Ultimate Self-Guided Tour of the Dalí Theatre-Museum in Figueres

Salvador Dalí wasn’t just a painter, he was the kind of artist who lived his work. With that unmistakable mustache, a flair for the dramatic, and a mind wired straight into the world of dreams, he blurred the line between art and life every chance he got. And there’s no better place to see the full, strange spectrum of Dalí’s imagination than in Figueres, the town where he was born, just a train ride from Barcelona, and where he built what might be the most surreal monument to himself: the Dalí Theatre-Museum.

Calling it a museum doesn’t really cut it. It’s more like stepping into one of his paintings, a maze of illusions, strange symbols, and theatrical flourishes that mess with your sense of time and space. At one moment, you’re looking at a golden mannequin. Next, you’re standing inside a room that transforms into a human face. And beneath it all, literally, Dalí is buried beneath the stage. Because…of course he is.

This guide was created for travellers who want to go deeper. The museum doesn’t offer an audio guide, and most visitors wander through without much context. Here, you’ll find a step-by-step self-guided tour, moving room by room through the building, with descriptions of the major artworks, stories behind the strangest details, and historical insight you won’t find posted on the walls. It’s a surrealist playground, but with this guide in hand, you’ll know exactly where you are, what you’re looking at, and why Dalí made it that way.

How to Get There from Barcelona

By Train: The easiest way to reach Figueres from Barcelona is by train. The high-speed AVE train from Barcelona-Sants to Figueres-Vilafant takes just under an hour. From there, it’s either a 20-minute walk to the museum or a quick cab ride. Slower regional trains are also available and take closer to 2 hours, but they drop you at Figueres’ central station, which is only a 12-minute walk from the museum.

By Bus: Buses leave regularly from Barcelona’s Estació del Nord and take around 2.5 to 3 hours. Not as fast, but budget-friendly.

By Car: Driving up the AP-7 highway will get you to Figueres in about 1.5 hours. Follow signs to the city center; there are public parking lots nearby.

Ticket Information

This place gets busy. Like, really busy. Over a million people pour through its surreal corridors each year, especially in the summer. So booking your ticket online in advance is essential. Not just to save a few Euros, but to avoid being turned away or stuck in a massive queue snaking around the block.

• General Admission: ~€18 online (expect it to go up to around €21.50 in July and August).
• Discounts: Students and seniors (65+) pay around €15–€17.50.
• Children under 9: Free.
• At the door: Add €2 extra per ticket, and brace yourself for a wait.

History of the Dalí Theatre-Museum

Before it became a surrealist wonderland, the building we now know as the Dalí Theatre-Museum had an entirely different life. In the 19th century, it was Figueres’ municipal theatre, a grand space for operas, plays, and civic events. It stood just steps from the church where Dalí was baptized and across the street from where he spent much of his childhood. He knew it well. In fact, Dalí held his first-ever public art exhibition there, in the foyer, when he was just a teenager.

But in 1939, during the Spanish Civil War, the theatre was bombed and burned, leaving only a shell behind, open to the sky, charred, and crumbling. For decades it sat abandoned, a ghost of its former self. That is, until the 1960s, when the town of Figueres asked its most famous son for a single artwork to display in their local museum. Dalí, never one for modest gestures, said no. Instead, he offered them an entire museum.

Not just any museum, but one built on the ruins of the very theatre that had shaped his earliest experiences with art and performance. It was symbolic, theatrical, and deeply personal. As he put it:
“Where else, if not in my own town, should the most extravagant and solid of my works remain? Where else, if not in the theatre, the place of my first exhibitions, should it be installed?”

Work on the Dalí Theatre-Museum began in 1968, with Dalí himself obsessively involved in every detail, every design choice, every optical illusion, every golden statue. He treated it like one final, all-encompassing masterpiece. The museum officially opened in 1974, though Dalí kept adding to it through the 1980s. He didn’t just curate the space, he lived there, sleeping in the Torre Galatea (the tower annex of the museum) in his final years. And when he died in 1989, he was buried in a crypt beneath the stage, the very heart of the museum. It was his last performance.

