The murder at the end of the little essay in the “information balloon” above is intriguing. “I like it, le murder, because this is courage,” Dali told Victor Bockris in a 1974 interview. He was talking about murder in general, of course.

“It is anti-bourgeois. Le murder is closer to heaven, because after becoming rrrremords de conscience [remorseful], one prays, one opens le sky, and le angels say, ‘Good morning!’”

The French news media were the first to pick up on the coincidences between Dali’s paintings and the murders in Perpignan of 19-year-old Moktaria Chaib, found in December 1997 with face to the ground and both breasts cut away, and 22-year-old Marie-Helene Gonzalez, discovered six months later with some of her internal organs placed in a box and head and hands missing, and the subsequent disappearance of 17-year-old Tatiana Andujar.

Stephen Bourgoin, dubbed by the press France’s leading expert on multiple murder, discounted any link, but he put the case this way: “Dali has done his work of art. Now the serial killer of Perpignan is doing his gruesome work of art.”

Still, the murder at the railway station is a mere red herring in the great Dali saga. Far more intriguing — and merely hinted at in the typo-marred Jpg-image balloon created for Google Earth — is the matter of Europe’s abduction, the imminent catastrophe, and the mystery of the abandoned village of Perillos.

Dali’s pronouncements about the centre of the universe and the continent’s coming destruction were not about to be left alone, and several writers have carried the ball from there.

Philip Coppens, who looks hopefully into all manner of supernatural beliefs, has a relatively measured essay on Dali’s “scientific” approach to life’s mysteries on his website, and between him and André Douzet, whose Société Perillos maintains the online guide Perillos.com, you can venture far into Da Vinci Code territory with Saunière, Rennes-le-Château and the Priory of Sion.

There’s a ruling dynasty with secrets to hide and, seemingly inevitable in these ventures, the tomb of Jesus, right outside Perpignan. Has anyone even notified Dan Brown?

In this photo from Le Point magazine, Dali and Gala visit the station in a din of excitement in August 1965, two years after he had his “precise vision of the constitution of the universe” there. And this is where the universe would begin to converge.

Cynics will insist that, by “centre of the universe”, Dali meant that Perpignan station was where his artwork originated — the place from which he shipped everything out to the world, since the Spanish red tape at Figueras station was too fussy. It’s clear, though, that Dali meant far more than that.

Coppens bases his observations on the writings of Roger Michel Erasmy, who investigated Dali’s prediction of an apocalypse of sorts being born in the region. Erasmy cited the “catastrophic writing” that Dali jotted in a 1982 booklet and his revelations the following year to his childhood friend and final companion, Antonio Pichot.

On Halloween 1983, Dali dictated to Pichot the details of four hallucinations he’d had at the end of ‘82. In one of these René Thom, pictured here, a mathemetician he admired and had once met, had appeared and told him of the upcoming catastrophe, a matter of Europe’s “disappearance, or abduction”, beginning at a spot between Salses and Narbonne.

After making the films “The Andalusian Dog” and “The Golden Age”, Dali and Luis Bunuel planned but never carried out a third, called “Babaouo”, which had to do with the legend of Babau heard in Rivesaltes, and there’s another, similar yarn about Babaos that’s linked with Perillos.

The hero of both stories is one of the lords of Perillos (influential advisers to the kings of Aragon, despite meagre earnings from their estates), who was victorious over some terrible monster. Erasmy noted that the postal code for the region of Rivesaltes and Opoul-Perillos is 66600, but there’s better evidence for a genuine occult mystery here than a fleeting allusion to the Mark of the Beast.

Dali once visited Opoul, signing the guest book at the mayor’s office, but nothing is recorded about his reason for being in the area.

Also in 1983, Dali painted “Topological Abduction of Europe — Homage to René Thom”, in which one of Thom’s mathematical equations appears on an otherwise near-blank grey field. Two lines bisect the canvas, and a cross, or “X”, is marked.

Erasmy realised that the line on the right mimicked the route of the A9/E15 motorway between Salses and Narbonne, and the one on the left that of the smaller D611 between Tuchan and Durban-Corbières. If this were a map, the “X” would be close to Perillos.

Below is the area as seen on Google Earth, and below that the same view with the painting superimposed and the “X” highlighted. It’s not easy reconciling the lines on the painting with the roads, but the are “close”, just as the “X” is close-ish to Perillos.

Erasmy asked Pichot if Dali had painted with a map in hand and was told he did not. And from there the story drifts far and wide, without ever coming close to explaining what Dali suspected about Perpignan.

Coppens and Erasmy seem to think Dali was, right from youth, a genuine mystic visionary who could “download” information from some other realm. Coppens goes as far as to suggest that the “madness” ascribed to the maestro in his final years — his alleged suicide attempts — could have been information overload. “Was the gate from the other realm wide open and was Dali unable to regulate it?”

Noting Dali’s fascination with Thom, Einstein and Heisenberg, Coppens wonders if Dali’s science might have also extended to alchemy and the occult arts, and whether he was an initiate.

In the 1979 painting “Searching for the Fourth Dimension”, writes Coppens, “we see the alchemist at work: there are allusions to Einstein’s space/time theories, by means of the wheels next to the cave — both concave and convex — and the sprawling soft watch.

“But what to make of the couple with their backs to the painter, a reference to Plato and Aristotle in ‘The School of Athens’ by Raphael — which in itself has a rich history of esoteric acclaim?

“And why did he believe that Europe would be ‘abducted’ from Perpignan, where centuries before an apocalyptic preacher, Vincent Ferrer, made similar claims … claims apparently supported by the exiled pope Benedict XIII?”

