Thursday, 22 March 2012
Dinner in Ibiza
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This was the begging of the certain end of a shop career.Oh yes the next night I was on the plane with paints in the hand luggage. At the airport I was greeted by a celebrity portughese tv dentist with a dream of releasing a rock record in the works, grosley in love with a blue blood English lawyer who spent each night rapping her love to him in black rhyme. My name was on a card. And I was in a jeep. We picked up a beautiful lavinia arriving from a Paris cat-walk, her half sized boyfirend and sped trough Ibitha streets adorned with palms. Night smelled like croatia and crickets. City lights left us and we limbed up cypress filled hills and dry stone walls to jerk park in front of a beton and glass cube.
Every one was there. That is to say no one I knew as the party was filled with Spanish film stars, actresses, models, directors, club oweners, footballers, the only thing very familiar to me was flamenco which was played by a very familiar faced guitarits, him I knew. Paco de lucia. I do own flameco shoes.
When music was played everyone clapped in rytham. The pool cast a blue water background. After another rum I spoke Spanish, amasing how memoery works sometimes, and I was introduced to all as what I am artist, Sunci, ah what a relif hadent felt my self in ages. There was definaltey no way I could return to the doom of being a shop cinderella after I had started to remember my own name. Before I had even let my self enjoy the Spanish architects ideas, I had slipped off the bra, added a navy dress . The night was hot. It was a real summer out of London. Tomorrow I painted Manel and Lavinia.
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