Who was Salvador Dalí

Salvador Dalí was born in Figueres in 1904, in the very same town where his theatrical, maze-like museum now stands. From the start, he stood apart. Even as a child, he was intense, unpredictable, and obsessed with dreams. He studied at art academies in Madrid and was expelled more than once, not for lack of talent, but because he claimed no teacher was qualified to judge him. That mix of arrogance and brilliance became a kind of signature.

Though he first gained attention for his technical skill in painting, Dalí shot to international fame in the 1930s as a key figure in the Surrealist movement, a group of artists and writers fascinated by dreams, the unconscious, and the irrational.

But Dalí’s version of surrealism was more theatrical, more flamboyant. He didn’t just make strange art, he became his art, dressing in velvet suits, crafting his signature mustache into gravity-defying shapes, and staging public stunts that blurred the line between genius and performance.

Central to all of this was Gala, his lifelong partner, muse, and the woman who anchored his chaotic world. Born Elena Ivanovna Diakonova, Gala was older than Dalí, and when they met in the late 1920s, she was married to the poet Paul Éluard. But once she and Dalí found each other, they became inseparable. Gala became his manager, protector, and icon. She appears in countless paintings, sometimes saint-like, sometimes sensual, and Dalí often said that without her, there would be no Dalí.

In his later years, Dalí became increasingly reclusive, especially after the death of his wife and muse, Gala. He moved into the Torre Galatea, a tower attached to the museum, where he lived surrounded by his own creations, drifting further into solitude and symbolism. It was here that he spent his final days, and where he chose to be buried, beneath the stage of his surrealist theatre, quite literally at the heart of his most theatrical work.

Torre Galatea

Approach the Dalí Theatre-Museum via the Pujada del Castell, a quiet road that curves along the side of the former theatre and gradually leads you toward the most iconic view of the museum. The entire façade is painted a bold, burgundy red, and covered, quite literally, in golden bread rolls. Approaching via this direction, you are led towards the famed Torre Galatea.

This rounded tower was once part of an old fortification. Above, mannequin-like figures strike dramatic poses from balconies, and lining the roof are giant white eggs, balanced like alien ornaments. The giant eggs crowning the Torre Galatea aren’t just for show, they’re classic Dalí symbols of birth, transformation, and creative potential.

Church of Sant Pere

Continue walking along Pujada del Castell, and turn down the narrow pedestrian street Carrer Maria Àngels Vayreda, which leads towards the Church of Sant Pere, where Dalí was baptized in 1904, and where his funeral was held in 1989 before he was interred inside the museum.

Francesc Pujols

Just outside the entrance, there’s a strange monument that might catch your eye: a tall column wrapped in what looks like a raincoat, topped with the head of a solemn-looking man. That’s Francesc Pujols, a Catalan philosopher and close friend of Dalí, immortalized here in one of the museum’s more peculiar tributes. The raincoat draped around the pedestal might reference Pujols’ intellectual vagabond nature, or the idea of protecting philosophy from the weather of public opinion. Or maybe it’s just absurd, and that’s the point. Dalí once said that in the future, all Catalans would be so brilliant that they’d be exempt from paying to live anywhere in the world. That idea came from Pujols.

Exterior Architecture

While standing outside the entrance, take a few minutes to study this side of the exterior. Up along the balconies and cornices, a cast of gilded mannequins stands frozen in theatrical poses, their arms stretched wide as if mid-performance, or maybe mid-ritual. Some are headless. Some look like they’re about to leap. They shimmer in the sun like golden ghosts from a dream, giving the building a strangely glamorous but slightly eerie vibe. It’s hard to tell whether they’re welcoming you or warning you.

