entire
day, he reminds himself. He has been offered tickets to a lecture by that little man from Vienna, the one whose work continues to stir up so much controversy.

      
Well, if he gives an interesting talk, maybe I'll offer to paint his portrait
, thinks Dali.
It's not likely, but one never knows. What was his name again?

      
Dali searches his cluttered memory. He's read about the man, even discussed him with friends. What in the world was his name?

      
And finally he remembers.

      
It is Sigmund Freud.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 2: The Dubious Hypnotic

 

      
The two men sat in comfortable leather chairs in a corner of the elegant, wood-paneled hotel bar.

      
"I appreciate your paying for the drinks, Senor Dali," said Sigmund Freud, taking a sip of his brandy, "but it really wasn't necessary. Your work is not unknown to me. I have been aware of it and admired it for a few years now."

      
"It is dreck," replied Dali contemptuously, putting a Turkish cigarette into a foot-long jeweled holder and lighting it. "Utter dreck."

      
"How can you say that?" asked Freud curiously. "You have had several successful exhibitions, you have won some awards, your reputation extends to my own Vienna, and I am told your art brings respectable prices."

      
"It dabbles on the surface of things," said Dali. "Your lecture this afternoon has opened my eyes. There are worlds undreamed-of . . . and yet I dream of them every night. I thought I might be going mad, and perhaps I still am, but at least I know now that I am not the only one whose nightmares repeat themselves again and again."

      
"Our dreams are like escape valves," explained Freud, setting his brandy snifter down on the table between them. "When an engine builds up so much steam that it seems it must explode, there will always be a small value that allows the steam to escape. That is what our dreams do. For example, do you ever dream about your family?"

      
"How did you know?" asked Dali.

      
"It's really not at all unusual. Which member dominates your dreams—your father or your mother?"

      
"Neither."

      
"Then who?"

      
"Salvador Dali."

      
"But that is you."

      
"It is also my father, but I speak of neither of us." His mouth twitched uncomfortably. "I am not the first Salvador Dali born to my parents. Three years before my birth they had a son, and they named him Salvador. He died before he was two years old." Dali paused, trying to order his thoughts. "I suppose if I behave eccentrically at times, it is to prove that I am
me
and not that other Salvador, that I am my own unique person."

      
"And you have been having these dreams for how long?" asked Freud.

      
"All my life."

      
"And you have been behaving eccentrically . . . ?"

      
"All my life."

      
"And it has seeped over into your artwork." Freud smiled. "I told you: I've seen some of your paintings."

      
"You know what I think of them," said Dali dismissively. "Yet I am a successful artist, at least in the eyes of the world. I am not hurting for money. No one is threatening my life or my property. Why should I keep having this dream?"

      
"Perhaps," suggested Freud with a sly smile, "because your work is dreck."

      
Dali returned his smile. "Perhaps. In fact, that is why I have sought you out. I was wondering: if I were to paint my dream, would
that
become my escape valve? In other words, once I captured it on canvas, would I finally stop dreaming it?"

      
"This is the dream you were describing to me earlier?" asked Freud.

      
"Yes."

      
"The elephant on the stilt-like legs is interesting, though I have no idea how commercial such a painting might be," replied Freud. "But from what you tell me, the main part of your dream concerns a lion that speaks and a pretty girl who growls and roars. How would you create a painting that showed the viewer what makes them the creatures of your dreams, rather than merely a pretty girl and a lion?"

      
"I don't know," admitted Dali.

      
"Neither do I," said Freud.

      
"Then am I never to be free of this dream?"

      
"Oh, sooner or later it will be replaced by another one," answered Freud. "Probably a much more disturbing one."

      
"That is not an encouraging answer, Doctor," said Dali unhappily. "You are the foremost authority on the unconscious. If even you cannot help me, then I am doomed."

      
"May I suggest that you are looking at this all wrong, Senor Dali?" said Freud, taking another sip of his brandy.

      
"I don't understand," said Dali.

      
"I know you don't," said Freud. "That is why you have come to me."

      
"Please explain."

      
"Let me ask you a question first," said Freud. "Are you dissatisfied with just the painting you are currently working on, or with all of them?"

      
"All of them," answered Dali morosely.

      
"
Why
?"

      
"Because it is work anyone could have done."

      
"Would you consider changing your brushes, or the way you mix your paints?" continued Freud. "Would you paint on wood rather than canvas?"

      
"No," answered Dali. "It would make no difference."

      
"Why?"

      
"Because the end result would look the same, or so similar as to make no difference."

      
Freud smiled. "Well, there you have it."

      
Dali frowned in puzzlement. "
What
do I have?"

      
"The reason for your dissatisfaction. It is not your skill or technique that disappoints you, but your subject matter. You must change what you paint, must find new things, things no one else has ever painted, before you will be free of your particular demons."

      
"My thoughts exactly!" said Dali enthusiastically. "But where will I find such things? I can travel the world, but whatever I see in Africa or Asia will already have been captured by African and Asian artists."

      
"Every human being is unique, Senor Dali," replied Freud. "If you can find nothing new in the world, then you must search the inner recesses of your consciousness, your mind if you will, and bring forth those images that are entirely your own, that no one else has ever seen before. And I think you should start with your dream."

      
"But we've already agreed that I cannot, through my painting, show that the lion can speak and the girl can only roar."

      
"There will be other dreamlike details, details that you are overlooking," said Freud. "They obviously did not impress you as much, so your conscious mind does not remember them, but if you will consent to hypnosis, they will be revealed, and perhaps they will be proper subjects for your brush and paints. And once we bring them out into the open, there is an excellent chance that your dream will cease." Another smile. "Even if it doesn't, once you have painted all the details, it may seem less strange and upsetting to you."