Page 56 of In the Garden of Monsters

Lillian looked intrigued. “What do you mean?”

I explained about Glaucus and the story of the Scylla.

“That doesn’t sound like any sort of transformation that I would want,” Lillian said.

Dalí’s eyes twinkled. “Transformation is the essence of art, my dear. The artist transforms the mundane into the sublime. Even the muse undergoes a transformation, from mere mortal to eternal inspiration.” He gestured at me with his cane. “Now, my little muse, it is time for you to inspire.”

He abruptly turned away from us and strode down the path. I had curled my fists into angry balls, and with a big sigh, I forced myself to relax them.

Lillian knew me well. “Don’t listen to him, Jules. He lives in a world of his own imagination, not reality. Come on, let’s go. This will all be over before you know it.”

We followed after Dalí, and with each step I willed myself to be calm.

When we caught up, he was with the others near the whale in the bubbling brook, the turtle, and the empty Pegasus fountain.

“When you said it was a forest of monsters, I wasn’t sure what to expect,” Lillian said as we neared. “But jeepers, this is wild.”

“I’ll show you around, Signorina Parker,” Paolo offered, sounding eager. “Maestro Dalí will be painting for a long while and there will be time.”

“I’d like that,” Lillian said with a wide smile.

Jack and Gala were helping Dalí set up his easel so it was facing the Pegasus fountain. It was a strange structure, with a raised, hollow dais, upon which a rearing Pegasus was striking a hoof against a pile of rocks. The Pegasus wasn’t that big, certainly not the size of a regular horse.

Gala was standing in the shallow, moss-covered basin of the fountain. “Over here,” she instructed.“Le temps, c’est de l’argent.”

Time is money.I hated her obsession with the latter. But I now understood why it had long been said that she was the reason Dalí was famous. His head was in the clouds; her feet were down on earth. At least she extended a hand to help me up.

Once I was standing inside the basin, Gala immediately started to unbutton my shirt. I shooed her away. “I can do it.”

She stood back. “Then do it. We haven’t got all day.”

“My Gravida, don’t pester themodelo.”

Gala gave her husband a withering look. “If I didn’t pester these people, nothing would get done. We’d waste half the day.”

“She will model, I will paint. If it takes a little time for that to happen, what does it matter?”

Gala stood on the edge of the basin and waved Jack over to help her down. “The longer you take to paint, the fewer paintings you have finished and the less money we have,” she said as he placed her on the ground.

Dalí waved a dismissive hand. “What is money compared to enjoying the moment and readying ourselves for the eternal glory of art?”

“Money is what keeps you in paints and me in furs,” Gala retorted.

Jack, sensing the tension, tried to defuse the situation. “Why don’t we all take a deep breath? The setting is perfect, the light is just right. And Julia isn’t dawdling...” he said, pointing to me. I had just taken off my skirt and tossed it to Lillian. “Don’t worry about them. Come with me. I found a certain spot in the garden I want to show you.”

Before leaving with Jack, Gala went to her husband and said something I couldn’t hear but that seemed like a reprimand. He only harrumphed and began mixing his paints.

I was to stand for this session, which did not delight me in the slightest. It would be much colder with the air flowing around me, and I was bound to be tired standing in one position for so long. Dalí instructed me to raise my hands high toward the mountain of rocks upon which Pegasus was striking its hoof, releasing the waters of the Hippocrene—the inspiration for the Muses. The idea was that I would act as though I were catching flowing water, but when I protested that it would be hard to keep my arms above my head for long, he acquiesced. I could rest my hands on the rocks, but from time to time Dalí would instruct me to hold the pose.

I suspected it would be a long, cold morning.

When Dalí began painting, Lillian took Paolo up on his offer to show her the garden.

“Why am I posed this way?” I asked, once we were alone. “Your work is so visionary. How does your model help you when what you paint is so surreal?” My hope was to engage his artistic pride and have him teach me something...anything.

Dalí paused. “What a perfect question for this perfect painting. You are standing in the font of the Muses. As Pegasus rears his mighty hooves to strike against the rocks of Mount Helicon, releasing the waters of the Hippocrene, you become more than a model. You transform from a beautiful woman into a Muse. Today you are standing beneath the flowing font of inspiration. You are the one to light the divine spark of my art on this glorious day. Bask in the sunlight, in the water flowing over you, in the gift you give to the world!”

This did nothing to help me understand how he painted. I tried a different tack. “How do you transform my image onto the canvas? What aspects of what you see are most important to you?”

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