Famous for 15 Minutes by Violet Ultra

Author:Violet, Ultra [Violet, Ultra]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, mobi, epub
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2015-02-16T21:00:00+00:00

24 HOURS

It’s one of many whirlwind days in mid-1968 when Andy and I stay up twenty-four hours without sleep. Andy’s uppers keep him going; all I need is my natural high. I drift into the Factory in midmorinng. We’re supposed to be shooting a movie, but nothing is happening. Gerard and a young kid hold silk screens in place; Andy works over them with rollers of cerise and persimmon paint. Rock music blares. I flip through the latest fashion magazines.

Ingrid arrives. We thumb through the magazines together. Now Gerard strings cables across the floor. It will be hours before anything happens. I make a call at the pay phone and take a cab uptown. Dali and I have lunch at the Pavilion with Verushka, a Russian-born model who is a Vogue favorite. She is wearing a black muslin see-through dress with seams running from waist to neck that center over her breasts so they hide one fifth of each nipple. Men stare at the hidden part and women stare at men staring. I have to laugh—our downtown way of dressing has reached high fashion circles. Dali is wearing a gold lame vest and a white ruffled shirt. I am wearing what is for me a conservative outfit: a violet mini with violet shoes and violet hose, which will not be changed until tomorrow at this time.

Dali holds forth on the rhinoceros’s horn, reputedly the world’s most powerful aphrodisiac. He says, stretching out each vowel, “There is not a day I don’t thank Sigmund Freud for his great truths. Thanks to him, in all my paintings I manage to paint a rhinoceros horn. Even in my famous Bread, there is a rhinoceros horn resting in the basket. I have to give you some powdered horn someday.”

“Thank you, but I don’t really need an aphrodisiac,” I say.

Dali continues. “When I was ten, I prayed on all fours in front of a table made of rhino horns.”

Verushka does not seem to know what to make of all this.

I take out my pad and pencil and say to Dali, “For that article I’m writing for France-Amérique, I need to know your definition of surrealism.”

“To transcribe thoughts spontaneously without any rational aesthetic constraint, to apply a paranoia critique to liberate men from the tyranny of the rational world.”

I tell him, “I guess I was born a surrealist but never knew it.”

He goes on. “Neglecting neither blood nor excrements, nor atheism nor the immaculate intuition, I add my Mediterranean hypocrisy, capable of perversity. But André Breton expels me from the group because I am too surreal. The most important thing for me is to commit the maximum number of sins.”

“I, too—” I begin, but Dali is not stoppable.

“Soon I knew the Nietzschean Dionysus was my guardian angel.…” I try to follow word by word his surreal monologue, but soon I let it envelop me like music. “Eventually I return to the truth of the Apostolic Roman Catholic religion, which meets my Dalinian cosmogony with its limp

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