Again, there are no answers forthcoming.

On the Opoul plateau are two castles, one in the village itself and the other, the castle of Salveterra, shown above, on a rock outcrop overlooking it, with a view of the Mediterranean Sea. The latter has been there since at least 1172, and the village since 1246, once known as Salveterra and with a small chapel whose remains still exist.

From the plateau you can see the tower of the castle of Perillos, probably a deliberate line of sight in the event of invasion, so that warning fires could be lit. Below, an aerial of Perillos.

Every May 1 people get together on the plateau for the Chronodrome, a welcoming party for any time travellers who might be arriving from the future. Perillos.com (though it’s not clear if this is André Douzet writing) says a satellite known as KEO was to be launched into space in 2005, bearing “a numeric library containing the sum total of our current knowledge and the cultural history of humanity.

“At the end of the 50,000 years, KEO will land on Earth and our distant descendants will hold in their hands the keys to our civilisation … I am wagering that in the distant future our descendants will have discovered the medium to travel through time. Therefore, we are inviting them to leap back to our epoque and give us some small sign that they have received our message.

“To ensure that they are not mistaken in either the time or place, we have indicated a precise spot — the castle in Opoul — and a date — the 1st of May with a margin of 50 years. Thus the contact could take place any 1st of May between the years 2000 and 2050.

“What we expect from the ‘chrononauts’ is at least a visual ’sign’ in the sky above the place reserved for the Chronodrome. The advantage of a visual sign is that it should have a minimal impact on our physio-chemical environment so as not to have any effect on theirs in the future. The appearance of a hologram, a light, or any sign of contact would represent a veritable victory.”

This is a god’s-eye view of a distinctly Dalinean flourish in the local landscape.

Curiously, the astronomer Cassini of the Observatory in Paris spent more than a year in the area in the 17th century making a map, on which Perillos is identifed as “white space”, a designation normally used for unknown territory.

Nearby is Tautavel, one of Europe’s oldest settlements. In the cave called the “caune de l’Arago” the remains of pre-Neanderthal people were found in 1971, including the skull of “Arago XXI”, 450,000 years old.

There’s another artist in the picture here: the French-Catalan sculptor and painter Marcel Gili (1914-93). Just down the road from Perillos is a museum dedicated to him.

“Discovered” by Maillol, the stone cutter’s son exhibited his work in Perpignan in 1932 and the following year in Paris, where he met abstraction-creationists Delaunay, Leger and Dufy. He became a professor at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts Superior de Paris.

THERE’S STILL MORE TO THIS STORY: Continue to “Roger Erasmy, the ‘Heirs of Dali’ and the Perpignan railway car”.

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As to the painting, “The Mystery of the Railway Station at Perpignan”, it was first exhibited in New York on December 18, 1965. Nearly a decade later it was back in the Big Apple, as the centrepiece of a show at the Knoedler Gallery.

For the record, the full title is:

“Gala Looking at Dali in a State of Anti-Gravitation in His Work of Art ‘Pop-Op-Yes-Yes Pompier’ in Which One Can Contemplate the Two Anguishing Characters from Millet’s ‘Angelus’ in a State of Atavistic Hibernation Standing Out of a Sky Which Can Suddenly Burst into a Gigantic Maltese Cross Right in the Heart of the Perpignan Railway Station Where the Whole Universe Must Begin to Converge”

Louis Markoya was at the time Dali’s protegé, and the maestro asked him to paint “the picture of his name for the Knoedler window”. He used his variant on “Markoya”.

“Mark Oil, you are to paint the picture which will welcome the world to my new show. It is to be painted in black and white, in the style of Andy Warhol, and it should be six feet by four feet. It shall say DALI and that is all, though you should sign it like it was typed by a typewriter.”

Louis’ next assignment was trickier: Dali handed him a drawing showing a field of wheat with the written note, “Wit cret Luis”, meaning “Wheat to be created by Louis”. (Seen below is a Dali ink sketch, “Long Live the Station at Perpignan, Long Live Figueras”, from 1979.)

Dali saw wheat as the food staple on which the economies of some nations depend, Louis has explained, and utilised it in his art in the form of sublime loaves of bread and the body of Christ. But for this exhibition, Dali wanted a waving field of grain as a frame for his masterpiece — and he wanted artificial wheat.

“Dali wanted me to procure thousands of shafts of plastic wheat. The wheat was to be attached to tiny springs and the springs were to be attached to small mounting plates.

“Nowhere was plastic wheat to be found. El maestro was getting more and more pissed, when I decided I’d show up with reams and reams of real wheat stalks, which he could not believe, in that day and age, could be had (as opposed to plastic).

“But he was pleased. The wheat field was installed directly in front of the painting. The Knoedler people were turning blue when Dali had workers drilling holes in the hardwood floors to install the shafts.”

The final phase of the plan didn’t pan out: large fans that would toss the wheat to and fro as if in a farmer’s field. This notion proved just too impractical.

A refreshingly lighter reminder of Perpignan’s link to Dali, its close neighbour, came in January 2009 when Lluis Colet sat down at the railway station and talked non-stop for 124 hours — mostly about Dali, his fellow Catalonian — to break the world record for the longest speech.

The 62-year-old civil servant nattered on for five days and four nights to cap the previous Guinness record by four hours.

More about mystery in Dali’s art, an extension of this post.

In online blurbs and press releases, self-styled “Dalinean researcher” Roger Michel Erasmy continues to churn out “explanations” of Dali’s supposed magical or psychic precognition.

