# Performance (Salvador Dali)

Eduard Dolgunov

A surreal maze of consciousness of the eccentric genius of the 20th century. Childhood injuries, the cult of his own name, the mystical connection with Gala and shock, which became the main work of the master's life.

Performance

Performance - a type of contemporary art where the author becomes part of the work. Reincarnation - the transmigration of a soul. Repentance - a radical review of one's views and value system.

— Mom!

— the toddler said with a trembling voice, — why do we come to this grave every Sunday? What is written here?

— he pointed to the plaque attached to the cross.

— Here lies our dear son, — the mother sighed, wiping her tears, — your older brother. And the plaque says: "Salvador Dali From loving parents"

— Oh! Who are you?

— Salvador looked indignantly at the stranger and sat up in bed, — and how did you get here? Are you a burglar? Do you even know who I am? I will... you will see..., and grabbing the cane standing by the headboard, he swung it at the gentleman in a black cloak with a sword sitting in the armchair, — do you even know who I am? Come on, — he pulled at his long mustache, — get out! Get out of here!

— No need to get so agitated, signor artist, — the stranger smiled, — I know perfectly well who you are. And you may call me Messire, that is my name in Europe.

— Aha!

— exclaimed Dali, — The Prince of Darkness! Excellent, excellent!

— he threw the cane on the floor, — so this is a dream! Well, well, — he enthusiastically twirled his mustaches upward, — not bad, not bad! That means there will be new ideas, after all, I draw themes and inspiration specifically in dreams, — he jumped to his feet right in the bed, hugged himself and threw his head back theatrically and enthusiastically, — come on Prince, suggest something. I am listening, I am ready! I am sure, it will be something grandiose!!!

— Calm down, signor artist, — Messire said quietly, — do not get excited, and save your epatage for the fans and the enthusiastic public. You and I are alone in this room, so you can just be yourself. I know perfectly well that you are a shy, quiet man, you do not like crowds, try to be inconspicuous and avoid large gatherings of people. Your own sister Anna Maria in her book "Salvador Dali Through the Eyes of a Sister" very thoroughly and accurately gave a characterization of your character, described your inner world, though gifted, but a very ordinary person, moreover, with a mass of phobias. Since childhood you have been afraid of getting sick, you panic at the sight of grasshoppers and even ants, and this was a reason for your classmates' mockery. Actually, this book became the reason for the rupture of your warm and trusting relationship with your sister, because her memories changed your image of a rebel and you could not allow this. But she wrote the pure truth and you know it perfectly well, and your shocking behavior in public is just a mask put on you by your late brother, Salvador senior.

Dali lay quietly with the blanket pulled up to his chin, silent and listening warily.

— You are a very complex nature, — Messire thoughtfully continued, — even for me. Over you, signor artist, — he looked into Salvador's eyes, — the image of your late brother constantly hovers and you have a split personality, but at the same time, you make up one whole with him and this is a very interesting fact. Everything comes from childhood and to sort this out, I need your memories. Now you will fall asleep, — Messire continued calmly, — and begin to remember. For the completeness of the research I lack some facts, which I want to get exactly from you. "Something grandiose", — as you deigned to express it, I do not promise you, but your dream will be interesting and unusual. You will receive all explanations from me upon awakening. He waved his cloak over Dali's head and said softly, — have a good trip, signor artist. Most interesting meetings await you.

— How Salvador Dali?

— the child asked frightened, — but that is my name! Am I dead?

— No, no, — the mother turned her tear-stained face to the child, — do not say that. In this grave lies our beloved son, your older brother, who died in infancy, — the unfortunate woman wiped her tears, — and your birth 9 months after his death was considered a miracle. Dad and I think that you are a gift from the Lord, the reincarnation of our late son, therefore we named you Salvador in his honor.

The mother sighed sadly, hugged her son and seeing the child's uncomprehending look, whispered, — you are still very young, baby, and cannot yet appreciate the grief of parents from the loss of a beloved child. But, with age you will understand everything and much will become clear to you. Let's put the flowers on the grave, — she tenderly laid a bouquet of red roses at the grave cross, — then we will go to church and pray for the repose of the soul of Salvador Dali, your brother.

According to the words of his parents and closest relatives, Salvador junior was strikingly similar to his predecessor, which subsequently, already marked by fame thanks to his talent and buffoonish antics, made him wonder himself - "was the dead brother a sketch, the initial draft of myself? I will be like my brother, as his mirror reflection".

The brothers had the same names, similar features and giftedness; they were separated only by the intellect of Dali the artist and the "divinity" of the older brother, while they were a mirror reflection of each other.

In his book "The Unspeakable Confessions" Dali wrote: "My brother and I were like two drops of water: the same seal of genius, the same expression of causeless anxiety. Along with me was born my brother, my double and I had to kill him to take MY place and get the right to MY death. I every day with my own hands do away with the image of my brother. He is my dark God, we are inseparable, but my strongest desire is to become the only Salvador Dali, but I can never achieve this".

From the very beginning, a deep psychological trauma was embedded in Salvador. He did not feel himself an independent and full-fledged human unit - but only a copy of his dead brother. His brother left the world at an absolutely angelic age, not yet having had time to show the bad qualities inherent in human nature, while he, the "second" Salvador, continued to live, arranged pranks, acquired small sins and thereby looked worse in the eyes of his parents and those around him than his brother who died in infancy, who forever remained an angel in their eyes. Dali was sure that his parents loved him as a reflection, as a pale and not very successful copy of that first Salvador - but, HE WAS DIFFERENT!

(Dali described all his feelings and inner doubts in his book "The Secret Life of Salvador Dali".)

Dali was so confident in the "mirroring" with his brother that he represented them as "the Dioscuri, the twin brothers Castor and Polydeuces". But, if these heroes of ancient Sparta never argued about primacy, then between the Salvadors there was a constant feeling of jealousy and rivalry, moreover, considering the absence, for objective reasons, of the older one, only from the younger one's side.

— Scoundrel, villain, — the father swung his fist at Salvador, — how could you? Whom are you spitting on, your mother? How could you paint such a thing? Bastard!

— I didn't mean my mother, — Dali defended himself, — look at the drawing, it's called surrealism! I depicted...

— Out of my house, scribbler, — the father yelled, — he didn't mean his mother! Yes, I don't give a damn what you depicted there in your "realism"! And I don't want to see hide nor hair of you in my house anymore. Never! You are no son to me and I don't want to know you!

— But you did, indeed, make the inscription on your drawing: "Sometimes, for the sake of pleasure, I spit on the portrait of my own mother"!

— shrugged Buñuel (Spanish film director, screenwriter, Dali's friend), after all, you can't argue with that.

— You too, — flared up Dali, — well, okay, my father could understand this inscription literally. He doesn't understand a damn thing about art, let alone surrealism. But you!! Look, — he pulled a painting out of the desk, — I called it "The Sacred Heart". You see, — he sighed, — it depicts the silhouette of Jesus Christ with a blessing gesture and a halo. Inside Jesus is a small burial mound with a cross, — he shook his head, — this is my brother's grave, where my mother took me every Sunday from the age of five, proving to me that I am his reincarnation. It terribly offended and humiliated me, therefore I painted this inscription. But, I spit not on my mother, but on her words and on my brother's grave. My brother was on his own, — he said with doubt, — I am on my own. I loved my mother, — he sighed, — and I hate my father!

— So explain it to your father, — Buñuel put his hands on his friend's shoulders, — and end the conflict.

— I'm not going to explain anything to him, — flared up Dali, — he still won't understand. Moreover, I already sent him a letter.

— A letter?

— asked the friend with interest, — and what did you write to him?

— I sent him my sperm, — Salvador grimaced, — and wrote: "This is all that I owe you".

— What?

— Buñuel's eyes widened, — sperm? Well, you, my friend, are tough! Tough, even for a surrealist!

Dali feared his father's harsh character and idolized his mother, with whom he had very tender relations. Salvador was 16 years old when she died of breast cancer. "My mother's death was the greatest blow I have experienced in my life" — wrote the artist.

— Signor artist, it's time to deal with our main question, — Messire sat in the armchair, — wake up, I ask you.

