because we all need to dream a little
Sunday Dalí: Rhinocerotic Gooseflesh, 1956. Oil on canvas, 93 x 60 cm. Bruno Pagliai Collection, Mexico.

There is a strong corelation between this nude rising out of a half-shell and Botticelli’s Birth of Venus while the arms and breasts suggest a strong correlation with Alexandros of Antioch’s Venus de Milo.

The rhinoceros horn, with its logarithmic curve that Dalí found so inspiring is also rising from the shell along the nude’s leg, highlighting the shape of her hip, the negative space created by the shape of her waist, and the golden ratio between her shoulder, naval, and hip.

Dalí had a fascination with the human body phenomenon known as gooseflesh or goosebumps. These are commonly linked to cold temperatures, fear, or other stimuli. Dalí found that the shape of the erect hair closely mimicked the shape of the horn.

Dr. Elliot King writes:


  “The rhinoceros was the animal that experienced the greatest fear during the creation of the world,” Dali would explain, “evidenced by the multitude of horns/’goose pimples’ that cover its body”
  
  The painter invented a similar explanation for the morphology of sea urchins, which he said was due to the fear felt by a drop of water the instant it first fell to earth. Seized with dread at losing its purity, the ‘drop’ produced goose bumps — the urchin’s well-known spines.1


The rhinoceros horn itself is a contradiction of sorts. Mythologists believe that the horn symbolized chastity, which Dalí was focused on at the time of his life. Dalí believed that a preoccupation with procreation distracted him from his artistic focus. On the other hand, ground rhinoceros horn is believed to be an aphrodisiac. This is, of course, patently false, but their phallic shape is symbolic of male virility nonetheless.

Dalí scholar Robert Descharnes writes:


  Expressing himself through the rhinoceros horn permitted Dali to respect the demands of chastity which, at the time, had become an essential requirement of his spiritual life.




Elliot King via Paul Dorsey’s Dali Planet ↩

Sunday Dalí: Rhinocerotic Gooseflesh, 1956. Oil on canvas, 93 x 60 cm. Bruno Pagliai Collection, Mexico.

There is a strong corelation between this nude rising out of a half-shell and Botticelli’s Birth of Venus while the arms and breasts suggest a strong correlation with Alexandros of Antioch’s Venus de Milo.

The rhinoceros horn, with its logarithmic curve that Dalí found so inspiring is also rising from the shell along the nude’s leg, highlighting the shape of her hip, the negative space created by the shape of her waist, and the golden ratio between her shoulder, naval, and hip.

Dalí had a fascination with the human body phenomenon known as gooseflesh or goosebumps. These are commonly linked to cold temperatures, fear, or other stimuli. Dalí found that the shape of the erect hair closely mimicked the shape of the horn.

Dr. Elliot King writes:

“The rhinoceros was the animal that experienced the greatest fear during the creation of the world,” Dali would explain, “evidenced by the multitude of horns/’goose pimples’ that cover its body”

The painter invented a similar explanation for the morphology of sea urchins, which he said was due to the fear felt by a drop of water the instant it first fell to earth. Seized with dread at losing its purity, the ‘drop’ produced goose bumps — the urchin’s well-known spines.1

The rhinoceros horn itself is a contradiction of sorts. Mythologists believe that the horn symbolized chastity, which Dalí was focused on at the time of his life. Dalí believed that a preoccupation with procreation distracted him from his artistic focus. On the other hand, ground rhinoceros horn is believed to be an aphrodisiac. This is, of course, patently false, but their phallic shape is symbolic of male virility nonetheless.

Dalí scholar Robert Descharnes writes:

Expressing himself through the rhinoceros horn permitted Dali to respect the demands of chastity which, at the time, had become an essential requirement of his spiritual life.


  1. Elliot King via Paul Dorsey’s Dali Planet