He earns his living writing books, though. “Le mystère de la gare de Perpignan” (1985), “Codex Dalianus” (1989) and “L’Apothéose du Dollar” (2004) present a more or less apocalyptic vision drawn from cryptic messages inferred from Dali’s canvases.

“Topical Abduction of Europe” (1983), from the elderly Dali’s “catastrophe series”, seems to be Erasmy’s launching pad, and Erasmy sees his oracle proved right in the politico-economic grappling of the European Union, with France’s May 2005 rejection of the European Constitution treaty being crucial evidence.

Dali, says Erasmy, foresaw the fall of the Nazism in “The Enigma of Hitler” (1939, detail here, with the Fuhrer circled) and the collapse of communism in both “The Enigma of William Tell” (1933, detail below), with Lenin knelt at his own coffin, and “Partial Hallucination — Six Apparitions of Lenin on a Grand Piano” (1931, shown further down).

Dali also predicted the 9/11 attacks (though I haven’t been able to identify in which artwork) and, as read in the “emblematic table” seen in “The Apotheosis of the Dollar” (1965, also further down), the disaster of the US-led war in Iraq.

Andrew Roberts, in “A History of the English-speaking Peoples Since 1900″, pointed out that the “newspaper” Dali once briefly circulated, the Dali News, had on November 25, 1947, published prophecies for the coming 10 years.

“The painter predicted such forthcoming occurrences as ‘The Summa Theologiae of St Thomas shall be revised by the atom cooked three times’ and ‘An American art critic of Irish blood shall win fame defending the Dalinian theory of painting.’

“He also predicted,” Roberts wrote, “that ‘Belgium shall know glory in legislation and finance’. Sure enough, 10 years later, that country became the focus for a new Great Power in the world.”

The European Economic Community came into being with a treaty signed in Rome on March 25, 1957, and the Belgian capital, Brussels, became the centre of the new European Union’s legislative and financial power.

Erasmy seems to believe that the figure sitting back from the piano keyboard in “Partial Hallucination” is Boris Yeltsin (it looks more like Max Ernst to me). The overall message is a warning about Russian aggression, he claims, drawing a line to Moscow’s 2008 invasion of Georgia and the intervention of French President Nicolas Sarkozy, who was then also heading the European Union. Ukraine, however, remains vulnerable, Erasmy has noted.

“The new geopolitical order described by Dali does not correspond at all to the hegemonic ideas of President Bush, nor to the futuristic designs of the eurocrats of Brussels,” Erasmy wrote in 2007.

“Tuna Fishing” (1967) evidently foresaw the European Union’s 2008 decision to shut down Mediterranean bluefin tuna fishing, which caused an uproar in France.

The interpretations that Erasmy has shared for free on his Dali Décodé website and blog haven’t always enjoyed the success he claims his three books have met with the reading public.

The Frenchman’s divinations of the prophetic meanings in Dali’s art failed signally in 2007 when French voters chose Sarkozy as president over Ségolène Royal.

What made Erasmy so sure that Royal would win the election?

Because the other Dali painting on which he’s built a career — “The Mystery of the Railway Station of Perpignan” — supposedly contains the “code” 229 CL 66.

This “message” Erasmy transcribes (by means I don’t understand). via the date of modern France’s founding, September 22, 1792, to Royal’s birthdate, September 22, 1953.

And then there was this postage stamp Dali designed in 1978, depicting Dante’s Béatrice, which Erasmy said presents the “myth-sign of Marianne”.

The stamp went on sale on November 17, 1979, he pointed out — and on the 27th anniversary of that date Royal was nominated as her Socialist Party’s candidate for the presidency. (Wikipedia says Royal was nominated on the 16th.)

Dali, Erasmy continued, produced no fewer than 64 variations on Millet’s popular painting “The Angelus” and insisted that the woman in the picture was a dominating “praying mantis” ready to crush the man. (Shown here are the left and right components of the stereoscopic “The Eye of the Angelus” from 1978.)

This woman, said Erasmy, is Ségolène Royal, who hails from and is president of the Poitou-Charentes region, where the repetition of the Angelus prayer was first introduced in 1318.

Dali Planet has much more about Dali and the Angelus in this post.

Finally, Erasmy noted, Cécilia Sarkozy — then still the wife of the eventual president — is the great-granddaughter of the celebrated Catalan composer Isaac Albéniz, for whom the city of Barcelona built a “palace” in 1929.

Forty years later Dali was asked to paint a fresco on the ceiling of the Palauet Albéniz (see this post), and did so with the coming reinvestiture of King Juan Carlos in mind. He called his mural “The Hour of the Monarchy” and this, in Erasmy’s mind, was a nod to Ségolène “Royal”.

Erasmy was surely on safer ground forecasting Barack Obama’s election on the basis of Dali’s “Poetry of America” (1943), which contains an acknowledged allusion to the evolving acceptance of racial equality.

Far less convincing is his claim that Obama’s effort to save the US auto industry was somehow foreshadowed in “The Appearance of the Town of Delft” (1936), with its vegetative car rotting from the roots.

And who has the energy to argue when he says the 2009 financial crisis was there for everyone to see in “Apotheosis of the Dollar”, and perhaps in “The Basket of Bread” as well?

The full title of the former painting is “Salvador Dali in the Act of Painting Gala in the Apotheosis of the Dollar in which You Can See on the Left Marcel Duchamp Masquerading as Louis XIV behind a Vermeerian Curtain which Is the Invisible Face, but Monumental, of Hermes by Praxiteles”.

Dali traced the moire patterns from an image projected on the canvas, just as the Old Masters had done in previous centuries to ensure precise measurements and perspective.