— How interesting, — Dali smiled getting out of bed, — it turns out you can even wake up in a dream. So, what is our main question?

— he took his favorite cane, sat in the armchair opposite and looked at the guest with interest, — I am all attention.

— I am interested in your painting "The Sacrament of the Last Supper", — Messire said thoughtfully, — I would like to know how the idea of writing it, the composition, the characterization of the images, in short everything connected with this canvas, came to your mind. Try to remember all the details, — he looked intently into Salvador's eyes, — this is very important, Master.

Dali thoughtfully leaned on his cane with outstretched arms and after a while said, — On September 11, 1955, I returned home late. My friends and I wildly celebrated our national holiday - Catalonia Day. I was very drunk, somewhat excited, not so much by the holiday as by the praises of my friends and fans. Gala was already asleep and I lay down in my room.

— Forgive me, signor artist, — Messire interrupted him, — but, all the details are important to me. You knew that your spouse was not asleep at that time, but was in her room with another lover. Isn't that so?

— We don't care, each of us has our own life and we don't climb into each other's soul, — Dali replied with a sigh.

— Yes, — sighed Messire, — nothing in this world changes. 500 years ago the great Raphael told me something similar about his Fornarina.

Gala - real name Elena Dmitrievna Diakonova, was born in Kazan. From 1917 she was married to the poet Paul Éluard, in 1921 she became the lover and model of the artist Max Ernst, absolutely not hiding the formed love triangle from her husband. After meeting Salvador Dali, who was 10 years younger, from 1929 until the end of her life they never parted. Gala became Dali's only muse and model, whom he never ceased to praise and present as a living myth and a modern icon. For her part, Gala took her husband's affairs into her own hands and managed to make them bring income. In 1968, Dali bought a castle for Gala in the town of Púbol, which he had no right to visit without her written permission. Being already at a very solid age, Gala led a riotous lifestyle in her castle, not denying herself the joys of life in the arms of young men, with whom she enjoyed success until the end of her life. "Devilishly good"!

— sighed the delighted lovers leaving the elderly woman's castle, — and "fiendishly beautiful"!

Here, in the crypt, she was buried at the age of 88. For 7 hours an old man stood silently by the coffin.

— You see, I am not crying, — he whispered, — I will lie next to you, I will lie down soon!

After a pause, Salvador continued:

— On the nightstand, at the head of the bed, stood a glass with an amber liquid, underneath it a note. "Darling! This drink is prepared according to an old recipe. I know that, having celebrated your favorite holiday, you will return tired and drunk, so drink this drink and it will restore your strength. Sweet dreams! Your Gala".

— I was delighted by the foresight and care of my beloved wife, — the artist smiled, — and gladly drank this rather pleasant drink. Almost immediately, — closing his eyes, Dali continued, — I felt dizzy and "fell" into a deep sleep.

— Salvador!

— I heard a voice from heaven, — an important moment in your life has come and today you will begin painting the main picture of your life, and I will prompt you its plot, — a huge shadow covered me, then a fog began to surround me, — Dali continued fearfully, — and no matter how much I looked around, I saw nothing but haze.

— And you couldn't see, — Messire leaned on his sword, — continue Master.

— All my life, I admired the work of the great Leonardo da Vinci, — Salvador got up from the chair, paced the room, then stopped by the window, — especially his fresco "The Last Supper". I liked everything in it, but at that exact moment an interesting thought suddenly came to my mind, — he looked thoughtfully out the window. I am not very religious, — he smiled, — and what if I take this plot as a basis and instead of Jesus paint myself, and depict not biblical saints as apostles, but simply people, true, I still didn't know whom. And suddenly, it dawned on me! The apostles must be faceless, with bowed heads - that is it, the solution! Every viewer looking at the painting will see something of their own, what they want to see. What do you say?

— he looked enthusiastically at Messire, — brilliant, isn't it?

— Yes, — smiled the Prince of Darkness, — indeed, brilliant. He thoughtfully looked at Dali, — and now Master, allow me to restore the details of your epiphany.

— Salvador!

— a voice came from heaven, — an important moment in your life has come and today you will begin painting the main picture of your life, and I will prompt you its plot. Today your greatest desire will come true, to meet me, your older brother Salvador Dali. True, you will not be able to see me, because we, for now, are in different dimensions. Now you are already 80 years old in your earthly life, you are already old, but still alive, and I have been in another world for over 80 years. But, to you I did not die, but was always in you, as your second "Self".

— These are hallucinations, — Salvador exclaimed frightened, — Gala, this decoction, — he groaned in despair, — my beloved wife has poisoned me. Am I dying?

— Oh no, — the voice uttered, — your time has not yet come. But you are right, your Gala has a direct relation to our meeting. She drugged you with an infusion called "Kykeon", a drink that the ancient Greeks drank before initiation began and falling into a deep trance received a hallucinogenic effect.

— Gala, — Dali exclaimed, — how could she?

— Gala is a witch, — the voice smirked, — a vampire woman with a flawless body! Messire kindly lent her to me, she is a servant from his retinue, and I sent her to you. Her real name is Hella, and in your world she turned into Gala. They say of her: "Devilishly good and fiendishly attractive"! But, let's take it in order. Do you remember the year you painted "The Sacred Heart" on which you wrote: "Sometimes, for the sake of pleasure, I spit on the portrait of my mother"?

— Of course I remember, — Dali answered, — I painted it in 1929.

— Exactly, — said the voice, — in '29. But, unlike our father, you and I know that, in reality, you are not spitting on our mother, but on my grave, isn't that so?

— Well, — Salvador hesitated, — yes.

— You have hated me all your life, — the voice sighed, — and after this inscription I made a decision and sent the witch to you. In what year and under what circumstances did you meet Gala, do you remember?

— In the summer of 1929, in the Catalan village of Cadaqués, — muttered Dali, — at a party where she came with her husband, the poet Paul Éluard, and on one of the first walks, suddenly whispered to me: "My boy, now we will never part. Soon you will understand what I expect from you".

— There, — the voice chuckled, — the work of a real witch. Who were you before meeting her - a quiet, complex-ridden, modest virgin. After all, until you were 25 you had not even known a woman! And everything masculine that appeared in you after meeting her - is not you, it's "Me". Until you met Gala, your muse and inspirer, extravagance and "creative madness" had no meaning and it was she who brought this awareness into your bland life. Gala - means "festivity"! She became your lover, model, nanny, secretary, manager, she kept you under constant control and creative pressure, thanks to her you became a symbol of the era, it was she who formed an empire around your name, without her your talent would have disappeared in obscurity. Remember how she was hated by our father, sister, all the people around you. She completely absorbed you, subordinated you and isolated you from all close people. An ideal witch! She had only one flaw - she smelled of sulfur, but, you were so captivated by her that you noticed nothing, especially since at that time you used your famous - "glue perfume", consisting of fish heads, goat excrement and a few drops of lavender oil and your extravagant "miraculous" invention masked any smells. Although, very soon, on your money she began to use such perfume that she smelled no worse than the English queen. Gala did a perfect job, always ruled you and your art with an iron hand, with her you became a surrealist and a famous artist.

— Yes, that's right, — mumbled Dali, — but my art.....

— Our art!

— the voice abruptly cut him off, — it is OUR art! It is "Me" who penetrated you through Gala and it is "Me" who is that extravagant, eccentric, unpredictable, shocking, crazy artist whom the world knows. And when you shout: "Surrealism is me" — it's not you shouting, it's "Me" shouting! It is "Me" who paints pictures with your brush, it is "Me" who molds statues with your hands, it is "Me" who speaks nonsense through your lips and it is "Me" who commits unpredictable, ridiculous, crazy acts, while you remain that same shy, constrained and helpless child, afraid of grasshoppers and ants. Therefore, while working, you do not receive anyone, kick out anyone who comes to you and are afraid that people will see you, the real you. Not the crazy eccentric, not the original surrealist, not the reckless eccentric individual shocking society with his extraordinary behavior bordering on oddities and rejecting banality, but a pathetic, helpless and shy person. Without the epatage that "I" give you — you are nobody!

A stunned Salvador sat silently, holding his head in his hands.

— Now let's talk about the painting, — the voice continued....