Look closer at the walls and you’ll notice something even stranger: rows of mannequin heads and golden bread loaves embedded like ornaments. These are Dalí’s beloved pan de crostons, Catalan-style rolls used here as decorative motifs. It’s not a joke. Dalí once said that bread was a powerful symbol of nourishment, tradition, and eroticism, and he treated it almost religiously in his work. So here, it becomes part of the architecture, a building quite literally “breaded” in surreal symbolism.

In the center of the balcony, a diving suit stands guard. This diving suit is a nod to one of Dalí’s most bizarre real-life stunts. In 1936, he gave a lecture in London wearing a full deep-sea diving suit to symbolize “diving into the subconscious.” But he nearly suffocated mid-speech, the suit had no air supply, and he had to be rescued onstage. The suit now hangs above the museum as a surreal reminder of Dalí’s intense dedication to merging art and life into a performance.

Former Audience Area

Stepping through the doors, the first space I invite you to explore is the old theatre’s former audience area, a place once filled with rows of velvet chairs and polite applause, that has now been cracked open and transformed into a wild, open-air courtyard, drenched in sunlight and surrealism. What used to be a traditional auditorium has been completely reimagined by Dalí into a theatrical and vibrant space.

The roof is long gone, so light floods in from above, bouncing off strange sculptures and casting moving shadows on the weathered brick walls. You can still see the bones of the old theatre if you look closely, arched balconies, crumbling beams left exposed like old scars, and the curve of what was once a proscenium arch. Dalí kept the damage from the Civil War bombing visible, using it as a backdrop for his imagination instead of hiding it. He turned destruction into a stage set. Grief into spectacle.

The atmosphere here is part Roman ruin, part dream sequence. Dali filled the balconies with shimmering golden statues, nude, faceless figures with outstretched arms. They look part cheer squad, part cult ritual, and they catch the sunlight like they’re about to take flight. Locals sometimes call them the Dionysian maidens, which somehow feels exactly right.

Rainy Taxi

Right in the center gleams a vintage black Cadillac, and it’s no ordinary car. This is Dalí’s “Rainy Taxi,” one of his most theatrical and unsettling installations, a surrealist sculpture that fuses machinery, mythology, eroticism, and absurdity into one unforgettable scene. Perched stiffly on the hood is a towering statue of a nude woman, her stance frozen and formal, her body stylized like something out of ancient Greece.

She wears a classical helmet, the kind worn by warriors or goddesses, Athena, perhaps, if Athena had wandered into a dream halfway through a noir film. Her pose is deliberately awkward, as if she’s too rigid to be real, too exposed to be a mere decoration. The juxtaposition is jarring: a polished, luxury American car, symbol of wealth, modernity, and masculine power, colliding with this stark, vulnerable, almost divine female figure. It’s not just surreal. It’s deeply layered. Dalí was fascinated by contrasts like these: beauty and discomfort, motion and stillness, the organic and the industrial.

The car itself plays a huge part in the drama. It doesn’t just sit there. Pop in a coin, and it begins to rain inside the vehicle. Water drips onto the mannequin seated within, ivy covering the interior and winding itself around the lifeless passengers dressed in stiff clothing, forever soaked in a mechanical downpour. Dalí created the first “Rainy Taxi” for the 1938 International Surrealist Exhibition in Paris. The idea was to shock. To subvert. To make people uncomfortable. And it still works.

Car-Naval

Above the Cadillac, perched improbably on tall spindly columns, floats a wooden rowboat, just hanging there in the air like it belongs. Dangling from its hull are dozens of glassy blue droplets, giving the impression that the boat is constantly weeping a surreal rainstorm down onto the car below. This isn’t just any boat, it was Gala’s, Dalí’s lifelong muse and partner. He suspended it here as part of a bizarre installation he called “Car-Naval” or “Naval Rain”, tying sea and sky together in one theatrical downpour.