Although Erasmy didn’t specify which version of “Bread”, it’s a safe guess he was referring to the 1945 one (they’re quite similar anyway). The basket, he said, forms “a notation symbolic of the stock exchange” and the nub of a loaf suggests a severed penis. Thus the fiscal crisis marks the end of “a system built on phallic capacity, from now on threatened by the emancipation of women” (Erasmy champions Hillary Clinton and Angela Merkel as well as Royal).

Erasmy seems to have done Dali’s admirers a more palpable service in locating the railway coach that was depicted in “The Mystery of the Railway Station of Perpignan”.

He claims to have found the car in 1986, abandoned behind the station and occupied, suitably enough, by a “tramp”. He talked the local transport firm Raymondis, which owned it, into letting him convert it into a “cultural platform”.

By 1994 Erasmy had the railroad coach in the “Dali Triangle” and the following year publicly inaugurated it in front of the press with the help of television celebrity Marlène Mourreau, who Erasmy said was “selected as godmother” to the project on the basis of her physical assets, “in conformity with the erotic phantasms of Salvador Dali”.

When last heard of — there were no updates on the website about this the last time I looked — the “Dali Wagon” was headed for Wolnzach in Bavaria in October 2005 for an exhibition of the work of 10 Eastern European surrealist artists calling themselves the “Heirs to Dali”.

This collective had been assembled by a German painter who goes by the names Angerer-DER-Aeltere and Ludwig Angerer the Elder and also includes Frenchmen Jean-Pierre Alaux, Jean Bailly, Yo Coquelin, Lukás Kándl, Jacques Resch, Jean Reus and Eli Tiunine, Miguel Garcia-Diez of Spain and Michael Maschka, another German.

What exactly happened to the Heirs’ proposed exhibition in May 2005 at the Place du Pantheon in Paris’ fifth arrondissement isn’t quite clear from Erasmy’s website. The event appears to have been originally planned to coincide with the centenary of Dali’s birth in 2004 and, with the Dali Wagon included, was deemed part of a project called “Train of Fantastic Art” (TAF 2004).

Art dealer Stephan Gissinger and Yo Coquelin, one of the Heirs, made the arrangements with the Town Hall, but everything fell apart, Erasmy claimed, due to “jealousies and meanness” involving a “cabal” that opposed him. Nothing seems to have happened in 2005 either.

Architect and painter Angerer designed a logo for the project from a likeness of Dali. His striking painting shown alongside it below is titled “Moderne Schoenheit 2″.

The 10 Heirs did manage to hold a show in 2007, however, at the thermal springs in Mont-Dore, west of Lyon. Michael Maschka won a trophy called the “Apocalypse Dore” for his painting “Travels to the Crystal Mountains”.

“The Black Mass”, 1974

Getting back to Dali himself, and along the same spooky lines, the maestro’s superstitions are well documented, but there’s room for speculation as to just how much he delved into the supernatural, apart from its utility to any hard-working surrealist.

Amanda Lear has recorded that anything green meant bad luck to Dali, and he “hated” green parrots as a result. Ill fortune also came from peacock feathers and starting a journey and marrying on a Tuesday.

He always carried a wooden talisman “wrapped in a sock and secured with a rubber band”.

Gala, he wrote, “believes in my wood — a piece of wood that I found at the beginning of our acquaintance among the rocks of Cape Creus, under extraordinary circumstances. Since then we have never been without this ‘pure Dalinian fetish’, though we have lost it on several occasions.

“Once we lost it in Covent Garden in London, and found in again the next day. Another time it had been taken out with the bed sheets. It was necessary to go minutely over the whole laundry of the Hotel St Moritz, yet we finally found it.

“This piece of wood has assumed in my mind the form of a compulsive maniacal neurosis. When I get the idea that I ought to go and touch it, I cannot resist doing it. At this very moment I am forced to get up to go and touch it … There, I have just touched it, and with this my anxiety, which otherwise would only have grown agonizingly, has been calmed.”

Gala had a chunk of wood just the same, and when she died, Dali gave it to Lear.

On one occasion when Lear’s love life was in turmoil, Dali went hunting for a particular carbuncle that would put things right.

In a 1939 letter to Luis Bunuel, Dali wrote: “For three years now I’ve been occupying myself passionately with all matters relating to ‘objective chance’. Destiny, prophetic dreams, interpretation of the smallest events in daily life in order to act in consequence, chiromancy, astrology, etc etc.”

At the Dali Museum in Florida in 2008, lecturer Vickie Brunner focused on “Dali, Women and the Occult”. She began with Lydia (often spelled Lidia) Noguer, the so-called “last witch of Cape Creus” to whom Dali referred in his autobiography “The Secret Life” as the “Godmother of my madness”. Noguer told biographer Ian Gibson that she was “the witch responsible for the whole business of Dali and a whole lot more besides”.

“Lidia de Cadaques”, 1954

Pictured here is the cover of a local history about Lydia published in 1954 by the celebrated author Eugeni d’Ors, featuring illustrations by Dali including the one above.

Noguer, who died in an asylum, was the person Dali turned to in 1930 after his father disowned him. He needed a place to live, so she sold the 26-year-old a fisherman’s derelict hut in Port Lligat, and it became his and Gala’s home — and the basis for the house they always kept, now the Dali House-Museum.

Dali wrote sentimentally about Lydia in his 1942 autobiography, recalling his and Gala’s return home after their second pre-war trip to the US. He refers to her using Eugeni d’Ors’ compliment, “La Ben Plantada” — the “well-planted woman”. Earlier he’d attached the description to his beautiful childhood neighbour Ursula (see this post).