— I am forced to interrupt your dialogue, — Messire suddenly materialized, — from here on it's my business. Silence fell.

— Gala, darling, — Dali excitedly hugged his wife, — w-h-a-t I'll t-e-l-l y-o-u, — he began to sing and put his hands on her shoulders, — so it turns out you are a witch!

— he laughed loudly, — why am I the last to know about this?

— Yes, a witch, and so what, should I shout on every corner that I am a witch?

— the woman smiled. Salik (that is how, very Russian-like, she affectionately called Salvador at home), why are you beaming so much?

— Two reasons, two reasons, — Dali circled the room, — no, — he stopped and making horns with his fingers, tried to butt his wife, — even three whole ones! He struck a theatrical pose and loudly declared: First - I love my wife! Second - I am starting to paint "The Sacrament of the Last Supper"! Third - an amazing dream!

— Let's take it in order, — Gala smiled, — otherwise we won't figure it out, you are too excited. So, — she got up from the chair, — we can skip the first reason, there is nothing new here and we have already discussed this more than once. Regarding the second - have you already formed a plot and decided what you will paint? And the last - the dream! Why did some dream excite you so much? This is something new!

— This isn't just some dream, — Salvador made his eyes round, — it's a prophetic dream! Grandiose! A-m-a-z-i-n-g!! Sit down, — he hugged his wife and seated her in the armchair, — I'll tell you now. It started with me sleeping...

— Well, that's understandable, — the wife smiled again, — Salik, don't act. There is no audience, so stop playing the original, just tell it.

— You don't understand, foolish woman, — he took Gala by the hands, — Satan himself came to me! Well, we discussed a few things, — looking at the ceiling, he pretended to remember, — and I must say, I liked him very much, a very interesting and imposing personality, but, the main thing, the main thing was later, — he plopped into the chair and fell silent.

— Either you tell it, or I'm going for a manicure, — the wife pretended to get up from the chair.

— What manicure, — Dali roared, — Gala! You'd better listen, — he sighed excitedly, — through HIM I communicated with my late brother, you understand, with my brother, and for quite a long time. By the way, — Salvador grimaced, — it was my brother who told me that you are a witch and it was he who sent you to me.

— Well, you can skip this nonsense, — the wife said calmly, — tell the main part.

Excited, stumbling and jumping from one thought to another, Dali told his dream.

— Yes, very interesting, — Gala pondered, — I think it's overwork, you gave a lot of strength and nerves to your last work "Crucifixion (Corpus Hypercubus)". A sensational painting.

In Dali's words - "An exploding Christ, nuclear and hypercubic - the first painting done in classical technique and according to the academic formula, but actually consisting of cubic elements". To a journalist's question: — What did you mean to say by depicting an "exploding Christ", Dali replied: "I don't know what I am painting. First I get an idea, and the explanation comes later".

— I agree, I worked a lot, — Dali sat back in the chair, — the painting is complex and Jesus took a lot of strength from me. But, I will continue this theme in "The Last Supper" and HE, — Salvador raised his finger upwards and leaning towards Gala, said quietly, — tonight gave me an idea and prompted the plot of the painting. Yes-yes-yes, — Dali sang and twirled his mustaches up, — all good ideas come to me in a dream, now I know what to paint,... tra-la-la, — he began to spin in a dance, — it will be a masterpiece, — he picked up his wife, lifted her from the chair and began to sing again, — a masterpiece, a masterpiece!! I am a genius, I am a genius!!! I am Dali, I am Dali!!

— You need to relax, — Gala sighed, — therefore tonight we are going to the theater. For now, — the wife freed herself from the embrace, — wait a little, — and went out. A few minutes later she returned with a tray holding two glasses of wine.

— That's it, dear, forget it, — she handed one glass to her husband, took the other for herself, — all this is nonsense, — she kissed Salvador on the forehead, — you are just tired and need to restore your strength. Well, to the health of the genius!

— she raised her glass, — "Prosit"! They clinked glasses and drank. A few minutes later Dali felt dizzy and fell into a deep sleep.

Messire sat in the chair in front of Salvador.

— And so, — he addressed the artist, — now about the painting. You and your brother have painted a brilliant work and it will make you famous.

— How painted?

— the artist whispered in a hoarse voice, — what did I paint? Already painted? You and I just discussed the painting yesterday, and today it's already painted? How is that possible? And what does my brother have to do with it?

— licking his dry lips, Dali muttered in despair.

— Listen, Master!

— Messire smiled, — the flow of time in our dimensions is different. If in your world 100 years, that is, one century, is considered a significant period, in ours - it's an instant! Here there is no yesterday, everything happens today...

— And what does "what does my brother have to do with it" mean?

— came a voice from above, — have you forgotten that you and I are one whole? You paint the pictures, "I" through Gala advertise them, create your epatage, form your image of a genius, which makes it possible to sell OUR paintings, bringing you, by the way, a very good income. The money you can keep for yourself, I don't need it here, but FAME - is for two! I am just as much Salvador Dali!

— So what?

— the artist groaned, — will I never separate from you, will you be my second "Self" and my curse all my life?

— No, signor artist, — Messire intervened in the conversation, — you will not be one whole all your life. Fire will divide you and your brother, and this will happen towards the end of your life.

— "Fire will divide us, — the brother's voice sounded, — only fire"!

After his wife's death, Dali completely moved to live in Púbol Castle and slept in the late spouse's bedroom on her bed. On August 30, 1984, a fire broke out at night, the artist almost burned alive and receiving significant burns miraculously survived, turning since then into a nervously grumbling old man, an ordinary, commonplace person, which he was by his nature.

— The dream of your whole life to get rid of me and "get the right to your own death" has come true, — he heard his brother's voice, — you got that right! I, Dali senior, have come out of you, Dali junior. Now you are free and got what you dreamed of all your life - "You killed ME and got the right to YOUR death"!

— And so, let's continue, — Messire leaned on his sword, — for over 500 years now, starting from the Renaissance to the present time, I have been following the works of outstanding artists and you too have entered this list, — he looked at Dali and nodded to the embarrassed artist.

— The essence of my research was not so much to evaluate the created masterpieces (let grateful humanity evaluate them), but to see you as simple people, with all the weaknesses, vices, and whims inherent in a human being. I am interested in life itself, what mistakes you make, what distinguishes you from ordinary people and what the nature of genius is.

No longer able to be amazed, Salvador sat and listened breathlessly.

— And now, — Messire got up from the chair, — I want to visit your painting "The Sacrament of the Last Supper". I believe you call this - a "Performance"?

— How to visit the painting?

— the astounded Salvador muttered, — how is it "TO ENTER??" the painting, and moreover, one not yet painted? How is that possible?!

— Maestro!

— Messire looked at the artist, — nothing is impossible for me, and it is enough that the painting exists in your head, — and he waved his cloak.

— Where have you brought me, grandpa?

— asked a boy of about seven, — he looked around with interest, — wow, so many paintings here.

— This is the National Gallery of Art, — the elderly man answered quietly, squeezing his cane in one hand and the child's hand in the other, — the American public art museum of Washington, which is one of the ten most visited art museums in the world. Paintings of many famous artists are presented here, — and he led the child deeper into the hall, — let's go, I want to show you one of my favorites. Here, — they stopped near a huge canvas, — this is "The Sacrament of the Last Supper" by Salvador Dali. Look carefully, don't rush, — he pointed his cane at the painting, — then tell me your opinion.

— Do you think such a little one can figure out a work by Dali himself?

— an elderly couple stopped next to them, — he's still too young, — the man smiled.

— For how many years have famous art critics been struggling to unravel this painting, — added his wife, — and you want something from a child.

— You know, — the grandfather patted his grandson on the head and turned to them, — what the artist himself said about his works: "There is no need to understand Salvador Dali. Salvador Dali himself doesn't understand Salvador Dali". Every viewer sees Salvador Dali in their own way, — he smiled, — and forms their own opinion. "The Sacrament of the Last Supper" may well be not just a painting on a theme, but a dream on a theme, a fantasy, a hypothesis, anything else. He could well have dreamed this plot and, by the way, Dali himself said: "A dream is a manifestation of the intangible". And children interpret the connection between a dream and reality in their own way, so I am very interested to know a child's impression of this painting. Who knows, maybe his vision will reveal something new in the interpretation of this work.

