Looking at Salvador Dali’s Swans Reflecting Elephants I was stricken by a sudden epiphany. Who was it that first said that swans were beautiful? We all know they are one of the symbols of grace, purity, and beauty but how often do we actually stop to look at them with a critical eye? Ungainly boat-shaped bodies, disproportionately long, snake-like necks, and a waddling gait – are these the attributes of a perfect being, a paragon of physical virtue? In what way does the miraculous transfiguration of Hans Christian Andersen’s infamous “Ugly” Duckling into the feathered equivalent of a snake in a boat constitute a good end? Of course Andersen never was too fond of happy endings…

It was this train of thought that led me to see this famous fairytale in a new light, and realize the superficial nature of the life-affirming end we have all been told by our parents. But have they told us the truth?

What if we look at the Ugly Duckling not as a positive symbol of the transformative power hidden within all of us, but as a profoundly disturbed individual with an agonizing inferiority complex? This complex stems in part from social rejection, in part from his own over-analytic nature. He does not see himself as the adorable, fluffy creature he is and lacks the lighthearted self-acceptance of childhood. Constantly judging and reassessing himself, he willingly accepts the taunts and jeers that are thrown his way. Perhaps he spends too much time looking at his own reflection – a futile exercise that has already brought about the demise of a menagerie of mythological figures.

Self-conscious to the point of obsessiveness, he dreams of only one thing – transformation. The glowing vision of a better self haunts his dreams and strengthens his belief in his own hideousness. He is not a misfit, he is a monster, shunned and loathed by all, even her whom he considers his mother. Seasons pass, and he gradually begins to change. Wearied by his own self-loathing, he hides from himself and is not aware of the alteration at first. But then the revelation comes. Gliding along the glossy surface of a sunlight lake, he takes a deep breath and looks down. But what does the despondent, unsatisfied perfectionist really see in this inverted image? Is it the radiant embodiment of exquisite elegance? No – it is an elephant, a twisted, surrealist inversion of his glamorous fantasies. The stricken idealist stares in horror at the image projected by his distorted imagination. There is no hope then. The world has betrayed his impossible standards, it has proved incapable of producing perfection. Then, like a mocking parody of Narcissus, he plunges into his own reflection and gives up his tormented soul to the dark, swirling waters of the lake.

Eleanor’s bedroom here was smaller than the one at home. She lay in a small but comfortable bed by the window, the drawn curtains leaving the room in semi-darkness. Eleanor’s eyes were open, but she was staring blankly at the window, as if unaware of anything around her. Her mother sat by the bed with a look of concern on her face, heedless of the soft rustling sound disturbing the heavy silence. After a while she raised herself from the chair and headed quietly towards the door. Springing up with a sudden burst of energy, Eleanor stretched her arms desperately towards her mother.

“Don’t leave me!” she wailed, “They will come after me! I can hear them climbing up the wall!”

Mother sighed patiently, “Nothing is coming after you dear. You just need some peace and quiet, and everything will be okay.” Of course Eleanor knew it wouldn’t be, but how could she explain? She watched her mother leave in despairing silence.

The rustling and scraping sounds outside the window intensify. Eleanor’s breathing grows heavier. For a moment, the sounds outside cease, and all that Eleanor can hear is the sound of her own heartbeat. Then the curtain concealing the window begins to move as if pushed by some unseen force, and spread over Eleanor’s bed. The scraping sound returns, louder than ever. Eleanor sits motionless, staring at the curtain, unable to utter a sound…

It was a beautiful morning. As Eleanor’s mother came down the hallway with a wholesome breakfast tray, her step was springy and optimistic, and she hummed a cheerful song. Reaching Eleanor’s door, she had to fumble with the tray for a few seconds before she managed to turn the handle. The door swung open to reveal a view of the room.

She was still humming as looked over at Eleanor’s bed. Sitting in the next room, Father heard the humming stop abruptly, and the tray come crashing down to the floor.

Eleanor lay sprawled on the bed, her blanket in a tumbled heap on the floor. Her hands convulsively grasped the stem of an enormous sunflower lying on top of her. Her face was entirely hidden from view by its poisonously yellow petals, wrapped tightly around her head. She was dead.

As the cold gray twilight faded over the cemetery, Eleanor’s parents watched as their daughter’s coffin was slowly lowered into the grave accompanied by Mother’s sobs. At least she had the comfort of knowing that everything was just as little Eleanor would have wanted. The grave overflowed with her favorite flowers – sunflowers. Mother tenderly caressed the sunflower found in Eleanor’s room and gazed at it with tears in her eyes.