Supporting this upside-down boat is an astonishingly peculiar column: a towering structure composed of stacked black car tires. This pillar rises from the ground in a twist of industrial surrealism, unexpectedly beautiful in its repetition, almost totem-like. If you look closely at its base, you’ll see it rests on an abstract, writhing statue of two black figures: they appear to be wrestling or entangled, their limbs locked in a dramatic pose. One figure holds the weight of the boat above, arms raised as if bearing the burden of this nautical dream.

Embedded into the tire column’s surface are numerous white sculpted faces, eerily calm, identical, and spaced rhythmically up the length of the support. These expressionless visages peer blankly out from the dark texture, creating an unsettling contrast. They might evoke death masks, or dreamlike repetitions of a forgotten identity. They feel ghostly. Anonymous. As if the column is not just holding up the boat, but memorializing lost souls beneath it.

Fishmonger’s Hall

Heading back inside, make your way to Room #5, known as the Fishmonger’s Hall (Sala de les Pescaderies). The room gets its unusual name from the fact that it once housed the fish market back when the site functioned as Figueres’ municipal theatre. Today, it’s one of the more spacious galleries in the museum and serves as a sort of stylistic sampler of Dalí’s work across the decades.

The walls are lined with paintings that span his career, from early pieces tinged with the influence of Picasso and Matisse to his more surreal and theatrical later works. One standout is the whimsical and bizarre “Soft Self-Portrait with Fried Bacon” (1941), where Dalí’s own face droops like melted wax, held up by wooden crutches.

Dalí’s portrait of Picasso is part tribute, part psychological riddle. While he admired Picasso’s genius, he also saw him as a rival, and painted him accordingly: distorted, strange, and filled with symbolic oddities. It’s not a straightforward homage, but a surreal interpretation that reflects both reverence and unease.

This is The Seed of a New Generation, one of Dalí’s later works. It shows a seated female figure, possibly Gala, whose body appears to dissolve into roots or branches, dotted with blue seed-like forms. Set against a soft coastal background, the painting blends themes of decay, rebirth, and transformation. It’s a quiet but eerie meditation on legacy and the strange beauty of regeneration, typical of Dalí’s final years.

Grand Hall

As you leave the gallery, you step into one of the museum’s most striking spaces: the grand hall beneath the impressive cupola. This vast, echoing chamber once served as the theater’s stage, and Dalí turned it into the beating heart of his museum. Looking up, the ceiling isn’t just a ceiling. It’s a massive geodesic dome, its glass panels forming a shimmering, faceted eye that seems to watch over the room. Sunlight pours through, bouncing across the floor in geometric patterns. Dalí imagined this as a kind of cosmic lens, his personal center of the universe. He even claimed, with typical flair, that the exact middle of the cosmos was located right beneath that very spot.

But your gaze won’t stay upward for long. Across the room, rising almost to the top of the dome, is a colossal painting. It shows the towering torso of a faceless figure, rooted with a tree growing from its neck and a gaping arch through its center. This towering mural is known as “Labyrinth.” Dalí originally painted it in 1941 as a backdrop for a ballet inspired by the myth of Theseus and the Minotaur, and here, in this reimagined theatre, it finally found its permanent stage.

The image is surreal, haunting, and almost cinematic. A giant, faceless human form dominates the canvas, its body transformed into a kind of living landscape. There’s an arched doorway carved straight through its chest, opening into… something. A passage? A void? A memory? Beyond it, you can just make out shadowy cypress trees and a flicker of blue sea, like fragments of a dream slipping out of reach. The figure’s head is gone, replaced instead by a gnarled bare tree that seems to grow from the neck and reach up toward a pale sky.

Cliffs and waves bleed into skin and stone, the Catalan coast becomes anatomy, and the body becomes geography. It’s unsettling, beautiful, and weirdly still. Like the rest of the museum, it doesn’t hand you answers. Instead, it dares you to step into the unknown, through that chest-shaped portal, and follow your own thread through the maze.