— Well, well, good luck, — the man shrugged and they moved on.

— Grandpa, why are these uncles sitting with their heads down?

— the little one asked with interest looking at the painting after a few minutes, — are they guilty of something and ashamed of it?

— And so, Master, — Messire looked at Salvador, — take, as written on the painting, your place in the center of the table, — and pointed with his sword. The completely bewildered Dali obediently complied.

— Well, well, Maestro!

— Messire sat in a chair that appeared from nowhere, — you have "The Last Supper" ahead of you, and you are so tense. He waved the edge of his cloak and in the hall appeared..... a naked Gala, holding a mug of wine in one hand, a piece of bread in the other. Dali grew numb, his vision darkened and his head spun. Gala approached the table, put the wine and bread on the table in front of him, smiled and silently stood behind the host's chair.

— Drink this infusion, Master, — Messire nodded, — this is Kykeon, an ancient Greek drink. My servant Hella prepares it excellently. When you calm down we will be able to continue. Salvador obediently drank, immediately felt warmth, he became calm and the sight of his naked wife no longer surprised him.

— And so, — Messire raised his sword, — we will get acquainted with your guests.

On both sides of Dali, with bowed heads, sat five figures in white robes, two more were kneeling in front of the table, their faces could not be seen. Seeing the guests, Salvador was not surprised at all.

— Respected Master!

— Messire stood up, — your painting is brilliant and will take its rightful place in one of the best museums in the world, millions of people will admire it and it will cost enormous money. It will be discussed, criticized, investigated and numerous art experts will argue among themselves - why did the author cover the faces of the apostles and who is he thus hiding? Messire approached the table and continued, — let us leave future viewers in ignorance, let each of them decide in their own way, but today we have... "The Last Supper". He raised his sword, a light breeze rustled and it smelled slightly of sulfur.

— Forgive me, Master, — Messire looked at Salvador, — but to sort everything out, I had to penetrate your subconscious and understand whose images arose in your head while working on this painting. Only I warn you, — he sighed, — perceive everything calmly, do not be surprised at anything and, — he raised a finger upward, — no loud emotions.

— Understood, — answered Dali.

— We understood everything, — added the voice from above.

— So, Mr. Artist, allow me to realize your thoughts and let's meet the guests, — and Messire waved his cloak. The man sitting to Salvador's right raised his head.

— Leonardo da Vinci!

— Dali exclaimed, — it can't be, is it you?

— I asked not to be surprised at anything, — Messire frowned sitting in the chair, — otherwise I will have to stop this action.

— Forgive me Messire, — the artist bowed his head, — it will not happen again.

— At your service, — da Vinci nodded, — flattered that you thought of me while painting. An interesting theme, isn't it?

— he sighed, — and although my "Last Supper" differs somewhat from the modern version, — the artist smiled, — the work is very impressive.

— Raphael Sanzio, — a young man stood up and tossed his beautiful hair, — I am glad to be in such an authoritative company. But, why am I here, signors?

— I adore your work, — Dali exclaimed, — I admire your fidelity to your beloved Fornarina, the simple daughter of a baker, whom you immortalized in numerous images of the Madonna.

— Allow me to express my respect, — the one sitting next to him slowly raised his head, — Botticelli, — glad to meet you. To what do I owe the presence of my humble persona in your reveries?

— Oh, do not be modest, Sandro, — Dali smiled, — I was impressed by your loyalty and devotion to the only beloved woman in your life, Simonetta Vespucci, with whom, moreover, you were not even close.

— And how did I impress you?

— an elderly man raised his gray head, — I am Buonarroti, — he squinted nearsightedly.

— Money and hard labor, — Salvador answered, — you and I are very similar, signor Michelangelo. We are the richest artists of our time, but art interests us more than money, so we work all our lives like galley slaves.

— Rembrandt, — smiled the next, — van Rijn Rembrandt, Dutch school. Happy to be here, among the great Florentine masters. May I ask, to whom do I owe this?

— I have always admired your special, dynamic style of painting group portraits, — Salvador pressed his hand to his heart and leaned slightly, — and your characters look not like idols, as with other masters, but like living people. You found your own path in visual arts, I consider this a serious contribution and value it highly.

— Well, and I, damn it, — a shaggy young man jumped up, — I wonder, how did I impress you, Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio?

— Signor Merisi da Caravaggio!

— Messire strictly called him, — calm down and do not mention my name, especially since you are already with me. You are here not physically, but in the consciousness of signor Dali, — he turned to Salvador, — and I hope he will explain to us the reason for your presence at "The Last Supper".

— I am very similar to you, signor Caravaggio, — the artist sighed, — the same hooligan and rebel.

— I protest! It is not you, my brother, the hooligan and rebel, — came the voice from above, — but "I". In life you are a modest and insecure person, and the epatage is a mask that "I" put on you.

— This is no place for arguments, — Messire said strictly, — continue Master and let's look at those sitting to your left.

— Jheronimus Bosch, — a gray-haired man in an old-fashioned cap introduced himself, raising his head, — a Dutch hereditary artist of the Northern Renaissance period.

— I am very glad to see at our "Last Supper" the founder of surrealism, mijnheer Bosch, — Dali smiled, — and consider you my teacher.

— Herrer! (gentlemen Norw.), — the next one raised his head, — allow me to introduce myself Edvard Munch and looked around warily, — I really don't understand....

— Edvard!

— Dali raised his hand, — allow me to explain. Only for one painting "The Scream" you can be recognized as a genius. I have not met so much expression, despair and authenticity in any painting and you are here absolutely deservedly.

— Gentlemen!

— an interesting middle-aged man with a green nose raised his head, — who are you actually?

— he twisted his head, — and what am I doing here?

— Mikhail Vrubel!

— Dali smiled, — the Russian compatriot of Gala, my wife, and like all Russians, a man of a great soul, an unmercenary, a reveler, author of the "Demoniana", where he depicted himself as a sad Demon, a spirit who can nowhere find peace and this is a portrait of his own soul. A great original, even here he painted his nose with green paint! You are my guest, Mikhail.

— Allow me to introduce myself, Jean-François Millet, — a large bearded man bowed, — French, artist, founder of the Barbizon school of art.

— How glad I am to see you, Monsieur Millet, — Dali broke into a broad smile, — in my childhood, a reproduction of your famous painting "The Angelus" hung over my bed and I really loved to look at it before going to sleep. The feeling never left me that some details in your painting had been painted over, is that not so, monsieur author? I always dreamed of meeting you. Millet nodded and without saying anything, sat down.

— Vincent Van Gogh, — said one.

— Paul Gauguin, — nodded the second. The men kneeling before the table stood up.

— Friends Post-Impressionists!

— Dali smiled broadly, — I am very glad to see you here. We have a similar vision of the world and your art is close to me, but, knowing your characters and some disagreements, — he looked at Van Gogh's bandaged ear and smiled, — to avoid a possible conflict, I did not risk seating you next to each other.

— And so gentlemen, — Messire got up from his chair, — the acquaintance has taken place, now my assistant Hella and Petros, mr. Bosch's servant, will treat you to the Kykeon infusion and you can chat with each other, after which you will forever take your places in signor Dali's painting "The Sacrament of the Last Supper".

— Signor Dali, — Botticelli approached Salvador, — could you tell me, what is this Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood?

— This is an English society of artists and poets of the 19th century, — Dali raised his eyebrows in surprise, whose essence is a spiritual kinship with the Florentine artists of the Renaissance, that is, artists "before Raphael".

— And what does this have to do with me?

— asked the approaching Raphael offendedly, — what does "before Raphael" mean? Am I some sort of stage in world visual arts?

— Oh, — sighed Sandro, — I do not know what "before" or "after" means, but the fact is that, as an artist, I was forgotten by humanity for more than 300 years, and I owe my resurrection to a member of this Brotherhood, some artist Edward Coley Burne-Jones, with whom, unfortunately, I am not even acquainted.

— You are lucky, colleague, — sighed the approaching da Vinci, — you were at least helped by an artist, and I owe my fame to some glazier.

— How a glazier?

— the standing Rembrandt was amazed and taking a sip from his mug, looked at Leonardo, — what glazier?