“We arrived in Port Lligat toward the end of a very bright December afternoon. Never had I understood so well how beautiful the landscape of Port Lligat was …

“Already from afar we perceived the figure of Lydia ‘La Ben Plantada’, dressed in black and seated on the threshold of the door to our house, awaiting our return.

“When we got close, Lydia got up and came to meet us. She was weeping. We went inside, and she confided to us that her life with her two sons had become unbearable.

“Her sons no longer went fishing; they spoke only of their [imagined] radium mines; they spent most of the time lying on their pallets. Sometimes they would weep; sometimes, taken with dreadful fits, they would beat her. She showed us a scar on her head, pulling aside two strands of her white hair, and let us see the blue marks all over her body. A week later her two sons were sent to the madhouse in Gerona.

“In the afternoons Lydia would come to the house and weep. Port Lligat was solitary. A violent and persistent wind prevented the fishermen from going out to fish, and only the famished cats would skulk around our little house.”

Lydia puts in an appearance in the post about the Lligat house as well.

Much has been written about Gala’s talent with the tarot deck. Dali believed she could read the future in the cards and, according to Tim McGirk and Meryle Seacrest’s book “The Wicked Lady”, she did indeed foretell the day the day Nazi Germany would invade France.

She would consult the oracle every evening under an olive tree in their garden (or every morning, according to another source), and Dali would decide accordingly whether it was appropriate to do some painting that day or the next.

Gala’s engagement in such things had early on piqued the interest of the surrealists, who sought to channel the subconscious through hypnosis, thought-transference, seances and automatic writing.

While she was still living with Paul Eluard, before Dali arrived from Spain, there were weekends of group experimentation, and they tried to interpret each other’s dreams. The poet Robert Desnos would writhe around in a trance and then begin automatic writing.

Rachel Pollack’s book Salvador Dali’s Tarot” claimed it was Gala who “nurtured his interest in mysticism”, and to repay her he produced a deck featuring original paintings. But Amanda Lear, in “My Life with Salvador Dali”, says Albert “Cubby” Broccoli, the producer of the James Bond films, commissioned the cards, and Dali in fact put her in charge of the designs.

Broccoli, wrote Lear, was making “Live and Let Die”, which had a black-magic theme, and Dali accepted the commission but soon bored of it, so he turned to her. She did the research and made collages from reproductions of Dali works in his books.

Pollack noted that the Dali Tarot, with Hebrew letters on the trump cards, drew on the Jewish Kabbalah. The 22 letters of the Hebrew alphabet corresponded to the 22 trumps of tarot’s Major Arcana, four worlds of existence and 10 stations on the tree of life to the four suits of 10 numbered cards.

When Gala and Dali moved to Arcachon in the south of France in 1939, distancing themselves from the onslaught of war, their next-door neighbour was Leonore Fini, an artist even more eccentric than Salvador. She was involved in alchemy.

Amanda Lear described her at a restaurant outing in Paris as bringing “her own court” and wearing a full-length gown topped by a magician’s cape”.

“She had stars in her hair and carried a wand like a scepter.”

In 1939 Fini was a close friend of Leonora Carrington, Max Ernst’s partner, and the three of them shared an interest in alchemy and ritual magic. In answer to her question, Dali said he too believed in magic.

“It is the most primitive of all the religions,” he told her. “Man will always need magic. Superstition is simply the application of magic to everyday life.”

“I am not a mystic,” Dali was quoted as saying in Carlos Rojas’ book “Dali or the Art of Spitting on Your Mother’s Portrait”.

“I think I may be a pre-mystic, for since my childhood I have been in a state of pre-mysticism. I was impelled towards celestial things, even via evil [posession].”

On the other hand, it depends. In 1960 he told a New York Herald Tribunes reporter, “I am not only a mystic, I am also the reincarnation of one of the greatest of all Spanish mystics, St John of the Cross.”

He had vivid memories of being St John and could recall the experiences of the monkhood as well as “divine union”. He did indeed depict himself as a Franciscian monk in “Discovery of America by Christopher Columbus”.

An admirer of St Theresa of Avila and St John of the Cross, Dali felt that Christian mysticism might offer a door to the unknown.

Fleur Cowles, who wrote “The Case of Salvador Dali”, said he told her in 1957 that the “idea of an angel” stimulated him immensely, and he saw protons and neutrons as angelic elements. While he’d played a game called Seeing Angels as a child, which involved pressing against the eyeballs hard enough to produce phosphene images, he now believed in real angels, often embodied as people he loved and admired.

Amanda Lear recalled Dali spending an “entire winter researching old volumes regarding the study of odours. He theorised that the saintly odours of certain martyrs (such as the scent of violets) were directly related to the moral quality of the individual.” Only mystics were free of body odour, he speculated, and, since Lear didn’t perspire, she was “angelic”.

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The original theatre structure in which the museum now stands was designed by architect Roca i Bros. It burned down in 1939 and remained a gutted husk until Dali was convinced to place his museum there.

The museum officially opened on September 28, 1974, and the adjoining Torre Gorgot became part of it later, rechristened Torre Galatea. This is where he lived in his old age, following Gala’s death, and where the Gala-Salvador Dali Foundation now has its offices.

In the courtyard garden that now spans the area where the theatre stalls once perched is the installation entitled “Car-naval”, which includes one of the Dalis’ Cadillacs, on which Ernst Fuchs’ statue of Queen Esther rides; a marble bust by François Girardon; a reproduction of Michelangelo’s “The Slave”; and, as seen in the photo above, a boat that once belonged to Gala and a column of car tires.

