I was learning to play the piano – quite unsuccesfully – when I was ten years old. The teacher, one Päivö Somerma, was interested in Salvador Dalí’s work. When he realized I wasn’t going to learn much, he started spending the lesson time the way I wanted – which was talking about interesting subjects. I don’t know why Päivö decided a ten-year-old boy would be interested in surrealism, but he was correct. He sketched on the blackboard something where a claw squeezes a bleeding eyeball. He also described to me Dalí’s ideas about objects stretched out of shape – probably he was talking about the watch in Persistence of Memory.
The next day I went to the local library and found a couple of books on Dalí. I was amazed at how perfect and weird the paintings were. I imagine anyone who sees Dalí’s work for the first time gets a similar impression.
I’m steering away fom Dalí-esque perfectionism on purpose. First, I will never be a perfectionist. Second, even if I were one, I certainly don’t think I would reach the same heights he did. Third, I cannot afford a studio where I could paint such huge canvases. Not yet. We will see about points one and two again if I get that studio.
The imagination has its own ways. When I sit down and begin a fresh piece, I usually have nothing in mind. I let my hands and mind work freely, without preconceived limitations. Everything flows naturally. To me it seems natural, at any rate…