Just returned from the cinema. I ran there, raincoat flying trough the drizzle of the Zagreb Autumn night. I had to make it to Midnight in Paris. Two best friends from across the world told me so. Woody Allen made this film especially for me he will be glad to know when we bump into one another someday. The film is full of all the possible cliche's form the American writer wanting to move there to become a decent writer, but he meets artists and writers from the past, in a charleston setting, sorrounded by girls waring plumes and tassles,and the protagonist is Owen Wilson.
Owen Wilson I met just out side Rome. During a 1920’ party was in full swing. We we here in the garden of a castle. Charleston music was played by a band dressed in White summer suits. Ladies wore plumes, tassels, pearls beads and red lips. Champagne was served by properly attuned and snobbish waiters as ought be. The party was attended by anyone that could invent a way to break the ranks of the securities triple name check , or was invited by the Count him self to his birthday party.Everyone I knew in Rome was going to enter this party somehow, and it was a matter of pride to manage to do so weather they knew the count or not. .
Early evening I was being photographed for an art work by Roberto,and he offered his car to be my carriage that evening.
It was feliniesque fate which had concocted the insides of the car hading for the party, for I was not accustomed to spent much time with the boys driving. The artist was an obssesion of my flatmate, and others where two young filmdirectors of which one i did not know and a ginger I knew and was convinced hated me. Together they looked like a bunch of thirties broklyn gangsters.I had brought along a girl i knew not, sent to me from London for the occasion ..
My guest had no invite but fortunately was really black and managed to slip at the base of the seats and disappear into the darkness. I also had no invitation. “E chi e lei?” Torch was shone into my face by a suited half man half machine with wires at the ears. “I sono Sunci” I looked straight in his eyes. He let us trough. Most of the usual actors, models that tried to gatecrash found them self shocked by being infiltrated and left outside this to be the party of the year.
It gave me true pleasure to receive the desperate phone calls of my frustrated ex boyfriend and editor of art magazine, who was so used to being invited everywhere, begging of my to help use charm to let him enter as he spent hours waiting outside the estate.This little act of my triumph was the only time in our long acquaintance he had asked such favour and must have taken a tough pulling on the rains of his pride to do so. Never the less to irritate my eyes, his new flirt was at the party for being blue blood roman, but than so was a baked hog with an apple stuffed in its mouth sprawled on a huge table and to me they belonged in the same kitch category which would add to the nights amusement..
The moment of entering the party I lost the girl I was hosting.The next time I saw her was moring after the party with sun upon her legs in the air, of the same car, in the company of one of the gangsters, we arrived with, who by than she knew better than me.Owen Wilson flanked by two beautiful girls at all times like general Gaddafi, was rather shy, and his postmodern nose beautiful. A whole bunch of Great Gatsby society from the international royalty,rich and raraa where there and under usual circumstances I would have listened my curators advice to make useful contacts, yet people I knew in Rome and London and New York and wished they where not all there at the same place, where, including flirts, friends and foes , a combination which made the night unforgettable. .
The first week I arrived in Rome not paying a thought to consequences of my acts as I planed to stay a week not as long as I did, I was straddled on the back of the illegal vespa by the Raffaella and beeped across town to a party at a artist studio in the PastificioCerrere.Within moments of my arrival a tall boy spilled vodka into my eye. Being a painter my eyes are the most precious asset and I understood his move as a violation and deliberate attack. Plus, the offender was ginger, and I had grewn up at a proper mocking all gingers English school. Full of rashness and arrogance I filled a glass of vodka The whole party watched my strange cowboy walk on to the dnace floor towards the boy and did not the miss the precision with which I aimed the vodka and threw it at his eye.
Theatrically, he screamed and jumped at me with fists intending to knock me down flat swearing all kinds of Italian which I did not understand andm his sister stooped him beating me up, whilst people looked at me above their glasses as if I where yet another English misbehaved brat.My vengance satisfied I forgot about the incident. But apparanltey the ginger boiled up such a hate for me that his sister had to warn me about it, so I spent the year avoiding him where ever we would see. ..
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The 20's party happened on a night at the begining of summer just before everyone starts leaving the city, and was one of the most beautiful of all I had been to in Italy. Everyone was exquisitely dressed , Champagne, vine, cognac ran like the Tevere river steady and inexhaustible.I danced all the big band had to play the whole journey of the moon across the sky and some of the suns to the DJ.To my amusement ginger I had offended in the Autumn was a very good dancer, had that slick boy from the hood style, shocking all the more for trying to dance with me all night. Charming boys competed to lead me though swing and rumba, infuriating the ginger each time it was not him. He started to be aggressive, dashing after me as ran hiding and squealing making a spectacle of it. At one point he even in leaned to a guerrilla kiss, from which I bounced off un-tarnished and he was left more enraged than when I had splashed him with vodka. “Sono inamorato di te” was dismissed with giggles. I was rather surprised by his sudden affections and his seeming belief that I belonged to him which he did not revert from saying.
I had begun to study him, tall, sweet freckles, pretty lips and blue eyes, dashing really, but had no intentions to let him know it especially as his crazy trying made him into amusement of the party...
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At one point in the dancing some cheeky partner drove me in to the pool in the center of the garden and I fell like in like an ophelia entangeled in my hair and flowers. The dawn sun was not high enough to warm one up and I removed the dress and wrapped my body in the yellow table cloth Raffaella took from beneath the roasted pig,to look like a gown, and stood in a ray of sunshine to warm up, sipped champagne too encumbered to dance. Ginger love fool should have by than given up but he came over to say “sei belissima” ever so sweetly...
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He earnt it. I just had to.and I did. ,I kissed him. ..
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He dizzy from the kiss walked awaysmiling to himself, in a zig zag swinging left to right trough the garden, past the bones of the roasted hog, and next to the pool. Seeing him off guard Roberto ran and pushed ginger in to the swimming pool.A roar of laughter exploded trough the garden. Everyone had watched the climax .Someone quoted a famous line about women being deadly for a man...
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And than it clicked, I decided I had to do something to rescue his dignity, and did the thing no one expected. Threw off the cloth on to the grass, revealing breasts and all jumped into the pool to kiss him on the lips wrapping my arms around his neck...
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Crowd cheered and applauded. The photographers snapped photographs. When we emerged form the pool I had to face the change of situation, Ginger now belonged to me somehow, and I some how did to him. It stopped being just theatre..
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Dazed, drunk, we drove to Rome alone. Spent a few delirious days, in a garden, house swimming, and cooking,falling in love...
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Than I left Italy to do the first show in Split.
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