Dali and Age…odd? Yes.

“Let the labyrinth of wrinkles be furrowed in my brow with the red-hot iron of my own life, let my hair whiten and my step become vacillating, on condition that I can save the intelligence of my soul – let my unformed childhood soul, as it ages, assume the rational and esthetic forms of an architecture, let me learn just everything that others cannot teach me, what only life would be capable of marking deeply in my skin!”
― Salvador Dalí

(photograph: a bowl of nicely aged peppers)

Salvador Dali, to some art lovers (and my former students), is considered indeed one of the “great” artists of modern time. He help heralded the Surrealist movement to the forefront of the art world during the mid 20th century. Dali, however, is not credited with necessarily birthing Surrealism, but was rather the artist who seems best remembered for the role he played in it’s advancements.

Surrealism was actually born in Zurich in the early 20th century at the onset of World War I, under the blanket of the DaDa movement. A basic escape from conventional art, literature and thought–with a step into the world of the absurd– all full of youthful angst, disillusionment, a world war, political unrest and creative unhappiness. It was tongue and cheek, a youthful flight from the tried and true norm of the time. I am not a fan, but my students were always drawn to the allure of the DaDa and Surrealist movements– as to Dali in particular.

There is a certain curiosity to Dali’s work. It certainly draws the viewer into the canvas. Be it his bizarre combinations or the odd placement of subject matter, the exaggerations of human or animal forms, or his peculiar take on a historical event–all of which are portrayed in his paintings– to his even more bizarre and eccentric behavior during his lifetime— my kids love(d) Dali. He was always a favorite to imitate, explore and study. They even enjoyed the old black and white Youtube clips of Mike Wallace’s 1958 interview with Dali. Of which I find ridiculous, as he (Dali) appears simply daft–poor Mike Wallace.

I did stumble upon this Dali quote today. I am also feeling a bit ancient of body as I am still dragging around this blasted air-boot cast on my leg. Noticing the dried peppers as I was cleaning up the kitchen, I decided I was feeling pretty much how they looked, wrinkled and worn out. I remembered the quote and thought it aptly summed up my current mood. But in pairing Dali with my mood, perhaps all is not lost as there is truly a bit of the absurd involved—giving way to Dali’s ability of not taking things (or in my case, myself) too seriously. One thing I will give him credit for–even if I think him more of a nutcase, his ability to not take life too seriously—sometimes I just need reminding…Thank you Señor Dali.

A clover patch and God’s Blessings

May the blessing of God’s soft rain be on you,
Falling gently on your head, refreshing your soul
With the sweetness of little flowers newly blooming.
May the strength of the winds of Heaven bless you,
Carrying the rain to wash your spirit clean
Sparkling after in the sunlight.
May the blessing of God’s earth be on you,
And as you walk the roads,
May you always have a kind word
for those you meet.

During the late 1800’s the dreaded potato famine, which was akin to the 1930’s dust bowl in magnitude of hunger and devastation to a people, saw the immigration of thousands of Irish to the United States. My great-grand parents were a part of that mass exodus (not necessarily Sylvia Kay’s but we won’t digress).

Upon arrival in the US, be it the Irish, the Italian, the Germans, the Russians, the Scandinavians, etc…all brought with them their culture’s customs, their faith, their foods— or rather melded all of the old world’s to now the new world’s. Creating the amalgamation so many of us today call our family’s traditions and heritage. Making us, this generation of today’s American, who and what we are.

As I look out over our yard, only to hear my husband’s frustration in the reoccurring clover invading his hard cultivated grass, I think of the honey bees and the clover honey that is so much a part of the South. I think of my childhood and the clover flower necklaces and head pieces we use to make on those warm summer evenings, I think of the endless summer hours spent combing the clover patch in search of that oh so elusive 4 leaf clover, which can often be found now pressed in an old bible or Nancy Drew book from my younger days….

And I can’t help but think of the Irish–not that clover has anything to do with a shamrock, but there’s that mythical and often mystical amalgamation of cultures—what kid hasn’t connected the tireless 4 leaf clover search and then spotting that awe inspiring rainbow, after a rain, with Ireland, luck, and Leprechauns?

So as I surveyed this latest patch of clover, my thoughts turned oddly to families past and families present, as well as to God and His blessings, which are to be found even in clover patches. May God richly bless you this day….