A drawing taken through proportion, pattern and construction until it stood up as a character you could hold.
Which few features actually carry the recognition — and what can be thrown away?
Dalí is one of the most caricatured faces of the twentieth century, which makes him harder, not easier. Almost everything can go: the eyes can flatten, the proportions can exaggerate, the hands can simplify to mittens. The moustache cannot. Neither can the theatrical stillness of the posture, or the surrealist detail that tells you whose suit this is.
Proportion is decided before anything else. The body is built as an unmarked form first, so the silhouette can be judged on its own — head-to-body ratio, limb weight, how it stands — without colour or costume flattering it.
The black suit is patterned and constructed as real tailoring in miniature — separate legs, shaped jacket, set sleeves — so the figure keeps its volume and drape instead of reading as a printed surface.
The tie carries a melting clock. It is the one piece of pure narrative on the whole figure, and it does the work that a label otherwise would — hand-drawn onto felt, small enough to reward a second look and bold enough to read across a room.
Assembled and weighted so it holds a pose. The final checks are the ones that matter for an object rather than an image: does it read from behind, does it sit, does the moustache survive being handled.
A drawing forgives a great deal that an object does not. A flat concept can cheat an angle; a figure has a back, a profile and a weight, and every one of them has to keep the likeness intact. Building this one settled a habit I have kept since — resolve the silhouette first, commit to two or three features that carry recognition, and let everything else simplify.