Now take a moment to scan the ceiling and upper walls of the stage hall. Dalí couldn’t help himself when it came to adding more drama. Look closely, and you might catch his cheeky nod to Michelangelo: a pair of outstretched hands, nearly touching, float high above you. It’s a clear wink to the iconic Creation of Adam, only this time, filtered through Dalí’s surrealist lens.

Along the ledges, more mannequins and statues linger in shadowy niches. Some draped, some contorted, some just quietly watching. The entire space begins to feel less like a museum and more like a stage set, where painting, sculpture, architecture, and illusion all blend together into one dreamlike performance.

“The Louse and the Flea” is a surrealist installation that serves as a playful tribute to two eccentric street performers from Dalí’s childhood in Figueres. These local characters were known for cranking out tunes on a barrel organ, though by most accounts, they weren’t exactly musical virtuosos. Still, they made their rounds through the city streets, trading their off-key melodies for a few coins and plenty of curious glances. Dalí, ever the collector of odd memories, immortalized them here in his own wonderfully strange way.

Dali’s Tomb

Before you head deeper into the museum, there’s one small but powerful detail you shouldn’t overlook: a plain white stone set into the floor near the center of the courtyard. It’s easy to miss, surrounded by all the theatrical chaos, but this unassuming slab marks Dalí’s final resting place. Beneath it lies the artist himself, buried in 1989 exactly where he wanted to be, at the very core of his greatest creation.

The Treasure Room

From the stage area, most visitors proceed to the Treasure Room, or Sala Tresor, a quiet, dimly lit gallery located on the ground floor. It’s small, easy to miss if you’re not paying attention, but worth the detour. This intimate space was designed to evoke a vault, rich in red paint like velvet, creating a sense of a sacred chamber where Dalí kept some of his most prized works, the crown jewels of his painting career.

Leda Atomica

“Leda Atomica” (1949) is one of Dalí’s most precise and philosophical works, capturing his muse Gala seated beside a swan in a composition where nothing touches, everything floats, suspended midair in perfect isolation. Inspired by the myth of Leda and the Swan, Dalí reinterprets the ancient tale through the lens of atomic theory and reverence.

In the original Greek myth, the god Zeus transforms into a swan and seduces, or assaults, Leda, the queen of Sparta, an encounter that results in the birth of Helen of Troy. But Dalí strips the scene of sensuality and instead renders the Gala divine, mathematical, and untouchable.

Objects like books, pedestals, and even droplets of water hover weightlessly around her, casting no shadows. This stillness and separation reflect Dalí’s “nuclear mysticism,” his post-World War II artistic philosophy influenced by the atomic age and the revelation that all matter is made of particles suspended in space. The result is both a portrait of Gala as a celestial ideal and a metaphysical meditation on the structure of reality. She becomes not just a muse, but the gravitational center of a carefully balanced universe.

Basket of Bread

Another unexpected piece is Basket of Bread (1945). At first glance, it’s deceptively simple: a single loaf resting in a round wicker basket, set against a deep, almost velvety black background. No surreal symbols, no floating body parts, no dream logic. Just bread. But the realism is startling. Dalí painted every crack in the crust, every fold of the cloth beneath it, with such precision that it seems almost sacred. You can practically smell the flour, feel the rough weave of the linen, and hear the crunch of the crust if you reach in and tear off a piece.

Dalí often returned to bread throughout his career; it wasn’t just food, it was a symbol. Of nourishment, yes, but also of tradition, of ritual, even eroticism. He saw it as a kind of visual shorthand for life’s essentials. However, this version, painted in the aftermath of World War II, feels especially poignant. Created just months after the atomic bombs fell on Japan, Basket of Bread seems to ask: What still matters when everything else breaks down? What survives? Maybe it’s this, a humble loaf, rendered with reverence.

