The Proto-Surrealist

The canvasses of Giorgio de Chirico (1888-1978), sui-generis painter and forefather of the Surrealist movement in Art, have an unsettling effect. The paintings are mostly characterised by empty streets and squares, colonnades, squat architecture, statues, mannequins, shadows and distant steam trains; people rarely feature. His style was unique, but de Chirico has been eclipsed in fame by subsequent Surrealist painters whose real contributions are unworthy of his legacy: Magritte and Ernst are off the hook, but Dali's reputation seems to have enjoyed immeasurable indulgence in the past fifty years. I cannot believe that people still have such a generous opinion of his gaudy, cheap tricks and transparent tromp l'oeil. I will concede only as far as to give him due credit for the crucifiction paintings, which, for sheer, brilliant perspective, are surely a marvel. But I digress...and now for something completely stupid: an impromptu Surrealist/Dada shaggy dog anecdote.

Rene Magritte was throwing a birthday bash for his friend Andre Breton. The invitations were all written automatically by their friend Tristan Tzara and, as a result, were totally incomprehensible to the few invitees who received them. Furthermore, Magritte had asked his friend Jean "Hans" Arp to address the invitations. This resulted in a somewhat eclectic guest-list after Arp decided the guests should be chosen according to the laws of chance. But they were all there. Max Ernst arrived in good time riding a mechanical elephant. Dali was very late: he apologised gushingly and explained that he had lost track of the time because all the clocks in his house had inexplicably melted. He had tried to ring ahead, of course, but had found, to his dismay, that some idiot had substituted a lobster for his telephone. Frida Khalo had called earlier in the week to explain that she would, on the day of the party, be undergoing complex surgery to donate her circulatory system to a woman who looked exactly like her. Joan Miro got confused. Magritte had decorated Breton's hall with all manner of wonderful contrivances: cloudy-blue-sky wallpaper; giant pipes, cannons and a model train emerging from the fireplace. The dress code specified dark suits with bowler hats. Food was provided in the form of apples. All the drinking cups were completely useless. All the urinals were upside-down. Breton's speech was pretentious and boring. Ernst started an apple fight and was ejected forcibly. Dali visibly began hitting on Georgette, pinching her rear and cupping her breasts with his hand. Miro was all over the place. Celebes came crashing through the wall and drenched everyone in bottom-grease. At that point, Duchamp entered dramatically, farted, then sat down and started playing chess. The rest is history.