Collector’s Item: How Philippe Halsman befriended Salvador Dalí
Collector’s Item: How Philippe Halsman befriended Salvador Dalí
May 19, 2025
Oliver Halsman Rosenberg, the photographer’s grandson, is working on a documentary about his grandfather’s life. His family retains the majority of Halsman’s archive, including projects the Latvian-born photographer and Spanish artist collaborated on together. As Rosenberg recounts, Halsman reached his creative and technical heights alongside Dalí, his co-conspirator for 37 years.
Photography by Henry Leutwyler
Oliver Halsman Rosenberg, the photographer’s grandson, is working on a documentary about his grandfather’s life. His family retains the majority of Halsman’s archive, including projects the Latvian-born photographer and Spanish artist collaborated on together. As Rosenberg recounts, Halsman reached his creative and technical heights alongside Dalí, his co-conspirator for 37 years.
Photography by Henry Leutwyler
P
hilippe Halsman started his career in Paris during the 1930s. When he came to the U.S. as an immigrant at the end of 1940, he had 12 prints, the camera he invented and a young family to support. While he was known in France as an emerging portrait photographer, he was unknown in America, and he needed to hit the pavement and look for work. He ended up finding a job with the Black Star photo agency.
“This is a one-of-a-kind object that shows the collection of failures in the attempt to achieve the iconic image.”
In 1941, Black Star sent Philippe on assignment to the Julien Levy Gallery to photograph the installation of Dalí’s show there. Later that year, the two joined forces on a picture of a Ballet Russe dancer in a chicken costume Dalí designed, and it ended up being Life’s photo of the week. And that was a big deal because Philippe had never had anything published in Life before.
Because they both spoke French, there was an instant camaraderie. The next time they met, Philippe went to Dalí’s suite at the St. Regis Hotel, where Dalí would often stay for an extended period of time, and said, “Dalí, I read that you remember your prenatal life. I want to take a picture of you as if you’re an embryo in an egg.” And Dalí said, “That’s a fantastic idea. Do I have to be naked?” And Philippe said yes, and Dalí said, “OK, come back next week.” So, Philippe came back and took a picture of Dalí in an egg. (My mom likes to say that before there was Photoshop, there was Philippe.) And that opened the door for this 37-year collaborative relationship. Every time Dalí came to New York, he would meet with Philippe, and they would dream up new concepts.
Left: “‘Dalí’s Mustache’ (1954) was a question-and-answer book. For instance, on one page it says, ‘Why do you paint?’ On the next page, it reads, ‘Because I love art.’ But in the adjoining photo, Dalí’s mustache forms a dollar sign. I see a lot of meme-like energy in what Philippe was doing here, especially the idea of text and images going together incongruously.”
Right: “This photo really shows their relationship. They’re just having fun. Philippe is holding the camera he invented, the Halsman Fairchild, and Dalí is sitting on a cube. They both liked to use cubes in their work.”
“Philippe’s brother-in-law, René, was a jeweler, and Philippe tried to support him by buying his jewelry. René made this tie pin based on a photo of a mustache-shaped mobile in ‘Dalí’s Mustache.’ The question is ‘Have you evolved a definitive style?’ And on the next page, alongside the photo, it reads ‘No, I am completely mobile.’”
Philippe was interested in photographing ideas and concepts. He wasn’t just a straight photojournalist. He had this kind of creative streak. The inspiration for “Dalí Atomicus” [the famous 1948 photo of Dalí jumping, cats hurtling through the air, easels and chairs flying and water splashing] came from a Dalí painting of Dalí’s wife, Gala, floating on a throne above the water. But the water itself wasn’t touching the beach. Everything was in levitation. Dalí was really interested in research on atoms and nuclei and protons and neutrons, how everything in the universe vibrates and nothing actually touches. He took that concept and applied it to his idiosyncratic, surrealist, Renaissance-inspired portraiture, with Gala as the muse. It was called “Leda Atomica.” So Philippe said, “I want to do a ‘Dalí Atomicus,’ a photograph of you levitating.”
“It was like Dalí gave Philippe permission to go crazy and be experimental.”
—Oliver Halsman Rosenberg
I think there were 28 attempts. Sometimes the composition would be perfect, but the chair was in front of Dalí’s face or the water wasn’t good. These days we can take a picture and we can see it instantly. But at that time, Philippe had to run upstairs, develop it, make a contact print of it and then say, “Oh, we have to do it again.” In a way, it gave everyone time to collect themselves between the breaks. My mom, who was a kid at the time, was running after the cats and drying them off.
Now people would just do a composite in Photoshop, but the magical part of this photograph is that unique moment in time, which will never exist again.
That was just one of many creative ideas they explored. It was like Dalí gave Philippe permission to go crazy and be experimental. Dalí was his muse in a way. —As told to Julie Coe