— Allow me, I will tell, — da Vinci took a sip from his mug.

— Where has my "Mona Lisa" not been, — he waved his hand, — first with my student Francesco Melzi, then with the King of France François, after him decorated the "Golden Room" of Anne of Austria, then with Napoleon and finally in 1802 got into the Louvre. Well, a painting like a painting, hung itself in a museum, but, in 1911 some glazier Vincenzo Peruggia, stole it from the museum. The kidnapper confessed, — Leonardo spread his hands, — that "he stole the painting because he fell in love with the smile of the 'Gioconda', which reminded him of the smile of his childhood friend"! How do you like that, signors, — he shrugged, — "reminded him of the smile of his friend", — he repeated sadly.

— Two years later, when the "Gioconda" was finally found, experts suddenly began to study it carefully and discovered that the painting was painted using a special technique I invented, "Sfumato", such a specific principle of scattering that leads to the effect of the absence of clear boundaries between objects. Experts recognized the painting as a masterpiece and now it is the most expensive painting in the world. Thank you, signor glazier, — he took a sip from his mug and bowed low, — to you and your childhood friend! Many thanks from the old man da Vinci!

Everyone smiled.

— Gentlemen, gentlemen, — Rembrandt exclaimed, — let me have a few words too.

— Please Maestro, — said Dali, — that is why we gathered here.

— Gentlemen, tell me, — the artist asked, — are you familiar with my work "The Shooting Company of Captain Frans Banning Cocq and Lieutenant Willem van Ruytenburch"?

— Well, of course Master, — Dali answered for everyone, — who doesn't know your famous painting. Only let me clarify, Maestro, — it is now called differently, "The Night Watch", isn't it?

— Exactly, "The Night Watch", — Rembrandt sighed, — night! But I painted it during the day and it is full of light, play of shadows, shades and has absolutely nothing to do with the night.

— How so?

— the approaching Michelangelo asked in surprise, — then why such a title, what does the night have to do with it?

— Des-cen-dants, — in syllables, Rembrandt answered sadly, — many years after my death, descendants named it so. The fact is that the painting hung for a long time in halls with stove heating, which were lit by tallow candles, and because of the soot it darkened heavily. Therefore it was decided that it was nighttime, and the title given by me is too long and difficult to pronounce, so the painting was renamed "The Night Watch". Many years later it was restored, a thick layer of soot was removed and it was seen that everything depicted on it occurs during the day. But, the new title stuck, — he sighed sadly, — and they didn't bother renaming the painting.

— Oh stop complaining, signors, — Caravaggio raised his mug, — let's better drink. Paintings, paintings, — he licked his lips, — but tell us my good fellow, — he turned to Botticelli, — how many of your paintings, under the influence of the delusional ideas of your spiritual father monk Girolamo Savonarola, did you throw into the fire of the "Bonfires of the Vanities"? And how many works of art and other "excesses" were burned there? Aren't you sorry for those paintings?

— Yes, — Sandro answered sadly, — that happened too, but, such was the time.

— The old men always say "such was the time", — Caravaggio laughed and hugged Van Gogh.

— The old men grumble, — he twisted his mouth, — but we young ones have other interests, let's go whisper, — and dragged him aside. Gauguin tagged along after them.

— Well, and what, in your opinion, was I supposed to do with this money?

— Michelangelo's voice was irritated, — so what if I am the richest artist of my time, should I eat this money? Women never interested me, — he twisted his mouth, — I am unpicky with food, and there was no time for long meals, my servant ground the paints, well, maybe to buy brushes! But, millions are not needed for that, — he blew his nose irritably, — so this money was a joy only to my heirs.

— Well, traveling, making trips, — Dali inserted, — gathering impressions...

— I had no time to travel, — Michelangelo waved his hand, — I had work to do, paintings to paint, frescoes, sculptures. I was always very busy, even forgot to change my clothes for weeks and it is very hurtful when some of your contemporaries claim that, supposedly, I could not have managed to do so much alone and invited other masters who worked for me for money. Very, you know, hurtful to hear this.

— And not only this, — Raphael chimed in, — and how they climb into our bed? They say about me that I died during sex with my beloved Fornarina. Since then, about those who died during amorous pleasures, they say: "Died like Raphael"! One would think that this is the only thing I became famous for in my life and that nothing else was left after me in the history of humanity. And the healers who treated me with bloodletting and drained all the blood out of me, no one mentions.

— Calm down, signor Sanzio, — Dali put his hand on the artist's shoulder, — today they speak about me the same way. Knowing how you loved your woman, for how many masterpieces she served as your model and inspired by your painting "La Fornarina", to spite the malicious gossips I painted a portrait of my beloved woman and model, which I called "Galarina". In the inscription on this canvas, I even imitated your handwriting, with which you signed your painting. It seems to me that our beloveds are similar in many ways.

— Signor Dali!

— Millet approached them, — did you want to talk about my painting "The Angelus"?

— Oh yes, Master, — Salvador nodded, — let's step aside. You see, — he took the artist by the arm, — since childhood your painting has moved me and I am very glad that I had the opportunity to find out the details directly from the author. Tell me, what made you repaint the painting and change the plot? I always intuitively sensed death in this painting and thought, aren't the peasants' faces too sad for an everyday evening prayer? I saw such faces on my parents, mourning over the grave of their son, my brother.

— Yes, — Jean-François smiled, — you are right, I had to change something. In the original, the young parents mourn and read a prayer over the little coffin of their child. But, the painting was not selling well and to rectify the situation, I had to change the plot of the canvas to a more optimistic one. I painted over the coffin, but did not change the figures and faces of the characters, — he sighed, — therefore the painting continued to radiate sadness. I had no other choice, — he shook his head, I was very poor and I needed to sell the painting. I even became the hero of a story by the famous writer Mark Twain, — he smiled, — in his story "Is He Living or Is He Dead?" (A group of artists, tired of poverty, decided to advertise, and then stage the death of one of them to raise the prices of his paintings. The choice fell on François Millet, who "after a severe and prolonged illness died", true, then he himself carried "his" coffin. Prices for his paintings jumped sharply, which allowed him to get a real price for his works while alive).

"Angelus" translates as "Angel of the Lord". The painting depicts a peasant and his wife, bowing their heads in an evening prayer against the backdrop of the last rays of the setting sun. Such a prayer is read by Catholics three times a day.

— And you know, signor Millet, — Dali laughed, — I was so persistent that I forced the administration of the Louvre, where your painting hangs, to make an X-ray of the canvas and the results showed that the original plot was different. But now I am satisfied, since I received an explanation from the author himself.

— And I tell this fool Pirrola, — Caravaggio grimaced, — even though you are a police captain, you are a complete idiot. I tell you, I have a permit to carry weapons, the Governor of Rome himself gave it to me, true, only verbal. And he hits me in the face, bam, — Merisi and the listeners standing around him laughed, — and, to tell the truth, he was right. I never had a permit, and I never even met the governor. And also, also, — he waved his hands, — I had a scandal with the landlady from whom I rented an apartment. She, you see, didn't like that I smashed the ceiling in her room. I tell her: — Fool! And how am I supposed to get a ray of sunlight for my Camera Obscura? Will you shine for me?

— he burst out laughing, — people will later pay money to look at this hole, just because it was made by such a great man as I! She doesn't understand, dumb broad!

Everyone gladly listened to the joker Caravaggio, laughed a lot.

— Oh drop it, "it was a different time", — he mimicked Van Gogh, — what do you mean different? Do they serve artichokes in taverns? You see, — he rejoiced, seeing Gauguin's affirmative nod, — they have artichokes. And what oil do they cook with, butter?

— he smacked his tongue, — eh it's a pity they don't gorge here, I remember, I really loved it cooked with butter.

— Gentlemen! You are having fun, may I join?

— an imposing man in short velvet trousers of a toxic purple color with fasteners below the knees, white stockings on his feet and fanciful shoes approached them. His nose was painted with green paint.

— Hey dude!

— Caravaggio was taken aback, — who are you? Where did you come from so "beautiful"?

— Vrubel, — the newcomer introduced himself, — Russian, master of symbolism, futurist, author and creator of the "demonic cycle", — he stumbled and suddenly exclaimed, — gentlemen, I am an artist, an artist!