Nearby is the Rainy Taxi, and ringing the courtyard are paintings by Evarist Vallès.

Also on the ground floor are the Sala de Peixateries — the Fish Shop — which is where you can see “Soft Self-portrait with Grilled Bacon” and “Portrait of Picasso”. Another room with Dali’s drawings on view connects to the maestro’s crypt.

Few visitors realise they are walking directly about the tomb as they cross the white marble slab in the middle of the red-brick floor of the main hall. The crypt is behind a wall decorated with a cross and the words “Salvador Dali Domeneci, Pubol Markisi, 1904-1989″.

The theatre’s old stage, now crowned by a geodesic dome designed by Emilio Pérez Piñero, is occupied by Dali’s towering backdrop for the ballet “Labyrinth”, and to one side is “Gala Contemplating the Mediterranean Sea Which at Twenty Metres Becomes the Portrait of Abraham Lincoln”.

To the left is the Sala del Tresor — the Treasure Room — which has “Basket of Bread”, “Galarina”, “Atomic Leda” and “The Spectre of Sex Appeal” on view. To the right is the popular Mae West Room.

On the next floor up is the Sala Palau del Vent — the Wind Palace Room. Here, where Dali exhibited his art in public for the first time at age 14, is the Sistine-like ceiling fresco he toiled on during the mid-1970s. He painted himself and Gala as if ascending into Heaven, and from their torsos, cabinet drawers open to pour out gold coins.

A post by “Eric” on the website Classical Values claims this artwork, featured in an “official Dali calendar” one year, is somehow related to the museum’s geodesic cupola, showing 16 figures arrayed as if part of a zodiac.

In the adjacent room is “Poetry of America”, and to the left the Sala de les Joies — the Jewel Room — with 39 pieces Dali designed between 1932 and 1970, along with the preparatory drawings.

On the third floor Dali’s private art collection is shown, including works by Meissonier, Fortuny, Modest Urgell, Gerard Dou, El Greco, Marcel Duchamp and Bouguereau along with some of his own, such as “Automatic Beginning of a Portrait of Gala”.

On the second floor is the gallery of paintings by Antoni Pichot, of the local family that meant so much to Dali.

Appointed by Dali the theatre-museum’s director, Antoni Pichot was at his side daily the last nine years of his life, watching him putter as best he could, listening always to the music of “Tristan and Isolde”.

When Dali asked him to run his museum Pichot balked. “I’m a painter, not a manager.”

“That’s exactly what I want,” Dali replied, “a manager who doesn’t do anything! You’re perfect.”

Pichot remembered first meeting Dali in 1950. His father took him along at the end of each summer to see what the maestro had come up with, and that summer, he said it was “The Last Supper”. Pichot can be forgiven for slipping on the year: “The Sacrament of the Last Supper” was done in 1955.

The Pichot’s home in Figueras was levelled by a bomb during the civil war, and they moved to San Sebastian. There, Antoni’s drawing instructor was none other than Juan Nuñez Fernández, who had taught Dali in Figueras 30 years before.

In 1972 Dali had a chance to see Pichot’s studio and enigmatically pronounced his one of his works “the painting of Opus Dei”. He carted it off, and the next day phoned to ask Antoni to help him with the museum, where his art would appear on permanent display.

Pichot paints the rocks of Cape Creus, seeing in each stone people and stories that almost suggest a paranoiac-critical approach.

Dali had once coached him: “Spread an armload of your beach stones on a table and you get ‘The Battle of Constantine’ by Raphael. Let’s see if you’re able to paint that.” Antoni obliged, and Dali wrote the the introduction for Pichot’s 1958 Barcelona exhibition where his own “The Battle of Constantine” was featured.

When the rocks awaken from their long sleep, he said, the noise is that of a ferocious battle.

The four “monsters” in the theatre-museum are pieces Pichot created with Dali in 1975, made with rocks, boards, tree limbs, parts of a whale skeleton and conch shells.

Above and right, Dali makes a grand show for the press photographers on an October 1968 visit to the Spanish Congress in Madrid.

He was in the capital to make a pitch to state minister Sanchez-Arjona on behalf of the museum in Figueras.

The theatre-museum may well have remained a dream had it not been for Figueras’ mayor in the early 1960s, Ramon Guardiola. Dali unveiled plans for the museum at a reception the town held in his honour on August 12, 1961. Guardiola knew from the start what he was up against if he was to help Dali make this dream a reality: Two prominent government officials found excuses not to attend the reception.

The party was a success just the same, even if a fierce north wind prevented a helicopter from hauling off the dead bull from the “surrealist corrida” Dali had arranged. The town council presented him with a medal it had minted for the occasion, the Silver Leaf, and unveiled a plaque on the house where he was born. And, amid the ruins of the old municipal theatre, the artist revealed his grand scheme for a museum of his own.

The fund-raising was now to begin, but Guardiola soon learned that there was scant enthusiasm about donating money to support the project. In terms of officialdom, only the head of the Girona regional government and a few prominent citizens were interested.

Just the same, Guardiola hired architect Ros de Ramis and secured a small grant from the Information and Tourism Ministry. Dali didn’t help matters by announcing that, based on his belief that originals and reproductions would have the same value in the future, he would fill the museum with copies of his paintings.

He then asked that one of Buckminster Fuller’s geodesic domes be erected over the museum courtyard. And when work on the museum failed to begin, he threatened to move the project to Paris or Perpignan instead.

Gala put in her two pesetas, telling Guardiola that if construction hadn’t begun by the time she and Salvador returned the following spring, she would “send six anarchists from Paris to blow up what remains of the theatre”.

