Melting clocks in a desert — that painting began my adventure with surrealism. Salvador Dalí painted dreams as precisely as if he were photographing them: sharply, mercilessly, and with a clock that had stopped believing in time.
I understand him better now that I spend hours waiting for an animal that may never come. Dalí waited for images from his own head; I wait for the images the forest brings. Both demand the same patience — and a touch of madness.
The whole world knows his moustache, but I prefer his landscapes: empty, hot and quiet like a Catalan noon. In that emptiness there is room for everything the imagination cares to place there.