Chocolate, by Sarah Gorham

Chocolate, by Salvador Dali (Spain) 1930

Chocolate

She dominates the drawing, her skin both buttery and sallow in patches like parchment. Is she deathly ill? Her clothing is only slightly darker, the color of Dijon. The woman is enormously pregnant, breasts exposed, head tilted down, a full mug of hot chocolate balanced on the crest of her belly. Chocolate drips from her mouth, trickles over the edges of the cup, streaming down in luxurious drops. They land below, on an apple, also in poor condition with shriveled stem and a blotchy surface. It too appears to be leaking, though the spill could be mere shadow. If the apple were fresh, we might be tempted to touch it, even taste. 

To her left, there’s a miniature figure, skeleton-thin—a rough specter against the otherwise clear stretch of white. He is kneeling on one leg, as if practicing for a proposal of marriage. Is he praying for nourishment? Begging for a sip from her cup in communion? Is she a goddess? A Madonna? Or is the woman a tool or object, her mouth a kind of spout, her uterus the producer of hot chocolate? 

Dali was a chef. He filled a car with cauliflower. He once baked a loaf of bread that was fifteen feet high. “Beauty will always be edible,” he stated. He kept a bat for a pet. Eventually the bat perished, rotting in the basement and swarming with ants. Dali was transfixed by the sight, picked up the remains and took a bite. 
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Dali was obsessed with food—particularly chocolate. In a 1968 television advertisement promoting Lavin chocolate, Dali appears against a snowy hill, his mustache drooping. He pulls out a chocolate bar, snaps off a square, chews, and swallows in utter ecstasy, his head rolling back till all we see are the whites of his eyes. But he quickly regains consciousness and declares, “I am crazy for Lavin chocolate!” In concert, the tips of his mustache stand erect. The ad runs for eighteen seconds.

Some say the woman’s smile is libidinous, a desire to be filled, or refilled. But her chin is buried in her chest, her eyes cast downward, lashes languishing on her cheeks. For this observer, it looks more like shame. Or grief at the loss of a baby. 

Sarah Gorham

​​Sarah Gorham is a poet and essayist, most recently the forthcoming essay collection Funeral Playlist from Etruscan Press. She is the author of Alpine Apprentice (2017), which made the short list for 2018 PEN/Diamonstein Award in the Essay, and Study in Perfect (2014), selected by Bernard Cooper for the 2013 AWP Award in Creative Nonfiction. Gorham is also the author of four poetry collections— Bad Daughter (2011), The Cure (2003), The Tension Zone (1996), and Don’t Go Back to Sleep (1989). Other honours include grants and fellowships from the NEA, three state arts councils, and the Kentucky Foundation for Women.