Santa Maria di Trastevere

 Rome 

The sheer confidence in the divine existing has changed things for me. It is through my troubles being solved miraculously that, to me, proved the existence of God. All the amazing blessings that have occurred throughout my life, I have always seen as- Magic. But as I look back into a thousand incidents, there is proof I have been looked after when I have not known it at all. It might mean that there is something expected of me to realize that I had to be cared for, and not allowed to extinguish in various dangerous moments I have walked through in life, like a fakir over fire—unharmed. Or maybe it is enough that I am. 

This sudden confidence in the existence of God, the allowing myself to slow down, stop driving my chariot forward headless, and letting myself be looked after, guided, allowing the not knowing to last for longer than I have ever been confident to—shows the strength of my faith. And I wonder what is that thing I should do next.

I had the most beautiful dream yesterday, a prophetic dream, with a white horse breaking free from its confines, jumping in the sea, and coming to my arms. A dream so incredible I know mostly it’s a blessing but still do not understand what it means in my life.

 Now that I know this energy exists—what should my purpose be? To share it? Is that the point—with each person who discovers it? Duty? I have been triggered by extreme missionary zeal to convey God—as my mother has fought me all my life on this subject—and I have no wish to become this embarrassing, violent missionary. But if I was to go back into all my adventures and write in, the intimate divine connection experiences, in between the exhibitions, is this why all I hear in the quiet of my most recent meditations - Write the Book. Is this what actually connects all my stories? Was this in fact missing the whole while in the enormous quantity of life adventures and text- the vulnerability to be honest all the way, my innards?

I arrived in Rome on the train. The sky was pink-orange, colors of heaven, and of promises of amazing things—at least I had begun to connect this kind of sky to the promise. 

Raffaella was abroad and was not picking up her phone. For an instant, with all my drawings rolled up in a huge, cumbersome tube and a suitcase of clothes, with limited money, I thought about getting on the train back to Croatia. I had arrived for my first exhibition since graduating in London a couple of months earlier. A solo show in Rome!

The amazing thing is—I had been fantasizing about getting a job in Rome. I had applied to work in a gallery in Rome—and did not get the job—and then Raffaella, whom I met on a night of full moon at the Ron Arad Show in the Design Shop in London—because of Marina, who was working for him and who invited me—Raffaella and I became friendly enough for me to host her in London and for her to see my artwork—and as it happened, she was a curator and gallerist with a gallery in Rome—she invited me to have my first exhibition in Rome—and here I was. 

My plan B was to work for the auction house Christie's newly opened in Dubai—which seemed like a plan where I would get paid and have an adventure—but Rome was my heart’s desire—and I had no real idea how to do it.

Here I was. In Rome. My grandmother, proud of me, gave me some cash. She had just had a heart attack, and returned home from the hospital, we seperated with plans for us to go to my exhibitions together in Paris and Rome in the future.

I had no idea how wild this year would get -and that the orange-pink sky was really being super honest. A man called Luigi phoned me. He was one of the two male friends I had met with Raffaella in London. He was a film producer who worked with Raffa on the Beatles exhibition and, as he told me then, convinced Raffa to bring me over to Rome.

 I doubted the truth of this as Raffa and I-  connected in a magical way—but he called me up—offered to host me in his house, which, while kind, did not make me feel entirely comfortable. He said Raffa had asked him to call. And then he told me about the place Raffaella had planned for me to sleep in—called Bettie’s House—which he advised against, again offering his own place—but I felt safe in Raffaella’s choice. He also gave me the number of Raffaella’s assistant , to help me set up the show , and the address of Bettie’s House.

 I got on the bus to Chiesa Nuova—center of Rome—and that was that.

Completely in love with Rome, in the next few days in which I was preparing the gallery and my works for the exhibition, I wandered and walked, exploring the Eternal City, with each step more in love. Eventually, I came across a church that looked significant. Santa Maria di Trastevere. I went in and prayed, almost to the point of tears, that Mother Maria would let me stay in Rome, would let me live in Rome, that somehow I could stay. Of course, I sort of disbelieved myself—I had very limited funds, I could not work in Italy suddenly—without all kinds of bureaucracy, I had no house, I knew no one. The truth is I was alone—but I immediately loved Rome.

And just in case Maria, Mother of God, would not make it happen, I did some kind of leaf-counting magic whilst walking all the way down the river Tevere for miles—hoping it would help keep me there. Something like stepping on every yellow leaf for every day i will remain in Rome.