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| >> Static Item >> Fiction >> Holiday >> ID #788080 |   |
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A Very Dali Christmas Why not take a surreal Christmas Holiday this year with Sali and Gala? “Sali,” Gala said. “How many time I tell you, it’s Salvador, not Sali!” he shouted back. “That’s fine with me,” she said with a shrug of her shoulders, “If you want to be Sal-va-dor, then it’s going to be Sal-va-dor. But I like Sali. It’s like a little bird calling your name, ‘Saaaaaaaa-li. Come up to see me, Sa-li.’ Don’t you like that, Sali?” “Woman, you’ll be the death of me. What do you want, Gala my pet?” he asked. “Now that we have moved to America, I want to decorate for the Christmas season, Sali. You are a great painter, the best of the surrealists and people will expect our house to be adorned for the season.” “Well, adorn the house, then,” he said shortly. “You are a very creative person, my little Gala, and you may decorate any way you wish. Here, I give you 100 pesos. How you say, shot the moon, uh, throw the works. Spend it all in one place, I do not care.” ”That is very generous, Sali, but there is one little problem.” “And what is that, Gala? You’re not going to ask me to climb the ladder to hang the star, are you,” he asked playfully. “Oh, no,” she said hastily, “I do not need that. But look at the Christmas star. It lies there like a boneless chicken breast. It hangs off the mantle like it’s going to slide off. It has no strength. A star if supposed to stand up strong, but this one lays draped over the edge. And look at this tree.” “What about that tree,” he asked. “It’s like the star, it’s boneless. I’ll have to hang it from the ceiling.” “So?” he asked. “It’s supposed to have a stem and a pot. I’m so embarrassed over this tree!” she said tears beginning. “Yesterday I went over to the Picasso’s house and Françoise had her tree. It was a little strange, I think cubist and the colors were different, but it had a stem and a pot and there were little cubist presents under it.” “Oh, and you want to be like the Picassos?” he asked. “It was nice to have a tree that actually set on the floor. I also went by Andy Warhol’s and he had a nice Christmas tree that set in a large Campbell’s Tomato Soup can.” “Is that what you want? A cutout Christmas tree with big green spots on it stuck into a tomato soup can?” he demanded. “After I’ve worked my fingers to the bone to become the greatest surrealist painter in the world today...” “Oh, no, Sali,” she said, “It’s just that, when I hang the star on the mantle and go to the kitchen it slides off the wall, over the side of the mantle and will be laying on the floor when I return. Maybe I should just nail it to the wall.” “My God woman! Have you gone mad?” he demanded. “You do not put a nail in a Dali. No, no, no.” “Well, then there is also the crèche.” “What about the crèche?” he asked getting defensive. “Well...it’s a crooked and not like crèches mama had.” “And I suppose mama had proper ones?” he said sarcastically. “Yes. They stood up straight and proper and had a little star that stayed above the manger like it’s suppose to, with all the animals and Mary and Joseph and baby Jesus.” “Oh how pastoral that must have been,” he remarked rolling his eyes. “It was, but the one we have seems to list to the right a little and even baby Jesus seems to be a little liquidy.” “And I suppose the Picassos nativity was perfect.” “Not really, Mary seemed to have several sides, more than two, and she had eyes and noses on every side, I’d say maybe nine eyes and four or five noses. She may not have had clothes on, but it’s hard to tell with that many sides to her.” “Well, I think I have a solution to this dilemma. You know that new department store that recently opened down town?” “You mean F.W. Woolworth?” “That’s the one. You go down there and buy you a proper tree, star, nativity, Santa; whatever you want. Bring it back home and set it up wherever you want. I’ll go back in my studio and stay there working till after Christmas is passed, then we can get rid of the junk you purchased and go back to chairs you slide out of, clocks that drape over the edge of tables and purple night clouds that swirl around the moon.”
© Copyright 2003 Writer of the Winds (UN: caracas at Writing.Com).
All rights reserved.
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