Andy Warhol & Mick Jagger

It was a dreary summer in London in terms of weather. Rain, rain, rain. The kind of weather that makes one desire the diet of fatty sausages and mash—but I was too poor.

All I ate those days was pasta Aglio & Olio—the basic Roman recipe, a staple of the working-class Roman, consisting of plain pasta with fried garlic in olive oil with pepper—my staple too for a whole month, except when Marina took me out.

In this particular reincarnation of the artist, my friends—who at that point were curator Marina, artist Tatiana & architect Guillermo—decided to evacuate me out of Croatia as an emergency.

I had just quit working for the Slovenian yacht-building industry, spent my entire last wages in Venice for the Biennale opening, gave some to my family, on lodging, food, high heels for the openings—and the trip via ship and train to Croatia.

My stepfather died at the end of winter. My mother was in a terrible state, grieving in the most volatile way and spewing it all over me and my brothers. It was very toxic, to live with her unbearable. The moment she saw me back in Croatia—on her own initiative—she secured me a job: to be the cleaner for apartments on the island of Hvar.

Now, to explain something—I have a very sharp eye for aesthetics; however, I am the messiest whirlwind of a human and tend to create mess so fast, I am the one that has always needed a cleaner. Tatiana was with me when this job was offered to me by my mother.

Tatiana, on witnessing this in secret, immediately started the "Extract Sunci" mission, which my beloved London friends financed together. They had always believed in me as an artist—even when I doubted it. Tati gave me the choice: fly out tomorrow, risk it as an artist again in London this summer, or stay in beautiful seaside Croatia and become a cleaner.

I chose art. Pissed mother off again, for she likes me being nearby. Marina gave me a flat to use in her own Notting Hill neighborhood and a small weekly allowance for the month—until I found my bearings. The idea was I get a job—fast. And the way Marina presented this to me was that she was investing in me—the artist and my art.

I spent a day working at the Yotam Ottolenghi restaurant—and lost the job the same day for explaining to a customer and my manager, in front of the customer, that "Pecorino was a sheep's cheese because, in Italian, 'pecora' is a sheep"—not goat cheese, as the manager had said.

The third job was at India Jane—a shop full of beautiful lamps, pillows, glass, both beautiful or kitsch, and fake antique furniture from India and China. My days were spent dusting shelves and rearranging glasses, fluffing cushions, and by the time the end of the workday came, Marina and Tarrek had a society event planned out for us—or a few. Be it gate-crashing Sotheby’s auction exhibitions through daredevil acting at the door—or any kind of art exhibition openings anywhere across London.

One day, we ended up at an exhibition in a beautiful decadent period building on Portman Square. A Russian artist was showing her photographs. At the exhibition, we somehow got invited to the afterparty.

Arriving in a beautiful house, we soon learned that the house belonged to the manager of the Rolling Stones.

The house was full of art and white rugs. In this house, red wine was not allowed because of the white rugs—to my annoyance. And what kind of rock and roll is that? But it was the wife of this man who hosted us to start.

When we entered the living room, there were only a few people invited—Marina, Tarrek, myself, and perhaps four or five others. On the walls of the living room hung original Andy Warhol prints.

Not only were they original Andy Warhols, but the very specific one—a light blue and black portrait of Mick Jagger—that I had discovered in Ms. Judi’s art book, and that inspired me to paint portraits of beautiful boys, because through that work I understood portraits can be sexy—not just Tudor-like.

I realized that this must be a sign! The kind of signs I fish about as an omen. This was a good omen—that I translated as meaning the month freezing in the gray city full of drizzle was the right universal choice for me. I was so happy.

And then a man walked into the living room and sat under that very portrait of Mick Jagger.

It was Mick Jagger himself.

Mick Jagger told me that Portman Place was the place where the orgies were held. We were chatting quietly and eating chocolate cake by the dessert table. All the other guests at this little party clearly considered it would be condescending if they actually shared the excitement of meeting Mick Jagger, so they were playing it cool and aloof—all eyes from their corners following the dialogue between me and Mick.

I had none of that insecurity or snobbery to the point where I would ignore such an artist. I will always go up to an artist and say something,  I was not shy, and we got chatting.

Jagger told me all about the orgies at Portman Place, and it made me decide right then and there that, by Jove, I would have to do something there too. I loved the space.

The moment I departed into the next room, all the other people suddenly swamped Jagger—no more snobs. I left him to it.

The omen did foretell good tidings. Before the month at India Jane was up, I had a brilliant idea- and was back to living of my art. 

And the next day I went to Portman Place and met Frankie, who ran it. Frankie liked me, and he was Serbian—in London, this meant we were both Balkan, and it meant a discount. Frankie would rent Portman Place to me—for one day—for 1,000 quid.