Dalí once called it one of his finest technical works, and you can see why. It’s so controlled, so still, that it almost feels like time has stopped around it. Placed here, among works where gravity is optional and flesh becomes landscape, this quiet little painting hits differently. It’s grounding. A moment of pause in a museum that rarely stops moving. And maybe that’s the point. Even in the most surreal corners of his mind, Dalí made space for the real.

The Mae West Room

Next, we climb into one of the museum’s most iconic and wonderfully disorienting installations: the Mae West Room. This one’s an absolute must-see. At first glance, it appears to be a quirky little sitting room filled with mismatched décor: a bright red lip-shaped sofa, a fireplace shaped suspiciously like a nose, two paintings hanging side by side, and a massive blonde curtain billowing around the space. It all feels a bit odd… until you climb the short staircase at the back and peer through a special lens or arched viewing frame.

And then it clicks. In an instant, the room transforms, you’re looking straight into the face of Mae West, the glamorous 1920s Hollywood star. The sculptures become her eyes, the sofa her lips, the fireplace her nose. The curtain? A voluminous sweep of platinum hair, draped like stage curtains framing her larger-than-life persona. It’s an astonishing anamorphic illusion, a 3D trompe-l’oeil that turns a space you can walk through into a portrait you can only see from one precise angle.

Dalí first dreamed up this visual pun in the 1930s with a collage titled “Face of Mae West (Useable as an Apartment),” imagining her features made entirely from furniture. Decades later, with the help of architect Oscar Tusquets, he brought the concept to life here in full scale.

What seems like a set of simple framed eyes on the wall when you step closer, you’ll see they’re tiny Catalan landscapes, cleverly disguised as eyeballs. The two fireplaces that form her nostrils even flicker with glowing light, breathing a little life into the illusion.

Retrospective Bust of a Woman

Upstairs, the hallways are lined with small glass cases, each displaying a fascinating mix of artworks from different phases of Dalí’s eclectic career. One of my favourites is Retrospective Bust of a Woman (1933), one of his earliest and most iconic surrealist assemblages. At first glance, it’s both humorous and unsettling: a mannequin-style bust of a woman is adorned with unexpected, dreamlike elements. Corn cobs are fastened like earrings or breasts, a loaf of bread rests precariously on her head like a crown, and her shoulders are draped in a necklace made from an old zoetrope film strip. All of it is backed by a vivid red velvet display covered in taxidermied birds, further pushing the piece into bizarre, theatrical territory.

Each element is carefully chosen, as always with Dalí. The corn might hint at fertility, food, or even absurdity. The bread, an obsession of Dalí’s, blurs the line between the sacred and the mundane. And that film strip, showing a head repeatedly being removed and restored, plays with themes of identity, repetition, and time.

Make a quick detour as you approach Rooms 15-22, then take the staircase up to Rooms 12-14. Up the stairs you find a decorative doorway installation, designed to resemble a grotesque or caricatured face, made from unexpected materials in true Dalí fashion. The arch of the door becomes a pair of exaggerated red lips, an upside-down doll’s legs form the nose, and the eyes are made from doll heads surrounded by dark, nest-like lashes. The upper part of the “hair” is made of bundled corn cobs, cascading like curls from behind golden velvet curtains. There’s even a massive rock seemingly crushing the top of the head, adding to the theatrical absurdity. It’s unsettling, playful, and unmistakably Dalí.

The Palace of the Wind

Coming back down the stairs, make your way towards one of the most expansive and dramatic spaces in the entire museum, the Palace of the Wind Room (Sala Palau del Vent). Once the main audience hall of the old theater, it’s now a soaring gallery filled with Dalí’s more personal and late-career works. But the first thing you’ll notice isn’t on the walls, it’s above your head.