— We are all artists here, — said Gauguin, — very pleased. But why, may I ask, did you paint your nose green?

— he grimaced slightly, — and your attire looks somewhat strange.

— You see, my good sir, — Vrubel replied without any embarrassment, — men should paint their noses depending on their character and temperament. Yellow suits one, blue or yellow another, lilac for some. Me, for instance, green suits me. It is very beautiful.

— People like you, — Caravaggio shrugged, — are what we call "Venetians".

— You are quite the king of epatage, — Van Gogh smiled, — the futurists' noses would turn green with envy without paint.

— You are right, respected one, — Vrubel smoothed his mustache, — in the art of epatage I outstripped the futurists and, by the way, they learned from me.

— We don't care what you taught some futurists there, — Caravaggio waved his hand and turned to Van Gogh, — I heard you died at 37? Why so early, a duel? I made it to 38, but when was that. And why is your ear bandaged, what, an ear disease? I understand, — he grimaced, — it's the healers with their powders who did you in and brought you to death, — he sighed, — they can do that, just fall into their hands!

— His head did him in, — Gauguin laughed, — almost did me in too. He shot himself, committed suicide, — and stepping back from his buddy, added, — ooh-ooh..., — and shook his fist at him, — damn alcoholic, "Absinthe" lover!

— Shot himself?

— Caravaggio was amazed, — what, a lady of the heart cheated? Well, you don't say, — he rattled on, — with an Arquebus or a Crossbow? Died right away, or suffered?

— Absinthe?

— Vrubel raised his eyebrows, — this drink causes hallucinations and uncontrollable aggression. I know this for sure, dabbled in it myself in my youth.

— Exactly, — Gauguin got indignant, — threw himself at me, his friend, with a razor, — he looked warily at the gloomily puffing Van Gogh, — and then cut off his own ear.

— Cut off his own ear?

— Caravaggio's eyes bulged, — but, why?

— Why ask an alcoholic?

— stepping back another step said Paul, — tanked up on absinthe, started having hallucinations, so he hacked off his ear, and then, for some reason took this piece to an acquaintance prostitute Rachel and told her to keep it. She, out of fear, fainted, and the police took him away and brought him to a mental hospital. You'd have been better off cutting off your foreskin, — Gauguin choked with laughter, — that's what Jews do. And then you'd have daubed on a painting not your red mug with a pipe and a bandage on your ear, but what you cut off lower down. That painting would have sold!

— I'll show you, — Van Gogh swung his fist at his buddy, — I'll kill you! Have you forgotten how you yourself wanted to commit suicide?

— he hissed, — swallowing arsenic, but you took too big a dose and only vomiting saved you. Fine, I got addicted to absinthe, but you shot up morphine. No wonder after your death from a heart attack, they found an empty ampoule near your bed. What, overdose?

— Ah you one-eared, — Gauguin jumped at Van Gogh....

— Hey, hey, — Caravaggio stood between them, — don't tense up buddies. I love fights myself, but you won't succeed, duels are impossible here, you see, — he sighed, — I don't even have a sword. Don't forget that we are spirits, just air, so calm down. Listen, guys, — he ruffled his hair, — from what century are you? From the 19th, — hearing Gauguin's answer, he shook his head, — what a strange century you have, a restless one. Drinking absinthe, cutting your ears off, committing suicide, painting noses, wearing carnival clothes, taking drugs! Maybe you're crazy, huh? Look, there's another one coming, — he pointed to a tall man approaching them, pressing his hands to his ears and periodically opening his mouth in a soundless scream.

— What's with him?

— Vrubel asked in surprise, — maybe he has a headache.

— Think about what you're saying, — Caravaggio grimaced, — he died a long time ago, he's a spirit now. Does a spirit have a headache?

— My friends, — Dali approached them, — I see you're having fun here and I hope you've become friends. Oh!

— he waved his hand, — Herrer Munch, come to us, we are waiting for you.

— Why is he holding his head and twisting his mouth as if screaming?

— Vrubel asked frightened and rubbed his green nose, — is he afraid of something?

— He plunged so deeply into his painting "The Scream", — Dali answered, — that he cannot get out of the character. This theme is deeply personal and connected to some heavy memories.

— Edvard!

— Salvador said softly, — tell us what connects you with the painting's plot and disturbs you so much? We are your colleagues, we will understand and try to help. Drink some infusion, — he handed the artist a mug, — and tell us about your anxieties.

— You see, — Munch mechanically drank and looked at those around him, — some suppose that an artist feels the whole horror of a catastrophe approaching the world and my painting, — he took another sip from the mug, — is like "an illustration of a private hell of detachment from the world, which a person with depersonalization and derealization syndrome experiences".

— What is he talking about?

— Caravaggio whispered to Dali, — I absolutely do not understand anything.

— Let's listen, — Salvador answered in the same whisper, — we will figure it out later, but now we shouldn't upset him.

— Ah-h-h..., — Caravaggio shrugged, — I see. What a century!

— he shook his head and fell silent.

— For the landscape where I placed the frightened figure, — Munch continued, — I chose a view of the Oslo Fjord from Ekeberg Hill, where I lived since childhood, and this wooden platform with a railing along the cliff was my usual walking spot. Screams were constantly heard there, coming from the main Oslo slaughterhouse located nearby and the asylum for the mentally ill, — he sighed, — where my younger sister Laura was. The wind often carried the screams of the asylum patients to the edge of the hill, layering on top of the groans of the slaughtered animals, and everyone called them "unbearable". He clutched his head with his hands, fell silent and his mouth again twisted in a soundless scream.

— Our friend needs to be alone, — Dali shook his head, — let's go friends, let's not interfere, we cannot help him right now.

— Listen, alcoholic, — Caravaggio took Van Gogh by the sleeve, — what was he saying there, some kind of "derealization" and something else? What is that, eh?

— I have no idea, — Vincent shrugged, — but, he's an artist, that's how he sees it.

— Ah-h-h, — Merisi shook his head and sighed, — well okay, that's clear now. What a century!

— he shrugged, — what a century! Eh, listen, — he turned to Gauguin and whispered, — your circumcised friend told me that you lived on some Tahiti, — he looked questioningly at Paul, — and even married a minor there? I've never heard of this Tahiti, where is it located?

— he asked, — and are the girls there pretty?

— Tahiti, — Gauguin smiled, — is French Polynesia, a native state in Oceania. And the native women there are very beautiful, I loved painting them and you can see them in my paintings.

— Well yes, well yes, — Caravaggio muttered and shrugged again, — some Polynesia, Oceania!? What is it, where is it? I don't understand a damn thing! What a century!

— Time flies, my good sir, — Dali smiled standing nearby, — and I, altogether, am from the 20th century!

— The twentieth?

— Caravaggio was amazed, — I can imagine....

In 2009, the Association of specialists for the treatment of trigeminal neuralgia, considered a chronic disease with the most intense pain, named "The Scream" its symbol and the best illustration of the torments their patients experience.

— Salvador!

— Gala appeared completely unexpectedly, — try this wine, — she held out a glass, — this is a gift from Messire, who kindly gave us the opportunity for a brief chat.

— A beautiful bouquet, — Dali took a sip from the glass, — what kind of wine is this?

— This is "Vernage", a red wine from Tuscany, in their time your guests loved drinking it. They stepped aside.

— Salik!

— Gala smiled, — allow me to address you the way I called you in the best times of our relationship, — she took Dali's hand, — I have a very important conversation.

— Go ahead, of course, — Salvador sighed, — I am very pleased. I miss those times very much.

— We lived together for 53 years, — said Gala, — and I know that you suffered all your life from the consciousness that you are the reincarnation of your older brother and always tried to get rid of this feeling.

Dali took small sips of wine and silently looked at his wife.

— You told me many times, — Gala continued, — that you and your brother are like twins and you are his mirror reflection, — she nodded, — it weighed heavily on you that your brother suppresses you and this deeply traumatized your pride.

— Yes, — Dali answered gloomily, — but is it not so?