“Watch over and protect our poor Eleanor. She was so very fond of sunflowers,” she whispered, kissing the flower and lowering it reverently into her daughter’s grave. Perhaps the tears blurred her vision as she turned away, but she didn’t see the Sunflower slowly begin to claw at the lid of the coffin with its predatory leaves. She never did.

Go back to review parts II and I.

Eleanor’s mother could not understand why, just when she seemed so much better she had suddenly had a panic attack during a bath. She could not imagine that it was triggered by Eleanor’s yellow rubber duck. The unfortunate girl could sense the horror coming on as it landed with a crash in her foamy bath water – it was the color – the agonizing yellow of the sunflowers that haunted her dreams.

The duck’s body begins to stretch and elongate, while sunflower petals grow out of its head. Eleanor tries to scream, but is unable to find her voice. She begins to push herself to the other side of the bathtub, but the duck, now completely transformed into a sunflower pursues her, floating eerily above the foam.

Before the Sunflowers, Eleanor used to love to sit in the kitchen watching her mother cook. Today however, everything was different. As Mother tipped a bottle of sunflower oil over the frying pan, Eleanor stared nervously at the rough drawing of a sunflower on the label, and the stream of yellowish oil trickling with a deafening growl onto the hot pan.

A funnel of oil rises out of the pan with petals bursting from its top. Her mother doesn’t see it. Eleanor’s eyes widen in fear and she presses herself to the wall. Though she forces herself to remain silent the image pursues her throughout dinner, and the fried potatoes, tainted by the loathsome essence of the oil seem to vibrate beneath her fork.

As Eleanor’s odd behavior increased, her parents began to wonder whether her nervous condition required something more than warm tea. Perhaps a nice trip to the south of France would give her the rest she needed…

In the warm sunlight of a French summer, the family stood in front of a small, cozy-looking country house. The house was freshly painted, and looked clean and very cheerful. Flowerpots stood on the windowsills and a rocking chair creaked on the wooden porch. The house and the yard were surrounded by a fence. Eleanor listlessly surveyed the scene with an absent look. Her face was drained of all color and very thin. Her eyes, which seemed even bigger than before were red from lack of sleep and had a feverish, haunted look in them. Mother took her gently by the hand and led her over to the back gate of the fence.

“There is a beautiful field behind this house.” She murmured softly, “It is so lovely and bright, I am sure the sight of it will cheer you up.” Stepping forward with a tentative shuffle, Eleanor raised her eyes.

The field is a sea of sunflowers of every possible shade of yellow, glowing in the light of the rising sun. The sunflowers turn their sightless faces towards her, their long necks bend over her, drowning her small figure in their sprawling shadow. Suddenly a metal blade, flashing in the sun crashes down on the neck of one of the sunflowers. Its head falls to the ground with a sickening crunch. It rolls towards Eleanor and stops right at her feet, its dead petals brushing against her toes. Eleanor stands motionless, paralyzed by fear. An army of peasants armed with glittering scythes descends on the army of sunflowers. A bloody battle begins. Sunflower heads fly in all directions, stems crash down on all sides, the sunflowers stretch towards the men, shaking their leaves threateningly. Tearing their roots out of the ground, they march towards their adversaries, slashing at them with their powerful leaves. Some slither on the ground like snakes, tangling themselves around feet and dragging their victims to the ground. The field is strewn with dead bodies, and the sunflowers stand over them in grim triumph, blood dripping from their murderous petals.

Click to continue reading part III of this tantalizing story >

It was around four o’clock in the afternoon in a room of Postimpressionistic art at the National Gallery in London. A row of rigid, backless wooden benches cut across the center of the room, and the bright fluorescent lamps hanging from the high ceiling infused the atmosphere with a sickly yellow light. The scanty group of listlessly wandering visitors barely disturbed the oppressive silence.

A couple walked in accompanied by their young daughter. She seemed to be about six years old, her small stature and innocent, large brown eyes making her look even younger. Her frail figure was encased in a flowered pink dress and a yellow wool sweater, which offset her pale complexion. The family walked around the room stopping at a Van Gogh painting. The painting depicted a vase overflowing with vivid yellow sunflowers, which seemed to pop out from their flat blue background. Turning towards the girl the mother began to gesture towards the painting as if explaining something. To the child however, her voice remained unheard.

