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Death in the Afternoon

"All art is made solely by the individual, the individual is all that man has and all the schools serve only to include his disciples in the number of failed . The individual, the great artist, when it appears, used what they have discovered the other or what has come to know in the realm of his art until he appears. Is able to accept or reject a number of things in a very short period of time, it seems that their knowledge was born with it and does nothing to make instantly what an ordinary man would need a lifetime to learn. The great artist then goes beyond what has been done or known before, and do your own work. But among those of these great individuals take long, and who have known the great artists of the past rarely recognize the new ones when they arrive. Want everything to be as soon as they remember. Are the other, contemporaries, who first recognized the great new personalities for their willingness to know it all so quickly, and, finally, those who live the memory of the past recognize this as well. To these must apologize for not having recognized them immediately, because waiting periods have been so many great liars, you have made cautious to the point of no longer believing rather than their own feelings. Relying only on his memory. And memory, of course, never true "

Extract from the novel by Ernest Hemingway: Death in the Afternoon.

Disintegration of the Persistence of Memory (1952-1954) Salvador Dalí

Art is ephemeral (and I mean all art, and when I say everything is everything) and it is like changing underwear (briefs, boxers, panties, etc.), change every day in order to prevent problems (humidity, sweat, odor ... crabs!), or el peor de los casos, nos acostumbramos a ello, y hacemos el peor de los usos. Un día estamos en el arte pictórico renacentista, otro en la vanguardia, otro en el pop art, otro en la literatura decimonónica europea, latinoamericana, norteamericana, etc; y hasta los extremos de llegar a la tragedia griega, o peor aún, de rendir tributo a la tradición filosófica. Incluso, parece irónico tomar un fragmento de una novela de 1932. Hay que admitirlo, somos exhumadores de tumbas.