Look up. Spanning the entire ceiling is a monumental mural Dalí painted between 1972 and 1973, titled Palace of the Wind. It’s a dizzying, celestial vision of Dalí and Gala seen from below, their nude bodies floating skyward, arms outstretched, as though they’re ascending into the heavens. The figures are dramatically foreshortened, giving the illusion you’re lying flat on the floor looking up at gods, or ghosts, disappearing into the clouds.

Open drawers slide out of Dalí’s leg, a recurring symbol he used to represent hidden memories or thoughts, drawing from his fascination with Freud. Long-legged elephants, their delicate limbs stretched impossibly thin, drift across the sky. And in one corner, Dalí and Gala stand watching a ship sail off, a poetic nod to their homeland of Empordà, and Dalí’s idea of destiny drifting just beyond reach.

Just off this gallery is a dim side room where the surreal continues in a more futuristic form. Dalí was fascinated by holograms, and this space often displays some of his most experimental 3D works.

Galatea of the Spheres

Galatea of the Spheres (1952) is one of Dalí’s most striking tributes to Gala, his muse, blending atomic theory, spiritual symbolism, and personal devotion. At first glance, the painting appears as a constellation of floating spheres, but step back and her face emerges, serene, fragmented, and ethereal. Dalí was obsessed at the time with “nuclear mysticism,” the idea that matter was made up of invisible particles, and this work reflects that fascination. Gala’s portrait is constructed entirely of softly shaded spheres, as if her form is dissolving or being reassembled at the molecular level.

The title references the myth of Galatea, the statue brought to life by love, casting Gala as both muse and divine creation. By portraying her in this way, Dalí merges science with spirituality, depicting love as a force that transcends physical form. Technically, the painting showcases Dalí’s classical training, chiaroscuro, and anatomical precision, but the composition is pure surrealism. It’s a work that asks you to step back, look again, and consider the invisible forces that hold everything, matter, memory, devotion, together.

The Bedroom

Tucked quietly away on the first floor, the bedroom offers a rare and unexpectedly intimate glimpse into Dalí’s world. It’s not flashy like the courtyard or mind-bending like the Mae West Room; instead, it feels curiously grounded, yet still deeply surreal. The centrepiece is a shell-shaped bed, opulent and strange, said to have come from the famed Parisian brothel Le Chabanais, a louche nod to history and desire. Once rumoured to have belonged to a mistress of Napoleon III, it adds a theatrical layer to the space, as if even rest had to be performed. The mattress, framed in soft curves, sits low and regal, almost like a clamshell waiting to close around its occupant.

In place of a nightstand, a skeletal golden gorilla is looming in the corner. It’s haunting and absurd all at once, but look closer, its hollow torso contains a delicate bust of the Virgin Mary, tucked inside the ribs like a strange relic. A reminder that for Dalí, the sacred and the bizarre always shared a bed.

One quieter gem in the room is a tapestry version of “The Persistence of Memory”, Dalí’s famous melting clocks. While the original painting lives in New York, this richly colored woven piece still captures the essence of that dreamlike unravelling of time. It fits perfectly here, reminding you that in Dalí’s world, nothing is fixed, not even time itself.

Michelangelo’s sculpture of Moses

Stepping back out, you follow the corridor until it opens onto a small balcony overlooking the Stage Hall you visited earlier. From up here, the perspective completely shifts, offering a striking, bird’s-eye view of the space below. It’s the perfect moment to pause and take it all in from a new angle.

Just at the end of the hall, stands a replica of Michelangelo’s sculpture of Moses, created by Catalan sculptor Frederic Marès. But in true Dalí fashion, the scene gets stranger: perched above the statue are a carved wooden octopus and the head of a rhinoceros, adding a surreal twist to this otherwise classical composition.

Gala Contemplating the Mediterranean Sea

Above your head, you can admire one of Dali’s double-image prints, called “Gala Contemplating the Mediterranean Sea”. Up close, it appears to show Gala gazing out of a sunlit window. But from about 20 meters away, the image dissolves and reassembles into the unmistakable face of Abraham Lincoln. Dalí loved playing with visual perception in this way, and these works reward patience and movement.

