(i’d really give this 3.5 probably but ill go w a solid 4. i expect my royalties mr. gibson)
the best thing about this book is that it truly is hilarious. ian gibson is SO funny (and almost bitchy?) in the narration that it made reading salvador dalí’s thoughts and actions bearable. i’ve seen some reviews saying ian gibson clearly hates salvador dalí as though that is a bad thing. first of all, salvador dalí was a racist antisemitic fascist megalomaniac so i think probably we should all, at the very least, mildly dislike him. and second of all it is the clear scorn ian gibson possesses for him that makes this book come alive. arguably its this book’s strength! gibson really cuts through the self aggrandizing myth that still perpetuates thirty or so years after his death, and he does it in a really funny way. i’m into it i think it’s incredible amazing showstopping etc etc
the worst thing for me personally (and others have already mentioned this) is the transphobic handling of amanda lear’s involvement in dalí’s life. that gibson went out of his way to “prove” lear was transgender is a gross violation of her privacy, but even beyond this she was only really included as a evidence to prove dalí’s bisexuality or whatever, thus rendering lear and all other trans people as some sexual fantasy/fetish for repressed has-been fascists. (not to mention there was ample evidence available to support this claim without harassing lear) added to this is a sprinkling of misogyny in how he discussed both lear’s and gala’s impact on dalí’s art, which is to say he barely discussed it. i think gibson should pay lear $1 million.
i have the impression gibson got bored (or just sick of dalí) after the 40s, and i cant really blame him — dalí was a one trick pony by that point — but that’s what the biographer’s job is. and i have a feeling this is why the last part of the book feels lacking and his claims feel unsupported. he was particularly vicious towards gala at the end with little evidence to back it up — i have no idea if it was the dalís increased privacy or a lack of interest on gibson’s part or just posthumous vindication for our best friend federico garcía lorca. but in any case i would have liked more substance towards the end.
another problem i’ve got w gibson is his psychoanalysis of dalí through his work. i’ll be the first to admit that one’s artistic output does reveal aspects of one’s personality but if it’s not handled very delicately it can go too far and completely erase the artistic agency of the creator. artists will draw inspiration from the real world and tweak it to varying degrees. thats just how art works. there were a few times in his lorca biography when i thought gibson went overboard (particularly with the stanton poem — i’m sure lorca just tweaked the details to write a more emotionally compelling narrative, not worth the time gibson spent on it) but i thought it was particularly egregious in this book, especially when he has clearly stated that dalí constantly put up a mask. there’s was one poem dalí wrote alluding to incest and gibson was like “maybe he and ana maria had incestuous relations??????” like NO ian you can’t just SAY that without anything to back it up! certainly not dalí’s shitty poem!! that being said it was very funny when gibson used freudian analysis against dalí, and i hate freud so that’s saying something.
i feel like im dunking on this too much 😔 it really was a compelling read, and a very interesting take on who the real salvador dalí might be. it’s so obvious that the majority of his life he put up a front and it’s obnoxious when people act as though that was the real man and also never mention the fact that he was a fascist. it’s a critical look that’s well written and talks a lot about my best friend federico garcía lorca which i appreciate. and it compelled me enough to write a review, which i never do for anything ever.
i recommend this book for haters, people who like federico garcía lorca, and fans of homophobic homosexual romtragicomedies.
fun drinking game: take a drink every time someone, gibson or otherwise, insinuates dalí is a fruit