A close-up of the drenched mannequin inside the “Rainy Taxi” at the museum.

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For his anguish, belatedly, the town of Figueras posthumously awarded the Silver Leaf to Guardiola in 1975, in recognition of his role in the museum’s construction.

Guardiola had moved to Figueras in 1950, and five years later met Dali at the local high school, which at the time was the provisional home of the Museum of the Empordà. Dali promised some of his artwork, though nothing ever came of it.

Guardiola tried again, this time asking Dali to provide something for the title page of the museum magazine’s December 1955 issue. This he did, and at the same time he developed an admiration for Guardiola’s knowledge about plant cultivation.

When, on his annual return to Port Lligat in the spring of 1956, Dali found that a winter chill had killed off most of the olive trees in the area, he was heartsick. Olives meant a great deal to him. He often called Gala “Oliveta”, and García Lorca had referred to Dali’s “olive-coloured voice”. The olive groves of Cadaques were to Dali like “some grey and venerable hairs that crown the philosophical head of the hills”.

So he sought Guardiola’s advice, and an expert was found who offered a formula with which to treat the ailing trees. Dali prepared the potion himself, and within a few weeks there were again signs of life. He packed some specimens in a box and took them to the agricultural institute in Girona for analysis.

When the box was opened, a cloud of insects fell out. The cause was found, and the remedy, and most of the olive trees were saved.

Below, a photo of Dali evaluating the sketches of art students who would visit the museum and consult him on a weekly basis at times during the 1970s.

The Spanish government’s formal declaration of the Dali homestead in Port Lligat as “a picturesque site of special interest to the nation” did more than flatter the maestro — it underscored his claim to divinity.

The announcement had turned his little corner of the world into “a Dalinian church”, he told Andre Parinaud for “The Unspeakable Confessions” in 1976.

At the time he planned on having his body preserved immediately after death so that he could be brought back to life at some point in the future.

“I should not be unhappy if some day humanity declared my person to be sacred and that from generation to generation the torch of my body were transmitted as the eternal witness to evolution.”

In his interviews with Parinaud, Dali declared himself a mystical spirit who could control space-time at will. His paintings were sacred masses through which he shared the eucharist of his knowledge with the followers of the “Dalinian mystique”, he said. “A new consciousness of humanity may start with me, Dali.”

“I can say that I am today the man nearest to the existence of God, the least mad of men and the term divine sometimes applied to me expresses an existential reality.”

Three decades earlier Dali hadn’t been nearly so exalted. In his 1942 autobiography “The Secret Life” he wrote of cherishing the house in Port Lligat, even if Gala was off in Paris soaking up luxury. He preferred the solitude.

“Port Lligat: a life of asceticism, of isolation. It was there that I learned to impoverish myself … A life that was hard, without metaphor or wine, a life with the light of eternity. The lucubrations of Paris, the lights of the city, and of the jewels of the Rue de la Paix, could not resist this other light — total, centuries-old, poor, serene and fearless.”

“Port Lligat is a place for accomplishments,” Dali declared on another occasion. “It is the perfect place for my work. Everything comes together: time passes slowly and every hour has its right dimension. There is a geologic tranquility: it is a unique planetary case.”

Salvador and Gala were roaming France when an offer of patronage came from the Vicomte de Noailles (read more about him in this post).

“I immediately thought of buying the shack belonging to Lydia’s sons at Port Lligat and of fixing it up to make it habitable,” Dali wrote years later, referring to Lydia Noguer, a fisherman’s wife in Cadaques who he’d known since his was a boy. Her sons used the hut for storage.

It “happened to be set exactly in the spot which I liked best in all the world. With the capriciousness which always characterises my decisions, it became in a moment the only spot where I would, where I could, live.”

Noailles fronted Dali 29,000 francs to buy the hut and he and Gala travelled to Cadaques, only to be turned away by the Hotel Miramar, Dali said, because it’s owner was “taking my father’s side” in the family row over Gala.

“We had to go to a tiny boarding house, where one of our former maids did everything she could to make our stay bearable. The only people with whom I was interested in keeping on good terms were the dozen fishermen of Port Lligat who, being more independent of the opinions of Cadaques, received us at first with reserve, but were quickly captivated by Gala’s irresistibly winning nature and by the aureole of my prestige.

“They knew that the papers were writing about me. ‘He’s young,’ they said. ‘He doesn’t need his father’s money. He’s free to do what he likes with his youth.’

“We hired a carpenter, and together Gala and I worked out all the details, from the number of steps there were to be in the stairway to the dimensions of the smallest window. None of the palaces of Ludwig II of Bavaria aroused one half the anxiety in his heart that this little shack kindled in ours.

“The shack was to be composed of one room about four metres square, which was to serve as dining room, bedroom, studio and entrance hall. One went up a few steps, and on a little hallway opened three doors leading to a shower, a toilet and a kitchen hardly big enough to move around in.

“I wanted it to be very small — the smaller, the more intra-uterine. We had brought the nickel and glass furniture from our Paris apartment, and we covered the walls with several coats of enamel. Not being in a position to carry out any of my delirious decorative ideas, I wanted only the exact proportions required by the two of us and the two of us alone.

“The only extravagant ornament which I planned to use was a very, very small milk tooth of mine which had never been replaced, and which I had just lost. It was white and transparent like a rice grain, and I wanted to pierce a hole in it and hang it by a thread from the mathematical centre of the ceiling.”

There were eventually nine fishermen’s huts in all, assembled gradually uphill. Dali ultimately realised it was “a true biological structure” where “each new pulse in our life has its own new cell, a room”.