At first she seemed merely lost in thought, as if she was either not listening, or not hearing what her mother was saying to her. She was staring fixedly at the painting, as an expression of fascination bordering on fear spread gradually over her face…

The sunflowers were motionless only a second ago, but they are slowly beginning to move. Some grasp the edge of the vase with their tentacle-like petals like insects preparing to crawl down the side of the vase, others stretch their green necks forward as if struggling to burst out of the painting. One sunflower slithers out of the vase and begins to make its way across the table top, towards the edge of the painting. Its featureless brown face, surrounded by a mass of writhing yellow petals seems to gaze out in silent menace as it gets closer and closer…

With a cry of terror, she backed away from the painting, almost tripping over her mother’s foot. Her mother stopped talking and looked down at her in surprise. Through the numbness of her horror, she could barely make out her mother’s voice: “Eleanor! What is wrong with you? Stop playing around and pay attention. I was just telling you about the artist who made this beautiful painting. Eleanor, are you listening to me? Eleanor?”

Eleanor glanced absently at her mother and then her eyes slowly drifted back to the painting. Now however, the painting was perfectly peaceful and motionless. Oblivious, her mother turned to her father. “I think we should take Eleanor home now.” She said with a trace of irritation in her voice, “She is obviously too tired to concentrate, and we can always come back another day.”

Assertively, Mother took Eleanor by the hand and led her out of the room. Eleanor followed, her eyes still fixed on the painting.

That night, as Eleanor lay in bed in her ruffled nightgown beneath a fluffy blanket, neither the cheerful curtains on her window, nor the sight of her favorite toys could quell the overwhelming premonition of evil that was beginning to take possession of her senses. Everything felt somehow different, and even the comforting yellow glow of her nightlight, throwing spots of light onto her ceiling seemed eerie and disturbing.
Eleanor stared intently at the spot, her small fingers unconsciously grabbing the edge of the blanket, pulling it up to her chin.

The yellow spot on the ceiling grows in size and quickly multiplies into more spots which begin to morph into silhouettes of sunflowers. The sunflowers begin a wild, swirling dance that begins to move closer and closer to the bed as the sunflowers stretch their leaves like arms threateningly in her direction. Eleanor inches away from them in mute terror. One of her hands gropes desperately around the bed in search of something to use for protection, as she waves the other helplessly in front of the advancing sunflowers. The sunflowers are inches away from her. She begins to gasp for air, her hands still searching frantically over the bed. Just as one of the sunflowers gets close enough to brush against her face, she utters a strangled yell and conceals herself entirely beneath the blanket.

A week passed, and the doctor reassured Eleanor’s parents that she was getting better. Only Eleanor knew that this wasn’t true. She did her best to pretend to participate in normal, everyday life, but visions of the sunflowers only plagued her more and more…

Click to continue reading part II of this tantalizing story >

“In order to learn to draw, you must learn to see”. These words took my attention when I recently read a book about painting. That is how I learned that an object hasn’t a single color, but an infinity of shades. Rendering reality as it is it’s almost impossible. However, I can say that the artist paints only the reality he sees.

Monet began to make associations between reality, nature and painting, following the guidance he received from Eugene Boudin, with whom he began to paint outdoors. After meeting with the artist, Monet wrote: “Boudin, with a tireless kindness, began to guidance me. Finally, my eyes opened and I truly understood nature. In the same time, I learned to love her”.

Monet’s words reminded me of Plato’s story. The greek philosopher imagined a cave in which people, who are tied, look towards a wall to the shadows caused by objects paraded before a fire behind the prisoners. The shadows are seen by people as being the only reality. One of the prisoners managed to escape and goes outside the cave. He contemplates the sun and the surrounding nature. He comes back in the cave to tell the other prisoners what is the actual reality. Nobody believes him. Fortunately, the “reality” drawn by a painter is admired by fans of beauty, even if it is not the true embodiment of the object that stands in front of the artist.

Every artist, at the beginning of his career, has a person who helps him gain maturity in his work. He is the person who will help him define his manner of painting, the person from whom he will learn techniques and tricks that enhance his own ideas. The young artist should add his own vision and experiences to the master’s ideas, tips and tricks to become unique.

For Monet, Boudin was the one who paved the way to an artistic career and the same who made the world aware of the artist Claude Monet. Because of his master, young Monet decided to become a professional artist, painting in direct contact with the reality of nature. The first painting by Monet, where he signed Monet O. 58, is a landscape near the village Rouelles with the water flowing along. The young artists’ passion once opened it could not be taken away even by the painters’ father. In those times artists were not seen kindly, so Monet was left without any financial support from his family, except for an aunt.

The vision of reality will enrich along his life. Called to military service, he goes to Africa, where he fell in love with light and color. While some artists choose to spread darkness, shadows on canvas, Monet prefers the sun and shades that render nature. A man has a lot of stops along the way, in which he has the opportunity to change all or just to improve his vision. Africa was for Monet another stop, where he could see nature in a new light: “My view on things has improved. At first, I didn’t realize that. The impressions of light and color formed there only later revealed, but already sprouted in me a desire for future searches,” wrote the young artist.

