Salvador Dalí

Does a clock melt because time is fluid, or because the desert sun of Catalonia is unforgiving? He is the ringmaster of the subconscious, a man whose mustache was a lightning rod for the bizarre and whose paintings were "hand-painted dream photographs." "The only difference between me and a madman is that I am not mad," he insisted, while placing lobsters on telephones. He represents the ability to find a thousand hidden faces in a single rock formation. To step into his world is to accept that the logic of the waking world is a dull lie. He is the golden showman of the hallucination.