Dali referred to Lydia Noguer in his autobiography “The Secret Life: as the “Godmother of my madness”, and when biographer Ian Gibson tracked her down, she wrote on the back of a photograph of herself, “This woman is the witch responsible for the whole business of Dali and a whole lot more besides”. What more? Read on in this post.

Life magazine pictures the colossus of Port Lligat Beach, and the master at work in his studio, apparently on “The Battle of Tetuan”. A blow-up of Velazquez’s self-portrait watches him, as does his own.

Below, another view of the studio. For conservation’s sake, visits today have to be arranged in advance, and access is not allowed to all areas, leaving guests often craning their necks to see what they can.

John Lanois caught the maestro peeking at the patio in 1965. Below, more relaxed with rams’ horns and coconut.

Outside the house today is the Clock Hut, where visitors can check their coats. Dali used to invite the local fishermen when they’d finished repainting their boats to use up the remaining paint by swabbing it on the doors of the hut. He called the multi-coloured results “the best abstract pictures in the history of painting”.

Guests enter the house itself via the Bear Lobby, from which the building spreads out in a labyrinth of narrow passageways and slight changes in floor level. All the windows have different shapes.

The ground floor and Rooms 7 to 12 were Salvador and Gala’s main living area, the studio and Rooms 5 and 6 his workplace, and their guests were entertained outside, in Room 13 and in the courtyards, now numbered 14 and 15.

On the terrace by the phallic pool is the little shrine of Pirelli tires and model bullfighters, and several chairs with six legs — the rear two on an outward angle — that a village artisan made for him because Dali so often leaned so far back in his chair that he tumbled over.

The telephone booth, routinely used by Dali’s guests, was supposedly one of the first installed in Spain.

And then there’s the dovecote that Dali fashioned out of plaster and wooden vineyard-tending forks on which birds could perch.

Below, the couple ensconsed after the place was as fixed up as it would ever get, photographed by Robert Descharnes.

In August 2009 the Gala-Salvador Dali Foundation announced that another area of the property had been opened to visitors, an upper-floor “circular construction” Dali had used as a secondary workshop “to make sculptures and performances”.

Its skylight, the foundation said, allowed him to paint subjects from below. Perforated ceramic vases resonated to gusts of wind, and there is a piano Dali used during some of his “performances”.

In 1967, Edgar Froese, who would later that year form the rock band Tangerine Dream, was invited to perform at Dali’s “Happening Afternoons” at the house, while ballet dancers pirouetted to the music of Debussy on enormous water-borne eggshells.

For his part, Dali attempted to play Satie at the piano, waist-deep in seawater.

He loved having hippies around, although it wasn’t always clear whether their appeal lay in their rebelliousness, their love of parties or the media sensation they tended to cause.

Did he partake of drugs with them? Despite the seemingly unambiguous quote attributed to him — “I do not take drugs. I am drugs” — the debate remains an open one, even at the Collect Dali Yahoo Group, several of whose members knew Dali personally.

While one member points out that Dali “practically admitted to chewing hashish 10 times” in his book “50 Secrets”, another says he’d seen the maestro decline drugs when offered, and was in fact “quite afraid of them. He would not even accept royal jelly, which was all the rage in the early ’70s, fearing someone would lace it with drugs.”

Below, a photo of the pool and Dali’s own painting of it, one of several he did, this one from about 1970. Below those, a Google Earth image of the property.

On a hillside above the house was (possibly still is — I don’t know) “Debris Christ”, a 1969 sculpture made with tree limbs, earth, the shards of a small boat, tiles and other detritus that came to hand. It depicted the pain of the crucifixion, with gnarled, decaying roots forming the crown of thorns.

It was in the skeleton of Christ’s boat, Brian Sewell claims in “Dirty Dali” (see this source), that the maestro talked him into posing for photos while masturbating.

Somewhat drunk, Sewell agreed to curl up one of Jesus’ armpits, undress and masturbate while Dali took numerous pictures and occasionally groped himself.

The following night, Sewell said, Dali’s Cadillac delivered to the house a group of hippies, the young men among whom went off with Dali to be photographed. As far as the women were concerned, according to Sewell, Dali preferred them to watch him masturbate.

Amanda Lear also did a photo shoot in the Christ — see this post.

In September 1965, Paris Match magazine published a dazzling spread of photos by Tony Saunier depicting Dali playing host to “the queen of Venus” and her entourage among the flaming shards of Cap Creus.

“The Venusians have landed!” spread was touted as a “Dali-fiction spectacular”. The setting was Cadaques’ Couliaro inlet, where Dali and Bunuel had shot scenes for “L’Age d’Or” 35 years earlier. These images were kindly shared by Karl Heinz Klumpner, who points out that many more photos of the event were published in 2000 by Harry N Abrams in the book “Encounters with Great Painters — Taken from the Annals of Paris Match“.

Dali designed the costumes for the Venusian monarch and her amphibian royal guard, drawing inspiration, he said, “from the Egyptian statues at Luxor and the Perpignan train station”.

“Dali invites Federika, his invented queen of the Venusians, to dine at his table,” ran the accompanying text. “A prisoner of her S-shaped space suit, she nevertheless remains formal throughout the course of the meal. The tablecloth is peppered with sea urchins, ‘the only animal,’ Dali says, ‘capable of space travel’.”

“After their meal, the host has prepared a modest apocalypse: 132 gallons of gas poured into the sea and set on fire. That same afternoon, Dali prepares another tableau vivant: Venusians abducting Earthlings.”