If in Africa, Monet looked at nature alone, when he came back, he met the dutch men Johann Barthold Jongkind, who explained to him the practice and motivation of his work, thus complementing the guidance of Boudin. “Since then, he became my true master, whom I owe my views final education,” Monet described the meeting with Jongkind.

Landscapes will define Monet’s work. The most representative paintings are the 250 variations of the famed Water Lilies, painted in the last twenty years of his life. The artist Claude Monet is the one who also informed the world about France’s natural wealth.

Over the years, Monet took the ideas of painters he met along the way, such as Jongkind and Boudin, and combined them with his own unique style and footprint. Monet was able to adapt and borrow his art from his surrounding molding his art into what it is so well known for today.

Therefore, if you consider those next to you as being masters, regardless of their age or training, take the time to open your mind, and listen to what they have to say. You will find out that you become a richer artists just by listening to others.

“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet,” quotes Juliet to Romeo in Shakespeare’s classic. Yet, in art, sometimes the name is the only indicator to the art enthusiast about the painter’s intention.

Salvador Dali was a strange man, is quite the understatement, and so we have much to meditate on in his “Meditative Rose,” rendered in 1958. I can safely say that artists are strange people with sweet and not so sweet symbolism.

An imaginative youth, like many artists I fell in love with Surrealism for its ambiguous and oddly direct treatment of reality and existentialism. I remember my conservative grandparents being fascinated and appalled by the man as much as his artwork. This perspective lives on among most individuals today, as the artist’s work ever evokes paradox, and in turn duality.

I found a beautiful truth in Dali’s “Meditative Rose.” Daily experience is subject to five sensory filters–smell, sound, touch, taste, and feeling, a delirium of interpretation. Dali turns that on the head. The rose defies gravity, fully bloomed over the desert landscape, so common to the artist’s work. It even has its own subtle white aura, as the it floats over the ground and the couple contemplating the horizon. A single dew drop rests on the lower petal. Even over the dreary landscape, the rose is suspended sun-like. While the rose projects light like the sun, it also seems reflective, with a touch of cloud white on a top right petal. The top half of the painting is made of primary colors: red, yellow, and blue, reflected over the landscape. Modern artists, who also dabbled in the science of color, called blue the most spiritual color.

The rose is reminiscent of a a perfectly visually balanced mandala, used for meditative, ritual, and artistic practices. Psychologist Carl Jung attempted his hand at painting a Golden Flower mandala. The two works are striking when compared.

While we could certainly attempt to meditate to this painting, many theorize that the rose isn’t just a spiritual symbol. In fact is is a celebration of love, perhaps of Dali and his wife Gala. The use of figures in pairs on desert landscapes isn’t anything new in Dali’s works. Reference “Archaeological Reminiscence of Millet’s Angelus,” painted in 1935. The use of figures in space in such a way is characteristic of the painter.  In his 1937 “Untitled,” or Woman with Head of Flowers, a strange male figure with a Daliesque, twisty mustache bows before the woman.

I don’t have a twisty, villainous mustache, but I did let out a rather sinister laugh when I discovered how deeply entrenched the artist’s influence was in my own work. I first saw this piece as a poster when I was a little girl, and it was my true introduction to Dali. The truth I discovered in the “Meditative Rose” is another form of timelessness and a beauty. The bright red of the hue makes it hard to stare away. A nice summary of the piece may be the the cliché saying, “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” In my own work, I find that I explore a widely-defined type of universal symbolism, emotion, and philosophy, juxtaposed against landscape. This is true especially in relation of the body to nature. In returning to look at this piece again since my childhood, I discover striking similarities between our use of symbolism as pictoral elements.

The following piece is part of my first solo show. This artwork, entitled “Amongst the Lilies” has an abstract torso (which is almost a landscape) and a series of floating lilies over the horizon. The piece is a exploration of the Dark Night of the Soul, where the individual follows a journey to becoming closer to spiritual wholeness or a god. The poet Yeats compares the journey to becoming one with a lover after a series of doubts. I also approach the painting as this metaphor. Eventually, the draped individual is supposed to reach that “wholeness,” which in a later painting is simply the fading white lilies on black like wisps of smoke.

Regardless of choice of symbolism or use of pictoral images, I resonate with Dali and his famous floating rose. At the most primal level, it represents an outlived sense of beauty and joy that is omnipresent. Is there a particular artist that you admire?