Cybernetic Princess

Stepping up a few steps into the dark Room #18, you’ll find one of the museum’s most quietly haunting pieces: the Cybernetic Princess. At the center is a funerary heart, constructed with delicate printed circuits that shimmer like something halfway between machine and relic. It’s Dalí’s surreal homage to Princess Tou Wan, a real-life Chinese noblewoman from the Han Dynasty whose body was buried in a suit of articulated jade panels, stitched together with gold wire to preserve and protect her in the afterlife. Here, Dalí replaces that ancient jade with modern circuitry, technology reimagined as spiritual armour.

The princess herself appears as a kind of cyborg relic, part sacred object, part post-human vision. She’s framed by a softly glowing folding screen adorned in silk with traditional Oriental patterns, floral motifs, birds in flight, and curling gold lines, all of which contrast sharply with the cold logic of her mechanical “heart.” The screen acts almost like a shrine enclosure, turning the entire scene into a delicate paradox: emotion and machine, past and future, human and synthetic.

The Dalí d’Or Room

Moving along our route, we make our way to the back of the room, into the Dalí d’Or Room (the “Room of Gold”). This is a small, vault-like gallery named after Dalí’s fascination with gold (he once designed Dalí d’or golden coins). Among its standout pieces is a striking gilded bust of Jesus wearing a crown of thorns. Rendered in gleaming gold, the sculpture merges sacred symbolism with Dalí’s signature surreal flair, echoing his later artistic phase of “nuclear mysticism,” where science, spirituality, and classicism intertwine. The use of gold here isn’t just decorative; it elevates the piece into a kind of religious icon, both radiant and haunting. Much like his famous Christ of Saint John of the Cross, this work reflects Dalí’s evolving reverence for divine imagery, filtered through a lens of theatricality and philosophical inquiry.

Optical Illusions and Oddities

As you make your way toward the museum’s end, you pass through the upper loggias and corridors that host Dalí’s experiments with perception. In one area, you’ll find a collection of stereoscopic paintings: paired canvases that look abstract until you view them with special 3D glasses or from a certain angle, suddenly merging into a single 3D image. Dalí was fascinated by depth, so he painted scenes in double to create a crude 3D effect. One such pair is “Dalí Lifting the Skin of the Sea”, two seemingly identical paintings that reveal 3D relief when properly viewed.

Dalí Jewels

As you make your way toward the exit, you pass through the Galeries Dalí, arcade-style corridors that often house rotating exhibits or supplemental collections. One of the highlights here is the Dalí Jewels gallery, located in a climate-controlled annex next door. Inside, you’ll find 39 of Dalí’s fantastical jewelry creations, including the iconic ruby heart brooch that literally beats, and a dazzling necklace featuring ruby lips set on a cascade of pearls and diamonds.

Dalí’s jewellery designs are a brilliant yet often overlooked extension of his surrealist imagination. Between 1941 and 1970, he created 39 original pieces, crafted in New York by jeweller Carlos Alemany, using gold, platinum, and an array of precious stones. These were not just decorative objects; they were miniature sculptures infused with Dalí’s signature symbols: beating hearts, floating eyes, ruby lips, and elephants with spindly legs. Dalí saw these jewels as expressions of beauty with no practical function, designed to provoke wonder and invite the viewer into his dreamlike world.

And so the tour comes to a close, leaving you wide-eyed, maybe a little dazed, and stirred. You’ve just wandered through the inner workings of someone else’s imagination. And not just anyone’s, Dalí’s. It’s strange, overwhelming, and brilliant. But that’s the point. This isn’t the kind of museum you breeze through to tick boxes. It’s a place to get lost in. To marvel. To second-guess what you thought you knew about art. To smirk, to gape, to feel something shift. You won’t leave quite the same as you came.

Happy Travels, Adventurers