Dali

>>8610664
>He's second only to Vermeer

>What do you guys think of the Porsche 911? It's really only surpassed by the A-10 Thunderbolt II!

>>8610679
Do you think Dalii is some shitty artist, anon?

Didya read his book

>>8610664
His art explain how to mind work in some points. Useful stuff.

>>8610664

He's nice but it sounds like you have the most generic taste imaginable.

Amazing technical painter. Only has three or four truly great paintings.

>>8611309
Such a specious thing to say
Have you seen his anti-paintings? Judging art by technical merit is about the most boring thing I can imagine. Are you an engineer or something

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His best work.

>>8611482
I thought it was pretty obvious I wasn't judging a painting by its technical merit. I think Dali is dogshit, and that is the nicest thing I could say. I've never seen an artist with less imagination. At least one with such a reputation as him.

He's no Ernst.

Doesn't live up to his reputation and supported fascism. There's better surrealist artists.

Semirelated question: on what board (or forum) is art a subject of discussion? /lit/ doesn't seem like the place for it.

>>8611664
/ic/ but im kinda reaching. maybe /his/ for art his and /lit/ for theory

>>8611654
>making any argument about any artist about their political beliefs
I bet you think Being and Time is shit

>>8611826
It's a perfectly valid tool for the analysis of a work to consider the life and personality of the artist, as long as it is not the only tool used.

>>8611664
/lit/ is fine. Art is a classic subject of literature and one could say, without being too wrong, that literature is art.

>>8611309
hello nabby

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>>8611517
This is one of my favourites as well. Since this is /lit/ might as well post the text that he wrote to accompany it:

>Under the split in the retreating black cloud

>the invisible scale of spring is oscillating in the fresh April sky. On the highest mountain, the god of the snow, his dazzling head bent over the dizzy space of reflections, starts melting with desire in the vertical cataracts of the thaw annihilating himself loudly among the excremental cries of minerals, or between [sic] the silences of mosses towards the distant mirror of the lake in which, the veils of winter having disappeared, he has newly discovered the lightning flash of his faithful image. It seems that with the loss of his divinity the whole high plateau pours itself out, crashes and crumbles among the solitude and the incurable silence of iron oxides while its dead weight raises the entire swarming and apotheosic plateau from the plain from which already thrust towards the sky the artesian fountains of grass and from which rise, erect, tender, and hard, the innumerable floral spears of the deafening armies of the germination of the narcissi. Already the heterosexual group, in the renowned poses of preliminary expectation, conscientiously ponders over the threatening libidinous cataclysm, the carnivorous blooming of its latent morphological atavisms. In the heterosexual group, in that kind date of the year (but not excessively beloved or mild), there are the Hindou tart, oily, sugared like an August date, the Catalan with his grave back well planted in a sun-tide, a Whitsuntide of flesh inside his brain, the blond flesh-eating German, the brown mists of mathematics in the dimples of his cloudy knees, there is the English woman, the Russian, the Swedish women, the American and the tall darkling Andalusian, hardy with glands and olive with anguish.

continue

>>8612582 cont

>Far from the heterosexual group, the shadows of the avanced [sic] afternoon draw out across the countryside, and cold lays hold of the adolescent’s nakedness as he lingers at the water’s edge. When the clear and divine body of Narcissus leans down to the obscure mirror of the lake, when his white torso folded forward fixes itself, frozen, in the silvered and hypnotic curve of his desire, when the time passes on the clock of the flowers of the sand of his own flesh, Narcissus loses his being in the cosmic vertigo in the deepest depths of which is singing the cold and Dyonisiac siren of his own image. The body of Narcissus flows out and loses itself in the abyss of his reflection, like the sand glass that will not be turned again. Narcissus, you are losing your body, carried away and confounded by the millenary reflection of your disappearance your body stricken dead falls to the topaz precipice with yellow wreckage of love, your white body, swallowed up, follows the slope of the savagely mineral torrent of the black precious stones with pungent perfumes, your body ... down to the unglazed mouths of the night on the edge of which there sparkles already all the red silverware of dawns with veins broken in ‘the wharves of blood’. Narcissus, do you understand? Symmetry, divine hypnosis of the mind’s geometry, already fills up your head, with that incurable sleep, vegetable, atavistic, slow Which withers up the brain in the parchment substance of the kernel of your nearing metamorphosis. The seed of your head has just fallen into the water. Man returns to the vegetable state by fatigue-laden sleep and the gods by the transparent hypnosis of their passions. Narcissus, you are so immobile one would think you were asleep. If it were a question of Hercules rough and brown, one would say: he sleeps like a bole [sic] in the posture of an Herculean oak. But you, Narcissus, made of perfumed bloomings of transparent adolescence, you sleep like a water flower. Now the great mystery draws near, the great metamorphosis is about to occur. Narcissus, in his immobility, absorbed by his reflection with the digestive slowness of carnivorous plants, becomes invisible. There remains of him only the hallucinatingly white oval of his head, his head again more tender, his head, chrysalis of hidden biological designs, his head held up by the tips of the water’s fingers, at the tips of the fingers of the insensate hand, of the terrible hand, of the excrement-eating hand, of the mortal hand of his own reflection. When that head slits when that head splits when that head bursts, it will be the flower,

>the new narcissus,
—Salvador Dalì,

And also, OP is a huge faggot

>>8611563
post your example of good artist with work.

>>8611664
/lit/ is people with some property. Sometimes interesting what this people think about something don related to literature. So what the problem?

>>8610664
Good artist, mediocre painter

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His art ticks all the boxes

Technically proficient

Emotive depictions

Social commentary

He was celebrated in his own lifetime as a cultural icon. Lived like art in the public eye.
Very cool, bit of a diva? Def talented tho.

Heard he'd base a lot of paintings on images he'd seen in dreams.

Why did he have that mustache, /lit/?