— Let's look at this through different eyes, — Gala took him by the hand, — but, first I want to ask you, — she raised her eyebrows questioningly, — what do you think, why did Messire conceive this act with your painting "The Last Supper" and invite these great artists?

Salvador pondered and looked questioningly at his wife.

— Messire does nothing for nothing, — said Gala, — and I will reveal his plan to you. Let's start with the most famous artists of the Renaissance. No one doubts their greatness and everyone perfectly understands what mark they left in art. But, — she raised a finger, — to get to the world Olympus and become famous, they and their works went through a thorny and, sometimes, unexpected path.

— "Mona Lisa" by Leonardo da Vinci, — she sighed. — Who, except for a narrow circle of specialists, knows that the brilliant artist, when painting the picture, used his invented technique "Sfumato", this smoothness of tonal transitions, vagueness and blurring of outlines? "Gioconda" became famous only after some glazier stole it from the Louvre, because its smile, you see, reminded him of his childhood friend.

— Raphael Sanzio - his "scandalous" connection with the baker's daughter, the commoner Fornarina, and his demise in her bed after a stormy night spent, helped him become famous. And all his "Madonnas", including the "Sistine", got true fame only when various kinds of jewelry appeared - medallions, brooches, bracelets and other costume jewelry with their image, and well, of course, beach bags.

Author's note. In my youth, I myself had a medallion with the image of the "Sistine Madonna", which I cherished very much and "showed off" in front of my friends.

— Raphael, — I said proudly, — "Sistine Madonna".

— Cool work, — my friends nodded solidly, knowledgeably examining the medallion, — did you get this from the lame guy who sells at the "flea market"? What, is that his nickname - Raphael?

— they marveled, confident that I was talking about the tinsmith from the city market, who created this "miracle".

— Michelangelo Buonarroti - his artistic heritage is priceless, his diligence is impossible to comprehend, but people were more interested in the amount of money he earned, everyone with fascination and envy counted its amount and began to pay attention to his masterpieces only after they found out that he was the richest artist of his time.

— Sandro Botticelli - for 300 years he was not remembered, until artists from some Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood discerned a genius in him and only then did people start talking about the artist. And how did his painting "The Birth of Venus" become a masterpiece? Because it hangs in the Uffizi Gallery in Florence? Not on your life! It became famous after appliqués of this painting appeared on beach bags, women's robes, t-shirts and other clothing.

— Rembrandt van Rijn - because of a layer of soot, his painting "The Shooting Company of Captain Frans Banning Cocq and Lieutenant Willem van Ruytenburch", was renamed "The Night Watch" and they started talking about it as a masterpiece only when restorers removed this soot and saw that the painting has nothing to do with the night.

— Merisi da Caravaggio - became famous because of his scandalousness - he killed his friend in a fight, arranged brawls, was repeatedly in prison, used the "Camera Obscura" unknown to the public to paint pictures, painted a drowned dead prostitute in the image of the Virgin Mary.... and...

— Fine, — the discouraged Dali exclaimed, — these are geniuses of the Middle Ages, but our contemporary guests, how about them?

— Not a bit better, — Gala sighed, — even more interesting. Your favorite Jean-François Millet. His painting "The Angelus" became famous not because of the artist's brilliant skill, but only after the author, out of commercial considerations, repainted one significant detail and you know which one.

— Mikhail Vrubel - became popular and the public became interested in him after he began painting his nose with green paint and started showing epatage in clothes and behavior.

— Edvard Munch, — Gala sighed, — an unfortunate man, and his painting "The Scream" became famous after a barely legible pencil inscription was discovered in the upper corner of the painting: "Only a madman could have drawn this". And when it turned out that the inscription was made by the author, the painting immediately gained colossal fame and its value grew manifold.

Now Vincent van Gogh and Paul Gauguin. During their lifetime the friends were not famous and lived from hand to mouth. Fame came after their death and here is why.

— Vincent van Gogh - under the influence of hallucinogenic absinthe, being in a psychosis after a fight with his friend Gauguin, cut off part of his ear and took the piece to a prostitute. Was a heavy alcoholic and eventually shot himself. A very "shocking gentleman"!

— Paul Gauguin - left his family, was very much in need materially, became a drug addict, out of desperation tried to poison himself with arsenic, but overdosed, began vomiting and survived. Then left for Tahiti, where he married an underage girl, by whom he had children, and it was he who was the cause of the psychosis of his friend, who after a fight with him cut off his own ear.

So, it can be said with certainty, — Gala sighed, our contemporaries owe their popularity to a significant extent to rumors about their mental illnesses, spread by people and the mass media, unfortunately, often reliable and truthful. Moreover, the value of the paintings increased sharply if information appeared that they were painted by artists when they were in a madhouse.

Historical reference.

— Vincent van Gogh - alcoholism, schizophrenia, bipolar disorder. Repeatedly underwent treatment in psychiatric clinics.

— Paul Gauguin - depressive psychosis, drug addiction.

— Mikhail Vrubel - psychopathy, alternation of violent behavior with apathy, treatment in mental hospitals.

— Edvard Munch - suffered from paranoia, reflected his visions and morbid fantasies in paintings, spent half his life in psychiatric clinics in Copenhagen with a severe mental disorder.

— Salvador, understand, — Gala sighed, — to sell yourself, your art and become famous, you need epatage, PR, at least a small scandal, and even better a big one. To promote an artist during his lifetime, make him famous, have his paintings recognized as masterpieces and contrive to sell them is very difficult, for this a true professional is needed. An artist is interesting to the public when they talk about him, gossip, condemn and discuss his behavior, scandalousness, boorishness and other unseemly qualities, moreover, the more disgusting they are, the better, and it's quite good if it causes a feeling of hatred. With a professional approach to the matter, even the mental disorders of an artist can be used as PR!

Dali sat silently and looked into the empty glass.

— Why are you telling me all this?

— he said with sadness, — do you have some goal?

— Yes, of course, — Gala answered, — this is the main essence of our conversation. You see, Salik, — she shook her head, — genius is "God's kiss" plus talent, multiplied by diligence. But fame is the selling value of this genius. The words: "The painting is priceless" — are good for descendants, but for contemporaries its cost is important. Genius without fame is worth nothing, both literally and figuratively, so it must be sold, otherwise no one will simply know about its existence. There are many talented artists in the world, but they remain unknown and do not become famous only because they cannot sell themselves and their talent.

— But I am popular, — Dali objected, — my works sell well and I am famous enough.

— There, we've come to the main thing, — Gala sighed, — let's consider your art. Haven't you ever wondered, — she came right up to him, — where you, by your nature a modest, shy, timid person, with a mass of phobias, suddenly got such incredibly scandalous, loud, unpredictable and shockingly unpredictable behavior?

Dali shook his head like a hunted animal.

— It was your brother and I protecting you, — Gala continued, — a feeble person unadapted to anything. Without our help you would have simply perished and humanity would have lost a genius. We could not let this happen, so your brother put on YOU the protective mask of an eccentric, hooligan, eccentric, and I guided you through life keeping you under a "hood", did not allow, cut off unnecessary people from you and making profitable connections with the right ones, took upon myself all the hardships of everyday life and your well-being. And you cannot deny that such a form of self-expression greatly helped your popularity and positively reflected on the sale of paintings.

— You want to say, — Dali whispered, — that......

— Yes, Salvador, — Gala interrupted him, — your older brother Salvador Dali and you the younger Salvador Dali, are one whole. Not a mirror reflection, not a twin brother, not a second drop of water, but one whole. You are a great artist - he is a great mystifier and master of epatage, you paint the pictures - he sells them, at home you are Salvador Dali junior, in public you are Salvador Dali senior. And I, the Witch, connected you two. Oh!

— seeing how Dali shuddered, Gala smiled, — don't worry, every woman is a bit of a witch, to a greater or lesser extent. Listen, Salik, — she took his hand, — if you really wanted to kill your brother, you would have had to commit suicide. By the way, the artists for today's meeting were selected not by Messire, but by your brother.

She raised her head and asked, — Am I saying everything correctly, signor Salvador?

— Everything is correct, Hella, — a voice sounded, — thank you, you have done your job perfectly and may return.

— Brother?

— Dali ducked his head from the unexpectedness, — is it you and were you here the whole time? If so, tell me, how did you know whom I wanted to invite to this meeting?

— Haven't you figured it out yet?

— the voice sighed, — I am YOU, we share one head and you and I are - Salvador Dali!

Dali looked up and seeing nothing, looked around. Gala had disappeared, in her place stood Bosch.

— Signor artist!

— he adjusted the old-fashioned cap on his head and smiled, — probably, I am the last of the guests with whom you have not yet talked.

— Very glad to see you, respected Jheronimus, — Dali was embarrassed, — excuse me, so many guests.

— And all great ones at that, — Bosch smiled, — no wonder you got carried away. I highly value that you consider me your teacher and I am glad that when surrealism declared the primacy of the subconscious in art, my fantasies were re-evaluated and it is very pleasant that you declared yourself my heir. Our art obeys the metamorphic law, which makes everything belong to the single reality of primordial chaos, therefore in the atmosphere of our paintings absurdity and mystery reign.

— Yes, teacher, that is so, — Dali nodded, — therefore for many years art experts have been studying your work, discussing it, constantly finding something new and invariably admiring your strikingly talented paintings.

— Thank you, my friend, — Bosch leaned towards Salvador, — the evaluation of my works is pleasant to me and I would like to discuss one question with you. Tell me, have you ever heard anything about the "Cave of Dreams"?

— Well, — Dali hesitated, — so, in general terms....

— Do not be embarrassed, colleague, — Jheronimus smiled, — few people have heard of it. You see, the "Cave of Dreams" is such a tunnel in which the border between reality and the world of illusions created by the artist passes, and through this tunnel he gets into this world. Not everyone has such a "Cave", but you certainly will.

— Certainly will, — Michelangelo appeared near them, — not every Master has the fortune to visit his own paintings. Signor Bosch and I managed, I in my "Last Judgment", he in his "Garden of Earthly Delights". And you, signor Dali, have already gotten into your painting, because you are very talented, therefore you will certainly find your "Cave".

— Azazello, — Messire said quietly, — look at these people. Noisy and quiet, cheerful and sad, scandalous and shy, drunkards and teetotalers - ordinary people. But all of them are geniuses! At birth all people are identical - suck mother's milk, cry, laugh, look at the world with wide-open eyes, grow, study, mature, and then, they cross some line, after which everyone goes their own life path. The majority become simple laymen and only a few become geniuses. Where is that border, crossing which, a person becomes a genius? The life of an ordinary layman - is his family, work, home, household, earned money and if, suddenly, he is deprived of this, then first he will start drinking, then, take an ax in his hands, but, eventually, he will wither and die. They live for today and a simple layman is completely indifferent to what will happen after him. But to geniuses, today's prosperous and calm life is not interesting, they leave all material things without regret to their heirs, because it is much more important for them what legacy they will leave to the world after themselves. And if you take material goods from a genius - he will be upset, then get used to it, but continue to work, because he has an unfinished painting and so many more ideas. But, if you take his brush away - he will die immediately!

— And so, gentlemen, — Messire walked to the middle of the hall, — it is time to end your stunning meeting and believe me, any art scholar, for a few minutes of stay in this hall would give half his life. I hope that "The Last Supper" was pleasant, as well as your communication with its author, however the time of parting has come and it's time to return to your world. Say your goodbyes!

— But let's gather again, — Dali said excitedly, — say, in another five hundred years, is that possible? I would like to know if humanity will still remember us and how interested they are in our work?

— Nothing is impossible for me, — Messire answered, — your art is immortal, the only question is, will humanity still exist in 500 years?

Everyone together raised their mugs with Kykeon! Messire waved his cloak. All the heroes dissolved in the air and according to the plot materialized in their places in the painting. He turned to Dali.

— I give you time to resolve the main question, after which you will return to your world, — he said and disappeared.

Silence fell.

— Dear brother!

— looking around, Salvador said, — I have never seen you, but always felt your presence. I interpreted these feelings completely wrong, they burdened me and didn't let me live my own life. From childhood I saw our parents' love for you, which I was very jealous of, and always thought that, in their eyes, I am your reincarnation, moreover, an unsuccessful one. This irritated me greatly, causing a feeling of hatred and envy at the same time. Only now, thanks to the all-powerful Messire and after talking with Gala, I understood the full depth of my delusions. Do you hear me, brother?

— I hear, — the voice said, — I always hear you, because you are talking to yourself.

— I have understood the full depth of my delusions, — Dali continued, — and now it is comfortable for me to be with you in one body.

— I am glad that finally, we have become one whole with you, — the voice answered, — but, this is not forever and we still have a parting ahead. The fire through which you will pass will divide us again and you will live your last days alone, without me, and we will meet again only in another life.

— Is that so?

— Salvador said sadly and pondering for a second, continued, — then I am changing my will, in which I asked to be buried in the crypt of Púbol Castle next to Gala. I bequeath to bury me in the Dali Theatre-Museum in the city of Figueres and wall up the body in a crypt under one of the rooms. I am ashamed of my painting "The Sacred Heart", in which I demonstratively spit on your grave brother and I want to make amends. I cannot force the public to spit on my grave, so let at least, "people walk over me"! And this is my REPENTANCE!

— He found his "Cave of Dreams", — a quiet voice rustled, — as we supposed.

— Yes, signor Bosch, — Michelangelo answered just as quietly, — he found it, though a very unusual one. However, he is a surrealist and there is nothing to be surprised at here.

— Thank you Messire, — the voice said quietly, — I am very grateful to you and now I am at peace.

— I simply restored justice, — another voice answered, — joined your souls. The world doesn't need two Salvador Dalis!

— Grandpa!

— the little boy looked at the painting with interest, — and who is this that spread his arms over the seated uncle and why can't his face be seen?

— That is the spirit of his brother, — the elderly man answered, — spirits have no face.

— And why does the uncle press his left hand to his chest, — the little one wouldn't calm down, — and point his right finger upwards?

— With these gestures he seems to be saying: "This is me, Salvador, and this is the spirit of my brother Dali, and together we are - Salvador Dali!"

— And these iron bars, — the boy didn't let up, — what are they for?

— This is a symbol that, — the grandfather said, — his soul is in a cage. One pretty witch, — he smirked, — locked the artist's soul in it, covered it with a glass dome and isolated it from the surrounding world, so that he could work and create in peace.

— Grandpa!

— the toddler pressed against his leg, — where do you know all this from, did you learn it in school?

— No, baby, — the grandfather sighed, — they don't study this in school. I was simply at this "Last Supper", saw everything with my own eyes and was present during the artist's conversation with the spirit of his late brother.

An elderly married couple stopped nearby. Hearing the grandfather's words, the man smiled, then turned to his spouse and said thoughtfully, — strange, every time I stand near this painting, I feel a slight smell of sulfur. Darling, don't you think so?

— The smell of sulfur?

— the woman wrinkled her little nose, — but it seems to me it smells like lavender. Oh, sir, — she turned to the grandfather, — I think your grandson has a little problem, — and indicated with her eyes the child's wet pants.

— Eh, kid, — the grandfather sighed, — you're already 7 years old, and you...

— He flew in through the window, — the boy said in a frightened voice, — and sat right...., — he pointed with a trembling finger, — there, there, you see, on the painting... there is a GRASSHOPPER sitting! Oh, oh, I'm afraid!!

— Well, what are you afraid of?

— the grandfather smiled, reached out his hand to the painting and the insect obediently jumped onto his palm, — look, he's not scary at all.

— Kill him grandpa, — the child squealed and hid behind his back, — kill!

— No baby, — the old man answered calmly, — I never kill anyone, I only observe. He patted the boy on the head, — oh you, hero, — he smiled, — found who to be afraid of, a grasshopper!

/---------------------------------------/

"The Last Supper" may well be not just a painting on a theme, but a dream on a theme, a fantasy, a hypothesis, anything else".

"In our unconscious mind wild and destructive energies, fantasies and nightmares rage. Sometimes, due to various reasons, all these charms take the form of paranoia and then hold on".

"I have never imposed my interpretation of events on the viewer, allowing everyone to decide for themselves what their subconscious sees in the open text of accessible symbols".

"I don't know what I am painting. First I get an idea, and the explanation comes later".

Salvador Dali.